Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

“What?” asked Trigger.

  “I’m dirty, nigga!” responded Spits. “I got a gat under the seat and two bricks in the trunk. Don’t say shit. Just let me handle it.”

  “What the fuck you doing with two kilos of—?” asked Trigger before Spits cut him off.

  “Shhh!” Spits said with a finger on his lips. “Just hold me down, nigga. I got this.”

  Just as Spits had the words out of his mouth, one of the police officers was in the street on his side of the car about to knock on the window. When Spits rolled down the window, he attempted to talk his way out of the situation while the other police officer came up on Trigger’s side, shining a flashlight into his face and around the car.

  “What seems to be the problem, sir?” asked Spits with the utmost respect. “Did I do some—?”

  “Just shut up, okay, boy?” spat Lester as he glanced around the interior of the vehicle with his own flashlight.

  The comment seemed to throw Spits out of his frame of mind. He completely lost focus and momentarily held a confused look on his face until he heard, “Who the fuck you callin’ ‘boy,’ mu’fucka?” Trigger argued as he stared up at Lester, and then up at Albert, as if he should also be offended by the statement just made by his partner.

  “Listen, youngster,” began Lester, pointing his comments toward Spits as if giving him the opportunity to calm Trigger down. “Let’s not have this get out of hand now. Tell this asshole to shut the fuck up or you’ll both be headed through the system tonight. How would you all like that?” He paused for a bit to establish control of the situation. When Spits motioned for Trigger to relax, he continued. “All right now, hand over your license and registration and maybe you two can go home tonight.”

  When they both went back to their police car to review the documents they’d just obtained, Spits took a deep breath. He’d hoped that they would just concentrate on him and not Trigger, although Trigger wasn’t making that easy for them to do. If they were to run Trigger’s government name through the system they would find cause for searching them both and the vehicle, and then they would be fucked for real. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Spits of Trigger. “I tell you I got a burner and two kees in the car with us and you jump out the window with this rah-rah with these pigs. Dog, this ain’t no who got the biggest dick contest. Fuck that black and white shit. This shit is about green, nigga.”

  “You right,” Trigger simply said, realizing that what he had said was wrong given their situation. “I wasn’t thinking. My bad, son. You know I’m not even the type to come out of character, but I have a lot on my mind right now.”

  “Yeah, you’re bad,” Spits said. “Now if these bitch-ass niggas decide they feel like fucking with us, it’s a wrap.”

  “What do you think?” Lester asked Al as they sat in their car behind Spits and Trigger.

  “Don’t even ask me what I think, Les,” Al responded. “I didn’t even want to waste our time in the first place.”

  “Did you see how that fucker reacted when I called his friend ‘boy’?” asked Lester. “You know I don’t talk like that; I just wanted to see how they would respond.”

  “Yeah, I gotcha,” Al said, still a little skeptical of his excuse.

  “Maybe they are just some spoiled little brats like you said, huh?”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Let’s say they’re drug dealers. They wouldn’t be stupid enough to fuck with us, right?” he asked, still trying to figure out what they should do.

  “I would imagine not, Les,” Al responded, still unenthused. “Would you mind if we got to the damn department now?”

  Lester and Albert came to an agreement and evidently had nothing to hold Trigger and Spits on, so they let them go. When Spits pulled away from the curb with his freedom still intact, he didn’t care about what Trigger had to tell him; not even a little bit. The next stop would be LaGuardia Airport where Trigger would be on the next flight to California. Then after that, he would take his package to its destination.

  As for Lester and Albert, the rest of their day would not be as satisfying. When they finally got to the police department, they had some guests that were not at all pleased with their delayed arrival. They were immediately escorted to their superior’s office, Lieutenant Howard Fitzgerald, to discuss what they’d missed while they were busy with what had kept them from a critical visit from the FBI.

  “We went over some very important details with these fellows from the Bureau this morning regarding a crime family that is known in the streets as the Time Bombs,” said Lieutenant Fitzgerald as he sat across from Officers Moore and Hargrove. “It seems as though the numerous advances made on the part of the FBI in pursuing this criminal enterprise have fallen short of victorious. Now, they’ve collected a huge amount of evidence, including a living eyewitness who’s willing to testify against them once they can put together another indictment. One of their members in particular who goes by the name umm . . .Trigger, was actually on trial a while back but jumped bail once it was discovered that they had the trial’s judge on the payroll. As for Michael Banner, a.k.a. Spits, we just can’t seem to make anything stick to him; he never seems to get his hands dirty.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Officer Moore. “Are these Time Bomb characters really that much of a situation? I’ve vaguely heard things about them but never enough to create this much attention.”

  “I’m sorry, Officer . . .Moore, is it?” asked Special Agent Simon Clifton. “These guys aren’t to be underestimated, not one bit. If we were exaggerating the situation, then we would only be sending the message that we aren’t capable of handling our own affairs, and that’s not the case.”

  “He’s right, Moore,” added Special Agent Phillip Cassett. “Now, we’re asking for the assistance of the NYPD. There’s already an outstanding warrant for the arrest and seizure of Trigger, a.k.a. Peter Beckford. All we ask is that if you guys ever make a routine stop or find out something that we could use, make sure that we’re informed immediately. At this point, we can’t risk anything. This is a chart outlining the names of all the known members of the Time Bombs in order of importance with corresponding photographs. If ever you come across any of these characters, it is imperative that you treat them with extreme caution and leave no stone unturned. Do you understand?”

  Both Albert and Lester nodded in agreement and began scanning the outline for future reference, but before they even completed the first line on the chart they couldn’t help but to stare at two of the pictures right up at the top. Al and Les could do nothing but look at the pictures on the chart that belonged to none other than the infamous Michael “Spits” Banner and Peter “Trigger” Beckford with their jaws dropped halfway to the floor. What if . . .?

  “On the real, you gotta give me your word that you won’t try no shit like this again, man,” requested Spits of Trigger. “You almost gave me a heart attack, dog.”

  “All right, my nigga,” Trigger agreed reluctantly. “My bad, son. I guess I just got a little homesick.”

  Trigger didn’t want to say those words, but he was left with no choice. If it would ever be possible for Spits to trust him again, he’d have to agree to the terms of the situation and abide by the rules that were set in place. With the Family’s best interests in mind, Trigger got on the next flight out of New York to California without even a mention of the news he thought was important enough to risk his freedom for. Spits was too nervous about another interaction with the police to carry on any kind of conversation. He finally relaxed a little more when once they were in the airport and the ticket was purchased. He ultimately told Trigger that under different circumstances, his visit would be welcomed with open arms, but also stressed how careful they would still have to be. Truthfully, Spits couldn’t be happier to see his lifelong friend, but they had to take care of business before pleasure. It took all of Trigger’s strength to get on that plane without telling his best friend of so many years what had happened in California between
him and Spits’ sister Rachel.

  CHAPTER 15

  YEAR — 2000

  “Damn, what the fuck am I gonna do?” asked Ceelow to himself. “It’s like all of our dreams are turning into nightmares.”

  Ceelow, after spending a week in jail with little communication with the outside world, felt at a disadvantage. His best bet would be going home from this experience to get his mind together. He hadn’t yet put two and two together and he greatly needed to figure out his next move. Ceelow wasn’t the type to sit around and figure things out; he was the type to buss his gun and figure it out later.

  Ever since he’d caught that first body back in the park that night, he hadn’t once hesitated when it came down to it. He took the position that was set for him to the heart. He was to secure every member of the Time Bomb Family; even if it meant that he had to take a loss. Whatever was necessary to provide a sense of security for his partners was all that had ever mattered to him. But lately he’d felt more on the defenseless side. So many tragic things had happened to the niggas he called “his family” that he couldn’t prevent from happening. That gave him an empty feeling inside and he didn’t know what to do about it.

  Now, alone in his apartment on the fourth floor of 666 East 224th Street, he could be left to his thoughts. After a quick shower and a change of clothes, he spent the better half of this early morning on the fire escape that faced the back of the building. There he could watch the sun come up. Ceelow was rarely without a drink so he sipped on a beer while he lit up a breakfast blunt to get his head on right. He smoked and smoked and smoked . . .until his thoughts came together like a puzzle. He still hadn’t figured out who it was that had snitched on him, but his frustration made him blame the most obvious cause of all of his problems.

  When he climbed back in his window, he stood there and stared at his bedroom. He stared at the walls that he had painted in his favorite color: royal blue. He looked at the floors where he kept carpet that covered the entire apartment spotless. He looked at his huge king-sized bed, made entirely of mahogany wood, where he laid his head every night. He looked at the wall opposite the bed where his 36-inch television sat on its stand, with numerous video games and DVD movies decorating the floor. He looked at his closet door which was half-open to display his large wardrobe. On all of these material items is where he placed the blame for his nightmares. For every bad thing that happened to him, he took it all out on his prized possessions. He let out a sudden roar of anger and lunged at his dresser where, with one punch, he completely shattered the mirror that was positioned on top of it. He snatched out every dresser drawer, emptying their contents on the floor. He lifted his mattress off of the frame and pushed it up against the wall next to it, sending the hanging picture frames flying. He then pushed himself to lift the television from its location before he threw it halfway across the room onto the floor. The screen exploded and the sound brought him back down to earth. He sat on the floor with his back up against the wall and put his head in his hands. Through his fingers, he saw a picture on the floor. It was of him, Trigger, Pop, and Spits that they took when Pop first got his own apartment. They’d popped bottles and sprayed each other with champagne to celebrate that occasion. It was a big step for them. They must’ve toasted to “Moe’s, hoes and zeros” a thousand times that night and it was just the four of them. In fact, whenever it came down to it, it was always just the four of them. They always had each other’s back one hundred percent. When he decided to call the only person left from this picture, he got Spits’ voicemail. He left him a brief message, and then called El Don.

  “Yo, what up, Cee?” asked El Don as he answered his cell phone. “Where the fuck you been at, nigga? You heard about all the shit that happened out here on these streets?”

  “Nah, dog,” Ceelow responded with a dead voice.

  “This shit is for real out here, man,” continued El, trying to sound like there was nothing wrong. “Niggas is getting popped left and right.”

  “Yo . . .” began Cee. “You ever just stab a nigga in the neck and watch him bleed to death?”

  “Wha?” responded El, completely confused.

  “You ever just poke a hole in a nigga’s throat while he’s asleep, and just sit there and watch him? Then when the nigga start coughin’ up his heart, just ask the nigga if he’s all right?”

  “Yo, what the fuck you talkin’ about, man?” El asked, still trying to understand Cee’s line of questioning.

  “I had to body some nigga on the Island the other day, just cause,” he said.

  “Just cause what, nigga?” El asked. “What the fuck were you doin’ on Riker’s Island? When did you get out?”

  “The nigga tried to play me, son . . .” Cee simply stated. “He tried to play me! I just got out this morning. I’ll probably spend the rest of my life in jail for the shit they got me for. Ain’t no hope for me, dog; not if I don’t find this nigga that snitched on me.”

  “The nigga that snitched on you,” El said sarcastically. “Yo, son, just come through the crib so we can build about this shit. I don’t want to have this conversation over the phone. I’m with Poncho. We got you, my nigga.”

  “All right then,” responded Ceelow. “One.”

  “Yeah,” El said. “One.”

  YEAR — 1999

  Finally, the year was 1999. It was only August, and the streets had already heard about the Time Bombs’ plans for the New Year’s bash that would end the nineties and shoot every super-thug nigga in attendance straight into the New Millennium. Talks of expenses flooded the avenues of the Bronx as everyone asked themselves, “How much money would be spent on this shindig?” Some thought hundreds of thousands; others thought in the millions. With rumors in circulation that range from there being enough Cristal for every guest to have up to five bottles, to a performance by none other than the king of pop, Michael Jackson, everyone had their own predeterminations.

  From the beginning, Spits just knew that this year would be their best ever. With money coming in from every direction, the Time Bombs as a unit had accumulated tens of millions of dollars. Besides the delivery service they’d started, they were represented on street corners all over the South and North Bronx. They had three apartments and a small house that they used for drugstores where they cooked, cut, and bagged up work. Everything was going greatly and Spits thought it could only get better, until . . .

  “What you mean you goin’ away for New Year’s?” asked Spits as he screamed into the phone at Ginger.

  “What do you want me to do, tell my mother that I can’t go?” answered Ginger. “I don’t see her enough as it is, Daddy. All she asked was that we spend New Year’s together, with my family in Orlando. I have to, Honey. Things haven’t been the same since we moved in together and you know how close we used to be. Please, don’t make me feel like I have to choose between the two of you.”

  “Yeah, I know,” admitted Spits. “But damn, New Year’s? You will be here for Christmas though, right?”

  “Yes, Daddy,” Ginger responded as she grinned. “I promise I’ll be here for Christmas with you.”

  “Damn,” began Spits. “We got the hottest shit planned for this New Year’s party, too!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Ginger. “You won’t even realize I’m gone.”

  “Yeah right,” Spits said with a giggle and then a sigh. “Anyway, that means that we have to go all out for Christmas. What’s up with Hawaii, or maybe the Virgin Islands?”

  “You’re crazy!” Ginger said.

  “What?” asked Spits. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Do you know how long the flight takes to get to Hawaii?” Ginger asked.

  “Aw, here we go again,” Spits said.

  “I had to beg my mother to rent a car just to drive to Florida,” stated Ginger. “I don’t know if I could go twelve hours on a plane, Daddy.”

  “Aw, come on, Gin,” responded Spits. “You’re gonna be with me. Now, would I ever let anything happen to
you?”

  “Yeah, yeah . . .” responded Ginger, recognizing the premise of this conversation. “I know you won’t let anything happen to me, but . . .”

  “But what?” asked Spits cutting her off. “You can’t say no.”

  “I’m not saying no . . .well, not yet anyway,” answered Ginger. “But, I can’t just say yes right now, either.”

  “Okay, Gin,” said Spits, giving up hope. “I hear ya talkin’. I’d rather not talk about this now anyway. We’re supposed to be celebrating. Now, hurry up and get ready.. I’ll be home to pick you up in about an hour and a half. I won’t be long. I just have to go past the Block first; then I’ll be right over.”

  “Okay, baby,” said Ginger. “I’ll see you then.”

  Today was Spits and Ginger’s five-year anniversary and Spits had the perfect evening planned. Ginger didn’t know exactly how much work he’d put into it, but he’d made sure to tell her to dress her best or as he put it, “I’ll look better than you.” Spits had never once thought that he could ever find someone as perfect as Gin and as often as he could, he let her know how he felt. Now, five years had passed like nothing and it was time to remind her how he felt.

  For Ginger it was the same thing. When it came time for her to give Spits his gift, she surprised him by showing up on the block to pick him up and treat him to a weekend in Atlantic City. They always had the best of times together and when Spits saw how much work Ginger had put in for him, he knew that when his turn came, it would have to be big.

  When Spits reached the Block, he parked his car by a fire hydrant. As he hung up the phone with Ginger, he took a peek at his rearview mirror and saw Pop’s mother coming down the block with a shopping cart full of groceries. It made him think of Pop. Seeing her always made everything that he’d felt and forgotten since Pop’s death come back. That whole entire situation could have never reached closure in Spits’ mind, as there was no way to avenge his killers. The only thing that could be done was to try and do for his family what Pop would have, if he were still there. Spits only wished that Pop’s mother saw it the same way. She’d never liked Spits or any of Pop’s childhood friends, and when they’d tried to reach out to her after his death, she couldn’t bring herself to accept their help. She hated them even more now, as they’d taken the blame for what happened to her only son. Spits wouldn’t ever be able to close that chapter in his book.