by K'wan
Boogie and Frank grabbed Chucky by the arms and held him so that he couldn’t move. “Wait, but you said you were using me as bait to draw Ramses out.”
“I did and you have, but ending your life has nothing to do with money. This is about you being a lowlife muthafucka who preys on young girls.” Christian drew one of his rhinestone guns. Just then he had a thought. “Hey, Meeka, I know I said I’d never ask you to take a life again unless it was absolutely necessary, but I figured you might want this honor.” He extended the gun to her.
“For what he did to my friend Persia, absolutely!” Meeka took the gun from Christian.
“Wait a second. Meeka, you know me! How many times did I come through the block and lay paper on you girls or get you high when y’all were fucked up?” Chucky tried to jog her memory.
“Yeah, I remember what you did for us, but I also remember what you did to us. This is for Persia and Karen,” Meeka spat before pulling the trigger and ending Chucky’s reign of terror.
“Good job, little rose.” Christian took his gun from Meeka and kissed her on the forehead.
“Christian, can I ask you something?” Meeka asked.
“Sure, baby. What’s up?”
“You said that Chucky was only the bait and Ramses was the real target. So that leaves the question: who put the money up for the hit?”
Christian didn’t answer; he just smiled.
Monk squinted against the rays of the early morning sun, wishing he’d thought to invest in a pair of sunglasses. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been awake that early, let alone out in the world. He was tired and cranky, but it was a big day for him so he didn’t complain. He was leaning on the hood of the minivan he had driven that day. It was hardly his style, and had it been stolen he’d have selected something with a bit more flash, but it was a rental.
He checked his watch for the hundredth time, wondering if he’d gotten the time wrong. He’d been waiting outside for nearly forty minutes and there was still no sign of his passenger. The sound of the front gate buzzing drew Monk’s attention. Several men came out and walked into the parking lot to greet their peoples, but none of them was who Monk had come for. When the gate starting closing again Monk figured that he had gotten his information crossed and was about to leave, but just then the gate stopped and one more person came out. It had been years since he had seen him, and he had put on a little weight and grown a beard but Monk could still recognize his closest friend.
“My nigga!” Monk smiled and threw his arms open.
“What’s up with you, baby boy?” Face hugged him. “Thanks for coming to pick me up.”
“It was the least I could do. I’m glad to see you’re out . . . finally.”
“Yeah, I’m out and I don’t ever plan on going back. That prison shit is for the birds,” Face said, tossing the parcel he’d come out with into a trash can. The only thing he held on to were his pictures and the letters Michelle and Persia had been writing him over the years. “I’m glad you were able to decipher the message I sent by my young boy, Kunta.”
“Exodus 2: it was the page in the Bible you sent me where you wrote all your lawyer’s information down,” Monk said. “When I called him this morning I thought he was bullshitting me about you getting out, but here you are in the flesh. One thing I can’t figure out is why you sent such a cryptic message instead of just calling me or writing a letter?”
“Because neither of those routes is one hundred percent secure,” Face told him. “When you see what I’ve got lined up for us you’ll understand why I kept everything so cloak and dagger.”
Monk shrugged. “If you say so. Now that you’re out, what you wanna do? I got some bitches we can pay a call on if you wanna get some pussy, but knowing your ass you probably want to stop by and see your family. It’s been a long time.”
“Indeed it has, but I don’t wanna do either just yet. Take me through Harlem right quick. I wanna survey the kingdom I left behind,” Face said, getting into the passenger seat.
“Whatever you say, Face, or should I refer to you as Pharaoh now?” Monk teased and walked around to the driver’s side.
EPILOGUE
After what had happened that night in the hotel suite Vaughn wouldn’t have wanted anything else to do with Persia, but he was surprisingly understanding. It would take awhile for him to get over being beaten, robbed, and damn near killed, but he loved Persia enough not to give up on her. Despite his success, Vaughn was still a young dude from the trap so he understood more than most how people, places, and things could sometimes derail even the best laid plans.
Persia was never able to make the formal introduction that she had promised Richard because when she got home she found out that he was dead. According to the statement her mother had given to the police, it was a robbery gone wrong. Some men had broken into their home while Michelle was out for her morning jog, and Richard surprised them. He was shot dead in their living room and the killers had escaped. Persia took Richard’s death hard, but not as hard as her mother. When Persia’s father went away, it was Richard who stepped to the plate and held the family down. It would be a long and hard road for Michelle, but Persia planned on being there for her. Michelle had carried Persia when she was going through hard times and it was time for her daughter to shoulder the load. It was the least she could do for the woman she owed everything to.
After what had happened to Richard in their Long Island City home, there was no way they could still live in it. There were too many painful memories for them, so Michelle decided to sell it and bought a smaller one in Pennsylvania. This worked out for Persia since she would be starting classes at Temple University that fall. It would allow her to be closer to her mother and Vaughn. She couldn’t say that she had chosen to attend Temple because Vaughn played ball in Philly, but she couldn’t say she didn’t either. Happiness was a fleeting thing for the women in Persia’s family, and she wanted to enjoy hers for as long as she could. For as gloomy as the last few years of her life had been she deserved a little sunshine.
Frankie the Fish sat in the back of the Italian delicatessen with several of his men, eating sandwiches and playing cards. They were arguing over the game when a young man with oily black hair, wearing a track suit came in. He leaned in and whispered something into Frankie’s ear.
“Okay, show them in,” Frankie said, wiping his hands with a napkin.
A few seconds later the young man in the track suit came back in with a brown-skinned girl trailing him. She wrung her hands nervously, and her eyes were trying to look everywhere except at Frankie.
“I usually don’t take visitors without appointments, but my associate says you have some pertinent news that had to be delivered to me personally,” Frankie told the girl.
“Yes, sir,” the girl said sheepishly.
Frankie motioned for her to have a seat at the table. She was hesitant, but the young man looming behind her let her know she didn’t have a choice in the matter. After some contemplation, she took the seat.
Frankie leaned in and looked at her with eyes so cold they made her flesh crawl. “Who are you and what’s so important that you would interrupt our card game?”
It took the girl a few seconds before she finally found her voice. “I apologize, Mr. Frankie. I wasn’t even sure if it was a good idea to come, but my sponsor seemed to think it was a good idea. Making amends for the wrong I done is a part of the recovery process. My name is Rissa, and I have information about what really happened the night your uncle was killed.”
Several months later
The death of Ramses had changed things in the hood, but not to the point where hood business wasn’t still hood business. The faces had changed, but the game remained the same. Several young men sat on the stoop of one of the trap houses that had once been run by Omega and Li’l Monk, having a heated debate.
“Man, you bugging. That nigga is dead and stinking,” one boy was saying to the other.
“That ain’t wh
at I heard. They say Pharaoh got him and turned Li’l Monk into one of his army of the dead,” the other boy shot back. “They say he still creeps through the hood when the sun goes down, collecting souls for the Pharaoh.”
Just then King Tut came out of the building. He looked down at the young men and frowned. “Fuck is you li’l niggas out here doing? If you ain’t getting money get the fuck off my stoop!” he snapped. The little boys took off running, fearful of the almighty King Tut. Tut shook his head, watching the kids bend the corner. With Ramses no longer on the board he had to go out on his own and try to make the best out of a bad situation. He had cut a deal with Felix and Poppito and he was now running things on the streets. The block didn’t seem the same without the likes of Omega and the others, but Tut reasoned that the show must go on.
King Tut walked to the corner store to get some cigars and a pack of cigarettes. He had his head down, lighting a cigarette, when he felt someone standing in front of him. When he looked up to see who it was, his face went white like he had just seen a ghost.
“What’s the matter, Tut? Ain’t you happy to see me?” Li’l Monk asked.
Tut opened his mouth to reply, but no words came out.
“Omega sends his best from behind the wall.” Li’l Monk let the shotgun rip, hitting King Tut in the chest, sending him flying through the bodega window. People screamed and scattered, trying to get out of the way of the mad gunman. Li’l Monk ignored them, stepping through ruined window, over the glass and rubble to get to King Tut. Tut was a mess of blood and guts, but he was still breathing. Li’l Monk knocked his front teeth out when he shoved the shotgun barrel in his mouth. “Long live the muthafucking king,” he said before blowing Tut’s head off.
Li’l Monk tucked the shotgun and strolled causally down the block. Long after he was gone you could still hear the echo of the song he was whistling, “Camptown Races.”
END
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The Fix 3 Copyright © 2016 K’wan
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ISBN: 978-1-6228-6959-6
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