by ROBERT LABOO
“I wasn’t there, I swear to Christ!”
“So that’s not your car?”
“Yes.”
“But you don’t let anyone drive your car, remember?”
“Yes, but no. Geez, this is so un-fucking-fair. I don’t want any trouble. Why are you doing this to me?” Cynthia transforms into a helpless child.
“You’re doing this to you. When you decided to play the transporter to your boyfriend. I’m tired of this.” Suffiyah waves her hand in exasperation. “I’m going to read you your rights so you can officially be charged.”
“No! Please, Miss? I wasn’t there. I swear to Christ I wasn’t there!”
A puddle of snot takes form over top of her duck lips. She weeps and kicks at the table legs.
“So who was?”
“Not me! I was going through heroin withdrawals, my bones ached. I could hardly walk, let alone drive. But that’s my car so—”
Cynthia expression changes as if she’s been smacked mid-sentence.
“Mally! Fucking A-right, it could have only been Mally.” She smiles at something in her head, brightening up her pug like face.
The bare room is sparsely furnished. Three chairs and a table are the only items occupying the windowless space. The depiction of this room seems redundant to say the least. But in the lifestyle of the average criminal, what we call redundancy they interpret as living. Some spend more time in these little rooms then they do at home. Some against their will, but many by choice. The code of the streets are like fairytales in today’s society. Standup men in the underbelly are like dinosaurs, once believed in but now extinct. If you were to see one you would believe yourself to be hallucinating. But Marshon Welch prides himself on being raised by dinosaurs and the prehistoric code is embedded in his DNA. The unbothered look showcases his sentiments towards his current dilemma. Detective Lewis walks into the room with a single photo in hand.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Welch? How’s it going?”
Marshon stares at him as if he’s of no more importance than the chair in which he sits.
“That good? Okay well I only have one question.” Lewis places the photo in the center of table. “What can you tell me about him? I can make the fifty bags of heroin you were caught with go away.”
It never ceases to amaze Marshon how many law officers are willing to break the laws. He was searched thoroughly by the first officer and he came out clean. The second officer sends everyone else away as he checks him and a brick magically appears in his pants pocket. He smiles smugly at Detective Lewis. They’ve done this dance on an occasion or two, mostly to Lewis’ disappointment.
“This conversation appears one sided, don’t you think?” Marshon spits on the floor. This is usually around the time when Lewis gets physical. His interrogations are very hands on.
“Well since you can’t tell me about him, let me tell you about you. Three nights ago, three masked men entered a liquor store. The first one in was Wayne-Wayne. He grabbed Victor Arocho at gunpoint. Sound familiar? No? I’ll continue. The last of the gunmen had a tattoo on each wrist. The right wrist says, Cali and the left says Boy.” Lewis makes himself comfortable in the chair. “I’m willing to bet, Mr. Munch, that under those sleeves I can find those words.”
“I-”
“No, don’t speak. You’ve been so quiet thus far. But hear this. Forget the brick, it’s gone. That was just the price of conversation. But in three days, I will have a murder warrant for you. I could care less about a dead spic.” He taps the picture. “Get me him or I get you. Your choice.” Munch is speechless. “You’re losing your smug expression, Mr. Welch. Go get you some air for a couple of days. I’ll see you in seventy-two hours.”
“You’ve broken my heart,” the caller claims. “It’s as if I don’t even exist to you anymore. After all I’ve done to catch your attention?”
“Why are you doing this? What did I do to you?” Suffiyah asks.
She looks under the doors in the bathroom to make sure none of the stalls were occupied.
“But I blame myself,” he continues as if she’s said nothing. “I guess my best wasn’t good enough for you, so I apparently have to do better. Expect a gift in a few days.” The call ends.
Suffiyah stares at her phone. This is like an episode of the Twilight Zone, only question is—when does it end?
CHAPTER 17
The staccato rhythm of the assault rifle mugs the night of its peace. Sixty-two year old Emma Wise immediately rolls from her bed to the floor and covers her head with her arms. As a lifelong resident of Newark, she knows the necessary precautions to take in these events. The gunshots are so close they sound as if it’s being fired in her living room. Thunder. That’s the most accurate way to describe the sound. Just as actual thunder announces the impending rain, so does the gun. When the thunder subsides it will rain tears, hearts will flood with pain and hope will be washed away. Ms. Emma lifts her body from the floor as the noise ceases. Silently she thanks God for His protection. The rapid patter of bare feet causes her heartbeat to skip as she visualizes one of the stray bullets implanted in her granddaughter. Instead of the footsteps coming closer, they seem to be going in the opposite direction. She hears the front door jerked open.
“Nooooo!”
On her front porch lays a body that will never lift on its own again. Blood leaks profusely from the many exit wounds and paint the steps crimson. His baby face can be seen partially beneath his hood. His lips frozen in a permanent smirk. The phone by his hand showing his last conversation via text.
“Open the door in one minute”
“Say please”
“Gtfoh!”
“Closed door means closed legs :p”
“LOL please”
“LOL coming”
Zzzz Zzzz. The phone vibrates nonstop. Benji’s hand drunkenly slaps the nightstand in search of his phone. Sleep blurs his vision as he attempts to make out the name on his screen. He blinks repeatedly until he can clearly read the name. His eyes go from her name to the time. What the fuck? It’s 12:43 in the morning.
“Hello… Yeah… Breathe… I can’t understand… Just calm down… I’m on my way…”
Benji awakens fully but is now further out of touch of what’s going on. The incoherent call might as well have been in a foreign tongue. Very little of what she said was comprehendible but the urgency was evident.
“Have you ever seen A Bronx Tale?”
“Why? You think your one of the great ones?”
“Okay, I’m going to take that as a yes. Don’t be an ass, Benjamin.” Sakinah plucks him.
“Anyway. Lorenzo the bus driver says the worst thing in life is wasted talent. Do you agree?”
Benji smiles at her question. She comes out of the clear blue with these questions. You never know where they came from or where they’re headed. Only thing for certain is there’s a purpose to whatever she’s saying.
“I guess I do somewhat. I never really gave it thought.”
“So, think now. Yes or no?”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad you said that.” Sakinah gets up from the couch and walks out the room.
When she returns, her hands contain notebooks and pens.
“Every day you always have these handwritten letters for me. The way you’re able to communicate through written word weakens me. I’m addicted to it. I think if you neglected writing me for just one day, I’d be physically ill. Your words are so powerful and real, but secretive and unheard. Baby, just imagine the affect you can have on the world.”
“Nobody’s interested in what I got to say.”
“Maybe, maybe not. But I am. So I want you to write me a story.”
“About what?”
“Anything.”
“You think I could do that?”
“No, not really.”
“So why—”
“But, I know you can do anything.” She smiles, passing hi
m the notebooks. “You’re my superhero.”
“My girl usta say the worst thing in life is wasted talent. What you think?”
“No disrespect but I think it’s stupid. Some people don’t have talent. So how do you waste what you don’t have?”
“This just it though. Everybody has a talent, you just have to identify it. You ever wanted to do something in life, but it seemed farfetched?” Drama opens his mouth but it shuts automatically.
“What?” Benji asks.
“Nuthin.”
“You was ‘bout to say something, Playboy.”
“What so you could jail off of me? Nah, I’m good.”
“For real bruh you could holla at me.”
“My G cuz,” he apologizes, “if it seem like I’m playin’ you, but I ain’t ‘bout to be out here daydreaming. Too much real shit be goin’ on to be fantasizing.”
“Understandable. But its only fantasy if you choose not to make it reality. Just trust that I’m being a hunnid, aiight?”
Drama tosses this around mentally, after a few moments he mumbles, “Acting.” He does so while staring out the window.
“Why acting? Have you ever done it?”
“Nah. But if given the chance to be someone other than a baby loc from down bottom, if only for a half hour a day, would be a relief. It feel crazy waking up every day wondering if you gonna see tonight. Or coming out at night and wondering if you will see the sunrise. So I envy these clown ass actors. They make a living being a different dude than the one they were cursed to be.”
“If you had the opportunity to pursue acting, what would you do?”
“Leave all the drama behind me.” He says still staring out the window.
Death is so common an occurrence around these parts, even this sixteen year old boy is planning ways to evade it. Benji is saddened by his admittance. Silence joins them on this journey as each entertains his own thoughts. They eventually pull in front of a house in Montclair. After Benji places a call, an older woman comes outside. He goes over to her and they speak briefly before both walk to the car. Drama rolls down his window as they approach his side.
“Hello, Draymon. My name is Mrs. Burnett. How can I assist you?”
“I don’t know. I ain’t know I was in need of help,” he replies with much attitude.
“Everyone does, my love. Everyone does.”
“You said you had a dream. Well, Mrs. Burnett is your genie,” Benji interjects.
“My what?”
“You said you wish you could act. Well, Mrs. Burnett is an acting coach. She’s going to grant your wish.”
“I can’t afford that and my words wasn’t for everybody,” Drama responds more riled up.
“Calm down, Draymon. This is my pleasure. There will be no charge except that beautiful smile,” Mrs. Burnett butts in now.
No matter the age of a woman, their charm is ever present. Drama smiles and blushes like a school girl.
“See? You just paid me. Now I owe you my services.”
~~~
Moisture seeps into the denim pants’ seat as Benji sits on the curb in the rain. He rubs his palms roughly into his eyes as he tries to get some type of understanding on everything or better yet, anything. This day started off so promising as he cruised the city with Drama. He can’t bring himself to look over at the white sheet. This morning he was given an opportunity to uncover his dream and tonight he’s covered in his nightmare.
“Over twenty shots. It had to be like a choppa,” the young man says enthusiastically.
Suffiyah writes his words, all while staring down the street. She watches as Lewis walks away from a father and daughter on the other side of the yellow tape. Something about the smile on his face makes her uneasy.
…I heard the body fall and I knew it was over.”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“Huh?”
“Did you see the shooter?”
“Oh nah. I ain’t here for all that.”
“Mr. Cooper?” Benji looks up with bloodshot eyes.
“I don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Detective Lewis.”
He extends his hand towards Benji to be shaken. Benji looks from his hand back to his face before turning his head.
“So you do remember me? Well what brings you here to my scene at this time of night?”
His statement and presence reverts Benji back to his former goon at this point in time.
“You pigs fuck me up! It’s a little homie under that sheet gone forever and your crab ass over here chattin’. He don’t mean nuthin’ to you but more paperwork. We don’t mean nuthin’ to you, so you give us nuthin’. No love, no options. You view him as one less gangbanger and you don’t even know him, pussy!”
“Mr. Cooper!”
Lenae flies into his arms stopping his verbal tirade. The heat from her tears burn through his shirt as his embrace muffles her cries. Her little hands clench the back of his jacket desperately. She holds on as if her grip is the only thing keeping him from disappearing, while his hold reassures her he’ll never leave. If looks could kill, Lewis would drop dead right now. He doesn’t even have the decency to grant them a moment. He just stands there smirking while Benji eye fucks him.
“How do you measure failure?” Benji asks from the pulpit. “Because as I stand here, I can’t help feeling like I failed. Draymon was me at a bad point in my life. His anger, his pain, his despair. Most of all his courage, his heart. As much as he feared the world he faced it. But as tough as his exterior was, if he loved you it was real and evident. And even without him saying it, you knew the love was eternal. There was no bounds to what he would risk for what he loved, even his life. Sad to say, but that was the same love he had for the streets because he had nothing else to consider his own. To feel like he belonged there, until I found him and he found MISFITS. Every Saturday he would wow me with his perception of the world. Under his eye he tattooed ‘Why?’. So I asked him what made him do it and what it meant. He said ‘What it say?’”
Benji laughs at the memory as he looks at the ceiling. He figures keeping his eyes off the crowd will keep the tears in his eyes.
“’It means why.’ That’s what he said, so I just gave up. Five minutes later he picked up as if we never left the subject. ‘Why we poor? Why we starve? Why we hate each other? Why I gotta hide my tears? Why do I gotta be scared? Why this only life for us, bruh? Why are people so judgmental that they write my tattoo off as a stupid mistake, instead of calculated thoughts? They say that we don’t think and this tattoo is a reminder to the world that I’m always thinking.’ Those were his words to me. Now I look at his casket and then up to God and ask why?”
Benji used money from his grant for MISFITS to pay for Drama’s funeral service. His mother was an addict and she could only afford to cremate him at best. Not while Benji was still breathing.
Suffiyah sat in the back row of Perry’s Funeral Home, as Benji gave the eulogy. His words brought back the image of the baby faced boy with the mutilated torso slain under a sheet. He provided a soundtrack to the silent movie playing in her mind as she found herself crying. The repass will be held at MISFITS Inc., which is her next stop. She looked to her left and Detective Lewis eyed her with disgust. She rolled her eyes. Just because she was here at a professional capacity, doesn’t mean she wasn’t entitled to have feelings. Being a cop doesn’t erase her humanity.
Benji walks to his van. His body sags from the weight of the world he’s carrying. The repass was more depressing than the funeral. Holding Lenae together was a task he was ill prepared for. Her heart was left in the cemetery and it was no changing that. As he held her, he remembered himself when his heart was left in the cemetery. There were no words anyone could offer to console him. So he wouldn’t insult her with worthless words, he just gives her his shoulder. How he kept a dry eye through all this is blowing his mind. Instinct causes him to turn around abruptly. The Honda Accord is only abou
t two feet away and creeping. He places his back to his van and stares at the oncoming car. Why couldn’t this car have come five minutes earlier, before Lay Low pulled off? Through the window he can make out a feminine silhouette, which eases his tension some. She puts her hazards on and steps out. Seeing Suffiyah here is the last thing he needs. His emotions are so discombobulated, he can’t control them.
“Sorry to hear about your student.”
In the life he once led you were either friend or foe. For the life of him he can’t figure where to place Suffiyah.
“You don’t have to be so cold around me. I didn’t come to be a cop. I’m here as a friend. I know how strong you are.” She steps into his personal space. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t be strength for you too.”
“Why?”
“Because it feels right.” She shrugs. “Follow me.” Benji frowns. “Please?”
They both get in their vehicles.
Suffiyah walks through her home barefoot in sweatpants and a t-shirt. But she feels nervous as if she’s uncovered.
What is making me this bold and reckless? Loneliness?
She takes the cup of tea in her bedroom. The portable Bluetooth speaker bedside plays music from her phone. Benji sits on the edge of the bed with his face in his palms.
Uhm Uhm, she clears her throat. He looks up and accepts the mug of tea.
“It’s peppermint. When I’m going through a lot, it soothes me.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I take your coat?”
After hanging his blazer, she walks around the bed. Placing herself behind him, she massages his shoulders.
“When you were giving the eulogy, I cried. He was truly a baby. I overlooked it at the scene. As an officer we’re taught to detach ourselves from our emotions. But at the funeral, through your eyes, I saw him for what he was. I saw him for everything you knew he could be. I saw beyond what other people perceived from face value. I saw his promise, his ambition, his worth, his fear. I saw the love that the girl lost, so I cried. Then I realized I was crying for you. I could see the torment in your face, but not a tear. So strong or so stubborn. You were fighting your emotions and you still are. So I came to be your peace. Your strength. It’s okay to cry for him. Look at me?” Benji maintains his focus on the floor. “Benjamin?” She pulls his face and sees the tears restlessly pooling inside of his eyelids. “Aww. It’s okay, Baby, cry.” She hurries in front of him and hugs him.