Dirty Work: Part 2

He walked to the bedroom window naked and peered out into the street. Things were quiet in his part of town. No sirens, no cops, no destruction—wealth had provided him a slice of paradise. The affluent Brooklyn neighborhood provided some of the best and most expensive homes in the city, as well as privacy.

He thought about Jessica. Twenty-four hours and still no word from her. She wasn’t answering her phone or replying to his text messages. Was she blown to bits? Maserati Meek deemed that impossible. She had contacted him and informed him of her departure from the club. But could she have forgotten something, gone back, and then boom—too late?

There was a part of him that felt he should have included her in his plan. Told her about the bomb—the suicide bomber. Warned her about the mass destruction that was about to come. It would have been fair, right? But would she have been willing to accept it? Would she have been able to deal with the death of hundreds on her conscience? Jessica wasn’t one of them. She hadn’t given her allegiance to Allah. Most likely, she would have never shown up at the club had she known.

Below the bedroom, as Meek chose to be alone, his men were celebrating their accomplishment in the great room. Abdul had been successful, and now he would be rewarded in paradise—taking delight in the seventy-two virgins promised to him. His name meant “servant of the powerful,” and Abdul was that until his end. Covertly, he had entered the nightclub through the rear with the help of a bribed employee. The explosive belt weighed twenty kilograms on his person, underneath a thick jacket. It consisted of several cylinders filled with explosive—de facto pipe bombs. Detonator in his hand, he had pushed his way through the revelers, positioning himself in the center of the dance floor, and hollered, “Allahu Akbar!” He didn’t hesitate to press the detonator, igniting the device and blowing himself up with many others. The explosion resembled a shotgun blast; it shook and it was extremely powerful—so powerful it left a large crater where Abdul once stood.

Maserati Meek had deceived his men; they all believed that they were in the United States for a political cause. They were frustrated and desperate, and they all felt that everything they had tried to do to make the world a better place according to their value system had failed them tremendously. They saw no alternative. They would be heard. Their voices would travel and tremble through the air. America was a place of sin and lies, and it was believed that Muslims hated the country’s policies. The world’s greatest superpower—they wanted to see it crumble.

What Maserati Meek’s men didn’t know was that his motives weren’t for Allah, or to move their cause further. It was all over him feeling disrespected by Kip’s renegotiation of a price for a murder. Things escalated out of control. The fire continued to rage on.

Maserati Meek presented another lie to his foreign killers. He had them believing that the kaffirs, which is a racial slur for a black man, wanted to kill him because they didn’t want him sending money to support ISIS and all they represented. It was a no-no. He told them that a kaffir cartel wanted to stop their movement.

No one would stop their movement, not even a kaffir cartel!

Maserati Meek removed himself from the window. It was time for his nightly prayer. Still naked, he needed to cover himself, and he did so with a towel, where the nakedness of a man is considered to be between the navel and the knees. He stood tall in the bedroom and silent. Communication with Allah would bring life to the prayerful and bring them courage. Allah was talking to them.

Maserati Meek ensured that his area was clean, and then he placed a mat on the floor. He then faced the Qibla. He rose in hands up to his ears and said in a modest tone, “Allahu Akbar.” Subsequently, his right hand went over his left hand on his navel and he kept his eyes focused on the place where he was standing.

The prayer took him five minutes to complete, and once done, he ended the prayer by turning his head to the right and saying, “As Salam Alaykum wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuhu’.” He turned his head to the left and repeated the same phrase.

Allah was good, and He would always be good.

***

The next morning, Maserati Meek lingered in the shower. The cool, cascading water was refreshing and it made him relax and think. Still, no word from Jessica. She had gone MIA. He couldn’t worry about her. If she was alive, then he’d see her soon, but if she was dead—killed in the club explosion—then she was a simple casualty of war. He was good to her and she was good to him, but there would be others.

He stepped out of the shower and toweled off. He secured the towel around his nakedness, wiped the mirror clean of its haze and looked at his Middle Eastern appearance. Clean shaven, lean, and with his long hair, it was no secret why the ladies loved him. He spent a moment primping his hair in the mirror. His hair was his pride and joy. He combed it while admiring his own physique in the mirror.

“You’re a handsome devil, eh,” he said to his reflection in the mirror.

To Meek, it was just another normal day for him. Yesterday was yesterday. He didn’t think about the bombing or his enemies. His heart didn’t harbor regrets or empathy. He was a powerful man on the top, and what it took for him to get there was to become soulless and heartless. He had to become the worst of the worst, and he had to be daring and smart. Where he came from, there was no such thing as weakness. The weak were the first ones to be devoured.

He wanted to look handsome and suave, and to enjoy being himself. Since it was a beautiful morning, Maserati Meek thought about having lunch in the city—someplace nice—maybe Gramercy Tavern on East 20th Street. But no, he thought against going into the city. It was a bad idea. Things were still hectic. He thought about Traif in Brooklyn, on South 4th Street. Their Asian dishes were some of the best food around. But then he thought of a better place: the River Café on Water Street. It was a landmark place, newly renovated, with stunning views of Manhattan. It would be perfect.

Meek continued to groom himself inside the swanky bathroom. Surrounding and protecting his comfort in his lavish Brooklyn lair were eight lethal and heavily armed men who spoke in their native tongue. They had a strong arsenal and ammunition that could take on a small army and homemade bombs that could take out an entire city block.

Maserati Meek moved from the bathroom to the adjacent master bedroom. He swung open the closet door and stepped into the walk-in closet. So many clothes and shoes to choose from. His choices appeared endless, and it all was very expensive. Meek wore nothing but the best.

What to wear?

Today would be something simple and comfortable. He put together white shorts, a white T-shirt, and a pair of crystal leather slide sandals that cost six hundred. Although his look appeared simple, the shorts and T-shirt collectively cost eight hundred dollars. While he dressed, his cell phone vibrated against the dresser in the room. He walked to the phone and looked at the caller I.D. It was a 718 number he didn’t recognize. He answered anyway, believing it to be Jessica calling from a different number.

“Hello? Hello, Jessica, is this you? Can you hear me, eh?” Meek said.

There was a lot of noise and commotion in the background.

“Yes, this is Domino’s Pizza and I’m on my way with your order. Ten minutes until delivery, sir,” the caller said.

“Pizza?” Meek replied, baffled. His mind started to race. “I didn’t order any pizza. Wrong number.”

He hung up. It was a strange call that got the gears in his head turning. He stood there with the cell phone in his hand, trying to analyze the call. It was unusual, and a man in his position couldn’t afford to overlook the slightest thing. There was something not right with that phone call. He waited a beat and then he called the number back. The call hadn’t come from a cell phone; it came from a pay phone that didn’t accept any incoming calls, the recording indicated.

Now that didn’t add up—a delivery person calling from a pay phone. Also, there was earlier missed call on his cell phone—a call that he had overlooked—a mistake on his end. His instincts told him to call it back and be cautious. He dialed, it rang twice until he heard, “1st precinct, how may I…”

Meek had heard enough. He quickly ended the call. His heart started to race. The first ones he suspected were the alphabet boys—DEA, FBI. Were they on to him? How? Paranoia set in and he figured that at any given moment, they were going to kick in his door and raid the place. One could never underestimate the FBI. But if they connected him to the bombing, how had they done it so fast? Then it dawned on him. Jessica. She had to have snitched. She was talking to the police. It was the reason she wasn’t answering her phone or replying to any of his text messages. The feds had somehow turned her. There was no other way. She was talking and giving law enforcement everything.

Now he definitely wanted to find that grimy, two-faced bitch!