me. I might go hu’r it fru’m the horse’s mou’f-so ta’ speak.
Maybe have hu’r do oth’r things with tha’ mouth too,” the creole laughs.
Brazen for what he has said, Benjamin laughs out loud as the short stature man sitting across from him pokes out his chest. He is offended.
Slick looks over to his pistol. A safe distance.
“Ya’ really try’in ta’ make me put’a bullet in tha’ greasy head of yu’rs?,” he says.
Secretly Benjamin loves to egg on his beloved brother. Its just their way of being close. The hustler knows how woman feel about the powerful man sitting across from him. Built like a mighty bull, with a temper to match, Benjamin has watched the white hustler pulls some of the most coveted woman to be had. Married, single or in between. Dynamic and devesatatingly sexy, Slick is not the tallest man in the world, but there is something about his way. Whatever it is, woman flock to him like bees to honey, each glad they did, bragging to their girlfriends about the man’s intense prowess.
“Spill it negro,” Benjamin laughs.
Watching as Slick gets up, Benjamin smiles as the young man gyrates his hips to thin air as the lovable scoundrel belts out a hearty chuckle.
Benjamin grins as he downs another shot.
“So ya’ put it on hu’r wit’ wha’ ?”
“One of my women told me ya’ gotta a baby dick.”
“And ya shot aft’a four pokes in tha’ punani..”
Quickly, Slick huffs as he sits, nearly stumbling over from the poorly made chair.
“Nigg’a - please,” he grins holding up his wrist. “This is why I do’t take ya’ black ass no’ whu’r. Yas’ jus’ as ignunt’ as a cross-eyed hooker.”
Benjamin grins, thinking about business, what has to happen.
“Back ta’ business,” the hustler grins.
Suddenly both men look to the door, hearing a sound outside. It sounds like shoes plopping in mud and puddled water. The noise is heard only once.
Sitting still as death, the brothers listen without a sound. Nothing.
Oblivious because of good liquor, Slick sits up in his chair, scouring his mind for details he has planned for nearly six months. Many of which have not been shared with Benjamin or anyone for that matter.
“So check it-two weeks fru’m naw, ole boy is gonna receive a telegram say’in his baby’s mama is in dire straights, down thu’r in Mississippi.”
“Damn, ya’ got tha’ mama involv’d ?,” Benjamin interrupts.
“He’s a arrogant dead beat..,” Slick interjects.
“Anyways, when he gets down th’ur, I got boys that gon’ tail him. Then snatch him up.”
“He gon’ be gator fu’d in ‘bout an hour. Nobody will kno’ tha’ difference,” Slick finishes.
Benjamin laughs.
“Sounds simple nuff,” the creole smiles. “But we all kno’ plans tha’ damn simple always come apart just as easy.”
“Is fail safe -,” Slick scowls.
“Fails safe my ass.”
“How bout’ we go kill him naw?” Benjamin asks, half serious.
Right as Slick sits up right in his seat.
Another sound outside. This time the brothers are sure.
“Ya’ hur that nigga .....?,” the blue eyed killer nearly whispers, looking around.
Almost rising to his feet, quickly remembering that the wooden floors creak,
Benjamin stands in place. His eyes dart past a single kerosene lamp, on towards the front area draped in darkness.
Both men are as silent, listening, hearing past the old wood of the shack. Like two cats, hearing past human senses, the trained killer’s eyes look toward the back of the house simultaneously.
The shack is being surrounded.
Outside in the rain, one pair of feet carefully step forward. Then two. Then three, the mud and puddle water giving each footstep away.
In the dark as rain pelts the night, several men motion to each other silently. Each there for a job that has paid very well.
Inside the old shack, a tension rides in air quick and urgent.
Leaning his weight to his knees, careful of the creaky floors as he bends low. Benjamin looks toward his gun.
Slick peers to his kin.
“Keep talk’in ....,” the blue eyed hustler whispers.
Benjamin nods as he rises carefully on his knees as well, watch his brother creep carefully.
“So yeah. I bon’d tha’ pussy like I aint had pussy in all my damn life!,” the creole says loudly as he looks around.
Slick smirks, moving forward inch by inch. “Shut tha’ fuck up please,” he whispers with a snicker.
Crawling forward, the men make their way to a corner. Both men hear the slightest of wet noises under the house.
“This rat shack got height. Can ya’ get und’a it?,” Slick whispers.
Benjamin nods, looking to the floor. He sees holes in the well worn wood, wondering if anyone is looking back.
The men wait, not moving a muscle. Listening, hearing the slightest of movement right beneath them directly below. Slick has an idea.
Quickly, his mind thinking faster than a blinking eye, Benjamin looks around as he smiles to himself. He feels the security of cold hard steel under his bare feet.
The men have crawled into what Benjamin calls his ‘caste iron cubby’.
In the dark corner the men are crouched in, their feet and back rest upon two inch solid iron that is two inches thick.
Benjamin had the small protective box built just for this reason.
Usually big enough to fit only two men, resembling a small short walk-in closet, the wrought iron mechanisms are essential for peace of mind.
Every gangster has a protective corner cubby, especially in the south since
