Dirty Work, Part 2

by Erica Hilton

  “Are you fuckin’ crazy?”

  “Papa John, you need to do something. What if these people who want to kill you track you here? Did you ever think about that?”

  He hadn’t. But Papa John was certain that he wasn’t being followed. He made sure to cover his tracks and watch his back.

  “I’m not being followed, Dina.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I know,” he retorted.

  She huffed and folded her arms across her chest. She didn’t plan to argue with him, but the situation was becoming too real. She didn’t want to bring his drama into her home—her fiancé and his father’s home. Looking into Papa John’s eyes, she clearly saw that he was a dangerous man. The same thing that had turned her on was now turning her off somewhat. The last thing Dina needed was the feds or a threat encroaching on her fairly happy home with Darryl.

  “Look, you don’t have to worry. I’m not being followed, and nobody knows about you, Dina. Shit, my pops is this big-time detective and the muthafucka is clueless too. You think I’m gonna bring some drama to his crib and put you at risk? Nah, it ain’t even gonna go down like that.”

  He wrapped his arms around her waist and fondled her body. He wanted to feel her close. He needed her loving. The softness of her body was bringing on an erection inside his jeans. Dina still looked hesitant. Papa John kissed the side of her neck and caressed her body.

  “Baby, I didn’t drive over here to argue wit’ you; I came because I missed you, and I missed this.” He reached between her thighs and embraced a handful of pussy.

  She cooed a little. His tender kisses continued against the nape of her neck. His touch became more audacious against her flesh. He untied her robe and found she was naked underneath. He slipped his index finger inside her pussy and started to slowly finger her.

  “I need you tonight, baby. I got a lot on my mind and I need this release. I need your loving,” Papa John said.

  Her robe slid from around her shoulders and dropped to her feet. Her naked body was always a pleasure to see. He cupped her breasts and groped her. Her back to his chest, his arms around her nude flesh, and his kisses started to create a serious wet leak between her knees.

  What was it about Papa John that made her crumble with sin and infidelity? Darryl was one heck of a man—a strong man, and a good man—but Papa John carried that bad-boy persona flawlessly, and she always had a weakness for bad boys. Fucking a cop and his criminal son at the same time was daring and stimulating.

  She felt herself being lifted off her feet. Her legs straddled him and he carried her into the master bedroom.

  With Dina on her back with her legs spread, Papa John went in for the kill. He tasted her completely, tickling her clit with his mouth and tongue and kissing her thighs while parting her lips and fingering her gently. She moaned and squirmed. He ate her out until she came. The sex was always mind-blowing. Papa John made his escape from his plight as he twisted and knotted his father’s fiancée into one sexual position after another, the big dick moving in and out of her repeatedly with strong friction ready to set flames to her pussy. Dina held on tight and was truly enjoying the ride of her life. When he came, she came too—and then came again three and four more times. Afterwards, they spooned on the bed with their bodies once again spent from all the sexual play. It was then that she decided to tell him the news, and it wasn’t so good.

  “I’m pregnant,” she blurted out.

  “Shit, I’m gonna have a baby brother?”

  “Or a son.”

  “But I always bag up.”

  “And the condom has broken how many times?”

  “Is it—”

  “I don’t know if it’s yours or Darryl’s,” she said.

  Shit. Papa John laid there with blankness in his eyes. If the baby was his, then this would make baby mama number seven for him. His numbers were climbing higher than a good day at the stock exchange.

  “Damn,” he simply uttered.

  “That’s all you have to say?”

  “What else is there to say?”

  She sighed heavily. What if it was Papa John’s baby—then what? She was living a good life with Darryl. He provided for her and took care of her, and he treated her fairly. But she had fallen in love with his son.

  Somewhat frustrated, Dina removed herself from Papa John’s arms and went into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her. The attitude came quickly. She didn’t want to hear “Damn” or “What else is there to say?” from him. She needed something more constructive coming from his mouth. She was risking everything by having an affair with him. Now things became critical. Papa John was the first to know about the pregnancy—even before her fiancé. Eventually, she would have to tell Darryl, but there was another option—an abortion. If she chose that road, then the money would have to come from Papa John, because Darryl would certainly want to keep the baby.

  Papa John removed himself from the bed and started to get dressed. He had to go. The hours were flying by, and morning was imminent in a few hours. Dina was still locked in the bathroom. Papa John knocked on the door and said, “Dina, I gotta go. We’ll talk about this later.”

  He received nothing but silence.

  He left. Dina sat on the toilet in tears, wondering if she’d made the biggest mistake of her life. Papa John lived in a dangerous and deadly world. There was no telling if tomorrow was promised for him. And there was no telling if his world would come crashing into hers. If so, how would she explain it to Darryl?

  20

  The large flatscreen TV broadcasted the nightly news in the Far Rockaway beachfront property, and the core subject was the two deadly bombings in the city. Now the feds had a person of interest. Forty-five people were confirmed dead in the Harlem project building bombing, and another twenty residents were seriously injured. The bomb used was powerful with a strong kill radius—same as the nightclub. It almost felt nuclear. The blast took out several floors and shook the building’s foundation. The feds were worried.

  Maserati Meek perked up when he heard the anchorwoman mention Jessica’s name. His eyes became fixed on the TV and he raised the volume to hear clearer. He was astounded to see her face on TV.

  “What is this, eh?” Maserati Meek asked his men as they sat around in the plush decorated living room and watched the news.

  Meek was confused. Why were they searching for Jessica? He assumed they already had her in custody. He assumed that she had snitched on him. She had betrayed him. She needed to be taught a lesson, so that’s why her family and those closest to her had to die.

  “It’s a trick,” Amir uttered.

  “You think so?”

  “The FBI will do anything to catch their man, even lie.”

  Maserati Meek wasn’t so sure. There were a lot of questions he wanted answers to. Where was she? Was she truly on the run? How did the FBI find out about her? How did they track her down? He started to feel anxious. She wasn’t answering her phone or texting him back.

  “Yes, it must be a ruse. They want to confuse me,” Meek said. “I must call her again. Bring me a burner phone.”

  Amir looked at him and said, “We must stay focused and continue on with the task. We are at war, my brother. And Allah has chosen us to relay His message. This girl, she’s a distraction.”

  But she wasn’t a distraction. She was some of the best sex that he ever had in his life. Too bad it had to end. Maserati Meek paced back and forth in the opulent beachfront home. He felt secure there with his dedicated and armed Muslim brothers. The place had marble flooring with an open living area, a modern eat-in kitchen, and a luxurious master bedroom. It had a sweeping view of the ocean, a granite wet bar, and a double-side wood fireplace for the cold winters.

  Amir kept his eyes on Meek. He had noticed something different about Meek—whose true name was Akar Mudada. Amir was a d
ie-hard extremist who wanted to strike terror into the lives of as many Americans, Israelis, and Europeans as he could. He believed that by killing those who did not serve their cause, he would make the world a much better place. They were fighting on behalf of all Muslims. And when his time came, Amir planned on taking out as many American lives as possible. He was bred for destruction. Allah was his calling, and violence was, most times, the only voice of reason—violence was the path to paradise.

  “I need some air,” Meek said.

  Amir nodded.

  Meek stepped onto the spacious brick-paved patio. He looked at the sea. It was time to get back to business. While Amir and the others cared about their religious cause, it was making money that Maserati Meek truly cared about. But there was one more obstacle in his way: Panamanian Pete. Pete was his true distraction. He was a man that could match his wealth and his power. With Panamanian Pete finally gone, Meek could fully corner the market and manipulate prices, from drugs and racketeering to having absolute power. He could become a god on the streets and beyond. It was something that he refused to tell his Muslim brothers—that he was a big-time drug dealer in business with the black man. He was selfish, and Amir and the others were killing themselves based on a lie. Swelled with megalomania, Meek was determined to have it all by any means necessary.

  While Meek lingered on the patio, Amir looked at him with suspicion from the next room. He had many questions for Meek. First, why had he changed his name from Akar? Why was the girl Jessica on TV, and why was she the person of interest for their handiwork? Who was she really to Akar? Was their Muslim brother in love with this woman? Things were going awry, and he felt it needed to be fixed right away. He turned and moved away from Meek’s line of view. In the following room, Amir removed his cell phone and dialed a number. It was a long-distance call, back home to Egypt, and Amir soon got in contact with Meek’s dad, Shahib Abu Mudada.

  21

  The Bottom’s Up was a seedy urban strip club in the heart of Bed-Stuy, four blocks from where the legendary Biggie Smalls grew up. It was a busy night at the club, swamped with thugs and pimps, locals and squares, perverts and first-timers. Overall, they were all there for the same things—pussy and drinks.

  Inside the dim, loud club, a sultry dancer named Passion took to the stage butt-naked in a pair of clear stilettos with blaring rap music as her soundtrack. Her chocolate-covered body was curvy and flawless. Numerous tattoos decorated her skin, including one on her back of a large glistening diamond containing hundred dollar bills—a metaphor for being rich on the outside and in. Her tits sat up perfectly, her nipples were darker than coal, and between her thighs was the perfect shaved camel toe.

  She grabbed the pole and skillfully swung herself around it a few times, moving to Drake’s “Hotline Bling.” She then hoisted herself up the pole, showing off her upper body strength, and contorted her body around it like a coiled snake. The muscles in her arms and legs worked together as she acrobatically worked her body down the pole, from the ceiling to the stage. It was just the beginning of her wild act tonight. The men crowded around the stage and tossed money at her like it was free, and a few were able to make it rain on her. Passion was everyone’s favorite.

  The club was saturated with sexily dressed and promiscuous women. The Bottom’s Up was the place to be on a Friday night. The drinks weren’t watered down, the women were sprightly, and for the right price, they were available for anyone’s pleasure.

  Panamanian Pete lingered in the back of the club near the office door, puffing on a cigar and keeping his eyes on everything. It was one of the many businesses he owned in the Tri-State area. Bedford-Stuyvesant was a neighborhood he controlled and where he always felt comfortable. He was a major player on the streets, with a reach that extended from the Brooklyn streets into NYPD corruption. He had money and power that only a few could dream of.

  Wearing a dark Armani suit that highlighted his authority and a gold Rolex around his wrist, his eyes looked at Passion working her magic on the stage. She was special, and he knew just how special she was. She had platinum pussy and a mouth that could make any man come in minutes. Watching her twerk on stage and then spread her legs eagle style, exposing her pink cookies, Panamanian Pete stood there a little turned on. Passion had given him plenty of private performances in his office when the club was closed. A few of those nights led to three pregnancies and three abortions.

  Panamanian Pete couldn’t see a woman like Passion having his kids. She was only good for one thing, and that was having a good time. So the abortions were forced on her, no matter what she felt. She didn’t have a choice.

  Spending time in one of his strip clubs temporarily took his mind away from his conflict with Maserati Meek, along with the death of his brother and his missing $800,000. But he would never forget. Pete wasn’t a forgiving man. He felt the urge to kill Meek and everyone associated with him. In due time, he told himself.

  He took a few more pulls from the cigar. Passion was about to start one of her infamous acts. She began covering her tits with shaving cream from a can as the crowd waited in anticipation. She pulled out a match, lit it, and set fire to her chest. The flames raged against her skin and yet, Passion looked unharmed. She strutted around with her tits on fire for a few seconds, even twerking, and then easily snuffed it out. The crowd in the place went wild and applauded her risky trick. Panamanian Pete never got tired of seeing her do it. It was her signature move in The Bottom’s Up.

  During Passion’s act, two of Pete’s goons entered the club, Rodney and G-Dep. Both men looked ominous and unfriendly. Between the two of them, they had a combined body count of twenty-six victims. Murder was their forte. Security refused to search them, knowing that they were connected to the boss man. It was Pete’s club and Pete always gave them the okay to come inside carrying their weapons. Both men knew better than to show out in his place of business.

  Panamanian Pete locked eyes with Rodney and gave him a simple head nod, meaning they needed to talk. Rodney nodded back. The killers needed a drink first. It had been a long day. Pete gave them five minutes to step into his office. He didn’t like to wait.

  Panamanian Pete supervised his strip club, but Charles Ray was the manager. Charles Ray approached him with some urgent news. He stood six-five with a bald head and always wore a tracksuit. He leaned closer and said into Pete’s ear, “Meek’s bitch is on TV.”

  Pete looked at him in confusion. “What?”

  “Feds are lookin’ for her.”

  Panamanian Pete pivoted and headed into his office with Charles Ray right behind him. With the door closed, Pete snatched up the remote to the forty-inch flatscreen and turned on the nightly news. Lo and behold, Jessica was on the news—her face was splashed across his TV screen. He had heard about the bombing, but never in his wildest imagination did he think that Maserati Meek had anything to do with it. But there she was, Meek’s bitch Jessica and the FBI. Somehow she was a suspect.

  “Fuckin’ crazy bitch,” Pete said.

  “Yeah, it caught me off guard too,” said Charles Ray.

  Pete was zoned in on the news. They mentioned terrorism. Once again, he was taken aback, but not fully shocked. If Maserati Meek was linked to terrorism, it fueled his rage more and gave him more of a reason to slaughter the man. He hated terrorists.

  A knock at the door turned his attention away from the news. “Come in,” he said.

  Rodney and G-Dep walked into the office.

  Panamanian Pete looked their way and asked, “So, what y’all two muthafuckas got for me? Is it done?”

  Rodney spoke up. “They weren’t at the location. When we showed up the fire department was putting out a fire in the building.”

  “Fire? What fuckin fire?” Pete asked.

  “I think they knew we were coming and set the place on fire to cover their tracks.”

  It was news that Pete didn’t want to hear.
He had gotten the intel on one of Maserati Meek’s hideouts and acted on it. Panamanian Pete had plenty of resources spread everywhere to gather information. His moles and snitches were working feverishly on the streets. If something was out of place, or there was an anomaly somewhere, he wanted to know about it. He hated surprises. However, Meek was a tricky and slippery bastard, and fortunately for him, he’d left the Brooklyn location just in time.

  “What you want us to do next?” G-Dep asked.

  “Y’all niggas chill for a moment. I’ll find y’all some more work soon.”

  Rodney and G-Dep were two of his best killers, but they’d struck out. Pete walked around to his desk and took a seat in his high-back leather chair. He lit another cigar and leaned back. He looked up at the black-and-white security monitors. He was the eye in the sky, and nothing went down inside The Bottom’s Up without him knowing about it. With Meek, his only option now was to wait.

  ***

  Panamanian Pete put out money on the streets for any solid information on his foes. He figured two hundred thousand dollars was a large enough sum to get people excited—to get people talking. For that kind of money, folks would sell out their own mothers.

  It didn’t take long before Pete got a nibble on the line. It was a strong bite, and he was ready to reel it in and finally skin this slippery fish and cut off his head.

  ***

  Panamanian Pete and his armed thugs sat parked in Canarsie across the street from upmarket two-story row homes looking like lions ready to pounce on a grazing deer. The nondescript blue minivan they sat inside was camouflaged among the other vehicles on the Brooklyn street. It was the location of their target—supposedly, Maserati Meek.

  Everybody was quiet with anticipation, simply waiting for the right moment. Five men including Pete were ready for bloodshed. It was unusual for him to involve himself directly in a crime. He had spent years isolating himself from the day-to-day street life—the violence, the drugs, and his soldiers. He had generals and lieutenants who regularly reported to him. He was the cream that had risen to the top through hardcore violence and murders, and he had enough money to pay anyone to do his dirty work for him, including murder. But tonight was different. This was personal. The loss of $800,000 was huge, but the death of his brother Mike, and then Lance prompted him to personally get down and dirty. It wouldn’t feel right to Pete if he wasn’t there to kill Maserati Meek himself. He had high-priced lawyers on retainer and he had honorable sources spread everywhere if he ever found himself in a sticky situation.