by Chris LeGrow
Shanese froze. She couldn’t swallow, speak, or convince her body to move. Tension radiated around him and through the air. He pointed the bludgeon directly at her, silently telegraphing how he’d obtained his nickname and his savage nature.
“You,” he said through gritted teeth, “been seeing another man.” He bit off each word.
Shanese’s heart skipped a beat; her breath caught in her throat. She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Melia was safe behind her. “Nno, Clubba,” she said knowing he’d never believe her. A rival had fed him a tidbit of gossip and that was enough to convict her. “I haven’t.”
He shrugged like it didn’t matter if she did or didn’t. “I’ll crush every bone in those pretty legs of yours and smash every perfect tooth out of your mouth.”
Clubba stopped and glared at the neighbors one by one. Conversations ceased; activities terminated. All focus centered on Clubba and Shanese and the unfolding drama before them. Each person Clubba locked onto quickly disappeared into their house, closing the doors—and any hope of aid for Shanese—behind them.
“I’m recording,” Melia whispered behind her.
“You’ll just make things worse,” Shanese whispered back.
“Worse than broken bones and teeth? No way.”
Clubba tossed the bat in the Yukon’s backseat and walked toward Shanese. Outrage radiated with every step. “He’s coming,” Shanese whispered frantically. “Shut it off.”
She willed herself to be a barrier between Clubba and Melia. It might be a vain effort to keep Melia safe, but Shanese had to at least try. If something happened, maybe Melia had a shot to run away…or so Shanese hoped. Clubba’s threat was real. Though he could—and did at one time—turn on the charm, she now knew him as a vicious thug she wished she’d never met. Bad enough that she was involved with him; the last thing she wanted was her sister involved.
Fearing any movement on her part would make matters worse, she kept as still as possible and forced herself to breathe. The dread coursing through her body would thrill Clubba. He’d turned the generic beating into an art form. He loved nothing more than watching terror fill his victims’ eyes when they realized what was coming and there was nothing they could do to stop it. His method was highly effective at keeping his women, his soldiers, and his enemies in check.
His promised bashing would take place at the time and place of his choosing. After all, everything in his world went according to his wishes. Clubba would personally deliver the beating, Shanese knew. He lived for that stuff.
He strode to where she stood and searched her face with an intense gaze. Shanese swallowed hard. “It’s not true,” she said.
His hand shot out and caught her around her throat cutting off all oxygen. She gasped and struggled, but his hand covered the front and sides of her neck. Slowly and surely he squeezed. She couldn’t speak for lack of air. Her hands flailed through the air but he held her away. On her tiptoes, as darkness nibbled at the corners of her vision, Shanese stopped fighting. Suddenly Clubba’s grip was broken by the scream of Melia, which startled him and caused him to let go of Shanese’s throat. Shanese fell back and lay on the ground sucking in huge gulps of blessed air and coughing with each inhalation. Towering over her, Clubba pointed at Melia. “Mind your own business.”
Melia just stared at him.
Without so much as a glance at Shanese, Clubba stalked back to his car and slowly drove off. Shanese watched him adjust his rearview mirror and look back at her. She was sure a smile was on his lips. Terror was his sidekick. Clubba loved the control he could impose on anyone who dared cross him. Shanese shuddered.
Her sister ran over to her and knelt by her side. “I got it.”
“Y-you got what?”
“Video of Clubba,” Melia said.
“All of it?” Shanese asked.
“Yes.”
“You better erase it.”
Her sister gave a disgusted sound. “No way.” She stood and held her hand down to help Shanese up. “Come on.”
Shanese rubbed her throat and asked, “Where?”
Melia’s eyes narrowed and her face tightened with conviction. With one determined gesture, she pointed her phone in the direction of the local police precinct. “To the cops. If you’re gonna take a beating, you’re gonna get a little vengeance on him too.” Melia’s eyebrows furrowed and she stopped on the sidewalk. “Oh, man.” She tilted her head and held up her camera.
Confused, Shanese stopped and shook her head. “What?”
“That pig left his handprint all over your neck, and I wanna get a good picture of it.”
Shanese turned away. “Don’t…you’ll just make things worse.”
“How much worse can it be than for Grandma to see you in the hospital after he gets done with you?”
“I can’t.” Shanese covered her face with her hands. “There’s no way out with him.”
“Well, we ain’t sittin’ around waiting for it,” Melia said. “We got nothin’ to lose. Now come on.”
Within hours of handing the video over to the police, an arrest warrant was issued for Te’quan Yates Koak aka Clubba. It wouldn’t take long to figure out who the snitch was. Clubba’s informants dotted the neighborhood; one was bound to find out who dared to turn against him.
After making the police report, Shanese needed to find a safe place to hide out—and fast. She could only imagine the torture awaiting them both after this. Looking at the road ahead, she saw two of Clubba’s soldiers in large white T-shirts standing on a corner about a block away. She grabbed her sister’s forearm. “Come on. We got to get out of here. Now!”
Clubba’s intelligence on police matters had been possible because for years he’d built his small criminal empire by forming bonds with each of the major Omaha gangs and some of their officers. They always seemed to know when the police had information on them and often found ways to avoid capture.
Zaifra Koak, Clubba’s refugee mother, taught him well. Traveling through war-torn Sudan, she’d survived by establishing alliances with the Dinka, Newir, Skeluk, and other Southern tribes. Not aligning herself with any particular group gave her the freedom to move among them all and eventually escape. During the nineties, over ten thousand Sudanese refugees migrated to the Omaha and Lincoln, Nebraska, areas.
Zaifra adopted the Christian name of Grace when she landed in England from her home. After two years there, a family in Omaha sponsored her trip to the United States. Blessed with a linguistic ear, she picked up the language quickly and ended up with a delightful mix of Sudanese and the Queen’s English. Once in America, she mastered the slang of the street as well as formal business jargon.
Clubba inherited his mother’s ear and following suit developed the ability to sound like a native of either nation. The accents gave him an air of intelligence and expertise. When necessary, he easily switched from the vilest street talk to fluent Sudanese to an articulate Wall Street CEO. Words were his to do with as he pleased—like the rest of his life. His mother’s native tongue, however, was his best recruitment tool. With it he could utilize the young immigrants and their parents.
Those more recently arrived in the community often called on him to translate letters, government papers, or employment applications. The ability to straddle both worlds gave Clubba his legitimate social standing and made him a leader in his community. The Sudanese not only looked up to him, they respected and then feared him.
To survive in Omaha’s urban gang war zones, though, Clubba needed to follow his mother’s example. Starting with the emerging Sudanese gangs, he moved on to the basic African-American gangs like the Bloods and Crips. Not stupid enough to sell or use drugs, Clubba quickly realized there was nothing to be gained by fighting over turf and dope. To freely associate with all gangs, he had to provide something they all wanted.
At first, it was guns. He directed his young men to burglarize homes, and then Clubba sold stolen guns to the crews. By forming contacts with individual gangs, he
established himself as a partner to each without membership in any.
By chance he stumbled on something they all wanted even more, a substance that took the marijuana buzz to a volcanic level. Embalming fluid. Not just for the dead anymore; the living enjoyed it even more.
PCP had been used in the past, but it was more expensive and difficult to get. It also carried a hefty prison term. Embalming fluid was cheap, easy to come by if you burglarized funeral homes, and the high it produced was extraordinary. Dipping a joint in it made it wet.
The effects of smoking wet varied. Some people became so angry with people they hadn’t seen since the second grade that they wanted to find them and kill them. Others became anesthetized and felt no pain at all—good if you got shot or stabbed. Others felt invincible. All reactions were ideal combinations for bang’n activities. They all became the perfect pawns.
With so many families from a war-torn country, Clubba had his pick of young Sudanese men who liked to fight, liked the money, and liked the adrenaline rush that came from stealing, fighting, running, or doing drugs. Within months, Clubba had his network of people he could send into dangerous situations. If they died, there were always new replacements coming up through the ranks.
Life was good, but Clubba had bigger plans. Much bigger. His plans, however, were about to be put on hold, because of a little girl and her cell phone.
The door burst open. Pieces of wood shot into the living room of the apartment. Before he could react, Clubba had a couple of officers standing over him. “Te’quan Koak, we have a warrant for your arrest,” announced a voice from behind a blinding flashlight. Officer Charlie Walker said, “The Domestic Violence Unit put the warrant out for you today.”
“This is all you got?” Te’quan Yates Koak threw a bored glance at the two Omaha Police officers in the apartment he was using for the night. Clubba had a string of places where he would stay for a day or two. That made it hard for the cops to know exactly where to find him. This particular apartment was located in a small complex infested with drugs, crime, and the sorts of people that hated the police. Nobody took care of the grounds and nobody cared. A cynical smile perked up Clubba’s lips. “I’ll be back in six months.”
Walker smiled and tugged the cuffs tighter. Three additional officers flanked Walker; two stood in the living room of the door they’d kicked in, and the third was stationed outside to watch for any trouble. The arrest of someone held in high esteem in this neighborhood could get ugly.
“Pretty proud of this, aren’t you?” Clubba asked.
“You’re just a run-of-the-mill punk in my book,” Walker said.
“Nah,” Clubba said. “I’m a prize collar. Or so my people tell me.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear.” Walker turned Clubba around and grasped his upper arm. The officer outside, gang unit detective Zach Reeves knew the neighborhood well.
“Word’s out,” he called to the officers inside. “Let’s go!” he said as much in warning as an order.
On the front stoop, Charlie stopped short behind Zach. A crowd, one appearing distinctly unfriendly to the police, gathered in the street.
“What’s wrong?” Clubba glanced at the officers and with a mocking smirk. “Scared?”
Reeves didn’t take his gaze off the roadway and sidewalks. “Hardly.”
Clubba smiled and surveyed a mass of about thirty people. “You ought’ta be,” he said softly. “Watch this.” Clubba threw back his head and called out to the crowd. “Anotha’ brotha’ bein’ arrested fo’ being black!”
Charlie blinked at the abrupt switch in Clubba’s speech. He’d gone from perfect American English to urban street talk. Clubba’s claim had the appropriate effect.
“Let him go!” A young man wearing a black sweat shirt hollered. He tugged the hood over his forehead as far as possible to avoid recognition by the police.
“He didn’t do nothin’!” A middle-aged woman with a sneer rose to the challenge Clubba’s word incited. “He was wit’ me da’ whole time!”
Clubba’s presence energized the whole block; tension arced in the air. From the back of the congregating group, a nameless, faceless bystander in the back threw down the gauntlet. “Kill the po-leece.”
The threat caught every officer’s attention. The antagonistic crowd warmed to the invitation. More anonymous yells, curses, and threats emanated from every face in the growing throng. Hoodies were tugged over their heads to conceal their identities.
Clubba chuckled. “Not too popular up here, are you?”
Officer Walker ignored the remark and shook his head. “This show isn’t for me,” he said. “Everybody out there is performing for you, currying your favor.”
“Run, Clubba!” a lone voice cried out from the middle of the throng. Insults, taunts, and curses flew through the air, trying to egg the police into a fight.
“Break loose, Clubba!”
“We got yo’ back!”
“No,” gang detective Steve Turley, a ten-year veteran of OPD said to Walker. “I’ve got your back. Let’s move.”
Reeves led the way to the cruiser with Walker and Clubba in the middle and Turley bringing up the rear. The threats amplified, those assembled growing more daring. The officers started pushing their way through the angry crowd. Turley scanned the contorted faces surrounding him and determined the situation could get ugly and out of control with more than a few injuries in a nanosecond. No longer onlookers in a nameless crowd, they’d morphed into a mob.
As the mob edged closer, the yells, screams, and taunts were issued within spitting range of the officers. Turley figured a brick or other projectile would launch through the air any moment. Sensing a direct and real threat to their safety left only one thing to do. Turley pushed the shoulder mike. “Help an officer!” he barked out along with their location.
The call went out to every cop on duty—and a few who weren’t. Within seconds, sirens shrieked; blue and red lights flashed. Half a dozen cruisers swerved to a stop wherever they could: in the streets, on front yards, sidewalks, anywhere and everywhere. Car doors opened and a stream of officers spilled out in a blue invasion.
Clubba’s smile widened. “It’s on now!” he said.
Half of the crowd scattered at the sound of sirens, bellowing a string of obscenities over their shoulders. Once home, they opened their windows and doors and walked onto their creaking balconies. The familiar profanity-filled tirades flowed from the relative safety of each home. Only the younger—or the really stupid—ones got up in the cops’ faces. They, in turn, ended up tackled and face-planted on the ground. The derision continued.
Clubba thoroughly enjoyed himself, satisfied that it was all for his benefit. That was the point. What good was power if you couldn’t make people do things just for you? Jutting his chin toward the melee, he laughed out loud.
“Look at that,” he said. “Takes your army to handle my people. The next time you come to get me, though, you’ll bring more officers…and that’ll tip me off. I’ll spot you from seven blocks away. That’ll teach you to bust me on some bogus charges.”
“Yeah, yeah, big man,” Charlie said and lifted Clubba’s upper arm higher. He stumbled forward and quickened his pace. “Move it.”
The mass of people dissipated, which allowed Walker to lead Clubba down the sidewalk and to his patrol car. Clubba spotted two white-haired men across the street. One was extremely short—couldn’t have been over five feet four—and the other stood about six inches taller. Both appeared unaffected by the massive police presence around and the commotion that had preceded it. Standing by the curb twenty feet away, they wore matching ear-to-ear grins. A ring of familiarity tingled in the back of Clubba’s head. He’d seen them around the neighborhood but where? The park? The street corner? The grocery store? Where? Seemed like there were always old men in the hood these days.
Officer Walker’s hand gripped Clubba’s head, and he got one last glance at the elderly men over the top of the cruiser. They
stared at him. The short one nudged the other then pointed and laughed—at him. Clubba!
White-hot rage shot through him. The officer tried to nudge him into the cruiser, but Clubba stiffened and jerked to the side, clipping his forehead as he was maneuvered into the backseat. “Ow. Watch it, you blue-eyed devil!”
“Mind your head, Mr. Koak,” Officer Turley, the rear security guy, said with a fake smile, “and welcome to the cage.”
One glance and Clubba knew where the name came from. The back windows were down but no one could escape. Bars covered all open areas so anyone placed in there wouldn’t get out, so having the windows down was no big deal. Clubba twisted, trying to find a more comfortable position. Soft cloth seats had been removed and a slick plastic bench inserted, which made it easier to clean and much more difficult to hide drugs in the cushions. Almost impossible actually. Clubba squirmed around and silently cursed the criminal justice game. Nothing here was for comfort; it was all about making things easy for the police.
A dull pain throbbed where he’d banged his head. Blood trickled from the cut above his left eyebrow, and sweat stung his eyes. He shook his head and caught another shot of the two old guys. What was it that fixated him?
Officer Walker slammed the caged door shut. Clubba scooted across the plastic seat to get a closer look through the bars. They stood in the same spot, mouths open wide with waves of laughter. The short one jerked his head in an odd way and Clubba watched as his dentures flopped out of his mouth. He fumbled around trying to grab them, but they slid through his fingers and all but bounced off the street, an incisor breaking off.