On the Run with Love

by J. M. Benjamin

  “What you mean cut off, cuz? Just like that? ’Fuck you do?” Slug asked.

  “I ain’t do shit!” Freddie exclaimed. “They on some ol’ bullshit, son!”

  * * *

  Slug knew there was more to it than Freddie was letting on, but he decided to let it play out. Then a few days ago, he got word that dudes in Wilson were moving major weight. Slug didn’t put it past Freddie to cross him out, but he didn’t expect it. He hoped he hadn’t. Family or no family, if Freddie had cut him out, then it was Freddie who had violated, so no one could blame Slug when he served justice.

  Then again, his mental channel changed, maybe it was all for the best. Slug was sharper than Freddie was, and he understood the game’s tide. It rolled in and you got wet. The trick was not to get washed away when it rolled back out. Slug understood this, so he had been stacking. And now that he was married, it was time to make a power move to the ’burbs, mow lawns, and parlay. The feds were everywhere, and it was just a matter of time before his name came up, on a humble, and he couldn’t see doing a fed bid. He knew Kiki couldn’t handle it. She loved him, but she wasn’t cut out to bid a stretch. She was the type of woman who needed constant attention, and he planned on being around to give it to her. If Freddie had cut him off, he could make it on his own.

  While he was filling his mind with thoughts and his belly with Ms. Jones’s good cooking, he heard the jingle of the bell attached to the front door. He looked up and filled his eyes with the full figure of a woman who looked like she had been raised on a steady diet of grits and cornbread, but she wasn’t fat by a long shot. She wasn’t from around here, either. Her Coogi dress hugged her curves and the split up her left side revealed a succulent, mahogany-toned thigh. Her Manolo Blahnik boots had a four-inch heel sharp enough to stab someone with, and they were clicking in his direction.

  She wore a pair of dark Chanel sunglasses that hid her eyes, like Aaliyah used to, and her layered bob accentuated her features. “Slug.” She said his name like she knew him well enough to be comfortable speaking it.

  “You askin’ me or tellin’ me?” he drawled smoothly, wiping chicken grease from his mouth.

  She smirked. “May I?” she asked, referring to the chair to his left. Slug nodded and she sat down, taking off her sunglasses, revealing the eyes of a woman with an agenda.

  “You don’t know me. But I know you, and we both know Freddie.”

  “Freddie?” Slug questioned as if he’d never heard the name before.

  “Freddie. The ‘five a month’ Freddie. Ring any bells?”

  Slug now knew whom he was talking to: the connect. He should’ve figured it was a woman. Now Freddie’s attitude about getting cut off made all the sense in the world. Freddie had fucked up, and Slug was about to find out just how bad.

  “Don’t you mean ‘used to be five a month’ Freddie? That river done run dry, li’l mama,” Slug said, taking a bite of turnip greens.

  “Well, that depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you,” she stated, making ironclad eye contact.

  “I’m not sure I’m following you, li’l mama,” Slug replied, wanting the picture made clearer. She understood perfectly.

  “As they say, one monkey don’t stop no show. What Freddie lost could be your gain,” she explained. “But for you, Slug, whatever the quantity, I’ll guarantee it, as long as you traffic it. And I’ll give it to you for the same thing Freddie was getting it for: fifteen.”

  Slug chuckled. “Son of a bitch. Ol’ boy said you was chargin’ eighteen, and then you went up to twenty.” Freddie had been playing him the whole time.

  “Looks like Freddie was playing us both,” she replied, with an undeniable bitterness that Slug had to question.

  “Both?”

  She hesitated before she answered. “Ever been in love, Slug?”

  He held up his left hand, showing Gina his wedding ring. “Either that or rooted.”

  She leaned in closer. “Be good to her, Slug. Because there really is a thin line between love and hate.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, but, uh, what’s the catch to your proposal?” Slug wanted to know. “I mean, no disrespect but as fine as you are, still, I know you ain’t no fairy godmother and it ain’t my born day, so what’s the catch?”

  Without blinking or stuttering, Gina stated firming, “Kidnap that bitch Simone.”

  Her words caught Slug off guard. His mind thought she would say something about Freddie, but shorty wasn’t playing fair. She was hitting where it hurt.

  “I’m not asking for her to be hurt, but if she is that’s not my problem. I just want that bitch snatched up, and I want you to ask for a hundred thousand dollars,” she demanded, remembering the amount Freddie told her he had saved. “I want every dime he’s got, every dime he made off me.” Her top lip quivered and her voice trembled slightly with a rage that made Slug glad he wasn’t in Freddie’s shoes.

  “You sho’ know how to hurt a nigga, don’t you, li’l mama?” Slug commented, sucking the meat out of his teeth and pulling out a Newport.

  She smiled seductively and narrowed her eyes in an aphrodisiac-like gaze. “I know how to hurt a man,” she cooed, then reached out to touch Slug’s face, “but I know how to please one even better.” Then she licked her lips slowly.

  Slug moved her hand away from his face. “Dig, shawtie. I damn sho’ wish I could find out, but uhhh, no offense, but I see what dick do to you, so I ain’t even tryin’ to put myself in that position.”

  She smiled, appreciating the weight of his statement. “I like you, Slug.”

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Gina was working both ends of the East Coast. While she was working out the deal with Slug to kidnap Simone and take all of Freddie’s paper, she had a plan working in New Jersey for Freddie.

  “I’m comin’ yo! Damn!” Cream yelled as he rolled lazily out of bed. He rubbed his face and checked his Cartier watch on the dresser; it was well past noon. He looked around for his wife as the door buzzer rang again. “Kandi, get the fuckin’ door!” He got no reply. “Where that bitch at?” he asked out loud as he went down the steps to the front door of his two-story house.

  “Kandi, you down here?” Still no reply. He opened the door to the foyer and glanced out the peephole, but he didn’t see anyone. “Who da fuck playin’ games, yo?” he asked, irritated that he had gotten up to answer the door, but whoever had come was now gone.

  Cream opened the door to see if he could catch whoever it was before they left, but he saw no one. All he saw was a car turn the corner. He peeped down the street, but still saw no one.

  That’s when he looked down at his feet and saw an envelope. He bent over and picked it up. It was sealed but there was no address, no writing on it period. Cream ripped it open and found a picture inside.

  It was Freddie.

  His blood pressure went through the roof and he scanned the streets again, thinking somebody was playing with him. He looked at the picture again, and then he turned it over. Some handwriting caught his eye:

  Goldsboro, NC. You owe me ten grand.

  Cream couldn’t believe it. They had been looking for him for months, and now, out of the blue, someone had delivered Freddie to Cream’s doorstep, literally. Cream ran inside to call Dante.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  Dante was at his crib with a thick, topless redbone in a purple thong. He was taking pictures.

  “Come on, ma. This is for my dudes in the feds. Bend over that chair and let ’em see that ass,” he ordered.

  She bent over and stuck her ass out real far, as if to kiss the camera with it. “You like this?” she flirted, mimicking fuck faces for the camera.

  “Word. Hold up. One more. A’ight, spread that pussy and stick your finger in it,” Dante said.

  “Tay, you nasty,” she responded, but did as she was told.

  Dante was hard as a rock. “A’ight, take one wit’ my dick in your mouth, yo.” He grinned.

&
nbsp; “No, Tay! I’m not taking any pictures like that.” She pouted and sat down on the couch.

  “Chill, yo,” he said, approaching her and pulling out his dick. “I ain’t gonna take it of your face, just of your mouth.”

  She looked up at Dante’s dick in front of her face. “Just my mouth, Tay!”

  “That’s what I said, ain’t it?” he answered as she slipped her juicy lips around his shaft.

  “Luk diz?” she asked, with half her mouth full of Dante’s stiff, pulsating dick.

  “Naw, the whole thing,” Dante said, making her deep throat him while he took pictures of her whole face.

  His Blackberry rang.

  “Damn,” he cussed, dropping the camera while the redbone continued to brain him. “Yo,” he barked into the phone, upset at the interruption. “Who this?”

  “Cream, yo! Ay, Tay, you ain’t gonna believe this shit! I know where that dude Freddie at!”

  “Word? Where?” Dante asked, almost ready to cum.

  “He down South, son. Down in the Dirty, slippin’!”

  “Ay, yo, word to Mannie! We goin’ down there today, yo, today! Be ready!” Dante yelled and hung up.

  “Who was that?” the redbone asked, now licking around the head of his dick.

  “Your clown-ass husband. Hurry up, Kandi, yo. I got a trip to make.”

  Chapter Forty

  Simone had long since stopped caring about who Freddie was fucking. She disregarded the hickies, the nights he didn’t come home, and the mornings he returned. She even ignored the numbers she found in his pockets, which, instead of throwing away, she laid on his nightstand. The only change was that she made him wear condoms whenever they had sex, which was more and more infrequent. The only thing they had in common was the joyful anticipation of their coming child. She and Freddie would share the experience of their unborn kicking inside her. She would beam proudly, and Freddie would beam, equally proud. Simone didn’t carry her grudge with an attitude; she just accepted the situation. If women were stupid enough to give him money, she was cool with spending it.

  That morning she had been lying back on the couch, watching Brown Sugar on DVD. “So when did you first fall in love with hip-hop?” She loved that movie. While lying there, she heard a knock at the door. She struggled up from the couch thinking Freddie had lost his key again or that maybe it was Kiki. She looked out the peephole and saw a man dressed in brown and a UPS truck in the parking lot.

  “Yes?” she said through the door.

  “Delivery for Simone Jackson,” he replied dryly.

  Delivery? She hadn’t ordered anything to be delivered. Then she thought that maybe it was a surprise from Freddie. He did still pamper her. She opened the door. “I’m Simone. Where do I sign?”

  “Right there,” was the last thing she heard before the delivery man held a rag up to her face. She felt herself struggle momentarily. Then there was total darkness as she faded out of consciousness.

  Chapter Forty-one

  Detectives Wilson and Crawford had been in Goldsboro for two days, held up in the Goldsboro Police Department. Little sleep and two-day stubble told the story of the endless cups of coffee and fast food they’d been through. The Goldsboro Police had been extremely helpful, but so far the detectives had been unsuccessful in tracking Freddie down. The only picture they had of him was five years old. At that time he was sixteen with cornrows and no facial hair, so he couldn’t be identified by any of the detectives. The closest they came was when the narcotics squad got involved.

  “I swear I’ve seen this guy before,” Jakes, the redneck who had taken Freddie’s money, swore. “I just can’t place where,” he stressed.

  “It’s an old picture,” Crawford explained, studying the large white man.

  Crawford was no racist, and was a city man head to toe, but like most African Americans, he had Southern roots. He could remember the elders in his family congregating and reminiscing about the days before they had migrated from the South. Looking at the sheriff, Crawford was convinced he was the type of man they’d be talking about when they spoke about being called boy.

  He probably thinks we all look alike, redneck cracker.

  “He’s probably cut his hair, maybe even grown some facial hair.” Wilson joined in. He, too, had picked up on the sheriff’s nonchalant attitude toward his partner.

  Timmons looked from Crawford to Wilson. He took the picture. “Can we get a copy of this? I’d like to show it around to a few of our informants.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks,” Wilson offered for both him and his partner. He knew Crawford was somewhat in his feeling, and he had every right to be. There was no doubt in his mind Timmons was being a dick because of the color of Crawford’s skin.

  Within a half hour, Timmons had gotten something back.

  Wilson thought they’d hit the jackpot when one of the informants turned out to be one of the crackheads who helped move Freddie’s furniture. They rushed the apartment the crackhead had told them about, only to find it empty and abandoned.

  Another dead end.

  Wilson and Crawford had already been by the Winn-Dixie and surrounding stores showing Freddie’s and Simone’s pictures, but to no avail. The only hint of a lead they got was from Brian, the Winn-Dixie manager.

  “Sorry, Detective. I can’t say that I’ve seen him before,” Brian replied.

  “Well, what about her?” Crawford asked, holding up Simone’s picture again. “She tried to use her Visa in here about a week ago.”

  Brian was rigid, struggling not to let it show. He recognized Simone’s face as soon as he saw it, and his heart sank. He hoped she wasn’t wanted, just affiliated with a wanted man. He hadn’t heard from her, and now he knew her situation. The police wouldn’t get anything out of him, or so he thought.

  “No offense, Detective . . . Crawford, is it? But this is a huge store and I see a lot of faces. I’m just here to do my job and go home,” Brian said with a slight edge in his voice that Crawford missed, but Wilson didn’t.

  Wilson knew he knew the girl. It was written all over his face the minute he laid eyes on the picture. But he didn’t know Freddie, which meant Freddie didn’t know he knew Simone.

  “Okay, sir. I understand. But if you see her, I ask that you give us a call at the Goldsboro Police Department,” Crawford instructed.

  “Sure,” Brian said. He was turning away when his eyes met Detective Wilson’s momentarily. Wilson hadn’t said a word the whole time, but Brian didn’t like the way he was looking at him. He was happy to get away from his gaze.

  “He knows her,” Wilson told Crawford while they walked back to the rental car. “I’ll bet my pension on it. I don’t know how or why, but he’s more than a casual acquaintance.”

  “Maybe he’s a family member.” Crawford shrugged. He, too, had gotten the same impression, now that Wilson mentioned it.

  Wilson shook his head. “No, because he doesn’t know Holmes.”

  Crawford looked at him. “You think?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe Miss Simone is into a lot of extracurricular activity. Whatever the case, we need a list of all his calls for the past six months, and hopefully we’ll get a tap for any future ones, too.”

  The dragnet was slowly tightening around Freddie.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Dante and Cream had reached Goldsboro as well. Their crew arrived in town in two rentals. Dante and Cream were in an Explorer, and two shooters were in a Ford Focus filled with a mini arsenal. Both shooters were Puerto Rican females who were known to get down. They were heroin addicts, but you couldn’t tell by looking at them because they were Angie Martinez/Jennifer Lopez–type dimes. But make no mistake, their guns did go off, loudly and often.

  They rode around to all the hot spots, dropping Freddie’s name, trying to find him.

  “Yeah, yo. I told son I was comin’ through,” Dante told one cat in a green Range Rover, acting like they were friends, “but I ain’t know whe
n I was gettin’ out, so I decided to surprise him.”

  But no one gave Freddie up. Those who didn’t know him couldn’t tell, and those who did wouldn’t. Eventually, word got back to Slug.

  “Two niggas in a Explorer?” Slug asked.

  “And two bad-ass Spanish mamis,” the Range Rover cat informed Slug.

  Slug thought it might be connected to Gina in some way, but with Freddie, you couldn’t tell. Maybe they really were looking for him. Slug had no idea because he no longer trusted his cousin. But since he had already made the first move, he felt he had the upper hand. So if Freddie had exported an army, he was ready to go to war, chess move for chess move. Because he already had his queen.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Simone awoke in a darkened apartment with a splitting headache. She found herself lying on a couch while two men with black bandanas tied around their faces watched her. She stiffened with fright, remembering what had transpired.

  “Just be cool, li’l mama. If your man act right, this’ll all be over in a minute,” one of them said, then turned to the other. “Call your folk.”

  The second man grabbed the phone and dialed. After a moment, he spoke into the phone, “It’s done.” Then he hung up.

  Simone looked from face to face, scared to death. “Please let me go. Whatever Freddie did, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Please,” she begged.

  “Just like a bitch,” the second cat hissed. “As long as shit is sweet and the money is comin’, it’s all good. But soon as shit get gangsta, they all fo’ self!”

  The first man laughed. “Be cool, folk. Just make the call to Freddie.”

  * * *

  Freddie was on his way back from Wilson when his cell phone rang. He turned down his Sam Scarfo CD and answered it. “What da deal?”