“That shit is irrelevant. You been found guilty of treason. Does any Governor feel that the decision is wrong?”
Silence followed, which meant that none of the Governors present disputed Vee's decision.
“Wayne, you are now considered an enemy of the state for your treasonous acts. Treason against another Governor carries a maximum penalty of Cold War.”
Wayne shuddered at the verdict.
“You gone pay for Governor Bing to get his lady out the County. Nigga, that new Buick Regal of yours, you can hand over the keys and the title. Any money or product you got, hand that shit over too. If you don't we gone fuck you up and if you try and go to the twisters on us, we gone snuff yo pussy ass.”
Dazed at the quick verdict and still feeling the effects of the ass whupping that Bing gave him, Wayne stumbled backward. Vee nodded to Tango and the short Governor struck out. His blow landed with startling accuracy on Wayne's jaw. Wayne's jaw flapped loosely as he tried to talk, then he slumped to his knees—passed out from the pain.
Vee directed, “Bing, take Tango, Itchy, and the Twins. Grab this nigga and take him to his tip. Take everything. If his bitch home and she get in the way, then whup her ass too.”
This was working out better than he could have ever planned it. If his Governors beat up Sakawa, who would she have to talk to but him. Sweet. It wouldn't be long now before she came running to him.
Watching his Governors dragging Wayne out of the garage door, he said, “After y'all take his shit, dump this nigga in the dog-shit basement where we be fighting the pits at. Make sure y'all piss on his trick ass, too.”
The intensive care unit at the Cook County hospital was ancient, but clean. The ward had been sectioned off into dual bedrooms so its inhabitants could have a bit of privacy. Dr. Peterson directed his brown, beat-up Rockports to the third cubicle of the ward. He was followed closely by several new nurses and two interning doctors. The interning doctors were a blond-haired golden boy, top-of-his-class type and a young, red-haired, pinch-faced woman hiding her wandering eye behind a pair of almost masculine-looking eyeglasses.
With the nurses in their wake, the trio of doctors stopped outside the third cubicle. Ceremoniously Dr. Peterson pulled a clipboard from the wall outside of the cubicle and flipped through the chart. With an air of arrogance he turned to the interns, seemingly ignoring the nurses.
In clipped tones he said, “This patient was brought in several days ago. A Wayne Maxwell. He was severely beaten. He suffered a badly broken jaw and severe brain trauma. He slipped into a coma, which is a normal finding when we are dealing with brain injuries. It's kind of like the brain shuts itself down for repairs. As of this morning his CAT shows his brain activity seems to have returned to near normal. Any questions so far?”
The redheaded woman doctor spoke up.
“Uh, Dr. Peterson, in your professional opinion what is the percentage of patients who return to normal after these types of brain injuries?”
Dr. Peterson looked up from the chart and ran his eyes over the intern. She was a little homely with her compressed countenance, but her scarlet mane was definitely an eye-catcher. I wonder if her pubes are fire red too, he thought before answering. “You never can tell with injuries of this nature. Sometimes the patient experiences deficiencies in his motor skills, some memory loss, especially centered around the incident in which the trauma occurred. Other times they simply wake up as if from a deep sleep. Then still, we've had some who don't wake up at all. All we can do is hope for the best. There is still a lot that we don't know about the brain and its intricacies. Is everyone ready to have a look at the patient?”
“Yes, sir,” the blond intern chirped. He was mad at himself that he hadn't asked such a question.
“All right then, let's have a look-see,” Dr. Peterson said as he pulled back the curtain to enter the cubicle.
Wayne's bed was empty.
“That's funny,” Dr. Peterson said as he peered at the chart in his hand. “It seems our illustrious friend is out and about. I didn't schedule him for any tests so he should be here. One of you please get the ward nurse.”
The blond intern bolted before the pinch-faced intern could move. In his hurry he bumped into one of the new nurses, who made a kissing sound. The other nurses smothered their giggles as Dr. Peterson rejoined them in the ward hallway. A few seconds later the blond intern returned with a bored-looking, shapely Black nurse a few steps behind him.
The seasoned nurse gave the new nurses a knowing look as she brushed one of her long, brown-tipped dreadlocks from her face. “How can I help you, Doctor?” she asked with a note of impatience in her voice. “I'm shorthanded for the day and I have patients to attend to.”
Dr. Peterson looked down his nose at her. “Nurse, I need to know what happened to my patient.”
“What patient?”
“Wayne Maxwell. His chart doesn't have him listed to be anywhere else, but he isn't in his bed.”
The nurse shoved past the doctor and walked into the cubicle. It was official—Wayne's bed was empty. She turned back to Dr. Peterson. “He was in here when my shift started this morning. I only had a moment to peek in on him, to check his vitals and everything, but he was here. He was awake and mumbling to himself when I checked his drip and took his vitals. He didn't even seem to notice me, just kept on mumbling to himself like I wasn't there. Everything was fine so I left. We don't have a lot of hands around here so I had to keep moving.” She ran her pretty brown hands through her locks again. “Hold on.”
She peeked into the small cupboard that served as a closet for the patient's clothes. “His clothes are gone. Looks like this guy took a walk.” She strode out of the cubicle. “I'll have to alert security just in case he's wandering around the premises, but it looks like he may have DAMA'd himself.”
Shaking his big head, Dr. Peterson wrote Discharged Against Medical Advice on the top sheet of the medical chart in his hand. “Okay, I've got a GSW two rooms down. Now this one won't be getting up and walking away even if he wants to. The bullet crushed several vertebrae causing irreparable damage to the spinal column. This way, ladies and gents …”
“MAN, THIS MOTHERFUCKA DONE HAD US WAITING ALL DAY! Fuck this bougie-ass nigga, SS.”
Solemn Shawn leaned over to his longtime friend and second-in-command and spoke calmly. “Stay cool, bruh. It's just a stall tactic. These politician cats like to play this game. It makes them feel important.”
Dante wouldn't allow himself to be pacified that easily. “SS, I don't dig this country-ass shit. Man, we put this motherfucka on. Mr. State Representative wouldn't be shit without us. I knew that we shouldn't'a fucked with this stud when he came crawling to us when he was an alderman. Now that he a big-time state rep, we got to sit out here and twiddle our fucking thumbs while we wait for him to get around to us. What kind of bullshit is this?”
Solemn Shawn removed his Cartier eyeglasses from his face and held them up to the light. From his back pocket he produced a silk kerchief and used it to wipe the lenses of his spectacles. Satisfied that they were free of dust particles and debris, he returned them to his face.
“Look, Tay, this can't be helped. I know that we are responsible for this cat being in office and he knows it too. That's not what's important. What is important is that he honors our friendship. See, when some people get placed in these positions of supposed importance, they develop a case of what I like to call convenient, selective amnesia. I've seen it many times before. They just need their memories jogged, you know?”
Grumpily Dante grumbled, “Yeah, whatever, Solitaire, I know the fuck that I'm tired of waiting for this nigga.”
Solemn Shawn was in total agreement with that statement. He looked at the overflowing magazine rack in the corner of the room. He walked over to it and chose a Time magazine from between copies of Sports Illustrated and People. Sitting with his legs crossed, he thumbed through the issue while Dante chose to wait in silence and fume.
Anot
her fifteen minutes passed.
Solemn Shawn closed the magazine and calmly got to his feet. He walked over to the receptionist's desk. Leaning over slightly, he spoke quietly to the young man fielding the office's incoming calls.
“Look, man, it's almost three thirty. I've been here since two forty-five for a three-o'clock meeting.”
The man lisped, “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but you have to realize that State Representative Washington is an extremely busy man. He has been informed that you are waiting, but at this moment he's taking an extremely important conference call from the capital, sir.”
Dante left his seat and joined Solemn Shawn at the reception-ist's desk. He arrived just in time for some spittle from the young man's pronunciation of “sir” to land on the back of his hand. Disgustedly he wiped the back of his hand on his pants.
“Damn, man, we asked for the news, not the weather,” Dante said.
Solemn Shawn continued, “Call Washington again and let him know that Mr. Terson and associate are here to see him. Let him know that we've been very patient so far, but our patience is wearing thin.”
“You got that shit right,” Dante added.
“As a matter of fact, I want you to take that headset off, get up, and go tell him.”
The receptionist started to object, but he sensed that the calm man meant business. He deserted the receptionist's booth and quickly walked over to the state representative's office door. He knocked softly twice and entered the office, careful to close the door behind him.
State Representative Coleman Washington was sitting behind his massive oaken desk. His attention was divided between the telephone receiver glued to his ear and a small pile of cocaine on a black saucer, so he didn't notice his receptionist enter the office.
He continued his conversation on the telephone. “ … look out for me. You know that money been slow. All of this government mole shit got everybody scared to offer or take.” Sniff, sniff. “I know, I know. Yeah, that's what I was just thinking. We got to go back to block grant hustling, but it got to be some good shit.” Sniff, sniff. “I got a few irons in the fire with a couple of shady preachers. Okay, I can do that, but I need you to get the ball rolling on that thing that we talked about.” Sniff.
Washington looked up and noticed his receptionist. Sniff. He held the mouthpiece of the telephone to his striped dress shirt. “What the fuck do you want?” he whispered fiercely.
“Uh, sir, I, uh…”
“Spit it out, boy. This here is an important call.”
“Well, sir, there are two men. Uh, a Mr. Terson and party, and they are demanding to see you this very moment. They say that they've waited long enough and that—”
“I don't care who the hell they are. You tell them I said—”
Suddenly the office door opened and Solemn Shawn casually strolled into the office followed by Dante.
“Tell them you said what?” the gang leader asked calmly.
Washington grabbed the saucer of cocaine and slid it into his desk drawer. He plastered a shit-eating grin on his face. He said, “SS, how have you been? Sorry about the wait. Just give me a moment to finish this call and I'll be right with you…. Uh, I'm sorry about that, Senator. Where were we? Oh yeah, I need …”
Dante walked over to the desk and removed the telephone receiver from Washington's hand. Without so much as a word, he returned the receiver to its cradle and took a seat on the corner of Washington's desk. The state rep was made noticeably uncomfortable by the Apostle's proximity.
“Hold Washington's calls,” Solemn Shawn said to the receptionist.
The young man backed out of the room with his hand to his throat and returned to the receptionist's booth. He pulled an organizer out of his backpack and made a quick notation in it. “Pile of cocaine on desk, snorting it. Visited by two thugs.” Satisfied, he closed the organizer and returned it to his bag.
“Job security,” he clucked as he placed the telephone headset on his head.
In the state rep's office, Washington was trying to get Dante off of the corner of his desk. “Dante, wouldn't you like a seat?”
“I've got a seat, Coleman,” Dante replied nastily.
Beads of sweat began to form on Washington's balding pate. Trying to appear at ease, he crossed and recrossed his legs, taking care not to wrinkle his tailored slacks. His shirt began to develop wet stains under the arms.
Washington said, “Sorry about the wait, SS. I had to take that call. I'm trying to line up all the people I can behind that project I talked to you about.”
Solemn Shawn asked, “Why did you have me waiting out there in the reception area like I was here begging for your help or something?”
“It wasn't like that, SS. I'm telling you I had to take that call. These guys are pretty important and they can get me the kind of financial backing we'll need to get over the hump.”
Solemn Shawn waved his hand. “Quit bullshitting me. Roll up your right sleeve.”
“Come on, that isn't necessary.”
“Would you stop talking and roll up your sleeve.”
Washington held on to the cuff of his sleeve like it was going to fly away if he released it. “That isn't necessary; I understand.”
Still Solemn Shawn persisted. “I want you to over stand. Roll up your sleeve.”
This time Washington was silent; his pleading was more in his eyes, but Solemn Shawn didn't back down. Slowly he unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and rolled up the sleeve. He had to push it to get past his elbow. On his biceps was a three-inch A with a halo— the Apostles' insignia.
Surprised, Dante laughed. “Well, I'll be a one-eyed motherfucka. I forgot you got that on yo arm back in the Charles.”
Washington didn't say anything, he simply stared at the badge on his arm as if it were foreign to him. To him, that tattoo was a reminder of places where he didn't ever want to live again, things that he didn't ever want to be a part of again.
“I hate to say it but now you seem to have forgotten where you came from,” Shawn reprimanded. “You wouldn't be here today if it wasn't for the Apostles. You've forgotten that those dudes back in Charles were taking your food every day and that they wanted to take your manhood. You seem to have forgotten all of the things we did on your behalf during your campaign.”
Washington protested, “But I never asked you for help.”
“You didn't have to, Coleman. You are our brother and regardless of what you may think, we wouldn't jeopardize that relationship. And you asked for my help on this one and I wouldn't refuse an Apostle any reasonable request.”
Washington protested, “I'm the one taking all the risk by coming to you. You and I both know that over the years you've been involved with many illegal things. If who you are got out and that you were here now, the media would have a field day with this. They would crucify me. You know that they love to hang politicians out to dry. Especially Black ones.”
Solemn Shawn didn't bite. “Really, you're insulting your own intelligence. You know as well as me that over the years as a politician you've done just as much dirt. Just of the legal kind. If you felt that meeting with me would jeopardize your career you wouldn't have me here now. You're not really an angel anyway. I'll be the first one to admit that if you stop looking for payoffs, and stop shoveling coke into your nose, you could truly be an asset to your people and community. All of that said, tell me what you're looking for from us to build this center.”
Coleman Washington retreated into politician mode. “I'll tell you first that everything has got to be free to the people. It has to be a place where kids can go besides the streets. I want everything in this place. Swimming pool, full gym, state-of-the-art exercise equipment. Health and nutrition courses, accredited college courses, job program, trades. In short, everything we deem necessary to help heal our wounded community.”
“I see,” Solemn Shawn said, tenting his hands under his chin. “And just what stage are you at in the planning of this place?”
“First, I got my alderman cronies together to help us with the zoning and the building permits. Second, the place will cost about five million to build. I've got some people who will furnish the equipment. Hell, the Bears are donating a state-of-the-art fitness center in the place. The only problem we're experiencing is getting people to throw their hats in the ring initially. I mean…sure, people will donate after the fact, but we need cash to even fence off the land we're hoping that you're going to donate to this project.”
Solemn Shawn began to speak, but Washington wasn't listening. He was too busy working the numbers in his head. He thought, If I could get those dummies to give me at least $300,000, with the other people I have on the line I could come in with a few thousand more than $5 million. The contractors already told me they can do the job for $4.75 million. With the right amount of maneuvering I can keep the change. I'll call in Monty to crunch the numbers, then …
Solemn Shawn's voice woke him from his thoughts. “Coleman, what's up, man? Give me a number.”
“Well, you already know that we're going to need that lot of land,” Coleman said, as he reached for his Rolodex. “That plus three hundred thousand dollars should get this thing off the ground.”
“Done,” Solemn Shawn said as he stood up. “We'll smooth out the details later. I'll be in touch.”
Dante vacated his perch on the state rep's desk, walked over to the office door, and opened it for Shawn.
Coleman was already busy dialing a number on the telephone. He looked up at his retreating guests.
“SS, I'll make sure that I get you a copy of the plans as soon as possible.”
“I'll be looking forward to going over them too. I'll make sure the deed to that land is dropped off here.”
“Oh, and please don't leave it with the receptionist. Tell whoever is going to bring it to put it in my hands only.”
“Will do, Mr. State Rep.”
The Apostles Page 4