“It would definitely be a step up for us.”
“I love Harlem.”
“I do too, but think about the pussy we would get wit’ a crib like one of these.”
“You think wit’ your dick too much, Papa John.”
“I think like a nigga that loves to bust a nut. Like you wouldn’t want to fuck a bitch in a million-dollar home.”
Kip laughed and shook his head. Leave it to Papa John to soothe the tension with his vulgar humor.
They pulled up to a moderate-sized home with a curved driveway on Middle Neck Road. They were familiar with the address. Kip parked behind two red Ferrari 458s, and he and Papa John climbed out of the minivan, in awe of the sleek, exotic cars.
“Shit!” Papa John said, running his hand across the hood of the car as he passed it by. “Maserati Meek definitely knows how to live it up. Imagine it, Kip—getting your dick sucked in one of these things while doin’ a hundred miles an hour on the highway.”
“Nigga, you better have control first.”
“Oh, I’m gonna have control, over the car and my bitch. But I like this. Damn! You think he would let me take it for a test drive?”
“We’re here on business, Papa,” Kip reminded him.
“Yeah, yeah, business . . . then pleasure.”
The two men walked toward the solid mahogany double doors with rain glass. The property was tastefully decorated with trimmed shrubberies and blossoming flowers, surveillance cameras everywhere.
Kip pushed the doorbell, and they waited. In Kip’s hand was a bag full of goodies—the stolen watches and jewelry from the basketball players. The contents inside weighed the bag down, so Kip was sure he would get a good price for everything from Maserati Meek.
Soon, the doors opened, and standing in front of the men was one of Meek’s goons. The man recognized the Harlem thugs, but that didn’t stop him from thoroughly searching them in the large foyer for any weapons. Once cleared, the goon stepped aside and allowed them farther into the home. From the foyer, they entered a great room dominated by a huge, honed, black granite-topped island. The room doubled as a kitchen and living room.
Maserati Meek was in the kitchen, cooking. He turned around and greeted Kip and Papa John happily. “My friends, once again, I welcome you to my paradise.”
From the smell in the kitchen, it seemed like he was a good cook. Whatever he had brewing, it enticed Kip and Papa John’s nostrils.
Maserati Meek was all smiles and animated, like a child with ADHD. Dressed in beige shorts exposing his hairy legs, a T-shirt, and a white apron, he walked toward the two men like he was ready to go outside and play. He hugged them, but they were standoffish to his warm greeting. It was awkward. But he was weird.
Maserati Meek’s eyes moved down to the bag in Kip’s hand. He already had an idea what was inside. “You brought gifts for me, eh, my friend?”
“Came here to do some business,” Kip said.
“You guys, you hungry? You stay for dinner? You want a taste of some good Middle Eastern chow?”
“Not hungry,” Kip replied nonchalantly.
“You sure? I’m making some smoking baba ghanoush with oil-cured black olives. It’s a very tasty dish. It is de shit, my friend.”
“Smoking baba ghan-what?” Kip couldn’t even pronounce it, and he definitely didn’t have any desire to taste it. He just wanted to show Maserati Meek the jewelry, make a deal, and leave.
Though Maserati Meek was animated and friendly toward the two of them, Kip was well aware of his notorious reputation that carried from state to state. Behind that smile and the hospitality, he was a violent, murderous drug kingpin. His iron fists ruled from the Tri-State to Detroit, Baltimore, and Chicago, and had become a huge blip on the FBI’s radar. His organization was under federal investigation, but there wasn’t enough evidence to build a case yet.
“We’ll pass this time,” Kip said coolly.
Maserati Meek pivoted and went back to the large stove to tend to his meal.
Kip and Papa John stood in the kitchen knowing it wasn’t wise to rush the man into conducting business.
***
Maserati Meek, born Akar Mudada, could be eccentric at times, but he was fair and he was smart. Business was in his blood, and so was bloodshed and carnage. His parents were from Egypt, and his family was no stranger to aggression, oppression, and death. When he was ten, his uncles were killed by drone attacks. They were blown to pieces in the bunker they’d taken refuge inside. Maserati Meek had witnessed the family remove body after body after the attack. Nearly half a dozen dead and bloody men were laid out on the rubble for him to see. They said that his uncles were linked to Al-Qaeda.