Out a Order

by Evie Rhodes

  Shonda stubbed out her cigarette with a major attitude. She bit her tongue. Anger welled up inside her like thunder building.

  It was all she could do not to smack this smart-mouthed heifer to the ground. However, she knew it wouldn’t be the thing to do just yet. Even though Beverly was the one who kicked off her anger, all she could think was Tawney would get hers when the time came.

  Trying to get a grip she said sweetly, “She’s the boss. A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do. I’ll have what she’s got. Soon. Real soon.”

  Disgust rose up simultaneously in their eyes.

  Shonda rolled her eyes. “I don’t know why you’re looking at me like that. You probably feel the same way and just don’t have the nerve to say it. Especially with Tawney, who can flip back and forth between the hood and corporate America like the flick of a light switch.”

  Shonda turned on them, switching her hips, walking toward the building. Over her shoulder she said, “It ain’t over till it’s over, girlfriends.”

  Chapter 25

  Shannon Davenport sat in the midst of forces that he couldn’t begin to imagine. He had trouble with the police, trouble with the gangs, a wife who hated him, and a daughter who was lost to him, as well as a young street punk who was out to kill him and make a name for himself.

  Yeah. He knew Rico DeLeon Hudson was trying to represent as well. Old school versus new school. Take out an original gangster and seal the pact. Solidify. Niggas young and old having to give you the props. By taking him out Rico would put fear in the old-timers. There was already a lack of respect. He knew how Rico was trying to roll.

  That fear would earn him respect as well as money. Too many old-timers now were talking about how you couldn’t mess with them young boys. That was a serious mistake because now these young punks were walking around with their chests poked out, with automatic weapons, and a serious disregard for life.

  Shannon knew the game. He had once been Rico DeLeon Hudson. But he wasn’t now and that was the major difference.

  All this represented what Shannon knew. What he didn’t know and couldn’t fathom was the trouble brewing around him, which wasn’t attached to or dressed in flesh. Yeah, it was all coming down to more than just street wars. There were dues to be paid.

  At the very moment that he sat in Je’s Soul Food Restaurant at the corner of William and Halsey streets in downtown Newark, there was another entity entering the mix.

  Actually it had already entered. The forces were aligning, placing Shannon Davenport in their orbit. This was far from good. In the mix were blackness, hatred, demented souls, and failed promises.

  The waitress set the steaming plate of smoked ham, grits, cheese eggs, and biscuits in front of him along with a steaming cup of coffee.

  Shannon felt better already. Once he had eaten he could decide his next course of action. Je’s was just what he needed to add a feeling of normalcy to his life. The restaurant had been in Newark a good many years.

  It was a popular spot among Newark’s residents. The food was warm, homey, and cooked to perfection. Some of the waitresses had been there for as long as he could remember. It was almost like being among family.

  He glanced up at a picture of Martin Luther King, who seemed to be presiding over or perhaps residing in the midst of all the madness. Lord knew he was a man who had lived and died in the midst of chaos.

  Now the people he had fought so hard for were dying on the streets named after him. He was probably rolling over in his grave at the tragedy of it.

  Shannon stared at him for a moment longer, feeling the kinship, seeing the cross. Remembering another man who had paid the ultimate price being nailed to that cross.

  King had been a man who’d wanted to be among his people as well. What was so wrong with that? Jesus had been a man who walked among them, wanted to give them salvation and free them. What was so wrong with that?

  He glanced around at the rest of the walls, which were full of various African art. Better not to start down that road of thinking. In fact the thought of Jesus surprised him a bit. He’d always been a believer; he just wasn’t mushy about it.

  Maybe Jazz’s death was causing him to reconsider a great many things. He’d been thinking about the Lord a lot since she’d died. He shook his head, disgusted. He was typically black. When the trouble came down he looked up.

  Otherwise he never looked in that direction. His child’s death was making him do so now.

  Glancing out the window he saw a woman dressed from head to toe in black silk. That in itself wasn’t strange. What was strange was the fact that a solid black veil covered her entire face.

  You could tell it was a female by the way it moved. How the hell could she see where she was going?

  She was pushing a shopping cart filled to the brim with garbage. She stopped. Turned. Appeared to stare directly at Shannon. Though how that could be was impossible since her face was covered.

  Shannon felt a surge of energy flow through his body. He looked, blinked, and found himself staring at the braiding salon that was across the street.

  There was no sign of any woman with a black veil covering her face or dressed entirely in black.

  For some reason he felt spooked, but he shook himself out of it, returning to his thoughts. It was just as well. Flying over the rooftop of Je’s was a black-winged creature whose beak poked through the solid black veil, and whose wings ripped through the black silk.

  It was a sign of things to come.

  At one time in Je’s there’d been a piano perched over in the corner near the small bar. On Sunday mornings you could listen to gospel along with your breakfast or just some mellow tunes on the ivory if you went through Je’s on the right evening.

  He used to bring Tawney there all the time. They would gorge themselves with terrific heart-of-the-South soul food, sit holding hands, staring in each other’s eyes as the music played.

  Shannon shook his head. It all seemed so long ago. That was before Jazz was born. Now Jazz had been born and had both lived as well as died. Guilt for keeping his family in Newark was eating him alive.

  Even though they had the money he hadn’t wanted to be one of the ones who ran out to the suburbs abandoning the neighborhood home front. He was comfortable where he was.

  Besides, that would’ve been Tawney’s thing, not his. He didn’t have the kind of mentality that went with perfectly manicured lawns, Seton Hall University, and Saks Fifth Avenue charge cards. Tawney had been right when she accused him of not wanting to leave. The suburbs weren’t his scene.

  But what was? He didn’t know. All he knew was the streets he called home had swallowed up his only child alive and he was having a hard time living with that. He’d wanted his daughter to know where she came from. He’d wanted her to be successful but real. Now he didn’t have a daughter. The streets had stolen her life from him.

  If he were honest with himself he’d have to admit the one sore point for him with his wife was the fact that she wanted to leave. He resented her for that. He felt people should hold their own. If there was a problem do something about it. Make it better.

  Now that he’d lost Jazz he wasn’t so sure he was right about staying. Maybe Tawney was right. Maybe if he’d done it her way Jazz would still be alive. That thought pierced the core of his heart.

  That single thought that his stubbornness might have cost him his daughter was more than he could bear. She had been the one thing in the entire world that he truly loved.

  He pushed the plate away, signaling the waitress for the check. The food suddenly tasted like lead in his mouth.

  It was time to formulate a plan. But first he needed to go home. He would do that under the cover of darkness. Tonight.

  Chapter 26

  Back in the warehouse when they were alone Trey took a chance on breaking the “no speaking until you’re spoken to” rule and said to Ballistic, “Rico got what he deserved. Though it could be considered a waste of some nice-looking flesh.�
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  He smiled, trying to lightly joke with Ballistic. Ballistic stared at him piercingly.

  He didn’t even crack a smile.

  Nervously Trey continued, “Rico dishonored Spence’s mother. That nigga done lost his mind removing the body from the services. If that don’t top it all, man. That nigga loves to grandstand. Spence’s body was dumped in Branch Brook Park scattered with bullet holes. It looks like Swiss cheese.”

  Ballistic finally smiled.

  He decided in this instance to let Trey go for speaking before he was spoken to. “That’s why Rico’s little piece is up in flames. Our boy has guts and imagination. No doubt.”

  Ballistic rapped his cane on the pole. The German shepherd stood attentive at his side. “Did you get what I asked for?”

  Trey smiled. He reached inside his jacket, pulling out a stolen sports jersey belonging to Rico. He tossed it to Ballistic.

  For his part he was glad Ballistic was in a good mood because he had learned that Ballistic was one foul nigga. Trey had never come up against anyone like him, and he hoped he never did again.

  This nigga wasn’t ordinary. He was on some extraordinary extra extra that none of the rest of them could touch.

  Trey had never seen a man whose soul was as black as Ballistic’s. It didn’t have anything to do with game or just being straight-up jack.

  This scared him in a place inside he didn’t know existed. He wondered if the others felt it. He didn’t know but even if they did, none of them would ever breathe a word of it. It just couldn’t be done.

  Trey was living with the feeling that they had seriously messed up in this life associating with Ballistic, and after this they all had hell to look forward to. But he was draped in the thug persona. Being stand-up, he could do nothing but play it to the bone.

  Deep inside where a playa’s bone resided he knew it was just a matter of time. That none of them would make it out. And for the first time in his life he knew it wasn’t worth it, but he was stuck. He couldn’t walk away and he could never let on that he felt this way.

  His death would be sealed in short order if he did. There was no way out. That was the way of the hood. It swallowed and ate its own young.

  Mentally Trey crossed himself.

  Just in case this dude Jesus was real he was wondering if maybe he’d forgive him if he asked, for associating with a demon. ’Cause there was no doubt that the waves of darkness emanating from Ballistic had nothing to do with hustling.

  He himself was just trying to clock a dollar and make himself a rep. He’d become a rock on the streets to keep niggas off him. On the streets you were as good as your connections. Ballistic’s name alone would make niggas wet their pants, so being down with him had its bennies. But they were in over their heads and he knew it.

  He’d heard that strange noise as they left Rico’s girl in the burning house. It was an eerie howling that sounded like it came from another realm. A shrieking. Just like something out of the damned Exorcist. No joke.

  He’d told his grandmama to stop preaching at him, but she didn’t listen. That’s how he knew about Jesus. His grandmama claimed Jesus could save anybody. He hadn’t saved anyone Trey had known. Except his grandmama. But still . . .

  If he died here maybe he could have a chance somewhere else. As soon as the thought crossed his mind he shook his head, remembering the desperate look in Rico’s girl’s eyes when she realized she was at the mercy of a monster and how there was nothing he would do to help her.

  Her screams would be something he would live with night and day. They had cold-bloodedly killed the woman, and he had been a willing participant. Self-preservation. Fear.

  If he had stepped in Ballistic would have killed him instantly. He had had no choice. Still, the hatred along with the self-loathing persisted. It persisted because he knew he was too weak to do anything except go on and on playing it to the bone.

  He would play until the music stopped.

  And one day he knew the music would stop. The last melody would definitely play and the only thing left would be death. He was nothing more than a killing machine and he knew those who killed would eventually be killed.

  That was the bottom line.

  Ballistic put Rico’s jersey up to the dog’s nose, letting him sniff, smell, and savor Rico’s scent. He nodded and the dog tore the jersey to shreds.

  Trey nodded at the jersey. “Temaine came through with the goods,” he said.

  A gurgling sound emitted from Ballistic’s throat. “Temaine’s a good man. I will have to get him out of Rico’s camp soon. Send Rico some flowers for me. Do not kill him. He is mine. Understood?”

  Trey nodded. “What about Shannon Davenport?”

  “He is not in my way. Leave him. In fact I consider him useful. He serves my purposes well.”

  For some reason Trey’s skin crawled at Ballistic’s words.

  Ballistic raised an eyebrow wondering why Trey was still standing there. Trey nodded while moving out of his sphere.

  Proverbs: 1:16 For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood.

  Chapter 27

  Rico was one incensed nigga. His cell phone had been blowing up as his stash houses, lieutenants, and street soldiers were being taken down. A number of them had caught body bags.

  He had taught them well, but it was as though he had been caught with his pants down and he knew doggone well his pants weren’t down. Nevertheless he felt like some schoolboy who had been caught off guard.

  Ballistic wasn’t to be taken lightly. He needed to kill this dude. Homes need to be M.I.A., missing in action. It needed to be quick because he was tampering with Rico’s rep. His connect was getting jittery, blowing up his cell every time he heard about another takedown.

  He couldn’t make these Cubans understand, because they didn’t speak his language. The only language they understood was m-o-n-e-y.

  Liquid cash.

  They weren’t trying to hear anything else. If their cash was jeopardized, you were a dead man, and they moved on to more lucrative territory.

  They obviously spoke the language of the hood, though, because they were plugged into trouble with their dope almost before it occurred. Rico found this curious, but this wasn’t the time for him to mull it over and figure it out.

  He’d finally turned his cell phone off as well as his various pagers because this crap was out of control. He understood Ballistic wasn’t happy with his stance at the church, but it was what it was.

  His job in life was to make that nigga miserable and then dead. Anybody in the game would know not to front on him. He wasn’t taking no shorts.

  This was only the beginning because he could see how homes played now. Ballistic played for keeps, plain and simple.

  Silence overtook him for a moment as he tried to think. He and Temaine walked together in silence, finally rolling up on his Jeep. It was covered in flowers. The inside was full of them. The heavy perfumed smell of flowers was in the air everywhere.

  A creepy feeling like someone walking over your grave shot through Rico’s body.

  “What the hell?” Temaine said.

  But Rico couldn’t respond. A chalk outline had been drawn around the Jeep. In blazing white chalk on the outside of the outline were the words: RIP KESHA!

  “No,” was all Rico could get out. On the tail end of that word the Jeep exploded. Rico and Temaine ducked for cover as debris flew all over the place.

  Temaine smiled. Ballistic was one badass nigga. The man had style if he’d ever seen it. He couldn’t wait to get down with that nigga.

  Rico rolled up next to Temaine. “We’ve got to get to my house, man.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  Upon arriving on his street Rico knew he had yet to face his greatest loss. It was deep in his gut. In fact it had been there all day, but he was stand-up so he’d ignored it.

  He’d turned his cell phone off after it kept blowing up with bad news, so he hadn’t received the worst news of al
l. He’d disconnected himself from the tragedies of his people while trying to formulate a plan and lie low.

  At least he was disconnected until he saw the RIP KESHA in a chalk outline and his Jeep blew up. His baby’s mother. She was dead. He had as good as killed her himself.

  He was so busy playing cat-and-mouse with Ballistic as well as watching and putting fear in Shannon Davenport that he hadn’t put any cover on her.

  He’d thought the rules of the game prevented her from being touched. She was off-limits according to the rules. That was the truth. Apparently the street code rules didn’t apply here.

  They hadn’t applied to little Jasmine Davenport either. But he’d made good on that. A quick phone call had verified Ebony was alive and well with Kesha’s sister. Bless Kesha for taking the baby there or Rico knew she would be dead too.

  He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He’d already made arrangements for Ebony to be moved immediately out of Jersey. These death-struck punks were killing anybody who was in their way. Death had knocked at his door and claimed one of his own.

  Rico’s street was filled with emergency vehicles. Fire trucks, police cars, an ambulance, and an assortment of recognizable as well as undercover police vehicles.

  Temaine stood silently by his side. Rico didn’t dare even attempt to approach his house, or rather the pile of ashes that was left of it, because the cops would definitely pick him up.

  From what he could see, there were only ashes where the house had stood. He could see the still smoldering flames. He smelled the black soot of the fire along with the awful smell of burnt flesh. The smoke seared his eyes even at this distance.

  The entire street was in hysterics and filled with blazing red, white, and blue flashing lights. Instinctively he knew there was nothing left of his fine Kesha but ashes. Ballistic wouldn’t have left him a body. When he took a man down he took his all.