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Shahib closed the bedroom door. Maserati Meek—Akar—removed himself from the bed with the bed sheet covering his private parts to respect his mother.
“Father—”
Slap!
The blow hit Meek so hard, it almost made him cross-eyed. He felt like Cindy. It was his turn to face his parents’ wrath.
“You are a fool! You create unwanted attention toward yourself when the time is not right. What is wrong with you? What is this I hear of millions of dollars lost, you are shot, and these bombings of a ghetto and a nightclub? You use our people for your own personal vendetta.”
“You don’t understand, Father. I’m at war.”
“War? With whom?”
“These kafirs,” he said.
“Kafirs. Are these the same kafirs you are in business with?”
“No!”
“Then I want to know who they are. Sit and we talk.”
Shahib’s look upon his son was cold and fierce. He was the ultimate authority, and the remaining bombers pledged their allegiance to him and their cause.
Shahib and Meek talked. Asma stood off to the side and was silent. It was time for the men to talk business. She knew her role—subordinate to her husband. Long ago she was forced into an
arranged marriage with Shahib, but over the years she grew to love him. Asma felt fortunate to have her husband in her life. He treated her kindly and gave her a lifestyle of money and influence.
Maserati Meek filled his parents in on the escalating war with Panamanian Pete. The bloodshed and the bombings were halting his currency flow. The war was bad for business. The money Maserati Meek made from the streets was helping to fund Al-Qaeda, and now the shooting, the bombings, and the loss of millions of dollars was a major setback for them.
“No more suicide bombers,” Shahib ordered his son.
Meek nodded.
“We fix this now,” said Shahib with conviction.
Akar was the prince, but his father was the king. And right now the king was frustrated with his prince. The CIA, FBI, DHS, and the ATF were intensely investigating and detaining any obviously Muslim people in the States on work visas—and it was crippling their cause and their money. Too much heat had been generated from Meek’s reckless actions. Anyone on a watch list was now under heavy surveillance by the FBI. Shahib felt lucky that he and his wife had made it through customs in one piece. But he made sure to dot his I’s and cross his T’s.
“From now on, we will do things up close and personal—either knife or gun to rid ourselves of our enemies and expunge our strife. But no more suicide bombings, Akar, do you understand me?”
“Yes, Father.”
28
Devon set up the meet between Panamanian Pete and The Kid. It was a risky move, but The Kid felt that it was a necessary move. Papa John and Devon were against it, but The Kid assured them that he knew what he was doing. He had a plan, and Pete was part of it.
“Sometimes you have to expose your king in order to get what you want,” The Kid had said.
“This ain’t fuckin’ chess,” Devon had griped. “This real life.”
“Life is a game of chess, Devon. We all are just trying to stay on the board and make it to the other side.”
The van stopped in front of the bodega on Nostrand Avenue in Bed-Stuy. The area was swamped with folks on a warm summer evening. Devon climbed out of the driver’s seat and Papa John climbed out of the passenger seat. They then opened the door and removed the wheelchair ramp for The Kid. They helped him out of the van and onto the sidewalk.
“I’m still not too sure ’bout this,” Devon said.
“Just trust me,” said The Kid.
Papa John wheeled Kid toward the bodega that was huddled in the middle of the block among other storefronts. They went into the cramped and dirty bodega and were met by two of Pete’s men. Aside from the store clerk, who minded his business, the store was empty for the moment.
