Queen Divas

by De'nesha Diamond

  “Better,” she answers through quivering lips, but more tears fall. “I just want my daughter back—safe. Where she belongs. I can’t lose her too.”

  “I understand.”

  “No. You don’t.” She clutches my arm. “I’ve already lost too many—and we . . . well. There are so many things that we’ve never said to each other. I mean, she has always been so angry and distant. Ever since her father was gunned down . . .”

  I tense in fear that I’m about to be subjected to a long soap opera about her family. “It’s going to be okay,” I assure her. “If she’s out there, we’ll find her.”

  Her grip on my arm tightens. “P-promise?You promise me?”

  “We’re going to do all that we can,” I tell her, avoiding making the rookie mistake of promising a grieving parent anything. They tend to hold you to it. The look on her face says that she knows exactly what I’m doing. Her expression is of true devastation.

  “Do you live far from here, Mrs. . . . ?”

  “Washington,” she mumbles before taking another long gulp of water. “Call me Lucille. I live down the street.”

  I glance up in the direction she’s pointing and see that the crowd of neighbors in the street is still growing behind the yellow crime tape, along with more news vans. They are still waiting to find out how terrified the city’s citizens should be tonight. “Is there anybody here who can walk you home?”

  Her gaze drifts off.

  I turn to Fowler. “I’ll be back. I’m going to walk her home and get a statement.”

  “Do you want me to come with you?”

  The look I give him asks What the hell do you think?

  “I’ll stay here and help hold down the fort,” he responds.

  “Or you can take off like I’ve asked you to several times already.” I flash a fake smile.

  “Don’t I know you?” Mrs. Washington asks, peering up into the lieutenant’s face.

  “Who? Me?” he asks, pressing a hand against his chest.

  Mrs. Washington nods and stares up at him.

  Fowler’s laughter sounds like it’s coming from a busted tailpipe. “No. Not that I recall.”

  I stare at him until he looks at me oddly.

  “What?” he barks.

  “Nothing.” I shrug but watch his strange behavior until he turns around and goes back into the house. Had I known that was all it took for him to stop shadowing me, I would have stared at him sooner.

  “C’mon, Mrs. Washington. I’ll walk you home.”

  Compliant, she turns and walks, still clutching the water glass. Once we get on the other side of the tape, neighbors tell Mrs. Washington to keep her head up. Others give her sympathetic looks. For me, there is nothing but contempt and scorn. The media, however, descend like locusts.

  “Captain Hawkins, can you tell us what happened here tonight?”

  “Captain, how many bodies have your department found?”

  “Captain, should the people of Memphis be worried about the acceleration of gang violence in the city?”

  My head hurts. “Excuse us. Please let us through,” I say, holding up my hand to block the bright lights on some of their cameras.

  Mrs. Washington’s home is a few doors down from her daughter and is a near replica of the two-story home. When we enter, it’s like I’ve stepped into a haunted house. The place is dark, unkempt, and cold. In fact, I believe that it’s warmer outside in the wintry night.

  “Excuse the mess,” she says. “I haven’t cleaned the place up in a while.”

  “No problem.” My gaze darts around. I wouldn’t say that she is a hoarder quite yet, but the potential is here.

  “Please. Please. Have a seat,” she offers, picking up a stack of newspapers and magazines.

  “That’s okay, ma’am. I don’t mind standing.” I retrieve my pen and notepad again. “If I can take your statement and perhaps get a picture of your daughter?”

  “Oh yeah. A picture.” She covers her mouth as she looks around the clutter. “A picture . . . a picture . . .”

  My heart goes out to her once again. It’s probably a trick of the damn lighting in here, but she appears so lost and fragile.

  At last she flashes me a wobbly smile. “You have to forgive me. Willow has never been one for taking pictures. I don’t know why, because she’s such a pretty girl. When she was little I used to love putting her in cute dresses.” She swipes her eyes. “Then after her father Darcell died, she became such a tomboy.” She snaps her fingers. “Wait. I know.” She crosses to a huge Bombay chest and digs through the drawers. “I know that I have her graduation picture around here somewhere.”

  While she searches, I ask her questions. “So where were you when the shooting took place tonight?”

  “In bed,” she says. “The first couple of shots I didn’t react. But then it went on and on . . . and on. I didn’t know what the hell was happening. There’s so much foolishness going on out here in these streets that I try to keep to myself.”

  “So you didn’t actually see anything tonight?”

  “No. I lay still until it was over. Afterward I took something for my nerves, then tried to go back to sleep. When that didn’t work I turned on the news—and that’s when I found out.” Another tear skips down her face before she resumes her search. “Oh, here it is.” She removes a gray shoebox from the bottom drawer. “I know it has to be in here.” She shuffles over to the couch.

  I follow, wanting to hurry this up. I hang over her shoulder while she thumbs through the box of photographs.

  “Here it is.” She removes a striking picture of a beautiful girl in her cap and gown, dark shoulder-length hair, warm chestnut complexion, and captivating and intense brown eyes.

  “She’s pretty.”

  Lucille’s smile brightens. “Yes. She is.”

  “Mind if I keep this?” I ask.

  She hesitates.

  “I’ll make a copy and bring it back to you.” Gently I pry the picture from her trembling hand. When it slips free, a fresh wave of tears rushes over her lashes. “I knew from the minute Willow started following her brother, Juvon, and that boy around that this day would come. He ain’t been nothing but trouble since that white girl brought him around here.”

  I have no idea what she’s talking about. However, another picture lying in the box catches my attention. Is that who I think it is? I reach over her shoulder and pluck the photograph out of the box. There’s no mistaking the man smiling back at me. “How do you know Captain Melvin Johnson?”

  17

  Hydeya

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  Lucille and I jump at the hammering on the front door.

  “Oh my. Who is that?” Lucille asks, setting her box of pictures aside and attempting to stand up.

  “Don’t trouble yourself,” I tell her, hanging on to the pictures of Willow Washington and Captain Johnson. “I’ll get it.”

  She sighs and gives me a relieved smile. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

  Bam! Bam! Bam!

  I rush to the door, annoyed. I can tell by the persistent knocking that it’s one of my guys. When I snatch the door open I am surprised to see Chief Brown instead of a patrol officer.

  “We gotta go,” she snaps, jutting a thumb over her shoulder. “These muthafuckas are shooting up the whole damn city.” With no further explanation, she turns and scrambles off the porch, giving me no time to ask her a follow-up question.

  “Who is out there?” Mrs. Washington shouts from the living room.

  I race back with a hurried explanation. “Mrs. Washington, we’re going to have to continue this conversation later. Something has come up.”

  I can’t tell whether the initial look on her face is of disappointment or relief. But she pushes up a brave smile and clambers to her feet. “I’ll appreciate whatever you can do to bring my baby back home.”

  “Yes, ma’am. We’ll certainly do all we can.” I wish I could promise her that everything will work out, but I want to
keep my bullshit to the absolute minimum.

  After Mrs. Washington and I say our goodbyes, I slip the two photographs into my pocket and jog back up to my vehicle where Chief Brown is pacing like a caged tiger. The crowd has thinned and the media vans are gone. All in all, it doesn’t look good.

  “What’s up? What’s going on?”

  “Some kind of shooting and an overturned SUV matching the description of the one fleeing here have been reported off I-55.” She hops into her car. “I’ll meet you over there.”

  Oh shit. Isaac. Obscenities flow through my head as I hop behind the wheel of my car. I struggle to push my emotions to the side as I follow the chief and a convoy of news vans to the crash site.

  * * *

  I arrive at the scene within minutes and with half the city’s news crews in tow. Riding in my own personal vehicle, I’m missing the police chatter over the radio. It doesn’t matter, because I already know what everyone is thinking: that we may finally have our guys. One of them may very well be my father.

  I exit my vehicle prepared for anything. It’s crazy how my emotions are all over the place for a man that I profess to not be able to stand. Family ties are crazy. They can hurt you without trying.

  “What do we have here?” I ask the first officer that I come across, ignoring the throng of reporters shouting questions.

  I rush over to the cliff, where the vehicle has tumbled off the road. As I look down the dark embankment, a thin sheet of rain drizzles against my skin. I remove my shades and use my hand to hood my eyes. I have trouble making out anything.

  A few officers make their way down the cliff, skidding, tumbling, and busting their asses on the way down. Drawing another deep breath, I take my first step; the soft earth gives way beneath my feet. A dramatic and ungraceful windmilling of my arms ensues as I attempt to keep my balance, but in the end it fails, and I, too, skid, tumble, and fall the rest of the way down.

  At the bottom of the cliff, I have nothing more than a busted ass and sore limbs and a bruised ego. I sweep the red earth from my clothes and wobble my way to the SUV.

  Empty.

  Relief whooshes through my system—so much so that I have to lean against the vehicle. There is no doubt in my mind that this is one of the SUVs involved in the massacre on Ruby Cove; it’s littered with bullet holes. There’s no license plate and the VIN number has been scratched off. But what gets my heart pumping is the amount of blood that’s splashed within the interior. Isaac could’ve been in this car.

  I exhale a long breath. I knew that his release from prison would complicate my life. I was right. I just didn’t think it would happen this fast. The rest of the forensic crime team makes it down the embankment and immediately marks off and secures the area.

  I draw in another cleansing breath and envision tomorrow’s headlines. No doubt the reporters will be relentless. The endless comparison to the late, great Captain Johnson will no doubt go on, everyone forgetting that this hell started under him before he was struck down by the very violence that he was charged to end. Despite hitting the ground running, I’ve yet to put any wins on the board for the city. I have to get something on the scoreboard.

  Deep in thought, I circle around the perimeter. As I pass by one of the numerous trees, something catches my eye. I lean in close. I place my hand against its trunk. A bullet. I lean back and glance around.

  “SOMEONE GET ME A FLASHLIGHT!”

  The officers scramble to hand one over. I click the flashlight on and direct the bright beam up another tree trunk.

  “We need to expand the perimeter,” I shout, successfully jerking everyone’s attention in my direction. I then set about swinging the flashlight beam from one random tree to the next, taking me farther and farther into the woods. Once I run out of bullet-riddled trees, I move the light to the rocky ground. Another oddity catches my attention.

  “What you got?” Chief Brown asks, huffing up behind me.

  I hadn’t even noticed that she had joined the search. Before answering, I kneel onto one knee and make a closer inspection of the dead leaves and pine needles. “Blood. A person or an animal has been recently wounded out here.” Once again, my father springs into mind. My hearts trips over a few beats. It has taken me years to master my emotions about that man, and in one night, my discipline has been shot to hell.

  I quickly make out the direction of the bloody trail. Deeper and deeper we go into the woods. The entire way my heart hammers, my hands sweat, and I brace for the worst.

  Suddenly, as if he’d just spat out of the earth itself, a yellow dog appears in front of us.

  Woof! Woof! Woof!

  Everyone’s guns come out of their holsters.

  “Wait,” I shout before some reckless officer fires.

  Silence.

  I kneel down again. “Hey, boy. Now where did you come from?” I stretch out my hand, letting him know that I’m cool.

  The dog sniffs, turns, and trots off. When he sees that no one follows, he stops and turns back around. Woof! Woof! Woof!

  “I think Lassie here is trying to tell us something.” I climb back up onto my feet and lead the team in following the dog.

  “There’s something up ahead.” At least a dozen flashlights sweep up.

  “Oh shit.” There, up ahead, isn’t the big, muscular frame of my father, but one of a sweaty woman, huffing and puffing the cool night air. One look at the woman’s face and I recognize her from her mother’s picture: Willow Washington.

  18

  Cleo

  Bolting out of my seat, I rush backstage to the dressing room to grab my duffel bag, clutch, and car keys. Before I head out the back door I catch members of my band huddled together.

  “I’m telling you, King Isaac smoked those fools,” Gabe, our drummer, brags. “The game has officially been changed. The Gangster Disciples has a real fucking leader again.” That announcement is followed by hoops, dabs, and shoulder bumps before they return their attention to their smartphone screens.

  “Can I see?” I ask, throwing myself into the mix.

  Robbie, the bass player, turns his high-wattage smile in my direction. “Don’t tell me your nigga ain’t told you the dealy-yo!”

  “Who, Kalief?”

  “No. Not that bum-nigga. Your new man—Diesel. I know he’s in on this shit too, ’cause his ass is in everything since he got here.”

  Head shaking, I reach for Joel’s smartphone, and then tap the screen to replay the news clip. With all the noise that’s going on backstage I can’t hear what the young reporter is saying, but I’m transfixed by all the chaos behind her. There’s no doubt about it, that is Ruby Cove behind her, along with what looks like the city’s entire emergency response team with their lights flashing. Beneath the reporter, the words Breaking News appear in huge block letters.

  “I don’t understand. What happened?” I lean in close and catch a few words. Only massacre and gang wars stick out.

  “King Isaac is what happened,” Gabe says with a smile stretched from ear to ear. Every member of the band has gang ties. We’re out here doing our legit hustle, but what happens in the street still affects us. “That shit is payback for that bullshit that happened at Momma Peaches’s funeral. Those foul muthafuckas are shooting up churches and now burial sites? Niggas nowadays ain’t got no fucking chill button. The disrespect has been going on for far too long, if you ask me.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Every one of the guys bobs his head in agreement.

  Encouraged, Gabe jumps on a soapbox. “And if you ask any real nigga on the street, Python’s ass has been slipping for real. Ever since he rose up off Shotgun Row, the Vice Lords have had a clear path running these streets. Fuck. The only people who have even done anything to keep them in check is a group of purple bitches who took out that she-devil’s brother at Da Club.”

  “The Crippettes,” I fill in for him as I hand him back his phone.

  “Yeah. Yeah. Python’s ex-old lady, Shariffa. That bitch changed fucking flags and th
en bought a whole new set of brass balls. I ain’t mad at her.”

  Jase laughs. “What the fuck are you talking about? That bitch is the last muthafucka you wanna be right now.” At our rapt attention, he continues. “Word is that each one of those bitches that were involved in that hit at Da Club are either MIA or have been chopped up like chop suey. You think that a bitch like Lucifer is going to let niggas keep breathing when you go gunning for her fam? If you do, I have a bridge in Brooklyn that I’d like to sell your monkey ass.”

  The image of Lucifer in that cemetery creeps back to mind and I have to agree with my bandmate. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near the infamous gangster’s shit list. I know that I’m sick of the street drama. Lord knows that bullets are never going to stop.

  “I gotta go,” I tell them, exiting the conversation. “I gotta find Kobe. I hope he ain’t involved in this nonsense.”

  “Good luck,” a few of them mumble, avoiding my gaze. I rush out the back door and hop into my old Toyota. Only my car refuses to turn over. “Please. Please. Don’t do this,” I beg. But my car isn’t listening to me. I grab my phone again and dial Kobe’s cell. “C’mon. C’mon. Answer the phone.” The line rings in my ears. In my head, I see the news reporter breathlessly talking about the escalation of the city’s gang warfare. Several witnesses named the Gangster Disciples as this night’s terrorists, but none of them wanted to make such claims on camera.

  This morning Kobe and his friends were excited about something that they were supposed to be getting into tonight. I dismissed their conspiratorial looks and whispers as their usual Saturday night plans with the latest teenage thots that twerk for drinks down at the hottest clubs. Now I have a sinking feeling that I misread the whole situation.

  Kobe was excited about the return of King Isaac to Shotgun Row. He bragged that shit was going to change and that Python’s leadership was in serious jeopardy. Kobe never did real gang-banging shit, just a few petty crimes, nothing too serious. He’s mainly a jokester with a weed and PlayStation addiction. On second thought, maybe I’m overreacting.