Hard Candy

by Amaleka McCall

  Avon rubbed his chin and wiped sweat from his brow as he anxiously waited for Brubaker to pick up the phone. The other end of the line just rang and eventually went to voice mail. “This motherfucker!” Avon spat, slamming the cell phone down, causing the battery to jump out of the back of the device. “Fuckin’ bastard! You don’t know what the fuck I want!” Avon growled out loud, as if his words would somehow telepathically reach Brubaker’s ears. He could have been lying in the gutter, his cover could have been blown and his life in danger, and Brubaker wasn’t answering his calls.

  Avon suddenly got an overwhelming, paranoid urge to call his house. He hesitated midway through dialing the phone number, not sure if he wanted to hear who would answer on the other end. He felt a stabbing pang of resentment. “Fuck all of them!” he growled, deciding against calling his home today.

  Avon tossed his undercover cell phone into his nightstand drawer, along with his wire. He reached down and picked up his long platinum and diamond chain with its big diamond-encrusted cross and slid it over his head. The sparkly piece of jewelry showed up against his all-black outfit like a splash of paint on a white canvas. Avon was now officially back to being Tuck. He smiled as he headed to his fallen comrade’s funeral, to be with the only family he had right now.

  Candice looked down at her watch impatiently. It wasn’t like Uncle Rock to be late for a meeting. She’d promised Shana she would attend Razor’s wake and funeral later on that evening. I shoulda went to his house and left with him, she thought. Candice sighed, looking at her watch again. She wanted to attend Razor’s funeral, just to add insult to injury. She also wanted to be there for Shana, who was an emotional wreck the last time they were together.

  After another fifteen minutes, she saw Uncle Rock’s old-ass car pulling into the parking lot of the Black Hawk Ridge Arsenal range. She purposely put a scowl on her face to let him know she wasn’t happy with his late arrival.

  Uncle Rock struggled out of the low driver’s seat of his classic Cutlass.

  Attitude aside, Candice walked over to help him. “You’re very late,” she scolded in the usual spoiled brat tone she used with Uncle Rock.

  “Yeah, I know, but I had to put the finishing touches on this beauty I’m about to show you,” he said, wheezing slightly.

  Candice noticed that her uncle Rock was still not 100 percent, but he did look slightly better than the last time she’d seen him. Once he got all of his stuff out of the car, they began walking side by side just like old times.

  “We haven’t done this in a long time. I miss it,” Candice confessed, softening her voice.

  Candice remembered the very first time uncle Rock had taken her to the gun range. It was right after she’d shocked him by revealing her knowledge of his profession. Uncle Rock had chastised her and told her that guns weren’t made for killing people; they were made for protection. He’d made her promise that she would use a weapon only against someone who intended to hurt her. That was just one of the conditions he set in place before teaching her how to be a cleaner.

  The first time she had stepped up to the firing line at the range, she was only fifteen. The adrenaline that coursed through her veins caused her knees to knock and stomach to churn. Uncle Rock had told her to relax and focus on the task. He stepped up behind her and instructed her to pick up the first gun she’d ever held—a .40-caliber Glock 22. Candice thought it would be heavier than it actually was. The rough handle felt good against the palms of her hand.

  “Grip and trigger pull are the most important aspects to shooting, Candy.” Uncle Rock placed her hands in the correct position and let her dry fire the weapon. When she did it the first time, she jerked the trigger.

  “You’re anticipating the shot. Let every shot be a surprise,” he urged, trying to ease her nervousness. Finally, when he thought she was ready, he inserted the magazine into the weapon. “It’s your time to shine, candy cane,” uncle Rock had said like a proud father.

  With his words of encouragement, Candice’s first five shots were dead center of mass.

  Approaching the range doors, Candice realized just how much she and Uncle Rock had drifted apart since she’d moved out of his apartment. When Uncle Rock had handed over her father’s money to her, she’d gotten a bit carried away, thinking she was too grown to be around him. Guilt washed over her at her arrogance and naiveté.

  “It’ll be worth it. You wait and see,” Uncle Rock said excitedly, breaking up her reverie. He emitted a small cough. It was the excitement, he told himself. He was feeling like he did when Candice was younger and dependent on him to take care of her. It saddened him that she was older and living her own life. He just wanted to always protect her and keep her safe.

  “You okay?” she asked when she noticed Uncle Rock staring at her absentmindedly.

  “Oh yeah, I’m fine. Let’s go on in.” Uncle Rock placed his hand at her back and propelled her forward.

  His gesture reminded her that he was the closest thing to a family that she had left.

  Inside the range, Candice and Uncle Rock walked through the store portion and gazed at all of the newest guns to hit the market.

  “Look at this baby. I’d drop a few stacks on this beast right here,” Candice commented, leaning over the glass-encased counter to ogle a chrome .50-caliber Desert Eagle with a large tritium night sight with a laser dot mounted on the slide.

  “That is a nice one, but wait till you see what I put together here for you,” Uncle Rock said, patting the black case he held on to with a death grip. He began coughing again.

  Candice and the store clerk looked at him with concern.

  Once the fit passed, Uncle Rock slid his membership card across the glass and informed the man behind the counter that they would need one lane.

  “Any ear or eye protection?” the clerk asked.

  “Got our own,” Uncle Rock told him, a consummate professional.

  Uncle Rock and Candice proceeded to a large, heavy metal door, where they were buzzed in. Uncle Rock tugged roughly on the heavy door, but it wouldn’t budge.

  “I got it,” Candice said, giving the door one forceful yank.

  Uncle Rock was slightly embarrassed at how weak he was these days. He walked with his head down as he passed through the door into a small, dusty hallway that separated the store part of the range and the actual shooting range.

  In the little hallway, Candice and Uncle Rock prepped for their shooting session. They double bagged their ears by inserting bright orange foam earplugs into their ear canals and then covering them with hard ear protection. They both slid clear plastic protective eye goggles over their eyes, and Uncle Rock put on his customary black gloves.

  Candice hated shooting with gloves on. For her, it made getting her rounds on target and in the five rings a bit more of a challenge. But she knew if she didn’t wear the gloves, she’d get a never-ending lecture from Uncle Rock about the lead particles getting all over her hands and contaminating her skin and blood.

  After getting geared up like they were going into a battlefield, Candice and Uncle Rock entered the shooting range. Several of the lanes were occupied.

  Candice smirked when she saw a woman no bigger than five feet tall, wearing thigh-high boots and a miniskirt, shooting a large gun almost longer than the woman’s entire arm. Candice recognized the gun as an MP5. Guess I ain’t the only bad bitch around. Candice felt a twinge of admiration for the woman. She would never have thought to go shooting in high-ass heels and a skirt.

  “Come on over here and let me show you what I got here,” Uncle Rock called out loudly, screaming over the resounding gunshots coming from the adjacent shooting lanes. He had already pulled down the gun rest and placed his plastic case on it.

  Candice moved in closer to see this great prize Uncle Rock had brought with him. She had to admit, she’d become a big gun buff while living with Rock, but she still didn’t think anyone could get as excited about guns as her uncle.

  Uncle Rock slowly unlatch
ed the case and pulled up the top in a dramatic fashion, as if about to unveil the Hope Diamond. When the case flapped open, his eyes sparkled, and he smiled wider than Candice had ever seen. “Here she is!” he announced with a flourish.

  Candice’s eyebrows arched high, and she flashed her even white teeth in pure delight. “Uncle Rock! You know how long I been asking you to let me shoot your AR-fifteen!” she exclaimed, a warm feeling coming over her. Candice was bouncing on the balls of her feet. She was giddy and ready to shoot Uncle Rock’s prized possession for the first time.

  “Candy, you were too young back then. This weapon is for grown-ups,” Uncle Rock told her, like he was handing her keys to her first car or preparing her for a first date.

  “Did you bring the legs?” Candice knew the sniper equipment would just make shooting the big gun even more exciting.

  “Let me show you how to shoot it first. Then we’ll worry about the legs. I fixed it up just for you, Candy,” he said softly.

  Candice scooted over as Uncle Rock set up to show her how to shoot the weapon.

  “You need to put this baby on your support side shoulder, relax, then place that support side ear on your shoulder. Candy, you gotta get your head down behind the sights or else this will jump back and hit you in the face. Grip it here, like your life depended on it,” Uncle Rock said, smacking the side of the weapon to demonstrate where he wanted Candice to put her hands. “Watch and learn now,” he said.

  Rock quickly put down the weapon when he was suddenly overwhelmed with another coughing spasm. This time, there was blood.

  “Oh my God! Uncle Rock! Are you okay?” Candice screeched, her face etched with worry.

  Uncle Rock tried to speak, but it took him a minute to wipe away the blood from his mouth and catch his breath. He grunted in frustration.

  Candice eyed him suspiciously. She knew that Uncle Rock hated her to ask him questions relating to his health, but this was getting out of hand. “Don’t tell me not to ask any questions! Something is wrong! There is blood coming out of your mouth!” Candice bellowed, her hands shaking.

  “I’m okay. Let me show you how to work this now.” Rock’s chest felt like hot coals were lodged in it. He swallowed hard several times to get the burning to subside. Teaching Candice how to shoot the AR-15 was very important to him.

  “First, you need to tell me why blood is coming out of your mouth when you cough. Have you seen a doctor?” Candice folded her arms across her chest.

  “Look, when I am ready, I will give you all of the details. This is much more important!” Uncle Rock growled, one of the very few times he’d ever raised his voice at Candice.

  A bolt of panic shot up Candice’s spine. Uncle Rock meant business; she had never seen him this passionate about anything. She couldn’t help but think his unwavering insistence that they meet at the range today had something to do with his failing health. Candice let her shoulders go slack. There was no use in fighting Uncle Rock over this issue. But she intended to find out what was wrong with him. She promised herself she would make him go see a doctor for that cough.

  “C’mon, Candy, now take this. Get your head behind those sights, get a firm grasp, and learn how to treat this baby like it’s your own,” Uncle Rock instructed, handing Candice the oversized weapon that was almost too big for her arms to hold.

  Like my own? Is he giving this to me?

  Uncle Rock had regarded his AR-15 like a child. He had never even let her lay eyes on it before today. Skeptically, she accepted Uncle Rock’s prize into her trembling arms. She did as instructed, getting into the proper stance and positioning the gun properly. Closing her weak eye and keeping her dominant eye open, Candice tugged on the trigger. When the first couple of rounds exited the end of the gun in rapid fire, she looked downrange at the ripped-up target. She smirked as she pictured the holey target being Broady and Junior, or anyone else who tried to come between her and her marks. Even Junior’s fine-ass sidekick, Tuck.

  Candice walked into the Woodward Funeral Home and followed the signs for the services of Corey Jackson. As she stepped into the small room, Shana jumped up off the hard teakwood bench and rushed over to her, eyes wide.

  “Girl, I am so fuckin’ glad to see you,” Shana whispered, grabbing Candice’s arm and pushing her back through the doorway.

  Candice followed her in confusion. “What’s going on?” Candice asked in a harsh whisper. She didn’t appreciate being damn near accosted by Shana.

  “Candy, I’m so scared. Broady is running around here like a madman. He got guns and saying he waiting for any niggas to show up here that ain’t supposed to be here. He just going crazy,” Shana said, her words shaky and frantic.

  “Where is Junior and Tuck?” Candice asked because she knew they could probably calm Broady down, but she also needed to keep tabs on all of them before deciding on the appropriate course of action.

  “They haven’t gotten here yet. I just want to leave, for real.” Shana shook her head.

  “You better not do shit to set Broady off. I’m here to keep you company, and I don’t feel like the drama y’all be having. Let’s just go inside and sit in the pews and observe.”

  Promising a lonely girl like Shana company always did the trick. Shana smiled, relieved that her friend had provided her a rational solution to her dilemma.

  “Okay, okay. You’re right, Candy. If I left, that nigga would be all on my ass when he got home.”

  Candice looked at Shana’s obviously expensive black Nicole Miller fitted sheath dress and her black Brian Atwood pumps and shook her head. An expensive little black dress still ain’t worth the matching black eye that comes with it. Shana still donned her dark Jackie O shades, which now seemed to suit the occasion.

  As Candice and Shana slid onto one of the benches, Candice glanced toward the front of the dimly lit room, at the closed casket. An 8 x 10 portrait of Razor stood atop the sealed body box. Razor’s condition must have been too bad to allow for an open casket. Candice felt the urge to inspect the picture more closely.

  Shana noticed Candice staring at the photo. “You wanna walk up there and see it before it gets mad crowded in here?” Shana asked, breaking Candice’s trancelike gaze.

  “All right,” Candice replied hesitantly. She hated funerals, funeral homes, and anything related to death. She’d had enough of it to last her a lifetime.

  Candice and Shana ambled slowly toward the front of the stuffy room. The scent of embalming fluid mixed with the sickly sweet aroma from the arrangements of flowers assailed Candice’s senses and threatened to make her lose her last meal.

  Razor’s family members were stuffed together, shoulder to shoulder, directly in front of the casket. His baby’s mother clutched the sleeping baby daughter up against her chest as if she expected someone to bust in and grab the baby out of her hands. An older lady, who Candice just assumed was Razor’s mother, had her face covered with a small black net, and every so often she stuck a wad of tissue under it and swiped away falling tears.

  “That’s his family.” Shana whispered the obvious as they passed the first row of pews.

  When they stopped in front of the casket, Candice examined the photograph. It was apparent that the picture had been taken some time ago. In the photograph, Razor looked studious, with a collared shirt and tie, and holding what appeared to be a small diploma case. He was smiling, with no diamond-encrusted fronts on his teeth.

  A cold feeling washed over Candice, like someone had pumped ice water into her veins. She realized then that she only knew Razor, not Corey Jackson. If she had to depict the Razor in a photograph, he’d have long dreads, his lips would be visibly darker than the rest of his face from smoking so much weed, and he would be wearing some sort of expensive T-shirt with the name of a designer splashed across the front, and the obligatory chunky chain hanging in the middle of his chest.

  Staring at the picture, Candice felt an overwhelming sense of sadness for Razor’s family. Corey Jackson had been someone’s
son, father, and friend. His family was now experiencing the same grief she felt when her family was murdered in cold blood.

  “You ready to go sit back down?” Shana asked, noticing how long and hard Candice was staring at the picture. She just figured that Candice had liked Razor more than she let on.

  “Yeah, c’mon,” Candice replied, ready to return to her seat. As she turned, she noticed a flower delivery guy placing a bouquet of red roses fashioned into a bleeding heart near Razor’s casket.

  “Wow! That is a beautiful flower arrangement,” Shana commented, impressed. She walked over to the flowers and looked at the small envelope attached to a piece of white ribbon. “Oh my God! These flowers are from Phil. The guy . . . the one Broady said—”

  “Broady said what?” a voice boomed from behind Shana and Candice.

  Broady was hovering over them. Too close for Candice’s comfort.

  Shana’s legs immediately seemed to buckle a little bit at the accusatory tone. Her heart thumped wildly, and her mind raced for an answer to his question. Thinking quickly, she surreptitiously passed the small card from the bleeding heart to Candice.

  Catching on just as quickly, Candice secreted the card between her palm and the back of her black leather clutch.

  “I was just telling Candy how you said that this place was gonna be packed ’cuz Razor was so cool with e’erybody,” Shana fabricated on the spot.

  Candice noticed that Shana spoke way more broken English when she talked to Broady. She can’t even be herself around him.

  “Yeah, mad motherfuckers gon’ be up in this camp. So make sure you keep your eyes peeled for any suspicious niggas and keep me posted ’n’ shit,” Broady grumbled. He pushed past Candice without saying a word to her.