Eric squinted his eyes into little dashes and folded his face into a scowl.
“Oh, you gon’ stand there like you that fuckin’ man! You s‘pose to scare me? I’ma show you who the man is in this muthafucka!” Doobey spat out. Small sprinkles of his Colt 45—scented spittle landed on Eric’s face.
Still, Eric refused to move while his drunken uncle struggled to get his cowhide belt off his pants.
This type of commotion was commonplace in his Aunt Deena’s house; so much so, that his cousins didn’t even bother to intervene. They simply exited the room as soon as the altercation took place. Deena never intervened when her husband beat the shit out of her nephew; in fact, in Eric’s assessment, his aunt encouraged it.
Deena was his mother’s sister. She had seven children of her own—all cramped into a two-bedroom apartment—so she resented the fact that she had to care for her sister’s orphaned child.
Easy’s mother, Cynthia, was one of the first female drug dealers in Brooklyn. His father, Erv, had turned Cynthia on to the game. They were an unstoppable duo, until jealous rival dealers executed them both.
Immediately after their deaths, Easy went to live with his grandmother, who died of a broken heart, he believed, shortly after his mother’s murder.
Then he moved in with his maternal aunt, where he was reminded daily that he was unwanted and unloved.
“Now! I said get the fuck over here, boy!” Doobey growled, finally getting his belt free.
Eric looked at him evilly. “Fuck you! You ain’t my father!” Eric hissed, clenching his fists so tightly that his nails dug half-moon—shaped craters into his palms.
“After this ass whupping you gon’ wish I was ya daddy!” Doobey slurred, raising the belt over his shoulder.
Eric felt a hot rush of adrenaline come over his body. Moved by some unknown force, he lifted his left fist. When Doobey went to plow into him, Eric punched his uncle in the balls with all of the strength he could muster.
Eric growled as his unsuspecting uncle doubled over in pain. It was a bold move; but like an animal trapped in a corner, Eric felt his only choice was to attack. He started swinging wildly, landing punches at will on Doobey’s head, face and chest.
With his equilibrium off from drinking, Doobey tried to stop Eric’s wild blows, but he couldn’t see straight enough to grab the ferocious fists flying at him.
“I hate you!” Eric screamed, throwing more punches and kicks. He finally tackled his uncle to the floor; he sat on his chest and lit into him.
“Get him off me!” Doobey gasped, the combination of alcohol and head injuries making him feel nauseated and dizzy.
Eric was like a machine that could not be turned off. He thought about all of the nights his uncle had come home, stinking drunk, and beat him out of his sleep just because he could. All of the times his uncle took his dinner plate, forcing him to go to bed with his insides churning from hunger. He thought about all of the times his grandmother allowed his cousins to tease him about his raggedy sneakers and clothes.
As if possessed by the devil himself, Eric felt spit fly out of his mouth, and tears ran down his cheeks. For the first time in his life, he felt an overwhelming sense of power over his life. He felt invincible, strong enough to kill his uncle with his bare hands.
Blood leaked out of his uncle’s nose by the time Deena shuffled her obese body into the cramped living room and tried to pull her lunatic nephew off her drunken husband.
“Boy! You ain’t gon‘be hittin’ on my man! You need to get the hell out of my house!” Deena hollered as she tried in vain to pull Eric off Doobey. A crowd of cousins surrounded the two tangled bodies and moved in like vultures over a dead carcass.
“Get the fuck off me! I hate y‘all! I hate all of y’all!” Eric screamed, kicking and flailing, as his eldest cousin, Poopie, finally pulled his arms behind his back. “I hate this house!” Eric screeched.
Turning to Deena, he eyed his aunt with all of the hate he’d augmented over the years. “This is all your fault! You evil bitch! You just jealous because my mother had everything and you ain’t got shit!” he growled, pushing his aunt in the chest.
“Oh, God!” she implored, clutching her chest as she stumbled backward into a beat-up armchair. She had just narrowly missed hitting the floor.
“Uh-nuh! No, he didn’t!” Screams erupted all around Eric and the entire house reacted, thirsty for his blood.
“You ain’t gon’ be hitting my mother!” one of his less courageous cousins barked from a distance.
There was no telling what Eric would do next. In a matter of seconds, the group converged as one large avenging angel. Blows started to land on Eric’s body. Somebody dragged him down to the floor and kicked him sharply in his kidneys. His breath escaped painfully, but he refused to show any other signs of weakness. Another blow to the top of his head made him see small streams of squirming lights behind his eye sockets.
There was no way he could win against all of his cousins. Scrambling on the floor, trying to protect his head, Eric finally made it to the door.
“Let him up! He wanna leave. Let the bastard leave!” Deena shouted, her face filling with blood and her double chin jiggling.
Eric snatched the door open and ran out of the apartment. His nose was bleeding; his left eye was nearly swollen shut. His knuckles were raw, and he felt like he had broken a few ribs.
Slamming the door shut behind him, Eric realized that he was walking away from the only family he had ever known. But not all families, in his estimation, were worth holding on to. He had survived all these years, and he would survive many more. At just thirteen years old, he may have been homeless, but he wasn’t hopeless.
The first night his aunt kicked him out, Eric sat in a dark, dank space behind the stairs of the apartment building, nodding in and out of sleep. When he emerged from his hiding spot the next morning, his insides were churning from hunger. His body ached and his left eye was black and swollen shut.
Eric walked three blocks to the corner store, praying that he wouldn’t run into any of his cousins. His plan was to sneak in the back of the store, grab a few bags of chips, to kill the hunger pains tearing out his insides, and then dip back out, unseen. He had been psyching himself up all the way to the store. He had never stolen anything in his life. As he turned the corner, he heard shouting and screaming. He remained hidden behind a large dumpster, silently watching two men punch, kick and stomp on the body of a man who lay on the ground, screaming and squirming.
Eric had never heard a man scream like a woman before. He kept his eyes glued to the scene, but something in his peripheral vision caught his attention.
A long, darkly tinted 1975 black Cadillac Sedan Deville, with whitewash wheels, sat parked in front of the store. The back window was halfway down and Eric could see the face of a man watching the brawl. The man wore a dark brown suede fedora with a red feather attached at the side. His face was the color of molasses, and a mustache covered his top lip with thick, coarse black hair.
Eric turned his eyes from the man in the car back to the victim, who had stopped squirming and screaming. Judging from the amount of blood pooling on the ground around the man’s head, Eric decided that the man was probably dead.
“That’s enough!” the man in the Cadillac yelled out the window, snapping his fingers. Like well-trained dogs in obedience school, the men stopped beating the limp, lifeless man.
“You, kid! C’mere,” the fedora-clad man called out to Eric.
Eric’s mouth hung open, and he frantically looked around, hoping that there was another kid nearby whom he was beckoning. When the man pointed his finger directly at him, Eric nearly peed his pants.
“Me?” he croaked in fear.
“Listen, little brotha, don’t play with me. You don’t see nobody else out here at six o‘clock in the damn morning, do you? Now, I said, c’mere,” the man snapped.
Eric walked over like a man on his way to the gas chamber. His legs felt like lea
d pipes, and the hunger pangs in his stomach were replaced by doom-filled cramps.
The man who had summoned him reached his hand out the window toward Eric. Eric immediately took notice of the huge yellow-gold and diamond ring on the man’s pinkie. The man grabbed the collar of Eric’s shirt and pulled him up to the side of the car so that the metal door frame pushed into his chest.
The man moved his face a mere two inches from Eric’s. “You see that jive-ass bitch over there on the ground?” the man asked.
With his one good eye stretched wide to its limit, Eric moved his head up and down in concurrence.
“Well, he got what he deserved for being a bitch. Ain’t nothin’ worse than a man who acts like a bitch. Don’t you agree?”
Eric nodded his head up and down rapidly.
“All right, then. If you tell anybody who you saw giving that bitch what he deserved, that same thing gon’ happen to you. ’Cause if you tell, that would make you a rat bitch, now wouldn’t it? You feel me? Look like somebody done worked yo’ ass over, anyhow,” the man ground out, looking at Eric with squinted eyes.
Eric moved his head up and down. The man finally released his grip on Eric’s collar.
“What’s your name, boy?” he asked, softening his tone. There was something about Eric that he liked—an innocence he could fuck with.
“Er ... um ... Eric.”
“Well, I’m Early. Ask anybody roun’ here about me if you don’t believe what I’m telling you ’bout what can happen to you,” the man warned. “Now, if the police ask you what you saw here, what you gon’ say?” Early asked.
“I‘ma say I ain’t s—see nothin’,” Eric stammered. His tongue felt thick and heavy in his mouth.
“See ... you wrong already. Whatcha gonna say is that you saw some young boys robbing that dude right there and they beat him up till he stopped movin’.”
Eric nodded in agreement. “Yeah ... that’s what I’ma say.”
“Good,” Early replied with a half smile, half sneer. He was going to have fun with this young man.
He gave Eric a once-over. “Why you out here so early in the damn morning, anyway? School don’t be starting till another two hours or so.” Early chuckled. He hadn’t been in a school building in nearly two decades.
“Um ... I ... I ...” Eric was scared to tell the man the true reason for his vagrancy.
“Don’t think about lying to me, boy. I can find out anything I wanna know about these streets. Now I see somebody don’ kicked yo ass around, and you look hungry and thirsty with those crusty white-ass lips. You best tell me what’s goin’ on,” Early demanded.
Eric hung his head low; he didn’t even know where to start. Instead of coming up with a good story, Eric decided that the truth would be easier to tell.
When he had finished his tale, he was surprised to find Early in deep thought. The man twirled one end of his mustache, as if contemplating the meaning of the universe itself. Suddenly he stopped, looked at Eric, opened his Cadillac door and said, “Get in. I think you need a job, young-un. And a good street name to go with it. You seem real easygoing kid, so I’m gon’ call you Easy.”
Eric cracked a nervous smile. “Easy ... I like that name.”
Early took his young new protégé to McDonald’s to fill his empty belly and then to the shopping mall to buy some new clothes. After a shower and a few hours of sleep, Eric felt like a new person. Early took Easy under his tutelage and they formed a quick bond. Easy didn’t really have a choice in the matter. Early promised to protect him, and he did just that.
“Punch this punk bitch one more time,” Early instructed, twirling the end of his mustache nonchalantly. Easy did as he was told. He pulled back his fist and laid it into his uncle Doobey’s lower abdomen one more time.
“Aggh,” Doobey coughed. Early laughed.
“You ain’t so tough now, are you?” Early hawked up a mucus-filled wad of spit and spewed it into the center of Doobey’s face. “I ain’t got no respect for a bitch-ass man who puts his hands on a helpless kid,” Early observed as his follow-up.
Easy looked on as one of Early’s henchmen kicked Doobey square in the balls. His aunt would definitely not be producing any more children in the years to come. Watching Doobey double over in excruciating pain gave Easy a sense of satisfaction that he’d never felt before. Revenge felt like a drug he could indulge in often.
The beating continued for what seemed like an eternity. “I’m sick of looking at this chump-ass pussy. Take his ass outta my sight,” Early instructed.
His workers hoisted Doobey’s badly battered body from the floor. They stopped in front of Easy. Early walked over and grabbed a handful of Doobey’s Afro and lifted up his head.
“Say sorry to this fuckin’ kid,” Early instructed.
Doobey moaned. His lips were so swollen that Easy couldn’t even understand his words.
“Did you hear him say ‘sorry’?” Early asked Easy.
Easy nodded his head up and down. He didn’t think he was ready to watch someone he knew die.
Easy never saw Doobey or any of his family members after that day. He worked for Early, and in his Brooklyn neighborhood that meant something. No-body fucked with him anymore; in fact, he was gaining a lot of respect around his way.
Easy’s job was to pick up packages from a Spanish dude in the Bronx and bring the goods back to Early. Early paid Easy $100 for each delivery, which was more money than Easy had ever seen in his life. He grew to love the feel and the smell of money, and the freedom it could buy him. With Early’s generous pay-checks, Easy bought his own clothes, his own food and anything else that he desired. Early even provided a roof over Easy’s head by offering him a cot to sleep on in the small living space in the back of his pool hall.
Easy quickly became known at the hangout spot and all around the neighborhood as “Early’s kid.” Easy liked being claimed by someone; it made him feel wanted. He looked up to Early, and he wanted to be just like him.
Easy would stand in the tiny pool hall bathroom and practice walking, talking and looking like Early. Over the years Early would kick little jewels of knowledge to Easy, like telling him to never, ever trust a man who couldn’t look him in the eye.
“If a man can’t look you straight in the eye,” Early lectured, “the man is hiding his real self.”
Early had even gotten Easy his first piece of ass. The advice that followed was invaluable.
“Never fall in love with your first,” Early had lectured. “If you do, you’ll never have shit to compare it with, so you’ll never know what you’re missing out on.”
Tuck wondered how much Candy knew about her father’s upbringing. There was so much more to Eric Hardaway than met the eye, and so many loose ends that needed tying up.
Chapter 5
Deal with the Devil
Candice followed the small Hispanic woman with her eyes. The petite, raven-haired woman balanced a chubby-faced baby on one hip and held the hand of a little boy who looked to be preschool age. The woman released the little boy’s hand for a quick second while she struggled to open the door of the sleek black hybrid vehicle. As soon as she released the boy’s hand, he took off running like a prison escapee.
Candice was able to see his face clearly now. The family resemblance was stark, with classic olive-toned skin and slanted dark eyes. The boy’s shiny black hair bounced around his perfectly round face as his arms pumped with each stride of his run. The woman looked frantic as she took off after the little rascal, the weight of the baby on her hip slowing her down. Candice held her breath as she watched the show unfold.
“Rolando! Come back! Rolando, please!” the woman called out, clearly exasperated.
Candice slid farther down into her seat as the boy, named after his grandfather, ran straight in the direction of her car.
“Rolando! Por favor!” the woman huffed pleadingly; the baby was bouncing precariously in her arms. With an outstretched arm the nanny caught a handful of fabric f
rom the back of his shirt and twisted him around. She spoke rapidly in Spanish; her raised eyebrows, twisted lips and tight hold on the boy indicated a severe scolding was ensuing.
Candice let out a long sigh of relief that the woman had caught the boy just before he neared her vehicle. It might not have gone over so well if the woman had noticed Candice sitting in a car with dark shades covering her eyes, watching them. This was the second week Candice had spent observing them.
Every Thursday, at eleven-thirty in the morning, the nanny took the children to the park. Candice was surprised that such a notorious family as the DeSosas would allow their nanny or any member of the family, for that matter, to be in such a strict routine. Didn’t they worry that their enemies could be watching?
Candice thought the DeSosa grandchildren would be chauffeured around in grand limousines by huge, strapping bodyguards with dark shades covering their eyes.
Some notorious drug kingpin, she thought. Maybe my father was the only paranoid drug kingpin to ever live?
Either way, DeSosa’s slipup worked in her favor.
Once the woman secured the kids into their respective car seats, Candice started her ignition. She had to be at the ready. Keeping a safe distance behind, Candice followed the vehicle to the beautiful Saddlebrook, New Jersey, home.
Just last week Candice had followed the nanny inside Starbucks to study her target at closer range.
“Hey, Flora ... you want your usual light caramel macchiato?” The barista smiled.
Flora.
It was amazing how much she could find out about a person, even by something as simple as following her into a coffee shop. Candice knew she could take Flora out with no problem. One pressure point stun and the little woman could be easily incapacitated. Candice had kept that in mind.
Lucky for Flora and DeSosa, Candice lived by her father’s creed—no women and children. The lesson had obviously been lost on DeSosa when he decided that her mother and eight-year-old sister were fair game.
However, a little manipulation and deception were needed to accomplish what Candy envisioned, and that entailed using women and children as a means to an end. So long as no women or children were physically harmed, Candy felt she could live with the consequences.
Secrets Uncovered Page 5