“Z! TABLE FOUR!”
“I’m coming, Cookie, damn!”
I grabbed the coffee pot and got back to it, but my mind was somewhere else.
On Mehar. On Zahara. On the family I’d lost and the pieces I was slowly, carefully, starting to put back together.
One broken piece at a time.
8
PRIME
Yusef’s backpack bounced against his shoulder as he walked through those double doors, and I sat there watching until he disappeared inside. Just another kid heading to class. Nobody would look at him and know he’d caught a body. That his whole world was built on secrets that could bury everybody he loved.
He turned back once, gave me a little nod, and then he was gone.
I checked my phone. Pulled up the address I’d saved last night after doing some digging while Zainab slept.
True Organics.
2847 Greenmount Avenue, Baltimore, Maryland.
Shamir Ali’s health food store. Same spot he’d been running for damn near twenty years according to public records. Same location. Same business. Same evil-ass nigga behind the counter, selling sea moss and alkaline water like he wasn’t a whole monster dressed up in religious garments.
Finding him was the easiest mark I’d ever had to find. A few phone calls. Some basic searches. Niggas like Shamir thought they was untouchable because they wrapped themselves in faith and tradition. Thought nobody would ever come for them because they had Allah on their side.
But Allah wasn’t pulling up today.
Just me.
I threw the car in drive and hit I-95 North.
Forty-five minutes to Baltimore. Enough time to let the rage I’d been carrying since Zainab told me her story settle into something colder. Something useful. I wasn’t about to roll up there sloppy and emotional. That’s how niggas got caught. This was business. Calculated. Precise. The same way I’d been handling shit since I was thirteen years old and learned that violence was a language everybody understood.
Shamir Ali was about to get a whole conversation.
True Organics looked exactlyhow I pictured it.
Little storefront wedged between a barbershop and a check-cashing joint on a block that had seen way better days. Windows cluttered with hand-painted signs pushing that Hotep agenda—“BLACK SEED OIL - CURE FOR EVERYTHING BUT DEATH” and “FRESH SEA MOSS GEL - $25/JAR” and “ALKALINE WATER - PURIFY YOUR TEMPLE.”
I parked across the street and observed for a minute. Quarter after ten. Not much moving. Couple of older women strolled past with shopping bags. Some young boy on a bike rode by with a speaker strapped to his handlebars, blasting Future like he ain’t have neighbors. Nobody paying attention to the black Bentayga sitting at the curb.
Perfect.
I got out, crossed the street, moved casual. Just another brother looking for some overpriced wellness products.
The bell chimed when I stepped inside, and that smell hit me immediately—frankincense and myrrh thick enough tochoke on, mixed with dried herbs and whatever else these fake-conscious niggas burned to feel spiritual. Store was small and cluttered, shelves stacked to the ceiling with supplements and oils and products rocking labels designed to look “African” even though they was probably made in a factory in China.
And there that nigga was.
Shamir Ali.
Behind the counter in a crisp white thawb and a cream kufi, looking like somebody’s righteous grandfather. Shorter than I expected. And way rounder—had a whole belly straining against that religious getup, which was hilarious considering he was supposed to be Mr. Health and Wellness.
I almost laughed out loud. This nigga out here selling alkaline water with a gut like he been hitting the fried fish plate every Friday and washing it down with beer.
He looked up when I walked in, face arranging itself into that retail smile. The one that said I’m peaceful and spiritual, please buy my overpriced sea moss.
