Larceny (12 page)

Jovan woke up the next morning and checked his pager to see if Li'l G had paged him, but he didn't see the special code that he had given his man. Damn, he had to find this youngin'. Fat Mike had to be dealt with before the hearing, which was only five days away.

When Jovan went back around to Orleans Place, it was about one o'clock, and he didn't see anybody but some crack heads looking for coke, trying to trick anybody for a hit. Jovan drove all through the neighborhood, and there was still no sight of Li'l G. Damn, this shit was fucked up. He had to get Bilal out of jail. He rode around a few more times until he saw Cat and Soup in front of the liquor store on Sixth and K. He pulled up and got out.

“Hey, Cat,” Jovan said, pressed and determined to find this nigga Li'l G.

“What's up?” Cat said.

“You hear from youngin' yet?”

“Man, Jovan, I've got some fucked up news for you. Shorty got locked up last night as soon he came around here. He called me this morning and said they got him out in Maryland, the Upper Marlboro jail. He said they're trying to charge him with three bodies out there.”

“Damn, that's fucked up!” Jovan said, looking disturbed.

“You a'ight, slim? You sound like you're more fucked up 'bout my man than I am. What, he owe you some money or something?” Cat asked curiously.

“Naw, Cat, I just needed him. Does he have a bond?”

“You know them people ain't giving a nigga like Li'l G no fuckin' bond. They're gonna try and fry his ass,” Cat said.

“Okay, slim. Damn.”

When Jovan got back in the van, all he could do was think about his man. He had to get Bilal out. He couldn't let his man stay in jail. This nigga done took a murder rap for him, and in some way he still felt responsible for Mal-Mal's death. He owed Bilal his life. Bilal was his best friend, his truest comrade, and his family.

Even though he was a paralegal now and trying to get his shit in order, somehow this game always knew how to pull a nigga back in. Jovan had killed before, twice to be exact, but those mu'fuckas had violated him and deserved it. Bilal was his family, and he had made a vow to him nine years ago that if anyone violated Bilal, they violated him. Jovan would remain as loyal to Bilal as Bilal had remained to him. He had to put the demonstration down on a nigga who truly deserved it. He had to kill Fat Mike, but the main thing he had to do was, just like in Lewisburg, he had to get away with it.

Bilal's hearing was only two days away, and Fat Mike was still breathing. Jovan had spent the day before scoping out all of Fat Mike's moves: what he drove, what time he opened and closed shop, how many runners he had, and most of all, did he carry heat? He knew that Fat Mike carried a gun when he saw him stashing it as the police drove by.

Jovan parked his van on the opposite side of Delaware Avenue and watched Fat Mike's every step. Since his windows were tinted, he had all day without someone peeping him out.

Jovan saw that Fat Mike had about four runners, at least three friends, and one young nigga holding the stash. He also saw that he opened up shop around two o'clock. Mike was kinda smart, because this was the time that the police department changed shifts, so when he had that two o'clock rush, he'd be able to get as much sales as he could without worrying about the jump-outs.

Jovan couldn't just run up on Fat Mike, 'cause he'd be ready. Mike stayed strapped, and the young dude with the stash stayed strapped also, so even if Jovan did run up on Mike and blast him, he'd have to get the other one also, and most likely it would come out a big mess. He'd be either at the morgue or on the five o'clock news, and for sure he didn't want any of that.

As Jovan was sitting in his van trying to figure out a way to eliminate Mike and get away with it, he noticed a Pepco meter. He could see from a distance that the meter was broken, and he wondered if there was another meter. Most of the time there would be another one close by, so he looked toward the side of the building and there it was—the other meter, broken just like the one on the other side. Jovan immediately drove off and went to the nearest Sunny's Surplus store.

Jovan couldn't sleep all night. He stayed up pacing back and forth, trying to figure out what he was going to do. Bilal's hearing was the next day at 2:45 p.m., and Fat Mike was still alive and breathing, willing to get on the stand and empty his brains on Jovan's best friend. To him, snitching was the ultimate sin. He hated that more then he hated cruddy niggas, and we know how much he hated cruddy niggas, so putting the demonstration down on Fat Mike would not only be doing a favor for a friend, but it would also, in his eyes, be doing justice by giving it to a nigga who truly deserved it.

Jovan left the house around eight o'clock that morning and went to the office to check on some cases and to see if Mark needed him for anything, but his main purpose for going to the office this early was to try to get Mark to get Bilal another extension.

Jovan got to the office about fifteen minutes before Mark did. Cindy was already there, and Jovan wondered if she had ever been fucked by a black guy, because she was phat as hell for a white girl. He contemplated whether he should try to fuck Cindy, but as soon as he built his courage up to approach her, Mark came running through the door.

“Hey, Cindy,” Mark said.

“Hello, Mark,” Cindy said.

“Hey, Jovan,” Mark said.

“Good mornin', Mark,” Jovan said.

“Jovan, what are you doing here so early?”

“Nothin' really. I was just checking up on some cases for today's hearing.”

“Good. Did you ever find that witness?”

“Sure didn't. I don't even think he lives in D.C. anymore.”

“Well, let's hope not, 'cause if he does, Mr. Davis is in a lot of trouble.”

Damn, Mark acted like he didn't even give a fuck about Jovan's man, and he was getting paid two hundred fifty for his services. Man, Jovan felt like killing Mark instead of Fat Mike.

“Look here, Mark, if the witness comes in, what kinda argument do we have?”

“We really don't have an argument. My job was to get Mr. Davis's charges dropped on the illegal search warrant, and I've done that—well, not officially, but at 2:45 p.m. today, my services are done. Now, if the government brings Mr. Davis up on new charges of conspiracy, then that's a whole new different case, and we'll have to talk figures with Mr. Davis about that,” Mark said.

Damn, Mark's a cruddy mu'fucka, but this is the game lawyers play and this is how they get paid,
Jovan thought. So Jovan had to respect Mark's position as a lawyer because, in all actuality, he was right.

“Hey, Jovan,” Mark said. “I've got a hearing to go to this morning at eleven o'clock for this young kid in a carjacking case. I want you to come along with me and take some notes so you can see how I work my shit. Like I told you, Jovan, I'ma teach you everything you need to know about being a lawyer. Besides, you have on the perfect outfit. Who knows? You may meet one of those freaky-ass prosecutors who likes to fuck in the office.”

“Naw, I'll leave that part up to you,” Jovan said, but what he really wanted to say was that he'd rather fuck Cindy right there in Mark's office.

Jovan went into the courtroom with Mark and watched him lie and manipulate the court into dropping the carjacking charge down to an unauthorized use of a vehicle charge. The youngster's family was happy. Although he would still have to do six months, it was a whole lot better than doing sixty years.

To Jovan, Mark was one of the best lawyers in D.C., although there were other lawyers who were just as good. For instance, his partner, who was a black woman by the name of Michelle Robinson, was real good. Her specialty was homicide cases. She could get a nigga off even if he was caught with the smokin' gun in his hand. There was also Kenny Roberts, whose specialty was conspiracy cases. He was known for getting major drug dealers outta fucked up situations, but he had started falling off after he lost a case and some niggas went to his office and shot his ass. To Jovan, Mark was the best, but maybe that was because he was his protégé.

After the hearing was over, Mark told Jovan to go back to the office because he was going to lunch with the prosecutor in the youngster's case.

“Hey, Mark, I see you made a deal with the devil.” Jovan said, laughing.

“Yeah, now I gotta fuck this fat bitch in order to get the charges dropped,” Mark said.

“Whatever happened to your sharp-ass lawyer skills?”

“This is one of 'em. You'll learn, Jovan. It's just gonna take some time,” Mark said.

As Jovan was on his way out of the building, this was the moment he locked eyes on Sonya. Bilal's hearing wasn't for another couple of hours, and besides, he really didn't want to go back to the office. To buy himself some time, he figured he'd make contact with this lovely woman and hopefully be able to take her out to lunch. He carried himself like a true playa disguised in a gentleman's quality. His approach was so smooth that there was no way she could refuse his offer.

 

 

 

When I held Jovan's hands and felt his palms, they were warm and smooth, just like his approach. I wanted to take his hands and kiss his fingers then gently rub them over my hard nipples, but it was way too early for that. Plus, Jovan would have to wait a minute before I would ever give myself up to him.

“Hey, Jovan, you don't have to talk about your family anymore. We can move on to another subject,” I said.

“No, it's okay,” Jovan said, looking at his watch again. I began to wonder if he had someplace else to be.

“Well, to answer your question—yes, I did have a big brother, and his name was Derrick. When I was eleven years old, he was killed.

“Derrick was a hustler who used to run Barry Farms back in the day. He had a lot of money, and whenever I wanted something, he'd get if for me. He bought me bicycles, go-carts, took me to the movie and King's Dominion Amusement Park. He did everything a big brother was supposed to do. I looked up to him and loved him very much. He used to always tell me he was gonna buy Momma a big house way out in Maryland in one of those nice neighborhoods and we'd have all kinds of toys and stuff. I looked forward to that day, until somebody stole that joy from me.

“One day my brother was found duct-taped in his Benz with one shot to the head. The police never found out who killed my brother, but they said the motive most likely was robbery,” Jovan said, his voice filled with pain.

“Oh, Jovan, I'm sorry to hear that. I'm so sorry.”

Damn, I really felt for Jovan. As he was talking, his eyes began to water. Although he didn't let a tear drop, I knew it was painful for him to talk about his brother.

Jovan looked at his watch again and said, “Sonya, I got a conference call to make to my boss, because he has a hearing in about an hour and I need to brief him on a few things. Can you excuse me for about ten minutes?”

“Sure. Take your time. I'll be right here.”

I knew Jovan was hurting about his brother, and he probably wanted to go somewhere for a couple minutes to let it all out—or maybe he really did have to call his boss. Damn, it felt good to finally meet a smooth brotha with a job, and a good job at that.

 

 

 

As I was telling Sonya about my brother, the pain grew deep. Thinking about him gave me that hate: the hate that I have for all cruddy niggas, the hate that I couldn't wait to express on a nigga who truly deserved it. I looked at my watch and saw that it was about 1:45 p.m., perfect timing.

As I got up and was on my way out the door, I saw the same white waitress looking at me, so what I did was fake like I was going to the bathroom. As I walked by her I said, “Excuse me, miss. My watch seems to have stopped. Do you have the exact time?”

“Yes, it's one forty-six p.m.,” the white waitress said.

“Okay, thank you very much.”

As she walked away to attend to other customers, I slipped past the bathroom and out the door. I jumped into my van and headed to Delaware Avenue, which wasn't even three minutes away from the restaurant. As I pulled up on the opposite side of the street, I could see that Fat Mike was just about to set up shop. I figured that he'd hurry up and make a quick ten thousand on the two o'clock rush, then head down to the courthouse and catch diarrhea of the mouth by crossing a nigga who had been good to him.

I drove my van around the corner and parked by the dumpster on the side of the building. I popped my hydraulic stash, got my 16-shot .45 automatic and the new blue zip-up jumper with the Pepco Gas Company logo on it, along with a blue hat with the same logo. I had bought them the day before at Sunny's Surplus. Then I grabbed my black notebook, which was stuffed with about 150 sheets of blank paper. I pulled the hat down tight, looked in the mirror on my sun visor, and checked out my disguise. I wasn't satisfied with what I saw, so I reached in the back seat of the van and grabbed a pillow that I had left in there the day before when I was scoping the scene. I undid my belt and tied the pillow around my stomach then zipped up my jumper and looked in the mirror again. I was now satisfied with my disguise. I looked like a little chubby Pepco gas meter inspector.

As I got out of the van, I looked around to make sure no one saw me then I proceeded around the corner to where Fat Mike was telling everybody what positions to play. There were three fiends and two other younger dudes with him. Damn, the day before there were only three fiends and one youngin'. Shit, I couldn't turn back now, because Bilal's hearing was in less than an hour, so I walked up to the first meter with my notebook and began to fake like I was jotting down some notes.

One of Fat Mike's youngin's came over and said, “Slim, what'cha doing around here?”

“Oh, excuse me, young man. I work for the gas company.” I said with an experienced look, as if this had been my job for years.

Fat Mike came over and said, “Who that, Lump?”

“It ain't nobody but the Pepco man fucking with the meters.”

“Hey, Pepco man, I sure hope you can fix that shit, 'cause my people's gas is fucked up. One day it's working, and the next day it's not,” Fat Mike said.

“Yeah, I know what you're saying. It's a little messed up, but it ain't nothin' I can't fix. Hey, there's usually another meter around here, and from looking at this one, I can tell this isn't the main meter. If I can find the other one and fix that first, then it won't be a problem getting this old raggedy thing back to normal. Do you know where it's at?”

Fat Mike fell right into my trap. “Yeah, it's right around the corner. C'mon, I'll show you. Lump, watch that shit. I'll be right back—and tell everybody to get ready because it's almost two o'clock.”

“Okay, Mike.”

“C'mon, Pepco man. Hurry up so I can show you this shit. I've got something to do within the next hour.”

“Okay, thanks, my man.”

As Fat Mike led me around the corner, I looked around and peeped the surroundings to see if anyone was in sight. I saw no one. So far, my plan was working perfectly. I wasn't anxious, nervous, or scared; just calm, cool, and collected. Just like with my last two victims, I felt like what I was doing was justified. I was about to give it to a nigga who truly deserved it.

As Fat Mike walked closer to the meter, I pulled out my .45 automatic, and when he turned around, my .45 was stuck right between his eyes. Before he could say anything, let alone blink, I pulled the trigger two times—
boom, boom!
—and Fat Mike's body hit the ground with force. I then took out my handkerchief, wiped the gun, and threw it down next to his body.

As I was walking away, I looked around to make sure no one saw me. My van was parked alongside the trash dumpster. I took off my disguise and threw it in the trash, got in my van, put the pillow in the back seat, and fixed my clothes. I didn't stay to see if Fat Mike was dead, because I already knew he was.

As I drove back to the restaurant, all I was thinking about was my man Bilal because his hearing was at 2:45, and if everything went well, he should be a free man today. From that point on, nobody was gonna be able to stop us.

When I got back to the restaurant, I didn't go straight in, I peeked through the window to make sure Sonya was still there. Yeah, she was still there, looking lovely as ever. Hopefully she wasn't mad because I had taken so long, but I was only gone for fifteen minutes.

When I walked back into the restaurant, I saw the same white waitress, and again she was smiling at me. She came over to me and said, “My God, you've been in the bathroom all that time. Are you okay? Was there something wrong with the food?”

“Something got caught down my throat. I'll be fine, thank you. Oh, by the way, what's your name?” I said.

“Kathy, and yours?”

“Jovan.”

“All right then, Jovan. I hope the next time I see you you're by yourself and not with a nice-looking lady friend.”

“Who knows? I may come back tomorrow all by myself.” Then I gave her a wink and left.

As I was walking up to Sonya on the patio, I pulled out my cellular phone and acted like I was talking to somebody. I said, “Okay then, Mark. I pray everything goes well. You're the best lawyer I know.” I then pretended to end my conversation and hang up my phone.

I turned to Sonya and said, “Sorry, sweetie, that I took so long.”

“It's okay. You've only been gone fourteen minutes,” Sonya said, smiling.

“Damn, sweetheart, were you timing me?”

“No, baby. While you were gone I was sitting here thinking about how wonderful a person you are and that I have never met a man like yourself.”

“Is there something wrong with me?”

“Oh no, Jovan, not at all. you're just different from any other man I've met.”

I started laughing, but inside I was shaking my head, saying to myself,
Baby, you just don't know that I just finished blowing a nigga's brains out ten minutes ago.

 

 

 

Finally Jovan came back, and as he was walking toward the table, I could see he was on his cellular phone, still in conference with his boss. Jovan was one cool-ass nigga, and the whole time he was gone, I was thinking about him. A sista like me could get used to having a brotha like Jovan in her life. For one, he wasn't thugged out, but he was aggressive. Two, he was handsome as hell, and three, from the way he walked, it looked like he was packing, and boy did a sista need that. He also had a good, legitimate job, and he was trying to go back to school to further his education. What more could a woman ask for? I hoped he didn't have anybody else, because I'd be one mad bitch if he told me he had a girlfriend.

“Well, Jovan the attorney . . .”

“C'mon, Sonya, I told you I'm not an attorney yet,” Jovan said, cutting me off.

“But you will be soon,” I said.

“How you know that?”

“'Cause I can the see ambition in you, Jovan.”

“So you're saying you can tell the future?”

“Maybe,” I said, smiling, and Jovan smiled also.

“So tell me this, Ms. Psychic.”

“Tell you what?”

“Where is this little lunch date gonna take us?”

I gave him a smile and a sneaky grin and said, “That's for me to know and you to find out.”

“How am I supposed to find out?”

I took out a piece of paper and scribbled my home and work numbers on it and passed it to Jovan.

“Here's my numbers. It's up to you to use them, because that's the only way you'll find out,” I said, handing him the piece of paper.

“Don't be so mean, sweetheart,” Jovan said jokingly.

“I'm not being mean. I'm just being a strong black woman. By the way, I hope you don't have a girlfriend or anything else that may get in the way of us getting to know each other better,” I said seriously.

Jovan laughed and said, “If that's your way of asking if I've got a girlfriend or any kinda baby momma drama, then my answer is no, sweetheart, but it would be nice to have someone compatible to my wants and needs.”

I liked the way Jovan put that. He had a smooth way of getting his point across.

“So, Jovan, it's almost two forty-five and we've been here all day talking.”

“You're just gonna leave me here?” he asked with a devilish grin.

“No, not at all, baby,” I said.

“I was just playing. I know you probably have something to do, and I have to be at the courthouse by three o'clock to meet my boss. So what time should I call you?”