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Kip drove alone this time to meet with Maserati Meek. He was on the Long Island Expressway doing sixty. It was late morning, and the sky lo
oked like it was about to burst open with rain. It was a cooler day with the fall-like weather. He wore a hoodie and his beige Timberlands. Droplets of rain began to spray against his windshield. He turned on the wipers and continued east on the highway.
Kip listened to the radio while on the way to Meek’s stash house. The media were still talking about the Jason Miller incident, the robbery, the shooting. Who were the culprits? What were the NYPD doing to find them? The morning disc jockey did a segment on the protection of athletes when they were in the clubs, at their houses, or with their families. How safe was it for them? The woman read statistics on how many athletes were robbed each year, and it was a staggering number.
Once again, Kip didn’t want to hear it. He turned off the radio. He had other things to focus on. Jason Miller, the police, the radio, they were the least of his problems.
A half-hour after noon, Kip arrived at another of Maserati Meek’s hideouts. He climbed out of his minivan and felt uneasy for some reason. His .9mm was tucked snugly in his waistband. He didn’t want to leave it behind, but to meet with Meek, he would have to. His security wasn’t going to allow it. He removed the gun and placed it underneath his seat. He took a deep breath and approached the house. Like always, there were exotic cars parked out front. This time there was an Aston Martin and a yellow Lamborghini, along with two black Maseratis.
Kip wanted to collect the money he was owed and be out. He climbed the stairway and knocked on the door. It soon opened. He was met by two of Meek’s men. They searched him thoroughly, and he proceeded inside the home.
Maserati Meek was in the living room sipping hot tea, dressed in a white robe and slippers, looking relaxed today. When he saw Kip, he smiled. “My nigga,” he greeted in his strong Middle Eastern accent. “I’ve heard the good news. Eh, my problem, it isn’t my problem anymore, eh, my friend.”
He was lively, dancing around in his robe and slippers, while Kip stood in the living room stoically.
Meek gestured to the chair. “Have a seat, and let’s talk.”
A few of his men joined them in the living room. They stood around looking cold and calculating.
Kip was feeling really uneasy. “I just came to collect my money,” he said respectfully.
“Yes, yes, your money, eh. You did right by me,” Maserati Meek said. “Excuse my jolliness. I recently came back from Vegas and had a wonderful time. I had some of the best pussy in my life. This woman, she is phenomenal, I must say, eh.”
Kip didn’t care for the particulars about his trip. The only thing he cared about was his fifty thousand dollars.
“Are you single, my friend?” Maserati Meek asked Kip.
“That ain’t your business.”
“I know. Why did I even ask?”
To Kip, it felt like Maserati Meek was stalling in paying him for some reason. He started to feel a lot edgy. He scanned the room and saw more of Meek’s goons around than he’d anticipated, different faces, different lieutenants. If it went down, could he fight his way out? Most likely, he wouldn’t stand a chance. And Meek wasn’t a dude to be trusted. He was known to be paranoid and crazy.
Kip now felt that coming alone was definitely a mistake. “Meek, I just want my money and to leave. We did a job for you, so pay me,” he said more sternly.
“Yes, yes,” he said. He snapped his fingers toward one of his goons. “Go get this man his money.”
The man nodded and left the room.
Kip’s uneasiness jumped from a five to a twenty on the Richter scale. If it came down to it, fight or flight, what were his odds? It wasn’t looking good at all. The man who had left, would he come back with his money or murder?
As Kip waited, Meek’s cell phone rang, and he picked up.
Kip just stood there coolly. Never let them see you sweat, he always told himself. He took a deep breath and waited. It was all he could do.
Maserati Meek was engrossed with the caller on the other end. He paced around in the next room.
Kip could barely hear what was being said. Did it concern him? At that moment, he wished he could read lips.
Maserati Meek then hung up and came back into the room he stood in. He looked at Kip. His expression seemed to change. He no longer looked upbeat, but more serious. Who did he talk to? “It seems that I may have another job for you, my friend,” he said to Kip.
“What kind of job?”
“One that will pay really well, eh. But I’ll fill you in with the details soon.” Meek looked into the next room and nodded slightly to someone.
Soon, the same man that had left the room reentered with a small backpack. He tossed it to Kip, who crouched and quickly picked up the bag. He unzipped it and saw fifty thousand dollars in ten-thousand-dollar stacks inside. Cool, but could he sigh with relief? Not yet. He was still in the house.
Meek said, “You can leave.”
