“Well?” Last Chance asked as his hands started to shake. “What you see, huh? What you see?”
“Shut up, old man!” was the only reply he got before a worried Mrs. Perkins knocked again, only this time on the glass.
Almost immediately after knocking, she and Last Chance got the shock of a lifetime as the small, whimpering toddler pulled back the dirty sheet, revealing himself.
“What the hell?” Last Chance didn’t care about NayNay’s house rules as he came stumbling up the stairs onto the porch by his trembling ex-wife’s side.
“Oh, my God! Good Lord!” Mrs. Perkins screamed out, seeing the little boy’s face and body covered in what appeared to be blood. “Somebody, call the police!” she frantically yelled as the small child’s hands banged on the other side of the window in an attempt to get out. “Somebody call the police! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, help me! Help me!”
As the sobbing tot continued to snatch at the sheets while leaving his petite bloody handprints on the glass, Last Chance got a much better look inside of the usually lively house. In clear sight he observed NayNay’s motionless body laid out on the living room floor in a pool of blood near the fireplace. Moe Mack’s legs were sticking out from behind the coffee table. A third person appeared to be lying in the corner, but Last Chance couldn’t quite make out who it was.
In a matter of minutes, sirens were blaring, and a multitude of red and blue lights were flashing. Detroit’s finest swarmed NayNay’s house. With weapons drawn, as neighbors looked on, they kicked the door in, practically snatching it out of the frame.
“Son of a bitch!” was all the neighbors heard one officer say as he exited the horrific crime scene, shaking his head in unreserved disgust. He had a bloodied Maurice Jr. clutched in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-six
“Good evening, residents of Metro Detroit. The bloodshed and body count continue to rise tonight. I’m here on Fullerton Street between Linwood and Dexter Avenue, which is located on the city’s west side. Sadly, tragedy has once again struck our economically stressed and crime-infested town. After several frantic 911 calls were received, police burst through the doors of the home located behind me.” The reporter pointed up toward NayNay’s taped-off house as a crowd of shocked neighbors gathered around.
“What they found behind those doors, no one, including many veteran officers with as many as twenty years on the job, could stomach. The victims, three young adults, were found brutally murdered. Two of them were bound and gagged, and one was killed seemingly execution style. However, what makes this crime scene more heinous and heart-wrenching than the other breaking-news homicides we’ve reported on this evening is that unfortunately there were two other victims, both children of elementary school age.”
The angry, concerned crowd continued to grow as the lights from the camera shone bright. “Our sources tell us both small children were found duct-taped together in a chair and possibly poisoned. The older of the two boys also appears to have been beaten. Identities are being withheld pending notifications of families. But joining us live we now have newly appointed Detroit Police Chief Evan Warrington, who has just arrived on the crime scene. Chief, what can you tell us?”
“Yes, well, um, it has indeed been a night, or should I say a day, of complete chaos in Detroit. Within a short twenty-four-hour span we now have at least seventeen confirmed homicides and more than nine or ten shootings that have resulted in non-life-threatening injuries. Our prayers go out to the victims’ families, and I also want to reassure our law-abiding citizens that the department is working overtime to regain order and diplomacy in the streets.” The chief then gave a long, cold stare into the camera as he made his point clear. “These criminals will not take over our city! These savage, senseless acts will definitely not be tolerated, and those responsible will be apprehended and swiftly brought to justice. All available manpower has been called to duty, and no stone will be left unturned. Everyone breaking the law tonight in Detroit, I’m putting you on proper notice. We’ll be coming for you in full force.”
A group of elderly neighbors clapped as the camera continued rolling and the reporter shoved the microphone into the chief’s face, holding him there. “Thank you, Chief. One last question: this has proven to be the deadliest day in Motown history. Do you have any suspects in any of the crimes as of yet?”
“At this time all leads are being aggressively followed, and we encourage the public to contact us with any information that will assist in our efforts. Thank you.”
“Well, there you have it. The chief has ensured us that he and his officers will restore peace to Detroit. Live on the west side, Jayden James reporting for Channel 7 Action News.”
* * *
Stepping out of the thick crowd of gawkers, Bama Bob, even though he was as gangster as the next nigga, couldn’t believe what the hell was going on as the whispers of the victims’ identities spread. His homeboy and connect, Moe Mack, was dead as a son of a bitch. He shook his head, coming to grips with the news. I just seen that guy. He was good peoples. Whoever did this shit is gonna pay! It ain’t gonna be over just like that! He remembered exactly what Moe Mack had told Cree and Justice just hours earlier before dying.
“Follow my orders!” Chief Warrington instructed the head of the Gang Squad and SWAT units as Bama Bob and other residents listened to him bark out orders. “Kick in the doors of any and every suspected dope house in the city limits. I couldn’t care less about warrants. We’ll deal with the legalities later! I need some arrests made! If you see a stray dog or cat jaywalking, bring them in for questioning!”
Knowing he had to make sure he handled his business, warning everyone in his crew to shut down operations until things cooled off as well as spreading the bad news about Moe Mack’s untimely demise, Bama Bob discreetly separated himself from the onlookers. Pulling his cell phone out, he was interrupted by Last Chance, who’d also emerged from the crowd.
“What up doe, old man?”
“Hey, Bama Bob.” Last Chance’s hands shook. “I know this ain’t the time or the place, but can you spare a few dollars? I need a drink bad!”
“Come on now, dawg. Miss me with all that begging.” He watched the medical examiner bring out black body bags. “My boy is in one of them motherfuckers!”
“I know.” Last Chance lowered his head out of respect as each one passed. “Me and my wife called the police. We were the ones who found them.”
“What?”
“Yeah. Maurice said I could have some bottles. So after that crazy corner boy drove off in his car, I went over there.”
“What corner boy?” Bama Bob irately quizzed Last Chance, giving him his undivided attention. “Which one? Do I know the motherfucker?”
Last Chance continued to shake as two small body bags were brought out, undoubtedly housing the children’s corpses. “I wasn’t snitching or nothing like that, but like I told the police, it was the one with the lazy eye who be up there on Linwood. The loudmouth one.” He shook as he spoke. “He put some stuff in Maurice’s trunk and left. I thought he was going to the car wash or something. But now when I think about it, he was dressed too fancy to be washing any car.”
“Justice.” Bama Bob grew angry at the thought of knowing who might’ve killed his homeboy. “Is that who ya talking about? Justice’s bitch nickel-hustlin’ ass?”
“Yeah, that’s his name! His eye stay half closed all the time.” Last Chance nodded. “I dunno what happened inside of that girl’s house, but his running buddy with the gap was in there dead right along with the rest of ’em.” He looked puzzled. “And I thought they were friends.”
“Who, young Cree?”
“Whatever his name is.” Last Chance then sadly mumbled, “Or was.”
Bama Bob tore Last Chance off a couple of twenties from his knot for the valuable 411, and he sent out a text exclusively to everyone he dealt with in the game. 187-187 shut down 187-187, he typed three or four times in a row, before sending out a different
mass text that read that if anyone saw that nigga Justice on the streets or Moe Mack’s Beemer, anywhere, to hit him up immediately with the location of both. After that he scrolled down his list of contacts, placing a call to Keith to deliver the tragic news of their fallen comrade.
Sitting in the car after delivering the devastating blow to Keith, Bama Bob starting receiving replies to his texts that his spots were shut down and all the workers had gone home until further notice. Hell yeah, at least that’s done! In the barrage of incoming texts, one was more interesting than the others. It was from his girl from around the way, Ariel, telling him that she and her friends had just gotten turned away from the club downtown because the police had raided it. And? Big deal! He waited for the rest of the message to download. Oh, shit! was all he could think as he looked at a picture of Ariel posted up on the hood of Moe Mack’s BMW.
“Yo, shawty!” Bama Bob wasted no time calling Ariel back. “Do me a solid and stay put. I’m on my way to you now, and real rap, keep an eye on Moe’s car. Ya feel me? I’ll be there in ten, fifteen minutes tops!”
“Not a problem, honey,” Ariel replied as she and her half-dressed friends flirted with the many officers around the club’s front entrance.
Calling back an enraged Keith, then all his crew, and telling them to meet him down at the club, Bama Bob started his engine just as NayNay’s older sister and niece returned home from their trip out of town. Heartbreakingly, as the confused pair pushed through the crowd approaching their house, they would soon find out their lives would never be the same.
“Damn!” Bama Bob reached for his blunt, watching the two hysterical females break down in his rearview mirror as he drove off. “This shit is fucked up! I swear to God, that dusty-ass nigga Justice is a dead man when I see him!” He blazed up, bending the corner, heading toward the freeway. “A fucking dead man!”
* * *
“Damn, now I wish I hadn’t texted that country fool back.” Ariel tugged down on her baby T-shirt so the officer guarding the front entrance of the club could get a good view of her breasts. “’Cause a bitch like me could be getting all of ol’ boy over there city paycheck or trying to push up on Moe Mack’s fine ass when he comes outside, especially if he ain’t with that stank-ass baby mama of his! Now Bama Bob gonna be cock blocking.”
“Yeah, probably so, but we gotta wait for Stephanie to come out anyway,” Ariel’s friend smartly replied, anxious to get their mournful drinking started. “And you know since her man Tre just got killed on the west side, she’s gonna be needing us to stay by her side no matter what.”
“You right,” Ariel conceded, knowing Tre’s body wasn’t even cold yet, and they were out getting their drink on. “It’s just, damn! There’s so many dicks around this motherfucker!”
Still flirting with the officer, just as Ariel leaned back on the hood of Moe Mack’s BMW like it was hers, from around the side of the building her girl Stephanie eased up, clutching her purse with a look of panic and determination. Ten minutes later Bama Bob, followed by a small team of street soldiers, drove up, parking across the street from the heavily guarded nightclub.
“Yo, shawty,” he yelled into her cell as soon as she answered his call. “Bring ya ass!”
Prancing across the traffic toward Bama Bob, Ariel was immediately met by a thousand questions being thrown at her at one time, right off rip.
Chapter Twenty-seven
“Turn that music off immediately,” one of the many officers demanded of the DJ as soon as the interior of the club was surrounded and the exit points were secure. “And hit all the house lights!”
Justice continued to calmly sip on his drink as small cubes of ice clinked on the rim of the glass. With every step the police made in his direction, each female sitting in the booth got closer underneath him as if he had some type of invisible potion or a magic carpet that could get them out of there without static. I knew I should’ve just dipped over to Greedy’s damn house! He thought about his bottom bitch, who had four different baby daddies, as the glass sweated in his hands. She was a whore, but Justice claimed she had the best head in town. A nigga just wanted one, maybe two drinks, and then I was gonna be out and getting my dick sucked!
“All right, big pimp player!” the white officer loudly addressed Justice. Yanking the table back with one hand, he caused the half-drunk bottle of champagne to go crashing to the floor along with all the photos they’d taken. “You and these girls all need to raise the hell up. Now!”
“Yessss, sir,” both females replied, standing while tugging down on their overly tight minidresses.
“Hey, homeboy! Did you hear me talking to you?” The plainclothes cop coldly eye fucked Justice, who hadn’t flinched a muscle in the way of complying. “This ain’t no goddamn game! I said move!”
As the glass from the broken bottle sparkled off the strobe lights shining from the club’s ceiling, an insubordinate Justice felt his temperature rise and his anger kick into full gear. “Yo! What the fuck! I just bought that damn bottle!”
“So what, tough guy? You think I care?” After smacking the glass Justice was holding out of his hands, the cocky officer aggressively snatched him up by his collar. “Get your punk ass up and against that wall!”
Justice’s first mind was to react with violence and try fighting the officer of the law like he’d done so many times before when the Po-Po called themselves getting fly. Those irrational actions always resulted in him getting beaten down by a gang of cops, plus at least ninety days locked up and a huge fine. Normally the mad-dog killer would be up for the challenge, but considering the long, grueling afternoon he’d had and the hard-fought life-or-death battle with Cree, Justice’s energy level wasn’t up to feeling the barrage of different fists or the harsh feeling of boot soles stomping down on his back if he swung at Officer Smart-ass.
“Damn, dawg,” he responded as he felt his already-battered, bruised face being smashed against the club’s freshly painted walls.
“I ain’t ya dawg.” The officer quickly patted him down for any hidden weapons that might’ve gotten past the bouncers and the metal detectors. “So just watch your mouth and follow instructions!” he hissed, finding nothing but two cell phones, one which belonged to Moe Mack, a small wad of cash, mostly tens and twenties, and Justice’s ID.
After being thoroughly searched, Justice, who was ready to surrender without a fight, and the now-crying females along with everyone else from VIP were roughly led downstairs. Looking around the club, which was almost packed to capacity, Justice realized that maybe they weren’t there for him. Maybe his luck hadn’t run out. Maybe no one had discovered the dead bodies of Moe Mack, NayNay’s tramp ass, them two meddlesome kids, or, regretfully, his best friend Cree.
Shit, if they came in here looking for my black ass, then why is they checking everybody else? This bullshit don’t make no sense. He started to feel a bit of relief.
“All right, people! Be quiet! Calm down!” a stone-faced officer stood behind the DJ booth with the microphone in hand. “Everybody, follow instructions and do what you’re told, and you’ll be out of here and tucked in ya little beds before you know it!”
“Why y’all always ruining shit?” someone’s random voice shouted out of the irritated crowd while a few more partygoers concurred. “Y’all foul as hell!”
“’Cause that’s what we get paid to do!” the officer smartly fired back. “So just do what you’re told so we can all go home!”
Standing packed like sardines at the bottom of the staircase, Justice felt the vibration of Moe Mack’s cell phone. Slowly removing it from his pocket, he saw a small envelope icon located in the corner of the screen, signifying that someone had sent several text messages. Damn, dis nigga don’t never stop getting that bread. He assumed the call was business related until he pushed the combination of buttons and proceeded to read the two messages to himself:
Nigga, we hot on dat ass! We don’t die, we multi-fucking-ply!
You can run,
but ya can’t hide!
Justice was no fool. He knew at that point there was no way in sweet hellfire that Moe Mack’s boy Keith would be sending those texts unless he knew for certain Moe was dead and the murderer probably had his phone. “Fuck!” he mumbled just as his own phone vibrated. Reading the text sent from Bama Bob—If you see Moe Mack’s car or Justice, blah, blah, blah—further reassured him that the shit had indeed hit the fan. Now hustlers from one end of Detroit to the other, not to mention the police if they knew his true identity, would be hunting his black ass down. Fuck ’em! he reasoned as one of the police officers started telling people which line to get into in order to get out of the club. The only problems facing Justice were that he didn’t know what exactly was waiting for him on the other side of the nightclub’s doors, and his gun was stashed in Moe Mack’s car, so he was definitely at a total disadvantage when he did step out.
With the lines growing longer, stretching on each side of the club’s front mirrored entranceway, Justice kept his composure even though he had several checkpoints to clear before he was home free. Not knowing exactly who or what the police were looking for, he merged with the other partygoers, trying to act as if he hadn’t just slaughtered five innocent people. Detroit’s true hustlers and top-notch bitches who also had valet tickets like he did were posted on the left, while the others were to the far right. The fact that the line he was in was much shorter and moving more quickly only added to his anxiety.
“Everybody have your IDs out by the time you get to the front!” one of the many officers instructed as he marched in the middle of the aisleway. “And those of you who don’t have IDs, step to the middle and make your way back to the middle of the club.”
“They act like they run the city!” one guy told another. “This lame just like me and you except the pale face got a badge! He probably got his ass kicked as a kid! You know how that shit go!”
The System Has Failed Page 16