Thirsty 2 (3 page)

Deep down, Justice actually understood that the whole ordeal had been one big ass deadly misunderstanding. She also knew how Carlos’s temper was and she couldn’t have expected him to handle the situation any other way. Part of her wanted to kill him for putting her through all of the trauma she had gone through while running from his hitmen. Nevertheless, another part of her wanted to thank him. If she had never endured that drama, she would not have gone back to Chicago and found herself.

Her upcoming trip back to Charlotte caused an internal debate on whether or not she would see Carlos while she was there. He already knew she was coming because of Sapphire and her big mouth, but he didn’t know exactly when she would arrive. Justice decided she would cross that bridge when she came to it.

Dwelling on her past brought Red, J. T.’s cousin and crime partner to mind. Red was the only one who could have made the connection between her and what had happened to J. T. Last she had heard, Red had been picked up by the Feds. Out of all the places on earth, he had been arrested in Chicago. Apparently, he had followed her there after she had killed J. T.

Justice rolled over and picked up a picture of her and Sapphire that had been taken a few years earlier at Club Prevue in Charlotte. She appeared youthful and so full of life in the photo. Looking away from the picture and into her mirrored reflection, gave her the impression that someone had double-tapped the fast forward button on her life. She was still undeniably beautiful, but if one were to look deeply enough into her eyes they would see her entire story. A smile can masquerade at all times. However, the eyes? They
never
lie!

“I need a break!” she huffed as she had difficulty thinking about the last time she had time off. When she couldn’t think of an answer, she decided a vacation was definitely needed and her trip back to Charlotte would serve as just that.

She concluded that she would deal with Virgin and Precious as soon as she returned from Charlotte, but for the time being she decided to let sleeping dogs lie. However, it was without a doubt they were definitely going to be dealt with.

CHAPTER THREE

It was a little after 6
P.M.
and the evening sun was shining bright enough to blind the naked eye. An old school two-door Chevy, gleaming like a beacon in an empty desert was parked in the empty lot of Mama Jeannie’s Restaurant. The candy-painted box Chevy sitting on twenty-six inch Ashanti rims looked like something straight from a showroom floor. Crystal clear windows and a snow-white leather interior complemented its ice-blue exterior. Its two occupants sat silently; relishing the effects of the weed they had just finished smoking. “. . . I think I’m Big Meech—Larry Hoover—Whippin’ work—Hallelujah!” They nodded their heads in unison to Rick Ross as he spit that raw shit on the CD they were listening to. They had the AC blasting, yet the heat from the beaming sun was still almost unbearable.

 “Yo, I ain’t know this shit was pink,” Supreme nonchalantly commented as he glanced out the window, observing the funny-colored building. The long, thick dreads he had grown for the past few years made him look like a wild islander. He exhaled a thick cloud of Black & Mild smoke from the passenger’s side before offering the cigar to Carlos.

Carlos looked across 62
^nd
Street at the five-story building that Preme was referring to. He declined the cigar and responded, “Yeah, they hidin’ plenty niggas off in that joint.” This was the notorious Dade County Jail, home to some of the most vicious criminals in Miami and the surrounding Metro-Dade area. This was only one of several county jails in Miami.

“How much was that nigga’s bond?” Preme asked as he toyed with the long, wood-carved walking cane with the gumball-sized ruby embedded in the handle. Ever since Monk had shot him two years earlier, Preme had walked with a limp and he used the custom-made walking cane to help him get around.

“Priceless,” Carlos answered and left it at that.

They fixed their eyes on the entrance to the jail’s intake area as two Hispanic men exited. One older, one younger. It was apparent that the younger man had just been released from custody because he toted a black trash bag, which was presumably full of his personal property. As soon as the young man stepped on the curb near the street, he turned and threw up gang signs toward the top floors of the jail. The older man pulled him along as if he were pissed.

The two occupants of the Chevy turned their attention away from the Hispanic men because they were not whom they expected to see. Minutes later, Preme nodded toward the intake area again and stated, “There our boy go.”

Carlos looked across the street at the man exiting the building wearing Lucky Brand jean shorts, a beige T-shirt and Air Jordan sneakers. “’Bout damn time they let my man, Dave up outta there.”

Dave had added thirty pounds of muscle to his five-foot-six frame and was a far cry from the skinny nineteen year old that Carlos had first put on years earlier. Dave had just turned twenty-one a week earlier in the county jail and hadn’t even had his first legal drink yet. His clean-shaven head gleamed in the bright Miami evening sun while he raised his hand to his forehead as a makeshift visor to block the glare of the scorching sun. He looked about as if he were searching for someone.

Carlos saw that Dave had not noticed them, so he stepped out of the Chevy and raised both arms so Dave could see him. Preme wasn’t too far behind as he limped to the driver’s side where Carlos stood. “What up, nigga!” Carlos yelled across the street.

Spotting his boss across the street standing near the tricked out Chevy, Dave let a broad smile splay across his face.
I knew my nigga wasn’t gonna leave me in that bitch
, Dave thought as he waited for a break in traffic before crossing the main street. He walked up to Carlos and was greeted with a pound and a brotherly hug. Preme greeted him the same way.

“What up, nigga? You good?” Carlos asked his partner as he opened the driver’s side door and pushed the seat forward so Dave could have room to get in.

“Hell nah, I ain’t good! A nigga was up in that shit for two months. You know these niggas down here don’t like niggas from outta town,” Dave complained while climbing into the rear seat.

Carlos let him vent a bit before responding, “You know I was waiting for your bond to get cut. What a nigga look like posting a seven-figure bond?” Once Dave was in, Carlos pushed the seat back and climbed back under the wheel.

Dave responded to Carlos’s comment, “True dat. But all dat shit coulda been avoided.” He settled into the soft leather, relieved to be out of that hellhole.

Carlos pulled out of the restaurant parking lot and turned right on 62
^nd
Street heading toward the highway. As if he had forgotten to mention it, Carlos turned down the stereo and told Dave, “Oh, by the way, I gotta make a stop before we head back up the road.” He handed Dave the blunt, which had sat in the ashtray and Dave took it.

“Y’all some crazy ass niggas, comin’ to pick a nigga up from jail smelling like a pound of weed.” Dave laughed. “Go ‘head and make your stop, it ain’t like I got shit to do,” he stated. But what he
really
wanted to do was to get on I-95 North so they could make it back to Charlotte, North Carolina. He was homesick as hell! He had only been locked up for a little over eight weeks, but to him it felt like eight years. He was in dire need of a shit, shave, bath, and a home-cooked meal. Not to mention the birthday pussy that had been waiting for him. The thought of fucking his girl for the first time in over two months had him hyped.

Carlos glanced back at Dave “By the way, happy belated birthday my nigga. I wish we had time to take yo’ barely legal ass to King of Diamond but we gotta hit that slab as soon as possible. All good though because we gonna get it in when we get back to the Q.C.”

“Yeah, happy birthday, nigga” Preme chimed in.

“Hell yeah, we gonna get it in. Nigga, you already know. After I fuck my bitch, we goin’ straight to Onyx!” Dave replied

Both Preme and Carlos laughed. “That’s what’s up” Carlos replied.

“Who Donk?” Dave asked as if he were just noticing the car they were riding in, “I like this shit right here.” He ran his hand along the leather of the empty seat next to him. Preme handed Dave a lighter and Dave fired up the weed. As he exhaled his first cloud of smoke in weeks, he almost coughed up a lung and passed the weed back up front.

“You aiight?” Carlos asked, taking the weed from Dave’s fingers.

“Yeah, I’m good. You know a nigga ain’t smoked nothin’ in a minute.” He was still coughing with tears in his eyes.

Preme and Carlos laughed at him again. Carlos said, “You asked whose whip this is? It’s mine. Big Rob ‘posed to be puttin’ a box in it for me. We need another stash, ya’ dig. Matter of fact, that’s where we gotta stop at. I gotta holla at him before we dip.” Carlos was referring to his man who owned a stereo installation shop, which also doubled as a spot for installing stash boxes in vehicles.

“If that van y’all had a nigga drivin’ was boxed up, a nigga wouldn’t be in this situation,” Dave mumbled under his breath, but both Carlos and Preme heard him.

Carlos and Preme exchanged inquisitive glances before Carlos looked into the rearview mirror at Dave. He stated, “Yeah, you right, but I felt like you’d be okay for a one day trip. It was a fuck up, but we gonna make it right.”

Easy for you to say. You ain’t the one who got caught with them keys. And you ain’t the one who gotta wear this case, Dave thought.  He stared out the window at the passing landscape while rubbing his still burning throat.

Carlos peeped Dave’s silent reflection and asked, “You didn’t get no visit from none of them alphabet boys, did you?” ATF, FBI, DEA, it was all the same to Carlos.

Without hesitation, Dave cleared his throat and responded, “Nah, just the regular Jakes askin’ the normal questions but you know I ain’t give ‘em shit. I kept them crackas on they toes like a midget tryna piss in a urinal. Left the mutha-fuckas mo’ confused than Fantasia with the S.A.T. test,” They all laughed. Dave added, “I’mma soldier. I’mma ride this shit out, my nigga. Fuck dem crackas.”

“Yeah, I know you a soldier. Dat’s why I fucks wit’ ‘choo.” Carlos smiled into the rearview mirror at his partner. After he had heard what he wanted to hear from his man, he cranked up the volume on the sound system and settled back into the soft bucket seat. Getting on I-95, Carlos punched the gas, making the Chevy float like a speedboat riding the waves.

Twenty-five minutes later, they were entering Opa-Locka. They drove south toward 132
^nd
Street and entered an industrial area. Carlos slowed as he approached what looked like a cluster of warehouses all bunched together. The Chevy came to a stop in front of one of the smaller buildings and Carlos killed the engine. Both Carlos and Preme opened the doors to exit. Preme closed the door behind him and headed toward the rear entrance of the warehouse.

Carlos held the front seat up so Dave could get out. “Damn, Big Rob sho’ do be in some low-key ass spots,” Dave commented as he climbed out of the back seat and looked at the warehouse.

“He told me to meet him here. He got some scratch for me. Fat ass nigga owe. If I ain’t mistaking, he still owe you a lil’ change from that ceelo game, don’t he?” Carlos asked while closing the door behind Dave.

“Damn, sho’ do. I almost forgot about that. A nigga fucked up right now too. I’m shootin’ bad as a broke dick dog. I needs that lil’ bit.” Carlos laughed at Dave’s reply before assuring him that his pockets would be back on swole in no time. Dave followed Carlos toward the warehouse with his mind on the money Big Rob owed him from the dice game just before his arrest.

The back door was open as they approached. Carlos entered with Dave in tow. As soon as Dave entered the building, he called out to Big Rob, “Yo Rob! Lemme get me, my nigga!” His voice echoed throughout the warehouse. He laughed and yelled again, “Fat ass Rob! Pay da piper!”

Preme appeared in the doorway to one of the offices down the hall and yelled, “He said come on back.”

Carlos and Dave proceeded toward the office where Preme was standing. Once they reached the office, Dave brushed past Preme, almost knocking him off his cane and entered the room, ready to press Rob for his dough. “Yeeeeah, you ain’t think a nigga was gettin’ out this soon, huh nig . . .” He didn’t even finish the sentence because he instantly knew something wasn’t right.

Just then, it occurred to Dave that the entire warehouse was empty other than Carlos, Preme, and himself. As soon as Dave turned to face Carlos and Preme he was met with the barrel of Preme’s chrome Desert Eagle. His eyes widened in astonishment as he opened his mouth to speak.

“Nigga, close yo’ muthafuckin’ mouth! That’s what got yo’ soft ass here in the first place,” Preme spat with venom in his voice.

Without an expression, Carlos stood silent in the doorway as Preme held the menacing pistol sideways, aimed directly between Dave’s eyes.

“Man, what da fuck, Los? Fuck this nigga talkin’ ‘bout?” Dave asked Carlos through trembling lips, stunned as if he had no idea why this was happening to him.

“Them alphabet boys,” Carlos replied with a dreaded sigh as he turned to leave the office.

Once Carlos was out of the office, Dave’s lips trembled as he stared down Preme’s barrel. “Bruh . . . bruh . . . lemme just explain. First—”

Preme cut him off. “First? Nigga, the only ‘first’ you need to be concerned about is
The
First 48
. ‘Cause them the mutha-fuckas who gonna scrape yo’ ass off this flo’.”

Dave’s mouth opened to say something else, probably a plea for his life. However, the words were not formed in time as a hot, molten slug from Preme’s pistol exploded into his brain! He jerked backward from the impact and then collapsed forward on the cold floor. Blood and brain matter decorated the wall of the empty room. Preme watched Dave’s lifeless body spasm and jerk for a few seconds before becoming eerily still.