from red to green. He then focused on a grassy knoll behind a short fence, where his gray backpack laid. His stash of ‘slim jays’ were confined inside.
He groped the wad of cash in his pocket while gazing at the empty boulevard. Rock fiends didn’t have a curfew, so he kept his eyes moving. A balmy wind blew pieces of paper in the air, before his stares back at the traffic light, reminded him of the candle on his fourteenth birthday’s cupcake. He recalled his girlfriend presenting the orange-frosted confection to him in a string bikini. The event seemed a long ways gone, but he remembered this happening the week before last. She asked him to blow out the candle’s dancing flame and make a wish. He figured sex with her was a foregone conclusion, her mother being a nurse who worked overnights and all; so he thought about stacks of cash. Pulling the pink string of her bikini bottom’s right knot, he loosened the garment and watched it fall to the carpet. He remembered the tactile sensations of her bare breasts cupped in his hands and got an erection.
Keep your mind on business.
The block’s grapevine buzzed about Big Tee figuring Brent was the reason his pockets were a little lighter. Brent always heeded his father’s advice to ‘go where the money is’. Those words were some of the only things he remembered about him. Brent figured, if someone couldn’t handle the corner’s competition, they shouldn’t be in the business.
Brent’s hand rubbed up against the 9mm. pistol in his windbreaker’s pocket. He kept the safety off, and stashed clips of ammo on the jacket’s left side.
Brent’s left glance at his backpack, caught sight of Big Tee’s second-in-charge coming out of the shadows. His eyes quickly went to the lanky young man’s pockets and waistband searching for weapons. Brent clutched his pistol as sounds of fast footfalls came at his opposite side. His eyes darted right and brought Big Tee’s muscular frame into view. Lock stepped with Tee was another of his henchmen. Brent grabbed out his gun before crouching into a combat stance. He let off three shots at Big Tee and his henchman. Sparks burst inches above Brent’s head. Big Tee’s second-in-charge, fired a round hitting the streetlight behind him.
Brent’s left pivot set up a shot into the stomach of Big Tee’s second-in-charge. Brent spun back right and caught Big Tee on the ground. His henchman limped away slowly. Brent glanced behind him, and caught Tee’s second-in-charge writhing on the pavement. He fired two rounds into Tee’s second-in-charge and stopped his movements. He turned right to find Tee still down. His henchman continued lumbering away from him.
Brent took a second to aim at the shadow of Tee’s henchman. A flash of muzzle fire lit up the boulevard. Tee’s hobbling henchman fell. Brent inserted another clip of ammo and walked up on Tee.
He pointed the pistol in front of him and came within inches of his nemesis. Tee’s eyes were shut while his left hand twitched. Brent recognized the iron-rich scent of blood wafting in the air, as his eyes fixed on the crimson rivers pulsing out of Tee’s mouth and chest. Brent fired a shot at Tee’s head. His focus then fell on a pistol laying nearly a foot away, as he strode past Tee and towards his henchman. The henchman was still. Brent fired a shot into his corpse for safety. The henchman’s cadaver jumped from the bullet’s entry, but laid motionless afterwards. Brent sped back to his backpack and grabbed it mid-step, before the sound of patrol car sirens began filling the air.
“Did you know Terrence celebrated his nineteenth birthday, a week before you shot him?” Mr. Hubersham asked.
“Who gives a rat’s ass?” sneered Brent. “I’m here, he’s not; we were both in the life and that’s how it goes . . . now do you have a job for me or don’t you?”
“Relax Mr. Grimes,” said the stout man, pushing his palms forward. “We’re just trying to tell you why you qualify for this assignment.”
“Quite right,” Mr. Hubersham offered, “I only spoke of your terminating Mr. Johnson to make the point, that half our fraternity is populated with PhD’s who are better suited to administrative tasks—they don’t have your talent for making good decisions under pressure.”
“You don’t have to blow smoke up my ass,” said Brent.
“At any rate . . .” said Mr. Hubersham, collecting a manila folder off the stout man’s desk, “our problem, is several years ago, we installed a tribal warlord to be Prime Minister of our African colony, Sierra Leone.”
“You mean the country Sierra Leone.” Brent replied.
“That country is our colony,” said the stout man, matter-of-factly.
Brent’s eyes fixed on the manila folder, as Mr. Hubersham passed the stringed envelope to him. Brent unwound the folder’s crimson string, and lifted out a Black and white photo of a tan complexioned man, with a severe countenance. The man gripped a Russian-made AK-47 and wore a red beret, combat boots and fatigues.
“That’s Abdi Muhammad,” said Mr. Hubersham, “he’s been in our fraternity for two decades. We sent him to study at Oxford; before bringing him back here to get a Rhodes scholarship. Mind you, when we met him, he could barely read above the third grade level.”
“Then why bother with the high-powered education?” asked Brent.
“We thought about installing him in a better developed African country; his peers would have those credentials, so it’s better he had them too. Besides, any populous feels rulers with these certifications are more competent . . . appearances, you know.”
Brent nodded.
“We thought this fellow’s loyalty was iron-clad,” Mr. Hubersham continued, “but sometimes we don’t foresee these tyrants getting too big for their britches.”
“The bastard’s buckling under pressure from the town’s people, to reach some truce between the country’s warring tribes . . . and the fool’s started negotiations to do it.” The stout man spat.
“We told him he was there specifically to keep those wars going,” said Mr. Hubersham, “if that country gets financially stable, this country’s access to their mineral resources will be cut to zero—those natives are even talking about taking control of the diamond mines. That can’t happen.”
“So Abdi’s the mark,” said Brent.
“Yes.” Mr. Hubersham said nodding.
“You said Abdi was a warlord—so do you need a kill shot from a rooftop?”
“Too public. ‘Causes too much speculation about foreign influences.” The stout man offered.
“We need this one to be up close and personal,” Mr. Hubersham said, “and that’s where your diamond brokering will come in. We’re gonna’ teach you everything about plying the trade of diamond peddling, so you can be introduced to Abdi as a merchant with a world-renowned reputation. Also, we’ve got one of our frat brothers ready to take Abdi’s place when he’s gone; he’s the one who’s been chatting Abdi up about you for the last couple of months. You’ll liaise with him, as soon as you touch down in Sierra Leone’s Freetown.”
“What’s his name?” asked Brent, before catching Mr. Hubersham’s points back at the manila envelope. He reached into the folder to pull out a second photo of another honey complexioned man, in a business suit.
“That is Mr. Syed Odinga,” said Mr. Hubersham, “he’s also been with us for twenty plus years, and he’ll be your contact over there. He’ll arrange for a private meeting between you, Abdi and him . . . that’s where you’ll execute Abdi.”
“Let’s not forget the piece de resistance,” the stout man offered, before sliding out a briefcase under his desk. He lifted the case onto the desk’s top and depressed his thumb on its face. After twin locks opened with a click, the stout man lifted the case’s top and turned the insides towards Brent. Brent stood before the opened case, and marveled at the luster of four oval-shaped, cherry blossom pink, thirty carat diamonds, resting in custom-fitted pockets.
“Damn . . .” Brent thought out loud.
“This’ll be the gift package you’ll present to Abdi, solidifying your status as a world-classed broker.” The stout man offered.
Brent forced his eyes away fro
m the pink stones.
“Gift package?” asked Brent.
“Yes,” said Mr. Hubersham, “Syed guaranteed you’d come baring the most resplendent stones he’d ever seen . . . and these are them.”
“They are exquisite—but why would a warlord want pink diamonds?” asked Brent.
“According to Syed, they remind Abdi of a certain part of a white woman’s anatomy . . . use your imagination.” Mr. Hubersham replied.
Brent nodded, before taking a second stare at the stones. “These gotta’ be worth ten million, easy.”
“More.” Mr. Hubersham replied. “And we’re giving them to him for three point five.”
Brent locked eyes with Mr. Hubersham.
“Just three point five million?”
“Uh-huh,” said the stout man, “we want Abdi’s defenses all the way down, before you take him out.”
“That’s still a helluva’ discount,” said Brent. “Well, I guess the fraternity can take that kinda’ loss.”
Brent caught Mr. Hubersham and the stout man smiling at each other.
“What?” asked Brent.
The stout man’s smile broadened.
“He’s fully initiated . . . you can tell him,” the stout man said, looking at Mr. Hubersham.
Brent’s eyes locked with Mr. Hubersham’s once more.
“Diamonds are man-made.” Mr. Hubersham explained.
“Yeah, well, even if those diamonds are man-made,” Brent