“That's why we're taking care of it,” James replied, standing at the countertop near the sink behind Ken. “We know it's delicate and you can't be part of it.”
“Delicate ain't the word,” Simyan shook his head, seated to Ken's left. He was the warlord of the 137th Street g**g, subbing for the club president who was on Rikers Island. “This dude was in tight with the organization. If it's who we think it is. And that's the problem, We not dead certain.”
“Listen up,” Ken stared at each face in the room. “I'm not going back downtown to the guidos and tell them they gotta wait. This needs to end tonight. I gave you a deadline. I want a name.”
“You know, my homies don't play that s**t,” Braulio, the leader of the Harlem chapter of MS-13, snarled. “You put this on us, we go in and waste every mo
