“I might gotta let you hold the ‘Bach to take her to the zoo or something. You’ll both look like y’all thirteen,” Oz said, laughing.
“The zoo, though, dog?” Lamar asked, joining in on the laughter. “She’s twenty-nine. I’ll be twenty-one next month.”
“So, take her to the zoo to see some flamingos and shit. Bitches dig that shit, and, if not, she’s a typical hood rat that’s going to take you down.”
“I can see that.”
“I’ll let my driver take y’all down there, or up to New York to Justin’s for dinner. I can call, Diddy, and be sure he personally takes really good care of y’all,” Oz said boastfully.
Now, I see where Gunna’s arrogance comes from, Lamar thought, as his cell phone rang. “Hold on,” Lamar said, placing an index finger in the air and answering his phone. After a brief call, he hung up, and said, “Aye, Oz, I gotta go. That was Gunna’s mom. He’s awake.” He stood up, reached into the bag, and pulled out fifteen hundred dollars.
“Aye, Amilli, this is for the food and the rest is for you. Treat yourself, and be waiting on my call to take you out. I like my women in red-bottoms,” he said, smiling and walked out of the eatery with Oz on his heels.
Outside they shook hands and Oz asked Lamar, how long did he have the Impala?
“A few weeks now. It’s a rental.”
“Call me when you’re ready to upgrade. I have a car connect for you.”
“Bet,” Lamar said, making his way to the hospital.
PART TWO—AUGUST 2009—Nine Months Later
CHAPTER 29
THE AUGUST SUN HAD popped up in South Brunswick Township, New Jersey, baking the quaint neighborhood. Nikia and Lamar sipped orange juice and ate breakfast by the kitchen window in their elegantly decorated home. Despite the name of the township, the postal code listed them in Princeton, New Jersey, home of the Ive League juggernaut Princeton University. What better area to raise their daughter, Celebrity; or, hide a thug and his girlfriend?
Lamar was looking through the local newspaper, getting acquainted with the township, and adapting to the customs and habits of Princeton denizen. He was becoming smarter, too. Something in the Princeton water? Along with his new home, he had rented two apartments in Northeast Philadelphia. They were both in duplexes, and both on the first floor with adjoining back yards. One was decorated like and ordinary bachelor pad that he’d some times chill in. Drugs weren’t stored there. They were stored next door, in a sophisticated scheme to thwart law enforcement. Lamar would enter the bachelor pad, exit out the back door leading to the alley, and enter the neighboring apartment where the cocaine and weed were bagged and stored—under floor panels, beneath area rugs. A FOR RENT sign remained in the front window of the dummy apartment. A smart surveillance system was set up at the entry points of both apartments, and if breached, Lamar would be notified by an app on his phone.
“Thanks for breakfast, by the way,” he said without looking up from the paper.
She gave him a courteous smile. “I try. It’s the least that I can do, considering we have this big ass kitchen.”
From where they came from, it was huge. Mostly white. Stainless steel and titanium state-of-the-art appliances. An island in the center. And a breakfast nook where they were.
“Exactly.”
“Although we’ve only been here since July first, I do wish that you were here more.”
“I hear you, but I got to keep a roof over our heads.”
Her face tightened, and she said, “We have our own home now, and a daughter, so don’t you want to stop playing the drug game while you’re winning. You can just quit.”
“Just quit?” he asked, continuing to flip through the paper.
He couldn’t even call what he was doing apart of any drug game. To consider it a drug game implied that his business was different than any other service provider. Selling drugs was as common as selling fries at McDonalds—both industries probably grossed the same amount annually. Drugs would remain a business on of the largest on the planet and would remain that way as long as the products were in high demand and the profits were high. This business sector netted billions and fueled the economy, and no car maker, jeweler, designer, realtor or travel agent wanted the government to shut it down. And Nikia Mason had better come to terms with that.
“Next month you’ll be home a year,” she said. “I mean you’re twenty-one now and time to let this bullshit go and grow up.”
“Look around you,” he said, closing the newspaper. “Looks like a grown man lives here to me. Quite the provider.”
“You’re a real piece of work.”
“Let’s just talk about something else.” Woo-Sah!
And that was the end of that. It was cruel to shut her down, but he didn’t want to engage with her about his personal life. He didn’t want to negotiate with her on the topic under any circumstances.
She was suddenly done with her meal and ready to go on with her day, and so was he.
Lamar showered and changed and was ready to go make the donuts. He had Gunna back in play. His homie Hamma was released and joined the team. Hell, he needed all of the help that he could get with Oz providing him with fifteen kilos of cocaine a month. Oz had also used his connections to get Lamar a Porshe Panamera. Gunna a red Cadillac CTS. And Hamma a Range Rover Sport. All of them the 2010 editions. But as a condition to his business, he switched rental cars—even switched companies—every three days to complete his dirty missions.
“Well, call me,” Nikia said, opening the front door with the baby in a car seat. Then she shut it—no hug, no kiss, no good bye. He watched her strap the baby into the back of an Infiniti Q45 before she hopped in and pulled away.
Their relationship was dead. And he regretted fathering a child with her. Ten minutes later, he left, heading to Bartram Village, and vowing to get another home, south of Philadelphia.
CHAPTER 30
Walking out of a corner store reading the Philadelphia Daily News, Lamar saw a headline that read: SOUTHWEST PHILLY MADMAN PAROLED! Looking at the mug shot of Slam they’d put in the paper, he knew he had seen Slam’s face in the past.
