Dirty Work: Part 2

Jessica was thrown to the floor. Her body was wracked with pain. She knew it was the end for her. There was no way she would survive this ordeal. The Kid and Devon were pissed. Maserati Meek had tried to blow them up, but it had failed. Now she was going to suffer the aftermath of that failure.

The Kid tried calling Papa John and the girls, but to no avail. The lines were busy and jammed. The bombing had created chaos on the streets. Several police sirens blared from a distance. Tonight would be another night that the city would forever remember. Though it wasn’t on the same scale as 9/11, another bombing in NYC was a horrible reminder. When they thought things were somewhat safe again, so easily they were thrust back into the nightmarish reality of how unsafe their world was.

5

Papa John parked at the DoubleTree hotel in Jersey City, and the trio strode into the lobby. So far there was no news from The Kid or Devon. Papa John and the girls figured they were safe. Things appeared to be going according to plan. Papa John checked his cell phone for any missed calls, but there weren’t any. He reattached it to his hip and followed behind Eshon and Brandy to the elevators. The lobby was quiet with a few guests scattered in the entrance of the hotel with late check-in and early checkout. Within a couple of minutes of them entering the place, the atmosphere changed. People were glued to their cell phones and had a look of shock on their faces. The hotel clerks and night staff were fixed on the Breaking News flashing across the flatscreen hanging above the lobby. People were freaking out.

“What’s goin’ on?” Eshon asked someone close by.

“You didn’t hear?” the lady replied.

“Hear what?”

“There was a bombing in the city . . . some club in Lower Manhattan.”

They had just come from a club in Lower Manhattan. Was it a coincidence or not? Papa John and the girls were taken aback by the news. They hurried to their hotel room and turned on the television. The nightclub bombing was being broadcast on almost every channel. Several text news alerts came chiming into their cell phones. It was big. Several journalists confirmed it—there was an earth-shattering explosion at an unknown nightclub. News cameras were everywhere. The details were sketchy; no one knew anything because it was too early. Was it a gas leak? They didn’t know, but what they did know was that the death toll would be staggering.

Papa John started to worry. He tried calling The Kid, with no success. He tried calling Devon; it was the same. Where were they?

“It wasn’t a fuckin’ gas leak. It was a bomb—a fuckin’ bomb,” Papa John said, knowing a lot more than the reporters and police who were scrambling for information and details.

“We don’t know yet,” Eshon said.

“Think, Eshon. We just left that area. It’s the same fuckin’ block they’re showing on TV. Maserati Meek had sumthin’ to do wit’ this. We were supposed to die in that explosion.”

The girls couldn’t deny it. It made sense.

“Try calling them again,” Brandy said.

Papa John tried repeatedly, but his calls weren’t going through. It was nerve-wracking not being able to get in contact with Kid or Devon. They didn’t want to think the worst—but could it be that they had been killed in the explosion?

Eshon sat on the bed looking lost and concerned. To lose Kip was heart-wrenching, but to lose Kid and Devon too—it would take her pain to the point of no return. Papa John walked to the window and looked outside. His mind was flooded with worries and concerns, too. What if he was the only one left? Then what? How would he go on with his friends gone? What would he do? It was a frightening thought.

***

Miles away from the hotel, lower Manhattan was swarming with police sirens, ambulances, and fire trucks rushing to the explosion. City blocks were shut down in a large perimeter around the incident. It was a horrendous thing to see, so many bodies battered and crushed under tons of concrete and steel. They didn’t know how many dead there were yet, but most likely it would be in the hundreds. The smell of smoke and death permeated the night air, and officials of all kinds from the city police to the FBI plagued the area that quickly became ground zero. So many people were around. So many people wanted to know what had happened—and they were scared. The smoke was still heavy, and the rubble was high.

***

Maserati Meek sat on the couch, shirtless and smoking a cigar, and watched the news footage of the bombing in the city. The explosion was destructive, and from what he saw on TV, it was effective. He grinned and puffed his cigar, then said to his men in the room, “Allah is good.”

Maserati Meek’s enemies messed with the wrong man. He assumed they were all dead—no more of Kip’s cronies. He had squashed them all like bugs. He assumed Jessica was alive, since she had texted him earlier to let him know she had left the building. He couldn’t wait to see her again. She had been very effective with the plan, and he had something special for her.

He stayed in a plush, nine-million-dollar brownstone in Brooklyn in an affluent neighborhood a block away from celebrities such as actress Michelle Williams and the late Heath Ledger. Life was good. Allah truly was the one God. He gave Maserati Meek success in destroying his enemies.

Meek and his remaining goons—eight Egyptian men—watched their handiwork unfold for the world to see. The tragic event would be front-page news for weeks. And there hadn’t been a successful terrorist bombing in New York City since September 11th. Maserati Meek was a proud man. His men stood proudly too and shouted out, “Praise to Allah.”

Meek smoked his cigar and walked toward the window. He looked outside. Brooklyn was the perfect neighborhood for him. He hid in clear sight. He didn’t fret about anything. With one threat gone, now he could refocus his attention on Panamanian Pete. Maserati Meek wanted him dead, but in due time. Now, he wanted to have some fun.

He turned toward his men and hollered, “Now, we celebrate!”

They cheered and smiled.

Maserati Meek turned and looked back out the window. He was looking for Jessica. He texted her for her location, hoping she was close, but he didn’t get a reply. He wasn’t too worried. If he didn’t see her tonight, there was always tomorrow. The bomb had the police everywhere, and the destruction in Manhattan made things hot.

Meek called some high-end escorts for his goons’ entertainment, and an hour later, several beautiful ladies of various ethnicities came walking into the plush brownstone dressed sexy. They had all the right curves and long hair and long legs in erotic stilettos. For a high price, they came with promiscuous conduct and an appetite for sex. Maserati Meek had dropped twenty thousand dollars for the girls. It wasn’t seventy-two virgins in heaven, but it came close.

It didn’t take long for the party to get started. The girls undressed, and the men had their pick. Blow jobs and hardcore sex happened throughout the place, along with drinking and celebrating.