by Wahida Clark
Choppa could literally feel the cancer eating up his body. He could feel himself getting smaller. Weaker. Frailer. His mind was still as sharp as ever, but his body was rotting away, like a man trapped on the top floor of a burning building just waiting for the fire to totally consume him.
His inmate attendant rolled him back to his cell. They usually played cards and talked, but his attendant said, “Unc, I’ll be right back. I gotta handle something.”
It wasn’t what he said or the way he said it. It was simply that Choppa had been around so long, he had developed a sixth sense for the game.
“Yeah, young buck, you take care of yourself,” Choppa responded.
The remark caught the young man off guard. He looked back over his shoulder, and the look in his eyes said, “I’m sorry.”
Choppa didn’t blame him. He had to live in that prison too. He wondered if he was down with the move, paid to get out of the way, or simply scared. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He was tired. They were doing him a favor. Still, when they came, he wished they would’ve tried this shit when he was still at full strength.
Three of them. All cowards individually, but together, they almost added up to a man. They moved swiftly, all armed with shiny six-inch blades, long and slender like ice picks, but actually made of metal that was filed to a dangerous point.
“Dark says he’ll see you in hell, old coon,” one of the killers taunted.
“And as soon as I get there, I’ma stick my dick in that sorry bitch’s mouth that you call your mama,” Choppa retorted coldly.
The three of them swarmed and began plunging the blades in Choppa from every direction. Blood spurted from his neck, chest, and stomach all at once, but he never once cried out. He had been living with pain for so long, a few more minutes didn’t make any difference.
After the frenzied attack, the killers dispersed as quickly as they had come. Choppa slumped to the floor with a sickening slap as he fell facefirst into his own blood. His last mental image was of Janay, and his last thought was, Maybe now, she’ll understand.
When the killer told Shokkah, he waited for the coast to clear before pulling out his cell phone and sending Dark the text:
Mission accomplished. You owe me big!
Chapter Five
Dear citizens of Detroit, we face a grim problem. A problem that has plagued our community for too long . . . black-on-black violence. But as terrible as it is when another black child is gunned down, this violence is not the cause. It is an effect. Just one of the many effects of an even bigger problem . . . poverty.” Congressman Duffy orated as he stood on the podium addressing the large rally right on the front steps of downtown Detroit city hall. It was March and the gusty winds had already knocked a few hats off heads.
The crowd applauded as there was continuous flashing from the cameras. Duffy played to the crowd, delivering his speech with reverend-like cadence and played to the cameras with subtle postures and well-timed smiles and scowls. He was one smooth politician. Born to do this.
“The war on poverty has become the Republican’s war on people. Not just blacks, but especially blacks, if y’all can read between the lines!”
“Amen!”
“Poverty, joblessness, hopelessness, despair. This is why we kill; this is why we get killed! But a new day is coming!”
“Preach it!”
“A better day!”
“Yes, Lawd!”
“And all I ask is that you walk with me. Walk with me and together, we will bring this city back from its ashes to stand in the full light of the sun!” Duffy called out, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief.
“Congressman Duffy for president!” Someone yelled out, and the crowd cheered.
Duffy put on his humble smile and said, “They’ll never let me be president, because I’ll truly be the black people’s president.” He remarked, taking a jab at Obama. “In conclusion, I say, some people look at the way things are and ask why. I look at the way things could be and ask . . . why not? Let’s find out together!”
The crowd erupted in thunderous applause. As he left the podium, he was swarmed by well-wishers and engulfed in a standing ovation. Supporters wanted to shake his hand and take pictures, women wanted to flirt, and babies needed to be kissed. He moved swiftly through the crowd, never stopping for too long but never neglecting an outstretched hand. It could be a potential vote.
His handlers got him to the limo. He waved once more, and then disappeared inside. Waiting for him in the limo was Detective Sherman and his own trusted chief of staff, the sexy and long-legged Simone. Sherman pulled his eyes away from her long legs to shake Duffy’s hand. She handed him a bottle of water as he loosened his tie.
“Great speech, Congressman.” Simone smiled.
“Thank you, Simone. What’s next?”
She checked her iPad for his itinerary. “A luncheon with the mayor and the Black Businessman’s Council.”
“Call the mayor. Tell him I’ll be about ten minutes late. Get Mike on the phone and tell the driver to take the scenic route so I can speak with the detective,” Duffy ordered, and then turned to Sherman.
“Sooo our mutual friend says we need to talk,” Sherman began.
“Nicholas Powell. That’s what he said.”
Sherman whistled. “Big fish on a federal hook.”
Duffy waved it off dismissively. “Feds mean nothing in Detroit. This is my city. I’ll handle that. But I’m asking you to keep Powell on a leash . . . a very short leash. Can you?”
Sherman smiled. “Detroit may be your city, but these are my streets. That’s no problem.”
Both men laughed and shook hands. Just like that, Nick went from having a case to being one.
• • •
When Nick first laid eyes on her, he thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He’d jump over seventy Shans to get to one of her. She was the type of woman you worshipped. His attraction and obsession was instant. He had to have her.
“Let me introduce you two. Nick, this is Joy Parker. Joy, this is Nick,” Rudy, Nick’s attorney, introduced them.
Nick had hired Rudy, Briggen’s lawyer, because he knew he was one of the best in Detroit, if not the country. They were seated around the rectangular dark brown conference table surrounded by matching book shelves crammed with law books.
Nick took her hand and kissed it, fighting the urge to suck each finger. Her soft skin alone had his dick close to a total erection.
“The pleasure is all mine,” he charmed.
“Yes, but mine is all business,” she replied without sounding cold. Joy snatched her hand away getting her point across just the same.
Rudy cleared his throat. “Excellent, excellent. So, Ms. Parker, if you would be so kind as to tell us what this is about,” he suggested.
“Certainly, Mr. Harrington,” Joy replied, and then looked at Nick. “I deliberately didn’t tell your lawyer the nature of my business so you wouldn’t have any preconceived notions. Besides, I didn’t know if I’d even be in the position to offer what I’m about to offer.”
Nick was all ears, but her demeanor raised one red flag. “Before you do, answer one thing. Are you a law enforcement agent of any kind?” Nick questioned.
She smiled. “No, Nick, I’m not.”
“Then, by all means what’s the offer?”
“As we speak, your indictment is conveniently disappearing. It isn’t lost, it isn’t being destroyed, but it will disappear. Now I assure you, it can reappear at any time if you do not agree 100 percent with my terms,” she explained.
Nick couldn’t help but feel her no-nonsense attitude. She definitely had his attention. “I’m listening.”
“Number one is that you do things my way. Period. This is nonnegotiable. Any discrepancies, I throw you to the wolves, and I promise you, there will be nothing Mr. Harrington can do to save you,” she told him with a dead-ass expression.
“What’s number two?”
&nb
sp; “There is no number two.”
Nick sat back and contemplated her offer, which was more of an ultimatum. He looked at Rudy. Rudy looked at him. “Suppose I say no?”
She shrugged. “Then I’ll remove my influence, and you’ll never see me again.”
Not seeing her again was reason enough to contemplate her offer. Not to mention his freedom from indictment. “What do you want me to do?” he asked.
“Whatever I say.”
“I mean specifically.”
“I mean totally,” she replied with a hint of impatience. “Believe me, Nick, I can make you untouchable, but as the Greek myth Achilles will tell you, invincibility comes with a price. Do we have a deal?”
“Ms. Parker, my client—” Rudy tried to interrupt.
Joy turned her swanlike neck in Rudy’s direction and said, “Mr. Harrington, Nick’s a big boy. Aren’t you, Nick?”
Untouchable. He thought about the word and his chest swelled. It was an offer he couldn’t refuse. “You got a deal.”
Joy rose from her seat as she extended her hand. Nick shook it. “My people will be in touch. You will deal with them,” she informed him.
“Why can’t I deal with you?” he flirted.
Her smile turned all sass. “Because I don’t fuck with the help.”
Nick acted like he was bending down to pick up his face. A hint of a smile showed on her lips. “You deserved that. Next time, be more direct. With me, you only get one chance to make a first impression.” She started to walk away.
Nick held her forearm to get her attention. “I wanna lay you across this table and fuck the shit outta your pussy. How’s that for a first impression? Is that direct enough?” He said aggressively. Nick really wanted to choke the shit out of her and take the pussy. For some reason she was making him feel out of his element.
Joy laughed as she searched his eyes. As if reading his mind she said, “But you don’t have the heart.”
She walked out of the office and shut the door behind her.
• • •
Sharia was feeling the young boy Mo’Betta, and this was only their second date. The first one, he took her shopping and out to dinner. She stopped counting when the tab for those two dates reached four stacks. He was worth her time, and he had so much swag, her pussy got wet just watching him. Even though she knew she was supposed to just keep an eye on him, tonight she planned on doing more to him than that.
I’ma turn this young nigga inside out, she thought while looking at him as he drove.
This bitch ’bout to get it, Mo’Betta thought when he glanced over at Sharia.
She bit her bottom lip in a sexy way. He couldn’t wait to get her to his spot. Just the thought about what he was going to do to her had his dick rock hard in anticipation. He had taken her out to dinner and a movie, his smooth gentlemanly way of winning her over. Now he was about to give her what she really needed. A good thuggin’.
“I didn’t know you were from the West Side,” Sharia remarked.
“Born and raised, li’l mama,” he replied proudly.
He pulled up to a two-story house in the middle of the block. From the outside, it looked run-down and dreary. But then, so did half of Detroit.
Sharia looked at the house disapprovingly. Reading her expression, Mo’Betta said, “It’s a foreclosure. I copped it straight from the bank. I’ma fix it up and flip it real quick.”
“Not in this market,” Sharia replied, knowing a thing or two about real estate.
“You think I should rent it out? The shit was a fuckin’ steal. I had to cop it.”
“Nope. Use it for Section Eight. That way, your money is guaranteed,” Sharia schooled him.
He pulled her close and kissed her neck as they walked up to the door. “Shit, li’l mama, why don’t you handle that for me? We’ll split the money.”
“We can work out the details.”
Mo’Betta opened the door, and they went in. The glare from the streetlight outside cast long shadows as she stepped inside. Sharia looked around in disgust. The place was a mess and an eyesore. It looked abandoned. Garbage and debris were all over the floor. A refrigerator lay on its side and a broken down couch with no legs furnished the room.
With a twist of her neck, Sharia snapped, “Nigga, what—” She turned to Mo’Betta and was met with a vicious left hook that hit her so hard she was off her feet and on the floor.
Mo’Betta was all over her. He reared back and kicked her in the stomach, knocking the wind and the fight out of her. He was in a zone. Secretly, he got off on shit like this. He was a sadistic motherfucker that loved to give women pain. Her moans and pleas had his dick harder than it was in the car.
“Wh-wh-why?” Sharia moaned pathetically.
Mo’Betta ignored her and instead, calmly slid on his racing gloves. He then got down on top of her, pinning her shoulders with his knees and then proceeded to beat her face like a jackhammer. Sharia blanked in and out of consciousness.
“Yeah, bitch, you ain’t so pretty now, huh?” Mo’Betta huffed out of breath.
Her entire face was now swollen and disfigured. Blood leaked from her lips and nose. Her whole body hurt. Her mind couldn’t wrap itself around what was happening. Why is he doing this?
Mo’Betta pulled off one glove and pulled out the TracFone. He hit speed dial. Briggen answered on the other end. “I got her.”
“Let me speak to her,” Briggen fumed, feeling the rising sensation of payback in his chest.
He had told Mo’Betta if he found Sharia he could find Demetria.
“You got a picture of her?” Mo’Betta had requested.
“Yeah, have my fam’ show her to you.”
When Keeta first showed him the picture of Sharia, she burst out laughing because all the while he was looking for her, she fell right into his lap. “Shayla,” he said, thumping the picture. “Bitch was all on my dick at the Chinese spot and didn’t even know she was writing her obituary.”
Now, here she was totally at his mercy. Her short skirt had slid up around her waist, revealing her thick honey-colored thighs, her panties hugging that juicy-looking camel toe.
“Yeah, bitch, who’s laughing now?” Briggen laughed.
Briggen! Her mind screamed in the midst of her lazy haze. At that moment, she knew she was about to die.
“Br-Br-Br-” she stuttered, her jaw broken; slobber ran down her chin.
“You thought it was a game? Bitch, I’m God! You fuck-ass ho! Now, how much pain I have to put on yo’ ass is up to you. Where the fuck is Demetria?”
Sharia wasted no time in trying to form the words. She just wanted it to be over, even if it meant giving her sister up.
“Oaf . . . oaf . . . oaf . . .” she mumbled.
“Oaf?” Mo’Better echoed in confusion.
“Oak Reee,” she stressed.
It took him several seconds until Mo’Betta blurted out, “Oak Ridge?”
She nodded. Mo’Betta put the phone to his ear.
“Oak Ridge, maine. The bitch said Oak Ridge.”
Briggen wondered why that place sounded familiar, but he brushed it off. “Get the number.”
Mo’Betta reached in her purse and grabbed her phone. He found two and he handed her one. She shook her head. He handed her the other one and with a trembling hand, she went through her contact list. She gave it to Mo’Betta.
Demetria 555-3997
Mo’Betta smiled. “Bingo, my nigga!” Mo’Betta told Briggen and then put the phone to her ear to give Briggen the last word.
When Briggen heard labored breathing, he knew who it was. “Stupid bitch, you was wit’ the juice! All you had to do was ride, but now, all you can do is die. Don’t worry though. Your triflin’-ass sister’ll be joinin’ you soon!” he ranted.
Mo’Betta took the phone hearing every word.
“Make her suffer,” Briggen instructed him before hanging up.
She then grabbed at his pant leg and stabbed a shard of glass into his flesh, pres
sing it in with all the strength she could muster.
“You fuckin’ cunt!” Mo’Betta gritted as he snatched the stabbed leg back and began stomping her with his other one. He stomped her until he couldn’t feel anymore pain in his wounded leg.
Mo’Betta leered over Sharia’s broken body.
In the dark, her eyes found his. “Peeessee,” she tried to beg, her mind screaming, “Peeeesse . . . just kill me!”
Mo’Betta knew he had been in the house long enough. He couldn’t do her like he really wanted to, but when his eyes fell on the refrigerator, he knew what would be his next move.
He grabbed her by the ankles and dragged her over to the refrigerator. Once he opened it, he snatched out all the racks, and he then lifted her up and began to stuff her inside. Where she didn’t fit, he pummeled her body and forced it in. The last blow he landed broke her nose, and she went limp. Sharia was fully conscious, but no longer had the will to live. The last thing she saw before he shut the refrigerator door was him blowing her a kiss. And then, everything went dark. With her broken nose she could barely breathe, so it didn’t matter that she would suffocate. She forced her mind to take her back to her favorite spot in her apartment looking out of the window onto the Detroit River. Her thoughts then went to Briggen. She was lying next to him looking into his eyes and professing her love. He kissed her sweetly on the lips. She went back to her apartment when she was last on the phone with Demetria. She wanted to hurt Briggen. Make him suffer. But now who was suffering? She wished for death.
• • •
Demetria was out of jail and snuck away from the “D,” leaving behind everything she owned. As her sister was being tortured, she was entering a club in Oak Ridge. It was a ghetto hole-in-the-wall, but she had to get out of that apartment. She needed to breathe. She just didn’t know her sister did too—literally. As she sashayed across the floor in her fuck-me pumps and little dress, she had no clue that Sharia was gasping, clawing with all the strength she could muster to open the refrigerator door. How much torture it was to suffocate to death.