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He took another hit, and his eyes narrowed. Soon, his high started to fade. It was one bad thing about crack—the pleasure didn’t last long. After blowing out the smoke, he floated for about a minute on cloud nine and then came crashing back down to his reality.
For the moment, he was a functioning addict. He had been a killer for Panamanian Pete for many years. He did the man’s dirty work—found himself waist deep in murders, addiction, and disease—being HIV-positive was his other big secret. His life had been hell on earth since the day he was born. He had been abandoned by his mother, beaten by his father, raped by his uncles, and was a child scorned since he could walk.
He finished off an eight ball of crack in a few short hours and was ready for more. Rodney preferred to smoke himself to death. The guilt inside him was strong. He couldn’t live with what he had done clear-headedly. He had to escape somehow, some way, and running face-first into his addiction was the only way for him.
He gave them up—just like that. They knew when and how to come at him. After years of loyalty, how was it so easy?
***
G-Dep kissed his side-bitch goodbye passionately in the apartment doorway. It had been another night of rough and crazy sex between them. He groped her tits for fun, hugged her thick and naked body, and made his exit from her Bronx apartment. He rambled down the stairway with a .9mm tucked into his waistband, concealed by his T-shirt and a jacket that he zipped up.
Pleasure was over, and now it was time for business. He had to meet with Rodney, and together they would meet with Panamanian Pete at The Bottom’s Up for another job he had for them. By the sound of Pete’s voice on the phone, this job seemed really important.
G-Dep stepped onto the sidewalk and stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. He inhaled the smoke and moved toward the burgundy Beamer parked across the two-way street. Traffic moved back and forth, and it being a summer night, the Bronx looked like a minor block party. Residents lingered outside in front of their buildings, in the parks, and on their steps, and leaned against parked cars drinking liquor and beer. The young females, dressed for the warm weather, were gossiping and flirting with the fellows. It was a typical Bronx night. G-Dep walked past it all casually, and though it was Blood gang territory, they knew not to fuck with him. His status ran deeper than the concrete. His reputation preceded him.
He removed his car keys from his jacket and pressed the alarm to deactivate it. He slid into the driver’s seat and started the car. He removed the .9mm from his waist for comfort while driving and hid it underneath his seat. He glanced in his mirrors and put the vehicle into drive. The windows were down because it was another warm night in the hood. With his seat leaned back, he attempted to pull out of the parking spot. Then suddenly they came out of nowhere—three shooters with their arms outstretched toward the Beamer with pistols at the end. They took aim for G-Dep and opened fire.
Pop! Pop! Pop . . . Pop!
Boom! Boom! Boom!
G-Dep found himself under fire; bullets slammed into him. He jerked from the shots but managed to hammer his foot against the gas pedal and desperately attempted to flee the shooters. The car sped off wildly into the street and raced down the block, but G-Dep suddenly passed out from his wounds and his Beamer violently slammed into three parked cars and flipped over. The impact was loud, and the gunfire had sent people flying in fear in every direction.
The shooters ran toward the accident where G-Dep was pinned inside the car and unconscious. They fired more bullets into his body, making sure he was dead. It was overkill.
A minivan pulled up, and the shooters hurried into it. The van took off, leaving behind a gruesome murder. When the smoke cleared, G-Dep was dead, riddled with bullets, his body twisted and bloody in the wreckage.
***
Panamanian Pete smoked his cigar and tilted himself back in the leather chair. The closed office door slightly muffled the music from the strip club. He liberated the cigar smoke from his mouth and closed his eyes. His legs were spread and he could feel the wetness of her mouth engulfing him.
Passion was positioned between his legs, hunched forward, his dick in her mouth. He looked down at the mass of black hair planted in his lap and played in it. He moaned. Her suction and salivating mouth continued to carry him nearer to an orgasm. She cupped his balls and licked his dick so good, that Pete felt he would deflate from pleasure.
“Damn, Passion, you know how to work a nigga good—oh shit, keep doing that,” Pete said.
Her head rapidly bobbed up and down in his lap, his thick dick cramped in her mouth. She tried to suck his dick dry. She moaned and jerked him off, her saliva becoming a lubricant.
“Right there! Fuck yeah, you about to make me come!” he announced excitedly.
While enjoying her oral pleasure, Pete’s cell phone rang against his desk. He was too excited from his near-orgasm to care who was calling him at the moment. The only thing that mattered right now was busting a nut.
Passion continued to work her sugary magic on him. She was ready to feel his release into her mouth. She sucked the height of his lust, taking him to the point of no return, with his flood rushing to escape. After a few more hard licks and soft sucks, Pete freed his semen into her mouth and like the freak she was, she swallowed every last bit of it. She wiped her mouth and lifted herself from he
r knees. Panamanian Pete sat spent for a moment, exhaling with satisfaction. He picked himself up from the chair and fixed his clothes.
Passion smiled. He didn’t smile back. It was back to business. He had a club to run, drugs to move, people to kill, and money to make.
“You can let yourself out now,” he said to her.
She knew the deal. She was only there for his sexual needs. After he came, she became another face, another employee of his. Passion collected herself and left the room. It was back to work.
Pete finally picked up his cell phone and checked to see what call he’d missed. The number was new to him. He shrugged it off.
“Where are these idiots?” he asked, referring to Rodney and G-Dep.
He didn’t know yet. G-Dep’s death had happened only an hour ago. He dialed Rodney’s phone first, but there was no answer. Next, he called G-Dep with the same results. Not getting in contact with his most ruthless killers frustrated Panamanian Pete. A drink was needed. He walked out his office and signaled one of his female bartenders, and she rushed over.
“Bring a bottle of Cîroc to my office,” he said.
