Unique II: Betrayal

Chapter 11 - Roger That

Raindrops—in a rhythm that could’ve been the track to the next hot summer hip-hop anthem—banged against the windowpane, while gray skies hugged the city like another slow love song.
    With Unique asleep in their bedroom, Kennard sat at the desk in the adjoining study, halfheartedly going over a few important papers that he’d been neglecting. He hadn’t set foot in his office since last Thursday. His conspicuous absence led to a buildup of things that needed his attention, some immediately, some not so much. At this point the particulars didn’t really matter one way or another because his mind wasn’t in it. Since the second Unique came clean about everything—old boyfriends and associates, the stint in prison, the cons, being forced to sell her body in Mexico—it was strange that he wasn’t really angry with Unique. In fact, the only thing Kennard had on his mind was the sucker called Fat Tee. This fool had the nerve to break into his house and rape his woman, on his kitchen floor. Who in their right mind would think that would even fly?
     The lyrics from Jay-Z’s “Niggas in Paris” broke his train of thought. His eyes jerked to the iPhone lying dormant on the desk to his right before remembering that he’d powered off the thing. Way past being tired of the constant flood of calls he’d been receiving, mostly from people being nosy or wanting something, with their insincere condolences as a preamble to what they were really after, Kennard realized that the ringing phone was in his pocket, another iPhone. Identical to the one on his desk that he used for business, but this one an untraceable cell phone It wasn’t registered in anyone’s name. And only a handful of people had the number. He dug the phone from his pocket, checked the number on the display screen, satisfied of who the caller was, and pushed receive.
     “What up, Drop?” The two were close friends since elementary school—Kennard and Drop-Top went back like the plastic G.I. Joe action figure, before the kung-fu grip.
   Drop-Top answered in with his usual mantra. “Nothing up but the sun, moon, stars, and modern-day slavery. But that’s not why I called.”
    “Then kill the astronomy lesson and tell me why you called,” Kennard said, trying to get to the point.
    “I called to put you up on some G. But If you too busy to parlay . . . ” His voice dragged off as if to say he could call back at another time.
    Kennard knew Drop-Top like fat chicks swore by Weight Watchers, but yet knew the amount of calories in their favorite Krispy Kreme doughnut.
     Drop-Top was a certified, bona fide bad-ass, but even bad-asses wanted to be appreciated.
     With a little more enthusiasm in his voice, Kennard asked “What you got?”
    “I was talking to this Brooklyn kid,” Drop-Top began. “Dude says he ran into this cat from Virginia trying to off some ice.”
     Although he was often heavier on the small talk than Kennard would have liked, Drop-Top was like tar and kept his ears pinned to streets and, more often than not, was pinpoint accurate with his information.
    “You think it’s my boy?” He had Kennard’s attention.
    The word had been put in the street that Kennard was searching for an outer-town chump from Virginia called Fat Tee, possibly trying to dump some hot diamonds. Also, it was made clear that anyone who came up with the information leading him to dude would be well compensated.
    Drop-Top said, “That’s why I called.”
    Kennard got up from his seat, made his way to the window overlooking the front lawn. Rain still came down in buckets. “Who’s this cat from Brooklyn that dropped the info? And is he reliable?”
    “Yeah,” Drop-Top said, “I know ’im.” It didn’t matter which of the five boroughs, if they were in the game, better than average chance that Drop-Top either knew them or knew of them. “His name’s Bone.” The name meant nothing to Kennard. “For the most part a stand-up brotha that fancies himself as a seasoned stick-up kid and a head buster. Said he heard from a friend that a bird from outer town was having time, scrambling like two scrambled eggs trying drop some ice. So Bone decided to take the ice and the burden off dude’s hands. Said he planned to leave Fat Tee duck-taped and sleep but shit went off plan. Anyway,” Drop-Top continued, “I wouldn’t even have brought it to you if I didn’t think it was one hundred.”
    For a few seconds, the phone line was monastery-quiet, the only sounds coming from the raindrops that continued to tap its beat on the window as Kennard digested the information Drop-Top had just shared but most of all he wasn’t believing his luck.
    “So where is he?” Kennard said, breaking the momentary silence.
    Drop-Top, unsure if Kennard was referring to Fat Tee or Bone, asked, “Which one?”
     “Who do you think?” Kennard quickly answered. “The dead one.”
    There was no need for any more clarification or direction. Drop-Top hadn’t received his moniker because of his penchant for driving convertible whips; the name Drop-Top was earned—at age sixteen—from his more than enthusiastic willingness to peal a nigga’s fitted cap back. “Say no more.” Kennard heard the conviction in his voice when Drop-Top said, “I got it from here. You know you can count on me, bro.”
    “Roger that.”