On the Run with Love

by J. M. Benjamin

  “Yo, I gotta blow Jerze, cuzzo. I’m goin’ down South wit’ you,” Freddie spat.

  Slug nodded solemnly. “I was thinkin’ the same thing. Seem like the only thing to do, cuz. What about Simone?” Slug then asked.

  “Shit! Fuck!” Freddie grabbed hold of his head with both hands. The sound of her name stirred panic in his stomach. Not because of love, but fear. The Acura he had left at the scene of the crime was in her name. He knew it was just a matter of time before they traced it back to her and headed to his apartment. If he did not get her out before the police showed up, the spot would be too hot to get her and his stash out at all, he concluded. It was all he had.

  Freddie checked for his cell, but it was gone, lost in the shuffle. He had to get to a phone. He was already thinking of the safest and closest pay phone to or in his hood to use.

  The New Projects was oddly quiet, thought Freddie as he peered through the trees on the tracks that made it almost impossible to see from where he and Slug stood.

  “Follow me,” he told Slug as he made a mad dash down the train track’s rock path that led to West Second Street. He wasted no time running up in building 524.

  “Stay here,” he directed to his cousin.

  “Where you goin’?” Slug wasn’t feeling being cooped up in the project hallway building. He had known enough stories about them to know they didn’t take too kindly to outsiders being in their hood. It was one thing for Freddie to be with him, but another to be solo and out of pocket.

  “I gotta hit up baby girl,” Freddie replied. “You got some change?”

  Slug handed him two quarters. “Yo, hurry up back, cuz. I ain’t feelin’ this shit,” Slug let him know.

  “No doubt.” He turned back around and crept out of a building, headed toward the corner’s payphone. He knew it was a big risk. What other options do I have?

  He had walked to the corner payphones countless times, but at that moment it seemed as if he’d never reach the corner, which was only half a block away. He inserted the coins and dialed the house number so fast he misdialed and had to dial again. In the distance he could hear sirens.

  “Hello?” Simone picked up on the third ring.

  “Simone, listen to me and don’t ask questions. Empty the safe and stuff a bag full of clothes. Not much, just what you can fit in my blue duffle bag, A’ight? Get out of the house now, you hear me? Now! Take a cab to JFK; not Newark Airport. JFK. Now! I’ll meet you there!” Freddie talked so fast, she hardly understood him.

  “Freddie, slow down! What did—”

  “The money and you. Meet me at JFK, a’ight? JFK, now!” he repeated, this short, firm order clarifying the first, more detailed one.

  “Okay, baby. Are you okay?” She sounded close to tears.

  “I will be when I see you at JFK. I love you.” He hung up before she could respond. In record-breaking time, he made it safely back to building 524.

  Slug was right where he had left him. The look on his face let Freddie know he wasn’t cool with what had just went down.

  “Yo, cuz, my bad. I needed to reach out to Simone and let her know what the deal was.” He apologized to Slug sincerely.

  Slug nodded. “I ain’t trippin’. I woulda done the same thing.” He leaned in and gave Freddie a pound hand-shake and a hug.

  “Appreciate it,” Freddie said, relieved. Right now, Slug was all he had, besides Simone.

  “Cuz, I need you to go back to my mother’s house. Tell her what happened, a’ight?” He broke their embrace. “We need to split up. Cab it up to Rock Avenue, or call her to scoop you up, cool?” he explained.

  Slug looked around. He didn’t know Plainfield from a can of paint, but he did know how to evade the law, and splitting up was always a good option. “Don’t worry about me, cuz. Just be safe. I’m good,” Slug assured him, giving him another pound and a hug. They split up like two shadows in midday, fading from the waning sun.

  Chapter Eight

  Back at the scene of the crime, the police had Richmond Street roped off at all four corners. People milled around, gossiping and straining their necks in an attempt to satisfy their voyeuristic thirst for bloodshed and violence. Mannie’s corpse lay on the sidewalk under a bloody sheet, and the officer had been rushed to the hospital where he lay in critical condition. Detective Francis Wilson and his partner, Detective Andre Crawford, surveyed the scene with experienced eyes.

  “You got a name on the body yet?” Wilson asked casually. He was a fifteen-year vet on the force and murder was his daily business. The younger Crawford was just getting his feet wet, so he was more gung-ho.

  He flipped open his trusty notepad and read, “Manuel Mincey, aka Mannie; twenty-two-year-old black male with a list of priors. Drug charges mostly, and some assaults.”

  Wilson nodded knowingly. “Now that you’ve read the official report, let’s get down to what solves the crime. Are you familiar with Mannie?”

  His partner was clueless.

  “He has a brother, Dante, who they call Tay. He and his crew come from Sixth Street. They have been making quite a name for themselves lately. Remember the double murder on Third and Prescott about two weeks ago?”

  “Yes: two black males, sixteen and twenty-four, names—” Crawford ran off like a computer, but Wilson cut him off.

  “No need. I was there. That was Tay’s work. Heroin beef. Remember the dead girl we found in the Dumpster in the Fourth Street housing projects?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tay again.” Wilson looked at Mannie’s corpse. “Whoever did it made us lucky this time. Once we run the prints and the identification on that Acura, we’ll have all the answers we need to wrap up this case.”

  “We already did,” Crawford announced proudly, glad to finally know something Wilson didn’t. “The car is registered to—”

  “Let me guess,” Wilson cut him off dryly. “It’s registered to a female, correct?”

  Crawford’s pride deflated like a balloon. Wilson could tell by his expression that he was right. “Then we don’t know jack shit. These hoodlums always register their vehicles in their mama’s, baby mama’s, girlfriend’s, or crackheads’ names. Finding out who really owns the car is where our answers lie.”

  At that point, a uniformed officer ran up carrying a plastic bag. When he was close enough, Wilson was able to see what was in it and his heart leaped.

  “Detective Wilson! We found this in the street,” the officer reported, handing Wilson the gun.

  Wilson smiled. “The next best thing to a scripture from heaven: a smoking gun!”

  * * *

  An enraged Dante had Cream pinned against the wall by the collar, nostrils flaring, eyes tearing. “He killed my brother? You let that nigga kill my fuckin’ brother?”

  Cream was almost a foot taller than Dante and outweighed him by almost fifty pounds, but he didn’t resist because he knew that Dante’s rage was really pain and grief. Besides, Dante was a bull. He stood five feet six inches and had a stature like a short linebacker. He didn’t work out and it showed in his gut, but he was naturally strong and had the heart to take on anybody.

  “What could I do, Tay? I ain’t let ’em do nothin’,” Cream tried to reason; but Dante was beyond reason.

  Dante released Cream from his grip and spat, “Then, nigga, you should be in the street lyin’ beside him!” Dante paced the floor. The rest of the crew was silent, like real killers. They didn’t talk much and they only moved on Tay’s word.

  “Tell me again. Tell me again, slow,” Tay snarled, eyeing Cream squarely.

  “We was at Mannie’s store when I saw Freddie’s car. I told Mannie, I told him, ‘Let’s follow him and find out where he lives.’ But you know Mannie, son. You know his heart, God bless the dead. He said, ‘Naw, fuck dat, we hittin’ the nigga right where he stand.’” Cream lied ’cause there was no way he was telling Tay it was his idea. There was no telling how Tay would react.

  Dante watched Cream closely, listening to every wo
rd. A wise man knows when a scared man is lying, but not a hysterical one. All Tay could see was blood: his brother’s, and soon Freddie’s.

  “Fuck e’ything! Fuck money, fuck bitches, and fuck Plainfield! Until I got this nigga beggin’ me to kill him, on his knees in front of me, no one eats, no one sleeps! Period! You say he from the New? Them niggas bleed. Fuck them bitch-ass project niggas, I don’t give a fuck! They can get it too! Find this nigga!” Dante had declared war.

  Chapter Nine

  “Thank you, Gary. I’m standing outside the Gentlemen’s Club in Plainfield, New Jersey, on the corner of East Third Street and Richmond Street. An early morning shootout has left one man dead and a police officer in critical condition,” the female reporter spoke into a camera and informed the inquiring public. A picture of the officer flashed on the screen.

  “Officer Paul Williamson was shot once in the chest, answering the call of what police believe to be a drug-related incident. The man killed has been identified as one Manuel Mincey. Mincey died on the scene. The police haven’t made any arrests, but they did recover a gun that they believe to be the murder weapon. We’ll have more as this story continues to unfold.”

  Gina sat in the bedroom of her Bound Brook, New Jersey, townhouse in utter disbelief. As soon as she saw that the shooting had happened in Plainfield, she had a bad premonition. All she could think of was Freddie dead, in a pool of blood. When she heard the name of the dead man, her heart began to beat closer to normal. But when she saw the green Acura, with its doors open and police around it, she experienced a whole new set of fears.

  “Freddie,” she groaned as if she was in physical pain. “Freddie, what have you gotten yourself into?”

  There wasn’t anything she could do now. She knew Mannie, and she knew Mannie was Tay’s brother. There would be no talking to Tay, and her family wouldn’t go for an all-out war over a nigga she was fucking. Freddie was on his own. All she could do was sit, wait, and say a silent prayer for his safety.

  “Freddie, baby, where are you?”

  At about the same time, Simone was standing in the middle of JFK thinking the same thing. Throngs of people moved all around her and she looked back and forth constantly, hoping to see Freddie’s face coming toward her. She felt like a small child lost in the mall. Freddie’s call was so urgent and his tone so intense that she couldn’t help but fear the worst. She loved her fiancé and she trusted her man. She knew he was in the street doing God knows what because he always had money; he paid all the bills and pampered her like a queen. But she never asked questions about what it was he actually did. He never got arrested or into any serious beefs in the street, so she just went to school preparing for a career as an accountant and took care of her man.

  But now, standing in the middle of an international airport with only a handful of clothes and $5,500, her heart told her their lives were about to drastically change. “Get out of the house now,” she remembered him telling her, as if the house was on fire or about to be raided by the police, or—

  “Simone Jackson, Simone Jackson. Paging Simone Jackson. Please meet your brother in the waiting area of Terminal C.”

  She heard her name on the paging system and exhaled, knowing “her brother” was Freddie. She picked up the duffle bag, looked around, located the directions for Terminal C, and quickly headed off in its direction.

  When she spotted Freddie, she wanted to run to him but restrained herself until she reached him. The first thing she noticed was his torn shirt and bloodstained shoulder, which he was desperately trying to conceal. Her mind went back to the last time he’d shown up bloody and she automatically made the connection.

  “Freddie, what—”

  He silenced her with a breathtaking hug, like he was a drowning man suddenly being saved. It had been a hard trip back to New York for him, but once a car thief always a car thief. He crept from back street to back street, making it all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue before he spotted an ’88 Cutlass Supreme. Being without a screwdriver or snatch bar, he had no choice but to bust out the little side window and hotwire the ignition. It was like riding a bike: you never forgot.

  He jumped on the highway and headed for New York, and it seemed that every few miles, he passed a trooper or a trooper passed him. One glance at the window and the jig was up. His asshole stayed tight all the way to JFK. All he could think of was Simone and never seeing her again. He thought about how his lying ways had put him in a position to lose everything. He vowed that if he made it to her, and she was waiting for him, he would change for good.

  Now, holding her in his arms, he felt renewed. “Ssshhhh, boo. Everything’s gonna be all right. But we gotta get out of town right away,” he told her, and then held her at arm’s length.

  Her eyes shone like crystal because of the tears of confusion. “Out of town? Why, Freddie? Where? Why are you bleeding?” These were the questions she felt she had a right to know.

  “Please, boo, trust me. I promise I’ll tell you. Right now, I need a change of clothes and we need two tickets to Raleigh, North Carolina, a’ight? Can you handle that while I get out of this shirt?”

  She nodded and Freddie kissed her softly. “I love you, Simone.” He pulled the duffel bag to him and began to rifle through it. Her clothes and his were haphazardly thrown together. He rummaged through the bag until he found a white and blue Rocawear hoodie. He dashed off to the bathroom to change.

  While he was gone, Simone bought two tickets for Greensboro, North Carolina, because there were no flights leaving for Raleigh. The flight wasn’t scheduled to leave for almost two hours. She prayed that wouldn’t be a problem.

  When Freddie returned and she broke the news, he sighed, resigned. “It’s all we got,” he replied.

  “Freddie, please. Have I ever questioned you before? Baby, I need to know what’s going on. You’re acting like . . . like somebody’s after you,” she stressed, grabbing her head.

  Freddie looked at his watch. With two hours to spare, there was no reason not to tell her. Besides, as much as he loved her, if she decided to leave him, it was best that she didn’t know where he was going.

  “Okay, yo. Let’s get something to eat and we’ll talk.”

  Simone looked down at her engagement ring, knowing it would never mean the same thing again. She and Freddie sat in a small airport coffee shop as he explained what had led up to the present situation. He was completely honest with her, but every sentence seemed to slap her love and trust in the face. She listened as Freddie explained about the stripper, and how Cream had confronted him in the barbershop. That was where the blood had come from the morning of the funeral. He explained how he had gone downtown to get Slug. That was when the shootout jumped off and he killed Mannie and shot a cop. She knew the Acura was in her name, and that the police would want to question her now. The whole thing made her look at Freddie in a whole new light.

  Simone told herself that she should’ve known. Freddie was gorgeous. Anytime he came around, all her friends changed their attitudes and fought for his attention. She felt like she should have known just from the way they’d met, with his smooth approach and his demeanor, that he was a dog.

  * * *

  Simone was working in a flower shop when Freddie walked in one day. Just looking at the nigga’s soft green eyes and juicy lips made her panties wet, but she played it off and kept it professional. He had ordered a dozen yellow roses and a teddy bear when she said, “Hmm. Expensive. She must be pretty special, huh?”

  “I hope she will be.”

  Her heart dropped. She was hoping they were for his mother, but his answer confirmed her suspicion: he had a girl.

  She cleared her throat and asked, “And what would you like on the card?”

  “Put, ‘I hope to see you again real soon. 555-2345. Freddie.’” He smiled and made her stomach do a dance.

  She processed the order and handed him the flowers, but to her surprise he handed them back. She thought something was wrong.

&
nbsp; “Naw, everything’s fine . . . if you’ll accept my gift.”

  * * *

  She was hooked. And from that day on, her feet never touched the ground. Now this. She felt like she had been slammed face first back into reality.

  “Freddie, what do you expect me to say? You . . . you call me and tell me to pack up. For what? I don’t know. Where? I don’t know. But silly me, I’m runnin’ around like crazy because I trusted you, Freddie. And now you tell me it’s all because of some . . . bitch you couldn’t keep your dick out of!” She sniffed up the tears, exasperated. “You know what? I—”

  Freddie reached across the table and touched her hand, but she flinched and slowly withdrew, unable to look him in the face.

  “Simone, yo, I know I fucked up, but—”

  “Do you, Freddie? Did you fuck up because you fucked up or because you got caught fuckin’ up? Huh? What are you sorry for?” Her voice elevated an octave, causing a few heads to turn around and tune in.

  Freddie gave them a hard ghetto grill to reestablish their privacy and then turned back to Simone. “Ma, I know I’m askin’ a lot of you. And right now, you don’t have any reason to believe what I say but, Simone, I love you. And I promise to spend the rest of my life makin’ it up to you. I need you. If I didn’t, I woulda just left without you, disappeared. But where could I go without you by my side?” He reached across the table again and took her hand in his. This time she didn’t pull away. “Simone, I promise, boo. It’ll never happen again.”

  “You promise, Freddie?” she asked incredulously. “Why would you expect me to believe that?”

  “Because I ain’t never promised that before.”

  She held her ring finger up in his face. “Oh, no? Well, what is this supposed to mean?” she challenged.

  “When I gave that to you, I didn’t know what having a wife really meant: the woman I come home to, have babies and grow old with. But now, I know it means much more, and I hate that it took this for me to realize it. But now I know. I know it means the woman you share your life with, not just your bed or your roof. And I pledge to you, on my soul, to give you just that, boo: my life, and nothing less.”