In the dark, he squinted and then recoiled in shock and disbelief when he made out the identities of the two gunmen—Khaliq and Steady Freddie—two of Moody’s most trusted soldiers. Outraged, Cruze stepped out of the shadows and opened fire on their treacherous asses, watching them drop to the floor.
Stepping over more bodies, Cruze finally located Moody in the bathroom with his side bitch, Jayda. Both were slumped with their drawers around their ankles. Cruze wasn’t surprised that Moody had invited one of his bitches to his little get-together. Moody had always enjoyed flirting with disaster, and it probably gave him a thrill to be able to convince Ramona that Jayda was nothing more than an ordinary worker, and then turn around and fuck the bitch right under his unsuspecting wife’s nose.
When it came to getting pussy, Moody had never abided by any codes of conduct. He took what he wanted. Whenever. Wherever. And he didn’t give a fuck who got hurt in the process.
Hopeful that Ramona and Moody’s son, Chancellor, had slept through the massacre, and was okay, Cruze had crept up the stairs with his heart pounding in his chest. But as soon as he’d reached Chancellor’s room, he could tell by how still he lay, that the boy—his godson—wasn’t breathing.
“Chance?” he’d whispered, realizing that the eight-year-old kid who was tucked under his Star Wars comforter wouldn’t answer. “Chance?” he repeated, while staring at the gaping bullethole in the center of his forehead.
Although Chancellor’s death was the least bloody, to Cruze, it had been the most coldblooded. How could anyone press a gun up to the head of a sleeping child and pull the trigger?
Groaning and shaking his head, Cruze forced himself to return to the present.
He took several hard pulls on the blunt—holding the smoke in his lungs until it burned, trying to convince himself that if he increased his charitable acts, he’d find redemption, and the nightmares would mercifully stop.
• • •
“The kids today look up to rappers, ballers, and unfortunately, drug dealers. No one needs to know that you used drug money to invest in real estate. That’s your business. All I care about is that you turned your life around and became legit and you’re ready to be a positive role model to the young kids that I’m placing under your wing,” Bret said, sitting behind his desk. “As their coach, you’re going to have a huge impact on their lives, and I hope you won’t take that responsibility lightly.”
“I won’t take it lightly,” Cruze responded. It still hadn’t fully sunk in that he was taking over Coach Sheridan’s position. Coaching the youth basketball team was only temporary, until the coach fully recovered from the pulmonary embolisms that had suddenly landed him in the hospital.
He wasn’t worried about his ability to coach basketball, but he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t a little nervous about his qualifications to be a positive role model. In the past, Cruze had taught the ropes to plenty of entry-level players of the dope game, but the lessons he’d taught corner boys were mostly about survival. Of course, he’d also pounded into their heads the dire consequences that would befall their asses if they fucked up his money. Taking on the kind of responsibility that Bret was referring to . . . ushering young lives into a future where they would hopefully become upstanding, law-abiding citizens was brand-new territory for him. Although he was both excited and nervous about taking on the responsibility, he had no doubt that he was up for the challenge.
“Teachers would love to get the kind of enthusiasm from students that you’ll get from your players,” Bret continued. “You see, kids enjoy being part of a team. And whether you like it or not, you have an obligation to set an example and teach them the right things in both basketball and life. When coaching kids that live in an environment that’s loaded with risk factors, including drugs and violent crime, you have the daunting challenge of making them believe that they can grow into competent and productive members of society. ”
“I got you. I can do it,” Cruze said confidently.
After Bret finally finished his long lecture, Cruze left his office and headed for the gym. He spent the first half hour practicing form shooting drills as he tried to place faces with names. Some of the kids had the nerve to catch attitudes when he mispronounced their crazy-ass names.
By the end of practice, he had made sure each player knew his role and that the team had worked on refining their plays.
When Roxanne showed up to pick up Barack, it was on the tip of Cruze’s tongue to offer her a ride, but he resisted, knowing it wouldn’t look right if he showed favoritism toward one of his players.
“How you feeling, Roxanne?” Cruze asked.
She smiled weakly. “I’m okay . . . a little tired, but I’ll be all right.”
He didn’t think she looked well at all. It should have been enough that the woman was forcing herself to work an eight-hour job, but to have to come clear across the city on public transportation to pick up her son seemed like too much of a strain. He’d learned from Roxanne that she’d battled ovarian cancer and was now in remission. Maybe if she didn’t have to do so much, she’d pick up some weight and start to look a little healthier.
Even though Roxanne was only a couple years older than Cruze, there was something about her that reminded him of his mother. Back when he was Barack’s age, all he could do was watch his mother struggle to put food on the table, and it used to make him feel so damn helpless.
When the boys went to the locker room to change, Cruze slid Roxanne a prepaid credit card. “Call Uber so you and Barack can get home quicker. In fact, I want you to use Uber to get around until we can get you some reliable transportation.”
Her eyes widened and the corner of her mouth trembled. “Oh-mygod! You’re gonna make me cry.”
He lifted one brow. “Why’s that?”
Roxanne hunched her shoulders. “I guess I’ve been doing bad for so long, I’ve grown accustomed to struggling. All my life I’ve had to learn to get by with little to nothing. So, what I’m not used to is having someone looking out for me.” She shook her head. “I don’t get it. You’ve done so much for me and Barack already. From where I’m from, kindness doesn’t come free. So please . . . make me understand what you’re getting out of this, and why’re you’re being so nice to me.”
Cruze ran a hand over his face. “It’s hard to put into words. I really don’t know how to express it,” he said, swallowing back a knot of sorrow as he pictured his mother saying she wasn’t hungry and offering him the last slice of bread. The average person had no idea what real poverty was like, but Cruze remembered all too well. Growing up dirt-poor and not always knowing when your next meal would come, or what it would be, had a way of carving a man’s soul. Cruze had vowed to himself when he was old enough to sling packs that he’d never be broke. And above all, he’d sworn, he’d never, ever, be hungry again.
Roxanne gazed at Cruze through suspicious, narrowed eyes. “Nobody does something for nothing. What are you going to want from me when it’s time to pay up?”
Cruze frowned. The last thing he wanted was for her to misunderstand his actions. “When it’s time to pay up?” he repeated, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. You got it all wrong, ma. I’m not on it like that. Period. You owe me nothing. Everything I’m doing is from the heart.” He put his fist to his chest, up over his heart.
She eyed him closely, curiosity and skepticism flashing in her eyes. “But why?”
Cruze inhaled deeply. A faraway look entered his eyes. “My mom was a dedicated mother, like you are. She always tried to make a way for us, even though life was beating her down. With so many trifling young mothers out there today, who don’t give a shit about their kids, I have a soft spot for the rare ones who bust their asses trying to give their kids a decent life. Like I told you before, I don’t want anything from you. Helping you out makes me feel better about myself . . .” He paused and held up his hands. “Tha
t’s the only way I can explain it, and that’s the honest truth.”
Overwhelmed by emotion, Cruze swallowed and dropped his head as he collected himself. After a few moments, he lifted his gaze back to Roxanne. Although he could feel his eyes becoming a little glossy, Roxanne was blinking and trembling, visibly having a hard time holding back tears.
He gently placed a hand on her shoulder, and patted her reassuringly. “You’re gonna be all right. I’m gonna make sure you’re straight.”
A glow of relief was evident in her eyes. “Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for everything.” Her voice cracked. “Excuse me, I don’t want Barack to see me like this,” she said and wiped at her eye with the back of her hand. And, before Cruze could say another word, she fled in the direction of the ladies’ room, leaving him standing in the middle of the court, his heart filling with hope as he fought to hold back his own tears.
Nine
Cruze slid behind the wheel of his SUV and started his engine with thoughts of his mother on his mind. He missed her immensely. And after seeing the love Roxanne had in her eyes for her son, Barack, it made him now think of his life with his own mother. He’d do anything to have her back. Knowing she was looking down on him wasn’t enough. He wanted so desperately to feel her arms wrapped around him, or to simply pick up the phone and call her, just to hear her voice.
Before putting his luxury truck in DRIVE, Cruze locked his doors, then took a few minutes to try to compose himself. He glanced into his rearview mirror and stared at his reflection. All he saw staring back at him was emptiness. Sadness. “Don’t nobody want you. Your own mother died and left you.”
Cruze shook the hurtful words from his mind. Fuck that hating-ass foster care bitch! He wasn’t trying to go there. Not today. He’d left those memories behind him. Sighing, he laid his head back on the headrest and looked upward toward the roof as if he were looking up into the sky, through white puffy clouds, straight into heaven—where he knew his mother was.
“I love you, Ma,” he muttered to himself.
Then closed his eyes, remembering . . .
“The doctor wants to keep me in the hospital overnight. I don’t have the money to pay for a babysitter, so you’ll have to look after yourself, honey.” Sherrell Fontaine grasped her son’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, as if trying to infuse her man-child with the confidence he’d need to get through the night.
Cruze, already a full head taller than his mother, gazed down at her uncertainly. “Why I gotta have a babysitter? I’m old enough to take care of myself. But why do you have to stay all night at the hospital?” His changing voice started out low, but midway through the question, it shot up to a high, squeaky pitch. He hated not being able to control his vocal range; it was so embarrassing.
Sherrell usually laughed and teased her only child whenever his voice made unpredictable sounds, but this time she didn’t acknowledge it. “Because, sweetheart, the doctor wants to run some more tests and keep me overnight for observation,” she explained in a somber tone, as she fought to hold back her emotions.
“And you’ll be home in the morning?” Cruze asked hopefully. He had no fear of staying in the apartment alone for a day or two, but what he found unsettling was his mother’s demeanor. She usually had a sense of humor about everything, but she was acting dead serious, and seemed somewhat nervous. Cruze watched with concern as her anxious fingers went from fiddling with the knot at the back of the bandana she wore around her head to fidgeting with the buttons on her coat. And there was something else—her eyes didn’t look right. The whites weren’t quite white, but were instead, an opaque shade of gray and her dark pupils were filled with worry.
Head tilted, Cruze looked at his mother skeptically. “Is everything okay, Ma? You can tell me.”
Sherrell’s eyes glanced to the floor, then back up to her son. “My doctor is, uh, he’s trying to be cautious, I suppose,” she stammered. “He wants to make sure all my levels are under control.” Although her mouth curved upward, Cruze could sense the fear behind his mother’s forced smile.
Cruze frowned. “But the doctor already operated—he cut out the cancer. And . . . and . . . you take those treatments to keep it from coming back. Right, Ma?” Cruze’s gaze shifted from his mother’s face to the bandana she wore to conceal the hair loss she’d suffered since starting chemotherapy.
Sherrell swallowed. “To be honest, honey, the chemo doesn’t seem to be helping at all and that’s part of the reason the doctor wants to run the tests. When he gets to the bottom of it, he’ll be able to figure out the next course of action.” She reached out and squeezed Cruze’s hand. “I’ll be okay after he makes some adjustments in my medication.”
Cruze scrunched his brows together in thought. Something wasn’t right. It seemed like his mother was hiding something, but he had no idea what.
Sherrell rustled his hair affectionately. “Hey, stop looking so sad. You don’t have to worry about me, okay?”
Cruze nodded.
“And don’t you give me any reason to worry about you while I’m in the hospital. Okay?”
“You don’t have to worry. I won’t get into any trouble,” he said reassuringly.
Sherrell smiled her first real smile in days. “I know you’re a good boy. But you like to hang out at the basketball court with your bad-behind friends, and I don’t think that’s a good idea when you don’t have any adult supervision at home. I’ll feel much better knowing you’re safe and sound in the house with the door locked. Can you do that for me, baby?”
“Yeah, Ma,” Cruze reluctantly agreed, giving a roving glance around the small apartment, taking in the darkened TV screen, the phone that had no dial tone, and the fridge that contained only a few slices of bologna and some hardened cheese. There wasn’t even any bread to make a sandwich.
“I spoke to Miss Val about our situation. I told her how they cut off my check and my stamps because I was too sick to keep my last appointment at the welfare office, and she was nice enough to help us out.” Sherrell reached inside her bag and retrieved a twenty-dollar packet of food stamps and handed it to Cruze. “Mr. Woo takes stamps, so get yourself some Chinese food for dinner and pick up some milk and cereal for breakfast, and then come straight home. No hanging out on the streets . . . and no kids in the house. Do you hear me, boy?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” Cruze murmured, happily pocketing the food stamps and imagining filling his empty stomach with some chicken wings, General Tso’s chicken, three egg rolls, and two cans of soda. He’d also throw in a couple of Little Debbie Honey Buns and a bag full of loose candy to grub on later.
“Miss Val said you can come up to her place to watch TV and use the phone if you want. But please be considerate. Don’t tie up her phone for longer than a few minutes, Cruze.”
“I won’t,” he muttered. He had no intention of sitting up in Miss Val’s crib. He knew that the minute he got settled on the couch and started watching music videos on BET, Miss Val’s bad twins would switch the channel to some kiddie crap. Maybe he’d make a quick stop to his boy Jerrell’s house and see if he’d let him borrow some movies—maybe he’d also let Cruze hold his new Madden 2001 game and a controller. Both Cruze’s controllers had broken a long time ago, and his mom didn’t have the money to replace them.
While Cruze was plotting on how to keep from going stir crazy while sitting in a house with nothing to do, Sherrell’s legs suddenly went wobbly, and she grabbed the back of the frayed easy chair.
Cruze quickly grabbed her and helped lower her into the chair. “You all right, Ma?”
Sherrell’s face glistened with perspiration and she let out a long, shaky breath. “Another dizzy spell. I had one at the Laundromat yesterday. I remember grabbing onto the dryer handle to keep from falling, but I still ended up passed out on the floor.” She looked up at Cruze guiltily, as if she wanted to apologize for being ill.
; “I would have done the laundry for you if I knew you were feeling dizzy.” Cruze’s voice went up in pitch as fear clutched at his heart. His mother hadn’t mentioned fainting at the Laundromat. She hadn’t even asked him to help her put away the neatly folded laundry that she’d pushed home in a laundry cart.
She smiled warmly at Cruze. “Boy, you don’t know the first thing about doing laundry. If I left it up to you, our clothes would be ruined with bleach stains.” She briefly looked off in thought. “Maybe I need to teach you, though. You might have to start helping out around the house if the doctor decides I need to stay off my feet for a while.”
“That’s cool. I want to help out,” he said, rubbing his mother’s back comfortingly while wishing he were a grown man who was capable of taking all the burdens off of her.
Sherrell eyed her son and her heart warmed. He was her life. And she wanted nothing but the best for him. He was a good boy, and all she ever wanted for him was to have a good life. She wanted him to enjoy his childhood and not be burdened with duties that she felt were her own. “For the time being, your only responsibility is to focus on your schoolwork and to make sure you stay away from those street thugs you like to hang with. It would kill me if my son ended up on a corner selling drugs.” She shook her head gravely.
“No way! That’ll never happen ’cause I’ma future NBA star,” he bragged, flashing a big grin.
The smile that touched his mother’s lips never reached her eyes, and Cruze wondered if she doubted his basketball skills.
“I’m serious, Ma. I’ma get us out of the projects and into a big house as soon as I sign my first contract. We’re gonna live somewhere with lots of trees and flowers. A pretty house; maybe even a mansion like the ones we see in movies and on TV.”
Sherrell patted Cruze’s hand. “Having dreams is a good thing, baby, but you also have to have a backup plan. So, don’t neglect your studying, son. It’s important.”
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