“Damn, they finally getting that done? You installed it?” I sat before my plate and wolfed a few bites.
“Nah.” He yawned. “I made them pick the one that reaches the calvary, you feel me? In case they need me to roll up with sirens, lights. Some beads for effect.” He chuckled.
“Fighting fires?”
“Just finished putting out a flame in Congo Square.”
“Congo—”
“That’s what I said,” Tennessee replied. “Some fool set up a catfish fryinsideCongo Square. Almost stepped out my turnout coat and whooped some ass. Like, bruh, this is history, not a tailgate party. Now I’m about to head to my shotgun.”
“Got a minute?”
“Got till I pull my Black ass into the driveway.”
“Good enough for me.” I pressed into the brother’s group and started up FaceTime. Tennessee appeared first, face and cornrows ashy from fighting fires. Then Washington popped on, bald head glistening in the afternoon sun.
“That’s the parachute,” I murmured, staring at his head.
“What?” they asked.
“Nothing.” I chuckled to myself as Texas answered, hoodie up, looking suspect. I brought them up to speed on Zuri’s past—everything except for the man she murdered in New York.
“Thebébéwas tied to the cartel? All this time?” Tennessee said, turning the wheel of his truck.
“Yeah. Darius’s trash-ass-daddy”—my jaw tightened as I stabbed a stack of shrimp onto my fork—“played her.”
Washington leaned in, smirking like a law professor in a comedy club. “Boy, we talking a whole buffet of felonies. Conspiracy to traffic opioids, fraud, extortion. Add his cartel connections … that’s racketeering, bribery, obstruction of justice.”
“Dude, you done?” Texas asked.
“He’s looking at a lifetime sentence with parole eligibility?—”
“Eligibility?” I growled. “If they don’t cook him, I will!”
“What cartel, Montana?” Texas asked. “You ain’t tell useverything. I’ma infiltrate. See if they’re all after Zuri and our boy. Bring ‘em down from the inside and if not—coz it seems trash daddy had a side deal with the one guy—I’ll stay linked up.”
“Makes sense,” Washington said. “The side hustle part.”
“Thought that too,” I agreed. “The Queso Kings would’ve found her by now. Seems like it’s just the one.” I exhaled in relief. Leave it to my no-brain-cells-ever-connecting lil’ brotha to have a reverse lapse in judgment. Boy done tripped and fell straight into common sense.
“Stay linked?” Tennessee brought up what nobody wanted to hear—his twin’s foolishness. “Why? Are you tryna step your game up from them thugs you run with?”
I rubbed a hand over my face. Wasn’t here for this. But Texas was.
The bad twin grinned. “Man, I ain’t gonna lie. Cartel? Bruh, that’s diversification!”
I scooped up more grits, knowing this was just the beginning.
And nah, he wasn’t done. Texas leaned forward, shoved his hoodie back, giving Tennessee more reason to groan. “Who tightened your locs, Tex? How did you pay for that design?”
Texas smirked. “We’re still talking about me infiltrating the Queso Kings. I call that a portfolio move. I’d put it on my resume. Professional Organized Crime Consultant. Better networking. Benefits. Maybe a 401(k).”
Tennessee gritted out. “You’re evasive ass ain’t serious.”
By now, I started on the extra plate I made for Zuri.
Texas grinned. “Sounds better than you kicking me out, talking about I don’t pay rent. Now shuddup, young pup.”
