I expected at least one to jump bad, become badder than Jim Croce’s legendary Leroy Brown. And one did think he was badder than a junk-yard dog and meaner than King Kong. One always did. He stepped forward, came toward me. “That motherfucker ain’t gonna shoot nobody.”
Before the baddest of the bad men could say another fucking word, I pulled the trigger, opened fire. I fired six times. The one who acted the baddest went down first; then the one who was the biggest charged at me. He contracted lead poisoning in the middle of his chest. He went down on a knee, then collapsed. I never shot at anything I didn’t want dead.
But even now, with my life on the line, it was hard to put a man down.
The third man’s skin was as dark as the night. The hue of a king. He stood in his spot, didn’t run, and despite my gun and two men at my feet, he wasn’t going to run. He wore a Denver Broncos skullcap, a Punisher T-shirt, and black sweatpants, his knuckles raw from beating me.
I said, “Black man.”
He spoke like he was holding the gun. “Get back in that pool.”
His accent told me he was Dominican. Black like me with roots of the same tree, only his ancestors’ boat, one with hundreds of enslaved Africans, had stopped in the West Indies. African, West Indian, or born in America or the UK, to men like Garrett, we were all niggers. My lost brother challenged me. Sometimes the hardest thing to do was convince a black man he didn’t have to yield a Pavlovian response and jump for men like Garrett, that he didn’t have to answer to the bell that called out niggers. Gun in hand, I faced a black man who frowned at me like I was suffering from drapetomania, and I scowled at him like he was the one who had been brainwashed.
I nodded. “You know I’ll die in that pool. If I couldn’t swim, I’d already be dead.”
“That’s my job. To keep you in the pool. If you drown, that’s on you.”
“Walk away.”
“Dead bodies. Burning buildings. And a dead woman. We gone too far to walk away.”
I motioned toward the back door. “Walk away.”
“I can’t. He ain’t paid me yet.”
“I want you to just walk away.”
“Shit, nigga, I can’t walk away broke. I have three kids. I can’t go home broke.”
I said, “Well, I guess one of us won’t be around for the Black Panther movie.”
We had fallen into a civil war, Union against a fighter for the Confederacy.
He braced himself, made himself feel bulletproof, then ran at me screaming. My gat kicked, spat twice, put lead in his face and in the middle of the Punisher’s skull. Dropped him between his second and third steps. He got the JFK special and a chest shot, then fell on his coworkers, became kindling on the pile. I wondered what the other men’s stories were, how we ended up here at odds. Men who were sons, fathers, lovers, men who’d traveled the same pothole-filled road I had traveled since birth, a road that was designed for men like us and went only uphill, men I would have called my brothers in the streets or stood with or kneeled with at a rally for justice. Now they were unmoving, dying on damp concrete, in puddles of their own blood.
Those same men would have stood poolside and sipped a beer while I drowned.
In the back of my mind, I heard a voice whispering a rumor, something some black folks claimed Harriet Tubman said, something not confirmed, yet I’d read it many times: “I freed a thousand slaves. I could have freed a thousand more if only they knew they were slaves.”
A noise came from behind me and I turned, stumbled with pain, ready to shoot again. No man was there in the shadows; no one was hiding behind a palm tree.
It was Mrs. Garrett.
The bruised woman was on her side, coughing, puking, shivering, in agony, but alive.
Death had come to visit, had tea, but changed its heart, maybe left for bigger prey. That or the god that protected fools and babies had come to her side. That god hadn’t rescued any black men tonight. Didn’t matter if we were here or in Barbuda or Vieques, my designated people had to find the right god or learn to be our own gods. There hadn’t been a deus ex machina for Flint or Saint Louis. We’d been living between two seas, praying for a deus ex machina since 1619.
Praying was wishing, and I knew there was no genie in the bottle. Mrs. Garrett vomited herself back to life while all of my thoughts went by in two blinks and a shuddering exhale, an exhale of relief. Now I had to get to Jake Ellis. My heart tried to beat out of my chest. I limped and in panic I gazed down on the broken body. My eyes burned. Focused. It wasn’t Jake Ellis. I scowled upward, looked up at the back side of the mansion, heard a fight going on, one that sounded like Uganda’s parliament was back in session. I stepped back, tried to figure what rooms were over my head. Either Jake Ellis had thrown one of Garrett’s men out of the window during their fight or the street soldier saw what he was up against and decided to jump out and killed himself by landing on his head. I headed for the broken patio door, but before I made it ten steps, someone yelled for their life. A man screamed. Right away another window broke. Someone tried to escape, flew out of the mansion like he was trapped in the winds of a hurricane. Glass broke and he dropped fast and crashed on concrete. He crashed at a bad angle. Two legs snapped like twigs. The man was as broken as fuck, howled like there was no tomorrow. He had two knots on his head: One was the size of the Rock of Gibraltar, the other the size of Stawamus Chief. What mattered to me was that that gentleman wasn’t Jake Ellis. I couldn’t tell by his face, but I could tell by his body. His skin was the wrong shade of black. I held the Glock in my hand; water made my joggers feel like they weighed a ton. The night air made my heavy clothing turn cold against my skin. Pool water drained from my joggers like I needed a catheter, left a trail, dripped over dry concrete as I stumbled around broken glass, avoided getting my feet cut, then dripped across swank rugs and heated marble floors when I went inside the Garretts’ mouth of luxury. I heard echoes from a battle upstairs and hurried that way, realizing the kitchen still smelled like magically moist salmon.
CHAPTER 25
ONE OF GARRETT’S bushwhackers stumble-ran down the stairs, bolted past all the amazing sculptures and art, tripped on his big feet, fell and got back up with panic, and again ran like his life depended on his escape. His face was jacked, a huge knot on his forehead, left eye bleeding a river. He’d suffered an absolute beatdown. His face had been pummeled by a pugilist. Probably was dealing with the effects of a concussion. The tall man in jeans and a North Face sweatshirt looked like something out of a Stephen King novel. He wobbled until he saw me. He saw me with the gun pointed at him, then cursed, took a breath and dropped down on one knee, then took another breath, eased down on both knees. He made pained sounds as he panted and raised his swollen hands. His right hand looked as broken as his spirits. The way he moved and groaned, I think his ribs were shattered too. He’d been too close to a real fighter.
The bushwhacker frowned. “You’re not dead. Fuck. What are you made of?”
“Bad luck, hard times, and trouble.”
He chuckled. Just to underscore how serious this was, I fired a shot near his head.
He trembled. “Hands up, don’t shoot. Hands up. Please. Don’t shoot.”
“Don’t scream.”
“Just don’t shoot me. I don’t want to get shot again.”
“You caught some hot lead tonight?”
“Three years ago. Right in the ass. Don’t want to ever get shot again. That shit hurts.”
“Where’s my recalcitrant friend?”
“Your what?”
“Where is the pissed-off African?”
“Long as that crazy man ain’t by me.”
“He’s alive?”
“I think so. Harder to kill than a goddamn Alabama cockroach.”
“How bad is he hurt?”
“Might have been shot point-blank two or three times.”
“Fuck. Then he could be dead.”
“Fuck. I should’ve stayed my black ass at home and watched Game of Thrones.”
“Garrett. The African. Upstairs?”
“They was.”
“How many men on your side?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care. It’s like every man for himself right now.”
“But the African might be alive.”
He panted. “How in the hell Africans end up slaves if Africans fight like that?”
“Read a book.”
“Read a book?”
“Read a motherfuckin’ book.”
Then booms came from upstairs. It sounded like a bull charging into a wall over and over.
The brother on the floor heard the noise and wanted to rise.
I fired off another round, again near him, let him know I was his brother but I was not his friend, not in the middle of a stupid-ass war, and he stretched out, surrendered like a little boy playing cops and robbers. I would guess the boy was twenty. I was old enough to be his dad.
I said, “You better be here, just like that, when I come back.”
At the foot of the staircase was blood. And blond hair. This was where Mrs. Garrett had landed when Mr. Prenuptial had come up behind her, foot first. Garrett had snapped and kicked his wife down the hard wooden stairs. This was where he had taken clippers or scissors and cut off his wife’s hair. He had taken her vanity, de-beautified her, corrupted what many would see as a work of art. The way she now looked on the outside, how he had defiled her loveliness, that was the way he now felt about her in his heart. This was where he had assaulted the woman he’d promised to cherish before dragging her back up at least thirty wooden stairs. More blond hair on those stairs and drops of blood showed that she hadn’t been lying; she hadn’t exaggerated what had been done. No man could take back the scars put on a woman’s body, on her soul. He knew that. She would never be the same. No woman is beaten and raped and returns to being the same. She was lucky to be alive. That had angered him; then he had thrown her in the pool to amuse his anger, was willing to watch her drown. He’d kicked her down the stairs and blamed her for falling. He would have drowned her in the pool, then blamed her for drowning. I understood why she had never confronted him since they had married. It had never been safe to do so. The devil was in that man. And the devil believed himself righteous. His rage had rained down on her because he felt slighted, and this level of madness had been incoherent and unjust. He had come after me, after Jake Ellis, wanted to kill us to alleviate his pain. Garrett was dangerous. Not when he was alone in a room filled with alpha males. He hadn’t been dangerous when he was at his kitchen table. Irritating, but never dangerous. But gun in his hand, or when confronting softer women, when he had enlisted an army of warriors to do his dirty work, Garrett saw himself as being as powerful as a king. Upstairs it sounded like a new battle had broken out. Again it sounded like a raging bull charging into a solid wall. The noise was intense, terrifying. I raised my foot to hike the stairs, but I was in too much agony to climb.
There was a small elevator just off the kitchen. Those came standard with overpriced mansions. I hobbled that way and pushed the button to take me to the second of three levels. The level that had four of the nine bedrooms. When the elevator door closed, I leaned against the wall. Pain came at me in waves; the whitecaps made it hard to breathe. A shock of dizziness came hard and went fast. Felt like I was still underwater. I had to bend over for a second.
In between three blinks I thought about my daughter.
Rachel Redman.
Jimi Lee.
Jimi Lee. They had said someone was tracking Jimi Lee. So I had to go after Garrett. Death could have left here to go claim Jimi Lee. And now Death was back for more entertainment, back to enjoy the minstrel show, if not for prey. With each ragged inhale and exhale, I felt it walking behind me, sipping on tea. Yeah, Death was back, and still, as I closed my eyes, no genie in the bottle. I needed to leave this shit show. I had my own problems.
This had been the worst day of my life.
But this wasn’t done.
I had no idea what the hell this fight was, why it was at this level, but it wasn’t done. Dead or alive, I wasn’t leaving without the African. If I had been killed and my body had been left in that pool and he was still alive, I knew he wouldn’t leave without me. As soon as the elevator door opened, someone sprinted in like a linebacker, hit me hard before I could stand up, before I could raise the gun, charged and jammed me into the back of the carriage. He tackled me so hard everything went black, and again I saw stars. He came at me with so much force I thought the elevator was about to come apart and fall back to the ground floor. With a grunt, I felt the Glock loosen and drop from my hand. He started throwing blows. I had to bob and weave, had to move based on instinct, on years of being in the ring, had to become a moving target, but he had me cornered, stayed on me and made it hard to get my footing; still I had to find daylight, change this from defense to offense and do the same, hit him with bricks and bombs. I fell into another fight for my life, knew I had to kill another in order to stay alive. This was the way it had been in the Alligator State, when things had gotten out of control working for San Bernardino. Balthazar Walkowiak had been the only man I had killed before tonight. I’d been lucky in Florida, had made it out of that humid death trap traumatized but alive. It took two decades for shit to go wrong again. But this time, wet, damaged, beaten, unarmed, I wouldn’t be the last man standing.
CHAPTER 26
I TOOK A punch, a solid shot that knocked me back to the wall, sent me backward like I had been shot out of a cannon. That blow buckled my knees, put me on my ass, and blurred the world. I looked up and saw a black boot raised high, about to stomp my face. I dodged the kick, caught his foot long enough to push him back, grunted, and did my best to throw him off-balance and make that murderer stumble and fall.
He was tired, bleeding, filled with anger, in a blind rage.
While he was scrambling to get up I snapped, “Jake Ellis . . . Chale . . . Chale . . . Kwamena Gamel Nasser . . . stop fighting me, motherfucker, before I hurt you. . . . It’s me, fool.”
We had traded blows at lightning speed, had almost taken each other’s heads off before I realized I was battling Jake Ellis. His face was bloodied, and some of that blood was in his eyes.
He staggered back two steps, hands still in fists. “Ken Swift?”
“Bro, it’s me.”
“You called me by my real name.”
“Kwamena Gamel Nasser, it’s Ken Swift.”
“Don’t play with me. Black man, that you?”
“It’s me. Your brother by another mother.”
I made it to my feet. Then I helped my wounded compadre get back to his.
Jake Ellis was fucked up.
He asked, “How’d you know I was here after that Dumpster mayo?”
“I was here before you got here.”
“You came after that cracker before I did?”
“His boys jumped me, kidnapped me, and tried to drown me in the cement pond.”
“They bricked my Mustang and set it on fire. Then tried to set my building on fire. I was on the downstroke and my lady was just arriving in heaven when my car alarm went off. You know I had to finish. We get a lot of false alarms. I went out and Garrett and his gang came at me, then tried to shoot up Leimert Park.” He coughed. “How many of Garrett’s men left?”
“Shit, you tell me. His bushwhackers came out of an ice cream truck like clowns in a circus car. I saw about eight or nine. I left three with lead poisoning by the pool.”
Jake Ellis spat on the wooden floor. “I threw a couple out the window. That’s five.”
“You ran one down the stairs. That’s six. Could be two left.”
There were at least ten bullet holes in the walls. Jake Ellis had almost
been shot in the head, but it just broke the flesh. An inch to the left, he’d be pushing up daisies.
I asked, “Where’s Garrett?”
“In that bedroom. Master bedroom. He ran in there when he ran out of bullets.”
“What’s he got up in there?”
“I don’t know. Tried to ram and kick the bedroom door down. Door solid like a vault.”
“I heard you when I was down by the pool.”
Jake Ellis looked around, didn’t spot a camera. “Tough like George Zimmerman. Take away the gun, he gets his sorry ass whooped by a kid every time. Stevie Wonder can see that.”
I rubbed a knot. “He clocked the back of my head when his bushwhackers held me.”
“He had his men hold you while he hit you from behind, like a coward?”
“Hit me with his gat. Pistol-whipped me while his goons stomped me.”
“Fuck that. Let’s set this bitch on fire. Get some gas. Pour it under that door. Light a match. Smoke him out. He’ll either have to come out that door or jump out a window.”
“Neighborhood of old money. Firemen would get here soon as we struck a match.”
“A good fire will get on that ass and make him run out before the firemen and the cops.”
“We don’t want the cops here. He doesn’t either.”
“Cops come and he’ll get lobster but we won’t make it to the gate.”
The elevator moved. It went back down to the first level.
I said, “I left a fool down there. He wasn’t hurt. Didn’t want to shoot him.”
“He’s coming with backup?”
“He probably has his boys. And this time, I bet those boys have toys.”
“This shit is worse than Miami.”
Jake Ellis took the gun, aimed it at the elevator door. I checked the stairs to see if the bushwhackers had regrouped, multiplied like Norway rats, and were storming us from two directions. No one was on the shiny stairs. Elevator came back up. When the lift opened again, it was Mrs. Garrett, alone, on the floor. Nude. Jake Ellis didn’t recognize her. Mr. Garrett had done a Britney Spears on his wife’s head and she looked like she was a cancer patient on her last legs. The cold water had shriveled her skin. Her complexion was beyond pale. Then Jake Ellis did recognize her. He hurried to her. She raised a hand, didn’t want to be touched. I didn’t have to say the damage he saw was done by Mr. Garrett, and Jake Ellis didn’t have to ask.
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 25