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They all nodded. They had to make everything look as real as possible.
Kip was upset. He wanted to confront Meek and beat him down, but that wasn’t possible. Not now anyway.
The SUV came to a screeching stop in front of Meek’s place next to Devon in the Altima, and all four men climbed out the vehicles heatedly.
Kip pounded his fist on the front door. He had his gun visible, and so did the others. His heart was still pumping a million times a second, and when the front door opened, and Meek’s goon loomed, Kip and his men charged into the place, and pointing their weapons at Maserati Meek’s men, who in return, lifted their weapons and aimed back.
It became a Mexican standoff quickly.
“What in the hell, Kip! Are you out of your mind, my friend?!” Maserati Meek shouted.
“You tell me, nigga,” Kip hollered. “You set us up!”
“What? I set you up?”
“Yes. That drop wasn’t a fuckin’ drop, it was a fuckin’ ambush!”
Maserati Meek smiled ironically.
Kip shouted, “You think this shit fuckin’ funny?”
“So it was a setup, eh,” Maserati Meek said.
“You admitting it, huh? I should blow your fuckin’ head off,” Kip threatened.
The cocking back of machine guns and pistols were heard. Meek’s men were ready
for bloodshed, as were Kip’s.
“Relax, relax. I didn’t know,” Maserati Meek said, casually.
Kip was tired of hearing the word relax. He wanted to shoot Meek just because of that word. “Don’t fuckin’ tell me to relax!” he shouted.
“You got balls, Kip, eh. I give you that,” Maserati Meek said. “But I didn’t set you up. I did not know. The deal was supposed to be legit. It seems we’ve both been double-crossed. And a question for you: What happened to the men?”
“They’re fuckin’ dead!”
“Impressive!” Meek said.
Maserati Meek believed his story. He believed all along that Panamanian Pete was up to something. As a drug connect, Maserati Meek carefully looked for new accounts, but he vetted, and if he liked what he saw, then he came to you for business, or he was introduced to someone in a nightclub. Pete calling him out of the blue spooked him, so he used Kip and his crew to do the dirty work.
“Everyone, put your guns down. And, Kip, let’s you and I talk, eh. You’ve done me a great favor, my friend,” Meek said.
Maserati Meek was happy to have his merchandise back. The two men talked privately without guns being pointed at each other. Meek still wanted Kip dead, but for now, he would keep him alive. Kip proved that he was a survivor and still reliable.
When the bullshit was explained, and Kip was somewhat satisfied with the explanation, Meek said to him, “I have another job for you.”
“What job?” Kip asked.
“I want you to kill Panamanian Pete.”
It was a job Kip wasn’t too sure of. Besides, unbeknownst to Meek, they were eight hundred grand richer. “I’ll have to get back to you on that.”
Meek didn’t like waiting for an answer. He wanted to know now. Kip was always pushing his limits.
***
Panamanian Pete was a tall black male with a powerful build. His fairly cut body filled out the three-piece suit he wore as he sat at the table playing high-stakes poker with a few acquaintances with over a million dollars on the table. Their location was classified, but in the back of a barbershop, a front for drug running. Protected by armed security in every direction, the men talked and laughed.
