Dirty Work: Part 1

“Nigga, whatever it is, don’t come at me wit’ it. I’m your boy, nigga. Talk to me. You got beef wit’ someone?”

“Nah, it ain’t like that.”

“Then what’s goin’ on? You ain’t come to the barbecue I threw. We had plenty of bitches there. Your flavor, nigga.”

“Yo, when we gonna do another lick? I need the cash, for real.”

“I’m workin’ on somethin’,” Kip responded.

“Workin’ on what?”

“Yo, what’s goin’ on wit’ you, Papa John? Huh? ’Cuz right now, you comin’ at me a little suspect,” Kip asked with a minor frown.

“I just got a lot of heavy shit on my mind. Family shit.”

“Family?”

“My kids,” he said.

Kip passed the Black & Mild to Papa John, and he took a pull. He said, “Nigga, you ain’t got nothin’ stronger than this shit? No fuckin’ weed?”

“Y’all niggas the potheads.”

Papa John took a few drags. He needed to hold back his tears. He wasn’t the one to cry in front of anyone, especially his homeboys. So he kept his emotions strongly contained. He was a womanizer—an asshole, a freak, and a violent man, but when it came to his children, he was a father and he liked the job. He had six kids, and all four of his boys were named John Jr.

Unbeknownst to his crew, one of his sons had recently been diagnosed with autism. He had gotten the disturbing call last week from his baby mama, Lana, who had called him howling about the diagnosis. She cried out to Papa John, saying she had to raise a retarded baby and called Papa John’s seed inferior.

The remark infuriated him. He rushed to her house and stormed inside, and they’d gotten into a heated argument, which led to Papa John attacking her and beating her down. It was his son, and he wasn’t retarded, and his sperm wasn’t inferior. He then took his son, John Jr., and left. The next day he took him to see a top physician who had confirmed the diagnosis. His son would need to see a specialist and receive therapy if he was going to live a somewhat normal life. But therapy for autism was expensive, between three to eight thousand dollars, and the therapy wasn’t fully covered by Lana’s medical insurance. But whatever his son needed, he was willing to pay for it in cash.

It was getting late. Papa John had to leave and check on his son. He had his five-year-old autistic son, John Jr. staying with his other baby mama, Tina, who had his three-year-old son, John Jr. Tina didn’t have a problem with it. She loved Papa John deeply, despite his womanizing ways.

“Yo, I’m out, I gotta check on my son,” he said to Kip.

Kip nodded. They gave each other dap, and Papa John climbed out of the van. Papa John walked toward the avenue while Kip remained seated and smoking. His people were starving for some cash, and he needed to provide another score for them. It felt like they were drowning in problems all of a sudden.

Kip took one last pull from the Black, flicked it out the window, and shouted, “Fuck this!” He started his vehicle and drove off. His plans tonight were to go to the bar, get a drink, and chill. Maybe he could find an easy nigga to rob at the bar, or not. But he needed to do something.

He then thought about Devon’s plan, robbing Maserati Meek. Nothing was ever impossible, but damn, it was still suicide. But if push came to shove, and they became desperate, then would it be a bad plan for them to execute? They needed to eat by any means necessary.

Twenty-Three

After checking on his son, Papa John was satisfied he was safe at Tina’s place. He then went to his father’s place in Whitestone, Queens, a quiet upper middle-class neighborhood.

The cab came to a rolling stop in front of a three-bedroom, two-story home on Third Avenue. Papa John paid the driver and climbed out. He looked around far and wide at the manicured lawns, picket and bricked fences, detailed shrubberies, orderly driveways, and nicely paved streets surrounding him. It was the opposite of Harlem—quietness and affluent folks with expensive hobbies and 401(k)s. His father was living great. And he didn’t really care for the man. Papa John felt his old man was a traitor working for the NYPD.

He approached the home. He noticed one car parked in the driveway, a white Lexus. The last time he checked, his pops was driving a Mercedes-Benz. He ascended the brick stairs and rang the bell. He hated reaching out, but he needed a place to stay temporarily. Lana had called the cops on him after he had beaten her up bad, and he feared there might be a warrant out for his arrest.

He rang the doorbell several times and waited. He glanced around. He soon found himself in Devon’s situation, most likely on the run for doing something stupid. But that was his son, his seed, and his baby mama had no right calling his son retarded and stupid. Papa John had immediately snapped and went ham on the bitch. He knew John Jr. was in good hands with Tina. She had her ways, but she was a great mother, and Papa John trusted her with his other son. Anyway, he felt that John Jr. and John Jr. were brothers and needed to know each other.

“Who is it?” he heard a female voice say.

“It’s Papa”—He quickly had to correct himself—“It’s John. Where my pops at?”

The door soon opened, and his father’s young and beautiful twenty-two-year-old girlfriend stood in front of him.

“He’s at work,” she said.

Papa John had seen her only a handful of times, but he had to admit, his pops had great taste. Dina was a beautiful, curvy woman. He looked her up and down, admiring her wear, a printed romper, her long legs glimmering, her pedicure showing her small feet and pretty toes.