Dirty Work: Part 1

“Sir, change, change, any spare change, please. All I need is some change.”

The driver was losing his patience. He had a load of product to transfer, and it felt like it was taking a lifetime for the red light to change.

While distracted by the panhandler, the bigger threat came from his left with a .50-caliber Desert Eagle.

The window smashed, startling the driver, and when he spun around, the gunman fired two bullets into his head.

The panhandler acted quickly, opening the door, removing the body from the vehicle, dumping him on the street and taking his place behind the wheel. The shooter hurried into the passenger seat, and the van sped away with fifty kilos belonging to Maserati Meek.

***

The house on Grand Avenue in Rockville Centre, Long Island was a quaint, three-bedroom with a two-car garage, manicured lawn, trimmed trees in the front yard, and a porch. The neighborhood resembled Mayberry. The tree-lined streets and affluent homes were a far cry from the projects, but tonight they were about to get a taste of the urban violence.

The three-bedroom home on Grand Avenue was a front; it was one of Maserati Meek’s largest stash houses hidden in the outer reaches of a violent society. Here, Meek kept things simple: two people coming and going from the place, a man and a woman who pretended to be married to throw off nosy neighbors and law enforcement but were, in fact, trusted handlers of Meek’s product and his money. They drove minivans and SUVs with secret compartments. The garage was attached to the house, giving them privacy when loading and unloading drugs and cash. The house had surveillance and a

n alarm, and a small arsenal.

Few people knew about the place in Rockville Centre. The man was in his mid-thirties, the woman in her early thirties, and they both played their parts well.

***

At eleven p.m., a black Dodge Caliber with slight tints came to a stop in front of the house. The occupants inside the car gazed at the location with a violent plot to wreak havoc on Meek’s organization. For these three men, it was going to be fun. The inside information they were receiving was paying off. They cocked back their pistols and sawed-off shotgun and readied themselves for violence.

Devon took a pull from his cigarette and doused it in the ashtray. He didn’t want to risk leaving any DNA behind.

Maniac sat in the backseat with the sawed-off shotgun.

Papa John glanced at the time. “Y’all niggas ready?”

They nodded.

Since Kip’s death, these men had been personally at war with Meek. There was no limits, no escape, and they were yearning to destroy everything he had built. With Kid as the brains, they had been many steps ahead of their enemy.

Jessica was helpful with information, along with subtle surveillance of Meek’s peoples, and there was help from a city cop Kid had blackmailed. Officer Melton had a gambling problem and a desire for prostitutes. He owed a dangerous man thirty thousand dollars. Kid paid off his debts, and now the cop was indebted to him. To pay off his debts, Officer Melton had to provide Kid with information that wasn’t easy to attain.

Kid Kane was building his empire slowly but surely. With what he had accomplished in weeks, it was easy to say who the smarter brother in the streets was.

All three men donned black masks, climbed out of the Caliber, and approached the house heavily armed. They lit two Molotov cocktails and sent them crashing through the front windows of the house. Immediately flames burst open, engulfing the house rapidly, and soon two figures came flying out the front door coughing and scurrying for safety.

Once they had sight of the man and woman, they opened fire.

Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak! Bak!

Boom! Boom! Boom!

Bullets smashed into the fake couple and twisted their bodies, and they fell to their deaths on the front lawn in robes and underwear, bleeding profusely like stuck pigs.

For good measure, Devon stepped to the already dead folks and put a bullet in both their heads.

The violence and gunfire had awoken the neighbors. What they saw was shocking to them. The house was completely in flames, as smoldering fire lifted into the sky. Death and fire were turning their neighborhood upside down.

Devon, Papa John, and Maniac left the money, guns, and drugs inside to burn. It was a message to Maserati Meek—His time was coming, and they knew where to find his shit. The men ran to the car and sped off laughing.

***

Jessica stood, looking dejected, in front of Kid. The other night she had been with Meek sexually. It was all part of the game—using her body for survival—and she figured herself a scheming bitch. She had been playing both sides of the fence, trying to collect enough money from both men to leave town when the opportunity presented itself.

She had given Kid enough information on Meek, risking her life while doing so. She would listen to his phone conversations, eavesdrop, and snoop around his apartment and business. Sometimes she would flirt with one of Meek’s lieutenants or soldiers, and they would say something to her that wasn’t supposed to be said. Sometimes, after sex with Meek, there was pillow talk, and he found himself confiding in her about certain things.