Hard Candy

by Amaleka McCall

  “Yeah, son, Easy was the man in my neighborhood, and everybody knew it. He graduated from corner boy to boss and he was on the come-up. The day I got chased by the store owner, Easy was with this older cat, kicking it in his tight-ass Maxima. Yeah, that fuckin’ Maxima was the big status car of hustlers at that time. Easy’s shit had the silver paneling on the side, all that. I remembered staring at Easy and the older dude through the windshield of the car and thinking I wish I could be like Easy.

  “When Easy saw the store owner chasing me, he hopped out his ride and intervened. That fat Puerto Rican bodega owner backed the fuck down real quick. Easy grabbed me up and told me there wasn’t no need to be stealing. He made me apologize to the store dude. Yo, that nigga Easy took me inside and bought me five bags of groceries. I mean, bread, lunch meat, rice, juices, the works. I was embarrassed at first, especially because the older dude with Easy just kept staring at me like I was a dirty thief, but Easy made me feel good, man. He never made me feel like a charity case.

  “After that day, Easy gave me a job. I was thirteen years old. I started out delivering packages of weight. Then I graduated to sales. After a while, Easy let me live and have a few of my own workers. I grew up in this game. It’s all I know.”

  “So you worked for Easy for a lot of years?” Tuck asked, although he already knew the answer.

  “Ssss! What? Hell yeah, son. I was under Easy for eighteen-plus years when that nigga got murked. I was down for that dude from thirteen until I was thirty-one. That’s a lot of loyalty right there. Easy was good to niggas to a certain extent, but he was a power tripper, ya dig? Easy Hardaway wasn’t gon’ let a nigga rise above him in the game, you know, one of those type niggas that always kept his thumb on ya back.” Junior gritted.

  Tuck could see he’d struck a nerve with Junior. “It wasn’t till Easy was outta the way that you got your position at the top then?” Tuck asked innocently.

  “Damn, nigga! When you ask it like that, you make it seem like I was jealous of that nigga. Or like I wanted a nigga outta the way and shit.” Junior raised his eyebrows, his head cocked to the side, challenging Tuck’s question.

  “Nah. I’m just sayin’, it seems to me like that nigga was holding you back. But I know you respected him enough to let him have his shine,” Tuck said to clean up his slip.

  “Exactly. I had so much respect for the nigga over the years, I woulda been happy just letting the nigga ride as the top dog. Easy gave me a tiny piece of a big pie, and I was content for a minute on that shit. I was eatin’ lovely. I had my own little peoples workin’ for me and shit. I was giving Easy his cut. It was all gravy for a minute.

  “But Easy changed up the game. That nigga started getting fucked up in his old age, though, I’ma tell you that. Like tryin’a make his little teenage-ass son like a boss and shit,” Junior explained, his tone angry. “Son, I was in my thirties. You think I wanted to be told what the fuck to do by a seventeen-year-old li’l nigga?”

  “Nah, I can’t imagine that.” Tuck knew what it was like to take orders from somebody you didn’t really respect. He had been doing it for a lot of years with the DEA.

  “There was a lot of niggas on the streets not happy with Easy and his decision making. I was hearing talk that niggas wanted to get rid of him, just wipe him out completely. Not leaving no heirs to his shit, nothing. As a matter of fact, Easy’s own son, who was also called Junior, wasn’t happy with some of the decisions that nigga Easy was making at the time. And, yo, that nigga Eric Junior was straight seven thirty. I heard that li’l nigga used to wild out in the house, breaking shit up, trying to fuck up his mother and little sisters. Straight buggin’. They said the nigga had, um, what you call that shit, psychicis or some psycho-shit.” Junior made circles with his index finger next to his head, giving the universal sign for crazy.

  “You mean, psychosis?”

  “Yeah, that shit you just said. He was a crazy motherfucker that needed to be on lockdown somewhere. So, now imagine how I felt with this dude Easy appointing this li’l crazy nigga as the boss of me. Ssss!” Junior shook his head and sucked his teeth.

  “That must’ve been fucked all the way up,” Tuck said, trying to encourage Junior to continue his stroll down memory lane. The information was certainly proving quite the eye-opener. Tuck had not been told during his undercover briefing that Easy’s son had worked for him.

  “Hell yeah! Then shit got worse when a nigga I was tight with, kinda like how me and you is tight right now, went missing. I’m saying that nigga Bam-Bam was my ace, my lieutenant. He had my back. Easy called me up and told me I had to murk Bam-Bam because Easy thought he was a cop. I told Easy that ain’t no way this nigga was a cop. Easy insisted, and I refused. Easy didn’t like it when I questioned his judgment. Easy ain’t like no push-back. In his book, any little bit of pressure broke pipes. His fuckin’ word was supposed to be the last fuckin’ say all the time.

  “I wasn’t backing down on that one, so that nigga cut my pockets. He shut me the fuck down. Next thing I know, my dude Bam-Bam was missing, never to be found again,” Junior said, his voice trailing off. “And I know that nigga Easy had Bam-Bam taken out.” Junior had a scowl on his face, and his nostrils flared.

  From the tone of his voice, Tuck could tell that Junior’s deep-rooted anger was mixed with hurt and disappointment.

  “And the cops never figured out what happened to your right-hand man or Easy, huh?”

  “Nah, man. Whoever took out Easy also wiped out his entire family. Ain’t no tellin’ who killed that nigga. It coulda been any fuckin’ body out there. Niggas all over Brooklyn and uptown wanted that nigga outta the way. Shit, his own son coulda done it. You know you fucked up in the game when you can’t even lay your head at home without keeping one eye fuckin’ open.” Junior could see some similarity between his situation with Broady and Easy’s predicament with his son.

  Tuck was burning up inside. He wanted to question Junior further, but it was too dangerous. Junior was no dummy, and Tuck needed to protect his cover.

  “Enough about me, nigga. The bottom line is, I’m in the game to stay. I’ma go out blazing like a gangsta. I will take niggas with me if they get in my way too, including that hotheaded-ass brother of mine.” Junior chuckled.

  Tuck laughed nervously.

  “These niggas ain’t coming. They musta got cold feet when I told them I was changing up the game and bringing you. I’ma have to go see my dude without you, son,” Junior said, pulling his car out of the spot they’d been in for almost two hours.

  Tuck’s shoulders slumped. Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! This was going to be a major setback.

  “Lift ya head up, nigga!” Broady growled, throwing another punch that connected with the boy’s skull.

  The boy’s head snapped back so hard, a loud crack resounded through the basement.

  Broady had asked the boy to do the impossible. After being tied to a chair for hours and beaten at will, there was no way he could lift up his head. He moaned as pain ripped through his skull again.

  “What’s ya name, li’l nigga?” Broady gritted, this time grabbing the boy’s face roughly and lifting his down-turned head.

  The boy’s face was a bloody mess. Both of his eyes were swollen shut, and the bridge of his nose was disfigured, broken in more than one place, he imagined.

  “Car—Car—me—llo,” the boy rasped out. His throat felt like he’d swallowed a fire-lit sword in a circus act.

  Broady released his head with a shove, causing more pain to permeate the boy’s cranium.

  “Carmello? Who the fuck names their kid Carmello?” Broady hissed evilly, circling the boy like a bird of prey. He let out a maniacal laugh. “Y’all heard that shit? This li’l nigga is named Carmello. That shit sound gay as a motherfucker!” Broady chortled, turning to the little cronies he’d hired to abduct the boy.

  The two teenaged boys laughed, scared shitless not to agree with anything Broady said.

  The two boys had snatched Carm
ello at gunpoint after luring him to a deserted building with the promise of selling him a pair of Gucci sneakers that nobody else in Harlem owned. Given his love for fashion and his need to have the latest gear, Carmello easily took the bait.

  “Carmello, you from uptown, right?” Broady asked, knowing the answer.

  Carmello moved his head up and down painfully.

  “A’ight then. Since you claiming that whack-ass hood, I’ma give you an uptown history test. If you pass, maybe I’ll let ya little punk ass go. But if you fail, nigga, you dead.” Broady gritted, spittle settling on his lips.

  Carmello couldn’t even respond. His eyes were shut, his mouth was bleeding profusely, his wrists burned from the duct tape, and one of his legs pulsed with a throbbing pain. He had fought Broady’s little goons so hard, he’d shattered the shin on his left leg.

  “Yeah, that’s what I’ma do. Give you a test on some real warrior shit—pass or fail,” Broady explained. The drugs coursing through his system put him in maniac mode. “You hear me, lil nigga?” he growled, dissatisfied with the boy’s lackluster response.

  Carmello finally moved his head slightly to acknowledge his understanding of the situation.

  “A’ight then. Now, here we go. You from uptown, and your brother is supposed to be a big-time hustler, correct?”

  Broady asked the obvious, not really expecting Carmello to answer, but he nodded his swollen head in the affirmative.

  “A’ight. Then that nigga shoulda been schoolin’ you to the game, the history of the game, all that shit, right?”

  Carmello moved his pulsing head to agree, willing to say anything to keep Broady from hitting him again.

  “So, now here’s where you need to play for your life,” Broady announced, like a magnanimous game show host. “Question number one!” Broady clapped his hands together when he saw Carmello’s head drifting to the left.

  The boy jumped to attention.

  “You listenin’, li’l nigga?” Broady asked, grabbing the boy’s head back roughly.

  “Mmmm!” the boy moaned in excruciating pain.

  “Good answer. Here goes your question—for life or death Who is Rich, Alpo, and Azie?” Broady asked, getting close to the boy’s ear. He waited for an answer, his eyebrows arched high in fake anticipation.

  Carmello whimpered, indicating that he didn’t know the answer.

  “Awww shit! Don’t tell me your big brother ain’t never schooled you about how Harlem niggas was gettin’ it back in the days?”

  Carmello whimpered again, fear literally choking the breath out of his lungs. He started to gag.

  “Damn, nigga! I’m from BK, and even I know who Rich, Alpo, and Azie is!” Broady proclaimed, shaking his head in dismay.

  Carmello couldn’t speak. His heart was hammering a mile a minute.

  “You mean to tell me Phil ain’t teach you shit about these uptown dudes that paved the way for him? Phil been tryin’a be like them niggas for years. Damn, li’l nigga! You ain’t never watch Paid in Full, either?” Broady asked in astonishment.

  Carmello moved his head slowly from left to right, signaling he had no idea what Broady was talking about.

  Broady knew Carmello was young and probably wouldn’t know the answer to his question. He just needed a justification for his actions. Getting the answer incorrect was justification enough.

  “Well, let me tell you a little about Rich Porter. A’ight, think of that nigga Rich like your brother Phil. See, Rich was gettin’ paper up there where you from, and he had a little brother just like you. Matter of fact, I think y’all was the same age. Rich used to give his brother everything, the hottest clothes, sneakers, all that shit, just like Phil be giving you, from the looks of the shit you was rockin’ and the knot you had in ya pocket. But you know what happened to Rich’s little brother?” Broady asked, his voice dripping with venom.

  Carmello began to moan. He obviously didn’t know, but he had to be brain-dead to have not figured out how the story would end.

  “A big bad monster like me kidnapped Rich’s brother, cut off his finger, and sent it to Rich in the mail,” Broady announced with glee.

  Carmello started moaning louder and trying to shake his legs, even the broken one.

  “I ain’t finished yet. Then the same big bad monster cut off Rich’s brother’s head and left it in a McDonald’s bathroom uptown!” Broady grabbed Carmello’s head and yanked it back roughly, exposing his neck.

  Carmello pissed and shit on himself from fright.

  Candice fought with Uncle Rock’s door lock once again. She’d refused to argue with him about it. She sucked her teeth in disgust. She planned to surprise him with a visit. Ever since the day at the range, she realized just how much she missed him and just how sick he might really be. She also wanted to brag to him about how she’d set up the weapon on the roof and tested out her sniper skills yesterday.

  “Uncle Rock!” she called out as she stepped through the front door. The apartment was unusually stuffy and hot. Of course, it was dusty too. “Ugh!” she grunted, her face scrunched up. “Uncle Rock!” she called out again, glancing over at the bathroom door, which stood wide open. She walked farther into the apartment and peered into the bedroom. It was empty. The same for the kitchen. “Damn! I missed him.” She sighed.

  She decided to leave him a note to let him know she had dropped by for a visit. She looked down at the coffee table and noticed a piece of paper on it that she could use for her note. “A pen, a pen,” she chanted, picking up the paper and looking around. She grabbed one from his crowded bookshelf and walked back over to the coffee table.

  Bending to write on the piece of paper, she read the top line without thinking. Candice’s heart seized in her chest. She became hot all over her body, and her nerve endings stood up. “What the fuck? A last will and testament?” she whispered. A sick feeling washed over her. Why would Uncle Rock have this written out? She figured it must have something to do with the cough and the blood.

  Candice’s mind raced, and her heart thumped painfully against her sternum. Her legs weakened, forcing her to sit down. With unsteady hands, Candice unfolded the sheet of paper and read: “I, Joseph Barton, of sound body and mind, hereby—”

  “What are you doing?” Uncle Rock growled, suddenly looming above her. He had doubled back for something and found his door unlocked. He snatched the paper out of her hand before she could read any further.

  Candice’s eyes widened, and her mouth popped open.

  “Leave! Get out!” Uncle Rock yelled, his voice an angry, booming bass. It was his only defense. He didn’t know what else to say or do at that moment.

  Candice scrambled off the couch with a pained look on her face. She was in a daze, her eyes wild with hurt, distrust, and fear. She couldn’t even speak. Uncle Rock was a liar. It was all a lie. She took several awkward steps backward, swallowing the hard lump that had formed in her throat.

  Uncle Rock stared at her, fire flashing in his eyes, his hands curled into two gorilla fists.

  Candice had no choice but to turn and run out of the apartment, tears streaming down her face like a waterfall.

  Uncle Rock started to give chase but decided against it. He unfurled his hands and looked down at his trembling fingers. He slapped his bald head with his hands. He squeezed his head tightly, needing to think straight. He didn’t mean for it to happen like this. He needed to keep Candice far away from him right now. He knew they were watching him. Being around him would place her in grave danger.

  But having her mad at him made him want to die. Pain gripped him like a vise. He slumped down to the floor, his legs giving out. Turning his head to the side, he threw up the blood that had been collecting in his mouth.

  Candice raced to her car and slid into the driver’s seat in a white-hot haze of fury. The tears would not stop coming. Her hands shook so badly, it took her five tries to get her key into the ignition. She kept replaying the words she’d read back in her mind. She slammed her fists ag
ainst the steering wheel and screamed. Not uncle Rock. He was all I had. He promised never to lie tome.

  It might not have been such a big deal for some people, but the bond between Candice and uncle Rock was one that had been built on trust.

  Candice couldn’t think straight. Wheeling her car out of the parking spot, horns blared from behind. She was driving recklessly.

  Speeding down Brooklyn’s streets, Candice decided niggas had to die—and soon. She was really out for blood now. She wasn’t going to let another slipup or another killer prevent her from getting to any of her marks again. She’d step up her “cleaner” game and then get the fuck out of Dodge.

  Chapter 9

  Avon drove down the New Jersey Turnpike, doing over one hundred miles an hour. He needed to get out of New York for a minute. He needed to think. After the big disappointment with Junior’s connect not showing up, he felt like his case was slipping away from him. Avon usually warned Brubaker when he wanted a trip home. The DEA undercover team had to always account for him, so if he was leaving his assignment, he needed to let them know.

  Not this time. Avon wanted to lay eyes on his wife and his kids. He felt like he needed to see them to put things back in perspective. His life as Tuck was spiraling out of control. He was losing a grasp on his case, which meant on his career and reality.

  Avon had been in Brooklyn so long, looking at concrete sidewalks, crowded streets, and dilapidated buildings, the clean, quiet, tree-lined streets in the Bowie, Maryland subdivision where he had purchased a home with his wife made him feel like he was an outsider. His heart pumped uncontrollably as he drew nearer to his street. He wondered what kind of homecoming he’d receive. He knew his wife would probably scream and cry and try to scratch his eyes out for being so neglectful. He wondered if the kids would recognize him with the shaved head, a feature that belonged solely to Tuck.