Hard Candy Saga

by Amaleka McCall

  Candice clicked on her laptop and inserted her Rosetta Stone CD. She needed to get her accent down pat. Uncle Rock had taught her basic Spanish while he had homeschooled her, but she wanted to be great before she set out on her new mission. Once she infiltrated DeSosa’s circle, she needed to be able to keep up with every conversation within her earshot.

  Picking up her laptop, Candice walked over to the bed and settled her back against the headboard, with the laptop on her thighs. As she focused on the computer screen, the photograph of her family on the nightstand fell silently to the floor. The air in the room seemed to become lead heavy. Keeping her emotions in check was no easy feat. Now that Rock was gone, the only link to her past was this solitary 3x5 family photo.

  Candice flopped down on the side of the bed and picked up the portrait. On the one hand, she wanted to turn it on its face so that all of the smiling faces would stop taunting her; but on the other hand, she needed to see them like she had for the past four and a half years. She looked at each face and the anger she had previously felt in the years since their deaths finally eased into real sorrow—pure mourning. The photo had been her talisman for many years, keeping the kindling lit under her seething anger and need for revenge.

  Candice didn’t even realize she was gnawing on her bottom lip as her eyes carefully gazed upon each face. The picture had an entirely new look now. Everyone looked different in her eyes. Gone was the innocence of a family of victims. Now, with the information shared with Candy by Uncle Rock prior to his death, she saw them with fresh eyes. Each one, with the exception of her baby sister, harbored secrets that were now being uncovered.

  “Your father made a deal with the government, and there was no turning back. Rolando DeSosa, the man who supplied your father with all of the drugs, worked for the CIA, and so did I.” Those had been Uncle Rock’s final words before he took his own life.

  Candice’s temples throbbed as she searched the recesses of her mind, digging into her memory for some clue, some inkling, that would help her understand her father’s double life. Why had her father treaded such dangerous territory, putting his own family into the fray? Tears fell on the shattered glass that covered the picture. Candice used her trembling thumb to swipe the glass clean. Her sweet baby sister stared back at her with a toothy grin. Candice’s chest felt tight. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, racking her brain for memories that would bring her sister back to life.

  Hardaway Home, 1998

  Candice was six when her baby sister, Brianna, came home from the hospital. She had waited patiently at the front window of their new home for what seemed like an eternity. Her knees burned and she had to pee, but she refused to move until she laid eyes on the newest member of the Hardaway clan.

  It had only been two weeks since her father, Eric “Easy” Hardaway, had moved his family into a beautiful, new brownstone in the heart of Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn. Although their home address frequently changed, this was only the second move Candice could remember. The house was bigger and better than their last place. Even though Candice was young, she was fully aware that the new house and new car her father drove was more expensive than the last.

  With her fists propped under her cheeks, Candice waited by the window until she spotted her father’s sleek, large-bodied black Mercedes-Benz ease up to the curb in front of the house. Candice’s mouth curled into a smile like someone had pulled up the corners with a crane—her dad affectionately referred to it as her “Joker” smile.

  When her mother stepped out of the car, holding the tightly wrapped pink bundle in her arms, Candice felt her heart jerk in her chest. It was a mixture of excitement and fear. Until now, Candice had been the baby of the family, spoiled rotten by her father and overly protected by her brothers.

  “Eric Junior! Errol! The baby is here!” Candice screeched, jumping off her knees, which were tattooed with an imprint of the couch’s seams.

  Her twin brothers were front and center in a matter of minutes.

  The babysitter whom Easy had hired, a raven-haired girl named Lutisha, pulled back the door and Candice bolted outside.

  “Let me see! Let me see the baby!” she panted, jumping into her father’s arms so she could get a better look at the small body.

  “Whoa, whoa, Candy Cane, let’s get inside,” Easy chuckled, his tone similar to a cowboy corralling an unruly horse.

  Candice’s mother, Corine, carried the baby up to the newly decorated nursery. Candice was hot on her heels.

  “You’re excited, huh?” Corine smiled softly at her daughter.

  Candice nodded her head as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other.

  Finally baby Brianna, who was wrapped up like a burrito, was unwrapped and introduced to Candice. Candice stood in awe. The baby’s smell—a soft mixture of baby powder and Similac—made Candice want to never let her go. She loved the baby the minute she laid eyes on her. Brianna stared back, mutually infatuated.

  The fanfare surrounding Brianna’s birth didn’t stop with Candice’s obsessive attention, begging to hold her sister nearly every minute of the day. A week after coming home from the hospital, Easy and Corine planned the biggest welcome-to-the-world party for their newest addition. There was a huge pink-and-white cake, enough helium balloons to fill a small party hall and beautiful, poster-sized professional portraits of Brianna’s first couple of days at home. Candice especially liked the picture with her holding Brianna alone.

  Over seventy people attended the house party in honor of her baby sister. This made Candice feel somewhat envious; but even worse than that, there were no kids to play with. All of the attendees were adults and mostly friends of her father, along with their spouses or girlfriends. Candice found herself utterly bored.

  Her father found her sitting in a corner with her arms folded. He walked over, his white teeth gleaming against his Hershey’s chocolate–colored skin. “What’s the long face for, Candy Cane?”

  Candice ignored the questions and continued to pout.

  “C’mon, Candy Cane, tell your favorite guy what’s going on.” Her father smiled.

  “I don’t want these people to touch my baby,” Candice huffed, pushing her lip farther out.

  Her father threw back his head, laughing. “Aw, Candy Cane, when everybody leaves, she’ll be all yours again. I tell you what, why don’t you go count all of the gifts in the front and I will make sure you get double the number of gifts for your birthday.” He smiled and rumpled the top of her head.

  Candice’s eyes lit up. She knew her father always kept his promises.

  “Okay! I’m going to stay there all night and count every gift!” she exclaimed, and ran toward the front foyer.

  The gifts stacked on the floor near the front door were both large and small. Some were wrapped in pink paper, and some in pale green and yellow. Candice was careful and diligent in her job of counting the gifts as they arrived. She planned to remind her father of the deal he had made when her birthday came around.

  As she stood at the front door, collecting and counting the gifts like a hired hostess/butler would, she noticed a man enter through the door without ringing the bell. He was a tall man with skin that made him look like a figure from the wax museum. The man’s eyes resembled two black lumps of coal, and his hair was so dark and shiny that she couldn’t help but stare at it.

  “Hola, mamasita. Are you the hostess?” the man sang, bending down in front of her face.

  He smiled and the shiny gold front left tooth nearly blinded her. Candice stared, mesmerized by the sparkly diamond skull and crossbones that was encrusted on the man’s gold tooth. He looked like a dark pirate. Her mouth hung open and was filled with unladylike saliva.

  “Is your Papa home?” the man asked her.

  Before Candice could get her brain to connect with her tongue, she heard her father’s voice interrupt her thoughts.

  “Ayyy! I didn’t expect to see you, boss,” Easy said, his voice snapping her out of her trance.


  Easy rushed toward the man and extended his hand; his face was plastered with feigned enthusiasm. Candice took note that her father seemed nervous; his speech was quicker and higher-pitched than usual. His normally relaxed mannerisms appeared tense. And no one made her father nervous.

  “Easy, I wouldn’t miss this for the world. We always take care of our own, and now you are one of our own,” the man replied, inviting himself into the party room.

  The way he spoke told Candice that he was like the man who owned the bodega at the corner of her block. The man who her mother always said was “Spanish,” when Candice and her brothers laughed at the funny way the man spoke.

  “But how did you know where I lived?” Easy asked, letting out a nervous chuckle.

  “I know everything, amigo. Not for you to worry, right? Now let me come in and see that new bundle of joy,” the man replied, slapping Easy on the shoulder and shaking his hand roughly.

  Three men followed him inside the house. Candice was struck by the fact that, despite the warm and muggy weather outside, the men wore long leather trench coats, which were shiny and black like their hair. They all shared similar skin tones and eyes—like they weren’t black, but they weren’t white either. Candice did not like the way they looked or the way they talked. And she definitely didn’t want anyone with a black leather coat or shiny gold tooth looking at or talking to her baby sister.

  Still, she warily collected the boss’s gifts and added it to her count. Candice lost interest in counting gifts after the “bad men” arrived. Candice couldn’t stop sneaking a peek at the man and his three shadows.

  Her mother also seemed not to be thrilled with the new party guests.

  “Eric, I thought you told me you didn’t get into the deal with the Dominicans. I don’t like him. . . . He seems . . . very dangerous. Why would they come to something like this? To see a baby? How did they find where you live? They are trying to send a message, Eric. I don’t like it.” Her mother’s tone was worried and on the verge of panic.

  Candice watched as her father kissed her mother on the forehead.

  “Corine, you worry too much. They just wanted to welcome the baby into the world,” Easy said, but the creases in his forehead and the strain around his eyes told a different story.

  Candice snapped out of her reverie and clicked play on her language CD. It was time to put things into motion. Step one was to embrace her new identity. The face of the man with the diamond-encrusted gold tooth was still plastered in her mind. Especially now, since the man seemed to be central to uncovering her father’s secrets. Candice would never forget the man’s face, but she just hoped he had forgotten hers.

  Chapter 16

  Untangling the Past

  Junior sat on the leather couch in his upscale SoHo apartment as he stared across the small space at his mother. His mother slept peacefully on a custom-made circular bed, which Junior had imported from Italy a couple of years prior. Betty’s Ambien-induced sleep was the norm for her lately.

  Junior hadn’t been to the apartment recently, but it was the only safe haven he had right now. When he originally rented the place, it served as his creep spot, a refuge from his boys and a place to take his women. Only a select few people knew about the apartment, and Junior was glad that he had heeded one of Easy’s many street lessons: always keep a safe haven that nobody but you, and maybe your women, know about.

  Junior thought about Easy a lot lately. Junior also wondered what Easy would do in his situation—the war with Phil and the uptown crew was far from over. Junior knew this, but it wasn’t an ideal time to be thinking about killing people. Junior knew he couldn’t just lie down and roll over—he had to fight and declare war, but it was all much easier said than done, especially given that his opponent was laying low and moving in silence and violence.

  Junior had a lot of other things on his plate as well. He wondered what Easy would say about his daughter Candy trying to off him. Or if he told him that old dude Rock was, in fact, Junior’s biological father.

  As he rubbed his goatee, Junior sat and watched his mother sleep. His mind was racing with possibilities. His mind jumped from one thing to another. He was reminded of the many times he had come to his mother’s rescue as a child. Junior was the one who helped his mother self-treat her wounds after her boyfriend would whip her ass, leaving her with busted lips and black eyes. Seeing her hurting back then and now made Junior feel helpless and threatened and ready to kill.

  Junior kept replaying scenes from his past in his mind, and he grew angrier each time he remembered. Junior thought back to the first murder he’d committed, and the irony that it was Easy who’d taken him under his wing and helped him out of that bad situation. Junior had suddenly been having a lot of memories of his life on the street with Easy.

  Wortman Houses, 1988

  Thirteen-year-old Junior stealthily walked up behind his mother’s boyfriend like a quiet storm. Betty noticed him as she cowered in a corner, her body bent like a pretzel with her raised arms to shield off the next blow. Junior heard her suck in her breath at the sight of him. Sweat dripped down his brow and evil flashed in his eyes like he was of a demonic nature. Junior wore a wife beater, with his bony collarbone jutting out from the top, and a pair of jeans hung so low on his slim pelvis that the elastic band on his boxers was exposed. His eyes were hooded over with ill intent, and his mother could see fire flashing red in his wide pupils.

  “Get ya hands off my mother, you punk-ass bitch!” Junior growled, baring his teeth like a hungry animal about to strike. His arms were extended out in front of him shaking fiercely, a combination of nerves and the weight of his newly acquired .22 special gripped tightly in his bony hands. “Slick! I said, get the fuck away from my mother!” Junior hissed again, his words firmer.

  Slick was a tall, charcoal-colored man. He had a barrel chest and shoulders so wide that he resembled one of those ill-proportioned superhero action figures. He had been in and out of Betty’s home for most of Junior’s teenage years. Slick was his mother’s current boyfriend who sometimes doubled as his baby brother Broady’s father. Junior despised Slick from the first day he’d met him. When Slick started putting his hands on his mother, Junior’s hate became palpable.

  “Oh, you ain’t hear me, bitch! I said, get ya fuckin’ hands off my mother!” Junior barked again. This time he clicked his gun for emphasis.

  Slick momentarily stopped beating his mother to peer at him, as one would a pestering insect.

  “What, little punk? I know you ain’t talkin’ to me,” Slick replied, turning to face Junior. His eyes went low at the sight of the gun in Junior’s hands. “Whatchu gon’ do with that?” Slick chortled incredulously. He faced Junior now, standing with his chest stuck out like a rooster about to go to battle over his hen.

  “I’ma fuckin’ shoot you, if you don’t stop puttin’ your hands on my mother!” Junior spat out, waving the gun in front of him.

  “Oh yeah, go ’head and shoot me,” Slick challenged, cracking the knuckles on his gorilla hands.

  Betty scrambled to her feet and threw herself in front of Slick. “Stop it before somebody gets hurt! Junior, where did you get that thing? Put that gun down right now!” she demanded. Her voice had reached a high keening note.

  “Move out the way, Ma. I’m not playin’ with this bum-ass dude no more! I’m not sittin’ in here, letting him punch on you no more!” Junior growled as sweat dripped into his left eye.

  “I said put that thing down and get it out of my house!” Betty screeched unrelentingly.

  “You gon’ take up for him against your own son? I can’t believe you! This no-good nigga be beating your ass! He don’t give you no money! We starving around here! If I don’t bring in food, we don’t eat!” Junior screamed. His voice was cracking with hurt. The gun shook fiercely in his hands as his nerves got the better of him. Junior felt a sharp pain in his stomach; it was the gut punch of hurt feelings. His mother had chosen sides . . . again.

 
“Boy, you better listen to your mother before you end up in the Kings County morgue,” Slick threatened, taking a stance behind Betty in case he needed a body shield.

  “You’ a punk-ass bastard hiding behind a woman,” Junior spat. He looked at his mother with pure disdain and shook his head. “Stupid,” he mumbled as he lowered his gun and turned on his heels and stomped into his room. Junior grabbed his newly purchased Polo leather-armed jacket and slid his feet into his newly purchased sneakers—all courtesy of his new job.

  “Where you going?” Betty hollered at Junior’s back, but all she heard in response was the slamming of a door.

  Junior walked so fast down his block—he almost came out of his untied sneakers. His breath came out of his nose and mouth in strong, labored puffs, and his adrenaline coursed hot in his veins. Heading back to his spot on the block, Junior dared any crackhead or competing corner boy to try to test him today.

  Just when he reached his usual post, he noticed Easy’s car. “Shit,” he cursed under his breath. Junior wasn’t much in the mood for talking; and anytime he was around Easy, since the first day he’d started working for him, all Easy did was lecture Junior about the things he needed to be “smart” about.

  Easy, of course, spotted him right away.

  Easy was hanging with the old black dude again. “Ay! Why you lookin’ like you wanna kill somebody?” Easy hollered out as he noticed Junior’s high-yellow face flushed with anger.

  The old dude eyed Junior up and down, sending an uncomfortable feeling over him.

  “I almost just did!” Junior barked, sticking out his chicken chest like he was a big man.

  “What? W’sup, kid?” Easy asked, placing his shoulder on Junior, steering him toward his car and away from the other corner boys in hearing distance.

  Junior’s chest was still rising and falling rapidly. He used his hand to swipe at the tears on his face and the snot running out of his nose.