Dirty Work: Part 1

Knowing they weren’t going to go away, Kip opened the door and was greeted by two plainclothes detectives.

“Kip, it’s good to see you again,” the black male detective said. He was dressed in a black suit, white tie, and black fedora, his holstered Glock showing. He had a sharp chin with a dark goatee and small, shifty eyes.

Kip had crossed paths with Detective Albright several times. His partner was Detective Yang. He was dressed in a suit and tie too, with spiky jet-black hair. He was shorter in stature, clean-shaven, and was a veteran detective at the 32nd Precinct on West 135th Street.

Kip asked harshly, “What y’all want?”

“We just want to have a few words with you, Kip,” Detective Yang said.

Kip wasn’t intimidated by their presence. He was a hardcore thug that didn’t shiver or become panicky when approached by cops. “Y’all got a warrant? Am I under arrest?”

Detective Albright said coolly, “No, not right now. But you know me, Kip. We can do this the easy way or the hard way; it’s your choice.”

Kip grimaced at them both. He relented and left with them, telling his brother, “I’ll be right back. Don’t even worry, Kid.”

Kid sat there in his wheelchair looking despondent. He prayed that it wasn’t anything serious. But knowing Kip, it was definitely something serious. Was it about the shooting in the park? Kid had so many worries flooding through his mind, he felt like he was about to have a panic attack.

Thirteen

Jessica removed herself from the bathtub and toweled off. She contemplated if she should call Maserati Meek. She was nervous, not knowing how he would react if or when she called? Was it just a stunt? Was he serious about linking up with her? She wouldn’t know unless she called.

She placed the towel around her body and knotted it. She stared at her reflection in the foggy mirror. She heaved a sigh, hearing her family outside the bathroom door. It was her, her mother, brother, her two aunts, and her grandmother in one cramped two-bedroom apartment and one bathroom. It was too much going on, and she had no privacy.

“I need to get the fuck outta here,” she said to herself. “This place is driving me loco.”

Her brother knocked on the door. He needed to use the bathroom.

Jessica swung open the door with an attitude and scowled at him.

He pushed by her. “You ain’t the only one living here,” he said.

At least in L.A., they’d had a three-bedroom house. In Harlem, it felt like the walls were closing in around her.

Jessica went into the bedroom she shared with her aunts and mother and got dressed. Her outfit was always put together correctly. She couldn’t slack in that department. Her looks and her crew were all she had right now.

She left the apartment with her cell phone. She went into the stairway to make the phone call that would probably change her life for the better. She sat on the concrete steps and slowly dialed the number given to her. Anticipation swelled inside of her as the phone rang several times before someone finally answered.

“Hello,” a male voice answered.

She smiled and asked, “Is this Maserati Meek?”

“Nah, not him, sweetheart,” the voice said.

Jessica felt like a balloon deflating.

“Who looking for him?” the man asked.

“This is Jessica, from the club. This number was given to me by one of his men, and he’s expecting my call.”

There was silence on the other end of the phone. She didn’t know what was going on, or what game was being played, but she didn’t like it at all.

The voice then said, “You’ll get a callback.”

The phone suddenly went silent, leaving Jessica clueless. It looked like her hopes of snatching a baller like Maserati Meek went down the drain. She lingered in the stairway, looking like someone had stolen her puppy.

“Really,” she muttered. “These the games muthafuckin’ hombres are still playing today?”

Jessica needed a timeout; she needed a strong drink or maybe some good weed to erase her mind of what had just happened.