Kareem showered and shaved fuzz from his cheeks. His alarm clock read ten-fifteen, and he needed to go. He was an avid reader of Philadelphia Magazine, Robb Report, Architectural Digest, Ebony, Black Enterprise, and GQ. Those magazines guided him into manhood. They taught him how to treat himself, a woman, where to entertain a woman, how to dress to impress her, and how to live as if he were rich. Well, for his age, he was.
He dressed in a mocha-colored Jean-Paul Gautier suit, cream Yoon of Italy dress shirt, and an off-white and chocolate Burberry tie. He complimented the earth-toned look with a Louis Vuitton icon print belt, loafers and wallet. He had a matching Louis Vuitton man purse, but he’d never wear it.
At his computer, Kareem removed the regular ink cartridge from his laser printer and replaced it with MICR ink— magnetic ink that allowed store registers to read the numbers on the counterfeit checks that he was about to create. He opened the check program on his system and entered all the required information that would print on the fraudulent checks. He had used bank routing numbers stolen from checks that he purloined from Neiman’s customers. He substituted the legit account numbers with fake ones, with the same amount of numbers as the real ones. He did that to avoid any real customers from having trouble with their account. The checks printed out on sheets that contained three perforated checks. On each sheet the account number of each check advanced three digits to prevent the made-up account numbers from being flagged by check authorizations companies. He threw thirty checks into his wallet, along with a state-issued identification card that he paid a Penn DOT employee $200 for. With all of his bona fides in place, Kareem Bezel transformed into, one David Kritz.
***
Dre heard Delores yell for him to pick up the phone and he snatched his cordless from the cradle.
“What’s up, Dre?” Talibah asked him in a seductive tone.
“Chillen, who dis?” he asked, cautiously, as if he had not known.
“You don’t know my voice by now?”
“Come on, don’t play games,” he responded sharply. He had to be sure that Tasha and Talibah were not trying to set him up. He’d kill them bitches.
“Don’t be so mean. It’s Talibah,” she said, defensively, and then added, “What’s up, sexy?”
“Me, sexy? No, you’re the sexy one.” He lied. She was a cute six, and he had Tasha the ten. “Why are you calling me?”
“I saw that stare at the mall.”
“What stare?”
“You want to fuck me, Dre.”
“Bitch, you high! I am married to your best friend.”
“You two are hardly married. Married my ass. Speaking of ass, when you gon’ hit this one?”
“You’re crazy.” Dre shook his head at how dirty Talibah was. There was no way that he would fuck her. His thought was interrupted by the other line. He checked the caller ID and mouthed, “Damn!”
He clicked over, and Tasha said, “Come outside, Dre.”