by RM Johnson
“I don’t know who did it,” Rafe said. “The cops said he was just walking home one day from school and got hit by stray gunfire. I know that ain’t all there was to it, because he wasn’t even near school, off up in the far West Side, where he knew he ain’t have no business.” Rafe dragged a hand down the length of his face, pulled at his chin. “I just know that if I wasn’t in prison, I would’ve been there to stop what happened. He looked up to me, and I wasn’t there. So I’m responsible for his death.”
“Raphiel,” Henny said, sliding down from the rock, putting herself right in front of him. “There was nothing you could do from behind bars. It wasn’t your fault. You can’t control what—”
“Don’t, Henny,” Rafe pleaded.
“But—”
“Please, just don’t. It is the way it is. I’ve already accepted it,” Rafe said, surprised at how strong he was being. “But I’ll understand if you want me to take you home, if you don’t want to see me no more.”
Henny moved closer to Rafe and wrapped her arms around his neck. “I want to be here with you more now. You didn’t have to tell me those things, but you were honest with me, and that means so much. I know you aren’t the same person that you were then.”
“How do you know that?” Rafe asked.
Henny looked up into his eyes, bringing her face very close to his. “Because I couldn’t feel this way about you if you were.” She raised herself up on her toes to touch her lips to his. He was hesitant at first, but then he wrapped his arms around her, pulled her into him, and passionately kissed her back.
THE NEXT DAY, Rafe was back at the job, working in his usual capacity as a normal mechanic.
Smoke had pulled him aside first thing in the morning.
“So, you want me to make the announcement now or what?”
“What announcement?”
“That you’re gonna be head mechanic from now on. That if any of the mechanics have any questions or problems, they should come to you.”
Rafe was silent.
“So, what? You still got a problem with this?” Smoke said.
“Naw, man,” Rafe lied.
“Well, just let me know when you decide,” Smoke said as he walked off.
For the rest of the day Rafe had been doing nothing but thinking about if he should take Smoke up on his offer. Problem was, Rafe knew Smoke had a tendency to lie. He remembered Smoke telling him that his mother was really his sister and that his father was really his uncle because he was ashamed that the drunken, disorderly pair were his parents.
He also remembered when Smoke told him that he was moving to Florida when his parents really had to move to public housing because they had been thrown out of their house. He lied for as long as he could get away with it, and confessed only when he was caught.
But, then again, Smoke had never lied to Rafe about business. Never. And that was why now, at closing time, Rafe was marching toward Smoke’s office, duplicate work orders from the service department in his hand.
As Rafe knocked on the door, he couldn’t deny how things would change for the better if he did take the job. He thought about the money he would make, the things he could buy with it—a car, maybe one of the shiny, exotic numbers he always saw as he walked through the showroom for work. He wouldn’t have to take the bus to the library to see Henny anymore, and Rafe could just imagine the look on her face the first time she saw his new ride. Eventually, he would even be able to move out of his aunt’s place, get something of his own.
Rafe knocked again on Smoke’s office door as a smile slowly stretched across his face.
When Smoke didn’t answer after Rafe’s second knock, he turned the knob and pushed the door open to see if Smoke was in, but he wasn’t. Rafe stepped in to drop the duplicate papers on his desk. He set the copies down, then just stood over the big oak desk, admiring it and the leather executive chair behind it. If Rafe took the job, would he get a desk and chair like that? Of course not. He’d be chief mechanic. They don’t need desks. But what if Rafe said he wanted one anyway? And an office too, just like this one? Smoke wouldn’t turn him down. Hell no! They were brothers, right?
Yeah, Rafe would have a desk just like Smoke’s, and now Rafe wanted to know how it would feel to be sitting behind it. He walked around the desk, pulled out the chair, and slid down into it.
Perfect fit. Immediately Rafe felt like an important person. He felt he had decisions to make, procedures to put in place, felt like he could greatly impact the course of someone’s life with just the swipe of a pen.
He slid open one of the drawers, looking for a pen or pencil to hold, furthering his little fantasy.
In the open drawer, he saw a pen, pulled it out, and pretended as though he was signing some important bill into law. He scribbled his name in the air in front of him with the pen. That’s how he would sign the orders in the service department once he was in charge as head mechanic, he thought to himself, smiling. Maybe he would change his signature just a little bit. Something a bit fancier.
Rafe opened one of the side drawers, looking for a piece of paper to practice on. Nothing. He shut it and opened another. Nothing but two volumes of the Yellow Pages. He pulled open the last drawer and at the bottom of it, Rafe saw a narrow wooden box. He halted, his eyes fixed there, not knowing what to think.
He would’ve thought nothing of it had he not seen that box before. He knew it well. It was the box Smoke had always kept his personal stash in. Rafe wanted to close the drawer back, act as though he had never seen what he had, but he continued eyeing it, knowing what was probably inside.
He pulled the box out and set it in front of him. He looked down at it as if it would open up itself, reveal its own contents to him. He didn’t want to find out what was in there, because if he was correct in his suspicion, that meant that Smoke was still using drugs, had lied to him. And if he lied to him about continuing to use, then he’d probably lied about selling the drugs too, and Rafe didn’t want to find that out.
Rafe felt as though his entire bright future was disappearing right before him.
But what if he didn’t look in the box? What if he just slid the drawer shut and forgot about it?
Rafe put the box back, pushed the drawer closed, and let out a sigh of relief, telling himself he’d done the right thing. But he knew deep down he hadn’t. He knew he had to find out what was in that box, and now he was yanking open the drawer, dipping his hands into it, fishing out the box, and flipping open the cover.
There it was, just like Rafe was afraid of: three joints, a lighter, and a quarter bag of weed. And there was more, something Rafe hadn’t expected: a vial half full with a white powdery substance. Cocaine, no doubt.
Smoke had not only lied to Rafe about quitting drugs, but had moved up to coke. If Smoke had lied about this, what else was he telling stories about? Everything, Rafe thought. If Smoke truly was still dealing, then Rafe was in jeopardy of being thrown back in prison for just being in this room. This outraged him. He had to know for sure. Had to know so he could take proof back to Dotson, or whoever had the power to get him out of here, so he wouldn’t get slapped with more time when he was innocent.
Rafe spun around in the chair, not bothering to put the uncovered box of drugs back in the drawer. He quickly took in the room. There were cardboard boxes stacked in a corner. He raced over there, started ripping at the tape, tearing at their flaps, opening them up, only to find auto parts wrapped in plastic.
Rafe headed toward Smoke’s closet door, threw it open, pushed the garments on hangers aside, scanned the floor, and found nothing. He cleared the top shelf, sweeping off everything that was on it. Nothing.
Rafe hurried over to the tall wall cabinets. They were locked. So he went to the boxes of auto parts that he had torn open and pulled out what looked like a jack handle, a flat head on one end.
He shoved the flat end of the bar in between the narrow space where the doors of the cabinet came together. He pulled and pried with all he
had until he heard a splintering sound. The lock ripped away from the wood, and the doors popped open. He threw the bar aside, flung the doors back, and gasped at what he saw: at least twenty large plastic bags, filled fat with cocaine, sat neatly atop one another like small, fluffed pillows.
Fuck! Rafe thought. He was in trouble—and much more trouble than he had actually known, because he hadn’t heard the office door open behind him during all the racket he was making opening the cabinet. He wasn’t aware of the huge man creeping into the room behind him either, bending down, retrieving the discarded jack handle off the floor, and stepping toward him.
“Fuck!” Rafe said again, this time aloud. “I gotta do something.” That’s when he turned around and caught sight of the man in the room. He also caught sight of the metal bar slicing down through the air at him, and then there was blackness.
WHEN RAFE came to, his head was killing him. He brought a weak arm up to his skull to feel a large, pulsating bump there. As his eyes started to open slowly, he didn’t know where he was, only knew that he was moving.
Rafe heard someone’s voice echo through his brain. “He’s waking up, boss.”
“Don’t worry about him, just keep driving,” and that was Smoke’s voice. Rafe knew that.
Rafe’s eyes opened more, focused, and he realized he was in the back seat of a car. He saw Smoke turn, look over his seat at him, concern in his eyes.
“You okay? How’s your head?”
“I saw what you had in your office.”
“I know, I know. When my man saw you snooping around in my office, all he could think of to do was take you out. He’s kinda like that. When he’s uncertain about something, first thing pop into his head is just to smash it. But he’s sorry about it, ain’t you, Trunk?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, boss,” the big man said, looking up into the rearview at Rafe, not really sounding very sorry at all.
“We call him Trunk, by the way, because he as big as a damn tree trunk. Ain’t he,” Smoke said.
“You said you’d stopped selling. You said the business was legitimate. You lied, Smoke,” Rafe said, trying to pull himself up in the back seat.
“Well, it was only a half lie, because the business is legit, but yeah, I am still slangin’ on occasion. What’s the fucking big deal though? Ain’t like we ain’t did it before.”
“You selling coke now,” Rafe said. “And ain’t no we to it. I’m out of this shit. I don’t know you no more, man,” Rafe said, glancing out the window. “So you might as well pull over right now and let me out.”
“Rafe. No, man,” Smoke said. “You’re back now. We ain’t never breaking up again. You said that.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Well I’m sayin’ it!” Smoke said, raising his voice.
“Fuck that!” Rafe said, grabbing hold of the front seat, and pulling himself up. “Let me the fuck out. Now!”
“All right, all right, brotha. No need to get your braids all frizzled and shit,” Smoke said, calming now, a smile actually on his face. “I’ll let you out of here. But first I got a suprise for you. And if you still think you can walk away from all I’m offering you, then you’re free to go.”
TEN MINUTES later, Trunk pulled the Mercedes into a vast, vacant parking lot by a huge warehouse. The three men jumped out and started walking, Trunk walking very close to Rafe, their shoulders almost touching, keeping Rafe from taking off.
“Where you taking me?” Rafe asked.
“Aw, I’ll show you when we get there,” Smoke said, waving the question off. “It’s a surprise. You’ll get a kick out of it though. Something I promised you.”
They walked into the open warehouse, then down a long corridor. They headed down to the fourth door on the right, then stopped in front of it. Trunk pulled a key from his pocket and slid it into a door that looked just like all the other doors that lined both sides of the hallway. He didn’t open it, but looked at Smoke, as if for permission. Smoke held up a finger, gesturing for him to wait a moment.
“You know,” Smoke said, an almost giddy expression on his face, “I’ve been waiting three years for this moment, and I can’t believe it’s about to happen. I’m just so happy, man. So happy.” It was apparent by the way he was almost shaking with joy. “And like I said, if you want to walk away from me and everything else, you can. But after you leave this room, I sincerely think there’s no way that you’ll be able to.”
Rafe didn’t know what the hell Smoke was talking about, didn’t know what to think, but he would be lying if he didn’t admit to himself that he was scared, almost frightened, by the dark tone all of this had. Trunk stepped away from the door, allowing Smoke access. Smoke turned the key, pushed the door open, and stood to the side. He extended an arm out, as if he were a doorman, welcoming Rafe into some exclusive hotel.
“Ain’t you gonna go in, brotha?” Smoke said.
Rafe didn’t budge, afraid of what he might see. Then without notice, he was pushed through the door by Trunk, who had been standing behind him. When Rafe stumbled into the tiny room, he was confronted by a black man with bulging, frightened eyes. Rafe didn’t know what the hell was going on at first, but then he saw that the man’s ankles were tied to the chair he was sitting in, his hands tied behind his back. Tape was wrapped thick and tight around his head to muffle his loud moaning.
It appeared as though he had been there for a little while, had been struggling for some time, judging by the thick coat of sweat that covered his face and had poured down over the front of his T-shirt in a large dark V. His eyes ballooned when he saw the men enter, and he started struggling with his restraints, started rocking back and forth, looking as though he was trying to topple the chair to free himself.
“Calm yo’ motherfuckin’ ass down, bitch!” Smoke yelled, and then in a very calm voice asked Rafe, “Know who that is?”
Rafe had no clue. He felt Smoke’s arm around his shoulder. “C’mon, remember back, Rafe,” he said in the same soft voice. “It’ll come back to you.”
Rafe tried his best to recall this man, but half his face was covered with tape, and Rafe was sure last time he saw him—if ever—his eyes weren’t damn near popping out of his head with terror.
“I said, sit yo’ ass still!” Smoke yelled again. “Trunk, give him some more phone numbers to think about.” And at Smoke’s request, Trunk walked across the room, grabbed the thick Ameritech Yellow Pages off the table, and with all his force, slammed it across the aging black man’s head.
The man’s neck snapped, almost seemed to break, and then his head whirled lazily about his neck twice before it slumped onto his chest.
“Now concentrate, Rafe. You’ll get it,” Smoke said.
Rafe looked at the man again, at his soaking T-shirt, at his blue trousers, his shiny black shoes, then he quickly looked across the room to see the man’s shirt, hanging on the back of another chair. The shirt had stripes and a badge on it. He was a policeman—the policeman who had busted Rafe and Smoke, who had lied to put Rafe behind bars. Rafe gasped loudly, taking a frightened step back.
“Ah, I knew you’d get it, Rafe,” Smoke said, leaving Rafe’s side, and walking over toward the terrified cop, who had regained consciousness. “You didn’t think I’d let this motherfucker get away with hemming you up like that, did you? Hell, naw,” Smoke said, standing behind the cop, both his hands on his shoulders. “The things I do for you, and you said you didn’t want anything to do with me anymore.” Smoke smiled.
Rafe didn’t say a word, couldn’t. Just stood there, a stupid, disbelieving look on his face.
“I told you I’d handle this. Told you that. We brothers, baby, and that’s why the day this nigga decided that he was gonna frame you with that coke, get you locked up, was the day he decided he was going to die. He just didn’t know it yet. Did ya’ nigga? Diiiiiid yaaaaaaa? No, you didn’t,” Smoke said, speaking in the cop’s ear, in a playful goo-goo, ga-ga, baby voice.
“But it was,” Smoke sa
id, walking toward Trunk, pulling out a pair of gloves, and slipping them on. “I woulda got the cracker too, but his ass got himself killed before I could do the honors. Lucky bastard.” Smoke held out his gloved hand, and Trunk, who was now wearing gloves as well, reached behind him, and pulled out a gun from the small of his back, placed it in Smoke’s hand.
“Now I got this motherfucker for you, Rafe, because he took three years of your life. This bastard is old as hell. Probably going to retire in a few years anyway, so you might as well make it an early one.” Smoke held out the gun for Rafe to take.
Rafe couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, because he couldn’t believe what Smoke was asking him to do. When words finally did come, he said, “I’m not doing it.”
“Well, see Rafe. It’s not just about wanting this motherfucker dead. I mean, there is that.” Smoke moved closer to Rafe and presented him with the weapon again. “But there’s also the little issue of me being able to trust that you ain’t gonna go running to the cops about my side business.”
“I wouldn’t go to them. I hate them as much as you do. You know I’d never do that to you.”
“Yeah,” Smoke said, chuckling some. “You right. I know you won’t, after I get this little bit of insurance. You feel me? Now take the gun and do this motherfucker, Rafe, so we can go get some lunch.”
Rafe hated the cop, always had, but he couldn’t kill the man.
“I ain’t taking that gun. Forget it. You want him dead, do it yourself!”
“Fine. You right,” Smoke said, and before Rafe knew it, Smoke had tossed the gun at him. Reflexes had Rafe catching the weapon, had him holding it in his hand, and then all of a sudden, Rafe felt as though he had been run into by a freight train. Trunk had run up behind him, wrapped both his hands around the hand that Rafe was using to hold the gun. Rafe started to struggle to get his hand from around the weapon, but Trunk’s grip on his hands was too tight.
“What the fuck are you doing! Smoke, what’s he doing?” Rafe cried, trying to get a look at Smoke and fight his way free of Trunk at the same time.