Dirty Work: Part 1

The brothers continued to talk. They had such a deep bond, sometimes they could tell what the other was thinking about. Kip treated his brother like a child out of guilt. Kip tucked Kid into bed and wished him a good night. He promised that there would be no more incidents and once again said, “I’m here to stay, bro. I got you for life. You feel me? Get some sleep, and don’t worry. We’ll talk tomorrow.”

Kip walked out of the room and closed the door. He rejoined Papa John in the living room.

“Your brother okay?” Papa John asked him.

“Yeah, he a’ight. Just a little shaken up, that’s all.”

The two shared a blunt and started to talk business. They had a murder to plot, and Devon had nearly risked capture with his stupidity.

Papa John inhaled the smoke and sat back. “That shit was crazy today.”

“It was. That’s why we gotta be smarter than that.” Kip wanted to forget about Brooklyn and focus on how to get at Big Sean. Today’s stupid and deadly stunt wasn’t about to stop them from a fifty-thousand-dollar payday.

“How we gonna do this?” Papa John asked him.

“Careful and quick, nigga—You act like we strangers to the murder game.”

“Nigga, you know my gunplay is fierce, but this Big Sean we talking about. You know he a killer too.”

“I know, but he ain’t gonna see us coming,” Kip said.

They continued to smoke and plot. It was too bad Devon wasn’t there to plot with them. He was staying low at a cousin’s place in Queens until things cooled down. They couldn’t pull off the job without him.

Eleven

Kip’s tricked-out minivan came to a rolling stop in front of the two-story home in St. Albans, Queens. The block was quiet and still with the sun long gone and the moon taking its place. The house was decorated with a manicured lawn, and a long driveway led to a single-car garage in the backyard. The place was a far cry from the rough streets of Harlem. Kip and Papa John sat in the car inspecting the neighborhood.

“Fuckin’ Brady Bunch, this neighborhood,” Papa John joked. “I don’t see how Devon was able to function out here.”

“Like he had a choice.”

“What you think the bitches are like out here?”

Kip shot his friend a look. “Focus, nigga, fo’ real,” he said sharply.

“I am focused, my nigga. You need to tell Devon the same shit.”

“I will, believe me.” Kip picked up his cell phone and dialed Devon’s number. It rang several times before he answered. “We outside,” Kip told him.

“A’ight, I’m out in one minute.”

Kip and Papa John sat back and waited. Kip was smoking a Black & Mild, while Papa John toyed with the radio, looking for a good song to listen to. The stillness of the neighborhood was overwhelming to the two men.

“I hope this nigga don’t take forever,” Papa John said, becoming impatient. “I got things to do and bitches to see.”

“He’ll be out.”

Kip gawked at the quaint house where Dana lived. Devon had grown up with his cousin Dana, who was five years his senior. They were like sister and brother, but over time, he went his way and she went hers, but she still looked out for Devon when he needed help.

Devon’s stunt in Harlem was upsetting to Kip. It was a foolish risk, and Kip had reprimanded him severely. But all was forgiven, and they were still good friends.

“I can’t believe Dana got her own crib and kids and moved out here,” Papa John said. “Damn, she like the soccer mom now, and shit. You remember how wild that bitch used to be?”

Kip remained silent.

“Didn’t you fuck her once?” Papa John asked.

“We was cool, that’s it.”