Eve (17 page)

Only when she was sure the police weren't purusing her and they were safely away from the scene, did she breathe easy. Some calls were just too close. For her greed she found herself nearly captured or executed. Neither were acceptable options. She almost caught an asshole full of time and a bullet in the back for a few thousand dollars. The stakes were being raised, but the score was still the same. If she intended not to starve, Eve needed to step her game up.

Young Sammy darted in and out of the small stores in the Green Acres Mall while his older double brought up the rear. For their successful pickup and distribution of the new drug to the rightful people, Carlo had thrown them all a little something extra, Felon more so than the rest. He decided to use some of his money and take his little brother shopping.

“Come on, Keith. I wanna see if they got the new NBA game!” Sammy shouted excitedly, running into video-game store. Felon shrugged and followed.

They stayed in the store for about twenty minutes as Sammy mulled over the different games and tried to explain the differences to his big brother. Felon nodded as if he understood, but he really didn't. As far as video games went, he got off the bandwagon after Super Nintendo. Still, it brought him joy just to see Sammy happy. Had Felon himself been a little more guided on the road of life, he might not have veered from the path. He wasn't complaining, just thinking. There was really nothing he could do about it at that point. He was knee-deep in it and had no intentions on turning back. “All or nothing,” he whispered.

“What'd you say, Keith?” Sammy asked, looking up from the game cover he was reading.

“Nothing,” Felon told him.

 

Donnie lounged near Foot Locker with his partner Rich, trying to rap to a young lady and her two friends. The girls had brushed them off and kept it moving. It had been the same story for them all day. They weren't the most attractive young men in the borough. Donnie was rail thin with dusty brown hair and splotched brown skin. Rich was light skinned with a chipped tooth and a funny-shaped head.

“Fuck you, bitches!” Donnie yelled in true hater fashion.

“Ya ass wasn't that fat anyway!” Rich added.

“Can't stand these Queens bitches.” Donnie spat on the floor. “They're all stuck-up.”

“Fuck it, let's go get outta here and head back to Harlem.”

“Come on.” Donnie began walking toward the exit, but caught a glimpse of a familiar face. He searched his mental Rolodex, trying to place the face. Suddenly it hit him like a fist. “Yo, check that shit, son.” He tapped Rich and nodded toward the game store.

“What, you wanna buy a video game?” Rich asked, confused.

“No, dumb ass. I'm talking about homey that just came outta there.”

“Duke wit his seed? What about him?”

“I know that kid. That's the nigga that robbed me last winter, son,” Donnie said angrily.

“Donnie, you high or something? How the fuck do you know that's the same kid?”

“His walk,” Donnie said seriously. “He had that same cocky-ass swagger when he walked away with my chain.”

“So, what you wanna do?”

“We gonna roll on that nigga,” Donnie declared, patting the gun in his waistband.

“He wit his seed, yo.”

“Fuck that. That nigga gotta answer for that shit. Let's go.” Donnie moved for the food court, and Rich reluctantly followed.

 

Glancing at his watch, Felon noticed it was getting late. The sun would soon be setting and he would be needed in the hood. He and Sammy left the game store and made their way to the food court. Felon absently rubbed the back of his neck as a chill went up his back. He stopped short and looked around, but could find nothing out of the ordinary. Shaking off his uneasiness, Felon carried his and Sammy's tray to a free table.

Sammy stuffed the ketchup-soaked fry into his mouth and rambled on about something that had happened to his science teacher. Felon nodded from time to time, but his attention was elsewhere. The sensation he was feeling was the equivalent of being watched when you're the only one in the room.

His eyes vigilantly swept back and forth through the food court, searching for something out of the ordinary. Just when he was about to chalk it up to paranoia, he saw something that set off warning bells in his head. Seated near the exit were two men who appeared to be in their twenties. He would've dismissed them, but the brown-skinned one kept staring at him. As he focused on the Ruff Ryder T-shirt the kid was wearing, it dawned on him that he had seen the same two jokers icing him outside the game store. It didn't take a rocket scientist to realize they were up to no good.

Felon found himself between a rock and a hard place. Had he been alone, or with his team, he would've just approached the duo, but Sammy was with him. He couldn't subject his little brother to the violence of his lifestyle. He thought about calling Butter or Teddy, but there was no telling how long it would take one or both of them to reach him. His only hope was to try and ditch them.

“Time to go, Sammy,” Felon told his little brother.

“Aw, Keith. I wanted to hit another store,” Sammy whined.

“You've hit enough stores for the day, kid. Besides, Mom will kill me if I don't get you back in time for dinner.” Felon scooped his bags with one hand and placed the other on the butt of the nine in his pocket. Ushering Sammy in front of him, they headed for the exit furthest from the boys.

As they crossed the ground level, Felon peeped the two boys get up to follow. He cursed silently under his breath for being caught so far from home. He wanted to scoop up Sammy and break into a run, but he didn't want to risk tipping the boys off and getting shot in the back for it, so he kept a steady pace. When he stepped out into the darkening parking lot, Felon stopped Sammy short.

“Hold on, Sam. I got a special job for you.” He dug into his pocket and fished out the car keys. “I think I left my phone in the food court. Why don't you go start the car and I'll be right behind you?” Sammy reached for the keys excitedly, but Felon snatched them back. “Start it, Sammy. Don't move it.”

“Aw, man.” Sammy huffed as he took the keys and went off to do as he was told.

When Sammy was a safe enough distance away, Felon darted back the way he came. When he checked his gun, the grip was nearly soaked from his sweating palm. He wiped his hands on his pants so his aim would be true when and if it came to it. He concealed himself in the shadows near the doorway and waited.

After about two minutes, the two young boys came bumbling out of the mall. The one with the dark skin held a small-caliber handgun at his side, while the other boy brandished a knife. They looked around, dumbfounded, trying to figure out where their prey had gone. Felon didn't keep them in suspense long.

While they stood there and argued about who was the cause of Felon's escape, he peeled away from the shadows. The boy with the knife was about to shout a warning to his friend, but the bullet was already making its exit through his chest. Before the brown-skinned boy could hit the ground, Felon dumped two more in him. With the brown-skinned boy taken care of, Felon turned his attention to the light-skinned one.

“Don't shoot! I'm just a kid,” Rich pleaded.

“And you'll never become an adult,” Felon hissed. He shot the kid twice in the face. Before the body hit the ground, Felon vanished.

“What's going on?” Sammy asked nervously as Felon climbed behind the wheel and put the car in gear.

“Nothing,” he said in a too-calm voice, “just some kids playing with firecrackers.” With that said, they merged with traffic and headed back to Manhattan.

 

Eve and Bullet sat in a stolen Cutlass, on a side block near the gas station on 149th. Steve had given them the route the truck would be using, and the 145th Street Bridge was how it was to enter Manhattan. The two robbers made small talk, but only so one wouldn't hear how loud the other's heart was beating. They chain-smoked cigarettes and waited on their score.

“How much longer?” Eve asked impatiently.

“Cool out, Eve. We ain't been here that long,” Bullet responded, lighting another cigarette with the burning ember of the one he had just smoked.

There was a rumbling in the distance that made both of them sit bolt upright. In the rearview, they spotted a large cubed truck motoring along under the overpass. It was still several blocks away, but at that hour of the night they were able to hear it approaching. Under normal circumstances this was an unusual route for a truck to be taking, but this wasn't a normal delivery. The driver had been paid by Jimmy V to allow the truck to be stolen by two of his men, but what the driver didn't know was that the people about to spring their trap on him didn't work for Jimmy V.

“You know what to do?” Bullet asked, checking his double-barreled shotgun. She nodded. “Good.” Bullet gave a cautious glance around and disappeared into the shadows, clutching a plastic canister.

Eve slid behind the wheel and gunned the engine. After checking the rounds on the tech that sat beside her on the vacated passenger seat, she made a broken U-turn. When the car was positioned to face oncoming traffic, Eve flicked on the high beams and got out to stand behind the car. When she heard the blaring horn, she raised the tech and stood ready.

 

Butch Carter was a working-class citizen from Southside Jamaica, Queens. He had been a part of the 1422 truckers' union for just over eighteen months before a coworker put him on to a scheme to earn some extra bread. Every so often they would arrange for a truck to get knocked off by one of several organized crime families from in and around the tristate area. This was Butch's first run.

His instructions for the mission were quite simple. He was to take the 149th Street Bridge into Manhattan and detour to get gas near the West Side Highway. During the detour, he would quietly turn the truck over to members of Jimmy V's crew. He would later file a report with the police, stating that he was robbed at gunpoint by several Puerto Rican men. He would later be paid three thousand dollars for his role in the heist.

At first he was skeptical about undertaking the mission on his own, but the same coworker who had plugged him to the hustle assured him that everything would go smoothly. So far this had held true. He had successfully driven the truck from the warehouse in Westbury, Connecticut, to the Bronx without incident. Butch smiled and thought about how sweet the job was when he was assaulted by a set of high beams directly in front of him.

 

“Are you fucking serious?” Butter asked in disbelief.

“Right there at the mall, son. And I had Sammy with me!” Felon fumed.

“What you wanna do?” Butter asked in anticipation.

“Ain't shit else to do. I laid both them pussies down.”

“Did you know the kids?”

“One of them looked familiar,” Felon said, frowning, “but I don't think I knew em. They was some bold muthafuckas though.”

“That's what I be trying to tell you, son.” Butter paced his living room. “If these muthafuckas don't fear you, they gonna come. Niggaz think twice before coming at me, cause they know I don't play that. I come with two guns, dumping!”

“Mo money, mo problems,” Felon mumbled.

“True story. Felon, we them niggaz now, so these jokers are gonna be feeling in a way. Like maybe they're owed a piece of what we built. It's up to us to stand these faggots off and let them know where they stand on the food chain. This shit was light, but please believe it gets deeper.”

“Larcenist muthafuckas.” Felon lit his Newport. “Acting like I can't do me. You gotta feed these niggaz with a long-handled spoon. Yo man, I'm bout to buy moms a house and get my own lil piece of something where I can lay my head.”

“Shit, I ain't going nowhere,” Butter declared.

“Butter, you about to be rolling in dough. How you just gonna stay on the block where you're shitting?”

Butter stopped his pacing and stared at Felon briefly, as if pondering his question. He reached down and picked up the nickel-plated nine from the table. “These is the last days, baby boy,” he said staring hypnotically at the barrel. “If I gotta go out, I'm going out in style.”

 

The glare blinded Butch, causing him to raise his arm protectively while he slapped the horn. Disoriented by the sudden burst of light, he couldn't judge just how far out in front of him the other car was. Just as he began pumping the brakes, a second car slammed into the side of his truck. The larger auto began to slide sideways as the minivan continued to push against it. Through blurry eyes and with a shaky grip, he swung the truck off to the side, trying to gain its independence from the van and avoid the car in front of him. His vision cleared just in time for him to see the pillar speeding directly toward him.

The truck smacked the steel column, producing a deafening ring. Butch's head smacked off the headrest and collided with the wheel. The whole cabin danced white and spun in circles, but Butch managed to stay conscious. Blood gushed down his forehead and into his left eye. He tried the door but found the van had it pinned. When he turned to crawl out the passenger door, a shotgun barrel clocked him in the forehead.

While Bullet climbed the side of the truck, Eve made her way toward him. She backed down the street, holding the tech low in a two-handed grip. Her heart beat against her chest as she scanned the block for police or witnesses. Her job in the heist was key in its success. Bullet had long ago schooled Eve to the art of theft, but this was something different. Hijacking, kidnapping, grand theft auto. If something went wrong, it'd sound like a football score at the sentencing.

“Get the fuck out!” Bullet ordered.

“What the fuck are you doing?” The round-faced Irishman groaned. “You guys weren't supposed to hurt me. I thought you were supposed to wait until I got to the West Side.”

“Clown, I don't know what the fuck you're talking about. Now, if I gotta tell you to get out one more time, they're gonna have to scrub you out,” Bullet threatened.

Butch looked at the scarfaced Black man and realized something was wrong. These were not Jimmy V's people. His mind raced as he thought about what a fuckup he was. His first time out and he managed to get his load ripped off by the wrong crew. There would be hell to pay behind this. The fear of having the mob on his ass outweighed the fear of the man holding the pump to his face. In an act of pure stupidity, Butch palmed the .32 he kept in the truck cabin.