Page 4 of Kassir and Rebel
“Yes, sir,” Kassan says.
“Then pay the man,” I tell him and he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet. Just like my pops did with me, I’m training him early on money.
“Is that Gucci?” Niecy asks with a grin when she notices Kassan’s wallet.
“It’s my wallet,” he says, then he looks up at me. “Which one?” he asks.
“The fifty-dollar bill,” I tell him and he pulls it out and hands it to Makai.
Makai accepts it then looks over to me. “Fam, that’s too much,” he says, shaking his head.
“Respect, but you earned that. Fam takes care of fam: besides, every nigga pays at Fadez,” I remind him.
“’Preciate it,” he says before dapping me up.
“You ready?” I ask Kassan and he nods.
“Yes, sir. We going to eat now?” he asks.
“Yeah, we can eat cause I’m hungry.”
“Me too, Daddy.”
We exit Fadez and walk to my ride. The shop is the last business in the plaza and I have a reserved parking spot right out front. As we step toward it, one of my little riders in DP, Mano, hops out of his Impala and steps to me.
“What up, Serious?” he says, calling me by my street name and in response, I quickly correct him because I shield my son from all of my street shit.
“Kassir,” I stress.
“My bad, fam. What’s up witcha?”
“I can’t call it. What’s up?”
“My pockets running low and I need some more white girl,” he says, speaking in code, trying to cop. As soon as the words fly out of his mouth, my hand is on his chest.
“Ay. I know you see my son,” I grit and he nods instead of opening his damn mouth. “No, I need to hear you say that shit.”
“My bad,” he utters.
“My bad you see him? Or my bad for approaching me about business in front of him?” I ask for clarity because every member of DP knows I don’t talk or handle business in the presence of my son, no exceptions.
“Both, fam. My bad. I’ll get with you some other time,” he says apologetically then steps back.
“Or maybe not.”
“I can respect that,” is all he says before walking back to his ride but I didn’t miss the little smugness on his face. Kassan being here is the only thing keeping me from slapping that shit off his face.
“What you want to eat?” I ask Kassan before opening the passenger door to my classic 2013 Mercedes-Benz G500 Cabriolet. It only had eighteen thousand miles when I got it.I kept the original wheels and black exterior but had my bruh Suleem redo the interior. He owns Lampin’ in Lux and he hooked me up with all black everything, the leather interior and black, glossy, wood veneer trim.
“Pancakes,” he answers when I slide into my seat.
“At four o’clock? You want pancakes?” I ask.
“Yes and chicken.”
I swear if he could, Kassan would eat pancakes and chicken tenders all day, every day and his favorite place is Pancake House. It’s a small hood diner not too far from here and their food is good as hell. Breakfast is served all day but they do offer a limited regular menu. So before pulling off, I log into the Munchies app and order his silver dollar pancakes and tenders and the meatloaf with mashed potatoes and green beans for me for pick up.
“Daddy, you gon’ give me some mo’ money? I only got two tens left.”
