Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  Everything was high-tech security; fingerprints were scanned and their pictures taken. The agent saw nothing wrong and stamped their customs forms. They were free to move along and enter the United States.

  “See? So simple,” Shahib said to his wife.

  They walked through the terminal coolly, pulling along their rolling luggage. Outside the terminal, there was a fleet of cars, buses, and taxis waiting to pick up the arriving passengers. Shahib and his wife stepped out into the heat and were immediately approached by Amir. Amir greeted the couple with respect and the saying, “As-salamu-alykum,” which meant Peace be upon you.

  “Waalaykuu salaam,” Shahib replied—And upon you, peace.

  The couple was escorted to a classy dark Mercedes Benz. Some onlookers believed that Shahib and Asma were royalty, diplomats, or oil tycoons. They got comfortable in the backseat. Amir climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Take me to my son immediately,” Shahib instructed.

  Amir nodded and drove off.

  The bombings had become international news with the world up in arms, and Shahib was displeased. The news of their son shot and two million dollars gone—it was distressing.

  Amir jumped onto the Van Wyck Expressway and drove north, toward the Whitestone Bridge. Shahib sat in silence next to his wife and they both looked out the window, staring at the heavy traffic, the people, and the urban surroundings, and already had absolute distaste for the city. Asma took hold of her husband’s hand. She needed his touch and his strength. The news of her son shot and in trouble was challenging for her to hear. Nothing was going to stop her from reaching him, even if she had to swim the entire Atlantic Ocean herself. A mother’s love and protection was stronger than any material on earth.

  Amir drove across the Whitestone Bridge where the traffic had improved and continued north toward Westchester. Soon, they would reunite with their son, and they couldn’t wait. Asma wanted to hug and love her son, but Shahib wanted an explanation.

  ***

  Maserati Meek woke up to a morning blow job from Cindy. As he lay on his back, she disappeared underneath the sheets, started stroking his dick and sucking the top of his head, and eventually wrapped her full lips around his dick and bobbed her head up and down. He howled like a wolf to a moon, the effects of her sexuality domineering over his manhood.

  He could feel her about to make him come. She used her hands to explore his body and she was plunging him into complete bliss. When she was done, Meek swore he could see stars in the morning. The two of them rested nestled against each other. His gunshot wound was healing fine. He could feel his body returning to normal. The sexual distraction was needed.

  “You wanna fuck me again?” Cindy asked.

  “I need rest.”

  “I need some dick again,” she said.

  He chuckled. “You are like the Energizer Bunny, eh? You keep going and going . . .”

  “Only with something that I really like.”

  She could be aggressive, but she was falling in love with him. The look in her eyes was the same look Jessica had when they would lie together naked after wicked lovemaking. Meek held Cindy in his arms. Every inch of her was softer than cotton candy at a carnival. He could eat her alive, she was so sweet. They talked and they were both able to laugh. With her head placed against his chest she could hear his heart beating. It was their sensual moment. They were in good spirits.

  But then their moment was soon interrupted when the bedroom door swung open abruptly and Shahib charged into the room, followed by Asma. What they saw bothered them greatly. Maserati Meek was taken aback by their sudden presence. He rose up slightly, not knowing what to truly expect from his father.

  “Father!” was the only word he could utter, shocked by their sudden presence.

  “What is this, Akar? You lie with whores now?” Shahib shouted. He glared down at Cindy naked against his son. “You’re American now? You take American women to your bed? Non-Muslim whores who corrupt your mind!”

  Cindy was completely stunned by his comment. How dare he? “Excuse me!” Cindy exclaimed.

  Asma stood erect with outrage too in the bedroom. Her eyes glared with disappointment and disgrace at her son. Akar with a non-Muslim woman? It too much for her to tolerate. She marched toward the bed and forcefully grabbed Cindy’s arm, trying to pull the woman away from her son.

  But Cindy wasn’t about to be bullied by his parents. She resisted. She shouted, “Bitch, what is your fuckin’ problem?”

  Asma slapped her face and exclaimed, “Leave here!”

  The attack came as a shock to Cindy. She clutched the side of her face and glared at Asma. Asma was ready to skin her alive. Although she obeyed her husband faithfully, and sometimes was quiet, she was hardly timid or meek. She and her husband tolerated what their son was into in America because the money helped fund Al-Qaeda.

  Meek’s parents, just like Meek and his soldiers were hypocrites—just as any other ordinary person who serves two gods. On the one hand they prayed several times a day, read the Kuron, funded Al-Qaeda, and pledged allegiance to Allah. But there was a flipside to these radicals who played God by doing “Allah’s” bidding by blowing up innocent people. They turned a blind eye to their son’s drug dealing and allowed him to immerse himself into American culture when it suited him or them and then cried injustice.

  Cindy stood naked in front of Asma, not caring who was in the bedroom. She shouted, “You crazy fuckin bitch, don’t you ever touch me again!”

  The second slap came just as fast as the first one. It was so violent that it made Cindy’s head spin and her face bleed. She had been cut by Asma’s diamond ring.

  Cindy was about to react, but she nearly bit off her tongue trying to remain calm. She found herself in a no-win situation. She was outnumbered, and worst of all, Meek wasn’t coming to her rescue. He simply lay there nonchalantly. And there was something in Shahib Abu Mudada’s eyes that let her know that if she said another word or retaliated against his wife, then she wouldn’t leave the room alive. Her heart started to beat faster with trepidation.

  “You are nothing to us, so leave this room now before you regret this union with my son,” Shahib warned her.

  Cindy didn’t say a word although her eyes were filled with rage. She simply collected her things and left the room naked. Shahib and Asma didn’t even give her a second look. They considered their son’s young whore nothing but a bug on their shoe.

  “Amir, escort her out. We need to have a word with our son,” said Shahib.

  Amir nodded. He walked behind Cindy to ensure her departure from the home.

  Shahib closed the bedroom door. Maserati Meek—Akar—removed himself from the bed with the bed sheet covering his private parts to respect his mother.

  “Father—”

  Slap!

  The blow hit Meek so hard, it almost made him cross-eyed. He felt like Cindy. It was his turn to face his parents’ wrath.

  “You are a fool! You create unwanted attention toward yourself when the time is not right. What is wrong with you? What is this I hear of millions of dollars lost, you are shot, and these bombings of a ghetto and a nightclub? You use our people for your own personal vendetta.”

  “You don’t understand, Father. I’m at war.”

  “War? With whom?”

  “These kafirs,” he said.

  “Kafirs. Are these the same kafirs you are in business with?”

  “No!”

  “Then I want to know who they are. Sit and we talk.”

  Shahib’s look upon his son was cold and fierce. He was the ultimate authority, and the remaining bombers pledged their allegiance to him and their cause.

  Shahib and Meek talked. Asma stood off to the side and was silent. It was time for the men to talk business. She knew her role—subordinate to her husband. Long ago she was forced into an
arranged marriage with Shahib, but over the years she grew to love him. Asma felt fortunate to have her husband in her life. He treated her kindly and gave her a lifestyle of money and influence.

  Maserati Meek filled his parents in on the escalating war with Panamanian Pete. The bloodshed and the bombings were halting his currency flow. The war was bad for business. The money Maserati Meek made from the streets was helping to fund Al-Qaeda, and now the shooting, the bombings, and the loss of millions of dollars was a major setback for them.

  “No more suicide bombers,” Shahib ordered his son.

  Meek nodded.

  “We fix this now,” said Shahib with conviction.

  Akar was the prince, but his father was the king. And right now the king was frustrated with his prince. The CIA, FBI, DHS, and the ATF were intensely investigating and detaining any obviously Muslim people in the States on work visas—and it was crippling their cause and their money. Too much heat had been generated from Meek’s reckless actions. Anyone on a watch list was now under heavy surveillance by the FBI. Shahib felt lucky that he and his wife had made it through customs in one piece. But he made sure to dot his I’s and cross his T’s.

  “From now on, we will do things up close and personal—either knife or gun to rid ourselves of our enemies and expunge our strife. But no more suicide bombings, Akar, do you understand me?”

  “Yes, Father.”

  28

  Devon set up the meet between Panamanian Pete and The Kid. It was a risky move, but The Kid felt that it was a necessary move. Papa John and Devon were against it, but The Kid assured them that he knew what he was doing. He had a plan, and Pete was part of it.

  “Sometimes you have to expose your king in order to get what you want,” The Kid had said.

  “This ain’t fuckin’ chess,” Devon had griped. “This real life.”

  “Life is a game of chess, Devon. We all are just trying to stay on the board and make it to the other side.”

  The van stopped in front of the bodega on Nostrand Avenue in Bed-Stuy. The area was swamped with folks on a warm summer evening. Devon climbed out of the driver’s seat and Papa John climbed out of the passenger seat. They then opened the door and removed the wheelchair ramp for The Kid. They helped him out of the van and onto the sidewalk.

  “I’m still not too sure ’bout this,” Devon said.

  “Just trust me,” said The Kid.

  Papa John wheeled Kid toward the bodega that was huddled in the middle of the block among other storefronts. They went into the cramped and dirty bodega and were met by two of Pete’s men. Aside from the store clerk, who minded his business, the store was empty for the moment.

  The armed men met The Kid and his crew with foul looks, but it didn’t intimidate The Kid. He was determined to see Panamanian Pete. He came with gifts, clutching a small satchel containing fifty thousand dollars. The fifty grand was huge for them, because their money was dwindling rapidly and almost becoming stagnant. Their drug connect had dried up, and Devon and Papa John hadn’t done a lick since Kip’s death. The Kid saw one way to garner a huge source of income, but it was going to take small money for them to make a huge sum of money.

  All three men were searched against their will. Devon was reluctant to remove his guns from his person, but they weren’t going to meet with the boss unless they were unarmed.

  “This is fuckin’ crazy,” Devon voiced loudly.

  Right there he was ready to kill the two men, itching to dominate the situation. He was like a five-hundred-pound gorilla ready to pound his fists against his chest and charge to create destruction. But it would have been suicide. Brooklyn was Panamanian Pete’s hub—his hometown—and they were way too far behind enemy lines to act a fool.

  “Devon, just chill,” The Kid said.

  Devon acquiesced to the decision for peace and to talking with Pete. Papa John was following the flow. He wanted to make it out of Brooklyn alive. He was thinking about Dina tonight.

  The men were stripped of their weapons and allowed to continue to the back of the store. They were guided through a door, down a short hallway and into a room cluttered with commodities and boxes. Panamanian Pete sat behind an old desk smoking a cigar. Two men, definitely armed and dangerous, flanked him. The room they were in was windowless and looked more like a storage room than an office.

  The door closed behind the last man. The Kid was face-to-face with Panamanian Pete himself. He was one of the biggest fish in the lake, and if he wanted to, he could swallow Kid and his crew whole. Plus, Kip was responsible for killing his brother and taking his $800,000. But Kid still felt that it wasn’t a bad idea for them to meet and talk.

  Pete smoked his cigar and looked fiercely at the handicapped nigga in a wheelchair holding a satchel. He’d had no idea Kid couldn’t walk.

  “What the fuck can a crippled nigga in a wheelchair do for me?” Pete barked out.

  “I just came to talk,” said Kid.

  Pete laughed. “Talk with you? I know Devon, and I barely know this nigga here.” He pointed to Papa John. “But I don’t know you, nigga.”

  “You knew my brother, right? Kip?”

  “I heard stories about that nigga.”

  “Well, he was my brother,” The Kid said.

  “And?”

  “First off, I’d like to give my condolences on your loss too. I’m sorry about your brother,” The Kid said.

  “If you think we got something in common because we both lost our kin, then you’re mistaken, you crippled little nigga. I only took this meeting with you because of Devon.”

  Pete looked at Devon and said, “A man with your experience should come and work for my organization one day. We could use a killer like you, Devon. You’d be welcomed here.”

  Devon simply smirked. If only Pete knew the truth about his brother’s murder, how open would his arms be toward Devon?

  “I’m good where I’m at,” Devon replied coolly.

  “If you ever change your mind—”

  “I won’t,” Devon quickly interrupted him.

  Panamanian Pete puffed on his cigar. He fixed his eyes on Kid. “If you came here to waste my time, I guarantee y’all won’t leave here alive.”

  “We didn’t,” The Kid replied with confidence in his voice.

  “You have one minute to catch my attention.”

  The Kid knew his first move, and it wasn’t with words. He handed over the satchel to one of Pete’s goons. The man took it and placed it on Pete’s desk. Pete took the bag and opened it. He saw the money but remained offhand about it.

  “There’s fifty thousand dollars inside,” The Kid said.

  “Fifty grand . . . for what reason?” asked Pete.

  “Simply for information,” The Kid said.

  “Information on what or who?”

  “We have a common enemy, Mr. Pete, and we both want the same thing: Maserati Meek, dead. He’s still alive after your attempt to kill him.”

  Panamanian Pete had heard the same thing. It was difficult news to hear. The man had nine lives.

  The Kid continued with, “You were able to get close to him. I just want information on Meek, Mr. Pete. I want him dead, and I’m willing to do it myself. Me and my crew, we’ll take all the risk and we’ll hunt him down. I promise you it will get done. All I need from you is the same source that linked you to Meek’s business. I’m ready to take Maserati Meek for everything he has, and I’ll cut you in with the profit. You have my word, Mr. Pete.”

  Pete was quiet but was listening. The Kid had his ear. He took another puff from his cigar and looked at Kid poker-faced. No one had any idea what he was thinking. Had he gone for the proposition, or did he feel that the meeting was a waste of his time?

  “Fifty thousand just for information,” said Pete coolly.

  “That’s all I’m asking for, and we’ll do all
the legwork.”

  “You know what? You got balls, kid, especially for someone that can’t walk, and I respect that. We have a deal. I’ll hand over my sources, and I’ll expect you to get things done. Do you understand me?”

  “I do,” replied Kid.

  “If you fail to do so, or if you fuck me over, I’ll kill you and your entire family. Whatever you love, expect it to die painfully slow,” Pete warned in a stern voice.

  The Kid nodded.

  Everyone could breathe again. The deal had been set into motion. Now it was time for action—for The Kid to deliver what he promised on. The Kid spun himself around, and they all were ready to exit the cluttered room. But before they could leave, Panamanian Pete spoke to them with an afterthought, saying, “You got one month to make it happen.”

  The Kid simply nodded. All he needed was the intel, and he was sure he could make Maserati Meek’s demise happen. He was yearning to do what Panamanian Pete failed to do. But this time, he saw his own payday too. It was one he hopefully could live a good life off of.

  ***

  It was after midnight when Papa John parked on the suburban block and killed the ignition to the SUV. He sat a few cars away, watching his father’s place. Like always, the area was quiet. No passing cars, no people on foot, and almost every house was dark and still. Residents went to bed early in this part of town. Papa John lit a Newport and chilled. He spotted his father’s Benz parked in the driveway. He texted Dina’s phone. She replied: Fifteen minutes and your father will be gone. Papa John sat back and waited, smoking his cigarette. Fifteen minutes seemed like forever when he was horny like hell, but he had no choice.

  It had been a trying day for him. Meeting with Panamanian Pete was nerve-wracking. He felt that The Kid had put them in a situation that was a no-win. How were they going to find Maserati Meek? The man had money and power, and he was in hiding. Where would they start? For all they knew, Meek could have fled the country and gone back to Egypt—and if so, there was no way to get at him then. And could they trust Pete? Papa John strongly felt that Panamanian Pete was just as dangerous to them as Maserati Meek. Was Pete truly the lesser evil?