The door opened and Chandra walked into the room. She sat in the chair next to his bed.
“Baby, I love you. I don’t know why this has happened, but I know you can fight it.” She looked at the ceiling to regain her strength. She hated to see him suffer and not be able to help him, but she knew she had to stay strong. She looked at him and gently grasped his hand. “Menage, I need you. Baby, you have to wake up ... please don’t leave me like this. I’m ... I’m gonna have your child and I need you to be here with me.” She began to sob. “Menage, maybe you don’t really know how much I love you, but my love goes deep, you hear me? I’m not perfect—no one is, so don’t leave because I don’t wanna go on without you in my life.” She broke down crying, and several minutes later she regained her composure. After breaking down again she felt him squeeze her hand. “Baby?” she whispered. She didn’t have to press the call button because his vital signs were being monitored by a computer down the hall. Seconds later the door swung open, slightly startling Chandra.
“Clear out,” a doctor followed by two nurses said. Things moved fast as the doctor checked Menage’s eyes to make sure that he was out of the coma and there wasn’t just a glitch in the machines. Hours later Menage woke up on his own, with no respirator or tubes down his throat.
“Ma,” he called out weakly. The inside of his mouth felt like sandpaper.
“I’m right here,” his mother said standing by his bedside. He tried to reach for her but failed.
“Mama . . . I can’t move my—”
“Shhh. You had to have surgery on your arm.” She couldn’t bear to speak on the other life-threatening operations. “It will be okay. You just need to rest. And thank God, you hear me, son? You need to look at your life, you hear me? God has a reason for saving you and you better take the time out to look at what’s going on around you. You know right from wrong, so you just rest up and I’ll send Chandra back in a minute. I love you, son.” She kissed his forehead and left.
Menage looked out the window located adjacent to his bed on the far left side of the room. He was shocked after the doctor told him he had been in a coma for five days. He remembered the bullet ripping through his left shoulder, but he couldn’t recall being hit in the chest. However, he felt how sore it was and the thick bandage that covered it felt tight. He realized how lucky he was. He closed his eyes and welcomed the darkness.
Chandra walked back into the room. “Baby, you up?” she whispered. He opened his eyes and managed to smile. She sat down next to him with tears running freely down her face. “I love you so much,” she said. “Try not to talk and just listen,” she added when he tried to speak. He nodded slowly. She rubbed his arm and saw a tear running down his cheek. She caught it with her fingertip and placed it to her lips. She sat down on the bed and told him the details of what had happened. She carefully broke the news about Vigor and how Vapor was still missing. Vigor saved his life and had spared his own. Now he was gone. Menage squeezed his eyes shut as he thought of his dogs.
Dr. Wilson knocked on the door and entered after Chandra answered.
“Mr. Legend, you have a call on line two.” Chandra thanked him, hit line two on the keypad on the phone next to the bed and held it to Menage’s ear. It was Felix.
“Menage, if you think I’m going to feel sorry for you forget it! You’re coming to my island and that’s an order—okay? I also have a plan.” Before hanging up, he told Menage how the police had gone back to the house to find Vapor asleep in his bedroom with a fifty-pound bag of dog food ripped open in the middle of the floor. Apparently, Vapor had dragged the bag from the shed and made himself at home. He was now with Felix.
“Who was that?”
“C-crazy Felix . . . he . . . got Vapor,” Menage managed to say.
His mom was back in the room now. Mr. Marchetti had already spoken to her earlier and they agreed on not spreading the word that Menage had come out of his coma. The preparations were soon made for Menage to be secretly moved to Marchetti’s island.
“It’s gonna be fine, baby,” Chandra said.
* * *
“Damn!” Dwight said slamming down the phone. He rolled away from the desk.
“What’s wrong?” Tina asked. She was sitting on a bearskin rug doing her toenails.
All she wore was a silk see-through blouse by Dolce and Gabana.
“I can’t find out a damn thing about when or if I can see Menage. This don’t make no damn sense and Dr. Wilson’s not around.”
“Have you called Mr. Marchetti yet?”
“No, I’ll call him later I guess.”
“Baby, come here,” Tina said in a husky voice before lying back and parting her legs. “What will you do if he don’t come out of the coma?” Dwight didn’t want to think of his best friend leaving him.
“Don’t talk like that.” He got up from his chair, went to the bar in the living room and poured himself a glass of Hennessey. “Well, if he don’t make it we have to keep going. It’ll be hard, but it’s what we’ll have to do,” he said over his shoulder, loud enough for Tina to hear him in the den.
“I feel the same, and I feel sorry for Chandra.” Dwight returned to the den and sat back down at his desk. Tina was now playing with herself.
“You love me, girl?” he said looking between her parted thighs.
“Yesss, baby, you know I do,” she said fingering herself. She closed her eyes as he knelt between her legs, waiting for his hand or mouth to take the place of her fingers. She felt him caress her inner thigh. Thankful that DJ didn’t get her pregnant, she now gave her all to Dwight. Everything was perfect and all she needed to do now was become his wife. He was about to remove his shirt when his two-way chimed. He pulled it off his waist and looked at the message. It read:
KEVIN IN JAIL BOND 20G—8:49p.m.
“What is it?” Tina said. She was propped up on her elbows, her breasts swinging freely.
“I guess one of the runners got caught with a hot car or something. Kevin works for Menage... I mean DJ, but anyway I have to go bail him out,” Dwight said reaching for his shirt.
“Now?” Tina said. “Why can’t DJ do it?”
“Baby, ain’t no telling where he is! Besides, I know Kevin, so it’s no big deal. I’ll hurry back, okay?” He kissed her and rushed toward the door. Tina didn’t complain because Dwight was now handling both the beauty salon and the chop shop.
Dwight’s BMW 745Li moved gracefully down Biscayne Blvd. as it headed toward the county jail. Maybe Tina had been right about him running the show. DJ was making more money but taking bigger risks. That was part of the game . . . wasn’t it?
* * *
Detective Covington looked at his new rookie partner, Steve Hamilton. Covington wasn’t irritated because Hamilton was white; he’d just rather work alone. Covington leaned back in his chair and looked around his office. On the wall were pictures of he and his wife and a few pictures from when he was a street cop in Broward County. His office was small and behind him was a view of mostly buildings and the busy street below. It wasn’t much, but it was enough for Covington. On his desk sat a box of Dunkin’ Donuts and a new gray coffee cup with Detective Covington written in black letters on the handle. Detective Hamilton sat at the desk directly in front of Covington’s, his six foot two frame hunched over, a doughnut in one hand and a file in the other. He spoke with his mouth half full.
“So, now, lemme get this straight. We got four guys dead and two were shot by . . . uh . . . how do you say his name?” he said looking up from the file.
“Meh-nage,” Covington replied rubbing his chin. He dropped his jaw on the second syllable of Menage’s name.
“Okay, that’s one out back and the headless one in the house. The third man was killed by the dog—fucking Cujo. The man in the driveway was shot by Roderick Hopkins, aka, DJ. So is that the story?” He looked up to see Covington leaning on his desk with his chin in the palm of his hands.
“Yeah, but check this out: The guy we found in the
driveway wasn’t armed, but his weapon was found in the living room in the house. We got his prints all over the Uzi and they all carried one, so it’s odd, too, I mean for it not to be with him, and he had a full clip for it in a cargo pocket. But how does this sound to you? He ditches his empty Uzi with a clip in his pocket and runs out front right into Roderick, or DJ, as he rams through the front gate. He gets shot at close range . . . maybe two feet,” Covington said. Hamilton ran his fingers through his spiked blond hair. He read the report again.
“Maybe the car just came in too fast . . . or maybe he thought he could trick DJ since he had on the lawn service uniform. But there was no sign of struggle and he was shot in the back of the head. He was weaponless, defenseless, and helpless.” Hamilton took a deep breath and rubbed his tired eyes. “This may sound crazy, but I think the guy might have known DJ . . . rushed up to talk to him, then bang!” he said forming his left hand into the shape of a gun and putting it to his head.
Detective Covington stood up to stretch and turned toward the window. “You’re right. Well, at least I think so.”
Detective Hamilton shot up from his chair. “Then why don’t we haul his ass in—at least for questioning? What are we waiting for?”
Detective Covington turned back around. “On what grounds? All we have are assumptions, and that silly-ass DA won’t do anything but laugh in our faces. Hell, right now Hopkins is a damn hero,” he said and sat back down.
“How’s that?” Detective Hamilton said.
“The slugs they pulled out of Menage came from the Uzi that was used by the guy Hopkins killed in the driveway.”
“So what do we do now?”
“We wait and watch. I got some pictures of him last night—nothing but a late-night booty call. That means he had a woman over.” He knew Detective Hamilton didn’t know much slang.
“Funny!” Detective Hamilton said before returning to the subject at hand. “It’s still going to be hard to prove why he killed an unarmed man . . . and now the hero is our number one suspect?” he added before sitting back down.
“Hard to say.”
Detective Hamilton reached for the last doughnut. “Oh, never mind,” he said grinning and sinking his teeth into the soft pastry. It took a second for him to realize he’d been played. He slapped the empty box off the desk and stormed out of the office. Detective Covington burst out laughing. He was about to call his wife but his phone rang.
“Yeah,” he answered.
“Hey, Detective Covington. This is Walter down in the lab. The slugs from the dog match the ones taken out of Mr. Legend, so I guess our friend on the front pavement shot the dog also. Maybe you can—”
“Walter.”
“Yes?”
“Thanks, but I can take it from here. Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much? If I recall correctly, I think I told you that yesterday!”
Walter winced when the phone crashed down in his ear.
Detective Covington used the next hour to catch up on his work and ended up going over the hit at Bayside to see if there was a connection to the shooting at Menage’s house. One was a sloppy hit in broad daylight, while the other was done with a professional touch. Still the hits weren’t successful. He wouldn’t call being in a coma beating the odds, but the four men wanted to finish Menage off completely that day in his home. Calling it a night, he lit up his last Newport and headed home with a lot on his mind.
* * *
Lisa finally awoke. She rolled over in bed and looked at the clock on the night table. It was after ten o’clock. “Damn,” she said, upset that she had slept all day. She got up and went to the living room. Benita was still up watching TV. She was curled up on the couch watching Comic View on BET.
“Anybody call me?” Lisa said digging in her ear and making a scratching sound with her throat.
“Nah,” Benita said.
“Benita, it ain’t shit in here to eat!” she yelled from the kitchen. “Ain’t it your turn to go shopping? I’m ’bout to starve up in here.” Benita stood up and turned off the TV. “Let’s go to IHOP,” she said.
Since Benita was paying, Lisa quickly got dressed and afterward she called the hospital. She had the same problem as earlier. Lisa thought Benita was going to have a fit, but she took the bad news with ease.
“Let’s go before I change my mind.”
* * *
An important phone call was being made from a hotel in Broward county. It was an hourly rate hotel with a run-down look, firm beds, and thin walls. The man making the call contacted the FBI in Washington D.C. After a series of beeps and a short static tone, he knew the line was clear.
“Things are going as planned, sir,” he said.
“Good, good ... now, how soon can we bring Felix down?” the official on the other end said.
“One week or two, and I found out why our people in L.A. are so uptight.”
“You mean the case on the Mayor’s son . . . was that you who tipped them off?”
“Yes, sir. And I will need more men to take our Mr. Machetti down.”
“No problem. I’ll take it to the big wigs first thing in the morning, but consider it done. I’m thinking a small military operations unit or something,” the official from D.C. said.
“Thank you, sir.”
They ended their call. The man in the hotel room stood in the darkness and then walked to the window. Looking through the torn blinds and rusty bars, he adjusted his holster, which held a black Beretta. He worked to get this mission and he knew he would see it to the end with Felix Marchetti dead. He focused on a street lamp with a busted light and watched a bum stagger into a nearby phone booth. He answered his cell phone on the first ring. The bum spoke French in a clear and sober voice.
“Once the job is done, four million will be placed in two Swiss accounts—two million in each, and we must have undeniable proof.” The man in the hotel said nothing. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a hi-tech penlight. He pointed it at the bum and flashed it twice. He then looked for the silent code. The bum hung up and went back into his flawless act, staggering along the sidewalk. He bumped into a black couple and asked for some change but was only pushed to the side. By that time, the man in the hotel had disappeared into the night, letting the darkness hide his face and movements.
* * *
Dwight dropped Kevin off at his apartment in Northern Miami. Kevin was only nineteen and he had worked with Menage off and on as the middleman, bringing in cars when he ran across kids in the hood that wanted to sell a hot ride. Dwight smiled as he headed back home, thinking of what Kevin had told him about the interrogation.
“Yo, check it, D,” Kevin had said sitting next to Dwight as they sped down I-95 North in his BMW. “These dumb-ass DTs come with that lame, old-ass game talkin’ ’bout, ‘Hey, son, you facing ten to twenty years and we got some of your friends who will turn on you’ and all that bullshit, right? And they wanna know where I’m taking the car, so I like lower my head, right, and I make him think I’m about ta cop out and shit. They say, ‘Okay, so you wanna tell us and help yourself out?’ I say yeah, real sad and shit, right? And they say, ‘Where . . . ’and I look up and say . . . ‘your Momma!’ They both cracked up during the entire ride to Kevin’s apartment. Dwight gave him twenty-two hundred just on GP because he knew Kevin had two mouths to feed.
Dwight’s mind drifted back to Tina and then Menage. It was a quarter to midnight when he pulled into his garage. If his best friend wasn’t up in the hospital, he knew that nine times out of ten they’d be at some club or party. Tonight he was going to relax and spend time with his woman.
* * *
Kevin was about to go upstairs to his apartment when a white male dressed in an all black jumpsuit stepped in front of him and flashed a badge. Since it was dark, he couldn’t tell what kind of badge it was. Kevin guessed he was there to ask him about the stolen car or some other bullshit. He didn’t see a gun and thought that maybe the man was a narc or something.
“Yo, man, what the fuck you want?” Kevin said with his long arms spread, looking down at the shorter man. The man didn’t move.
“Do you work for Felix Marchetti?” the man said with no emotion, looking Kevin square in the eye.
Kevin responded quickly. “Look, yo, if you ain’t got no warrant, you need to get the fuck up outta here.” Kevin knew not to make a physical approach, and he stood his ground.
The man spoke again slowly. “Do . . . you . . . work . . . for Felix Marchetti?” Kevin didn’t feel like playing his game. He also sensed that something was wrong with this guy.
“Man, fuck you. Ain’t got time to be playin’ games, yo. Go get a warrant if you wanna ask some questions.” He stepped past him to go upstairs. Kevin took just two steps when suddenly the man reached up and grabbed him. In less than a few seconds, Kevin had a gun pressed firmly against his temple.
“On your damn knees,” the man hissed. Kevin knelt slowly to his knees. He was scared; police didn’t use silencers. He had to keep this man from going upstairs to his family, but he had no gun. He knew he was in a tough spot. “Now let’s try this again. Do you work for Felix Marchetti?” Kevin was still on his knees with the gun to his head. His heart was beating in overdrive. He knew of Mr. Marchetti, but he didn’t know him personally. He never actually even saw the man. But worst of all, he didn’t know how to answer the question and he became nervous when the man repeated himself.
“N-no . . . I don’t even know him . . . I mean not personally. I swear, man . . . do it look like I work for him? Come on, please.” He opened his eyes when he felt the gun removed from his head. Kevin quickly jumped to his feet and rushed toward the stairs. From about twenty feet away, the man spun around and aimed the Beretta at Kevin’s head. He pulled the trigger. The gun coughed. The slug was a black talon shell, made to go through the flesh and expand on impact. Kevin’s head exploded like an eggshell as the slug hit his skull. He lay face down, halfway up the steps as blood flowed down the iron stairwell.
A Hood Legend Page 10