She nodded, got in my car, and pulled off.
I watched until she was gone, then pulled out my phone.
Called Justice first.
“Yo.”
“I need you at Grits. Now. Back entrance.”
“It’s one in the morning, nigga?—”
“Now. Bring about twenty bottles of hydrogen peroxide, plastic, tarps. All of it.”
Silence. Then: “Aight. Be there soon.”
Hung up. Called Quest.
“This better be good.”
“Grits. Back door. Now.”
“Man, what?—”
“Don’t ask questions. Just come.”
Click.
Called Pharaoh last.
“Yeah?”
“Need you at Grits with your van. The big one.”
“What’d you do?”
“Just get here.”
“Give me twenty.”
Done.
I went back inside and stared at Larry’s body. At the blood. At the mess.
This was about to be a long-ass night.
Justice rolled up first with two duffel bags. Walked in, saw Larry, and let out a low whistle.
“Goddamn. Who body is that?”
“Larry. Zahara’s boss.”
“Your girl did this?”
“He tried to rape her. She stabbed him in the eye.”
Justice’s face went cold. “Good. Fuck that nigga.” He dropped the bags. “What we doing?”
“Disappearing him. Cleaning this whole spot. Like nothing happened.”
