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Maserati Meek was a handsome, tall man with shiny, long black hair that he sported in different styles from time to time, either pulled back into a bun, cornrows, or two braids. He had dark skin and his accent was slightly urban, sometimes Black-ish. He emulated the urban culture, fell in love with the lifestyle and the people.
This was a punch in the face to his parents, who believed in the unity of their own people and race. Maserati Meek contradicted their beliefs, indulging himself in the black lifestyle and in a life of crime.
He ran his criminal organization like a terrorist. He had committed soldiers who were ready to die for what they believed in—his organization and never-ending praise to Allah. When his organization went to war with another, it was like Iraq, Beirut, or Afghanistan on an urban street with deadly bombings and AK-47 gunfire. Though most of his family had disowned him, Maserati Meek continued to send lots of money back home to his family in Egypt to help support their terrorist regimes, and for food and a decent living.
He had come to America on a work visa from his employer when he was nineteen years old. He was a gifted engineer and computer programmer who had caught the attention of a fledgling software company called Sillicus, which was willing to sponsor him. He did extraordinary work for Sillicus until he became infatuated with the ghetto lifestyle. His attitude started to change, and his career in engineering and software design began to suffer.
It didn’t take long before he started dabbling in the drug world. He covertly helped fund several kilos of cocaine for a Texas crew he’d befriended. He rose fast in the underworld, and twelve years later, he was the boss.
Maserati Meek farmed out murder contracts to Kip and his crew when he didn’t want to get his hands dirty or involve his organization. Kip had a success rate of 100 percent, and a level of trust had been built between the two men.
***
“Sit and let’s talk,” Meek said finally. “I’m ready to see what my two players got for me today . . . something nice, I know.”
The two men sat at the island. Kip removed the contents from the bag and spread it across the island. Everything gleamed brightly. It all looked very expensive—diamonds, gold, and platinum, a black man’s glory.
Maserati Meek stared at the jewelry and the watches and he lit up like a lightbulb. “Whoa! Whoa! We done hit payday, I see,” he exclaimed. “Damn, muthafuckas, I love it already.”
“Everything you see here is from NBA ballplayers,” Kip informed him.
“Eh, that thing on the news, that was you and your crew?”
Kip nodded proudly.
“I’m impressed, my friend. I am.”
He picked up the Rolex and inspected it. Off the bat, he knew the worth of the watch. He loved the fact that the jewelry in his kitchen belonged to ballplayers. There was a certain bravado in owning jewelry stolen from NBA players.
“I want it all,” he proclaimed loudly. “Yes, I love it! Oh, these muthafuckas definitely had good taste.” He threw on one of the platinum chains and struck a pose in front of his men standing in the kitchen.
Kip and Papa John smiled widely. They could see the dollar signs dancing around in the air and falling all around them, drenching them with a shitload of money.
“I’m gonna give the earrings to my girl, and this watch, I’m gonna
keep this watch for myself.” Maserati Meek so happened to pick up Jason Miller’s diamond-encrusted watch for himself.
“Big Sean and Jay P, y’all niggas, c’mere. Let’s enjoy this together.” Maserati Meek called two of his goons to the kitchen island covered with jewelry.
They stepped toward the jewelry with an expressionless look.
Meek said, “Pick something out for yourselves.”
Their stone-faced looks turned into bright and wide smiles. Jay P picked out the gold Rolex, and Big Sean helped himself to a big-faced diamond watch, both costing sixty grand apiece.
“What we owe you, my niggas?” Maserati Meek asked.
No one was offended by his use of the word nigga, which he used frequently, and they didn’t care. He was the boss. You didn’t challenge Maserati Meek.
Kip did the math in his head and came to a price. “Two hundred K,” he threw out there, thinking everything had to be in the 1.5 million mark. He felt that two hundred thousand was a fair price for it all.
Maserati Meek nodded. “Okay.”
Kip and Papa John smiled. It was payday.
Meek instructed one of his men to get the cash. “Can we talk alone?” he asked Kip.
Kip nodded. They made their way onto the patio in the backyard overlooking the in-ground pool.
