Beyond the Hurt (10 page)

Chapter 10

His hands trembled as he released his grip from the revolver. His heart was beating out of his chest, proving to be the most terrifying and exhilarating encounter of his life. The still of the night painted the perfect scene for the homicide. His eyes finally opened to the reality of being a killer. He felt he was a coward to keep his eyes closed as the bullets blasted from the pistol. He took his assignment and executed it to the best of his novice ability. The perspiration from his chest and stomach soaked through his t-shirt.

Point. Aim. Shoot. He followed the simple instructions that resulted in the big payoff of ten thousand dollars—cash. Quite frankly, he didn’t have a choice. His rights were given up the moment he stepped into the vehicle. He knew it would come at a cost. Deep down inside, he craved the sensation of taking a life. Endless nights of playing
Grand Theft Auto
failed to give this moment its true justice. Beads of sweat gathered on the top of his forehead reminiscent of the blood that trickled from the lifeless body outside The Shadow Bar.

“Now you understand why you can’t say a word about our dealings? This ain’t no walk in the park, Young Blood,” his voice strong and commanding ensuring that his new young protégé was coherent. Calvin kept his eyes glued on Samson to monitor his behavior. The first killing was always the most difficult to experience. He needed to ensure that Samson could handle what he had done and wouldn’t go running in the streets making any confessions. “He was a bad man, so he had to go. And you did it.” Calvin removed the gun from Samson’s fingertips wiping it clear of any evidence of his prints. He didn’t waste any time at the scene attempting to verify if the target was taken out—it was done.

The last thing Samson needed was for Calvin Rogers to think that the job duties were too difficult for him to carry out. He swallowed hard and offered him a nod to show his comprehension. He placed the wad of cash paid out to him for his services in his backpack, the backpack he relied on for every occasion. One of the first purchases with his earnings would be a Metro PCS cell phone, he figured with the new job it would require for him to be accessible at all times. His parents refused to get him a cellphone; they felt he had yet to show he had any responsible gene in his body. However, working with Mr. Rogers would allow him to bypass many of their unfair, biased rules.

The driver stopped one block shy of the newly remodeled apartment building downtown where Samson was crashing during his stint away from home. He longed to be back in the comfort of his own home, bed, living space, but he knew that the tension between him and his father was too thick to break through this soon. His father had a black belt in holding grudges and making you feel the pain of his wrath. Despite desiring alternative living arrangements he would settle for his freedom being crammed into the cubical sized space his “lady-friend,” not considered a girlfriend, called home, thwarting his sexual advances, due to her new found morality following their indecent exposure.

The chill of the night air layered upon the car windows, awaiting the midnight visitors to canvass the neighborhood. He crawled out of the warmth of the car, knowing that this was only the beginning of many more assignments. He felt proud though, knowing that his first mission was accomplished.  He didn’t back down in the face of uncertainty. Oddly, he anticipated the next assignment. It was not enough to take the first lump sum of money and move out to get him a place; he had a plan. He needed to be as efficient and strategic as possible if he desired to reach his ultimate goals.

“Remember what I told you,” the rasp in Calvin’s voice had the ability to place fear in anyone’s heart. He locked eyes with Samson, grabbing a hold of his bag keeping him from fully exiting the vehicle. He nodded again and broke free of his hold.

“We’re good!”

The building lay quiet, which had been expected at this hour of the night. He crept past the first unit in the apartment on her side of the hallway hoping not to disturb Miss Jeanie, who managed to never sleep and stayed abreast of any and all activities in the building she deemed her own. She entitled herself the self-proclaimed “Neighborhood Watch Lady” with little to no input or support from the tenants in the building.

She periodically roamed down the hallway in her white and pink floral nightgown and purple bonnet, dragging her left foot across the hardwood floors in her cheetah print slippers, looking for anything she could stick her nose into. The truth is she didn’t have much business of her own to tend to, so she made due with the drama in the old building. She was well past her prime, widowed; with no interest in leaving the likes of her sweet home to build a new life after her husband’s passing. If Samson had his guess, she was the walking dead. Her aging frail body, spoke tales of her neglecting to eat over catching the couple in Unit #3 argue, fuss and fight like cats and dogs as if it was her
One Life to Live
. If he could make it past her, all would be well. He could slip into his apartment and create a pallet on the floor to catch the few hours left in the night before sunrise.

“Little Boy…Excuse me…Little Boy,” her screechy voice called out to him from the darkness of her doorway. Her dedication to the happenings of the neighborhood amazed him. The lights in her residence were all out. She peered at him through the crack of her wooden door. “I thought I heard someone creeping by.” She tried to act like his steps startled her. “You look stressed. Are you all right? I just made a pot of coffee; you can come in and have some if you like.” Her voice was ironically soothing to the sound. It was reminiscent of his paternal grandmother’s, whom he rarely spent time with before she passed away. She waited for his response as if she knew he had no other choice than to agree and join her.

As much as he knew he needed sleep, the fulfillment of that desire seemed impossible with all of the scattered thoughts running through his brain.

Who did I kill?

Were they really dead?

Am I protected?

Why did I let myself do this?

What if my father finds out?

Coffee and a light conversation with Sherlock Holmes might be just what the doctor ordered. “Yes, ma’am I guess I can take some.” Despite his passion to be a thug, he knew how to respect his elders.

Although she welcomed a guest into her home, it lacked the presence of accepting visitors. Boxes, clothes and dust draped the chairs, tables and walls. She maneuvered through the dark room over to a single lamp propped on top of a broken coffee table, held up by a stack of tattered yellow pages. The one thing that appeared inviting was the coffee; the aroma filled the air almost providing rejuvenation without consumption. “I’ve been watching you for the last few days. You haven’t been around here very long.” She started off subtle, but it was clear she had an agenda, placing the cup of coffee before him. “Are you courting that nice young girl down the hall or are you all just ‘kicking it’, like you young folks like to call it?” Her expression was priceless. She stared directly into his eyes turning up her face awaiting a response.

“She is helping me out for a few days. Nothing serious, just friends.” He didn’t feel like any of her questions warranted a response, but out of respect for the elderly he answered. It was obvious she was lonely and needed some action in her life. Her home was dismal like all the life evacuated with her late husband. A wedding picture of the two of them hung on the wall on her mantle as a reminder of the love once shared.

“Is that what they refer to it as now? Friends?” she didn’t wait for a reply, she rattled on moving about the kitchen. “Back in my day, friends didn’t spend too much time on top of each other unless they were going steady.” The conversation became uncomfortable real quick. Samson had yet to add the sugar and cream to his coffee and she was already ready for him to spill the tea. It was clear to him that this old lady was out of her mind. The reality was, since being discovered by his father the night in the living room, he couldn’t get as little as a smooch from his roommate, let alone sex. She never expected his parents to come home and find them in compromising positions. Edmond instantly pegged her as a whore and she was offended by it.

“Ma’am I don’t know what you are talking about and I am sure I don’t want to discuss it either way with you. Thank you so much for your hospitality, but I think it is best if I take my coffee to go. I will return the cup later.”  The irritation was apparent in his voice and he made no gesture to hide it. The last thing he wanted to do was fall into the starring role of her late night stories. The one sip he had of the Folger’s coffee was too good to leave behind, so he opted to do them both a favor and take it to go. He gradually made his way toward the door when she turned her back and ran out the door to freedom.

“It’s late Sam. Where have you been?” his roommate instantly confronted him, frightened by the squeaking from the door hinges when he tiptoed in the door. Having to spend nights alone had her frustrated and a bit on edge.

“I was just out taking care of business, making money. I’ll be outta here soon, so you don’t have to worry about me.” He still possessed an air of agitation from his encounter with the den mother.

“Why are you so annoyed with me? I was worried about you.” His lack of consideration for her was a major concern. He barely shared anything with her. She knew that her decision to hold back from him would strain their relationship, but she hoped that he would get over himself and realize that her care for him reached beyond their physical intimacy. “You don’t have to be nasty.” She crumpled her face up at him hoping for him to get a new attitude.

“You don’t have to worry about me. I am a man and I will be fine! Plus I got that heat now, so don’t nobody want to see me in these streets.” He pulled out his gun and pointed it toward the wall to prove to her he was not merely talking. The gleam in his eyes was unrecognizable and unwelcoming. He was different to her. He possessed a ghostly demeanor. He aimed and cocked his head to the side, showing her he was skilled and was not afraid to use it. He was still mumbling to himself, speaking to someone who was not present.

“Sam,” she hesitated, “I need you to be careful. There are people out here who really don’t have any sense. These
fools
are not caring about the games you are playin'. They will kill you! Do you understand that?” Her voice cracked when she elevated her tone. She felt he didn’t quite understand what he was getting himself into. His newfound “gangsta” would get him killed on any day.

“I am one of ‘these
fools
' and I ain’t scared of nuttin’ or nobody. I done already put in work. You better know about it.” He stepped toward her with mustered up aggression. The cockiness was beginning to overtake him to a place of no return. He poked out his chest more and lifted his head as he did when he encountered Calvin Rogers for the first time. He reached out for her hand, but she refused it. He tried yet again to caress her face. She swatted at his hand stepping back to give her a clear distance from him.

“I don’t have time for this nonsense! You really think I am playin’ wit you…I guess you will spend another day on the couch so you can figure this all out and think. And what’s up with the coffee mug? It will be real hard to be taken serious as a thug with a mug.” She rolled her eyes, traveled back to her bedroom, and slammed the bedroom door, leaving him in the living room to play with his toy and anything else for that matter.

Samson was not moved by her concern and shrugged it off, as though she was just experiencing that womanly time of the month. She often became extremely hostile and sensitive when on her menstrual cycle. He would have liked to attribute her lack of affection to that as well, but he knew better than that. He plopped down on the sofa bed and immediately dialed up his boy Mike. With all of the commotion of things, he had not had the opportunity to get with his boys and show off. Mike kept the streets occupied hustling for his daily bread; so reaching him was the easiest in the crew because he didn’t have to concern himself with office rules and regulations or policies.

Just as expected, he picked up on the first ring. “What’s up, my boy?”

“I finally got that heat! Yo boy is right now.” Samson adjusted his volume in order to keep her from popping back out of her room to get on his case. The fact that after their exchange he was still able to sleep on the couch left him grateful.