Out a Order

by Evie Rhodes

  He could deal with the physical. It was what he knew best.

  He wiped his mouth, standing up straight. He had changed his life for that little girl. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he realized his life would never be the same. He had ceased to be a criminal, just like that.

  His daughter upon her birth had skin the color of a chocolate-brown mink, with shining bright eyes. Her eyes shone like new money, as they used to say. He had considered her a prize, and had treated her like one.

  The instant she had looked at him the bond had been set. It was he, not Tawney, who had gotten up for her feedings at night, changed her, cradled her in his arms, and sung nursery rhyme songs to her in his off-key baritone.

  He hadn’t wanted his daughter to grow up without a strong male figure for support. There were too many black kids who grew up without ever knowing their fathers, or having any type of positive relationship with them.

  So he and Tawney had virtually switched roles. He had become the stay-at-home dad, and Tawney had pursued her career. Tawney was not the domestic type in the slightest sense of the word, so it was all good.

  He had decided then and there that he wouldn’t be in the streets when his daughter needed him. Nor would he be in jail, where her first glimpse of him would be like looking at a caged animal. He vowed that she would never see him through the vertical bars.

  Or view his body in a casket, because of some street mishap. The only way he could ensure that was to get out of the streets and get out for good, and so he had.

  After settling debts, putting cash aside, and severing all street connections, he had become in every sense of the word a daddy. In truth he had been both Daddy and Mommy to Jazz in many ways, because Tawney was always busy climbing the corporate ladder, career building or networking, trying to reach the next rung on the ladder.

  However, it was an arrangement that made them both happy, and one that worked well for their small family. He loved being there for his daughter. He realized with another sharp pain that Jazz had been the only thing in his life that he had ever loved purely.

  He loved the shine of her eyes, her twinkling smile. The way she threw her arms around his neck at night when he read her stories. He could still feel the soft, warm bubble bath smell rising up from her childlike innocence.

  Hell, he had even learned how to braid her hair, make ponytails, and tie red ribbons in it. The two of them loved red ribbons. Jazz had been his image of the perfect little girl, almost like a storybook fantasy come true, and he had been a part of creating her.

  Dear Jesus, how he missed her.

  An unbidden image floated into his mind, as he remembered noticing that one of her ribbons was missing as she lay on the white hospital sheets, in a pool of blood, lifeless. He remembered thinking that the figure lying there couldn’t be his child. But it was.

  How ironic that he had lost his only child to the streets, after fleeing the streets so he wouldn’t lose her. The sins of the fathers visited upon the children. Oh God, if he could only take it all back.

  With that thought a flood of tears rolled unstoppable down his cheeks. No one would have believed it. At one time he had been considered one of the most dangerous, lethal criminals on the streets. No one dared cross him. He was what the old-school rappers called an Original Ganster, an O.G. in every sense of the word.

  On this night he was a man with a dead child, lost to him forever. A howl of wounded anger, frustration, and loss echoed across Central Avenue. It sounded like it came from a stranger. He sat on the curb, hugging himself, rocking and crying like a baby. He couldn’t believe she was gone. Not his Jazz. She couldn’t be gone.

  He was a man who had survived gunshot wounds, stabbings, gang beatings, the police, the system, and any number of contracts that had been put out on his life.

  For the first time he wondered if he would survive the death of his daughter. This was the one thing he didn’t know if he would make it through.

  Without realizing he was going to he yelled out loud, “Aw, Jesus, why’d you have to take her? Why?”

  Engulfed in waves of pain he decided to pray. He hadn’t prayed since before the night Jazz was murdered. He prayed for the resting of her soul in peace. This child he loved so much.

  A branch swayed in the wind over his head. Shannon looked up. He could have sworn he’d heard his daughter’s voice. Grief-stricken, he knew he was really losing it. Right next to his ear, he had felt Jazz’s soft breath whispering, “Daddy, don’t cry. I’m here, Daddy.”

  Shannon bowed his head between his legs. He knew as long as he lived, he would forever hear her voice.

  Chapter 13

  The following day Rico, Temaine, and Milkbone, another one of Rico’s crew members, sat in Rico’s Jeep on Springdale Avenue watching a hot dice game being played out on the avenue. Money was spread out all over the ground. There was lots of shoving, yelling, and rivalry going on.

  Rico moodily stared out the window of his Jeep. “Them niggas don’t ever get tired of ripping each other off.”

  Temaine burst out in laughter. “That’s because they ain’t got no real cash kicking in. It’s the way of the world. What you ain’t got you take. Them niggas be real bored, man.”

  Milkbone cleared his throat. “Temaine, you never fail to surprise me. I know by now you heard Ballistic is going ballistic. You know what I mean? And here you sit like you ain’t got a care in the world laughing at some silly niggas instead of spreading a plan that’s gonna keep this wacko at bay.”

  Disgusted, he hit the back of Temaine’s seat. “You is one amazing nigga, man.”

  Rico shot Milkbone a cold glance through the rearview mirror. “Chill, my man. Ain’t nobody ignoring that fool. Just ain’t nobody worrying about him either.”

  Temaine jumped in. He was livid with anger. “And why don’t you get on the right page, Milkbone? Shannon Davenport is being harassed by the police right now because his daughter’s dead, and because his house got shot up.”

  “Which means, you dense-ass nigga, he may be looking for some answers of his own. And niggas like Ballistic used to wet their pants at the sound of his name back in the day. He’s a legend. An O.G., man, that nigga created the game we’re playing. You with that?”

  Rico sighed. He banged his hand on the steering wheel. Temaine with his two faces was making him sick. He couldn’t believe he had grown up and been best friends with this double-crossing weasel. He was a walking dead man. This punk was going to find out soon that Rico knew that the only allegiance he paid was to the almighty dollar.

  He actually sounded like he looked up to Shannon Davenport. He was worshipping that old-school punk in his presence. The only name on the streets of Newark that was gonna inspire fear and awe was his. Temaine would know that soon enough.

  Not ready to lay his cards on the table yet, Rico said, “Shannon Davenport is a liability I can’t afford. He won’t be around long. He’s going to be one less mama’s son. Believe that. I’m gonna do him. In the right time and in the right place. The police are all over him.”

  Milkbone grimaced. “When?”

  Rico locked gazes with him in the rearview mirror. “I don’t answer to you, Milkbone. When I’m ready and when I say so. That’s when.” He spat out the car window.

  Milkbone rolled his eyes, staring out the window, avoiding further eye contact with Rico. “You know what? I didn’t mean nothing by the question. I was just asking. I’m out of here. Okay?”

  Milkbone hit the door handle on the Jeep. He stepped out. Just as he did his attention was drawn to a shadow on the roof. But it was too late. An eerie, weird keening sound exploded in the moment of silence.

  A voice with a surreal sound to it, distinctly sang, “Rockabye, baby.”

  The barrel of the gun that was pointed at Milkbone kicked off a shot, dropping him in his own blood. The crowd on the street dissipated. Skilled in the menaces of the hood, they knew the drill and they were immediately ghost.

  Rico hit
the ignition as he watched smoke drift up from Milkbone’s slain body. The Jeep lurched forward. Milkbone’s body got caught under the tire as the Jeep sped away, dragging the body along with it. It finally shook loose, lying facedown in scattered blood all over the street.

  Aisha Jackson, Jazz’s friend, stood wide-eyed holding on to her bedroom curtain. The little girl’s body shook as she stared through the curtain at the familiar figure. She was so scared she couldn’t move.

  She had just witnessed her first murder. She stared in the eyes of the murderer. He smiled. What held Aisha frozen in her spot was not the person she saw shoot Milkbone.

  Aisha was used to hearing gunshots, as well as police and emergency vehicles screeching through the night, in her neighborhood. She had even witnessed her friend Jazz die. And she knew the shooter was a bad man.

  What held her scared stiff, and trembling in her spot, was what she saw standing just behind the murderer. She blinked, hoping to open her eyes and find it gone.

  When she opened her eyes the shooter was gone, but riveted to the spot just beyond where the shooter had stood was the one who didn’t leave. The one who didn’t smile. It was the one who had come to stay.

  The one who would rock all of their cradles before it was all said and done. “Rockabye, baby,” it sang. The lyrics fell like the impending doom they were in the midst of.

  Aisha dropped the curtain. She backed away. She half expected it to appear in front of her. But it didn’t. At least it didn’t on this night.

  The little girl climbed into her bed. She pulled the covers over her head. The only sound in the room was that of her teeth chattering. She might have gone to tell her mother except that her vocal cords had been temporarily stricken. She couldn’t speak.

  The only movement in the room was her trembling body. And the Darkling wasn’t worried because it knew she would never speak again.

  Chapter 14

  Across the street from Aisha Jackson’s house an old woman known as Mama sat in her spot by the window, peeking out from behind her shade. Only on this night she wished she hadn’t. Sometimes you were better off not seeing things.

  Mama and Papa, as they were respectively known, had lived in the Central Ward for close to fifty years and had grown old there in their time. Mama was a spry eighty and Papa was eighty-two.

  Papa had always warned Mama about being at that window. He’d admonished her, telling her that when people always looked for things, sometimes they saw things they didn’t want to see. But Mama had paid no heed to the old coot, because he’d never know a thing if it wasn’t for her.

  His nose was always stuck in that newspaper or on a Yankees game. He couldn’t care less what happened on the streets. Mama, on the other hand, was very perceptive—sensitive to certain things. Because of this secondary sense her world was a much broader one than Papa’s.

  Papa looked over at Mama and he didn’t like what he saw. “Mama, I told you to stay away from that window.” He had heard the shots. “What’s wrong?” The hair on the back of his arms was bristling.

  When Mama turned to him he knew there had been a subtle shift in things. He didn’t cotton much to all the nonsense about senses and all that, but within himself he did have a healthy respect for Mama’s sight.

  In fact he had a li’l of it himself, but it didn’t make no sense to go around spouting that kind of stuff to people. They didn’t believe in much of anything these days.

  Besides, he much preferred dealing with things he could see. Even if they showed up in the form of gats and Uzis. Breaking out of his reverie he gazed at Mama, shut his eyes, and then opened them to find there was no change.

  The whites of Mama’s eyes was all he could see. Her eyes were rolled up in the back of her head.

  Spittle was forming in the corner of her mouth. Papa hobbled over to her as fast as his eighty-two years would allow. Gently he touched her arm. He knew that fast movements might lock her in the trance for longer than he wanted.

  “What’s wrong, Mama?” he repeated, trying to penetrate her psyche.

  Mama blinked. Her eyes rolled back to their proper place. She looked at Papa as though she couldn’t see him, but could only feel that he was there. “They done shot Milkbone. He’s dead.”

  Mama knew all the players.

  She had fed and clothed enough of these kids over time when their no-good sorry mamas had preferred getting high to feeding and clothing their kids. She had seen enough of them trading their food stamps for drugs, letting their kids go hungry.

  Papa waited. He knew there was more. He felt it in his bones. In fact his left knee was throbbing. That never happened unless something more than what was on the surface was going on.

  “Aisha Jackson, that precious little darling, was in her window, Papa. She done saw the whole thing. Why was she in her window?”

  Papa didn’t know how to answer so he remained quiet, like the still waters he had been reared in. He was a quiet man by nature, one who observed more than he spoke.

  “It’s here, Papa. That’s why all this killing’s going on. Our people don’t understand their spirits is being traded.”

  Papa put an arm around her shoulder. Slowly but surely he guided her away from the window over to the couch. Mama looked at Papa. She swallowed hard before saying, “It done took Aisha’s speech. That girl’s in trouble. We’ve got to get it back.”

  Papa definitely didn’t like the sound of this one. It reminded him of the swamps of Louisiana many a year ago. Sometimes when the realms or spirits as they are known to some people were fixing to act up this was the kind of stuff you heard. Problem was, these people in the North didn’t know nothing about that.

  And he knew today’s kids were wide-open vessels to the magic of darkness. They didn’t have nothing to fight with. Finally Papa couldn’t hold his peace. He spoke. “Mama, what’s that you saw?”

  “It.”

  Papa sighed. “What’d it say?”

  Mama stared at him as though he’d done lost his mind. A shiver raced up her back. “It said rockabye, baby, Papa.”

  Papa froze.

  Before Mama could utter another word, he reached for his gilt-paged Bible.

  Chapter 15

  Rico paced his basement while Temaine sucked on his licorice. There was a knock on the door. Rico pulled his gun from his shoulder holster.

  Kesha appeared in the doorway. “Michael Claybay, T-Bone’s brother, is here. He wants to see you. He says it’s important.”

  Rico holstered the gun. “Send him down.”

  A moment later Michael walked in. He glanced nervously at Temaine. “I got some information for you. It’s gonna cost you two G’s.”

  Rico reached into his pocket. He flicked the bills into Michael’s hand without asking any questions.

  Michael stared greedily at the bills, before snatching them out of Rico’s hand. “Shannon Davenport is gonna take you out. He’s got it in his mind that you’re responsible for his daughter’s death.” Michael’s jaw twitched.

  “Is that right?” Rico glanced at Temaine.

  Michael’s voice was fast and clipped. “It is.”

  Rico nodded. “And how do you know this?”

  “He told me.”

  “And what did you tell him?”

  Michael glanced nervously at the floor. “Nothing. I don’t know nothing. What could I say?”

  Rico nodded. “Do you know where I can find him?”

  Michael laughed. Temaine stopped sucking on his licorice. He watched Michael with interest.

  “Yeah. The Dome.”

  Rico peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills. He shoved them into Michael’s hand. “You’re on my payroll as of now. Let’s go.”

  Michael visibly relaxed. He smiled.

  Rico looked at Temaine. “I said let’s go.”

  The Dome was in high gear. It was jumping. Shannon sat alone at the bar, sipping Jack Daniel’s. Shonda walked in, standing by the door, adjusting her eyes to the dark. Looking ar
ound she spotted Shannon Davenport alone at the bar.

  She was dressed in a short gold dress, with matching gold heels. Her legs were oiled and accented to perfection. An air of seduction clung to her like a second skin as she tossed long blond-weaved braids over her shoulder.

  She walked straight up to Shannon, tapping him on the shoulder. “Don’t I know you?” she said in a lilting, sensual, husky voice that dripped with an invitation to anywhere he wanted to go.

  Shannon showed no trace of memory. But appreciation leaped into his eyes. “Do you?”

  A slow caressing smile displayed itself across Shonda’s lips. “Yeah. We met at the office party last year in the bank. You’re Tawney’s husband, right?”

  Shannon glared at her. She’d ticked a nerve without meaning to.

  “I’m Shannon Davenport, if that’s what you mean.”

  Shonda traced a polished nail down his arm, quickly recovering, saying sweetly, “Shannon Davenport. That is exactly what I meant.”

  Shannon smiled, chiding himself for taking out his bad temper on this gorgeous, specimen of a female. Looking into her eyes, a glimmer of recognition nudged him. “Yeah, I remember you now. You look different without your bank clothes on.”

  Shonda returned his smile. “I have a life outside of the bank.”

  He gave her a once-over. “Is that so?”

  She returned his gaze. “It is.”

  Switching gears, Shonda laced her voice with just the right amount of sentiment. “I’m sorry about your daughter. That’s real messed up.”

  Shannon nodded as the familiar ache squeezed his chest.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Yeah.”

  She sat next to him, placing her hand warmly over his. He felt the warmth against his chilled hand, and decided he liked it. How long had it been since Tawney had reached for his hand?

  “If there’s anything I can do for you and Tawney, please let me know.”

  “I will. What are you drinking?”