Wearing a dark Armani suit that highlighted his authority and a gold Rolex around his wrist, his eyes looked at Passion working her magic on the stage. She was special, and he knew just how special she was. She had platinum pussy and a mouth that could make any man come in minutes. Watching her twerk on stage and then spread her legs eagle style, exposing her pink cookies, Panamanian Pete stood there a little turned on. Passion had given him plenty of private performances in his office when the club was closed. A few of those nights led to three pregnancies and three abortions.
Panamanian Pete couldn’t see a woman like Passion having his kids. She was only good for one thing, and that was having a good time. So the abortions were forced on her, no matter what she felt. She didn’t have a choice.
Spending time in one of his strip clubs temporarily took his mind away from his conflict with Maserati Meek, along with the death of his brother and his missing $800,000. But he would never forget. Pete wasn’t a forgiving man. He felt the urge to kill Meek and everyone associated with him. In due time, he told himself.
He took a few more pulls from the cigar. Passion was about to start one of her infamous acts. She began covering her tits with shaving cream from a can as the crowd waited in anticipation. She pulled out a match, lit it, and set fire to her chest. The flames raged against her skin and yet, Passion looked unharmed. She strutted around with her tits on fire for a few seconds, even twerking, and then easily snuffed it out. The crowd in the place went wild and applauded her risky trick. Panamanian Pete never got tired of seeing her do it. It was her signature move in The Bottom’s Up.
During Passion’s act, two of Pete’s goons entered the club, Rodney and G-Dep. Both men looked ominous and unfriendly. Between the two of them, they had a combined body count of twenty-six victims. Murder was their forte. Security refused to search them, knowing that they were connected to the boss man. It was Pete’s club and Pete always gave them the okay to come inside carrying their weapons. Both men knew better than to show out in his place of business.
Panamanian Pete locked eyes with Rodney and gave him a simple head nod, meaning they needed to talk. Rodney nodded back. The killers needed a drink first. It had been a long day. Pete gave them five minutes to step into his office. He didn’t like to wait.
Panamanian Pete supervised his strip club, but Charles Ray was the manager. Charles Ray approached him with some urgent news. He stood six-five with a bald head and always wore a tracksuit. He leaned closer and said into Pete’s ear, “Meek’s bitch is on TV.”
Pete looked at him in confusion. “What?”
“Feds are lookin’ for her.”
Panamanian Pete pivoted and headed into his office with Charles Ray right behind him. With the door closed, Pete snatched up the remote to the forty-inch flatscreen and turned on the nightly news. Lo and behold, Jessica was on the news—her face was splashed across his TV screen. He had heard about the bombing, but never in his wildest imagination did he think that Maserati Meek had anything to do with it. But there she was, Meek’s bitch Jessica and the FBI. Somehow she was a suspect.
“Fuckin’ crazy bitch,” Pete said.
“Yeah, it caught me off guard too,” said Charles Ray.
Pete was zoned in on the news. They mentioned terrorism. Once again, he was taken aback, but not fully shocked. If Maserati Meek was linked to terrorism, it fueled his rage more and gave him more of a reason to slaughter the man. He hated terrorists.
A knock at the door turned his attention away from the news. “Come in,” he said.
Rodney and G-Dep walked into the office.
Panamanian Pete looked their way and asked, “So, what y’all two muthafuckas got for me? Is it done?”
Rodney spoke up. “They weren’t at the location. When we showed up the fire department was putting out a fire in the building.”
“Fire? What fuckin fire?” Pete asked.
“I think they knew we were coming and set the place on fire to cover their tracks.”
It was news that Pete didn’t want to hear.
He had gotten the intel on one of Maserati Meek’s hideouts and acted on it. Panamanian Pete had plenty of resources spread everywhere to gather information. His moles and snitches were working feverishly on the streets. If something was out of place, or there was an anomaly somewhere, he wanted to know about it. He hated surprises. However, Meek was a tricky and slippery bastard, and fortunately for him, he’d left the Brooklyn location just in time.
“What you want us to do next?” G-Dep asked.
“Y’all niggas chill for a moment. I’ll find y’all some more work soon.”
Rodney and G-Dep were two of his best killers, but they’d struck out. Pete walked around to his desk and took a seat in his high-back leather chair. He lit another cigar and leaned back. He looked up at the black-and-white security monitors. He was the eye in the sky, and nothing went down inside The Bottom’s Up without him knowing about it. With Meek, his only option now was to wait.
***
Panamanian Pete put out money on the streets for any solid information on his foes. He figured two hundred thousand dollars was a large enough sum to get people excited—to get people talking. For that kind of money, folks would sell out their own mothers.
It didn’t take long before Pete got a nibble on the line. It was a strong bite, and he was ready to reel it in and finally skin this slippery fish and cut off his head.
***
Panamanian Pete and his armed thugs sat parked in Canarsie across the street from upmarket two-story row homes looking like lions ready to pounce on a grazing deer. The nondescript blue minivan they sat inside was camouflaged among the other vehicles on the Brooklyn street. It was the location of their target—supposedly, Maserati Meek.
Everybody was quiet with anticipation, simply waiting for the right moment. Five men including Pete were ready for bloodshed. It was unusual for him to involve himself directly in a crime. He had spent years isolating himself from the day-to-day street life—the violence, the drugs, and his soldiers. He had generals and lieutenants who regularly reported to him. He was the cream that had risen to the top through hardcore violence and murders, and he had enough money to pay anyone to do his dirty work for him, including murder. But tonight was different. This was personal. The loss of $800,000 was huge, but the death of his brother Mike, and then Lance prompted him to personally get down and dirty. It wouldn’t feel right to Pete if he wasn’t there to kill Maserati Meek himself. He had high-priced lawyers on retainer and he had honorable sources spread everywhere if he ever found himself in a sticky situation.