A month later, Scott waited patiently in his Dodge Ram truck in the dark ally behind the apartment and cautiously watched Griffin as he sauntered into the building off Saint Claude Avenue. Thirty minutes passed and the rear door to the building opened. Katrina Smith swiftly rushed out, approached the truck, and handed Scott a bag.

“It worked. I gave him two pills like you said and he’s out like a light.”

He looked into her large auburn eyes, pressed four crisp one hundred dollar bills into her hands, and gently squeezed.

“He should be out for two hours, but meet me back here in an hour and I’ll give you six more of these.”

Katrina’s petite hand quickly snatched the money from his outstretched hand, stuffed it inside her bra, and gazed flirtatiously into Scott’s eyes as she rearranged her abundant cleavage.

“Okay, one hour, right?”

Scott’s truck sped down Saint Claude Avenue and reached the Royal Street Plaza Hotel in about three minutes. He turned off the motor to his truck and let it coast to the rear of the six-story building. Scott’s associates, a bellman at the hotel that worked the sixth floor, ran out of the service entrance with a few bags of trash and threw them in the dumpster just as the truck reached the half full metal dumpster. The tall, pale-skinned man approached the truck. His round, flat faced searched Scott’s face before he passed a bellmen uniform shirt and apron through the opened window.

“What happened, why you’re late?”

“I got stuck in traffic coming down Saint Claude. So, the old man’s here?”

David’s blue-gray eyes searched the area to see if anyone was coming then his hand darted up toward the sixth floor.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s in the sixth floor suite like always.”

He pushed a black comb through his wavy light brown hair.

“I scouted the floor and I know for sure that there’re three guards outside the door, but I’m not sure how many is inside. Sometimes it’s just that one Jamaican guy; then yesterday I saw two others inside.”

Scott climbed out of the truck and the two men strolled to the service entrance of the hotel.

“Alright, thanks for the intelligence, David. Did you rig the dinner table?”

David pointed down the hall.

“It’s by the elevator. Don’t forget after you pull that string, you got less than a minute, so be careful and be quick.”

As the men hurried down the highly polished hall to the service elevator, Scott handed David a packet.

“Okay, now where’s the service elevators.”

David stuffed white envelope into his jacket.

“They’re on your right and here’s the table.”

David stopped and placed his small hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“Look, Scott, that’s a lot of trained killers waiting for you up there. You’re sure you don’t need my help.”

He pushed the elevator and waited for it to open.

“Thanks but not right now; got to do this one myself. Shit, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a mission, anyway.”

Minutes later the shiny chrome-colored doors divided and Scott headed up stairs with a dinner cart, the uniform shirt, and apron. Calmly, he dressed himself in the shirt before the elevator reached the sixth floor. As the doors opened, he’d finished buttoning his shirt and tied the apron string around his waist. Three muscular bodyguards promptly turned around as soon as the door fully slid open and pointed their guns at him.

“What you want and it better be good.”

Immediately, Scott pushed the covered table towards them to examine while pulling a cord from beneath it and shoved it in his pocket.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, I’m just here to deliver dinner and some wine. Here check it for yourself; I ain’t trying to get shot.”

He stepped back and to the right of the door. The table eased across the floor until it reached them. One of the guards lifted the three dish covers and checked to see if food was on the table. Afterwards, he signaled the other guard to buzz the room.

“It looks alright. Where’s that other skinny guy? He usually delivers the meals everyday.”

Before Scott could come out and answer, six Claymore mines detonated under the table. The force of the explosion exterminated the guards at front door and propelled the heavy metal security door into the room. The only bodyguard inside the room, a large Jamaican, came to unlock the steel door the moment the cart exploded. The force of the explosion hurled the huge door across the room into his large muscular body and crushed his sternum. The armed assassin strolled in the room and stepped on the door. With Griffin’s gun, he coldly shot the injured guard once in the esophagus and continued toward the room where a frightened elderly figure helplessly laid in a hospital bed.

“Old man, Lucifer sent me to take you to hell; he’s really pissed and wants to talk to you. You’re ready to go?”

Scott leaned over the old man and placed the 38-caliber pistol against his victim’s wrinkled liver-spotted forehead. The helpless but ruthless old man’s stone cold brown eyes grew wide as he stared at the assailant’s face. He incoherently spoke through the oxygen mask and gripped his boney fingers around the pearl handle of a 45-caliber Colt pistol.

“I’ll go if you go first.”

While his feeble hand struggled to fire the gun, Scott’s trained eyes drifted to the lump under the cover and pulled the trigger. The shot sprayed blood over the pillow and onto the headboard. The old man’s fingers tightened around the trigger of the Colt and pulled it as the life slipped from his elderly body. The shot startled Scott so he pulled the trigger again. Next, he wiped the blood from his face with a towel and stuffed it into his pocket then headed for the door. Again while standing on top of the metal door, he shot the barely breathing bodyguard in the forehead. The first part of the job was done. Minutes later, Scott returned to Katrina’s apartment. She was waiting outside and immediately ran to the truck.

“He ain’t moved one inch. You’re sure those pills didn’t kill him. I don’t need no dead man up in my house.”

“Don’t worry, he’s just knocked out. He’ll be that way for about another hour. Remember don’t be here, cause the cops gonna come right around that time. Now take me to your place.”

It took Scott three minutes to place the borrowed socks and shoes back on Griffin’s feet. Next with Katrina’s help, he slipped the blood stained pants back on the sedated man’s body. Seven minutes later, he placing the gun in Griffin’s shoulder hoister, sat him in the chair by the door, and placed the bloody gloves he used along with a set of keys to Katrina’s apartment in his limp hands.

“Okay, let’s go. Remember you weren’t here when he came in. Keisha got your alibi set. Just follow the strip and it will be okay. You know the story, just get it right and it will be more of this coming.”

Scott shoved six more one hundred dollar bill toward her. Katrina retrieved them, shoved them in her bra, and smiled at Scott.

“So, after all this is over, you still gonna stop by to see me.”

Playfully, he squeezed her ass as they left the apartment.

“Like clock work every week, sweet thang.”

Twenty-five minutes later, as Scott sat at the bar inside Simone’s, a newscast came on the television over the bar. His eyes looked up from his drink as he hastened to the TNBW newscast. The anchorperson said that the police received an anonymous tip about the location of a man wanted for questioning in the shooting at the Royal Street Plaza Hotel. Four squad cars and the swat team arrived at the apartment a few minutes later after the tip and discover the front door to the apartment wide open. The suspect jumped from behind the door and reached for his d gun. Before he could fire one shot, the New Orleans Organized Crime Task Force’s swat team pumped fifteen rounds into his body.

“Okay, my first move has been made, Keisha. ‘Gist’ Jones is dead and because of a few gun happy cops, Griffin is dead. You’re sure your girls are ready to put the word in the air that Graham had him killed and now is gunning for Tony? Remember, you gotta make sure their stories are convincing.”

Relaxing on a seven-foot black leather couch, Scott rested his size twelve cowboy boots on the crescent-shaped top of the metal and leather coffee table. Crossing her legs, Keisha sat back in the black wingback chair on the side of Tyrell’s desk. Positioning the bottled water on the desk and placed her hand on the arm of the chair. Her head turned toward Scott. The hem of her tight black dress rested on the calf of her legs and highlighted their shapeliness.

“Don’t you worry about my girls, Mr. McLean; I got that covered. Who are you anyway to be questioning me anyway? I mean I talk to your boss not the hired help.”

Unmoved by her remark, Scott looked at her, smiled, and examined her long legs. His eyes traveled up her frame then stopped and ogled at her ample breast.

“Oh, that’s cold; come on, turn down the freeze factor some, my beautiful dark chocolate queen. I’m just here to help you and Tyrell. I ain’t trying to start no beef with you.”

He savored the enticing way her chest moved up and then back down every time she talked. Every sensual moment showed off more of her cleavage. He cleared his throat, looked her in the eyes as she smiled.

“Well, start by taking your damn eyes off my chest. Damn, all you men ever think of looking at is a woman’s chest.”

Tyrell laughed from across the room and placed the thick gray ledger on the desk then turned around in the chair.

“Well; yeah, sometimes it is. But if she got a phat ass, we’ll look at that too.”

He laughed, picked up the ledger, and continued checking the figures. He knew one of his men’s money was coming in short but couldn’t figure out why. Scott removed his boots from the top of the coffee table and sat up on the couch.

“I’m just saying I ain’t trying to make you mad at me, Keisha. Shit, I can’t help that God made you into a wonderful one of a kind masterpiece of womanhood.”

In one swift motion, Scott stood up, moved from the couch, and stood in front of Keisha.

“Now, you’re almost Queen of New Orleans. I’m just admiring his handwork and thanking him for being so good.”

Keisha shifted her weight in the chair because she was uncomfortable that he invaded her personal space. She shifted her voluptuous body in the chair again, placed her right hand in her black purse, and her well manicure fingers wrapped around the handle of her gun.

Down on one knee, Scott took her left foot and pressed his lips against her skin. His chivalrous actions took Keisha by surprise and she apprehensively smiled at him and removed her right hand off the gun and out of the purse. She stroked his baldhead as he crouched in front of her. His lips kissed up her leg. ‘He’s smooth and don’t look to bad,’ she thought to herself as she brushed her hands over the fabric of the tight white tee shirt that covered his muscular body. She ran her slender fingers up the back of his neck then drew them around, and took his clean cut chin in her hands. Her piercing eyes gazed into his dark brown eyes. Keisha eased her foot out of his strong but tender grip, the handle of her gun, and ejected the clip. After she pulled it out, she placed it under his chin.

“You’re one smooth talker;”

She licked his lips with the tip of her tongue. Scott remained perfectly still and fascinated by her sensuality and charm.

“I like that in a man and you ain’t bad looking either.”

Tenderly and playfully, she kissed him on both cheeks.

“But, if you ever get this close to me without asking, I promise I’ll blow your fucking brains out. I might become queen but I ain’t stupid. I got my eyes on you and one bullet in my gun with your name on it; YOU GOT IT THAT, MOTHERFUCKER!”

She kissed him, darted her tongue deep into his mouth while her free hand explored his crotch. About a minute later, she released her lip lock and pushed Scott all the way to the floor. She stood over him and placed the sole and high heel of her leather shoe on his chest. From this position, Scott could see up her dress and noticed the pink color of the hairs around her exposed vagina.

“Damn, Keisha, you’re one cold bitch. Get your foot off Scott and let him up. Why you gotta be so mean anyway.”

Scott licked his lips.

“That’s alright, Tyrell, I think I like the way your sister plays.”

Tyrell glanced up for a second from his work.

“She ain’t playing, motherfucker. She’s for real and a stone cold killer.”

She pointed the gun at Scott’s head.

“You better believe I ain’t playing. I’ll fuck your ass real good and then right after I cum;”

She cocked it to eject the bullet in the chamber.

“I’ll blow your fucking brains out, BITCH.”

Then, Keisha squeezed the trigger.

“Damn, you cold, Keisha.”

A few weeks later, Lucchese and Spencer set a secret meeting to try to smooth things over between their two warring gangs. The bosses and several of their well-armed men met in the parking lot at one of the empty warehouses down by the Mississippi River. Each man brought a large amount of soldiers for protection from the other crew.

“So, how do we settle this, Palmer? I mean all this killing is bad for revenue and it’s drawing too much heat from the cops.”

“Shit, Tony, I don’t know. You started this damn fight when Tyrell killed Mitch. Then you took out the old man. Shit man, Gist had cancer and was dying anyway. He was helpless and harmless.”

“Nah, wait one fucking minute man, you ain’t gonna pin that shit on me. I was in D.C. and my people had nothing to do with it. Gist was like a father to me. Besides the fucking cops said your man did it and then tried to shoot them.”

“Zing”

“What the fuck.”

Something flew by Tony’s left ears, then seconds later, Malcolm Ford, Lucchese personal bodyguard, crumpled to the ground. Scared, Tony took cover behind the door of the Lincoln limousine and holler nervously at Palmer who was crouching behind his car while his son, Belford crouched beside him searching the building tops for the shooter.

“Shit, Palmer, I thought we had a truce.”

“What the fuck you are talking about man. We do, now tell your boy to stop shooting.”

“That’s not my shooter up there. Shit he just shot my man not yours.”

“Zing”

“Thump, Thump”

Belford head hit the cement hard as the bullet entered his skull and exploded into the truck of the car.

“Shit, Belford, damn I’m gonna kill you Lucchese. Your man just shot my son. Shit, shit, shit!”

“I’m telling you it’s not my man, Palmer.”

Tony tried to stand up to take a shot at Spencer but bullets continued to zing through the air for about five more minutes as men from both sides crawled on the ground to avoid being shot.

“Zing, thump, boom’

The car ‘Boss’ Palmer Spencer hid behind exploded as a round entered the gas tank. The fierce blast sent metal ripping through Palmer’s chest and into his heart killing him instantly. As Palmer’s men screamed for help, Tony and the rest of his men tried to escape in the limousine. However, hiding high on top of one of the buildings, Scott pumped a round into the gas tank. A giant fireball engulfed the car tossing it across the parking lot. Scott and three of his best sharp shooters killed both bosses and most of their men. By New Years Day, Tyrell Riggers controlled New Orleans and Scott was his number one. Things couldn’t be more perfect.

Two months later, Scott drove his black truck through the tranquil streets of his neighborhood. A few days before, he moved from Crescent Place Apartments on Tulane Avenue and purchased a small house on Lauradale Drive. Right now, the first thing he needed to do was get his utilities on. The black 1996 Dodge truck slowed down and pulled into the vacant spot in front of the town square. The historic New Orleans courthouse set in the center of the lot. Exiting the truck, he walked across the parking lot to the courthouse and through the twin Mahogany front doors of the white marble building.

The Public Utilities office was located on the first floor of the large three-story building. From the moment Scott entered the utilities office, he felt her brown eyes follow him around the room. He stood six feet four inches tall, sported a neat baldhead, and wore black wire framed glasses. Always neatly dressed, his black pleated linen trousers matched the black and beige collarless shirt and patented leather black Stacy Adams dress shoes. He strolled across the office as Euphémie wondered who he was. She lived in New Orleans most of her life and this was the first time she ever saw this guy. He stopped at her small desk

“How are you doing? How can I help you?”

She sat behind the small wooden desk and waited for a reply.

“Hi, I’m fine. How are you today? I just bought a house on Lauradale. Can you tell me who I need to talk to about getting my water and gas turned on?”

She inquired as she logged onto the computer on the desk.

“Sure, that person would be me. My name is Euphémie Desmoids. Now, all that I need is a copy of the deed to the property and a copy of your ID. Where are you moving from?”

His hands ruffled through the papers he brought with him and handed her the real estate deed.

“Ms. or Mrs.?”

She smiled, looked away, and replied.

“Just call me Sharon.”

Scott hesitated.

“Well, Sharon, my name is Scott McLean. I’m moving back here from Oklahoma. I just bought my first home and need to get everything on.”

He gave her the Oklahoma driver’s license from his wallet. Euphémie took the documents and looked them over.

“So, did you grow up around here?”

“Yes, but I left when I graduated from Westside High School in 1980 and joined the Army.”

While he looked deep into her brown eyes, he flashed his well practice half smile.

“But, as young as you look that was probably way before your time. I bet you weren’t even born then.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I’m a bit older than you think. I graduated in 1990.”

She smiled, sashayed into the copy room, and copied the document. After she returned to her desk, she handed them back to Scott.

“Okay, now the deposit for the water is fifteen dollars and sixty dollars for the gas. Do you want to pay now or if you would like, I could break it all up and bill you in three installments that way you won’t have to pay anything today.”

Scott thought to himself for a brief moment, – ‘I ain’t lost my charms.’ –, then questioned.

“So, the total is seventy five dollars? Do you take debit cards?”

“Sure, we do. Are you paying the entire amount?”

“Yes, I guess I will.”

She looked at him, smiled, and retrieved the Visa card he placed on the desk and swiped it through the card reader. Euphémie finished the transaction and handed him the receipt. They continued to chat for a few more minutes. Right before he left the office to walk out to the parking lot, she wrote her number on the back of the receipt and placed it in his hand.

“If you need anything;”

She giggled as his eyes again met hers.

“, or any help decorating your house, feel free to call me.”

A few hours later, the water department arrived at the house to turn on the gas and water. When they finished Scott decided to go shopping for some dishes and food to put in the house. After shopping at Wal-Mart, he returned home and continued fixing on the old one-story three-bedroom wood frame home. It was hidden by pine trees and set on top of a small incline off the main street. The previous owner renovated it so the interior still smelled of paint and paint thinner. Scott purchased some curtains at Wal-Mart for the living room and some shower curtains for the bathroom. He carefully hung them. As soon as he started working in the bathroom, the phone began to ring.

“Hello.”