Before she left she kissed me on my cheek.
Later on, as I smiled to myself, with love in my heart and blood on my hands, I cried.
CHAPTER 37
RACHEL REDMAN’S VERSION of “The Star-Spangled Banner” started off smooth and sexy like Marvin Gaye’s classic version of the song. But then she sang like Whitney Houston, hit notes and garnered applause as her pro-black Afro bobbed. Rachel was draped in patriotism, dressed in red, white, and blue. And then she sang the third verse, the one where slave owner Francis Scott Key wrote about killing hirelings and slaves who had freed themselves. That song’s third verse threatened to kill all blacks who had the audacity to want to be free. I guess my fellow Americans knew our national anthem as well as they knew their Bible, and most didn’t know their Bible, only a few verses used out of context as sound bites and weapons. Football fans and team owners were perplexed, and the cameras panned across multicultural faces that had identical perplexed expressions. Some football fans had hands over mouths; some were flabbergasted. Bent-knee football players looked up, confused, then whispered to one another, raised a fist, and smiled.
Rachel Redman finished, then unzipped her white hoodie, eased it off. The message in red and blue letters on her white T-shirt was better than kneeling and a raised fist combined.
WE MARCH. Y’ALL MAD.
WE SIT DOWN. Y’ALL MAD.
WE SPEAK UP. Y’ALL MAD.
WE DIE. Y’ALL SILENT.
That red, white, and blue message was larger than life on the jumbotron. That scorching-hot day, I was in the stands, my daughter at my side. My skin-bleached daughter with colorful hair, body piercings, and her hair in a bright yellow hijab. Margaux had wanted to see this.
Over the roars, boos, and cheers, as Rachel left the field, Margaux said, “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s original.”
“I’m surprised no one has done that before. Sang that verse out loud.”
“I’m sure they did. Around trees decorated with strange fruit.”
“Yeah. And I bet they sang that verse as loud as they could.”
* * *
—
AT THE SAME time Rachel Redman was being applauded, booed, glorified, and jeered, there was breaking news on KTLA, news that would bleed over to CNN. Two weeks ago, philanthropist Richard Garrett had been reported kidnapped. He and his wife had been attacked, and she had been found beaten in their Pasadena estate. The attackers had knocked her unconscious and cut away her hair, abused her, then thrown her down the stairs. She had been in Cedars-Sinai for a week. She knew nothing. She didn’t see who broke into their home and attacked them. Security footage had been stolen. When Mrs. Elaine Garrett had come to at the base of her stairs, her husband and the vicious men were gone, but blood had been left behind. San Bernardino had left just enough blood and hair on the stairs, cleaned up the pool area, and crafted a wonderful story. Some of Garrett’s blood had been left at the base of the stairs for dramatic effect. It looked like he had been beaten, kicked down his flawless stairs with his wife. The only fingerprints found in the home belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Garrett.
Margaux asked, “We’re staying? People behind us are talking about lynching folks.”
“Rachel Redman has earned that Jennifer Hudson paycheck. So, we’re done here.”
“I like the Rams. This is my first time at an NFL game in years.”
I asked, “You like football?”
“Yeah. All day, every day. But my boyfriend isn’t big on sports.”
“Me too, but I need to get Rachel out of the building and off the grounds.”
“Black Twitter is blowing up. She’s already trending.”
“This game is broadcast live. Millions just saw that.”
Transients had found Garrett’s decomposing body inside a stolen SUV near Zuma Beach. That was fifty-two miles away from Pasadena.When they opened the vehicle, it was a bona fide fly-and-maggot festival. He had been beaten like a piñata and filled with bullet holes from a .380, then left in a car during the hottest season on record in California. Inside a closed SUV, in direct sunlight, the temperature could quickly climb to 172 degrees. He’d had at least four days tanning in the blistering desert sun.
Nothing had been said about Dawit Wake, not by local news or the mainstream media. I Googled his name from a computer at the Culver City Library every couple of days.
A male. Black. African. Missing. Even if they found his body it wouldn’t be news, but the real estate people in that area would be happy to step in and sell that three-million-dollar property for his grieving family, turnkey, all amenities included, even the boat and ducks at the back door.
Phone in hand, Margaux said, “POTUS just tweeted a nasty tweet from his golf cart.”
“What?”
“Trumplethinskin tweeted.”
“What?”
“Pussy grabber of the United States’ last tweet is trending at number one on Twitter.”
“What?”
“Trumpty-Dumpty. Look. He stopped golfing long enough to tweet.”
I heard her that time. “Who is the Twitterdent attacking this time?”
“Watch out. Someone just threw a soda down this way like we’re at a political rally.”
I pulled her closer to me, ready to strike out at any offender. “We have to get out of here.”
Margaux reached into her purse and took out her mace.
Worried about Rachel, I led the way, moved my daughter toward the exit.
The local media had made Garrett sound like a saint’s saint. They skipped the part about him having ties to Boston, to Southie, didn’t mention his dealings with bad men and wicked women, didn’t mention he was the son of a man who robbed banks, a man once on the FBI’s most wanted, never said he was a dedicated friend to gangsters. They only said the Princeton graduate had left Boston and had gone west to start over. That was code meaning he had been run out of Boston. He had met a girl named Rebecca Elaine Cookenboo-Yochelson at a Coco’s in Compton, fell in love the moment he saw her, then married. They were happily married and had been working on having a child. They wrote about his grieving widow like she was the next Mother Teresa. The picture of her with flowing blond hair, looking like the ultimate American woman, was all over the news, trended on social media. Fox News loved her as much as they did on CNN.
I stood in a safer spot with Margaux, the stadium still roaring.
Margaux asked, “You’re really going to move away to London?”
“Maybe. With Rachel. We might get run out of town with torches after today.”
“You and her getting married?”
“Not sure. We have issues.”
“Everyone has issues. No relationships are perfect. Marry her.”
I grinned. “You’re giving me relationship advice?”
“I like what I see. She’s definitely into you. She sings. She dances. She’s awesome.”
“I should get married again and move to London.”
“I said marry her. No one said anything about moving to the land of beans and toast.”
“She’s moving. And she wants me to go with her. Would have to if I married her.”
“Then don’t marry her. I just found you again.”
“You don’t want me to go?”
“It hurts knowing you’ll go and it’ll be years before I see you again, if ever.”
“I didn’t know you cared one way or the other.”
She hugged me. “Don’t be happy without me. That would make me sad.”
For the first time since she was five, I hugged my daughter.
I hugged my daughter and the unborn child in her belly.
I asked Margaux, “Want a back ride?”
“Are you for real?”
“I used to give you back rides all the ti
me. Until you were about five. Until you left.”
“I’m no longer five, have gained a little weight, and might be too big for a back ride.”
“Never. And I think I might owe you a back ride or a hundred.”
“In that case, yeah. I want a back ride.”
We laughed, and that sound was lost in the animosity around us.
She acted like she liked me. All I had to do was kill a man and give her a few Barbie and Cabbage Patch dolls to get her to act like she liked me. If only her mother had been so pliable.
Margaux said, “Dad, we have to go save Rachel Redman from this racial madness.”
She told me to hurry, did African finger snaps.
I had no idea she could do that shit.
It made me proud that she could.
CHAPTER 38
AN HOUR LATER, I was with Rachel. Margaux and Kevin were with us. We were in Inglewood’s Hyde Park Plaza, at Zula Ethiopian and Eritrean Restaurant, eating kitfo, sharing a dozen amazing dishes, talking, laughing, getting to know one another. I still didn’t like my daughter’s boyfriend. Kevin was from this generation, the soft generation dependent on Bitcoins. He should’ve been the one who had wrapped my child’s problem in plastic and buried it in the ground. But he wasn’t like me. What I had done had nothing to do with San Bernardino. It was a father thing. No man would be good enough for her. Same as with Jimi Lee’s self-righteous dad; no man was good enough for his daughter. Least not I. Still, I had learned from the way he had treated Jimi Lee, had learned from how my wife was treated by her own father, so I guess I owed that motherfucker something for that lesson. Unlike him, I respected my child’s choices. All of her choices. I couldn’t unsee what I had seen on her blackmailer’s computer. It hurt. It hurt me bad. I’d never understand how she ended up in such a place. I’d never be able to see life through my daughter’s eyes.
Just like Margaux would never be able to see life through mine.
But I did respect her.
She was special to me, unique, an Ethiopian child with the blood of Mississippi in her veins, a social experiment come to life. She was a grown-ass woman some called Tsigereda.
She had lived in Africa. Her mother had taken her home. She had touched the soil.
All roads led back to Africa. A man just had to get off his ass and get on that road.
Jake Ellis was on a plane to Ghana. His Mustang had been torched, a bushwhacker had accidently set himself on fire and died running from the scene, and there had been gunshots in the midnight hour. Slave catchers were asking too many questions and his landlord had become uncomfortable with the sudden drama. For a man like Jake Ellis, it had gotten too hot and he was going back home to kick it in the motherland, to lay low a few months and enjoy good Jollof.
He’d made enough money living rent-free and working for San Bernardino to get by.
When he was ready, he’d be back. He’d be right back in Leimert Park.
And I was sure his landlord would keep his apartment vacant.
She’d be waiting for her lover to come back.
While we rode in an Uber, I asked him if Mrs. Garrett was going to meet him in Africa.
Jake Ellis answered with a wink, a laugh, and ten hearty African finger snaps.
It wasn’t my business.
I still envied him, his choices, his freedom. But my complicated life was mine, and his was his. He was Ghanaian, African, going home. I was American, a born Mississippian, still dreaming about a better home than the one I had. I wanted to live where I felt like I belonged, wanted to sink my feet in the soils and swim in the waters from which my people were stolen, if only for a while.
Somewhere out there, San Bernardino was sipping champagne.
I imagined Mrs. Garrett was in her mansion, eating gelato, music blasting, in high heels, dancing to African music as she counted to fifty million.
* * *
—
AT LAX, JAKE Ellis had told me, “If you come over, that Senegalese girl is still waiting to meet you. She believes that you are the love of her life. She believes that you are her soul mate.”
“I’m happy with Rachel.”
“I’ll check back in a few months.”
“You might have to call me in London.”
“Even better. You’ll be closer to Africa.”
“Bro, why are you always instigating some shit?”
“Bruv, because it’s fun. Because that is what I do.”
“And you do it so goddamn well.”
He did African finger snaps and we laughed, hugged, and parted ways. I went and caught an Uber back home, rode alone, half-smiling, half-thinking about what my life had been so far.
* * *
—
I HAD UNTIL Rachel decided what she was going to do with that guitar to decide about London. Until I decided if I was going to stop by Home Depot and pay the Russian a midnight visit. If not, if her heart somehow took her back to Russia, even for a night, like Jake Ellis had told me over and over, there was always a Senegalese woman waiting for me to arrive over in Africa.
But for now, I was cool.
Late at night, Bernice Nesbitt stood in her window every once in a while.
But I didn’t have the urge to cross the pond.
For now, I had Rachel.
I had my daughter.
I had a grandchild on the way.
I had love coming at me like never before, from all directions.
For now, I had enough love to hold me here.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
HELLO, O YE FAITHFUL READER!
As AOL used to say when I logged on, “Welcome!”
My friend, my reader, thanks for stepping inside of a good old-fashioned bookstore, or downloading, or stopping by the library to check out my latest offering. I hope you enjoyed reading about Ken Swift and his crew from start to finish. Again, we have come to the end of a new adventure and the introduction of a few new characters.
From the bottom of my heart, whether you’ve been on this train since back in ’96 or just copped your e-ticket and climbed on board with the rest, thanks for the support. I hope you enjoyed the wild ride.
I’m getting over the flu, so I’ll cut to the chase.
Time for the shout-outs! Drumroll, please.
I have to thank my agent, Sara Camilli, for all the support, especially over the past couple of years. I’m still trying to get up to novel number one hundred. Thanks for being in my corner since the ’90s—time flies!—and thanks for always being available no matter what time of day or night.
Stephanie J. Kelly, my amazing editor, thanks for the wonderful feedback, notes, and magnificent editing. You are the best of the best.
Much love to Emily Canders (congratulations!) and everyone working hard in the publicity department and in every other department at Penguin Random House. I’m glad to be a part of an amazing family.
Kayode Disu, my Nigerian brother running the yard across the pond in the UK, thanks for reading bits and pieces of this novel along the way. Loved your feedback! Keep holding it down for Gideon.
And you, special person, invaluable one, of course I’m not going to forget you. I would nevah forget about you. The best for last.
I also want to thank ____________________ for their assistance and support while working on this novel.
Pop by www.ericjeromedickey.com, and from there you can find me on social media. Follow or add a brother!
Now, everybody come in closer so we can do a group hug and take a quick selfie. Closer. Little bit closer. Smile, everybody!
☺
Ken Swift and his crew can now let their wounds heal, pull up a barstool next to Gideon, Driver, Destiny, Inda, Tommie, and Nia, grab a drink, and join the rest of the characters chilling out in the Dickeyverse.
January 3, 2018. 3:19 P.M.
73 degrees, mostly cloudy, 20% chance of rain
Faded Old Navy jeans, Wolverine T-shirt, Chucks, NYPD cap
33.9930° N, 118.3491° W
Carolyn’s son. Miss Virginia’s grandson.
Mrs. Gauses’s godchild.
That dude from Kansas Street in Memphis, Eric Jerome Dickey
ERIC JEROME DICKEY is the New York Times bestselling author of twenty-four novels and is also the author of a six-issue miniseries of graphic novels for Marvel Entertainment, featuring Storm (X-Men) and the Black Panther. He also penned the original story for the film Cappuccino, directed by Craig Ross Jr. Originally from Memphis, Tennessee, Dickey is a graduate of the University of Memphis, where he pledged Alpha Phi Alpha, and also attended UCLA. Dickey now lives on the road and rests in whatever hotel will have him.
What’s next on
your reading list?
Discover your next
great read!
* * *
Get personalized book picks and up-to-date news about this author.
Sign up now.
Bad Men and Wicked Women Page 36