Moses Scriptures

by Hannibal Black

  Moses Scriptures

  August 10th, 1996

  August 11, 1996

  August 12, 1996

  August 12th, 1996 II

  August 13, 1996

  August 14, 1996

  August 15, 1996

  August 16, 1996

  August 17, 1996

  August 18, 1996

  August 19, 1996

  August 20, 1996

  August 21, 1996

  August 22, 1996

  August 23, 1996

  Let us raise Our glass to what has taken place in the past and for our hopes of what’s to come may our strut keep a good gate and may our luck have a great run ~

  W. Spade

  August 10th, 1996

  I sat there still, frozen, staring at their frigid faces, listening to their cold conversations, that they considered comforting.

  "She looks good."

  "Are you kidding? She looks gorgeous!"

  Spoke the two ladies sandwiching me on the plastic-covered sofa.

  Their names and voices I had heard a million times before, but they were still strangers to me.

  The lady to my right was Pearl, she appeared to be in her late sixties, with sagging face of a shar pei, cracked red lipstick a black bubble mole on her cheek and the squeaky voice of a boy trying to find his way through puberty. On her lap sat a paper plate filled with deviled eggs and crackers so many I wondered if she was making it her dinner.

  To my left was Delores, a large woman with a ring on every finger and wide brim bonnet that kept poking me in the eye.

  Her loud laugh and yellow and brown Jack o' lantern smile gave off the smell of a carton of cigarettes, this combined with her strong perfume did more to curl my stomach than their conversation.

  "You know Moses, your mother was a lovely person," Delores said.

  These were the first words directed at me in over an hour.

  Just as I was about to thank Delores, for her sympathy, Pearl interrupted.

  "You know Delores, this is the best wake I've been to in about six years."

  "Six years, which one is that?" Delores asked.

  "I'm talking about Wilma's wake, they had a whole lot of food, and Sister Louise played the organ that night."

  "Oh yeah, I remember Sister Louise could play that organ, God rest her soul."

  What the hell were these ladies talking about? My mother hadn't even made it to the cemetery. Yet, these two old nags could not find a better show of respect.

  What made my mother consort with these broads was beyond me.

  My queue to vacate came as I watched Pearl litter the kaleidoscope colored carpet with cracker crumbs and egg whites and then the smell. Someone broke the wind beyond repair.

  Delores and I turned our noses up at each other as Pearl confirmed the source of the gas leak by mumbling under her breath.

  "Excuse me."

  I got right up without saying a word to either, dying for fresh air, I made my way through the suffocating crowd of masquerading mourners; hearing them tell old jokes as if they were new, adventure stories of their latest vacation. But not from any of the voices in the many conversations did I hear my mother's name mentioned.

  As I inched my way to the exit, I saw her holding court like an heiress to an unknown thrown.

  I looked into her eyes and watched her shed a swamp full of crocodile tears as her loyal subjects fawned and fought over who would fan her and dry her tear soaked cheeks.

  It was the queen of high drama, dressed fashionably as usual in a black dress.

  When she let out a yell, only I knew we were in for one of her academy award winning fainting spells that would send her subjects into a fever pitch show of affection, which would be just enough to coax her back to consciousness.

  I would have slapped her face from shoulder to shoulder if she wasn't my sister.

  The words Melody has fainted rushed out of the mouth of one of her subjects; happy, I'm sure to be the first to mention the obvious.

  I had seen her performance a thousand times before, and I wasn't about to stay for the whole show.

  I finally made my way out of the door. It struck me strange that the night air did more to comfort me than the so-called consoling indoors. However, the summer night silence and the sharp sense of loneliness soon cut that off.

  Being inside I could trick my mind into believing that I was at a party for my mother and she hadn't arrived, yet being outside watered my eyes to the realization that there was no party and my mother would never be back.

  Feeling like I had enough privacy to get into my own emotional episode, I put my head in my head in my hand and cried what felt to be a million tears.

  In the distance I could hear the blaring bass of a car stereo that kept getting closer, it reminded me of the theme from Jaws.

  As the music got louder, I rubbed my eyes dry; when I opened them the car was in front of me.

  The headlights temporarily blinded me. But I did not need sight to recognize the chromed out seventy-six Cadillac in front of me.

  The driver got out of the car; the first things I saw were his shiny black alligator shoes.

  I watched him ease them into the concrete like he was about 'to walk on hot coals.

  The caramel colored cat with the quaffed goatee stood about six feet, three inches shorter than me.

  He was decorated in creased black slacks, matching silk shirt, gold link necklace, and a bracelet. His head was covered in cornrows. He approached me expressionless. We embraced.

  "Moses, I'm sorry, I'm late, partner. I had some money things to take care of. How is everything?"

  "Priest, there ain't no love in there. Let's ride."

  When Priest started up the car, I realized the theme from Jaws was Curtis Mayfield's Super Fly.

  Priest and I sat in silence, as the classic Cadillac hovered over the desolate boulevard.

  The street lamps we passed played the flashing lights between mental slides I was reviewing in my mind, picturing Priest and I running the streets from pre-school to the present.

  Our friendship had been the only constant in my ever-changing life.

  "Now look Moses, I know you’re feeling bad, but when we get to the bar we're not talking about nothing sad tonight, I'll buy you a taste of whatever you like.” Priest said.

  I appreciated his concern, but I also knew there were two reasons why we were headed to the bar. The first was as he stated, his genuine sympathy for my situation. The second was the Bar where Priest worked.

  Priest ran numbers part-time and was a full-time bookmaker.

  He would always boast about how he was in love with the three W's winning, women, and wine.

  I shared his passion for the first two, but while I had graduated to Cabernet, Priest still considered himself a connoisseur of the twist top variety.

  We arrived at the bar. As we entered Priest went into his usual procedure, pausing on his entrance, posturing, throwing his shoulders back and head up, looking slowly left then right.

  This would elicit a favorable remark from some faceless voice in the crowded bar like "Hide you money women and wine Priest is on time."

  Priest response would always be the same.

  "I'm here to turn you sinners into winners if you're willing to pay for your sins."

  We slowly walked through the sparsely decorated bar; the jukebox was oozing out a blues tune that seemed to be in sync with our every step.

  From all the tables arose a smoldering inferno of cigarette and cigar smoke.

  We sat in a corner booth, which Priest affectionately called his office.

  A barmaid came over to take our order. I assumed she was new because I had never seen her before.

>   Her big dimples and unlined face gave me the impression that she couldn't have been a day over twenty-one.

  When she came back with the drinks, I looked into her eyes. I couldn’t help but think that this seedy atmosphere would soon erode any and all the innocence she was hired with.

  After a few more rounds and some small talk Priest threw a curve in the conversation.

  "Moses, I got some work for you."

  Now those words coming from Priest was the equivalent of asking me to bungee jump with dental floss.

  As far as private investigating goes I'm never apprehensive about the work I receive on my answering machine like taking hidden photos of some fool changing a tire, when he supposed to be at home nursing a broken back he received from his fraudulent slip and fall at work; Or videotaping Mr. Deadbeat dad going out three times a week to a four-star restaurant. But the work Priest could offer me was from a whole different world.

  My bet was that he probably assumed I was inebriated enough to agree with anything he suggested.

  To tell you the truth, we dodging sobriety all night did leave me willing to give him an audience.

  I knew it would be high risk, but that also meant high wages, weighing all of this I swung at his curve and hit a sacrifice fly by asking.

  "What type of work you talking about?"

  Priest responded with the smile of a diabolical villain whose scheme was going according to plan.

  "I got this guy who's been betting with me for about a year =. This dud is loaded. He bets on every baseball game, every football game, basketball, boxing. Everything multiple plays, he wants to be in on it all. You would think win some lose some; dude seems to care if he wins one. Even when he plays the policy, he boxes more than U.P.S.

  Anyway, for the last six months, he's been complaining about his marriage. He thinks his wife is cheating on him, knowing how pre-occupied he is with gambling I wouldn't doubt it. But I told him, my man, Moses could provide some top-notch surveillance so that he could know for sure. Plus I told him you get paid by the hour, and I didn't know how long it would take. I told him things like that seem to drag on. He didn't even blink. He tells me however long it takes, just as long as we catch her."

  Pausing then responding to my shocked expression, Priest continued.

  "I know the guy's a curiosity, but the way I see it, you just keep feeding his suspicion from time to time, and we can milk this cow to the next millennium. What do you think?"

  Running the whole thing over in my head once, then twice just in case my drunken state staggered over a detail.

  "Sounds good to me."

  "Good I'll set up a meeting, and I'll call you and let you know when it's going down."

  Priest's night was just begging while mine was ending. He cell phoned a cab to take me to the crib again offered his condolences and assured me that I would hear from him soon.

  Finally home, I made my way up the stairs.

  My exhausted body had guaranteed unconsciousness as soon as my head hit the pillow.

  I opened the door to my apartment and got to the bedroom without turning on the light.

  Feeling like I was in the last round of a twenty-four-hour boxing match. I fell to the bed as life had just landed a thunderous right hook. I was a ten count from being out when the phone rang. It sounded like a bomb had gone off. I leaped out of bed and scrambled around the room trying to find the receiver.

  The ringing was still vibrating my ear, as I answered with the voice of Lazarus.

  "Hello?"

  "How dare you leave your mother's wake? Those people were there for you, for us. They didn’t have to come. We are a reflection of our mother, how do you think that makes her look, that's total disrespect!"

  It was Melody, yelling like our phones were two cans attached with string.

  "Ma gave her whole life to you, and you can't give her one evening. I even passed out but did you care? No! You still owe money for the hospital bills and if you think you're going to."

  Before she could say another word, I hung up and unplugged the phone.

  I hope tomorrow's better than today.

  August 11, 1996

  I slept like a rock and dreamt of nothing.

  As always the morning came quicker than I expected. I awakened to the sound of rain on the window.

  I stood up, stretched, showered and found some aspirin. I wrestled with the hangover that had me in a headlock.

  After I got dressed, I realized the rain was my chance to slip on my new black trench coat. It, along with my applejack cap and large umbrella kind of made me feel like a private eye.

  As I grabbed my wallet off the table, I noticed there was a message on my answering machine.

  I casually pressed the button to play the message; unaware that it was the detonator for an emotional bomb.

  “Hello Moses”

  I knew the voice right away; I stood there with my mouth and eyes wide open, until my surprise, involuntarily sat me down.

  It was her, the message continued.

  “I was so sorry to hear about your mother; I hope you’re doing all right… Give Melody my condolences. Bye Moses.”

  The way she said my name was like hearing the refrain from an old song that magically takes you back to the place and time. My mind was automatically thrown back to years past, in the coffee shop watching her pretty smile playing peek-a-boo behind the morning paper.

  Before I knew it, I was up, walking the rainy streets, with my umbrella closed.

  Still thoughts of her flooded my mind. I swam in a river of romantic memories, seeing her biting her bottom lip, staring at me with those smoky brown eyes. Before I knew it, I was soaking wet.

  I entered the coffee shop and sat down. My waitress came over and poured me a cup of coffee as she does every morning.

  I was still drifting on memories when Tyreek slid into my booth.

  “Fuck Priest!” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear, except me. I was still in a daze. I didn’t listen to him until the second time.

  I continued to prepare my coffee by putting in two creams and two sugars.

  I was very close to ignoring him altogether, seeing as how Tyreek had a habit of telling everyday events as if it was tabloid television.

  He was always flying off the handle about something.

  Seeing how frail he was, you’d think he would guard his safety and stop spreading such sensationalism.

  I stirred my coffee and took a few sips before responding.

  “What are you trying to complicate my life with today, Tyreek?”

  His eyes got wide, and his voice got loud.

  “Priest ain’t shit!”

  Now, usually, when people talk down to Priest, it’s because they owe him money and can’t pay. Knowing this, I tailored my retort.

  “Gambling ain’t any way to make a living Tyreek.”

  I would always include his name, with whatever I said to him, to avoid his trademark phrase, “Who are you talking to?

  Tyreek continued; “I’m not talking about gambling, I’m talking about punk ass Priest!”

  Tyreek was beginning to get on my nerves, with all the riddles. It was way too early for that shit.

  I answered him with the same intensity he gave me.

  “Look Tyreek you’re either going to tell me what the fuck you’re talking about, or you're going to excuse yourself from my breakfast.”

  “You know Tasha?”

  I didn’t even respond to this question; he knew I knew Tasha.

  I just stared at him with aggravation.

  “I think Priest is fucking Tasha! Tasha’s damn near my wife!”

  Now Tasha was his women, and they did live together, but as far as being his wife, I thought was a little ambitious. They were breaking up all the time, and the fact that they hadn’t killed each other in the process was a miracle.

  “Tyreek why don’t you ask Tasha?”

  I ’m not asking anybody anything. But when I find out, it’s g
oing to be some shit! Cause when I find out, I’m not asking, I’m blasting!”

  At the same time, he looked around, reached in his back pocket and placed a pistol on the table.

  I looked at him and the gun. My first impulse was to break his skinny frame in half, for threatening Priest. However, the drawn pistol had me searching for another angle.

  I would’ve automatically dismissed his theatrics if he wasn't talking about Tasha. She had his nose open wider than projects windows in July. Plus, love could quickly turn this moron into a murderer.

  My waitress came. Sat my breakfast down, and was alarmed at the sight of the pistol on the table.

  She looked at Tyreek and then me.

  She had known me for years, and we got along well.

  She was a little younger than me, maybe twenty-five.

  She was hip to the streets, and while the gun on the table startled her, it didn’t scare her.

  I gave her a wink and shook my head to let her know everything was okay; she told me if I needed anything to let her know. Then rolled her eyes at Tyreek.

  I hoped she wouldn’t call the authorities; getting old boy locked up would have just fanned the flames. It would be easier to handle this in-house.

  I knew what he wanted. His whole act was to get me to find out for him.

  Tyreek deep down hoped he was wrong. He also knew that if I didn’t agree to find out, that he could assume that I’d tell Priest before he got to him, which left me with no other reasonable angle then to appease his anger and agree to find out.

  It’s not like we were killers. It’s just that where and how we all grew up; the threat of being killed could turn you into a killer over-

  Night.

  I carefully worked my angle.

  “Why don’t you let me find out for you Tyreek? I do this type of a thing for a living.”

  “Well, how long do you think it’s gonna take?”

  “Well I don’t know Tyreek, but it won’t take twenty-five to life.”

  I knew by saying this I could work some of my leverage, because while in this delicate situation, I couldn’t convey to him that I’d kill him, if he laid a hand on Priest, but I could in a roundabout way convince him of the consequences of not finding the patience to wait for a favor.