Deidre flung her bookbag over one shoulder and held the package under her other arm as she fumbled with her keys. Once inside, she threw her stuff down in the foyer and walked over to the living room. Kicking the empty liquor bottle away, she grabbed her mother under her arms, struggling to drag her dead weight to the couch. “Mom!” she screamed, slapping her mother’s cheeks.
“M-m-m-m-m,” her mother moaned.
Deidre inhaled deeply out of frustration. She walked to a small hall closet and retrieved a blanket to throw over her poor excuse for a mother. She knew her mother would be there for the night.
Curious about the package, Diedre picked it up and went to her room. There was no return address. She shook the box but didn’t hear anything sliding inside. “I’m opening it,” she mumbled to herself, and proceeded to tear at the purple, orange and white box. It was filled with her father’s belongings.
Her first instinct was to throw the box down and run out of the house. She thought that her Uncle Ricky had cleaned her father’s locker back when the incident occurred. She probed further. There was a picture of her at six years old, wearing Mickey Mouse ears and standing between her mother and father, smiling brightly. Also in the box was a picture of her father and Ricky standing side by side, smiling like they had no cares in the world.
Deidre flipped through numerous pictures before she felt something fall and hit her foot. It was a small silver key with a tiny piece of white paper taped to it, and written in smudged blue ink was “ANSWERS”. Her heart began racing. She had no idea what all of this meant. She surely wasn’t going to give the key to her mother to lose. Checking the doorway for her mother, she walked to her white wooden dresser, pulled out the entire bottom drawer, and taped the key to the back of it. Until she could figure out what it meant, it would remain her secret. She never went anywhere without that key.
Deidre picked up two large stacks of crisp one hundred dollar bills and flipped through them like a deck of cards. The strong scent of brand new bills traveled through her nostrils, settling at the back of her throat until she could actually taste it. “Ahhh, the perks of being undercover! I went from an underpaid agent, to a rich ass drug dealer!” Deidre inhaled and sighed, smirked and peeled off five one hundred-dollar bills. She placed the remainder of the money back under the velvet divider in the silver briefcase and locked it.
“Now, let me see which designer outfit I’m going to wear,” she mumbled, referring to the clothes she had been issued. She walked to the small closet in the far left-hand corner of the bedroom, dragging the royal blue Samsonite suitcase with her. In the suitcase lay several designer dresses, jeans, shoes, and handbags. “Hm-m-m, never heard of Antik,” she said, flipping the tag on a pair of seemingly regular stone washed jeans. “Two-hundred and sixty-fivedollars! Shit, no wonder I’ve never heard of them!”
Deidre placed the jeans on the bed and continued to unpack. She was amazed at how much money the federal government spent on chasing down criminals. She wondered if, in the end, it was all worth it. She had hung up more than one designer outfit worth thousands of dollars. She shook her head in disbelief. Although most of the items had been seized and confiscated during drug raids or asset forfeiture cases, she was still flabbergasted at the prices.
She had heard that some confidential informants for the government also received nice incentives to snitch. One person who promised to give the Bureau the Cali Cartel on a silver platter was given a million dollars in cash to set up business. He was also provided a Benz and an expensive condominium in Miami. On the flip side, she was glad that she would receive everything she needed to convince the
F.A.B. that she was ready to do business with them.
Deidre padded through the apartment, preparing to take a shower so she could meet her team. She had stripped down to her underwear, and slid into her own pink satin kimono bathrobe. No way in hell was she going to wear Bureau issued underwear and pajamas.
Passing one of the large windows, she noticed an NYPD squad car pulled up next to her vehicle. She could see an officer with his ticket book in hand headed towards her car. “Oh, hell no!” she screamed. She had been warned to avoid the local police at all costs. Without thinking, she pulled on a sweater and darted out of her apartment. Flying down the front steps outside, she lost one of her pink fuzzy slippers. “Shit!” she cursed, still running with the cold air stinging the bottom of her left foot. “Wait! Wait! I was just about to move it!” she yelled at the officer as she half-limped, half-ran. She flinched as the cold air slapped at her bare legs, sending an icy chill straight up her spine. She looked like a crazy woman. Passersby stared at her lack of clothing. She would surely catch pneumonia dressed so scantily in the icy New York weather.
The officer standing at the windshield of her vehicle ignored her, and the one in the squad car ogled her half-dressed frame. Panting, she limped over toward the officer, clutching her sweater and robe against the cold. “Please! I’m new . . . to . . . this . . . town,” she panted each word out, gasping for breath.
“It’s too late. Once I write it, I can’t take it back,” the officer grumbled, avoiding eye contact—typical police insolence.
Deidre became enraged. She observed the young officer, who looked to be no more than twenty-four years old, and she read his badge. “Anderson” was etched into the small silver plate on his chest. “I can’t believe this! The city makes you double-park with that fake ass street cleaning, and then gives you a ticket!” she complained loudly. She suddenly remembered some of the things she hated about her hometown already.
Officer Anderson continued writing without saying a word.
“Ain’t nothing but a baby! I can still smell Similac on his fucking breath,” Deidre cursed under her breath.
When he was done, the officer ripped off the ticket and went to place it on the windshield, smirking at Deidre. She rolled her eyes and snatched the ticket off of her car. “Onehundred and fifteen-dollars!” she shrieked as she read the white cardboard-like paper. Outraged, she headed back towards the house.
“Hey lady, aren’t you gonna move your car?” Officer Anderson asked at Deidre’s back.
“Why? You already gave me the fucking ticket!” she replied, retrieving her slipper and continuing into the door.
Officer Anderson’s partner, Officer Duke, sat in the squad car completely mesmerized by Deidre’s beautiful face and legs. He was smitten, and had to know who she was. Rushing before his partner returned, Duke punched the license plate numbers into the mainframe computer between the driver and passenger seats of the squad car. He quickly read the results—“PROPERTY OF THE U.S. GOVERNMENT”. He knew that meant one of two things: either the beautiful woman was a Fed, or she had purchased a seized vehicle at an auction and didn’t get the paperwork straightened out yet. Officer Duke’s heart beat fast as his partner moved closer to the car. He hurriedly hit ESC button to erase the information. He glanced out of the passenger side window to the other side of the street, but Deidre had already made her way inside. Had someone made a costly mistake?
After her run-in with the locals, Deidre scrambled to get ready. She took a quick shower, slid on the Antik jeans, a tight fitted micro-fiber shirt that read “J’adore”, and a hot pair of dark brown Cowboy boots. She topped off the outfit with a short-cropped chocolate-colored shearling jacket, and brown leather quilted Chanel bag. She scanned her getup in the long mirror hanging on the back of the bathroom door. Satisfied that she fit the part, she headed out.
Deidre maneuvered her way over to Henry Street, taking in the Brooklyn scenery. The area had definitely changed since she last visited. She had never remembered seeing so many white people in Clinton Hills and Downtown Brooklyn.
Arriving, she noticed the sign for Long Island College Hospital. She drove around the block looking for the blue van, or any sign of Ferguson, Denald, or Buckwalter. With no one in sight, she decided to stop in front of a small playground at the back of the hospital to wait. She watched ambulances p
ull in and concerned family members bring their sick loved ones to the emergency room. Glancing at her watch, she sighed loudly. “Just like the government! Everything is always hurry up and wait!” she spoke aloud to herself. Suddenly her cell phone vibrated. “Hello,” she answered.
“Get out and go into the hospital cafeteria on the first floor,” Agent Ferguson instructed.
Deidre had graduated from the FBI academy with Ferguson. They’d always had a secret rivalry going on, which kept both of them on their toes. Having worked together in the past, Deidre had no qualms about Ferguson being her case agent. She thought back to her days in the Academy.
“Huh! Huh!” Deidre panted, her breath the only sound she could hear. She leaned against the tree, hiding. On the opposite side of the field she spotted her target, her enemy. Inching forward, her heart racing, Deidre knew it was do or die.
Ferguson crouched down. She was also behind a tree with no one in sight. Afraid to move to assess her surroundings, Ferguson dropped her firing arm to her side. Suddenly, she heard the ground crunching to her left. “Oh shit!” she whispered, hunkering down, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. The sounds grew closer and closer. Her heart raced; her throat was desert dry. Sweat dripped into her eyes, but she was afraid to move to wipe the beads away.
Deidre squinted her eyes and moved one foot in front of the other slowly.
Ferguson focused her senses, holding onto her gun tightly, trying to make sure she was aware of her surroundings. Looking down, she saw that the crunching noise was coming from a small rabbit. “Whew!” she let out a long sigh of relief, blowing out the breath she’d been holding. Just then, she heard the pop. Paint splattered all over the side of her goggles and helmet. Her nerves caused her to involuntarily vomit.
“Ferguson, once again you failed to take cover! You let the resident animals distract you, and Aponte just killed you! You are dead . . . shot in the fucking head! Scan left, scan right! What is so fucking hard about that?” the instructor castigated, nose to nose with Ferguson.
She heard cackles of laughter coming from the guys in the class as they commended Deidre with pats on the back and ribbings for a job well done. It was the third time Deidre had bested Ferguson in a tactical exercise.
Ferguson snatched off her helmet and goggles and tossed them across the field. I hate this bitch, but I’ll get her back! she vowed to herself.
Deidre walked over to Ferguson and extended her hand. “All’s fair in love and war. I have a lot of respect for you,” Deidre said.
Ferguson ignored her hand and walked away. More uproarious laughter followed.
“It’s all a mind game, this para-military style they use. My father told me once that they break you down to build you back up,” Deidre offered as she joined her predominately male classmates. Ferguson looked on, seething.
“Memories!” Deidre sighed as she circled the block again looking for parking. The pickings were slim; nearly all of the signs read “For Doctors Only”. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed someone waving at her. It was Denald. He was so short and fat, so no one could mistake that frame. He pointed his stubby index finger to a spot in front of the blue van. Deidre pulled the car in front, but when she turned around to walk towards the hospital’s entrance, there was no sign of Denald. She did not want to attract any attention to herself, so she didn’t look around too hard. I guess that’s a good thing. Shit, if I can’t find him, they won’t either, she thought and continued through the automatic revolving doors.
The hospital lobby was bustling with visitors and potential patients. Doctors in scrubs or white jackets flapping behind them flew through the hallways. Deidre seriously wondered why Ferguson would pick such a busy place to meet. On her past assignments, the meetings always took place in hotel rooms or restaurants with private tables.
Deidre greeted a lanky young security guard in a burgundy jacket and gray pants, who was blatantly checking her out. “Good afternoon,” she nodded, and he did the same, following her with his eyes. She was about to ask where the cafeteria was when she noticed Ferguson walking toward her. “Hey, what’s up?” Deidre greeted with a wide smile.
“Aponte! My nemesis!” Ferguson joked. The two women embraced with a quick hug and pat on the back.
Deidre noticed that Ferguson had put on a few pounds, but she was not fat, more muscular if anything. Her deep chocolate complexion and hazel eyes made her look exotic. Ferguson still wore her hair short, almost like a man’s. Sometimes Deidre wondered about the woman’s sexual orientation. “You look good. How’s city life treating you?” Deidre asked.
Ferguson was a country girl from a small town in Georgia called Valdosta. Living in New York was a huge jump for her. “I love it. This is truly the city that never sleeps,” she commented.
“Tell me about it. I just got my first . . .” Deidre began as they approached the cafeteria entrance. Ferguson placed her hand up, cutting her off mid-sentence. Stopping in her tracks, Deidre looked at her confused.
“Listen. The CI (confidential informant) is inside. He is . . .” Ferguson paused trying to find the words to describe him. Deidre stared at her face looking for answers. “Well, let’s just say he is a character. He seems to know a lot about Amber Reeves, and he’s good friends with R.J., the brother of the alleged leader of the F.A.B.,” Ferguson stated.
“Well, how did you get him to roll?” Deidre asked, concerned.
“We didn’t have to, he came to us,” Ferguson explained. “What did Biggie Smalls say? ‘Money and friends don’t mix like two dicks’,” Ferguson laughed, looking at Deidre’s surprised expression. “What, you thought I didn’t listen to hip-hop?” Ferguson asked. “Seriously, it wasn’t that hard to get his ass to sing. Where there are friends and money, there is jealousy, and so you got informants. Since his ass is singing, let’s just call him ‘Billie Holiday’,” she continued, chuckling at her own joke. Deidre laughed too as they walked through the swinging doors.
Deidre looked around the large, round institution-style cafeteria trying to figure out which table her informant occupied. The first table held a young guy dressed in what she considered street garb. He wore a beige North Face snorkel, which hung open, exposing his oversized silver chain with the obligatory diamond cross pendent dangling from it. Maybe that’s him, she thought. But then she noticed several guys rushing towards the guy with cigars in hand, offering their congratulations. Next, she noticed another African-American male sitting alone with his doo rag adorned head in his hands. This has got to be him. But Ferguson walked right past him. Ambling forward on Ferguson’s heels, Deidre continued to scan her surroundings. She finally spotted a guy in dark shades sitting alone at a table in the very rear of the large room. He didn’t have a “street” appearance at all. In fact, he wore a collared striped shirt. He leaned back on the two rear legs of the chair with his arms folded across his chest.
Deidre quickly averted her eyes, and as soon as she did, Ferguson stopped at his table. That’s what you get for stereotyping your own people, she scolded herself.
“Reemo, this is Agent Aponte, known to you as DeeDee Barnes. Aponte, this is Kareem Porter, better known as Reemo,” Ferguson said, introducing them.
“How are you?” Deidre asked, extending her hand. He was nothing like she suspected. Deidre could tell he was short, as his legs dangled from the end of the chair, barely touching the floor. From what she could see aside from the large shades covering his eyes, his cinnamon colored skin was pockmarked, and he had several old healed scars visible–the most distinctive being a dagger-shaped gash above his right eye. He had a long straight nose, and after close observation, round bug eyes. Reemo reminded her of Spike Lee.
“Day-um! You ain’t say the federale was gonna be banging!” Reemo shrieked.
“Hey, hey!” Ferguson warned, clenching her jaw.
“I’m saying, wasup, Agent Sexy? Reemo quipped.
“I’m fine. Let’s talk about the F.A.B.,” Deidre said sternly, annoyed already.
“First, let me set the record straight. I ain’t no snitch nigga, but a nigga gotta do what a nigga gotta do when his dick is in the dust. Fucking with ya’ll crooked-ass feds is what I gotta do,” Reemo spat.
Ferguson jumped to her feet like she was about to punch him in his face for that comment. “I’m warning you . . .” she growled.
Reemo’s eyebrows rose in surprise, and so did Deidre’s. Noticing that she had lost her cool, Ferguson immediately took her seat and let Deidre continue.
Reemo heeded the warning, sensing that he had overstepped his boundaries. “A’ight, here it is . . . boom!” he began, punching his left fist into the palm of his right hand. “Me and that nigga, R.J. been down since elementary school. My moms was fucked up in the game n’ shit, so I was always at that nigga’s house. His moms was always home cooking, taking us to the movies and all that good shit,” Reemo started.
“Does this have to do with the F.A.B.?” Deidre asked, interrupting him.
“Yo, all this shit is relevant, because without us, those bitches wouldn’t even exist in the game,” he explained.
“Okay, continue,” Deidre instructed.
“Anyway, like I was saying, R.J. and his little sister, Chastity had a good life. They pops was some military dude, coming home every so often n’ shit. When he came around, Ms. Donna, they moms, was so happy. I can remember that shit clearly. Big R had a real kingly presence and he always taught R.J. to man up. He loved Chastity too. I never knew nothing about having no father, so he kind of took me under his wing. Anyway, when me and R.J. was like twelve, that nigga pops left one day in his uniform and never came back home. Yo, Ms. Donna was sick over that shit. No word from that nigga. She lost mad weight and was forever crying n’ shit after that.”
“One day, me and R.J. picked up Chazz from school, and we was bullshitting on the way home. When we got to the building, mad red and blue lights was outside n’ shit. At first we didn’t know they was there for R.J. house. This lady in the building looked at R.J. and said, ‘I’m so sorry about your mother, baby,’ and we both ran top speed past the cops into the building. The apartment door was swinging wide open with all those fucking blue suits taking pictures, smoking and talking like nothing. But right there in front of us was Ms. Donna, hanging, blue in the face with her pretty eyes bulging out of her head and her face all twisted up,” Reemo said, almost whispering. “Word life, that shit hurted even me. My man went crazy, trying to fight five-O,” Reemo said, his voice wavering.
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