“Don’t even try it,” Saint warned, as the little one began to try to infiltrate his thoughts since overhearing wasn’t working. Piece by piece, the little thought thief went to work. All that was missing was a dark skullcap over his tiny head and gloves to prevent any small fingerprints at the scene of the psychic crime. Dakarai abruptly turned away, duly chastised. Saint turned back to Xenia, refusing to let her go until she understood where he was coming from.
“You can’t afford to do another healing right now, Saint.”
“Oh, I know. That would probably kill me. No, it’s not like that and besides, it’s against the laws but I can get more into that later.” They both glanced back at their children then returned their attention to one another. He took a gander at her bulging breasts and shook his wayward thoughts to the side. “So, I’m going to handle him. I don’t know how long it will take, but I promise you, I won’t be gone terribly long. I will get this done and over with as soon as possible. Were it not for the nature of the situation, I’d understand you staying but also, you really need to get back to the show, Xenia. This has gone on long enough.”
She sighed and looked down at the floor. The woman was sad, tired and angry and he was the damn cause of it. He felt guilty and pitiful for disappointing her and he wished he had something to make the pain in her heart go away. He wished he could tell her, ‘Okay, baby, I’ll tell him never mind.’ But it would be a lie, and if he did go through with that notion, he’d always regret it.
“Alright.” She sighed and shook loose from his grip. “Are you taking the rental car you and Jagger just got, or is that free to use?”
“I really need to take it. For what I have planned, I need my own ride. Now, speaking of that, I’m going to have Jagger go down to the rental car place and scoop up another one, just for today so you all don’t have to depend on the subway or cabs while I’m away. I’ll have him do it right now, okay?”
He grabbed her arm once again, brought her close to kiss her. She turned away from him before he was able to complete the act of affection. It stung.
“Come on, baby, don’t be this way.” He nudged closer to her, speaking softly into her hair, causing her small dangling earring to gently sway. She wrapped her arms around his waist, then backed away from him, as though she thought better of it. Saint shrugged his shoulders and walked into the bedroom, spotting his missing shoe almost immediately. The damned thing had been behind the curtain and the back end of it peeked out just a tad. He figured one of the kids must’ve done it the day before. He finished getting dressed, grabbed his wallet, the hotel door key and rental car keys to a money green Toyota Highlander. As he prepared to leave, she had her back to him while he stood by the open door, gripping the doorknob, wanting her to turn around and smile, wink…something. Instead, she kept looking straight ahead. She wasn’t going to stand in his way, but she sure as hell didn’t have to like it, and that was her way of making him understand that simple fact. His shoulders slumped as he walked out and closed the door softly behind him.
Bomb, you son of a bitch! Now my woman is mad at me again! Thanks a whole fuckin’ lot! I’m going to get you straight, though. We’re going to get to the bottom of this…
~***~
Timberland’s, ‘Indian Flute’ was playing in full blast when Saint pulled up to King’s, a disreputable hole in the wall, a bar on Putnum Avenue in Lafayette Gardens. Bomb stood there in jeans two times too big for his skinny ass, a grin on his pale, banana-colored face and his black wavy hair down to the middle of his back. A slither of gray streaked the side as it was pulled back in a loose ponytail. His arms were covered with dark tattoos, most of which appeared to be prison tags, but some of the artwork was pretty good nevertheless. He waited for a crowd of loud teenagers to pass before getting in the car, and opened the door with one hand while his cigarette dangled from the other.
“Little Phhhaaaaarrrrroooooaaaaahhhhh!” He rolled the nickname off his tongue, making that Spanish ‘r’ roll with extra emphasis. His husky voice hugged the words, dragging them down into the gutter then spewed them out onto the pavement, sticky with urban funk. “Thanks for gettin’ me, man.” They slapped hands before Saint pulled away from the curb.
“Yeah, you know it.” The night was coming down fast like dirty-ass panties on a five-dollar hooker. It seemed to catch hold of the sun and say, ‘Shit, Saint is with Bomb, let’s turn the lights off on this motherfucker.’ And the night would soon release her children into the streets, like packs of wild wolves. They only crept out after the sun told everyone to kiss her hot ass. The night’s children were dope fiends, tricks, prostitutes, junkies, pimps, pushers, gamblers, rapists, thieves, party-animals, little kids pretending to be grown and killers who just didn’t give a fuck.
“I need you to uh, take me down to Harlem. But, I wanna make a quick stop first if you got tha time, man.” Bomb scratched at himself; the crack-head itch was doing a number on him. His nostrils flared as he spoke and he dug in his pocket real hard, like he was trying to find a golden piece of lint to sell to some fool who only had half a brain.
“Harlem?” Saint shot him a look. “Who you fuck wit’ in Harlem? I thought you said too many cats wanted you dead and I know Harlem is waiting for your ass.” He chuckled, though Saint really wasn’t amused at all. It was just something to do, to keep the conversation light before things turned to a whole different page.
“That’s my best connection, man. Here.” Bomb pushed a crumpled ten-dollar bill in Saint’s hands. “I’m staying with this broad in the hotel around the way. Rochester is dead, man. But they made me stay there for the night. I could never afford it on my own. I got a new spot now… I got me a woman takin’ care of shit. She ain’t got any more money though, but this is a little for your tank. I know it ain’t much, but, you know I don’t like handouts,” he said pitifully. “If I didn’t need it, I woulda never called you about this shit. My high is coming down, I’m fucked up.”
“We agree on that shit.”
Bomb shot him a look, like he wanted to fight again. Saint could see him clearly out the corner of his eye, but the man didn’t pop off; he needed to get that money first and feed it to that hairy ass monkey hanging off his back.
“So how is your family and that pretty little lady you married? I remember those photos, man. I bet you lovin’ that new little girl, huh? I bet she pretty as a picture.” He grinned, exposing the missing tooth.
“The family is good, man. Isis, that’s my daughter’s name, she is a wonderful child. I love her hard.” Saint turned the corner and leaned back in the car, his leg extended to the brake like he was a 1970’s pimp. He ran his hand across his chin and came to a light. They were in Brooklyn. Damn. He loved Brooklyn. It had its own flavor, just like all the boroughs, but they were in a bad part of town, and he expected the fabric of the place to unravel and roll out the soiled, blood-drenched red carpet just for his arrival.
“Yeah, yeah. That’s good man.” Bomb was getting anxious. They approached a red light and immediately, like magnets, women in scantily clad clothing, matted weaves and bodies that once belonged to gorgeous ladies moved about, trying to make eye contact with Saint and Bomb. The money lust in their eyes was rich. They believed they had fresh meat, a new john to shake like a coconut tree, make his balls fall and milk his dick and his wallet with one long slurp of a silver tongue.
“Hey, Daddy!” A Hispanic woman, skinny and small, waved to them. Her tits sagged and swayed as she approached the car in her hot pink leather halter top and matching short skirt. A tattoo of a leopard covered her entire left arm.
Oh hell. Fuck this shit.
Saint glanced lazily at her.
“What you two playas doin’ tonight, huh? You are a fiiiiiiine mothafucka!” She slicked her tongue over her glossy lips as she studied Saint up close and personal. “Damn!” she added with a feminine giggle and sigh. “I’d almost fuck you for free, Papi!”
“Get the fuck away from my main man’s car,” Bomb
spat. “This is my little brother.” He flicked his thumb in Saint’s direction. “He don’t want none of that rotten ass, funky shit you got.”
The woman’s face fell and cracked, her eyes narrowed with menace. She’d just been buttering them up like toast, and just that fast, within a flash, her inner demon lunged forth once the guy with the big mouth set his sights on her. She looked at Bomb and rolled her tongue, clicking it against the roof of her mouth, and then hurled the grittiest Spanish insults at him, as if she were a rapper in a duel, spitting venom-laced bars. He came back after her, wearing his Puerto Rican bravado like a suave porno mustache, and Saint found himself just like that in the middle of Spanish crossfire, a world of utter, passionate verbal chaos.
The light turned green and he thanked his lucky stars as he sped away. Bomb continued on, his head sticking out the window, the wispy dark hairs that framed his face blowing in the wind like ebony ribbons while he waved his fist and told her a few more disgusting things in his native tongue.
“I know that bitch. That’s Felicia,” he said as he sat back in his seat. “She used to be good lookin’ back in the day. I fucked her a couple of times, wasn’t anything worth going back to. Her pussy all loosey goosey. I’m sure it’s much worse now, with all the cock she lets run through it. She wasn’t no ho then, though, when I had ’er. She’s all fucked up, didn’t even know who the hell I was just now. She mess with heroin.” He said it like he was better than her, as if his drug of choice made him somehow superior. “Don’t ever fuck with her if you come over this way again. She got the clap, gave it to my man, Jose. She knew she had that shit, too. He messed around and ended up givin’ it to his girl…fuckin’ cunt.”
Saint rolled his eyes in disbelief. Yeah, Bomb needed an intervention and pronto. If the mothafucka wasn’t jonesing, the scene would’ve been a hair humorous but as it was, his funny bone wasn’t tickled. Felicia called him out on his bullshit, and Bomb didn’t care for that too much. He knew Saint understood every damned word of it, but it didn’t stop the man from trying to play it off and pretend like she was out of her mind due to her habit. She knew her own kind, and she wasn’t having it.
“Play that song again, man. That beat is something fierce.”
“You know it.” He put Timbaland on repeat and turned it up louder, so loud, it gandered the attention of two guys standing on the corner, one with what appeared to be a chinchilla scarf wrapped around his long, tawny neck. It was entirely too hot for such attire, but fashion was fashion. He made his way over to Saint’s car, while the other guy blocked him from turning at the light.
Oh God, here we go with some more bull.
Saint honked his horn, but no one seemed to pay it any mind.
Saint looked at the dude the same way he’d looked at Felicia. In an effeminate voice, the man spoke in the half-rolled down window as copious cigarette smoke bellowed out his mouth.
“Are you a cabbie? We need a ride down to—”
“No, I’m not a cab driver, man.” Saint rolled the window up in his face and kept moving. Everyone in this part of town that looked Arab or Indian was asked the same bullshit: whether they were a bootleg cab driver. Saint understood the year had changed, but the mentality was the same. After a while, Bomb pointed to a dark doorway in a run down apartment complex.
“Stop right here, man. I need to see my man for a second.”
Before Saint could ask what he was doing, Bomb jumped out the vehicle and disappeared through the door. Saint cracked the window again, letting the smoke out, and lay back in his seat with the car running. The street was crawling with life. He knew not to look directly at any of the women or men standing alone on the corners. If you looked, they thought you wanted to do business and he wasn’t interested in anyone else coming up to him to sell pussy, weed, cocaine, crack, stolen cologne, hot DVD players, bootleg movies, home-made pornos, knock-off purses or their firstborn baby to get whatever it was they thought he had. He snatched his phone out of his pocket and called Raphael as he waited.
“Yo, man, what’s up. You cancellin’ on me?” the man immediately said.
“No man, of course not.”
“Yeah, yeah, of course not,” he mocked, no doubt rolling his eyes. “What’s up then?”
“Hey, I need to get with you all a little later than the original time agreed upon. We’re still on but I have a question.”
“Like at what time?”
“Maybe seven instead of six. Is that cool?’
“Yeah, that’s cool. So what’s up?”
“Is that old school house we used to fuck around in still standing? The one over there on 118th street?”
“In East Harlem? Are you in Harlem, man?”
“About to be.”
“Hmmm, I think so. At least it was a year ago. That damn thing won’t even handle the fiends, Saint. Last I saw, it is crumbling and falling apart. If they haven’t torn it down already, they are getting ready to. Matter of fact, that entire street is dead. No one goes over there; it is slated to be torn down and new stuff built. But for right now, there are plenty of buildings like that over there though, if that one is gone.”
“But that one has what I need.”
“What you need? Like for what? Ain’t nothing there but some boarded up windows, sunken floors you’re liable to fall through and old classrooms full of shit no one wants to see.”
Saint didn’t respond and Raphael kept on talking anyway.
“Why would you need access to some old ass school building? We used to go in there when we were, what? Like sixteen or seventeen and blaze up. It was on our way to Murphy’s. A few years ago it had nothing but addicts in it, and you know when they abandon some shit, it has to be hell on Earth.”
Saint grinned into the phone as the distinct aroma of strong marijuana infiltrated his personal space. He hated to admit it, but he still loved the smell of it because of some of the memories it evoked, but he had no desire to ever indulge again.
Saint changed the subject and they spoke a while longer, then he said his goodbyes to Raphael and looked around. A teenage boy propped his foot on a fire hydrant, looking aimlessly about. Clearly, he had nowhere to go and nothing to do. But he did have nice kicks, and he wanted the world to see them, because being noticed while frozen in time was all that mattered. A young couple smooched close by, playing with one another’s faces and laughing, bouncing around with the joy of new love, while an older man in some drug-induced stupor leaned against a brick store wall, mumbling to himself, occasionally baring his teeth—or what was left of them—as he grasped a cigarette butt between two dark-skinned fingers. He had enough dirt in his hair to make a mud pie.
“What you got planned, man?”
“I can’t get into that right now.” Bomb came back through the half-opened, white chipped painted apartment building door, a swing in his swagged out Puerto Rican stride, as if he’d just sunk his wand in some primo chacha or won a pot of weed. His back hunch was less noticeable. Saint wasn’t sure if he straightened through the pain, or he’d had medical intervention while away. Bomb jumped in the car and Saint pulled away from the curb. Just then, a police car drove past real slow. The cop, a stern faced white guy, eyeballed him from his rearview window.
You mothafuckas over here kill me. You checkin’ me out, and mothafuckas selling balzuco right in front of your damned faces…backwards-assed bastards…
Yeah, Saint had had some unpleasant experiences with the police departments in New York and California, as well. If he hadn’t been running from them as a youth, sometimes justified sometimes not—or backstabbed as an adult during the investigation of the crooked cop that had arranged to have him killed—he wouldn’t have felt that way. An ugly memory came to the surface as that man kept staring at him until he was forced to make a right turn…
Saint was standing near his old stomping ground of the Bronx. It was around five P.M. The dusk waved its cloudy rag lazily around in the sky, inviting people out into the street before
its sweet surrender to a darker hue, but few arrived. For the most part, he felt acutely alone, and that was all right because in an hour or so, the whole damn block would be crowded, even though he’d be long gone by then. He’d just gotten dropped off by his boy, Merv. Merv was a few years older than Saint, one of the reasons he enjoyed hanging around him. He was about to go score, but Saint was hungry, so he dropped him off and headed on his way. Wanting to get a bite to eat before heading back to Brooklyn, he made his way to the little Jamaican dive in Morrisania. Before he’d even got to the beaten and bruised metal door of the elusive spot where the jerk chicken was calling his name, lights blinded him as two cops jumped out of their car and grabbed him like pro-wrestlers would. In all the commotion, he could barely breathe as their big bodies pressed into his skinny frame.
“What are you doing out here?!” one of them barked. “Do you live here?”
“No. I live in Brooklyn and my boy dropped me off. Tryna get something to eat, damn. Is it a crime to eat?” He kept his hands up, but he wasn’t scared. He should’ve been, but he’d seen it happen to too many other cats to get all worked up. He didn’t have any weed on him. He hadn’t committed any crimes that day, no stealing or jumping trains and there was nothing they could pin on him. Minus his mouth.
“Better yet, what the hell are you two doing out here? I didn’t do shit! You never come when people call your ass, but you show up for this shit right here.” Saint became more belligerent when one cop thrust his hand down into his pocket, violating his personal space.
That was the wrong answer, the wrong thing to say. One of the officers accused him of being a smart ass and threatened to take him to the station. They riffled through his wallet and pockets once again. One of them grabbed his nuts and twisted, causing Saint to buckle at the knees and grit his teeth in pain. He collapsed like a dropped potato sack out of a tenth floor window. Some of his boys were used to this shit, would tell him all the time to not be at certain spots on certain days because the police were doing raids, and if they saw one mofo walking their beat, he became an instant suspect. Saint had forgotten all about that warning. He peered regretfully at a well-known illegal massage parlor and drug dealer’s home less than a spit streak away. He’d gotten caught up in some bullshit. His overly-big pants, just like the ones Bomb was wearing, must’ve made him look like a thug and it didn’t help that he was wearing a navy blue hoodie with a cross and bones on the back of it, along with a thick gold chain—one of his most prized possessions. They took out the only twenty-dollar bill to his name from his wallet and laughed when they pulled out a fresh, not yet cracked open three-pack of Magnum condoms.
Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father Page 61