Cracked Dreams (19 page)

“Hey, Les,” said Officer Albert Hargrove to his partner Lester Moore. “Are you ready or what, man? What's taking that greasy crap so long? We're going to be late again; now let's go.”

“Aw come on, Al,” responded Officer Moore. “Don't be so paranoid. And please, I don't need another health lecture. Spare me. We'll make it to roll on time, trust me.”

“Trust you, huh?” asked Al sarcastically. “That's what you said the last time.”

“Well, what would you like for me to do, starve?” asked Lester.

“No, I'd like you to be ready every morning with enough time to get breakfast,” answered Albert.

“Well, I guess I wouldn't have to worry about that if I had a nice wife like yours that could cook me breakfast every morning, huh?”

“Well, I didn't say that,” said Al. “But when are you going to get out there and find yourself a woman and settle down again? You aren't getting any younger, you know? You're only getting older and uglier.”

“Oh, yeah? Why don't you settle down on this?” said Lester as he gave him the finger.

Officers Moore and Hargrove were two of NYPD's finest. This year made the ninth year they'd shared each other's company on the streets of New York, and they both hadn't expected to still be in such an undeveloped position this far along into their careers. Lester Moore came from a long line of successful and well-known police officers, and often felt the pressure of following in the footsteps of his father, his father's father, his brothers, uncles and so on. He was now forty-eight years old and already had fifteen years of the police force under his belt. In his earlier years of crime-fighting he'd possessed the fire in his eyes that could take a young police officer to heights such as detective, lieutenant and beyond. In fact, his relentless dedication to his profession would lead to his wife leaving him for another man. Ironically, this occurrence soon led to him losing that fire, and his career had been in a slump ever since. Lester stood about 6 ft. 2 in., with pale white skin. What hair he had left on his head had begun turning dusty gray, and he'd developed a healthy gut since his career as a cop had taken a turn for the worse.

Officer Albert Hargrove, on the other hand, was the younger, happier, and more focused version of Lester. He had a wife and two young sons at home that he loved with all of his heart. The only difference between him and Lester, at that age, was that he took every opportunity to show his undying love for his family. They understood that when he went to work, it was because he had to provide for them. Al stood about 5 ft. 10 in. tall and had a dark brown complexion. He was thirty-three years old and had become Lester's partner after only two years on the job. Although Albert was black and Lester was white, and they had completely different
upbringings, it seemed as though their superiors had seen the connection in them and thought they could learn from each other.

Al and Les were currently two of the most dissimilar officers partnered together in the whole 47th Precinct but they'd once shared the same goals. They both had a passion for the law, and honestly got into the business of law enforcement to clean up the very neighborhoods in which they spent their childhoods.

“Look at that,” said Lester as a black Mercedes passed through an intersection where they were stopped for a red light.

“What, the Mercedes?” Al asked. “It's sweet, huh?”

“Yeah, it's sweet,” Lester responded. “Too sweet.”

“Aw, come on, Les,” said Al. He could see where the conversation was headed. “Could we please just go to the damn PD, and maybe show up on time for a change?”

“Doesn't that get to you?” asked Lester, expressing his frustration. “That motherfucker has got to be no older than eighteen, and he's driving a hundred and twenty thousand dollar luxury car. That doesn't shift you around in your seat just a bit?”

“Actually, no it doesn't,” Al simply replied. “That kid was probably born into money, man. Just because his parents are probably loaded, it's not his fault.”

“Born into money?” repeated Lester. “That's gotta be the most gullible shit I've ever heard. Wake up, Al, these guys have got to be into something illegal. Look at them.”

“You know, you can't judge a book by its cover,” said Al, showing his disappointment at Lester's comment.

“Call it what you want,” countered Lester. “But if this was a book, it would be a crime story. This is the kind of shit that destroys our neighborhoods from the inside out. People see these scumbags and think that pimps and drug dealers lead a more fruitful life. And look, they think they can just park anywhere they want with no regard for those good honest people waiting over there for the bus to take them to work. Somebody's got to put these kinds of people in their rightful place.”

“Oh, here we go again,” Al mumbled.

“I swear, everything always gets all fucked up all at the same fucking time,” Spits cried. “First, you show up out of nowhere at the worst fucking time possible, and now this shit.”

“Oh, shit!” Trigger hollered as he saw the police lights go on behind them.

“Yo, just be cool,” Spits suggested. “I'm dirty right now.”

“What?” asked Trigger.

“I'm dirty, nigga!” responded Spits. “I got a gat under the seat and two bricks in the trunk. Don't say shit. Just let me handle it.”

“What the fuck you doing with two kilos of—?” asked Trigger before Spits cut him off.

“Shhh!” Spits said with a finger on his lips. “Just hold me down, nigga. I got this.”

Just as Spits had the words out of his mouth, one of the police officers was in the street on his side of the car about to knock on the window. When Spits rolled down the window, he attempted to talk his way out of the situation while the other police officer came up on Trigger's side, shining a flashlight into his face and around the car.

“What seems to be the problem, sir?” asked Spits with the utmost respect. “Did I do some—?”

“Just shut up, okay, boy?” spat Lester as he glanced around the interior of the vehicle with his own flashlight.

The comment seemed to throw Spits out of his frame of mind. He completely lost focus and momentarily held a confused look on his face until he heard, “Who the fuck you callin' ‘boy,' mu'fucka?” Trigger argued as he stared up at Lester, and then up at Albert, as if he should also be offended by the statement just made by his partner.

“Listen, youngster,” began Lester, pointing his comments toward Spits as if giving him the opportunity to calm Trigger down. “Let's not have this get out of hand now. Tell this asshole to shut the fuck up or you'll both be headed through the system tonight. How would you all like that?” He paused for a bit to establish control of the situation. When Spits motioned for Trigger to relax, he continued. “All right now, hand over your license and registration and maybe you two can go home tonight.”

When they both went back to their police car to review the documents they'd just obtained, Spits took a deep breath. He'd hoped that they would just concentrate on him and not Trigger, although Trigger wasn't making that easy for them to do. If they were to run Trigger's government name through the system they would find cause for searching them both and the vehicle, and then they would be fucked for real. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” asked Spits of Trigger. “I tell you I got a burner and two kees in the car with us and you jump out the window with this rah-rah with these pigs. Dog, this ain't no who got the biggest dick contest. Fuck that black and white shit. This shit is about green, nigga.”

“You right,” Trigger simply said, realizing that what he had said was wrong given their situation. “I wasn't thinking. My bad, son. You know I'm not even the type to come out of character, but I have a lot on my mind right now.”

“Yeah, you're bad,” Spits said. “Now if these bitch-ass niggas decide they feel like fucking with us, it's a wrap.”

“What do you think?” Lester asked Al as they sat in their car behind Spits and Trigger.

“Don't even ask me what I think, Les,” Al responded. “I didn't even want to waste our time in the first place.”

“Did you see how that fucker reacted when I called his friend ‘boy'?” asked Lester. “You know I don't talk like that; I just wanted to see how they would respond.”

“Yeah, I gotcha,” Al said, still a little skeptical of his excuse.

“Maybe they are just some spoiled little brats like you said, huh?”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Let's say they're drug dealers. They wouldn't be stupid enough to fuck with us, right?” he asked, still trying to figure out what they should do.

“I would imagine not, Les,” Al responded, still unenthused. “Would you mind if we got to the damn department now?”

Lester and Albert came to an agreement and evidently had nothing to hold Trigger and Spits on, so they let them go. When Spits pulled away from the curb with his freedom still intact, he didn't care about what Trigger had to tell him; not even a little bit. The next stop would be LaGuardia
Airport where Trigger would be on the next flight to California. Then after that, he would take his package to its destination.

As for Lester and Albert, the rest of their day would not be as satisfying. When they finally got to the police department, they had some guests that were not at all pleased with their delayed arrival. They were immediately escorted to their superior's office, Lieutenant Howard Fitzgerald, to discuss what they'd missed while they were busy with what had kept them from a critical visit from the FBI.

“We went over some very important details with these fellows from the Bureau this morning regarding a crime family that is known in the streets as the Time Bombs,” said Lieutenant Fitzgerald as he sat across from Officers Moore and Hargrove. “It seems as though the numerous advances made on the part of the FBI in pursuing this criminal enterprise have fallen short of victorious. Now, they've collected a huge amount of evidence, including a living eyewitness who's willing to testify against them once they can put together another indictment. One of their members in particular who goes by the name umm . . .Trigger, was actually on trial a while back but jumped bail once it was discovered that they had the trial's judge on the payroll. As for Michael Banner, a.k.a. Spits, we just can't seem to make anything stick to him; he never seems to get his hands dirty.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted Officer Moore. “Are these Time Bomb characters really that much of a situation? I've vaguely heard things about them but never enough to create this much attention.”

“I'm sorry, Officer . . .Moore, is it?” asked Special Agent Simon Clifton. “These guys aren't to be underestimated, not one bit. If we were exaggerating the situation, then we would only be sending the message that we aren't capable of handling our own affairs, and that's not the case.”

“He's right, Moore,” added Special Agent Phillip Cassett. “Now, we're asking for the assistance of the NYPD. There's already an outstanding warrant for the arrest and seizure of Trigger, a.k.a. Peter Beckford. All we ask is that if you guys ever make a routine stop or find out something that we could use, make sure that we're informed immediately. At this point, we can't risk anything. This is a chart outlining the names of all the known
members of the Time Bombs in order of importance with corresponding photographs. If ever you come across any of these characters, it is imperative that you treat them with extreme caution and leave no stone unturned. Do you understand?”

Both Albert and Lester nodded in agreement and began scanning the outline for future reference, but before they even completed the first line on the chart they couldn't help but to stare at two of the pictures right up at the top. Al and Les could do nothing but look at the pictures on the chart that belonged to none other than the infamous Michael “Spits” Banner and Peter “Trigger” Beckford with their jaws dropped halfway to the floor. What if . . .?