“…Prominent criminal defense attorney Lyndon Blair Holmes was last seen at this world-class urban resort nestled here in the heart of South Beach three and a half weeks ago. Although the details regarding his disappearance are sketchy, hotel staff state the multimillionaire had been served at the Rose Bar around nine p.m., and was sitting alone. At ten-thirty that evening, he called housekeeping from his room for fresh towels. No one has seen or heard from him since. All of his personal items were still in his suite and his 2006 Lamborghini remained in the parking garage. His wife alerted authorities when she had not heard from her husband in two days, and he hadn’t returned any of her calls. Authorities urge potential witnesses to come forward. A one-million-dollar reward is being offered by the family to anyone with information that will lead investigators to his whereabouts. Currently there are no leads…”

’Cause his ass is dead, bitch!

His wife, a cute brown-skinned chick dipped in jewels, was sobbin’ and talkin’ into the camera. I turned that shit off. I wasn’t beat to hear her beggin’ and pleadin’ for his safe return home. I didn’t wanna hear jack ’bout her missin’ him, and how much she loved him, especially when the bitch probably had somethin’ to do with his ass bein’ slumped. A bitch was through. I put my food on a plate, then took my ass downstairs into my theater room to spark a Dutch, eat, and watch Perfect Stranger with Halle Berry.

At nine p.m. my phone rang. I glanced at the caller ID, then picked up. It was my girl Chanel. “Whaddup, ho?”

“Hey, hooker, what’s good?”

“Shit,” I said, holdin’ the phone in the crook of my neck while I spun the chamber of my revolver, making sure it was packed with a full load of heat. I placed the safety latch on it, then laid it back in its case and closed the drawer. “What’s poppin’ tonight?”