As each boy started crying, begging for mercy, Clay felt no remorse for what he was planning. He knew there were too many of them to just body, so he had to think of another way to make them pay for their transgressions of the block. Yanking one up by his collar, Clay raised his arm, crashing it down with brutal intent, sending his victim to his knees. Smacking the crying wannabe tough thug across his barely grown mustached lips with the gun’s handle, Clay laughed out loud seeing the other boys’ reactions. Shoving the muzzle to teen’s chin, slowly nudging his head backward, the predator-motivated-group had now turned to prey. Clay ordered them to all sit down while he held his own style of street court.
Suddenly, Clay’s rant was halted. The ear-deafening sound of a single gunshot rang throughout the sparsely populated neighborhood, echoing off the walls of the abandoned homes. Assuming it came from the backyard area and Mr. Jessie had “handled his business” and pulled the trigger, Clay gave the three boys he was now holding hostage a stay of execution from his wrath. “Gimme all three of y’all fucking cell phones! Now, I’m gonna have the names, numbers, and ugly-ass pictures of everybody y’all li’l bitches run with—just in case!” After letting them know he knew where they went to school, where they laid their heads, and the fact that he’d hunt them down and put a bullet not only in their brain but their mama, sister, and great-granny as well if they tried to retaliate, he let them go out the front door unharmed.
Heading back through the ransacked house, Clay unlocked the utility closet. Having heard the gunshot also, a hysterical Mrs. Jessie burst out, practically knocking Clay to the ground.
“No, oh my God! Oh my God!” Frantic, she screamed out, trembling in fear of what had happened to her soul mate. “What have you done to my husband? Where is he? Oh my God!” Beside herself, she focused on the large shiny pistol in Clay’s hand, naturally believing the shot she’d heard from behind the shut door had harmed Mr. Jessie. “Oh my God! Noooo! Where is he? Where? What have you done?” Terror ensued. Searching the kitchen with her eyes for the young black-hearted captors, then looking up the hallway toward the living room, her anxious pleas got louder. “Where is my husband, you monster? What did you do?”
“Wait, miss, wait! Slow down—damn, slow down.” Clay threw up both hands trying to calm her fears, letting her know the worst was over. “Your husband is okay. I promise you—he’s good. Lower your voice with all that, lady—he’s good! I’m trying to help you!”
Watching the local drug dealer she’d see every day flooding the neighborhood with cocaine stand in the middle of her kitchen claiming that all was well, Mrs. Jessie felt light-headed and sick to her stomach. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to scream and fall to her knees. Confused, fighting through the dizziness, she made a mad dash bolting through the still-open back door to get help. Before she could reach the bottom stair, the distressed woman locked eyes with her husband who was standing over a body with what appeared to be a handgun lowered at his right side.
Getting closer, the half-out-of-her-mind wife saw a look of desperation and shock on her husband’s face. Throwing her arms around his neck, she waited for him to hug her back, but he didn’t. She begged him to raise the mysterious gun he had and protect them both from Clay who was headed near them, but he didn’t. Mr. Jessie stood almost motionless and deaf to her cries. As Clay walked up on the couple, Mr. Jessie finally spoke, barely louder than a whisper, staring down at the moaning-in-pain youth.
“He was moving, trying to get up,” he mumbled as Clay took the pistol out of his hand. “I didn’t know what else to do. I swear to God, I didn’t. I thought he might . . . I . . . umm . . . What did I do?”
Mrs. Jessie’s cries became silent, realizing Clay was telling the truth. Her husband was indeed alive, and Clay was trying to help them.
“Look, I already told you, I got this,” Clay insisted, placing the gun in his waistband. “This wasn’t on you, old man. They brought that bullshit to you and your wife! This wasn’t on you. I mean, I know y’all heard about them little kids and them three other people they found dead in that house down the way. That could’ve been you and your wife on the news next; dead as a motherfucker. You did what you had to do; bottom line.”
“I know but—”
“Look, you was only protecting what is yours! Ya feel me?” Clay didn’t want any cops being called, although the always-nosy neighbor seemed to be heading down that path. “Hey, y’all just go back inside the house, lock your doors, and act like this never happened.” He bent down, grabbing the injured teen by both legs, flipping him on his back. “Why risk being arrested and fighting a case on some shit that wasn’t even your fault? Why waste lawyer fare on a little nigga that was gonna probably kill you and her! But that’s on you—my hands clean! If you wanna risk jail time and use your once-a-month check on a lawyer—then make that call!”
“But—but—” In a daze, Mr. Jessie’s mouth grew increasingly dry in denial over what he’d done—the act he’d committed. “I don’t know—”
“Well, I sure as hell do! He’s right,” the man’s wife strongly urged, pulling her man back toward the stairs she’d just fled from. “Those thugs were going to kill us both! I heard them talking,” she panted out of breath, glad to be alive and talking. “Don’t go to jail for them. Don’t let that miserable thang lying over there win.”
“You better listen to her and just forget about it.” Clay nodded to Mrs. Jessie, seeing they were on the same page. “Trust me, this piece of rotten shit lying here or those little crab motherfuckers that bum-rushed your crib ain’t coming back—never! Let it go! I done told you—this ain’t on you! None of it!”
After being at the cemetery and coming home to this horrific aftermath, the Jessies were mentally beat and their faith utterly tested. As the overly emotionally drained couple disappeared into what was once a safe haven to them both, Clay dragged the now unconscious teenager down the litter-filled alley. When he got near a vacant garage packed with debris, he tossed the half-dead teenager behind an old piss-stained mattress. Going through his pockets, Clay took the badly injured teen’s cell phone, just like he’d done his cronies.
Before going to his truck which was parked a few blocks over, and calling it a night, he walked past Mrs. Gale’s building so she would know all was well with him. He owed his “lookout” at least that much. Without slowing his pace, Clay smiled up at the elderly woman’s window, seeing her standing there, clutching her Bible closely.
Chapter Twelve
Reverend Richards
“Yes, do you have any idea, Reverend Richards, what is the reason for the spike in crime in Detroit—especially District 5? It’s almost at epidemic proportions—on the brink of organized chaos!”
Trying to seem as confident and loyal to his brother who was running for mayor as possible, the man of the cloth took a deep breath before responding to the cocky news reporter. “Well, you have to remember, sometimes it’s not the number of crimes committed in a city that’s the problem; it’s the overall leadership. That’s what you have to take a look at.”
“So, sir, are you insinuating that our current mayor and his various appointees are failing to provide adequate protection and/or solutions to the citizens? Is that what I’m hearing? I mean, we were just out here speaking to your brother the other day, and he seemed optimistic about working with the current administration, even during this election year.”
Confidently straightening his necktie, he leaned into the microphone that was only inches lower. “What I’m saying is that if something isn’t working properly, it might need to be replaced or upgraded. Don’t you think you deserve better? I deserve better? And the good, long-standing, law-abiding citizens like the folk I have standing behind me deserve better?” The Outreach Building’s pastor pointed back to Mrs. Gale and Mr. Jessie, both of whom he had to practically beg to come to the impromptu interview. “Even these little ones going to school deserve better!” He noticed Abdul and his little sister who were walking pa
st all the early-morning commotion.
“Well, Reverend, are you saying the mayor is supposed to be some sort of Superman? I mean, what exactly can your brother,” the investigative reporter eased in for the kill, “or any other candidate have done to stop the mysterious disappearance of the three Water Department employees, the apparent hijacking of the Walmart truck recovered a few blocks over from this location, or the disturbing discovery just this morning of yet another teen suffering from gunshots, who is likely to be crippled the rest of his life—if he lived . . . found yards away from this food pantry? This district is totally out of control. And unless you been somewhere with your head underneath a rock, I know you’ve seen the news about them two babies and three other people discovered bound and gagged.” He cocked his head to the side in anticipation as he continued his full-blown barrage. “Do you personally think the mayor and the police department can stop all this open-air drug trade that’s going on in just about every neighborhood in town, or has it gone too far? Do you think Detroit needs the National Guard or martial law initiated? Has your brother shared his view with you?”
The usually talkative reverend seemed to be frustrated and at a loss of words as the high-energy journalist bombarded him with cold hard facts of multitudes of illegal activities that had taken place, and were continuing to occur—questions he didn’t have the appropriate answers to.
Full of accusations, finger-pointing, and coming short of playground name-calling, Reverend Richards, power hungry in his own right, in one minute in front of the bright lights of the cameras, was on the verge of destroying all the positive work his half brother, candidate for mayor of Detroit, had built. Full of regret, Mrs. Gale, balancing her weight on her cane, and a solemn-faced, guilt-stricken Mr. Jessie, lowered their heads upon hearing the terrible but true crime statistics of the District 5 neighborhood they all called home—some transgressions they even had firsthand knowledge about.
Hotter than a cast-iron skillet of dirty fish grease and extremely embarrassed, Reverend Richards now sat in his private office licking his wounds. Having been tongue-lashed by his older brother and his brother’s campaign manager for even speaking to the media about anything other than his own church business without their prior consent, the preacher schemed, wanting nothing more than a chance to save face with not only his sibling, but the public, as well. Caught deep in his emotions, the left side of his head started to pound. Swallowing two Extra Strength Tylenols, washing them down with a small swig of dark liquor he kept locked in his bottom drawer away from his sometimes nosy parishioners, the reverend closed his eyes.
* * *
“The block is off the chain today—hot as a motherfucker,” Whip made mention as he and Dorie drove past a group of people gathered in front of a huge camera propped up on a white man’s shoulder. “No wonder that nigga Clay called and said to hold up till later. He got that third eye on the streets! We’d mess around and get knocked for real today!”
“Yeah, true that,” Dorie agreed as he drove slow enough to stare down the block they made the most money on, yet fast enough that the certain packs of always-waiting heads didn’t see them and cause a rush, drawing unwanted or needed attention. “Let’s just go grab some breakfast and let that circus clear out.”
“No doubt.” Whip leaned back, thinking about the single gunshot he’d heard echo throughout the neighborhood last night. It was just minutes before seeing the same disrespectful wannabe gangsta group of teenagers, minus their mouthy leader, bolt past him and ole girl he’d met at the restaurant. He was still feeling some sort of way about Clay, but let it go for the time being. “Well, whatever jumped last night, the shit probably gonna be all on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. If Black Informant ain’t talking ’bout it, then you know damn well the hood is. Them reporters was out there heavy.”
Shaking his head, Dorie laughed, pulling up in the last spot in the lot turning off the engine. “Yeah, the motherfucking police ain’t gotta earn they money no more. These social media snitches doing they job for free. If a fool get got at eleven, by midnight it’s all across the Web.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Good evening, residents of Metropolitan Detroit. The bloodshed and body count continue to rise tonight. I’m here on Fullerton Street between Linwood and Dexter Avenue, which is located on the West Side of the city. Sadly, tragedy has once again struck our economically stressed and crime-infested town. After several frantic 911 calls were received, police burst down the doors of the home located just behind me.” The reporter pointed up toward the yellow-taped-off house as a crowd of shocked neighbors gathered around. “What they found behind those doors, no one, including many veteran officers with as much as twenty years on the job, could stomach. The victims, three young adults, were found brutally murdered, two of them bound and gagged, and one seemingly killed execution style. However, what makes this crime scene more heinous and heart wrenching than the other breaking news homicides we’ve reported on this evening is that, unfortunately, there were two other victims, both elementary school-age children.” The angry, concerned crowd continued to grow as the lights from the camera shone bright. “Our sources tell us both small children were found duct taped together in a chair and possibly poisoned. The older of the two boys also appears to have been beaten. Identities are being withheld pending notification of families. But joining us live, we now have the newly appointed Detroit Police Chief Thomas Craig, who has just arrived on the crime scene. Chief, what can you tell us?”
“Yes, well, um, it has indeed been a night, or should I say a day of complete chaos in Detroit. Within a short 24-hour span, we now have at least seventeen confirmed homicides and more than nine or ten shootings that have resulted in minor non-life-threatening injuries. Our prayers go out to all of the victims’ families, and I also want to reassure our law-abiding citizens that the department is working overtime to regain order and diplomacy on the streets.” The chief then gave a long cold stare into the camera dead-on as he made his point clear. “These criminals will not take over our city! These savage, senseless acts will definitely not be tolerated, and those responsible will be apprehended and swiftly brought to justice. All available manpower has been called on duty, and no stone will be left unturned. I’m putting everyone breaking the law tonight in Detroit on proper notice: We’ll be coming for you in full force.”
A group of elderly neighbors clapped as the camera continued rolling and the reporter shoved the microphone in the chief’s face, holding him there. “Thank you, Chief. One last question. This has proven to be the deadliest day in Motown history. Do you have any suspects in any of the crimes as of yet?”
“At this time, all leads are being aggressively followed, and we encourage the public to contact us with any information that will assist in our efforts. Thank you.”
“Well, there you have it. The chief has assured us he and his officers will restore peace to Detroit. Live on the West Side, Jayden James reporting for Channel 7 Action News.”
* * *
Less than an hour later, after watching the constant rebroadcast of the tragic news reports, Whip and Dorie were finish devouring their grits and eggs breakfast. Before leaving the restaurant, the pair plotted out exactly how the rest of the day would go if they hoped to make up for the lost morning-shift revenue. With a sense of determination, the two headed back toward the block. Elated and relieved to find the unwanted hood visitors had vacated, undoubtedly back to the tranquility of their own neck of the woods, huge grins graced both their faces. Finally, it would be business as usual. Gathering all the runners who hadn’t disappeared searching for other hustles for the day, Whip and Dorie retrieved the half-sold package they’d stashed from the night before. As soon as the dope was almost at point zero, they’d hit Clay for the re-up.
Most of the morning custos had probably gone across the way to their competition to cop, but the ones who wanted that good strong blast Clay was famous for putting out in the streets—waited. Passing out a f
ew testers and two-for-one specials to let the word get out they were back up—the money started to flow. Rubber banding three racks of crumbled twenties, dirty singles, tens, torn-corner fives, along with a few big face hundreds, Dorie eagerly placed the call to his boss.
Chapter Fourteen
Reverend Richards felt a little light-headed from the combination of the aspirin and the liquor. Knowing he had to at least get some information to pass along to his brother about how the district could reduce the crime stats, he looked into the mirror, getting his game face on. Unlike any of his soapbox sermons to the underprivileged or giving out, supposedly, no-strings-attached food rations and clean clothing to the drug addicts, he knew he had to come all the way correct if he wanted to get what he needed to save face in the family and community. The man of the cloth needed a miracle from a higher power—one that had more clout than God in this district. There was only one person in the neighborhood that possessed just as much, if not more, control and influence over the downtrodden residents than the man upstairs—and that was Clay. And Clay, cut from an entirely different cloth from the others, needed the good reverend for absolutely nothing, so helping him would definitely not be a priority.
With a false sense of entitlement, he made his way down the block in search of the local drug kingpin of the vicinity. Trying to appear unmoved by the news reporter’s verbal attack from earlier, he knew was probably the talk of the hood, so the reverend worked to keep up his fronts. As he walked by the two Muslim kids he always gave shelter to when need be, he loudly warned them to be careful because one of their known tormentors had been callously beaten and later died the night before, and was discovered only yards away on the side of a dilapidated garage. Under his breath, he advised them to come directly to him if they had any information about the crime. With a hard heart, he let the kids know if they even thought about not telling him every single detail they might overhear at school or anywhere else, he might be forced to tell their father, who was an overly strict and devout Muslim, that they had been seeking refuge in the church—even reading the Bible.
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