by Shelly Ellis
He walked out of the living room and made his way down the hall to Dolla Dolla’s bedroom at the end of the corridor. The door was cracked open. As Ricky neared it, he heard muffled whimpering. It sounded like someone was crying in there, definitely not what he’d expected to hear considering all the partying that was going on in the rest of the apartment.
He eased the door open farther and saw the entire bedroom—the grand four-poster bed in onyx black, the two night tables, wardrobe, and behemoth-sized flat-screen TV on the far wall.
Dolla Dolla was standing at the edge of his bed in a navy-blue satin robe while a girl who looked no more than seventeen lay on the bed in her lace underwear, biting down on her lower lip, holding in her sobs as tears ran down her face.
“Stop that crying shit!” Dolla Dolla bellowed at her. “I ain’t bring you back in here for this.”
Watching them, Ricky’s stomach turned. It was like he was getting a replay of Skylar, of how Dolla Dolla had seduced her with his lies and charm and eventually forced her into prostitution. And Skylar and her mother had paid a deadly price in the end. Simone and Ricky had suffered gravely, too—hell, their little family was still suffering because of what had happened to the young woman and how it had affected all of them.
But it looked like Dolla Dolla was back to his old ways. This was a sign that the fat son of a bitch hadn’t learned from all the havoc he’d unleashed the first time around. He seemed well on his way to doing the same shit all over again, Ricky realized. Unless someone stopped him, that is. It looked like that task still rested on Ricky’s shoulders.
“Stop that shit!” Dolla Dolla ordered, slapping the girl across the face, making her scream in alarm. “I don’t have time for—”
“Dolla!” Ricky called out, stepping into the room.
He wanted to intervene, to get Dolla Dolla off of her, but once again, he had to hold back. He was getting so tired of holding back.
“What? What the fuck y’all want? Can’t y’all see I’m busy in here?” Dolla Dolla shouted, whipping around with fury. But when he saw Ricky standing in the doorway, his hardened, bulldog-like face softened. “Shit. Ricky, I ain’t know it was you.”
“José told me you were back here. I wanted to talk to you. But I can come back if you’re busy,” Ricky said, glancing at the girl who was still crying.
“Nah, I ain’t busy.” Dolla Dolla shook his head and sneered at her in disgust. “This bitch is just wasting my time.” He grabbed her arm and dragged her to her feet, making her cry out again. “Get up. Get your ass up! Get out of here. Go cry somewhere else!”
She wrapped the bedsheets around her and staggered toward the open door with her head bowed and her shoulders slumped. Ricky stepped aside to let her past. As she neared him, she raised her head slightly to look at him. For a few seconds, he locked gazes with her. Her big brown eyes were full of pain, fear—and desolation. Just like Skylar’s had been. The girl turned away and kept walking into the hall. She disappeared past the door frame, headed to God knows where.
“You believe that shit?” Dolla Dolla grumbled before strolling to his night table. He reached for a lit cigar in a crystal ashtray and popped it into his mouth. “She got my juices all going and then start whinin’, actin’ like she ain’t never seen a dick before. I ain’t got time for that shit!” He chewed the end of his cigar and glared at his empty bed, like he was glaring at the girl. “It’s all right. I’ll get another bitch tonight. I’m getting my dick wet one way or another. And the next bitch better not sit there cryin’ the whole fuckin’ time.” He raised an eyebrow at Ricky. “So what you need? Why you come back here anyway?”
“I got a favor to ask you,” Ricky said.
“Another favor?” Dolla Dolla sat down on the edge of the bed, tightening his robe belt around his waist. “You been asking for a lot of favors lately, nigga.”
“But this time, it’s not for me. It’s for somebody else.”
“Yeah? And who’s that?”
“He runs the Branch Avenue Boys’ Youth Institute in Southeast. His name is Derrick Miller.”
Dolla Dolla stopped chewing his cigar. He stilled. “Yeah, I know him. What about him?”
“He’s worried that he pissed you off. He thinks he offended you by turning down your offer to pay him to use the Institute for some of your operations. He wants to apologize, Dolla. He hopes you can let it go.”
“You damn right he pissed me off!” Dolla Dolla grumbled. “And no, I ain’t lettin’ that shit go! The only apology I’ll accept from that nigga better come right after he says he changed his mind. He better be willing to give me what the fuck I want and do it for a lesser price! If not, I don’t wanna hear shit from him.”
“Dolla, he runs a school. He’s responsible for those kids. He wouldn’t have done what he did if it was just him to be concerned about. He’s worried about their safety, too.”
“And he should be! I already got that little snitchin’ nigga who used to go there. I’ll get the other ones, too—and then come after him in the end. Your friend will just have to deal with the consequences like every other motherfucka who crosses me.”
Ricky closed his eyes. “Dolla, they’re just kids. Come on, man! You can’t—”
“Don’t tell me what the fuck I can or can’t do!” he shouted, making Ricky’s eyes flash open. The drug kingpin shot to his feet. He pointed menacingly at Ricky as he charged across the bedroom. He stopped only when they were inches apart. “I get you wanna defend your friend and all, but don’t forget who the fuck you are and who the fuck I am! You hear me? Don’t get outta pocket! I don’t care how long you worked for me. You can get it just like every other nigga out there. I got two bullets for you, too. One for here and here,” he said, jabbing his finger against Ricky’s temple and then plucking him underneath his chin. “Understand?”
Ricky’s jaw tightened. He took a slow, deep breath. “Understood.”
“Now if you really wanna help your dude out, I suggest you go back to him and tell him to give me what the fuck I want. Then maybe . . . maybe I’ll spare all those little niggas at that school. Until then, I don’t wanna hear any more about this shit.”
“Yes, Dolla,” Ricky said.
He was now feeling a volatile mix of adrenaline and rage. It would be so easy to reach out and wrap both his hands around Dolla Dolla’s throat and start squeezing. Dolla Dolla was a large man; he’d put up quite a fight, but Ricky might be able to do it, to successfully strangle him to death. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t do it even though every fiber in his being screamed for him to do so because he knew what was at stake.
Dolla took a step back and casually waved him off. “If that’s all you had to ask me, we done here. You can tell José to send in another girl. And this one better be ready.”
“Yes, Dolla,” Ricky whispered before turning around and heading out of the bedroom, bottling all his rage once again and hoping he was doing it for a win in the end.
Chapter 27
Derrick
Derrick walked into the Institute’s cafeteria, caught off guard by the transformation that had taken place there in only a matter of hours. The long rectangular tables where a hundred or so boys usually sat—laughing over their meals and tossing balled-up napkins and plastic straws at each other—had been stacked against the walls. All the plastic chairs had been arranged in several rows with a center aisle where people now milled about, looking for somewhere to sit in the crowded room. Toward the back of the cafeteria, where the staff usually stood behind a stainless steel counter, dispensing trays of food and cartons of milk and juice, was now a podium and mike. Beside it was a large display board. It showed a collage of photos of Cole Humphries at different points in his short life. Cole at eleven or twelve years old, sitting on a sofa with his mom at their home. Cole at sixteen years old, posing on a street corner with his boys in his old neighborhood, grinning at the camera and throwing up hand signs. Cole as a six- or seven-year-old with missing front teeth,
sitting next to a Christmas tree.
Several of the boys at the Institute had asked to hold a memorial service for him when they got word of his murder, which wasn’t surprising to Derrick. He knew how popular Cole had been at the Institute when he was alive. But some of the instructors had objected to holding a memorial service for a former student who was being charged with attempted murder at the time of his death, wondering what message it would send to the rest of the boys, so Derrick had put the question of a memorial service to a faculty vote. The yeas had won in the end, and the service was scheduled.
Derrick had invited Cole’s mother to attend, and she had tearfully accepted the invitation over the phone. She now sat up front with her head bowed as she wept softly, waiting for the service to begin. One arm was wrapped around Cole’s seven-year-old brother, who was sobbing. Cole’s mother’s other arm was wrapped around his three-year-old little sister who looked confused by what was happening around her and kept looking over her shoulder, peering curiously around the cafeteria.
As Derrick walked toward the podium, he glanced down at the papers he held in his hand. The office assistant had typed them. One sheet was his speech. The other showed the agenda for today’s service, along with those who had asked to speak. The list was long, but he didn’t see Morgan’s name on the list. He looked around him. He didn’t see Morgan in the cafeteria either. He’d hoped she would come today, that maybe she could find some peace from her grief by sharing it with others, but it looked like that wouldn’t be the case.
Derrick cleared his throat and stepped behind the podium. He tapped the mike, causing the speakers on the floor to emit a thumping sound.
“Uh, please take your seats,” he said. “If everybody can be seated, we’ll start the program.”
The last few who were standing excused their way down the rows and finally took the last remaining chairs.
Derrick nodded and scanned the faces in the crowd. Eighty percent of those seated were the same age as Cole or a couple of years younger. None of them were crying. Most were stoically looking forward with their eyes focused on Derrick. These boys had schooled themselves not to show emotion or weakness, to project a toughness that wouldn’t make them prey to those around them. But he could still see the pain, sadness, and strain on their young, brown faces, like they were trying their best to put up a brave front and hold back their tears but were on the verge of losing that battle.
Again, he was struck by the feeling that he had failed them—all of them. He hadn’t protected Cole and he couldn’t assure them that he could protect them either. What other boys in the crowd would he lose before all this was over? Who else would get killed?
Can’t think about that, he told himself, returning his eyes to the papers in his hand. He had a job to do right now and he had to focus on it. He leaned toward the mike.
“I’d like to thank everybody for coming today to honor the memory of one of our own, Cole Humphries,” he began. “Several of his teachers and friends have asked to come up here and offer kind words in his memory. As director and someone who knew Cole, I’d like to offer a few of my own. Cole was at the Branch Avenue Boys’ Youth Institute for a short time . . . only about a year or so, but even then he made a big impression on a lot of you. He made a big impression on me, too. That boy made me earn my paycheck,” he joked with a winsome smile, drawing a few laughs from the crowd, including from Cole’s mom, who wiped at her reddened eyes.
“But I’m not here to talk about all the stuff Cole did wrong. You can check his rap sheet for that. I’m here to talk about who he was as a person . . . who he was on the inside. They say,” Derrick continued, bracing his hands on the podium, glancing down at his speech notes, “what you do in life isn’t as important as the memories you leave behind with those who knew you. I remember Cole as a young man who was smart, funny, and personable, with a lot . . . a lot of potential. And even though he made his share of mistakes, as I can attest to from how many damn times he was in my office,” he said with a chuckle, earning more laughter from the audience, “I know if given enough time he would’ve learned from those mistakes. He would have undergone the change that many of you have . . . that even I did when I came here more than twenty years ago when I was angry at the world, mistrustful of help, and ready to give up on everything and everyone, including myself. Cole . . .” Derrick paused. He closed his eyes. He was starting to choke up. “He would’ve learned better. He would’ve grown. He would’ve become the man that would’ve made me . . . that would’ve made himself proud.”
He opened his eyes again and found that several of the boys who had been holding back tears only minutes earlier were now crying openly or holding their T-shirts over their faces to hide their tears. Several of the faculty members were crying, too. He was about to look at his notes again when the door at the front of the cafeteria opened. Morgan strolled in, wearing dress slacks and a blue silk blouse—a definite departure from the T-shirt and overalls she usually wore at the Institute to teach her woodshop class. She was also wearing her curls down today, framing her face, making her look soft and vulnerable. She crept to one of the few remaining open chairs and sat down. When she did, Derrick returned his attention to his speech, relieved that she had come after all.
“I think the best thing we can do to honor Cole’s memory,” Derrick said, “is to try our best to come close to the life he could’ve led . . . the one I believe he was meant to lead if he was still here. Take advantage of every moment and opportunity. Treasure your family. Respect your mamas and your daddies. Stay tight with your boys—the ones that truly have your back—because some of those relationships you will carry with you throughout your life. Don’t be scared to take a chance. Don’t be afraid to be vulnerable. Those tears y’all are crying now,” he said, pointing to the audience, “aren’t anything to be ashamed of. Don’t hesitate to love,” Derrick said, his eyes once again drifting to Morgan.
She was too far away for him to say for sure, but he could’ve sworn that she held his gaze this time.
“Thank you,” he said with a nod before folding up the sheets of paper and stepping away from the podium. The crowd clapped and Derrick took the seat reserved for him in the front row. He then watched as more than a dozen people went up front to offer speeches and condolences to Cole’s family. A couple couldn’t finish, breaking down into sobs. When they reached the end of the program, Derrick slowly stood up. He walked back to the podium and leaned toward the mike.
“This brings us to the end of our memorial service,” he said. “Thank you all for your kind words and for showing your love for Cole today. I also want to thank—”
“Wait!” Morgan said, shooting up from her chair, holding up her hand. “Wait, Derrick!”
He gazed at her in surprise. All eyes in the room turned toward her.
Morgan anxiously gnawed her lower lip. “I’d . . . I’d like to say something. It’ll be quick. I promise. Can I . . . can I come up?”
Derrick nodded. “Of course. And take as long as you need.”
He watched as she swiftly walked up front. He stepped aside and let her stand at the podium. He could see that she was shaking. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder to calm her and she whipped around and looked at him, caught off guard by his touch.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, then dropped his hand.
She still looked nervous, but with those words, she stopped shaking.
“Hi,” she said into the mike. “I’m Morgan Owens, carpentry instructor here at the Institute. Cole was in one of my classes. Not only was he very talented and creative . . . so creative . . . he was a good boy at heart. I know he was. When one of the other boys harassed me in my class, he defended me. He tried to come to my rescue. He didn’t have to do that, but he put his neck out,” she rambled. “And he told me about his dreams, how he wanted to go to college, how he wanted to build furniture or maybe become a carpenter. He told me . . . he told me he hoped to make enough money someday to take care of his m
other and his brother and sister,” she said, looking at Cole’s mom. “I told him he could do it. I told him I had total faith in him, and he said he believed he could do it, too, because he trusted me. He trusted what I said.” She lowered her head and sniffed. “I wish I was worthy of that trust. I wish I had been a better teacher and confidante to him. I wish I would’ve gone to the jail to visit him like he kept asking me to. I just . . . I just didn’t know what to say.” She cried as tears spilled onto her cheeks. “But I know now it wouldn’t have mattered what I said. All that would’ve mattered was that I was there. That I showed him I still believed in him. But now it’s too late and I’m . . . I’m so sorry. I’m . . .”
She couldn’t finish. Derrick watched as she abruptly turned away and strode from the podium to the center aisle and then the cafeteria door. Despite all eyes being on him, Derrick went after her. He jogged across the cafeteria and burst through the double doors. He found her striding down the hall.
“Morgan! Morgan, wait up!” he called after her.
But she didn’t stop. She fled into the stairwell and he caught her just before she hit the stairs. He grabbed her arm and yanked her back to him. When he did he could see her entire face was red now. She was choking on her own sobs. He pulled her into an embrace and held her close.
“It’s okay,” he said, rubbing her back as she cried on his broad shoulder. “It’s okay.”
They stood there for several minutes. Finally, her sobs eased and her tears went from streams to a trickle. She eased back from him and gazed into his eyes—and he couldn’t resist. He leaned down and kissed her and God help him, she didn’t shove him away but kissed him back. Her lips were as warm and soft as he remembered, and when he slipped his tongue inside her mouth, she moaned with acceptance. He shifted his mouth from her lips to her chin to her neck, kissing the skin over the collar of her silk shirt.