Dirty Work: Part 1

Prologue

ESPN played on the 32-inch flat-screen in the bedroom, and Stephen A. Smith and Skip Bayless could be heard commentating on tonight’s basketball game on First Take. The Nets were playing the Atlanta Hawks at the Barclays Center in downtown Brooklyn. Both men were going back and forth, expressing their outlook on tonight’s game, the playoffs looming. The Nets were potential playoff contenders, but the Hawks were a powerful team to beat, especially with Jeff Teague having the best season of his career. Skip Bayless mentioned Nets player Jason Miller, a talented small forward from Georgetown who was dominating the game with his three-pointers and strong inside game. He was the leading scorer on the Nets. Bayless compared Miller to Ray Allen, another fierce three-point shooter. Smith had his doubts about Miller, criticizing his lack of defense. They also mentioned the four-year multi-million-dollar deal he had recently signed with the Nets, making him one of the wealthiest players in the NBA.

The noise from the television woke up Kip Kane. Kip stretched and yawned and lifted himself from his bed. He was shirtless, his chiseled physique covered with tattoos and battle scars. He stared at ESPN and listened to Smith and Bayless talk about Jason Miller’s multi-million-dollar contract with the Nets. It was a lot of money—twenty-five million guaranteed, and he was expected to earn ninety-five million dollars.

“Ninety-five million! Shit!” Kip muttered to himself. A hood nigga from Brooklyn earning that much money to dribble and dunk a ball? Kip felt he was in the wrong profession.

He stood up and went to the bedroom window. The morning sunlight percolated through, indicating another sunny spring day. He pulled back the blinds and gazed at his city. Harlem was alive this morning, buzzing with people, cars, and his beloved projects—Manhattanville Houses in West Harlem, between Broadway and Amsterdam. From his eleventh-floor window, he had a picturesque view of the city that stretched from Harlem to the George Washington Bridge.

Kip wiped the cold from his eyes. He’d heard what he needed to hear, so he turned off the television. He lit a Black & Mild, picked up his cell phone, and sat at the foot of his bed. It was eleven a.m. There was a lot to do today. It was time to get that money.

He puffed on the Black as he dialed a number. It rang three times until someone picked up. “Where y’all niggas at?” he asked.

“We on the block,” Devon said.

“A’ight, come get a nigga by noon.”

“A’ight.”

Kip tossed his cell phone on the bed and stood up. He walked toward the closet mirror and gazed at himself. He had a rough image, but he was handsome. He was twenty-two years old with a low-cut Caesar, his waves were always spinning, and he had a growing mustache. He had dark skin with an athletic build, and his eyes were cold—it was like he had a blizzard in his spirit. He had seen a lot and been through a lot in life.

Kip Kane saw himself as a survivor. Harlem was a battleground, and he was a warrior—a thoroughbred from the mean streets. He had a lot of pressure on his young shoulders, but he refused to be weighed down by poverty and lack of finances. Kip was the moneymaker in his family—if he could call it a family. He only had two people he truly cared for in his life: his younger brother Kid, who sometimes went by “The Kid,” and Rhonda, his Nana, who was sixty-five years old and living comfortably in a retirement community upstate. Her apartment came with all the amenities. Nana had her groceries brought to her door three times a week, and staff that came to clean her apartment twice a week. Kip’s Nana didn’t have to lift a finger. Everything had been taken care of for her, thanks to Kip.

Kip felt that he owed her a lot. She had taken him and his little brother in from abusive foster homes to a real home when he was ten and Kid was seven. She was a single, childless woman in her early fifties at the time. She took care of the boys, fed them, clothed them, and became a grandmother to them. Kip thought the world of her, but Kid thought differently. He wasn’t as loving toward Nana as Kip was and always believed she was a fraud, despite what she had done for them.

Kip walked out of his bedroom, moved down the hallway, and knocked on the bedroom door, the master bedroom. He didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door and marched into his little brother’s room. Kid was lying in bed and absorbed in a game of chess on his tablet. He was beating the computer.

Kip smiled at his little brother and said, “You gonna stay in here and play video games or enjoy the day?”

“Play a game with me.”

“You know I don’t play like you.”

“I can teach you.”

“Nah, chess is your thing, little brother, not mine. I move real-life pawns on these streets, and I’m the king.” Kip beat his chest. “You goin’ down to the park?”

“Yeah. You got your hustle, and I got mine.”

Kip smiled. “No doubt, little brother.”

Kid ended his game and decided to get dressed. He would need his brother’s help. Kip moved Kid’s wheelchair closer to the bed, and then he helped him dress for the day.

It was eighty degrees outside, so Kid decided on some black cargo shorts, a T-shirt, and his fresh white Nikes. He was a nineteen-year-old whiz kid, paralyzed from the waist down since he was eleven.

One day, Kid was riding on the handlebars of Kip’s BMX bicycle, and the two were horsing around on a construction site, executing tricks and jumping dirt hills like daredevils.

Kip tried to jump a large dirt hill with Kid on the handlebars. He pedaled feverishly, wanting to go airborne to show off for those watching. But he lost his footing and lost control of the bicycle, which abruptly veered right. Kid went flying off the handlebars and tumbled down some nearby concrete stairs, severely injuring his spine. The doctors told him that there was a 99.9 percent chance that he would never walk again. He had become a paraplegic.

Kip felt super guilty and promised to help his brother walk again, or when possible, get him some of the best help and physical therapy money could buy when he was old enough and able. Until then, Kip always stayed glued by Kid’s side. Whatever or whenever Kid needed him, he was there.

Being wheelchair-bound didn’t stop Kid’s enjoyment of life and doing what he loved, chess. Video games were his second love. He spent most of his days in the parks playing chess, and he became the best in the city and the most talked about in the Tri-State area. He was a vibrant chess player, and competitors would travel from far and wide to challenge him to a game. So far, he was undefeated.

Kip rolled his brother, dressed and looking fresh in a pair of

gold-rimmed bifocals, into the hallway.

“You want breakfast?” Kip asked him.

“Nah, I’m not really hungry.”

“You sure? You know I can make you some grits and eggs real quick.”

“I’m good, bro. I just want to get out and about.”

“You want me to come with you?”

“Kip, I’m nineteen. I’m a grown man. I don’t need you to babysit or escort me everywhere. I can handle myself.”

“A’ight.”

Kid rolled himself toward the front door and gave his brother the deuces sign before leaving.