2
On the Job

The second stop on our day’s agenda had Amp pull into what appeared to be a meat market on the upper west side, just off Broadway. I always thought it was something of a waste to have a place like that occupying prime real estate. Terry stood to make a lot more money if he’d convert the property into condos or apartments. On more than one occasion though, he’d shared with me, in no uncertain terms, his interests had nothing to do with the idea of real estate investing because, “All beef ain’t grass fed,” he’d half-jokingly say.

“This one’s mine,” I casually advised Amp as he put the truck in park.

“Oh, now you wanna step up and handle business? You think I don’t know it’s ‘cause you got eyes on Terry’s daughter?” Amp accused.

“Man, where you getting that stupidness? I never said anything about being interested in that man’s daughter. I’ve got better sense,” I defended.

“If you don’t, you better act like it. All it’ll take is for him to catch you eyeballin her and he’ll nut up on you like the last ass that got too close.”

“Well, it’s never a problem getting burned if you got sense enough to stay away from the fire,” I concluded while exiting the truck. The fact he was justified in his assessment didn’t much matter because the shop owner never took his eyes off any man whenever his youngest daughter was within reach. That, as well, didn’t help my cause but it never stopped me from trying to get her attention.

“What’s going on Will?” Terry greeted me as I entered.

“How’s life treatin you Mr. Williams,” I responded while covertly scanning the room for any signs of the personification of a Nubian goddess.

“I’m good as life will allow, I guess,” he said before summoning my real reason for being there. “Sharon, sweetheart…”

“Yes Papa,” his daughter materialized from a tinted sliding glass door leading to the rear of the building. “You called me?”

Peculiarly, Terry spoke to her but never allowed his gaze to shift from me, “Bring me that small red cooler from just inside the freezer, will you?”

“Yes, Papa,” she conceded while moving back through the glass door.

“Tell Oz they’s some’tin in there I know he’ll like,” Terry disclosed. He beamed at me from behind the counter as Sharon passed the cooler.

I copped a quick feel of her cotton-like breast when retrieving the container and intentionally delayed the moment while enjoying the distinct aroma of vanilla-scented body oil, “Thank you, Ms. Sharon.”

“No problem,” she said.

“Ah-hem,” Terry cleared his throat to dissuade the not-so-innocent glance from maturing into a full-on stare as Sharon’s eyes seemed to draw me in like metal to a magnet. “Let Oz know I’ll be moving another shipment through by the end of next week. E’rything kinda got pushed back ‘cause the heat turned up for a minute, but we should be good in a few days and back on track.”

“Sure thing…I’ll fill him in. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the steaks too,” I finished while peeking into the cooler.

“His stuff underneath tha ice packs,” Terry clarified.

“Got it…we’ll be in touch,” I concluded at the exit while trying to avoid looking back. “Catch ya later, Ms. Sharon.”

As I climbed in the passengers’ seat, Amp quizzed, “You get it took care of? What’s in the cooler?”

Knowing he was just trying to get under my skin like any other time, “Don’t I always. And what’s in the cooler ain’t my business. That, you have to ask Oz.”

“I’m asking you, ass”

I didn’t even bother to look in his direction, “Well, if the contents aren’t my business, I very seriously doubt they’d be any of yours either.”

“Ass,” he repeated.

The intoxicating scent of Terry’s daughter had me engrossed in thoughts of her. This eventually led to the point of my seriously considering several options as far as ways to possibly get Sharon away from her overprotective father for more than thirty seconds. And then came the realization of consequences suffered by the two clowns who’d been stupid enough to cross her old man. What I’d heard concerning those situations proved more than sufficient to keep my mind as far away from entertaining taboo fantasies of Sharon as possible.

Amp’s screaming like he was trying to wake the dead startled me to the moment, “Hey! Sleepin Booty! Get yo punk ass up, we still got bidness!”

I didn’t even realize I’d nodded off on the way back from Terry’s joint. The comfort of the ride coupled with fatigue that resulted from a full ten hours of body blocking ole girl from last night had finally taken its toll. Or maybe it was just the life I was living. Whatever the case, I was one worn-out soul by the time we made it to our next stop at 108th St. and Lennox Ave.

Amp condescendingly questioned, “Ya comin, sweetheart?”

The grossly over-exaggerated sarcasm in his voice didn’t much faze me but prompted a firm response. “No.”

While remotely opening the Navigator’s rear hatch, “What’s the matter?” he prodded. “Ain’t ya got no taste for the true money-makin side of the business.”

As the seat reclined to a more comfortable position, “You know I don’t do the pharmaceutical thing. Never have, never will,” I mumbled. “…And leave the damn keys.”

Displaying much attitude, “What the hell you gone do, drive off and leave my ass?” he asked.

I dryly responded, “I might,” reaching to catch the ignition keys Amp had flung at me from behind. “Your aim is way off, silly bitch. I know you were trying to hit me in my damn head.”

“You always thinking somebody out to get yo stupid ass,” he stated.

I was always careful to never take my eyes off Amp, especially when he was behind me. “It’s just that I know you would if you could…If you could.”

As he passed the passenger’s door where I was seated, “Why don’t you move the truck to that parking spot where those fools pullin out?” he ordered.

I wasn’t in the mood for the performance. “Why don’t you just carry your sorry ass in there and give Harold his stuff? That’s all you need to be worried about right now.”

Oz and I had an understanding from very early in our relationship. I had let him know if there was anything he needed done I’d take care of it; anything except handling drugs or drug money. That’s something I never wanted any part of, because I’d seen somebody close to me killed in a deal gone bad shortly before the two of us connected. Fear of guns wasn’t the issue, but the control I’ve seen the drugs have over people is simply frightening. I too much liked being in charge of my body than to venture off into an area where I’d voluntarily give up all control. As well, it would mean sacrificing any semblance of rational thought. That was part of the reason Amp thought I was soft, but little did he know.

My mind wandered off into a not too distant past where I was reminded of the devastating consequence one stupid choice could have. Vividly, the scene replayed that had Dexter and me waiting outside one of the hottest clubs in Atlanta. We’d passed through to hand off a package but there was a mix-up and the person we had to meet expected more product. Naturally, he accused us of trying to short him; a violation that proved to be punishable by death. Dexter took two rounds in his face at close range. I only got hit once in the shoulder but did manage to escape with my life. He wasn’t so lucky.

At the time Amp entered the building I was summoned back to the moment and noticed two thugs in the rearview mirror, easing up to the Navigator. I was thinking to myself, there’s no way in hell those fools would try anything in broad daylight. Sitting perfectly still, I watched them from behind the ‘Gator’s blacked-out tinted windows. They crept up on either side of the truck and attempted to peer through the windshield. With me wearing my trademark all black and reclined in the black leather seat, I was easily unnoticed. Within a few seconds, the two desperate Jesse James impersonators had positioned themselves on either side of the building’s entrance, waiting for Amp to appear. I carefully moved from the passenger’s side and took a position behind the wheel; timing his exit perfectly. When the two amateur thugs stopped him in the doorway and went for the briefcase, I started the truck and sped toward the three of them; slamming on the brakes at the very last second. The two thugs were pinned between the truck and the building while Amp had been simultaneously knocked back into the, still unlatched, door.

He was pounding on the hood of the truck, pulling himself up using the bumper guard, “What the hell you tryin to do, kill me, you dizzy bitch!”

I let the driver’s window down about halfway. “No, stupid, I’m trying to save your ungrateful ass. If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead,” I said before questioning, “These friends of yours?”

In a rather dry tone, he asked, “What the hell make you think they my friends?”

I couldn’t resist the insult, “Well, they seem to know you well enough to pull some stupid O.K. Corral shit like this in broad daylight, with no backup and no cover. Sounds like you all limbs on the same dumb-ass family tree.”

Amp argued while motioning with his arms like a skycap guiding a plane, “How the hell you gone trip on me like that; I ain’t see nobody comin at yo ass…all laid back in the seat like sleepin damn beauty.” And then insisting, “Move this ship and let me outta here.”

About the time I reversed the truck a few feet, Harold and a couple heavies finally eased up behind Amp to investigate all the commotion. They found the two would-be thieves lying face down next to the entrance of the building, bruised and bleeding.

The huge blue-black brother asked, “You want me ta call da po-leese boss?”

Harold just stepped past the lump and rolled his eyes. “And what exactly you gone tell ‘em, Gus? Two assholes just tried to jump the delivery driver and take his bitchin drug money! Seriously? Last thing the heat gone do is come up here and try to sort out a problem they blame us for startin!” Harold stressed.

He cautiously approached the skinny kid on the ground closest to the doorway, kicked ole dude to turn him over, and then crossed to the other side of the walkway flipping the other. He paused, took a second look, and then reached into a pocket for his cell phone. Harold could be heard dialing as he went just inside the door shaking his head in disbelief.

Sounding as though all the air had been depleted from his lungs, “Hello. Hello. Yeah, sis, I need you at the shop. No, I just need you to swing through down here soon as you can; there’s a little pro’lem. And you might wanna call Oz to let him know. Just tell him his nephew up to the same dumb shit again…tryin to steal from the cookie jar.”

Although I couldn’t make out what was being said, the person on the other end of the phone could be heard screaming at Harold from where I stood outside the doorway. He returned from hiding with a look on his face that spoke of the embarrassment.

Harold directed the husky light-complexioned heavy standing in front of Gus, “Pick them fellas up and take ‘em inside ‘fore somebody complains ‘bout the garbage in front of my place,” he said. “And take it easy with the dread head.”

The big dude looked confused. “What up wit dat, Boss? You done got a thang for little long-haired boys?”

The look in Harold’s eyes kept me from laughing. Starting back inside, he said over his shoulder, “No, I got a thing for my little brother’s baby boy. That fool is me and Oz’s dumb-ass nephew. Barbra, his stepmom, don’t want him ta have nothin to do wit the family bidness since his daddy got killed couple years ago… She act like nobody hurt but her. Hell, Marcus daddy was my little brother… Barbra just the stepmom and she tryin to keep him from what s’posed ta be his. That’s our legacy,” he said in a solemn tone while allowing the others inside and closing the door behind him.

Amp approached from the passenger’s side of the truck and extended his arms to pass the briefcase to me, “Put this in the back.”

I walked past him as though he wasn’t there, climbed in, and repositioned my seat, “Put it in your damn self.”

“I gotta drive,” he insisted.

In the process of reclining my seat, “And you said that to say what?” I asked. “So drive.” Several moments passed before I could grasp a clear understanding of what had just transpired. I said, more to myself than anybody in particular, “I didn’t know Oz and Harold are brothers.”

“They ain’t,” Amp commented. “But the shit too hard for people to figure out. Marcus stepmom married to this dude, I think his last name…Benton, brother of Oz’s real brother, who was adopted by Harold’s folks…I think. But it don’t much make no difference. All the folk that knows is dead so don’t nobody ask ‘cause ain’t nobody ‘round to set the shit straight… He just call everybody his nephew.”

“Who Oz?” I asked.

“No, his brother,” Amp replied.

“You mean, Harold?” I questioned.

“No, the one that died,” Amp stated.

“What?” I quizzed.

“Exactly,” he concluded.