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MINNEAPOLIS’ UPTOWN AREA is usually a pleasant place to sit outdoors and soak up the evening sun. Many have felt the touch of the cool breeze blowing while enjoying a nice rejuvenating cup of coffee after a hard days work. And this October day was no exception. Friendly patrons made small talk on the front of Caffetto Coffee House, a quaint place near the busy traffic light at the 22nd and Lyndale Ave S intersection.

Not concerned with the bustle of cars passing and buses stopping to pick up passengers, some Caffetto regulars read books while others chatted in pairs, delighting themselves with one of the best cups of coffee in Minneapolis.

“Are you even sure it’s yours?” Biz heard someone say. The chatter was barely audible above the traffic, as he approached the cafe.

Biz is someone who most describe simply as “cool.” The thirty-three-year-old dude was what many men only longed to be: handsome and successful with women. And the bi-racial Puerto Rican Black was what most women wanted: a real motherfucker.

Blessed with more game than the Timberwolves, after one of Biz’s many ladies said to him, “I did all this. I put you where you’re at,” the dapper player swiftly corrected her, “Wrong, I did this. If I wouldn’t have put it in your ear you wouldn’t have got it done. You can’t see the horizon with stilettos on if I don’t point you in the right direction.”

Dressed in casual attire, he approached three of the four tables; one after another, bending, as he whispered into the ear of one from each table.

At the fourth table sat two men oblivious to what was going on, as the others pushed back their chairs, rose and casually strolled away.

The traffic light turned red. A black 2004 Saturn slowly pulled to a stop behind a white Oldsmobile. Two other vehicles pulled up behind the Olds’, one squeaking as though reminding its owner ‘uh, I need new brake pads.’

As Biz disappeared around the corner off 22nd onto Lyndale, a green two-door Chevy slowly bent the corner off Lyndale onto 22nd. To a trained eye something strange was afoot. The driver seemed to focus on the two men seated out front of the café, as the Chev crept forward, its chrome old school Daytons spinning.

The front passenger window slowly lowered. The two men were caught up in deep conversation. Nothing seemed to distract them. Not even the car with the booming system which pulled into the Holiday service store across the street. Its occupants bobbed their hat clad heads to the sounds of Wiz Khalifa, while the two men continued in heavy discussion.

The light turned green.

The cars moved forward in succession, as two pineapple grenades sailed from the open window of the Chevy, clanking, as they hit the pavement and rolled under the table of the two men. That got their attention.

The smaller of the two White men’s eyes became like saucers, as one of the grenades rolled to a stop near his shoe. He tried to flee but it was too late. “Boom, Boom!” The simultaneous explosions were devastating, as they ripped off the front siding of the coffee house, throwing displays into the air. Shrapnel and debris tore through the men’s flesh, as the blasts knocked them off their feet. The doomed duo released short screams cut off by the explosive’s awesome power. When the smoke cleared they lay in a bloody heap, dead and buried in rubble.

Patrons spilled out of the coffee house and the adjoining Red Dragon Café shaken and confused by the loud blast and abrupt rumble.

Pedestrians raced over to see what had just happened, wondering what could have possibly invaded their peaceful White community. Many thought perhaps it could have been a ruptured pipeline.

Drivers gawked, some stopping their vehicles, shocked at the destruction.

The green Chevy signaled a right up ahead and disappeared around the corner. Twenty minutes later the Chevy pulled to a curb in the city of Anoka.

The driver exited the vehicle, leaving the keys in the glove box where Biz would later retrieve them.

The Black man casually looked around, as he stepped onto the sidewalk and fed the parking meter. Moments later, he was turning the corner off Main Street onto 4th. The next street was Jackson. He made a left. Drivers watched, as the dreadlocked Black man headed toward the Anoka county jail.

He paused just outside the entrance, as he produced a Newport nasty and placed it to his lips. Digging in his pocket he found a lighter and put flame to the cigarette.

He surveyed his surroundings. ‘Anoka County Jail’ was written in gold lettering outlined in black, surrounding the same color six-point star located on the wall high above, right outside the glass entrance doors. Further observation revealed a surveillance camera about thirty feet kitty-corner to the right of the entrance.

He took a drag from the nasty and thought about what he was there for.

“Ain’t nothing to it but to do it,” he said, as he tossed the nearly full cigarette into the round oversized ashtray. Smoke streamed from his nostrils, as he exhaled. “Might as well get this shit over with.”

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