On the Run with Love

by J. M. Benjamin

  “Bruh, you sure?” Bashir did not like Power’s plan one bit, but no matter the case, he had to respect it. Still, he wanted to be sure.

  Power let out a light chuckle. “Yeah, I’m positive,” he said, patting the butt of his .40-cal. tucked under his Polo collared shirt as he took a quick look from left to right to see if anyone was paying him any mind.

  “Say less.”

  Bash stood up and descended the bleachers. When Tay saw Bashir coming down, he immediately understood. He tapped his hitter and gestured for him to do the same thing. Tay climbed the bleachers. Power extended his arm and greeted him with a handshake.

  “Power. What the deal, my G?” Tay greeted him, a little out of breath. “How you livin’?”

  Power chuckled and patted Tay’s protruding belly. “Not as good as you, fam.”

  Tay smiled as they sat down on the top row of the bleachers.

  “Let me ask you something. You ever come out here and watch these games?” Power abruptly asked.

  “For what?” Tay was visibly perplexed.

  Inside, Power shook his head because Dante was a living example of the point he was making to Bash about losing focus. “You ever read Akbar’s book Death of the Game?”

  Baseball games, books; Tay didn’t know what Power was getting at, but he wished he’d get to it. “Naw, P, I don’t read much. Sorry,” Tay replied sarcastically.

  Power detected the sarcasm in his voice. “I only asked because he said snitches killed the game. And the reason niggas snitch is because they lose focus. What we do, we don’t make money just to make money. We make money to provide for our family, for our people, and if niggas was in the game for that, wouldn’t be nothin’ to snitch about or nobody to snitch on, because they’d know this is all we got.”

  Dante’s young, greedy mind couldn’t grasp the totality of what Power was saying. All he knew was mo’ money, mo’ murder. “I feel you, P,” he said, but Power knew he didn’t. “I feel you. It’s about family.”

  Power just let it go. “That’s why I understood why you did what you did, and it’s why I wanted to talk to you, face to face, on some real G shit.” He paused and shook his head before he continued. “My li’l homie Freddie, bruh, he not even about that life like that,” he admitted.

  “You ain’t gotta tell me that,” Tay spat. “I know the nigga marshmallow.” He took a jab at Freddie to see how Power would react.

  “Soft or not,” Power began, “ya manz Cream forced his hand and he did what any cat would do in his shoes. He from the projects, akhi, so at minimum he seen some gangsta shit up close and personal,” Power ended, shooting a jab back himself, letting him know there was nothing soft about his hood or his homies. He may not have agreed with or condoned Freddie’s methods or actions, but being a New Projects nigga, he didn’t expect anything less.

  “Yo, so what you tryin’a say?” Tay let out a gust of hot air in frustration. He was growing tired of the conversation. As far as he was concerned, first blood was drawn and he had no intentions until he spilled some of his own. The question was, whose blood?

  Power picked up on the fact that although what he was saying made sense, Tay wasn’t really feeling everything he was saying. He tried a different approach. “Yo, you got my word, none of my people got nothin’ to do wit’ it. Everybody want this shit to be dead. You know war and cash don’t mix and motherfuckas tryin’a eat, feed their families. True, he a New Project head, born and raised; but he ain’t no shooter or trapper. He a playboy. You know all the real ones, my dude. Tizz, Money, Chet, Pete and Squirm, Doma, Buie, Krush and ’em,” Power began to sound off, doing a quick roll call of his hood. “And you know my young boys who hug the block: Wheels, Nider, and my li’l folks from 116, Macho and ’em. Bottom line, dude ain’t no hustler or no gangsta either. He a player.”

  “So you sayin’ your hood ain’t claim him or ride for him? Well, who is? Where his mother rest?” Tay wanted to know. His blood began to slowly boil. “Fuck gonna be held accountable for my brother? I need some answers, if you expect me to keep shit to a bare minimum,” Tay pointed out.

  Power knew Tay had totally missed his point. He looked him dead in the eye. “Nah, that’s not what I’m sayin’, bruh. What I’m sayin’ is niggas choosing gettin’ paper over catchin’ frivolous bodies. But, as far as what you asked me, I don’t know none of that. But even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. Point blank!”

  Tay started to protest but Power continued.

  “Now dig. I’m not gonna pretend to know how you feel ’cause I ain’t never lost nobody as close to me as you have, but my word on everything, I’ll do whatever I can to help you resolve this issue. Hell, if I could I’d murder the nigga myself and bring you the body. But we both know that’s not gonna happen. So, I’m askin’ you—no, I’m beggin’ you—please don’t bring that gangsta shit to me and mine no more, because I don’t need that and neither do you, on some real G shit.” Power kept his tone steady, but Dante knew what he meant.

  “My brother was my heart, P, and I’ma do whatever I gotta do so his death not in vain. But I respect the fact that you came to holla at me. I appreciate it.”

  Die in vain? Power thought. No matter what you do, akh, you can’t change the fact that he died in vain. Look what he died for. Power sighed. He had tried, but he was sure he hadn’t fully gotten through to Tay. He extended his hand. Tay gripped it firmly. “Anytime, bruh. Anytime. And do me a favor. Try ’n’ make a game or two this summer. Trust me. It’ll help you focus.”

  Dante stood up. “I’ll try, fam,” Tay replied nonchalantly.

  But Power knew he wouldn’t. He doubted he even heard him. He knew the only thing on Tay’s mind right now was revenge, and it had Freddie’s name written all over it.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Don’t let yourself get attached to anything you are not willing to walk out in thirty seconds flat if you feel the heat around the corner.

  Detective Wilson couldn’t help but think, as he looked around Freddie’s apartment, about the line from his favorite movie, Heat, that Robert De Niro had quoted. As soon as they’d identified the prints, they swooped down on his spot like a hoard of badged vultures, certified to pick the carcass. Wilson and several officers searched the apartment top to bottom, and from what they could see, their man had definitely left in a hurry. Big-screen TV, DVD, stereo with stacks of CDs were all intact. In fact, besides the few drawers that were pulled out and a few hangers that were strewn about, most of the clothes were still there.

  “So, see, she went with him,” Wilson commented to himself, but Crawford had walked in behind him.

  “Who? The Jackson woman?”

  “Who else,” Wilson stated rhetorically, strolling around the room and stopping at the dresser. The only drawer open was full of Freddie’s boxers. “He must’ve called and told her to meet him because she did the packing.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The two loaded pistols we found in the hall closet. If it was him, he wouldn’t have left those.” Wilson turned to Crawford. “Andre, are you familiar with women’s clothing?” He smiled.

  “What do you mean ‘familiar’?” Crawford asked, ready to take offense because the older man had a sick sense of humor.

  “I’m not askin’ you if you got a thong on, kid. You’re young and hip, I suppose. Do you know the styles?” Wilson shook his head and ran his fingers through his dirty blond and gray hair.

  “I guess. I never really thought—”

  “Step over here.”

  They both walked over to the closet and looked at Simone’s dresses, outfits, and shoes. “Look closely and tell me what’s missing: summer clothing, winter clothes, what?”

  Crawford surveyed the Prada, DKNY, Gucci, Chanel, BAPE, and Baby Phat hanging in a rainbow of colors, fabrics, and styles.

  Wilson continued, “Chances are, he headed down South. I don’t know a black man in New Jersey who doesn’t have family down South. But where? Atlanta, South Carolin
a, North Carolina? We call it fugitive country.” Wilson winked. “Every cat on the run usually ends up in one of those three places.”

  “Why not Baltimore or DC? That’s predominantly African Americans down there in them parts,” Crawford inquired.

  Wilson shook it off. “Migration patterns. You’d be surprised how much like birds we are. We fly south in the winter.” He smiled. “And a man usually runs to a comfort zone.”

  Wilson closed the closet. “Keep a close eye on the Jackson woman’s credit cards. From the looks of that wardrobe, she’s definitely a power shopper. Chances are they won’t use ’em, if he’s smart. But everybody slips up sooner or later, even the smart ones,” Wilson ended as he jotted a note to himself on his handheld notepad.

  Chapter Fourteen

  After spending a few days in the motel in Greensboro, Freddie came out to see Slug leaning against the bowling ball–painted Caddy, sparkling. When they got in, Simone sat in the back seat. She was unused to the bearings. She looked at the TV screen in the rear and her eyes opened wide. She blushed when she saw that a porno was playing. She nudged Freddie’s knee with hers and motioned to the screen.

  Freddie looked up and saw the screen. “Yo, Slug. Fuck you into, dog?”

  Slug looked into the rearview mirror to see what Freddie was talking about and chuckled. “My bad, dog. Long night.” He switched off the TV, pumped ’Pac, and began the three-hour trek to Goldsboro.

  Goldsboro hadn’t changed much since the last time Freddie saw it. It was still a small, sleepy town, despite the new businesses and buildings. They rode into town in Slug’s tricked-out Cadillac Brougham, and it was definitely that. It was a navy blue ’85 model, sporting twenty-six-inch hundred-spike Daytons. Slug had the back doors modified to open like suicide doors. He had also taken the back seat and reset it, facing it toward the rear of the car. It gave the inside a limo feel. The TV was mounted in the middle of the back of the car. The system was ear splitting, and he pumped nothing but ’Pac.

  “You in the dirty Dirty, cuz,” Slug drawled. “We don’t push Acs, we push Yacks, nigga,” he boasted.

  Once they arrived, Slug explained, “Yo, cuz, I had to move on short notice, so I did the best I could on the apartment.”

  When Freddie saw his new layup, he understood Slug’s explanation. It was a two-story apartment building, diagonally across from the Piggly Wiggly supermarket on Leslie Street. It sat in the heart of Webbtown, the black ghetto of the Boro. Freddie remembered the building because it had been many things over the years. It had been a liquor house, a crack house, and a ho house several times over. Now, it was owned by a closet smoker who didn’t ask questions, especially of Slug, and who wanted his money in cash only, under the table. Perfect for Freddie, Slug explained. But, looking at it, that didn’t make him feel any better.

  It was run-down and rusty on the outside, and dingy and roach-infested inside. It looked like the previous occupants had moved out as quickly as Freddie had left his apartment. Most of their broken-down furniture remained, including a dirty-ass brown couch that was sunk to the floor, a three-legged kitchen table, and several soiled mattresses in each of the two bedrooms. The only good thing was that the apartment was definitely spacious with cathedral ceilings. Years earlier, it had been a prestigious office building. But as the area became more and more ghetto, the building did too.

  Simone was taken aback by the apartment as well, but she looked at it with a woman’s eye. With a good house cleaning and delousing, the place had potential. The hardwood floors were covered with drug-related debris and soot, but she imagined them shined up and waxed. It wasn’t the best, but it was all they had.

  “Ay, yo, we’ll get some heads to get all this shit out, then we’ll go on and lace this shit out,” Slug proposed.

  “Lace?” Freddie echoed. “A nigga ain’t holding no lace paper, yo.”

  Slug smiled. “Nigga, gimme a G and I’ll bring you all the luxuries of home, plus a muhfuckin’ computer,” Slug told him.

  Freddie was sold. He gave him the money.

  “A’ight, yo. I’ll be back wit’ the heads,” Slug told him and left.

  An hour later, Slug was commanding a small army of several heads: lift this, pull that, bring this, drop that, scrub, nigga, scrub. By nightfall, they had the joint cleared out and as clean as they could get it. When crackheads worked, they did work. Slug paid them and they left.

  “What up wit’ the furniture?” Freddie asked.

  “Tomorrow, no later than five.” Slug grinned mischievously. “But tonight, it’s my turn to show you around, nigga.”

  Freddie looked at Simone. “You wit’ it?”

  “In this?” she answered, referring to her soiled outfit. She had already worn everything she had brought and they hadn’t been to a Laundromat.

  “Naw, boo, I’m takin’ you shoppin’. Matter of fact, we goin’ shoppin’,” Freddie offered, taking her by the waist.

  “Freddie,” she whined cautiously, as if to say, “we’re on a budget.”

  “Nothin’ major, yo. Just a little sumptin’ to let niggas know how Freddie do and how he got the baddest chocolate mami in town.” He smiled and she couldn’t resist.

  Freddie then turned to Slug and smiled. “Let’s go to the mall.” He tossed his arm around his cousin’s neck.

  * * *

  They didn’t stay long at the mall, but the time they were there put a dent in their kitty. Freddie was used to the best, and giving Simone the best also was no exception. No matter how much it cost him. As they say, old habits are hard to break.

  They went back to Slug’s apartment in Jefferson Court to get dressed. Freddie looked at himself in Slug’s full-length mirror. He had copped a few pairs of Coogi and Red Monkey jeans. He threw on a black pair of jeans, a pair of black on white and red Jordan 9s, an Ed Hardy hoodie, and a solid black Yankees fitted. He smoothed his curls and inspected the trim up Slug had given him very closely. Freddie was picky about who cut his hair, but he couldn’t front; Slug had done a good job with just a razor and a comb.

  “Razors give you a sharper line than clippers, nigga. Just chill. I got this,” Slug assured him.

  Simone came out of the bathroom looking irresistibly delicious in a pair of curve-hugging Seven blue jeans and a multicolored blouse that fastened at her belly button with two metallic Zs, exposing her cleavage in a dagger-like V.

  “Boo, look at this, yo,” Freddie said, pointing to his goatee. “Does it look even to you?” he asked his lady.

  Simone inspected the trim and gave her approval. “Yeah, baby, Slug did a good job.”

  “You sure?” Freddie asked with skepticism in his tone. He had never been cut with a razor, let alone by an unlicensed barber. Even on the run, he was still conscious of his physical appearance.

  “Yeah, she sure, ol’ pretty-ass nigga.” Slug chuckled.

  “Fuck you, cuz!” Freddie shot back. “Babe, seriously, how it look?” he asked Simone again.

  “Baby, it’s fine, I’m positive,” she reassured him. “But what I’m not so sure about is spending all this money. You sure you don’t think we should take some of this stuff back?”

  Freddie took her by the hands to reassure her. “Dig, boo, regardless of our situation, we ain’t gonna stop livin’, you hear me? I want you to be happy, and I want you to look good bein’ happy, so whatever I gotta do, it’s done, feel me?”

  She wrapped her arms around his neck, “You make me happy, Freddie. I understand what you’re sayin’ and I appreciate it, really. But, boo, I’ll wear Payless shoes and eat beans out of a can if that’s what it’ll take to stay together.”

  She touched Freddie down deep with her words, and all he could do was kiss her as a reply. “I love you, girl.” He added a hug. “Now let’s forget about everything except havin’ a good time. Bada boom?”

  “Bada bing!” She smiled, completing their way of saying, “Understand? Understood.”

  Simone turned to walk out the door. Freddie cou
ldn’t help but admire her perfectly heart-shaped ass. “Damn, boo, you gonna make me hurt one of these country niggas behind them jeans.”

  “Shut up, boy.” She blushed. “It’s yours.”

  “Yeah? Well, walk nasty like it’s mine.” He slid behind her and gripped both cheeks with the palms of his hands. “Matter fact, save mine for later.” He kissed her on the back of her neck, then spun her around. “I’m glad you decided to come with me. I won’t make you regret it.” He then planted his lips against hers and delivered a deep kiss.

  Simone pulled back, breaking their lip lock. “So am I.” She flashed him a smile. “And”—she paused and inhaled—“I hope not.” She exhaled as she stared into his eyes.

  Slug watched the scene. It was something straight out of a Lifetime movie, he thought. This nicca pussy whipped to the tenth power. He chuckled to himself. “Cuz, sorry to break this up but we gotta make moves,” Slug reminded him.

  Freddie looked over Simone’s shoulder and nodded. “Babe, gotta make some runs with Slug to learn the lay of the land.”

  It was Simone who now nodded. “Okay, be careful, baby.”

  Freddie could see her eyes misting up. “Hey.” He cupped her chin. “Don’t I always?”

  Simone grimaced. She tried not to roll her eyes but a half of a roll managed to escape.

  As soon as he said it, the words had tasted like shit coming out of his mouth. Up until now, he had been careful, but that had changed. And because it had, they were now in the South in unfamiliar territory, hiding. “I will,” Freddie retracted, giving Simone one last kiss before he followed Slug out the door.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Kiki, come get this li’l muhfucka ’fore I kill ’im!” Slug yelled, sitting on the couch.

  Slug had come to pick up Kiki from her apartment in Green Acres. Kiki was his girl, his love-hate ghetto relationship. Her three-year-old son was kicking Slug in the leg, and Slug was fed up with it.

  “You better leave my baby alone!” Kiki screamed back from the bedroom. “Chris! Come here, boy!”