FBI AGENT BROWN SMILED. Not because he had watched a man get beaten and threatened with a gun, but because Crook’s shot put out a street light.
Perfect shot.
It would be replaced with a new light and a complimentary surveillance camera—a camera that only the Government would know existed. He called SA Livingston to put his plan into effect.
CHAPTER 20
The Saturday afternoon sun was high and the sky was filled with rainbow colors—aqua, rose, pink, blue. Lamar and Oz left their cars with the valet of the downtown Marriott Hotel and was at the lobby bar watching an NBA game, enjoying a drink.
“You got it hot like a wave in the fall out Southwest,” Oz said, whirling his gin and tonic before taking a sip. “My man tells me that you’re about your business.” And, recklessly stupid.
“No doubt,” Lamar said confidently, “Gotta protect what’s mine.”
Oz was a huge, half-Black and half-Puerto Rican man, responsible for shelling out cocaine from his Bad Landz—North Philadelphia—headquarters. Like Lamar, he had a particular way to maintain control and he wanted to employ Lamar to handle a small nuisance for him.
“I respect that, and thanks for meeting with me with Gunna out of play right now.” He passed Lamar and envelope. “Five thousand. Be sure that Gunna gets that just for this introduction.”
“The pleasure is all mine,” Lamar said, trying to think of clever lines, he’d seen in movies. “I’m looking for this to be the start of something great.”
“Aight, I got fifty-grand for you since you putting in the work yourself.” He handed Lamar a manila envelope. “There’s half.”
“Say no more. Where can I catch this clown at?”
Oz passed him a picture of a light-skinned brother with BLOCK BUSTA tattooed on the back of his hands and a hundred dollar bill on his neck. He had a kufi on his head and a thick, nappy beard. “Meet Sharif. Best to catch him slippin' at the Germantown masjid.”
“The masjid?” he asked in masked disbelief. “Hold up, it’s bad enough the nigga a Muslim, but you want me to drop him in a masjid, too? I don’t know about that playa.”
“I understand your concern,” Oz replied, sending a text on his cell phone. “It is a little outta order, but I just text my lady to bring in another ten thousand to disregard your reservations. Upon completion, I’ll give you sixty-five for a total of a hundred thousand.
Lamar sat up straight in his stool and thought about the contract that he couldn’t pass up. He was using his operating funds and the money could get him closer to his goal. Ten million. Could I murder a Muslim in a masjid? Men, he’d been in jail with attended that mosque and would recognize him. The lure of the money pulled him into the devil’s clutches, though.
“Aight, I got you. When you want this done?”
“How ‘bout ASAP?” Oz replied, giving him another ten thousand.
“I’ll contact you when it’s done,” Lamar said, standing, and tossing a twenty on the bar top for his cocktail.
Welcome to the next level.
AFTER A SUCCESSFUL meeting, Lamar drove to Gunna’s apartment to relax and gather his thoughts. He’d been running on fumes and needed a good day of rest, simply watching a gangster movie and eating take-out Chinese food all alone. No homies. No Nikia. Yes to finding, Tic.
Entering Gunna’s apartment, he grabbed a stack of mail from the floor below the mail slot and skimmed through it. He flipped on the TV and flopped on the sofa, continuing to go through the mail. Mostly junk and catalogs. He found an electric bill. He opened it, and said, “Why the fuck do people living in the projects have four hundred dollar utility bills.”
In the mail was a menu for a pizza shop, he ordered take-out, which he planned to pick up. No way he’d fall for someone running down on him posing as a pizza man. He saw a shadow pass by the front window, grabbed his gun, and cocked it. The weed was talking to him. Mail dropped in the door. He pushed off the sofa and picked it up. Two pieces: a Macy’s catalog and a postcard.
Walking back to the sofa, he skimmed through the catalog before tossing it on the pile of other mail and looking at the postcard. It had a snapshot of a government building on the front of it: United States Courthouse, Philadelphia. He turned the card over and it was written out to Lamar Dunken at Gunna’s address, though. It had the correct zip code and everything. The message was simple and to the point. It read:
Lamar—
You’re digging the hole.
Going to bury you in it.
Six feet, if necessary.
FBI Agent...I’ll tell you when I cuff you.
“What the fuck,” Lamar said, grinning wickedly, reading it again, trying to evaluate its authenticity. He ran to the door, threw it open, and looked up and down the street. There was the postal man delivering the mail. Closing the door behind him, Lamar flipped open his cell phone and called the one person that could help him discover if he had a pending case.
A criminal defense attorney.
CHAPTER 21
Sunday afternoon, Crook walked into DL’s Barbershop to get his weekly cut, Hands-down, DL was the best barber in the hood and sold the best exotic weed. Everyone who was anyone went to DL’s for a cut. The shop was also a Southwest news station. Anything that was going on or had happened in the hood was talked about amongst the men in the shop.
DL was a tall, dark man, with wavy hair and a goatee. His medium build was covered in tattoo ink. Though he was cool with everyone, some people disliked his procrastination. He often sat around the barbershop, smoking, debating sports, and only cutting a few heads. Then, if he did find the time to do any work a client was in the chair for over an hour while he’d stop and act out movies scenes for other customers. Still, out of the four barbers in the shop, DL was the most preferred.
“Yo, Crizzock, wassup, pimpin’?” DL called out as Crook entered the barbershop. It was on the second floor above a Puerto Rican owned convenient store.
