The Coup of Carrots (Remix) Read online

The Coup of Carrots (Remix)

  Copyright 2015 MontUHURU Mimia

  One

  Brent Grimes grimaced at the sight of New York City’s Times Square. His eyes grew weary of being harassed by streetlights, sizzling neon, mile high ads for Broadway shows, building sized animated video displays and camera toting tourists. At one A.M., he figured someone should’ve told these swarms of pedestrians, this was a weeknight and people usually sleep at this hour. Even through the tinted, sound-proofed window of his Lincoln Town Car, the city’s energy was palpable.

  Brent sank back in the well cushioned rear seat and attempted to focus on building numbers blurring by. He hadn’t fully recovered from his flight, and now he was being spirited away to mid-town Manhattan. He pondered why this meeting couldn’t wait until morning. Brent’s eyelids sank as the Town Car glided through the city. He straightened up figuring the fraternity was testing how sharp he’d be while fatigued. There was always a camera somewhere. He glanced at his reflection in the car window, and the sight of his drowsy eyes came back at him. He eyed the contours of his square jaw, before focusing on the narrow bridge of his nose and the cleft in his chin. His slightly full lips and exceptionally tan skin, were the only traces of his bi-ethnic roots, and he figured these features were the reason someone suggested him for this assignment.

  The Towne Car came to a smooth halt before Brent opened his rear door. The cacophonous rush of car horns, clicking heels, and a fire engine’s wails, charged his ears. After stepping onto the sidewalk, he peered at the building number of his destination.

  Brent clutched the metal handle of the frosted glass door, and cautiously pulled the portal open, as he didn’t catch the sight of anyone inside the retail space. After the door closed flush behind him, the city’s eruption of sound fell to a hush, and he stepped onto the showroom’s eggshell white marble floors. The boutique’s floor sprouted display cases of the same color. The only difference being, the velvety blue lining inside the case’s windows. Brent’s eyes focused on the assortment of diamonds surrounding him. He marveled at the size and luster of the stones, as they glistened on watches, rings and bracelets. His gait slowed as he got up close to a necklace with a huge blue jewel at its end. The boutique’s spotless façade, reminded him of an upper-scale doctor’s office, complete with the air’s hint of rubbing alcohol and antibacterial cleansers. He figured this told customers how their surgical diamond cuts could accommodate any taste.

  “Mr. Grimes?” asked a female voice.

  Brent peered over his shoulder at what looked like a saleswoman, or a fully-clothed version of a Victoria’s Secret model. The fair-skinned twenty-something, had blonde tresses falling past her shoulders and the pouty red lips and the almond-shaped eyes, requisite for runway status.

  “Yes,” Brent replied.

  “Would you follow me please,” the saleswoman instructed.

  Brent ogled the sway of the saleswoman’s hips as he followed closely. He quickly thought of his ex. He flashed back to fondles of her full breasts, and recalled how their deep kisses made her nipples hard.

  Keep your mind on business. Brent thought.

  After the saleswoman opened the rear door, they stepped onto wood floors with a high gloss polish, and under warmly golden recessed lighting. The wide space gave off the air of a manicured cocoon. Only instead of silken webbing, the space was shrouded in a nearly deafening silence. Brent’s eyes fixated on the few pieces of sparse, angular furnishings decorating the space, as he continued inside the rear room. A few feet to Brent’s right, stood a lengthy bronze desk, whose legs resembled sculptures of the human physique. Sitting behind it, was a stout man completely engaged in his writing.

  “Wait here a sec’,” the saleswoman instructed, before sauntering towards a side office. Brent’s eyes went to another frosted glass door behind the stout man, as a silhouette moved about inside.

  “That’s Mr. Hubersham, he’s the one you’re here to see,” said the stout man, breaking his silence.

  “And you are?” asked Brent.

  “Waiting for him too,” said the stout man.

  Brent glanced at two seats situated nearly a yard from the stout man’s desk.

  “You can sit,” said the stout man. “He might be awhile.”

  Brent strode to the seats and wondered if they were mail ordered from some Victorian era museum. He cautiously sat down and hoped the chair’s frame didn’t collapse under him. Moments later, Brent glanced at the roundness of the stout man’s nose and the pale roughness of his skin.

  Eastern European, possibly?

  The rear office’s door swung inwards, and out of his shadow stepped Mr. Hubersham. Brent took in sights of his salt and pepper hair and lopsided gait. His eyes told him he was in his early or mid-fifties; and also said the potbelly peeking out of his sports jacket came more from too many steak tartars and crepes, rather than some convenience store’s highly caloric menu.

  “Brent Grimes, nice to finally meet you.” Mr. Hubersham offered, extending his hand for a shake.

  “Likewise.” Brent replied, gripping his hand. Brent realized Mr. Hubersham’s wandering blue eyes looked for a place to sit. He motioned towards the seat next to him.

  “Those are mainly for show,” said Mr. Hubersham.

  Brent watched the potbellied man’s stroll back to his office; in seconds, he rolled out an executive’s chair on wheels.

  “I know it’s late, so let’s get down to brass tacks shall we,” said Mr. Hubersham.

  Brent’s eyes peered towards the stout man, who put down his pen.

  “We heard about the work you did at the Eastside Men’s shelter in Chicago,” said Mr. Hubersham, lifting a paper off the stout man’s desk.

  “A sterilization initiative with a ninety percent success rate; and none of the residents any the wiser—impressive,” said the stout man, nodding his head.

  “Well, I’ve always felt stealth was the best means to a target’s end.” Brent replied.

  Brent took in the sight of Mr. Hubersham and the stout man nodding in unison.

  “That’s why you were flown out here—we have a problem requiring a stealthy hand,” said Mr. Hubersham.

  “I was told you were looking for some kind of diamond merchant,” said Brent, “I hope you know, I don’t have those skill sets.”

  “What we need is someone who can think on his feet; someone who won’t freeze when it comes time to pull a trigger,” said the stout man.

  “This is New York,” Brent replied, “seems like you should have a lot of those types to choose from.”

  “Not exactly,” Mr. Hubersham offered, “we’ve got more research analysts here than anything. And I understand most of them fancy themselves field worthy, but they’re just indulging in some Ian Fleming fantasy.”

  “But for someone with your history,” the stout man chimed in, “pulling triggers shouldn’t be a problem.”

  “Someone with my history?”

  “Yes Mr. Grimes,” said Mr. Hubersham, staring at his paper, “from what I see here, you’ve been in and out of correctional facilities for the better part of your young adult life. You were convicted of your first criminal offense at age twelve, a breaking and entering charge; followed by a possession and conspiracy to distribute narcotics charge—and your first kill was at age fourteen. Seems like you fatally shot a rival drug dealer named Terrence Johnson.”

  Brent’s eyes shifted upwards and left while he pondered who Terrence Johnson was. In seconds, he assessed how the name matched one of his old neighborhood’s most notorious drug dealers, known to him and his peers as ‘Big Tee’. He then realized, their last meeting should have been confined to the deepest recesse
s of his memory; but he flashed back to the incident like it happened yesterday.

  560 Series two door Coupe, Double Overhead Camshaft engine, leather interior with heated seats, wood trim, sun roof, and a boomin’ cassette tape deck. Brent thought, staring at the corner’s charcoal Black Mercedes-Benz.

  Ride look showroom new—probably why there’s still factory rims on them tires.

  Brent’s eyes swept to the opposite corner before he glanced at his shadow under a streetlight. He sensed some movement on the opposite corner of the two-laned boulevard he stood in front of, and recognized a young couple strolling arm in arm. Peering over his shoulder, he gaped at the assorted buildings of the Lincoln Towers tenements. He caught sight of nearly every apartment window being dark. His ears picked up the humming of the traffic light’s inner mechanism, switching