Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

  “It’s gonna be okay, Aunt Nes,” said Dwight to his aunt as he patted his aunt on the back. “Everything is going to be fine. The police will find those bastards. If not, I will.”

  “No!” she responded strongly. “I don’t want you to end up like him. I don’t want them to take you away from me, too. You’re all I have left, baby. I don’t know what I might do if I lost you, too. You hear me?”

  “I hear you, Auntie,” responded Dwight, putting his head down on her shoulder. “Don’t worry about me.”

  Nester got up out of her chair and took a deep breath. She took a paper towel from the stack on the table and wiped her face clear of the tears, and then she began wiping Dwight’s shirt clear of any moisture. When she felt a little better, she insisted that they go back into the living room to view the pictures. Dwight followed her into the living room and they sat on the couch beside each other. She opened the book and immediately felt her son’s presence with the first page shown. She pulled the plastic back and removed a picture of her and her son at his first birthday party. She was holding him in her arms, giving him a huge kiss on the cheek.

  “This is a picture from his first birthday,” she said, showing it to Dwight proudly. “You weren’t even born yet, baby. You see his face? Can’t you just tell that he knew how much love I had for him? Every chance I got I let that boy know how much I loved him. I would’ve done anything for my baby boy.”

  “I know, Aunt Nes,” Dwight said for assurance. “I know.”

  She turned the page and the pictures basically took them through the entire course of her son’s life. From one page to the next, she ran through the good and bad times they’d shared. From tears to laughter, and from pride to shame, that album told the story. From his birthdays, to his graduations, to his senior prom, nothing was left untold. Dwight’s intentions were good, but the stories had in fact made him a bit tired. When he let a yawn out, she took it as a sign that she’d had gone on for too long.

  “I’m sorry, honey,” she said to Dwight. “Was I rambling?”

  “Oh, nah,” Dwight replied, trying to make her feel comfortable. “I’m enjoying this.”

  “Let me get you something to drink, baby?”

  “Thank you, Aunt Nes.”

  “I’ll be right back, baby.” As she got up, she made a right out of the living room toward the kitchen when the doorbell rang.

  “I’ll get it,” hollered Dwight as he stood up to answer the door.

  “No, you just go and sit down, baby,” said Nester as she turned around toward the front door. “It’s probably just some Jehovah’s Witnesses. I’ll get rid of them and get you that drink.”

  As Dwight went to take his position back on the couch in the living room, Nester went to answer the doorbell. When she got close enough to the door for her voice to be heard, she yelled, “I’m not interested!” When there was no response, she took a glance out the peephole. BOOM, BOOM! Two loud echoing sounds resembling gunshots came from the hall in front of her that shattered the door and left it dangling from the hinges. The two shots fell directly upon the chest of Nester and flung her body six feet before she hit the floor. As she lay there lifelessly, Dwight came running from the living room and dropped himself on the floor beside her. He began crying hysterically as he could not yet figure out what had just happened. All he knew was that his aunt, whom he was just listening to talk about old times, was now lying motionless in his arms with her eyes pointed directly upward. He didn’t know what to do. He looked up at the door or what was left of it and got a slight glimpse of two men standing on the other side.

  “Yo, come on, mu’fucka!” yelled Poncho to El Don as he motioned toward the stairs. “What the fuck are you waiting for?”

  Despite the numerous yells from his brother to get his attention, El couldn’t budge from his stance. He took a glance through the huge holes that they had just put in the door and saw a face that was somewhat familiar. He lifted the shotgun back up from his side and cocked it for another shot, just to be thorough. He didn’t want to leave any witnesses. Just then, Poncho grabbed him.

  “Come on, you crazy mu’fucka! That bitch is dead; let’s go!” he said as he pulled him away from the door.

  “But, wait . . .” spat El as Poncho shoved him into the staircase for their getaway. They launched their bodies down the six flights of stairs and out of the back door where Essae and Dre had been impatiently waiting. Before they could even get the car doors completely shut, Essae hit the gas and they were off. They sped from the crime scene and never once looked back.

  When the murderers that had just taken his aunt’s life vanished, Dwight finally came to the realization that his Aunt Nester was gone. When he regained his composure, he called 9-1-1 and reported the shooting with tears still running down his distraught face. Once he’d calmed down a bit more, he made one more phone call that would serve his despair as a suitable strike back.

  “This investigation had better take a sharp turn in our direction, gentlemen,” insisted Assistant Director Chistov. “These types of inconsistencies aren’t acceptable behavior for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Have I made myself perfectly clear?”

  “Yes, sir,” responded Agent Cassett.

  “As God is my witness, sir, we won’t rest until every last one of the Time Bomb Family is either behind bars or dead and buried,” added Agent Clifton.

  When Assistant Director Chistov was satisfied with his clarification, he walked away giving agents Cassett and Clifton room to breathe. When he was gone, they shot each other a concerned look. Things had gone from bad to worse and there wasn’t anything that they could possibly do. They shared a sigh and attempted to shrug off the event and hope for the best. With any luck, there would be some kind of development. All they could do was hope for something to fall into their laps. At the exact point in time where they thought they’d exhausted every option, they got the phone call that they’d so eagerly been waiting for.

  CHAPTER 13

  YEAR — 2000

  “Yo, what the fuck took you so long, man?” asked Ceelow, as he walked away from where the Doberman had been patiently awaiting his release from a holding cell in the South Bronx. “I was in here sweating my ass off waiting for you, nigga.”

  “I deeply apologize,” replied William, trying to catch up to him. “But, it isn’t the easiest task to get a judge to grant bail when you’re charged with murder, Mr. Loew; especially with all of the evidence they have on you. Not to mention my track record with your organization. It’s like pulling teeth, Mr. Loew.”

  “Whatever, nigga,” responded Cee. “Anyway, the streets are where I need be, and now all I need to do is find this punk ass mu’fucka that ratted on me.”

  “I’d highly recommend that you don’t do anything while you’re out on bail that could jeopardize your trial. As it is almost impossible to build a defense around so much evidence pointing in your direction, I don’t think it’s constructive for you to start a war in the streets while awaiting a hearing.”

  “Listen, mu’fucka, you workin’ for me,” responded Cee, now stopping and pointing to emphasize his position. “Just do what you do, and I’ll do what I do, nigga!”

  The Doberman, though thoroughly insulted, made no comment. He simply shrugged off Cee’s statement and allowed him to continue to dig himself deeper in the hole that he was already in. What was the use? He’d just opt to go on the run and end up like his friend Peter a.k.a. Trigger. What a shame, he thought to himself.

  Cee exited the criminal courthouse on 161st in the Bronx with one thing in mind: to find the reason that he was there, and to body that mu’fucka. Some poor soul would have to pay dearly for the complications they’d caused, and they had no idea.

  Back in the tranquillity of the Bronx Park, Spits had dozed off sitting on that bench waiting for things to liven up. Normally, it would be nothing for Spits to grind all night long until the sun came up, but it wasn’t the same anymore. Four years ago seemed like forty, and he
didn’t have it in him to be that hungry, grimy mu’fucka he used to be. The fact of the matter was he’d grown up too fast and now he was feeling the outcome of all of his hard work at such an early stage in his young adulthood. Spits had endured more ups and downs by the early age of twenty than most would have had if they lived to reach two hundred.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Spits?” said a man attempting to wake him up. “Are you awake?”

  “Yeah, yeah,” Spits uttered, still half asleep. “What you want . . .dimes? You want twenties? What you want?”

  “Are you awake, Mr. Spits?”

  “What the fuck you want?” he yelled, now fully awake but a little confused as to where he was before he’d fallen asleep. Then, after regaining his whereabouts, he saw the guy reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, so he tried to get the drop on him. It looked to Spits as though the guy was about to pull a gun on him, so he quickly pulled his first and aimed it dead center of the guy’s chest. Looking into his eyes and away from his hand, he hadn’t realized that all the man was doing was reaching for the money he needed to purchase a dime bag. When Spits saw the fear in his face, he reevaluated the situation. The guy quickly put his arms in the air, revealing the ten-dollar bill he had in his hand. He suddenly came to his senses and lowered the pistol, laying it on his lap.

  “My friend Sonny told me that you had some good shit,” the guy said, still frightened from the occurrence. “I was just trying to give you my business.”

  Spits hastily shrugged off what had happened without an apology and made the sale as promptly as possible, then sent the customer on his way. When he was gone, Spits shook off what happened and told himself once more, “I’ve gotta get the fuck out of this game, man . . .soon!”

  YEAR — 1998

  “Yo, ain’t shit like the drug game, son,” Spits said to Ceelow as Ceelow sped over the George Washington Bridge in his navy blue BMW 528i. They were on their way to the Mercedes dealership in Paramus, New Jersey to get a birthday gift for Ginger. “I love this kinda shit,” he continued. “When you can just bounce and get your wifie a little Benzo for her birthday, that’s when you know, kid. I ain’t never going back, dog.”

  “I feel you, son,” agreed Ceelow. “That is some hot shit though, for real. Only if I had a broad that I could trick on, and shit. But, it’s like, I be meeting mad bitches out there that be worth that kind of shit, but then I be like, ‘ain’t no bitch worth that kind of shit.’ You feel me, son?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what the fuck you just said, but whatever, nigga,” responded Spits before he started to laugh hysterically. “Whatever-the-fuck-ever,” he said, still laughing hysterically.

  When they reached the Prestige Mercedes-Benz dealership, the salesman that Spits had used a number of times before immediately recognized him and greeted his entry. Everyone in the dealership much-admired Spits as they knew that when he came through, he would never leave empty-handed. Today, he’d be looking for a brand-new cherry-red SLK 320 fully loaded. When he was satisfied with the interior, exterior and options, he arranged to get the car delivered that evening with a big red bow, to a location that wasn’t familiar to Cee when he heard it. That was his other surprise, but it brought the curiosity out of Cee.

  “You holdin’ out, or something?” Ceelow asked as they left the dealership.

  “What you mean, son?” responded Spits as if unaware.

  “I mean that address you gave them, son. Don’t act like you don’t know. What, you got a new crib, too?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you talking about, dog,” he said, sticking to his original story.

  It didn’t take long, but Spits finally admitted to Cee that he’d bought a new house for himself and Ginger to live in together. It was supposed to be a secret until Ginger found out but now Cee and Spits were the only ones that knew. It was something that he’d previously said that he wouldn’t do, but they’d grown so much closer to each other. He felt like it was the right time.

  Planned for later that night, Spits had organized a block-party for his and Ginger’s family and friends—which basically meant everybody. Ginger and Spits were definitely a well-known couple in their community. The love that they showed everybody was most appreciated and returned ten times over. Even though all of the girls were jealous of Ginger, and all the guys were afraid of Spits, they got an unmeasured amount of admiration from the hood.

  They did it up on the Block better than anybody else could’ve ever thought to do it. It was truly inspirational. They had barbecue grills set up along 224th Street, with professional cooks controlling the flames under barbecue spare ribs and chicken, T-bone steaks, hot dogs and burgers. The speakers were set up on the roof of 666 so that the music could be heard for blocks, while DJ Supremacy handled the wheels of steel. The streets were barricaded so that they could set up tables and to give the kids room to play in the street. They had garbage containers filled with ice to keep bottles of beer, soda and champagne cool. Balloons decorated the building walls, and banners reading “Happy Birthday, Ginger” were hung in key locations to make everyone aware of the special occasion.

  The little girls were playing Double Dutch, while the little boys bothered them. The ladies were all gathered around in groups to gossip and talk about each other, while the guys drank beers and played dice in the courtyard of the building. When the music stopped, everyone’s attention was centered on the street. When a white stretch limousine turned the corner, it was obvious that Spits and Ginger were about to make their grand entrance. The limo trickled down the block slowly while everyone watched on in anticipation.

  “What would she be wearing?” the ladies asked themselves.

  This nigga is doin’ it, the fellas thought to themselves.

  When the pearly-white stretch Mercedes-Benz reached the front of 666, it came to a halt. The DJ put the needle to the wax and all that could be heard at first was the static at the beginning of the record. By the time Jigga’s voice came on, everybody knew exactly what song it was.

  “Yo, take the bass-line out . . .

  Spits stepped out of the limo first, dressed extremely low-key sporting only a crispy white T-shirt, a blue pair of Iceberg jeans, white on white Nike Uptowns and a Yankees fitted cap.

  “ . . .All right, now let it bump.”

  Ginger stepped out, surprisingly also dressed casual, wearing a fitted Yankees T-shirt and a denim Iceberg skirt, with her hair in braids. When the song dropped, everyone sang along.

  “It’s a hard knock life for us . . .It’s a hard knock life for us . . .Instead of treated, we get tricked . . .Instead of kisses, we get kicked . . .It’s a hard knock life!”

  Everybody started going crazy all at once. The entire block felt the energy that Spits and Ginger generated when they arrived, blowing up the spot as usual. Everybody was having the time of their lives, and it was greatly appreciated and well-deserved, just as expected from an event that Spits had planned.

  This is the kind of thing that should be organized at least once every summer for everybody to unwind and have fun, just to escape the daily grind and give back to the community. Besides this block party, Spits and the rest of the Time Bombs had regularly funded bus rides to Six Flags Great Adventure, Dorney Park, various ski resorts and shopping outlets such as in Reading, Pennsylvania and Woodbury Common. As much enjoyment as they took from providing so many opportunities for the youth in their community to experience things they didn’t have a chance to experience, the positive was almost always met with an equal amount of negativity. With their popularity growing in the hood, the hate for their organization was growing just as much, if not more. They had no idea, but the Federal Bureau of Investigation—among others—had been making an attempt at building an extremely error-proof case against TB for some time now. And now, with their most recent merriment, the fire that grew so deep into the Bureau was only fueled.

  If Spits would’ve only paid a little bit more attention to the company that he kept, fed, and enter
tained at the block party, he would’ve come across a few of the Bureau’s best. From the train tracks on White Plains Road, they took pictures of the whole entire event. From the street, they could actually co-mingle with the hoods that secretly controlled the inner-workings of the TB organization. That day was a very structural day for the FBI. With the background they’d obtained on their own, plus the assistance they’d gotten from haters and snitches alike, they’d really been making some headway. The only thing now was to catch some of the organization heads dirty, so they still had their work cut out for them.

  After partying all night on the Block, Spits had gotten too exhausted to even remember that the night’s events weren’t completely done. Now that it was well after midnight and Ginger’s birthday had officially begun, it was time for him to give her the presents that were waiting for her in Marlboro, New Jersey, where their new house stood. Although it had slipped Spits’ mind where they were supposed to end up at the end of that night, it’s a good thing the limousine driver didn’t forget. Spits had it worked out with him from earlier in the day what they were going to do and where they would end up, but the “Donnie P.” had his mind twisted. When they entered the vehicle, the driver took it upon himself to deliver them to their final destination. With the both of them asleep in the rear of the limo, Spits didn’t wake until they were already merging onto the Garden State Parkway from the NJ Turnpike. From the Parkway they would hit Route 9, then Route 18 to get to Route 79 towards the Matawan/ Marlboro exit. Spits grew more and more excited with every corner that was turned. Every stop sign made the anticipation grow deeper and deeper into his gut.