Black 01 - Black Rain (21 page)

Vernon rubs his chin in deep thought. “That’s what I’m talking about. What’s man’s greatest weakness?” he asks as if he’s trying to teach me something.

“Land, money and power!” I answer.

Vernon lets out a heavy sigh, “Damn Joe, What’s his real weakness?”

I look at him and then it strikes me, “Women!” I answer.

“Damn right. Why didn’t the Devil tempt Jesus with Naomi Campbell, Raquel Welch, Halle Berry… I wonder what he would have done in that situation.”

“Vernon, he was Jesus. Temptation of the flesh was way beneath him,” I reply.

“Yeah, but he was made of man, right? And don’t you think Mary Magdalene was his woman? She sure was hanging around all the way till before and after his death.

No other woman in the Bible did that except his mama.

I think they had something going on. You trying to tell me Jesus was a virgin all his life? I ain’t buying that.”

I think about what Vernon has just said and consider it. He has a point, but we’re talking about Jesus. “Vernon, you can go to hell by yourself, dude. Change the subject, I’m not going there and I’m going to pray for
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you tonight. You better be the first person sitting in the pew at church when we get back. You need Jesus, son,”

I tease.

Vernon puts his cigar in his mouth then takes it out,

“I’m just saying it is a thought, man. Anyway, you think it might be a symbolic reason why Dread chose Scotts Bluff for a meeting place?”

I rub my eyebrow and bite my bottom lip. “It’s where the Indians signed the treaty for safe passage of the pioneers.”

“That’s my point. That treaty was broken in less than two days by the pioneers. Have you ever known of any treaty that the white man has honored? This is a damn trap, partner. They’re probably getting us up in these here hills to ambush us,” Vernon says as he grabs a rifle and a handful of the small explosives out of the back compartment, then tightens his seat belt.

I have always admired Vernon’s reasoning and knowledge. He makes sense. Dread is setting us up, probably to get the badges and guns back. I’m glad I’ve already called Agent James and notified him to dispatch the FBI helicopter to this area for backup. This guy Dread is really starting to piss me off. I pull out my cell phone and call Pretty Kevin to warn him.

When I hang up and look in my side mirror, I see two black SUVs speeding toward us. They are less than a quarter of a mile from the curve we just passed. My cell phone rings.

“Johnson speaking!”

“Detective Johnson, Agent James here. Chase called and said that you guys are driving into a trap. The copter was dispatched fifteen minutes ago and they currently
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have you guys in sight. You are being followed. I gave them permission to engage.”

“Well, it’s a
little
late for that. These guys are on our asses as we speak.”

“Be careful, Johnson. Do whatever you can to evade the situation,” Agent James orders.

“Well, seeing that our only evasive alternative is a big drop off the side of this damn mountain, I think I’ll take your advice.”

I flip the phone closed and pick up speed. Pretty Kevin is right behind me. We take the curves at over fifty miles an hour. I continually check the rearview mirror. Gunfire pops and Pretty Kevin ducks as Little Tiny and Agent Duvall fire shots from either side of the vehicle.

Over the horizon of the cliff, the gray-and-blue FBI helicopter appears and a rocket blasts into the side of the bluff right above the oncoming black SUVs. They quickly maneuver around the falling rocks and dirt.

Vernon loads the rifle and cocks it. “Can you move this piece of shit any faster, Joe? We need to make some space between them and us, before those FBI boys bury us all.”

“Shut up, with your old ass. You think you can do better? I’m doing a hundred and ten! I can’t control the car on these curves if I go any faster.”

Vernon takes out a cigar, unwraps it and puts it in his mouth. He looks at me, removes the cigar and holds it between his fingers. “I ain’t gonna take too many more of your old-ass jokes, fella. When we get out of this, remind me that I owe you an ass whippin’.”

“Vernon, can you stop fuckin’ with me long enough so I can concentrate on driving this car? Damn, man.

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There’s a time and a place to be jive-talkin’, and now is not the time. Okay?”

“Whatever!” Vernon puts his cigar back in his mouth and readies his rifle as another blast from the copter hits the side of the bluff.

Pretty Kevin’s SUV swerves around the rubble and goes off the road in a cloud of dust.

“They got Pretty Kevin, Vernon! His car just went off the road!”

I say a quick prayer for my childhood friend. I know he knows how to handle a car, so I put my trust in his abilities to take care of himself. We look back. Out of nowhere, the two black SUVs burst through the dust cloud and give chase. Another blast from the helicopter hits the mountain and slows down one of the black vehicles. Smoke is coming from the FBI helicopter. It has taken a hit from the other SUV, the one that is gain-ing on us. The copter spins in the air, out of control, its blades sputtering, and starts falling toward us.

“Aim for their tires, Vernon, and see if we can get them off our ass! That helicopter is about to take us all out.”

“I’m on it,” Vernon says as he leans out the window.

He throws the five explosives, which detonate, but not in time to do any damage to the vehicles. He pulls out the rifle and starts blasting at the truck’s tires.

Shots ring back from the SUV, and both Vernon and I duck inside as a couple of bullets pierce the back window and exit through the windshield.

“Damn it! Those motherfuckers are shooting back pretty good!”

I look at Vernon as I steer the Corvette around a curve. The helicopter hits the side of the hill and ex-198

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plodes as rocks, metal debris and dirt are thrown over the road. A massive hunk of steel falls from the sky and over the edge of the road. We hear thumps on the roof and see pieces of rubble bounce off the hood of the car. I push down on the gas pedal and we pick up speed.

The car handles beautifully until an SUV crashes into the back of us. Vernon and I are thrust forward. The smell of rubber tires burning, gasoline and acrid smoke fill the car as I pump the brakes and try to control the vehicle. An explosion roars as one of our tires gets shot out. We go into a quick tailspin. The air bags deploy and block my vision so I pull out my pistol and shoot the airbag. The car falls forward.

“Motherfucker! You shot me in the foot!” Vernon yells.

“Shit, I’m sorry Vernon!” I feel terrible that my bullet has hit Vernon and pray it hasn’t caused serious damage. I feel a sense of doom overcome me as I try to keep the vehicle on the road. Our car is bumped again and I lose control as the car steers down the side of the ravine, dodging trees and rocks. Suddenly we crash into a boulder.

Something wet oozes from my forehead. I’m becoming very dizzy. I look at Vernon. Out cold. His left arm is in the weirdest position. It must be broken.

Someone’s arm pushes me to the side. The briefcase that we used to hide the guns and badges of Dread’s men is pulled from the backseat of the Corvette. A crashing thud blasts the side of my face.

“Who has the last laugh now, asshole?” is all the assailant says.

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I lay my head on the steering wheel and don’t even mind that the horn is blaring. I slowly black out.

I am sitting on the front porch with my father, eating salted, shelled peanuts and listening to the Kansas
City Royals game on the radio—two of my dad’s favorite pastimes.

“What are you about, son?” he asks, with the glint
of mystery in his eyes.

I think about my dad’s question, and know he is trying to have me look inside of myself. He often does this
when he wants to teach me about manhood.

“Can you be more specific, Dad?”

He picks the two peanuts out of the half shell and
pops them into his mouth. He licks the salt off his fingers
after dropping the shell into the pile that grows at his
feet.

“What do you stand for, boy? What makes you different from this peanut I hold in my hand?” He cracks
open two more peanuts.

“I have a soul, mind, conscience and free will. I am
made in God’s own essence. I exist to make a difference
in life, to affect someone other than myself on my road,
to try to be the best that I can,” I answer.

My father’s face lights up as a smile spreads across
his face. He picks up his tall glass of Kool-Aid and takes
a long drink. “A lot of people know how to start something, but not many know how to finish. Always finish
what you start. Have a word, and be a friend that a man
would die for. Respect yourself and your family, or life
won’t mean shit. Always remember that, son.”

My father places his hand on my leg and squeezes it.

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“You know I’ve always been proud of you, son. You’ve
been good to me. I could always talk to you. You had
your moments where I had to whip that ass a few
times, but you came out all right. I love you, boy.

You always remember that, Joe. You’re my baby boy,
a chip off the old block. You do what you got to do to
make things right and everything else will work out
fine.”

Tears well in my father’s eyes and I feel proud to be
his offspring.

“Dad, I saw all those times where you only put ten
dollars in your wallet after payday and gave Mother the
rest to take care of the bills. Things were tight, but y’all
made us feel like we were rich. Y’all took us out of town,
to baseball games, gave us birthday parties and barbecues in the park. You prayed with us at night and made
sure we got our schoolwork done. You made sure we
could read, even though you were denied that right. I
would not have wanted anyone else for a father. I love
you and wish I could be half the man you are, Daddy.

Thanks for giving yourself unselfishly and showing me
what a father should be.”

My dad looks at me, nods, smiles and winks. There
is a silence of respect and admiration shared between
us that words will only strengthen. My father stands up
and I do, too. He hugs me and smiles and shakes his
head with pride and walks into the house. I sit down on
the steps and finish a few more peanuts. A few minutes
later, I scoop up all the shells from our baseball feast
and throw them into the trash can on the porch. I finish
my drink, grab Dad’s glass and try to go into the house,
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but the door is locked. I struggle to open the door, but
it won’t open. I want to be with my father!

“Johnson, you all right, bro? You’ve been out for about four hours. How you feel?” Pretty Kevin asks as I try to adjust to the lights in the room.

“What?” I question, groggy from the pain.

“Dude, you got knocked out after you guys crashed into that boulder, man. You’re in the hospital. You’ve been out for about four hours, dawg. You were mumbling some weird shit about your dad, peanuts and baseball. You must’ve been dreaming, dude,” Pretty Kevin explains.

I look around the pastel-blue room. An IV bottle and rack is placed next to my bed, along with the EKG

machine that intermittently beeps as it keeps track of my heartbeat. I think of the dream of my father. What’s the lesson?

Over by the window Agent Jason “Little Tiny” Phillips gives me a nod and a small smile, then looks at the ground in front of him. Agent Epiphany Duvall is holding Mo-Mo, who is in tears. They almost look intimate.

They make a good couple, but I’ve only been out for four hours. They couldn’t have gotten that close in such a short time.

Besides, Mo-Mo’s never gotten so close to a woman that he would openly cry in front of her. Something feels strange about this whole thing. Am I dreaming again?

I check the other side of the room and see Vernon in the other bed. He rolls his eyes at me, but manages to crack me a small smile. Thank God we’re both okay and he still has a sense of humor. His arm is in a cast, and
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his bandaged foot is hanging from the ceiling. He winks at me and I know that all is well with us, even though I mistakenly shot him in the foot.

But something is not right. A gloom fills the room, like a cloud cast over the sun on a beautiful day, like mud on a white suit. Something has been ruined or destroyed.

It makes me think of my cousin Mervin, who has been a convict most of his life. He used to get into arguments with people and they would turn violent. He would set two pistols out on the table, put his hands up and dare the other man to shoot him with one of them. If the man didn’t try to take the gun and backed away, he would live.

But, if a man made the mistake of letting his emotions get the best of him, Mervin would quickly pull a pistol from the small of his back and shoot. This way he could plead self-defense. He always thought this was fair, although he failed to mention to the men that the two guns he set on the table were not loaded.

He would later explain that a man who can’t control his emotions doesn’t deserve a fair shot at life. He would say that life ain’t fair, so you best do something about it, and you can’t let life lead you, you must lead life.

Almost killed at the age of forty-five in a gun fight, Mervin is a preacher now, and his mission is saving lives.

He has a Baptist church on Quindaro Boulevard in Kansas City, Kansas. Life has a way of catching up with you and evening the score.