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“Yes, let’s talk, my friend. But only you and I . . . alone,” Maserati Meek instructed.
Kip turned to look at his friends and gave them a nod of assurance. They nodded back. Kip left the room with Meek, leaving his two goons to play with the other men in the room. Kip followed Maserati Meek outside onto the patio. His backyard was quiet and concealed, with trees decorating much of the place.
Meek said, “I have another job for you.”
Kip nodded. He thought it was another murder contract.
“I need for you and your crew to make a drop for me.”
Kip was somewhat taken aback by the job. A drop? They weren’t UPS. It was the first time Meek had asked them to deliver something. Usually, it was murder, or Kip was selling him stolen goods. Kip was skeptical about the job. “You want us to deliver what?” he asked Meek.
Maserati Meek exhaled and then answered, “I need for you to drop off fifty kilos and two dozen guns to a certain location and also to collect my money—eight hundred thousand dollars.”
“Why us?” Kip asked, trying to make sure it wasn’t a setup.
“Because I do not trust many of my men to execute this drop, eh. I feel that some may have been, what’s the word, compromised,” he said. “And some are just idiots.”
It still didn’t add up for Kip, who continued to feign interest in the job. He locked eyes with Meek, looking for a flaw in his story. Why would Meek suddenly trust him with such a large quantity of drugs, money, and guns? Who was to say they weren’t going to rip him off?
“And you trust us with this much amount of shit?”
“You, my friend, are loyal, and you know respect. And you know my power and my vengeance. If you were to rob from me, eh, you do understand there is nowhere you can run or hide where I would not find you, your friends, and your family. And, besides, you’re not a stupid man, Kip. I do respect your intelligence.”
It still didn’t feel right to Kip, but he decided to accept the job. “When and where?”
“There’s a man named Lance, and you are to meet him at a specific place near the Brooklyn Bridge at a certain time. He will be expecting you in three days, eh.”
“And our cut for this transaction?”
“Five percent.”
Five percent wasn’t going to do for Kip. “Make it ten percent.”
Maserati Meek kept his cool and continued to grin, even though once again, Kip defied him by renegotiating a price that was already concrete in his mind. Although bargaining was a huge part of his native culture, where most were offended or lost respect for you if you did not negotiate terms, Maserati liked the Western way of thinking. When you’re a drug boss, what you say is law.
“Ten percent then,” he said to Kip, fuming on the inside.
Maserati Meek knew, just like a child, Kip would continue the disrespect. He wanted to chop off his head right there but kept his cool.
Maserati Meek gave him details on how the drop should be implemented. The drugs and guns would be cleverly stashed inside of a gray Nissan Altima. Kip and his crew would pick up the car from an auto body shop in Harlem. Papa John and Devon would drive the Nissan, while Kip would drive the Expedition. They would head to the location near the Brooklyn Bridge to meet with Lance. At the drop, Papa John and Devon would exit the gray Nissan and get into a black Toyota Camry, where the payment of $800,000 would be concealed inside the car. No one would leave the destination until both crews checked that all the merchandise was accounted for. Kip and his crew would drive the black car with the cash to Meek’s place on Long Island, and hand it over, minus their ten percent. The whole thing sounded and looked to be easy-peasy.
Skeptical still, Kip shook hands with Maserati Meek, promising him results, and the men left the house. Maniac seemed almost disappointed that he didn’t have to use his Uzi, but he was happy to see his friends come back out alive.
They sped away, and a few miles away from the house, Kip went over the job with them.
“Yo, we need to take all that shit, nigga.” Devon blew out a long whistle. “Eight hundred G’s is a lot of cheddar.” With that much cash, drugs, and guns, he felt they could equal Meek’s power and become kingpins themselves. He was truly excited.
Papa John was in too. The cash could definitely help with payment for his son’s treatment and therapy. That much cash on hand was life-changing.
The men did the math. Ten percent of $800,000 was a paltry eighty grand. Divided among the three of them, it was close to twenty-seven thousand dollars apiece. It wasn’t much, and Kip’s crew was becoming hungrier for much more.
Kip felt the job was odd and could be a setup. There were so many what-ifs—what if the car was wired with GPS and tracking, or Maserati Meek was tailing them? And what if there was no transaction, but they were simply on their way to their deaths, where they were to be killed once arriving at the location? Kip had to think so many moves ahead, and sometimes it was exhausting. What to do?
Twenty-Six
Kid sat by his bedroom window and gazed at Jessica strutting through the projects looking like a beauty queen in her colored skinny jeans, a white tee, and a pair of peep-toe heels. Kid’s eyes were hooked on her the entire time until he observed her climbing into the front seat of a lavish, black Mercedes-Benz. He felt depressed. Jessica was a beautiful woman, and he wanted her absolutely, but she wasn’t into guys like him—crippled, powerless, and young.
Kid wanted a change in his life. For once, he wanted to look and feel powerful and independent like his brother. He wanted the respect like everyone else, and though he was a chess prodigy and got his respect playing the game, he was tired of being looked at as Kip’s little brother and being treated like he couldn’t handle himself. The girls liked him. They thought he was cute and adorable, but as a boyfriend, they didn’t give him the time of day. No one looked past the chair. Sometimes he felt alone and unwanted. He wanted to leap from his chair and show the world a different him. He was smart, and he could be patient, but where was his future?
