Marvin Maddox
I sat behind the wheel with my phone in my hand, replaying Kyrie’s call from earlier. Jamal was out. Just thinking about that shit had me tight as fuck. The nigga shot my cousin, and somehow his ass was already back on the streets like nothing happened.
Shaking my head, I stared through the windshield for a second before unlocking my phone. There was only one person I needed to call.
As much as I hated reaching out to Zeek, this wasn’t some shit I could handle alone. He was the one everybody called when it came to street shit. He had a way of handling problems and making things disappear before they got out of hand.
Kyrie was a professional football player. He had too much to lose, so I was glad he told me to hit him up. One wrong move could fuck all that up.
But me, I didn’t have a problem, and neither did Zeek.
The phone rang a few times before the line finally connected.
“Aye, cuz. Wassup? Everything good?” Zeek asked.
“Nawl. Where you?” I replied.
“The house. Why, what’s going on?”
I rubbed my jaw and leaned back in my seat.
“It’s some bullshit.”
The line went quiet. I already knew he could hear it in my voice. Whenever I called sounding like this, it usually meant somebody had done some dumb shit.
“What happened?” he asked.
I looked out the windshield before letting out a slow breath.
“You remember that nigga who shot Kyrie?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, that bitch-ass nigga out.”
There was silence. Then I heard Zeek suck his teeth.
“You serious?”
“Dead serious.”
“Since when?”
“Today.”
“Man, that’s some bullshit.”
“Tell me about it.”
I tightened my grip on the phone.
“The nigga almost took my cousin from us, and now he back outside breathing the same air as everybody else.”
“Have Kyrie seen him yet?”
“Nawl, but he knows.”
“And how he take it?”
I let out a short laugh. “How the fuck you think he took it?”
Zeek chuckled under his breath. “Yeah, aight. Say less.”
For a second, neither of us said anything again. We both knew this conversation wasn’t really about Jamal being out.
It was about what came next.
“What Kyrie want to do?” Zeek asked.
I shook my head.
“He ain't trying to touch it.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah.”
As much as Kyrie wanted Jamal gone, he wasn't stupid. The nigga had too much money, too much attention, and too many cameras following his every move.
One mistake, and everything he'd built could disappear.
“That's why he told me to call you.”
Zeek went quiet for a second.
“So, he wants eyes on him.”
“At minimum.”
“And if the nigga move funny?”
My jaw tightened. “Then we deal with it.”
“Aight.”
I heard movement on the other end of the phone like Zeek was getting up.
“Send me everything you got on him.”
“I don't got shit yet.”
“Then start getting it.”
I nodded even though he couldn't see me. “What you thinking?”
“I'm thinking ain't nobody just get out of jail and start acting right overnight.”
A dry laugh left my mouth.
“Facts.”
“Give him enough rope, and he'll hang himself.”
I leaned back in my seat.
“So, you saying wait?”
“I'm saying watch.”
The difference mattered. Because watching a nigga was one thing. Planning for him was another. And something told me Jamal wasn't the type to stay quiet for long.