The Final Play

by Shelly Ellis

  But it won’t happen again today, Jamal resolved.

  He was older, wiser, and more aware. He could try to fight him off if it came to that, but Jamal knew he had never been much of a fighter, hence Ricky and Derrick covering his ass for so many damn years. Besides, the boy could have a weapon. He suddenly came up with another plan. As he walked, he began to fiddle with the lid on his metal coffee cup, twisting it open. When he neared his apartment door, he paused to remove the lid. He inserted his key into the lock and eased the door open by an inch. He felt the teen drawing closer and closer, bearing down on him. Jamal whipped around and hurled the coffee inside of his cup at the boy, scalding him, making him scream out in surprise and hold his face.

  “Oww!” the boy yelped. “Oww! It burns! My eyes! Why’d you do that?”

  Jamal cringed. Shit, he thought.

  Maybe he had misjudged this.

  “Sorry, I-I . . . I thought you were . . . you were gonna rob me,” he said feebly before taking a step toward him.

  The boy continued to groan, blinking furiously.

  “This was my mistake. I’m sorry. Look, you’ll be okay. I’ve got some Neosporin and bandages in my . . .”

  His words trailed off when he noticed the grip of a handgun peeking out of the pocket of the boy’s hoodie. Jamal took a step back. His blood ran cold.

  The boy lowered his hands from his face and looked down, following the path of Jamal’s gaze. He then looked up again, still blinking. Their eyes met.

  “No,” Jamal whispered, shaking his head, realizing what was about to happen. He staggered back toward his apartment door.

  “I’m sorry. I don’t wanna do it, but I gotta—or he’s gonna hurt my moms,” the young man muttered almost helplessly. “I don’t wanna do it, but I gotta!” He then reached for the gun.

  Jamal watched, frozen, as the young man pulled out the handgun and raised it. Time seemed to slow down and speed up simultaneously. The teen steadied his arm, aiming for Jamal’s head. His finger went for the trigger. Jamal threw the entire coffee cup this time, hitting the boy in the chest, throwing off his already shaky aim. He shoved open his apartment door and slammed it shut, but he wasn’t fast enough. One bullet fired as he secured the deadbolt then another blasted through the wood, sending splinters and shrapnel flying in its wake, stinging his arm and shoulder. Jamal ran, ducking for cover behind his foyer wall while the boy kept firing. Jamal scrambled on all fours down the hall to his bedroom and shut the door behind him.

  He waited on the floor behind his bed for the sound of more gunfire. One minute passed, then another. He didn’t hear anything else; just the sound of his own breathing and the blood whistling in his ears.

  What the fuck, he thought. What the hell just happened?

  That wasn’t the robbery he’d been anticipating. The boy hadn’t demanded anything—not even his money or his gold watch. And before he fired, he’d said he had to do it. It was like he’d come there just to kill Jamal.

  “But I’m still alive. I’m still alive,” Jamal whispered, grabbing the edge of the bed and pushing himself to his feet.

  When he did it, he cried out in pain, clutching his shoulder and dropping back down to his knees. He breathed in short bursts through his clenched teeth, whistling softly. When he pulled his hand away from his shoulder, he saw blood on his fingertips. He pulled back the lapel of his tuxedo jacket and looked down to find the whole left side of his white shirt was soaked in blood.

  “Oh, shit,” he whispered. “Oh, shit! Oh, shit!”

  He’d said if he died today, he would die a happy man. But he hadn’t meant that literally.

  He reached down and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed nine-one-one, leaving little red smudges on the glass screen. He brought the phone to his ear.

  “Hello, nine-one-one, what is your emergency?” the dispatcher answered.

  “Hi . . . uh . . . hi, umm,” Jamal began in a trembling voice, wondering if he was going into shock, “a guy followed me to my door and . . . and shot me.”

  “I’m sorry. Can you repeat that, sir?” the dispatcher said. “What happened to you?”

  “I’ve . . . I’ve been shot.”

  Chapter 3

  Ricky

  I wonder if she’ll eat anything.

  That was the thought that crossed Ricky Reynaud’s mind as he removed the McDonald’s bags from the passenger seat and slammed closed the door to his Mercedes. He carried the paper bags along with a few others—two from Target filled with clean clothes, underwear, and anything else he thought a pregnant woman might need—across the motel parking lot to the room where they were paying sixty-five dollars a night to stay. He was the only person out there, the lone black man in black t-shirt and jeans, trying his best to seem as inconspicuous as possible and blend into the roadside landscape, but it was a challenge with Ricky’s 6-foot-2-inch frame and a face most would describe as handsome.

  Though Simone hadn’t touched any food since last night, Ricky suspected the cheeseburger and fries he’d gotten her would still remain untouched even though it was well past lunchtime. Simone, the mother of his unborn son, probably didn’t have much of an appetite after witnessing her family getting slaughtered.

  Ricky inwardly shuddered at the memory of discovering Simone’s mother dead on her living room floor hours ago. Simone’s sister, Skylar, had died in his arms, gasping for air as she choked on her own blood. If he had only arrived there an hour earlier, he may have been able to save them all, to avert them from being killed by one of Dolla Dolla’s goons. He may have been able to spare Simone the agony that left her crying herself to sleep, but he hadn’t. Instead, he had arrived in just enough time to rescue only Simone, and whisk her away to safety before even more men could arrive to finish the job the first dude had started.

  Ricky had to focus on that victory, or the losses and the odds now stacked against them surviving this whole episode would overwhelm him.

  He reached the motel room door and glanced over his shoulder at the sleepy Virginia roadway. He didn’t see a cop car, which was a good sign. He was sure the cops had discovered the bodies back at Simone’s place by now though, and that Simone was missing. But if the cops found out he was with her, that he had left D.C. in violation of the terms of his release, he could go to jail. He wasn’t ready to return to the city just yet. He had to make sure she would remain safe. He had to be sure that Dolla Dolla, his former business partner, wouldn’t get to her. Ricky just didn’t know how he was going to accomplish that. Until then, they would have to lie low. They would stay hidden in the hotel until he could figure this all out. Ricky contemplated making a call to his boy, Derrick, and see if he could offer some advice or help. But what should he tell him? Where would he even begin? So much had happened in a short amount of time.

  Ricky set down his bags to pull out his room key. He knocked gently before unlocking the door. “Simone, it’s me,” he said. “I picked up some stuff for you, baby.”

  She didn’t answer him.

  He nudged the door open, revealing a small room filled with a queen-sized bed, dresser, television, and night table. The walls were stark white and the décor was dated, with a burgundy, paisley-patterned bedspread and curtains, and particleboard furniture made to look like carved oak. The flat-screen television was on, filling the room with the sound of the laugh track from a Friends rerun that was now playing. Ricky looked around for Simone, but she was nowhere in sight.

  “Simone?” Ricky called out again as he carried the bags inside and set them on the dresser. He shut the hotel door behind him. “Baby, I’m back! I brought you something to eat. You hungry?”

  She still didn’t answer him.

  He glanced at the bathroom door, which was closed. Light from inside shined from beneath the bottom edge. He could hear the steady whir of the ventilation fan. Simone was in there. She had to hear him, so why wasn’t she answering him?

  For a split second, he wondered if maybe he shouldn’t hav
e left her alone that morning to get food and supplies. He should have realized the grief from losing her sister and mother simultaneously was too much and she just couldn’t handle it. After all, she had been willing to sacrifice him, to make a devil’s bargain and jeopardize his freedom in order to save Skylar—and now her sister was dead. Maybe Simone had done something to herself. Maybe she had tried to kill herself with God knows what while he was gone. His stomach dropped at the thought. His hands shook.

  “Simone!” he shouted, grabbing the door handle and twisting it. He charged into the bathroom. “Simone!”

  “What?” she yelled, looking startled.

  She had been lying naked, soaking in the motel room’s bathtub with a washcloth over her eyes. When he stormed into the bath, she instantly sat upright, sending water splashing onto the tiled floor. She clutched her rounded belly protectively.

  “Fuck!” he shouted, slumping onto the toilet seat with relief, making the towel that was sitting on the lid fall to the floor. He dropped his head into his hands. “Shit!”

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, now frowning.

  This was the second time he’d braced himself for losing her, only to find her alive and well. But he should’ve known better. He should’ve remembered that Simone had made him a promise that she would never do anything to sacrifice their baby. She would never end her life if it meant ending their son’s.

  “You damn near gave me a heart attack, girl,” he mumbled, raising his head to look at her. Her nutmeg brown skin stood out in stark contrast to the white bath bubbles. Her protruding stomach, now etched with the first signs of stretchmarks, and her full breasts bobbed above the water. “You scared the shit out of me! I thought something was wrong, Simone. Why didn’t you answer me? I’ve been calling you!”

  She shrugged. “I’m sorry. I guess I was just . . . out of it.”

  He nodded. Considering what she’d been through in the past twenty-four hours, her being “out of it” was understandable.

  “I thought sitting in a warm bath might help me feel a little better. That it might help calm me down,” she whispered, sinking back against the tiled wall. “It’s not working though.”

  “Something like this is gonna have to take time, baby.”

  “I don’t think there will ever be enough time to forget what happened to them,” she said, closing her eyes again. They were still swollen and red from all her sobbing from last night. “I think about how I could’ve stopped it. I think about what I could’ve done. When I heard he was arrested and finally going on trial, I figured he would get desperate. He would start taking out witnesses who could testify against him. I knew Skylar was probably on his hit list, so we left D.C., but that wasn’t enough.” A tear trickled down her cheek. “I should’ve started before that . . . way back . . . before she’d even met Dolla. I should’ve started when Mom and I first saw signs that Skylar was on the wrong path, that she was screwing around with coke and Molly. Maybe then they’d still be alive. I should’ve set her up with a counselor or a psychologist or—”

  “Don’t,” he said. “I told you that I played that same ‘I should’ve’ game with my sister. It leads nowhere.”

  His sister, Desiree, had also fallen into a life of drugs and prostitution, like Skylar, a decade ago. Desiree had been killed at a young age as well.

  “I wanted to save her, too, Simone, but I didn’t. I tried my very best, but she was going to do what she wanted. Skylar was the same. You know that.”

  “I know that. But that still doesn’t make the pain go away,” she whimpered, lowering her head like she was about to start crying again.

  He rose from the toilet seat and fell to his knees on the wet tile. He reached out to her and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder only to have her whimper turn into a low moan. He yanked his hand away and watched as she reached out and clutched the side of the tub in a white-knuckled grip. She clenched her teeth and leaned forward.

  “Simone, what’s wrong?” he asked, staring at her, bewildered. “What’s wrong, baby?”

  She didn’t immediately answer him. She continued to groan and whimper for another minute until finally, the noises stopped. She let go of the edge of the tub and fell back against the tiled wall again. She turned to look at him. She gave a shuddering exhale.

  “That’s the other reason why I got in a warm bath. I thought it might stop the contractions. I’ve been having these bastards all morning,” she said.

  “All morning? Why the hell didn’t you say anything?” he cried. “You have my cell. You could’ve called me while I was out! I would’ve come back.”

  “I’ve been under a lot of stress, Ricky! I thought they were Braxton-Hicks contractions, that once I calmed down a little they might go away—but they’re not.” She pursed her lips. She looked and sounded exhausted. “They’re doing the opposite. I haven’t been counting, but it . . . it feels like they’re starting to get closer together.”

  “So you’re in labor? Right now?”

  She nodded and rubbed her belly again. “It looks like it.”

  Shit, he thought.

  So much for them lying low. There was no way he could handle the delivery of their baby by himself. The chapters of What to Expect When She’s Expecting that he’d read weren’t going to get him through such a big task. He could feel panic tighten its grip around him again.

  “Then I have to take you to a hospital.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “The cops will find out you’re here. They’ll arrest you.”

  “But we have to go! Shit! You can’t deliver our baby in a motel bathroom!”

  “Of course not, but I wasn’t going to deliver in a hospital anyway. Remember? I wanted a natural childbirth. That’s what I planned. We just have to call my midwife. She’ll know what to do.”

  “What’s her number?” he asked.

  A couple of minutes later, Ricky was listening to a phone ring on the other end of the line. Simone wasn’t sure if the number was correct. She usually kept it in her cell, which was still back at her house. For their sake, he hoped her memory was better than she thought it was.

  “Hello?” a woman answered.

  “Umm, is this Mary Biles?” he asked, pacing the hotel bedroom. “The . . . the midwife?”

  “Why yes, this is she!” the woman replied cheerfully. “How can I help you?”

  “My girlfriend, Simone Fuller, has . . . uh . . . well, she’s going into labor and she told me that I should call you.”

  “You’re Simone’s man? You’re Ricky, aren’t you? So you’re the one I’ve been hearing so much about!”

  Ricky stopped pacing. He went silent. He hadn’t known Simone had spoken about him to someone outside of her family. Their relationship had been a secret from the beginning: Simone, the patrol cop, and Ricky, the criminally-adjacent businessman who was in Dolla Dolla’s pockets. She must trust this woman a lot to have mentioned him to her.

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you’ll be here to make it for the birth, after all,” the midwife said. “She’s a little early. By about a week and a half, I guesstimate without giving the calendar a look-see, but babies come when they want to, don’t they?” She chuckled. “Let me gather my things. I’ll be there in forty-five minutes . . . maybe forty if I speed a little.”

  “No! No! Uh, we’re . . . we’re already on the road,” he lied, glancing at the bathroom door. He swore he could hear her groaning again. It must be another contraction. “Can we come to you? Simone said you aren’t far from where we are now.”

  “Well, how far apart are her contractions, honey? She might not deliver for hours. She has plenty of time to get back to her place. I generally prefer a woman to have her baby at home, in her own environment,” the older woman rambled. “They find it more comforting to—”

  “Please,” he said desperately, “she wants to come to you.”

  Mary, the midwife, grew quiet on the other end of the line. “Okay, honey, if that’s what she wants,
” she finally said, to his relief. “Bring her in. I’ll start setting up for her now.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much, ma’am! We’ll see you soon,” he said before hanging up.

  Chapter 4

  Derrick

  Derrick sat behind his desk with his arms crossed over his chest while Morgan sat in one of the chairs facing him. Beside her was Jayden, a fifteen-year-old with a wide afro and chin and cheeks inflamed with pimples. He stared down at his lap, chewing his nails and jittering one leg restlessly.

  “Tell Mr. Derrick what you told me, Jayden,” Morgan said.

  The security staff and Derrick had questioned most of the boys who were either friends with or in the same dorm as Cole, but they still were no closer to finding the teenager. Even his mother said he hadn’t run to her house when he’d disappeared, and she had no idea where Cole could have gone instead. Morgan had secretly pulled aside a few of the boys to question them again. Most had kept mum, but Jayden hadn’t. That was why he was now in Derrick’s office with the door closed. He kept glancing at the door, looking like he just wanted to escape, like he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  “Go ahead, son,” Derrick urged, leaning forward in his desk chair.

  “I don’t wanna be a snitch,” Jayden whispered with his eyes still downcast.

  “I understand.” Derrick nodded. “But we’re trying to help Cole, not hurt him. We want to bring him back to the Institute. If the cops find him before we do, he could get arrested, and where he’s taken after that is up to the judge. I don’t want it to come to that, Jayden.”

  Jayden stopped chewing his nails. His knee stopped bobbing up and down. He finally raised his eyes to look at Derrick. He sighed. “Cole had to do it. He had to go. He said shit . . . I mean stuff would go down if he didn’t,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper.