by Nikki Turner
“Damn, he's fine,” DuJuanna whispered, all the while never taking her eyes off the cutie pie standing across the small expanse of floor with his eyes locked on her. DuJuanna smiled at him.
Antwan felt perplexed. In each instance when he had finally caught up with the killers of his family, he was about slumping their asses. Now one of the killers stood across a dance floor smiling at him and he found himself doing everything to contain his rage. He'd waited fifteen years for this, he told himself, fighting to control the anger that was coursing through him.
I got to calm down at least long enough to rock her ass to sleep, Antwan thought, allowing a smile to slowly spread across his face, revealing even, white teeth.
“Girl, 'scuse me,” DuJuanna said as she walked away from her small knot of friends. “I'm gon’ get me some of that,” she whispered over her shoulder, walking toward Antwan.
“What's up, cutie?” DuJuanna asked, smiling.
“Nothin’ really,” Antwan responded.
“You must not come here a lot,” DuJuanna remarked, “because this is the first time I've ever seen you here and I know I would have remembered your fine ass if I had ever seen you before.” Then she flashed a playful smile.
“Nah, not a lot,” Antwan responded, trying to loosen up. “I'm just hanging out.”
For the next hour or so, DuJuanna and Antwan stood off to the side of the dance floor talking while DuJuanna ordered one small bottle of Piper's after another.
“Shit. I'm getting drunk, baby,” DuJuanna admitted and leaned suggestively against Antwan. “I better get my ass home.”
“I'm about to leave if you want a ride,” Antwan said, putting down his bottle of Red Bull.
“Let me tell my girlfriends I'm going, baby, and I'll be right back.” She walked off and chatted with her girlfriends. “All right, baby, I'm ready,” DuJuanna said, walking back up to the bar and running her fingers through her moist hair.
“Let's roll, then,” Antwan said as they headed to the exit.
Relax the bitch, Antwan thought, hitting the door locks on the car, watching DuJuanna hop in.
“Do you have to go straight home?” Antwan asked, pulling the car away from the curb.
“Not really, baby. Why? What did you have in mind?” DuJuanna asked with a knowing smile as she lifted up the armrest and snuggled close to Antwan.
“I was gonna drive down by the waterfront, if it's cool with you.”
“Yeah, baby, it's cool with me,” DuJuanna replied, reaching over and turning on the radio where a “Quiet Storm” oldies but goodies show was playing the Undisputed Truth's old hit “Smiling Faces.”
As Antwan drove toward the pier, DuJuanna unzipped his pants and gently massaged his dick. By the time they got to the pier, DuJuanna was giving him some of the best head he had ever experienced in his short life.
For a minute, Antwan got caught up in the moment, but then he snapped out of the sensational feeling. “Stop, bitch!” he yelled.
“Baby, what's wrong?” DuJuanna asked. She raised her head out of Antwan's lap and looked at him with passion-glazed eyes and beads of perspiration on her forehead. As DuJuanna looked into Antwan's eyes, she realized she was seeing a look she had never seen before. She was seeing real anger, bordering on hatred. She had been with more than a few niggas that liked to talk dirty when they made love. She had even been with one real freak shit that liked to choke her when he started to come. That shit had really turned her on, but cutie pie looked to be somewhere beyond all that. Cutie looked like he was mad for real. “Baby, what's wrong?” she asked again.
“Do you remember me?” Antwan asked with a hard edge to his voice.
“Remember you from where, baby?” DuJuanna asked, forcing a fake smile. “Where do you live at, uptown?”
“I'm not from New York,” Antwan said, staring evenly at DuJuanna.
“Where are you from?” DuJuanna asked nervously, realizing for the first time, as the liquor began to wear off, that she was in the car on an isolated street with some nigga and not only did she not know where he was from, she didn't even know his name.
“I'm from Newark, DuJuanna,” Antwan said softly, his eyes never leaving DuJuanna's face.
The words, spoken slowly in the stillness of the car, fell like a thousand-pound weight on her chest. DuJuanna could feel her heartbeat quicken as pearls of sweat suddenly dripped from her armpits.
“I don't think I know you,” DuJuanna said, trying to control the nervous tremor that invaded her voice.
“Yeah, you remember me,” Antwan stated, turning the radio back on. “It's just been a long time.”
“No, I don't think so. How old are you anyway?” DuJuanna asked, slowly inching closer to the door, dreading the answer she knew she was about to hear.
“I'm eighteen,” Antwan responded, reaching under his seat.
At that moment DuJuanna reached for the door handle and pushed the door open. She fell to the ground outside the car, her heart pounding in her chest. Suddenly she heard two loud claps as bullets tore into the door panel where she had been sitting only seconds before.
“Oh my God,” DuJuanna screamed, jumping up and attempting to run. She only made it ten or fifteen feet before a bullet slammed into her shoulder, knocking her to hands and knees on the ground.
“Baby, please, don't kill me,” DuJuanna pleaded, looking at Antwan, who was standing over her with the gun pointed at her face. “They made me do it. I didn't wanna kill nobody,” DuJuanna babbled, feeling blood run down her back from the bullet lodged in her shoulder.
“I don't want to kill you,” Antwan mumbled, looking at DuJuanna's pleading tear-filled eyes.
“Then, baby, don't. Please, baby, have mercy,” DuJuanna begged, trying to sit up, but falling over once again.
Antwan thought for a moment as he stared down at the helpless female. “Nah, baby, no mercy,” Antwan said as he raised the gun and fired. DuJuanna heard the first shot. Then everything went black.
AS ANTWAN DROVE back to New Jersey his thoughts were on that fateful night fifteen years ago. He thought about his parents and his older brother and wondered how their lives would have turned out if they had not been murdered. There was nothing he could do or could have done to change any of it. These thoughts filled his head as he drove down the turnpike and watched the sun come up. But now, finally, he had gotten revenge for their murders.
As he drove on in silence, he realized he was doing something he had not done in over fifteen years. He was crying. And as he drove with tears flowing, he realized he was crying as much for himself as he was for his murdered family. He knew now, on reflection, that their murders had made him who he was. At just the age of eighteen, he had killed several people. He had maimed countless others. This was not the hand he wanted or would have chosen, he thought as he turned off the highway and drove into Newark, but it was the hand that fate had dealt him. So this was the one he had been forced to play out.
His thoughts turned to the girl he had just killed, how she had begged for her life, how she had constantly called him “baby” and “cutie” and had sucked his dick better than anyone had ever done before in his life. This made him realize that in some ways he was crying for her, too—that, like him, she had simply done what she had to do. She had played the hand that fate had dealt her.
As the sun rose in the sky, Antwan made a resolution. He was going to put the murdering and mayhem behind him. He would keep his spot rocking. He might even open up another one down the road. But that night was the last chapter of his “no mercy” killings. Either for revenge or money. He was going to make a new life for himself.
SIX
OVER THE NEXT COUPLE of years, Rah Rah and Antwan stacked cheddar. They opened another crackhouse on High Street and generally just hung out. Although Rah Rah was now caked, he still enjoyed the adrenaline rush of a well-executed hit or stickup from time to time.
Rah Rah's fortunes would soon take a turn for the worse. During the winter of 2001
, Rah Rah was killed in a blazing gun battle with members of the Millburn Police Department working in conjunction with the state's SWAT team.
Antwan was home watching the six o'clock evening news when the story of a jewelry store robbery and hostage crisis broke. Rah Rah had told him his heist plans earlier and Antwan watched as the event unfolded. Antwan knew Rah Rah would never surrender. Rah Rah had always said that if push came to shove, he would hold court in the streets.
Antwan watched as Rah Rah and his crew gave as good as they got with Millburn's finest. He watched with growing dread as sharpshooters with infrared scopes took up positions on area rooftops and waited for a clear shot. Antwan held his breath and his heart pounded in his chest as Rah Rah's head came into view from behind a parked car. Then he watched as the head of the kid he had known from childhood exploded from the impact of a high-velocity bullet, fired from the rifle of a sharpshooter whose motto was one shot, one kill.
Rah Rah's death would be a defining moment for Antwan. Antwan retired from the game and opened up two self-service Laundromats, one in East Orange and the other in Newark, with his stash. There would be no more what had seemed like easy money at the time. Antwan vowed to himself and on his family's graves that he would never live the life he had once lived, and in an unfortunate way, he had Rah Rah to thank for that.
Ironically, it was Rah Rah that brought him into the life he had formerly lived and it was Rah Rah who brought him out.
SEVEN
ANTWAN MET Michelle Anderson, a girl who, like him, had grown up in foster homes and orphanages. However, unlike Antwan, Michelle had finished high school and graduated from Hampton University with a degree in business management.
From the onset they had been an unlikely pair: one a graduate from a prestigious university, the other from the school of hard knocks. But Antwan and Michelle filled some deep personal need in each other, and soon they were inseparable.
In the fall of 2002, Antwan bought a house in Hillside. A few months later Michelle moved in with him. About a year later, Michelle gave birth to an eight-pound, twelve-ounce son that she named Antwan Mickel Dawson. They married three months later.
The following year Michelle gave birth to a second son, who they named Carl in honor of Antwan's father and brother. The businesses went well and by spring 2004, Antwan had a grand opening for his third Laundromat.
Michelle could not have been happier. She knew, or had heard on the streets, about Antwan's past. But as far as she was concerned, it was just that, the past. Michelle didn't care; she had the life she had always hoped for. She and her husband had two beautiful sons and a successful business.
“Baby, where do you want to take the kids for the picnic?” Michelle yelled from the kitchen. “I'm getting tired of Central Park and all of that traffic when we drive back to the house.”
“Wherever you want to go, boo,” Antwan told her as he dressed Little Carl.
“How about Roselle Park? It's supposed to be nice and the boys haven't been there before,” Michelle responded as she stuffed a large bowl of hot wings into the picnic basket.
“That's cool,” Antwan said as Carl, with one shoe off and one shoe on, pulled away from his father and ran laughing into the kitchen.
As Antwan and his family made final preparations for their picnic at Roselle Park, a family of another sort was making final preparations, leaving the Pioneer Homes projects in Elizabeth en route to Roselle Park.
Bilal was the leader of the Pioneer Homes Crips. Sixteen years old, Bilal had been sticking up and gangbanging since he was thirteen. Last year when Big Hussein, the gang's leader, had gotten smoked by some kids from the Stella Wright projects in Newark, Bilal had taken over the gang.
Seeking to expand their turf, Bilal and his crew had taken to going to Saint George Avenue in Linden or Roselle Park, where they would go through the park wildin’ out or from time to time staging some impromptu broad-daylight stickups.
Antwan, Michelle, and the two boys had been lying on a blanket on a grassy slope, which overlooked the park's lake. For the last several hours Antwan and his family had eaten hot wings, drunk homemade lemonade, and listened to Alicia Keys's latest CD.
“Baby, it's starting to get a little dark,” Michelle remarked as she rose up off the blanket, looking around. “It's probably time to get the boys home.”
“Alright, boo,” Antwan agreed, sitting up and looking across the slowly emptying park. “Let me listen to this last song. You and the boys start taking the stuff down to the car. I'll be down right behind you.”
“Daddy, let me wait with you,” Little Antwan begged, looking up at his father with his mother's eyes.
“All right, shorty,” Antwan said, looking across at Michelle, who nodded her head, smiled, and started gathering up the picnic basket and blanket.
As Michelle walked hand in hand down the slope with her son, she thought about her life now and a smile crept across her face. She had never dreamed that she could ever have been so totally happy. In her youth, as she moved from foster home to foster home, she had never thought that she would ever enjoy the life that Antwan and she had made for themselves and their children.
As Michelle neared the car, she noticed a group of young boys wearing blue bandannas talking loudly and walking in her direction.
“What's up, boo?” said a light brown–skinned kid who didn't look to be any more than fourteen years old.
“Nothing at all,” Michelle replied as she gripped Carl's hand tightly and continued walking, trying to pass the rowdy group.
“Hold up a minute, boo,” the kid said, smiling and stepping in front of Michelle to block her path. “Why don't you drop us off?” He reached to grab Michelle's hand.
Michelle pulled away and began to yell for Antwan.
“Shit, bitch, you better chill the fuck out,” Bilal snarled as he stepped to the middle of the crowd. “We'll jack your fuckin’ chicken-head ass, you keep on running your fuckin’ mouth,” he said, pointing his finger in Michelle's face.
Antwan and Little Antwan were walking down the slope of the hill when he spotted his wife and son surrounded by the crew of young dudes. As Antwan came nearer, he noticed that one of them had just tried to snatch his wife's car keys.
“Get your muthafuckin’ hands off her,” Antwan shouted, pushing his way through the small crowd. “Baby, you all right?” Antwan asked Michelle, while keeping his eyes on the crew of young gangstas that now surrounded him and his family.
“Fuck you, nigga,” a dark brown–skinned kid with cornrows said, stepping up to Antwan. “We'll jack your bitch ass, too.”
“You'll do what?” Antwan questioned, his eyes wide in disbelief as he stepped closer to the kid.
“Baby, please. Antwan, let's go home,” Michelle pleaded as Antwan's eyes burned into the eyes of the kid standing directly in front of him.
Antwan stared into the laughing eyes of the kid in front of him. It had been years since he had worn a vest, carried his burner, or dealt with any street drama. A few years ago he would have murdered this little muthafucka just for looking at him. That was a few years ago. Another time, another life, another Antwan. He was married now and had two kids and three businesses. He had to let that shit go. Antwan turned to begin getting his family into the car.
“I thought so!” the kid spat out, then shoved Antwan hard as Antwan tried to maneuver around the gang members to his car.
It's said that old habits die hard, that instinct and unlearned patterns of behavior are hardwired into us at birth. Before Antwan could weigh the consequences, before he could even consider the odds, instinct took over and he was on automatic pilot.
Before Bilal's crew could respond, Antwan spun around and fired a hard right, catching the kid high on the temple and knocking him out cold.
“No, please,” Michelle screamed as she watched the crew move toward Antwan. And then out of the corner of her eye Michelle saw a gun. From that moment everything else seemed to happen in slow motion. A
s Antwan slipped under a roundhouse punch thrown by one of the kids and was about to throw a left hook of his own, three shots rang out. Michelle watched as Antwan's body pitched back and crashed into the car's door. The gang members immediately ran off in different directions.
“Oh my God, no!” Michelle screamed as little Carl began to cry. Michelle kneeled down beside Antwan as a river of blood poured from his chest. Antwan lifted his head and attempted to speak but a heavy stream of dark red blood poured from his mouth.
“Don't try to talk, baby,” Michelle said softly with tears flowing from her eyes. Antwan looked up at his wife and forced a smile. He wanted to tell her that he was alright, that everything would work out, that now more than ever before he understood karma and just how life worked out, that he even understood the kids that shot him. He wanted to tell her he loved her and to take care of the boys. But he couldn't. He tried to reach for her hand to hold it and look in her eyes one last time, but the darkness was drawing him in and he was tired of resisting its pull. Then everything went black. Antwan's head rolled to one side and fell. Michelle released a scream that continued every night for the next three years in the psychiatric ward of Roselle Medical Hospital.
Little Carl began to cry when he heard his mother scream and that night he cried himself to sleep.
Antwan was standing next to his dad when the bullets exploded like firecrackers in his father's chest. He had tried to holler, to scream, but nothing came out. He would remain that way, unable to speak or cry, until he was eight years old. And for the rest of his young life he would have one recurring dream. And in it he would find them, kill the people that murdered his dad, and when he did he would show them no mercy.
Composed by Y. Blak Moore, understood by many
ONE
APRIL 17, 1991, 3:34 P.M.
THE OLDER, TALLER boy spat sunflower-seed shells on the cracked sidewalk, and his friend snickered as Danny Man approached them.