by Carl Weber
Juan’s reaction was nothing like that of his counterpart. He was not new to the game of the police showing up abruptly. So, hood raised, instinctively, he spun around. Seemingly in one swift motion, he dropped the duffle bag from his shoulders. As the oversized bag fell to the carpeted floor right behind Karen’s feet, Juan was about his business. She would have to solely deal with the aftermath about whatever was coming next.
Wasting no time, he bolted full speed into the bathroom. Slamming the flimsy door behind him, he turned the lock. Juan realized it would only be a matter of seconds before the eager cop would force his way in. The only thing that would surely slow Joe Law up was if they thought he also had a weapon. “Don’t fuck around and get shot fucking with me,” he stalled for time in English, then started mumbling in Spanish. Juan’s eyes widened. They darted around as he paced the floor. Searching the small bathroom, he grabbed a small metal trash can from underneath the sink. Briefly closing his eyes, he then smashed the window out. As the glass shattered, he heard the young cop kicking at the door as he yelled for him to come out with his hands up.
Knowing that the policeman didn’t care one bit about his threat of gunfire, Juan stood up on the toilet. With ease, he managed to climb through the window. On the way jumping down, he cut himself deeply on the upper arm across one of his many tattoos and lower leg. Leaving a trail of blood, the now-criminal on the run limped along the back of the hotel. Met by an eight-foot chain-linked fence, he hesitated only for a split second to catch his breath. Juan looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was on his trail. Like a teenager, he scaled the fence as quickly as he possibly could. Landing in the parking lot of Family Dollar, he could hear police sirens close by. The glaring sounds seemed to be coming from all over the place. Momentarily, Juan had a flashback to Border Patrol on his ass when he first crossed from Mexico into America well over ten years ago.
Juan was almost out of breath. Feeling as if he were invisible, he ducked behind a parked Ford Explorer for temporary refuge. It was broad daylight so he knew that bit would play itself out as soon as the owner returned to the vehicle. Juan saw a wooded area on the other side of the street from the parking lot. Feeling as if certain freedom was in sight, he made a run for it, sore cut leg and all. He had no choice unless he wanted to get knocked. It was definitely do or die, so to speak. Making it three yards, maybe no more than four, ironically, the unimaginable happened. Out of nowhere, a speeding police car with sirens blaring hit him. The already-injured Juan went airborne. Strange as it may seem, he clearly saw everything in slow motion while his body twirled from the impact. He knew he was cooked before he could hit the ground good and stop bouncing. The driver that’d struck him jumped from the patrol car, along with his partner. Each had their gun drawn and pointed at his head. Before long, two more unmarked vehicles came to a stop, screeching tires. The next thing next, the original gung ho cop was on his back. He socked Juan in the rear of his head, going ham about him attempting to still get away. As if he could run anywhere, with blood leaking from his head, an obvious broken leg and arm.
“Don’t fucking move, you wetback son of a bitch. Put your hands behind your back now,” the overzealous cop yelled, not in the mood for any more rise-and-fly-type bullshit.
Juan blacked out once the officer’s fist made contact with his head. Like his counterpart Karen, he was finally handcuffed. Juan’s unconscious shell of a body was callously picked up off the pavement. With no great regard for his visible injuries, he was tossed in the back of a squad car. The normal procedure would be to call an ambulance for any injured perpetrator before moving them, but like today and any other day for these uniformed gladiators, the law simply doesn’t apply.
Hog-tied, handcuffed in the rear of the squad car, Juan’s entire body was numb. He struggled to catch his breath as he regained consciousness. It felt like his chest was caving in. The street soldier knew at least one of his legs was broken, if not both. Leaking from the huge gash across his forehead, he was soon tasting his own blood. His mind raced. He was in denial over what’d just jumped off. Closing his eyes, he quickly went over every moment of the past twenty-four hours since getting into town. He couldn’t figure out what exactly made the police get on to him and Karen. Was it one of the many small-time dealers they’d delivered product to? Or was it Greedy and his girl he’d trusted and just bragged about so much?
In the midst of him questioning the means of him and Karen being apprehended, Juan wondered where all the rest of the fanfare was that usually came with this sort of arrest. Sure, the news reporters and cameras were slowly pulling up, but where were the swarms of ATF officers? Where were the feds and the Special Task Force and Tactical Teams? Throughout the thick blood that now covered his entire face, all Juan could make out were some local mom-and-pop small-town police not sure what to do or say next. This double arrest was obviously above their pay grade. Following up on a strange 911 call, this was not what they’d expected to find. They had a high-ranking team member of a drug cartel, a white woman, and a duffle bag full of money.
How did these clown cops get on? What the fuck just happened? Damn! How? Juan clenched his teeth, knowing he would have to face a fate worse than the judge or jail—the cartel. He racked his scattered brain trying to figure out which one of the many teams he’d dealt with on this trip had ratted him and Karen out. Juan even thought about his niece’s estranged family members that supposedly still lived in Detroit, but quickly shot that scenario down. It had to be a leak, but the question was . . . who?
Chapter Three
Room 217 was paid up in cash for two days. Although their stay was traditionally brief, it would serve to be on the safe side if things didn’t go as planned. Soda cans, chips, and a few random candy bar wrappers covered the nightstand. A dark-colored empty duffle bag was the only visible sign of luggage. Surrounded by dirty money, the ill matched pair had been at it seemingly for hours. Every hour of every day they were on the time clock of the devil. Their schedule was tight. They’d been down this road numerous times before. Veterans in transport, each had a position to play. The organization Juan and Karen worked for didn’t play games. When it came to business, it was zero tolerance—no excuses, no fuckups. The two of them knew what they’d signed up for. Each understood the risks they took every go-around. The “man” had made that clear early on. Deliver—or die trying; no in-between.
“It is what it is and can’t be no other way. I swear on my dead mother’s grave. May her sweet soul rest in peace,” Juan grinned, quickly crossing his heart. Looking upward, he then kissed the red stone rosary hanging around his neck. “I ain’t gonna lie. That dude Greedy is turning out to be better than expected. I wasn’t sure at first, considering it was a family pass. But look at all of this we working with.”
Why don’t he just shut up and let me do what I’m doing in damn peace? Karen tried blocking Juan out. She had no such luck. He was consumed with corrupt power and definitely on one.
“Yeah, they about they hustle. Him and ole girl keep showing up and showing out on this bread. They remind me of my family, my bloodline. You see this here,” he pulled up his shirt sleeve so Karen could see, yet again, the huge detailed tat that appeared to be somehow burned into his skin. “You can’t just go around and get this. This is my family brand. You have this, it means you come from a long line of killers, hustlers, and moneymakers. We known state to state, legendary in this game.”
Oh my God, not that story about his family again. I’ll be glad when we finish this run. This guy working on my last nerve. I don’t know how much more I can take. Soon, the days became months on the road with Juan, and the months, years.
Juan strutted around the room as if he’d discovered the reincarnation of Bonnie and Clyde. Moving back the room-darkening curtains, he scanned the parking lot. Seeing no signs of early-morning movement, he shut the curtain. Not missing a beat, his verbal recess was over. He went right back at it. “Yeah, like I was saying, the ticket always be straig
ht, you feel me? No bullshit in the game. And that shit fucking is rare. I mean, damn, you feel me?”
Karen was posted at the desk. She didn’t bother looking up. In her mind, there was no great need to acknowledge her cohort’s words of praise for Greedy and his bitch. She had a job to do that didn’t detail giving a fuck about two niggas’ buying-product skills, let alone Juan’s dead mother. As long as the count was good, she was good. Concentrating, Karen continued counting the multitudes of twenties by hand. Ensuring the street-weathered bills were all facing the same direction, she finally glanced his way. Briefly locking eyes with Juan, she simply nodded before placing each small stack into the electronic counter.
Juan took that blank expression gesture as affirmation he’d been heard. In his feelings of being a road boss, he continued to hold motel court. Abruptly, the subject changed, as it always did with him. After years of dealing with the law, Juan felt he was an expert. He believed he knew it all. “Yeah, when you doing wrong, you gotta be all on it. Get your ass in, get your ass out. And if you get caught up, don’t say jack shit. Not even your name.”
“I know, Juan. I know. You done told me this before.” Karen rolled her eyes to the ceiling, wishing he’d just be quiet. His behavior had her suffering from a severe migraine. She was exhausted, not to mention hungry. There was only so much soda and junk food she could take. Stepping away from the desk, she stretched her arms. She felt a cramp in her left lower leg but shook it off. Thankfully, Karen had counted and wrapped the last banded bundle of cash. Jotting down her final figures, the blond-haired beauty took a deep breath. Rubbing what she believed to be sleep out of the corner of each eye, she exhaled with relief. The count was on point. It was all there. The bag was secure.
“So, yeah, okay, mommy, we good or not? What’s the word?” Juan waited for her response.
Karen rolled her eyes knowing that he’d dropped the ball in counting well over an hour ago. Now, here he stood, having the nerve to rush her answer. Glancing over her shoulder, she sarcastically reassured him that all was good. “Yeah, everything is everything. I mean, like, you think that Greedy’s girl Gigi is the only one that can handle business?”
Juan followed her to the bathroom door. Easily, he felt her female attitude trait fill the air. Yet, it didn’t matter. He overlooked her backhanded comment. He was still hell-bent on slow schooling her on not helping the police do their job. “Yeah, Karen, whatever on all that. And shit, I’m glad that count is good. But remember what I was saying. Motherfuckers be sitting all up on social media running off at the mouth. They snitching about this and that, and the damn cops be posted on that bitch. They be taking notes and building cases on niggas off of hearsay.”
“Damn, Juan, oh my freaking God. Just please let me take a shower. Then we can eat something before we hit the road,” Karen insisted, shutting the door in his face. Turning on the hot water, she was relieved to be finally out of ear range of Juan’s loudmouthed street code rants. They’d been on the road for close to seventy-three hours straight before arriving in Detroit. Combine the travel time with the song-and-dance bullshit their clientele put them through, Karen was spent. She’d used her remaining bit of energy counting up. The last thing she needed—or wanted—was her male counterpart being on some wild brain ego trip, at least not on an empty stomach.
Juan stepped back. He knew Karen needed a break. It was obvious the trip from Arizona had taken its toll. Throughout the many times they’d traveled the highways together, he’d grown to read her like a book. Besides being a stripper when funds got low, Karen was the perfect mule. She was white, well-spoken, and most of all, a great driver. However, when it came to talking shit and really being about that hood life, that wasn’t her. Karen Collette James wasn’t cut like a sista from around the way or even one of Juan’s bloodline Mexican mommies. The once-good-girl-turned-semibad never could be. Karen was who and what she was.
Outside the city limits of Southwest Detroit, Juan himself was drained. Yet, the adrenalin rush he felt from handling business was enough to keep him going. Like Karen, he’d also been up for hours counting. Leaving Karen to get herself together, Juan walked away from the door and over to the far side of the room. Standing in front of the desk, he folded his arms. Nodding his head, he grinned with sheer satisfaction. After a few seconds of gloating, he checked his watch. With the oversized duffle bag now lying in the middle of the bed, it was time to go back to work, back to the hustle and grind.
Reaching down, the over-the-road mastermind grabbed several bundles of money. Using a bright red bold marker, Juan started putting his unique mark on all of the bundles of hundred-dollar bills first. Tossing them into the duffle bag, he then marked the fifties with the color blue. After doing the same color coding on the remaining cash, he threw the markers in the now fully stuffed bag as well before zipping it closed. Juan boxed up the money counter. Gathering up the empty Saran Wrap packaging the ticket money had been bundled in, he then floor based. Like a hood detective on the search for clues, he collected any other signs that could possibly point to illegal activity having had taken place in room 217.
The loyal lieutenant was thorough. It was understood he allowed no discrepancies when it came to handling the organization’s ill-gotten funds. He rose up in the ranks of the treacherous team when his boss failed to dot all the i’s and cross all the t’s. That slipup cost him and two generations of his bloodline their lives. Juan had moved with caution for the last four years. However, this morning’s brazen decision could possibly place him on the endangered list. One that could turn his already-crazy world upside down.
* * *
Karen emerged from the bathroom, and Juan took her place, needing to take a piss. Her stringy hair was slightly damp. Not taking the time to dry it all the way, she slipped on a baseball cap she’d purchased from one of the many rest areas along the highway. Relieved Juan had finished packing up all the money, she got her purse off the side of the bed. Grabbing the handles of the now-filled duffle bag, a frail Karen struggled to lift it. After two attempts, she managed to throw it against the backboard of the bed. She frowned when it rolled back into the middle of the mattress.
Now nearing seven in the morning, the couple finally left in search of food before hitting the road back to Arizona. The only thing they had to do is swing back by the room, snatch up the cash, and be out. Juan closed the brown wooden door. Out of habit, he pulled and pushed on it several times, ensuring it was locked. He had an uneasy feeling come over him as he walked away, like he’d forgotten something. Not wanting to read something into nothing that was probably nothing more than hunger and lack of sleep, he shook it off.
Now out in the parking lot, Karen pressed the unlock button on the single Cadillac Escalade key she held in her hand. The organization gave it to her as a gift, fully loaded with hidden compartments in the floor boards and interior panels, although it was more of an investment. They wanted her to feel as comfortable and worry-free as possible. Karen climbed behind the wheel and drove out of the parking lot. Juan played his role as just the passenger, not a ranking member of a well-orchestrated, drug-trafficking operation.
Chapter Four
Juan was in excruciating pain. His right leg was cut, busted, and definitely broke. His arm was twisted, and the bone was visible. The fierce impact with the squad car had him delirious. As luck would have it, a team of reporters was having breakfast at the exact same place he and Karen had just left. Of course, what the men were firsthand witnesses to was aired out live, although at a distance, for all of social media to see. Seconds before the menace was rushed away in a police car, an official news truck swerved up. The tires of the truck screeched to a halt in the parking lot. The side door slid open. The cameraman hopped out of the vehicle. Both boots on the ground, he ran over to the police car. His main goal was to get footage of the bloody Hispanic man before the cops pulled off. Not wanting to have their newly arrested perp on display, an officer stepped in. Quickly, he blocked the camera wi
th his hand. Raising his voice, he ordered the cameraman to step away from the squad car. The officer let him know in no uncertain terms he’d take a ride to lockup for interfering with police business. Doing as he was told, the cameraman took a few steps backward near the group of other gathering reporters. By then, a reporter from the truck, a black man with a receding hairline and a cheap two-piece blue suit, rambled into a microphone.
“Today, we are following a still-unfolding story. In this breaking news, local police were called by an employee of this hotel,” he made reference to the building a few yards behind him. “They were called in to investigate a possible homicide. Although there was no body discovered, our sources tell us something else was found. Upon entering one of the many rooms at the hotel, the police discovered a large undisclosed amount of cash. Of course, as I said, it’s extremely early on in what has happened, but once again, our sources tell us the currency may indeed be linked to a major drug operation. Right now, the DEA is being called on the scene. I’m sure they will be conducting interviews with the person that placed the original call, along with other hotel staff. At this time, two suspects are in cuffs, a white woman in her midthirties and a Hispanic male also in his thirties. Apparently, he’s being taken to the hospital for injuries he sustained while trying to flee from the police. Anyway, as I stated, they are both in custody. Their names have not been released as of yet. This is Robert McCall reporting live from the Holiday Inn Express. We’ll have more information tonight at eleven.”
Life was crazy real. And in Detroit, times were definitely hard. People all over did what they needed to do to survive. Sometimes if you were from around the way, you were blessed if that grind was legal. You never felt handcuffs or had to call collect and pray your peoples accepted the charges. Borrowing bond money was never an issue. But more often, that money hustle had the supreme curse of being against the white man’s laws. For out of towners Juan and his front girl Karen, as much as they tried to fly underneath the radar, sometimes they couldn’t. But when out and about on a mission, they lived under the strict street laws. The only one that mattered if you wanted to stay alive in the game: keep your mouth shut and lawyer up. After watching the early-morning breaking news report, each and every mid-level drug dealer that’d benefited from the bag being dropped the night prior prayed. They hoped the two unidentified people the reporter spoke of would live by that code, especially if it was 100 percent proven to be Karen and Juan.