Love Trumps Game (12 page)

“Someone?”

“His name is Topps Jackson.” She hadn't seen him do the crime, but who else had a motive?

“Maybe you need to speak to one of the officers on site and make a report.”

Hattie set her jaw to firm. “Without a doubt, I need to do that.” She planned to tell everything. Heck, if she had Topps' address she'd give that to the police as well. The fireman continued to talk, but Hattie wasn't listening. Instead, her attention was drawn away to the midnight-black Denali that had stopped in front of her house. The chromed-out vehicle had tinted windows and twenty-one-inch wheels. It was the same vehicle she'd seen Topps drive up in earlier.

“A damn monster! That's what you are!” She couldn't see the driver through the dark windows, but she didn't have to see to determine his identity. She recognized that a monster was looking back at her.

The vehicle's horn sounded twice before driving off.

“Mama, be careful.”

“I will, but I have to find the insurance papers.” Hattie took careful steps, making her way to her bedroom closet where she kept her fireproof safe with other important documents. Once she unlocked the safe, she found a few hundred dollars left from the money that Neema had given her. “Thank goodness. I forgot all about this money.” She put the bills in her bosom and found the papers. Now she could call the insurance people and start the process.

“Wonder how long it'll take to rebuild.”

“I have no idea.” Myra made a face. “What we need to focus on is finding Neema's no-good ass to come pick her brats up. You have enough to deal with.”

Hattie shook her head. “What an inconvenience.” Since the fire had been contained to the front of the house and part of the kitchen, she was able to get her luggage from her bedroom and pack a few clothes. She gathered up the few clothing belonging to the kids, her Bible, and phone book. Wasn't much she could do about everything smelling like smoke.

“Did you call Neema's cell phone?”

“Myra, of course, and her apartment. I was thinking about going to her place after I'm finished here. She gave me an emergency key some time ago, but I misplaced it. I can look through
her phone book and see if any of her friends know anything.” Puddles of water, ashes, melted plastic, and things that couldn't be identified were everywhere. Hattie surveyed the mess that was now her living room. Her fairly new color television, boxes of family pictures, and her beautiful new La-Z-Boy chair were destroyed by either fire or water. It brought tears to her eyes. “Twenty-six years of living here, ruined.”

“I know, Mama. But you can always get another house.” Myra frowned up at every direction she looked. Her nails and hair were too perfect to be touching much in the house, not while wearing her favorite APO jeans and new white lace blouse. She had driven down alone, explaining that her husband, Glen, couldn't take off because he had a heavy surgery schedule. To make sure that she had enough room in her pearl-white Lexus RX 350, she left her three kids with the nanny she used occasionally. The idea of her mother and two more kids coming to live in her house wasn't the best-laid plan, but they were family and she needed to help. Hopefully, the arrangement wouldn't be for too long.

It took most of the day to get some day workers to nail the house's windows. No one could walk in off the street and help themselves to her belongings.

“Don't worry about a thing,” Mrs. Sweeney assured Hattie as they all filed into Myra's brand-new SUV. “I'll keep an eye out on your place and I'll call the police if I see so much as a mouse trying to go inside.”

Brandon and Raynita whispered and giggled at the old woman who looked comical talking without her dentures. Hattie felt a sense of comfort, knowing that the kids were in good spirits after what they had experienced. “Thanks a lot, Mrs. Sweeney. You have my daughter's number where you can reach me in case Neema shows up here.”

“I certainly will.” Mrs. Sweeney turned and moseyed back to her house.

“Where to now, Mama?” Myra asked once they were moving.

“You remember where Neema's place is up in the Crenshaw area?”

Myra played it off like she did. “Off Martin Luther King, right?”

“We'll stop there first to see what we can find out.” Hattie took a deep breath. “Who knows, she might be at home sleeping.”

“We don't live there anymore,” said Brandon too matter-of-factly. He had his face to the window, blowing steamy breath onto the glass.

“What do you mean, you don't live there anymore?” Hattie tried to turn fully around in her seat, but sleeping on Mrs. Sweeney's old sofa had her back stiff.

“Daddy said that we're moving in with him. He told Mama to pack up her stuff so we can move.”

“And why is it that no one mentioned this before?” Hattie wanted to know. She stared at the side of Brandon's head and wanted to thump it. Every time she turned around, it was something she didn't know about. She wondered what other information they were withholding. “What about your mother; she's still your mother, right?” Perhaps they knew something about that as well.

“Nanny, that's silly.” Raynita giggled. “I wanna move with you. I don't wanna live with my daddy 'cause he's a mean man and he fuss all the time. And he likes to hit people too hard.”

“Oooo. Wait 'til I tell Daddy what you said,” Brandon threatened. “You gon' be in big trouble.”

“So, tell 'im! I don't care. I'ma live with Nanny. Just me and Nanny and not you!”

“Poor things. Imagine feeling like that about your own father.”
Myra shook her head. “Why would Neema get involved with a person like that?”

“Don't be talking about my daddy!”

Hattie and Myra chorused, “Shut up, Brandon!”

Brandon had told the truth. When then arrived at Neema's old place, Hattie must have knocked and banged at her door for a good five minutes before one of the neighbors told her that the apartment was empty. “What? For how long now?”

The young black woman was dressed in pants that looked like pajamas and she was wearing a dirty white rag on her head. “About two days now. Some big moving truck came for her stuff, and some man was here supervising. Her boyfriend, I suppose.”

“Have you seen Neema lately?”

“I sure haven't. Not in a week or so, but normally I'm at work during the day.”

“Thanks.” Hattie went back to the SUV. She huffed and puffed getting back in. “Guess that takes care of that. The apartment is empty. Her neighbor said she didn't see her when they were moving her things out.”

“Neema moved and didn't mention it?”

“I guess so.” Hattie buckled her seatbelt. True, Neema had flaky behavior, but this was taking it a bit far. She would have mentioned the move.

“Something is wrong, Mama. This is the third day, and now she's moved from her place without even telling her own family. It's not like her.”

“Maybe Mama is at Daddy's house. We should go see.”

“Brandon, we are NOT going to your father's house. Get over it and stop asking.”

“How come?” Brandon wanted to know.

His inquiry was innocent enough. Hattie didn't have the heart
to tell the child his precious daddy was the reason her house was burned. “Because I said so, that's why.”

“She's not at Daddy's house 'cause she was mad at Daddy. Remember?” Raynita was playing with her doll. “I bet Mama ran away 'cause Daddy was so mean to her. One time he hit her face and made her cry.”

“Nita! Stop telling Mama's business.”

“It's my mouth. I can say what I want!”

“Okay, you two, settle down back there.” Hattie felt like her head was trying to start hurting. She checked one of her bags to make sure she had her hypertension medication.

Myra headed for the freeway. “It's bad enough that she hasn't called to check in with you, but now we learn that she wasn't even around when her own things were being moved out.” She paused to reflect.

“Neema is funny about people touching her personal stuff. I don't know, it just sounds peculiar.”

“Yeah, it does. Mama, something is up. We should head to the nearest police precinct and file a missing persons report.”

Hattie took a deep breath and let it seep out slowly. “Maybe you're right. There's a police precinct on Seventy-seventh.”

T
he warehouse normally powered down by midnight. Women dusted off cocaine residue before being allowed to dress and go home. It wasn't unusual for Topps and Slick to hang around late talking and going over future plans for the business. Money was counted and stored in a clever floor-installed safe beneath Topps' desk. Most times the safe was too full. Overflow cash had to be delivered to Topps' house to be stored in a safe hidden deep in his closet. Deliveries had to be accounted for, and discussions of who needed to be popped, switched or put down were all part of the operation.

The three people left in Topps' office still had business. Stacks of twenty and hundred-dollar bills were piled high on a table next to the wall. Slick had two counting machines flashing cash while Topps gave instructions to a soldier on his killing crew—pop a female worker leaving the business. If the soldier had a problem with the order, he didn't let on.

Dressed completely in black, the tall, dark-skinned soldier had the piercing eyes and face of a man that could snap a woman's neck and go out for ice cream later.

“Yo, no witnesses. Keep it clean and quick. You know where she lives.” Topps handed him an envelope full of cash.

“Piece of cake. When? Tonight? Tomorrow?” The grinning soldier sounded like he couldn't wait to do his job.

“You got three days. And remember, screw this up and you're screwed, too.”

“Oh, it's done.” The soldier turned and left.

Listening, Slick clicked his teeth. “Man, that's fucked up. You know that skank won't rat out. Give her a break.”

Topps sneered over at him. “Screw that. You know the drill. Can't have loose ends running around knowing about the business. I can't do no hard time.”

“True that, but damn, man. Sheila been loyal for almost five years. That skank got three mouths to feed. So what if she moving to Atlanta to see about her moms.”

“Like I said, you know the mutherfucking drill. It's nothin' personal. And what, she one of yo' pussy givers? Is that it?”

“Nah, man.” Slick looked insulted. “I'm just saying that's fucked up. Homegirl got kids to raise.”

“Sound like you getting soft on a nigga.”

“Nah. I just think loyalty should count for somethin'.”

Topps acted like he didn't hear his last words. He got up and left Slick counting money while he went to the front of the building to set the alarm. In no time he was back in his office washing his hands before putting on rubber gloves.

The two never worried about an invasion robbery because the place was locked down like Fort Knox with alarms and cameras all over the place. Of course, it helped to keep a few police officers on his payroll in case a bust tried to jump off, which was highly unlikely. Only a ghost could infiltrate the surroundings without being detected. For added security, it would take an army of men to break down the steel-framed office door where they were. It would leave ample time to escape through the secret door that led to a tunnel out the back of the building.

The secret tunnel had been constructed when his father was
running the business. The only two people that knew about the tunnel were Topps and Slick. To Topps, it was one person too many.

“Man, we might have to open up a few more Swiss accounts to hide all this damn money.”

Slick grinned over at him but didn't stop his work. “Got that shit right.” Just like Topps, he was dressed entirely in black. The attire wasn't a uniform requirement, but would make it hard to be detected in the event they had to flee into the night.

“Hell, I'm tired. I need a break.” Topps was sitting at his desk passing stacks of money over to be counted. The latex gloves felt too tight, but he didn't dare take them off. It was his strong belief that money was one of the nastiest things that people touched and passed around without a second thought. Drugs were snorted with rolled-up money. Men slipped money into women's thongs. He'd seen more than one stripper pass a bill across her pussy. Money was full of germs. Topps got up and went to his sink where he took off his gloves and washed his hands, again.

“Hey, man, where that lady of yours? Neema. Haven't seen her in a few. What's up with that?” Slick gave him a sideways glance. He knew that three days ago Neema set out with a package delivery, and he hadn't heard a peep from her. It wasn't like her not to call and check in with him after a drop. He hadn't planned to, but he'd caught feelings for the girl. Several times even, he'd thought of what it would be like if Topps was out of the picture and he could hook up with Neema and make a decent lady out of her. Make her his main woman.

“Guess she's doing her thing. You know bitches. They always have somethin' to do.” From the bottom of his sink, Topps pulled out half a bottle Hennessy Timeless Cognac and two glasses. “Dawg, I gotta tell you that I'm getting tired of this business. It's been long enough. A nigga got enough money not to work
another day in his life. Maybe me and Neema and the kids might take off for the islands and build us a house by the ocean. I dig that shit. Know what I'm saying?” Topps poured two drinks and pushed a glass toward Slick. “Hey man, that shit can wait; take a break. Shit. We can always lock that shit in the safe and finish tomorrow.”

“Yeah, you right.” Slick turned both machines off. He had to wash his hands first because Topps didn't play that shit if he didn't. He walked over and sat, took up his glass and downed the four thousand-dollar-a-bottle brown liquid with ease. “You say you tired of it?” Looked like he needed a refill, so Topps obliged him. “Man, what you think about us callin' this shit off?” Topps filled his glass halfway. “I'm tired, you look tired. Or even better, you can buy me out.”

Slick grinned at that one. “Buy you out? Nigga, please. This a dope business, not a damn Burger King franchise. And how much you think it would take to buy you out?”

Topps looked serious. “Two million and it's all yours. Everything. I walk away.”

“Two million?”

“Cash money, and I'm out.”

“No shit?” Sounded like a fair price. And it wasn't like he didn't have the cash. The dope business had been good to the both of them, plus Slick owned property he could sell. “Two mil, huh?” The more Slick thought about it, the sleepier he felt. It didn't take long for him to realize that Topps hadn't sipped his drink once, and he must have put something in his. “Damn, man, what's the muthafucking matter with…” He was out like a light.

There was no sense of time lost. When Slick woke up, he was tied—no, duct taped. He was duct taped to a chair. His hands, his feet. It had to taken a good amount of time for a person to
utilize so much duct tape. He couldn't move, and Topps was sitting across from him with a wooden baseball bat and a nine-millie in front of him on the table. Beside the bat lay a large manila envelope.

“Welcome back, bro. I'm sure you had a nice nap. It's good to keep the right pharmaceuticals around when you need to put a nigga to sleep. Know what I mean?”

“Man, what the fuck?”

Topps had that crazy look in his eyes. Slick had seen it before, always before he popped or tortured some poor fool.

“All that noise ain't necessary, Slick. I suggest you use your inside voice about now.”

“Topps…look, what's up with this, man? Why you trippin'?”

“You my boy, Slick. Always was.” Topps leaned into his face. Grill to grill. “We like brothers from the same mother. That's why this here gon' hurt me as much as you, but I'm only going to ask yo' punk ass two times. You can count, right?”

“Ask me what? Man, I'm not playing, take this shit off me! What the hell's wrong with you?!”

“Where is she?”

“Nigga, who you talkin' 'bout? Where is who?!”

“That's number one. We talking bout Neema, fool. You know damn well who we talkin' 'bout. I know you the one hiding her ass from me.” Topps fought the urge to bitch-slap him. “Damn shame it has to end like this, dawg. I trusted you.”

“Look, man, I don't know what's up with you, but let me go and we can get back to business like nothing happened. We boys like that.”

“That's what I thought, too.” Topps took the envelope up. “Guess you and Neema thought I was too stupid to find out what was going on, huh?” He pulled the pictures out. The detective
he had hired left nothing to the imagination. He watched Slick's eyes buck at photos of Neema and him kissing, hugging, bodies meshed together after coming out from one of their motel spots. “Guess you can't trust no damn body.”

Slick hung his head.

“When I was a kid, my mama was an addict. She blamed my father. She hated him.” He set the envelope down and went to his sink. From the bottom cabinet he pulled out a water hose, a jug of bleach and a bottle of dishwashing liquid. A clean toilet brush was next.

“Topps, man, I know you upset, but let me explain. It didn't mean shit.”

“You know when mothers hate like that it can manifest to a child. She was always taking shit from me. New clothes my dad bought. My new bike. Toys and sometimes even food. She was crazy.” He stopped and looked away, reflecting, then stared at his reflection in the mirror over the sink.

“TJ, listen to me…we boys. No woman should come between us like this. We boys!”

“That's why when my mother had that stroke and couldn't walk, her luck had finally changed.” Topps smirked. “Couldn't do a damn thing for herself 'cept drool out the side of her twisted mouth.”

“TJ, listen to me. Neema loves you. We wasn't trying to hurt you. She just needed someone to talk to 'cause she was scared. That's all it was.”

“My mother's caretaker. That's what I became. Luck is a mutherfucker, ain't it? She couldn't take shit away from me again. Not one damn thing.” He hooked the water hose up to the faucet. “Crazy bitch. She deserved what she got.”

“Man, what the fuck is wrong with you? Take this shit off me! Now, mutherfucker!”

“Yo',” Topps swung around to look at him, “check this out. You ever see what a woman looks like when she don't eat or drink water for weeks?” Topps laughed. “That shit is hilarious, dawg. Look like leather. I know one thing, that shit ain't pretty.”

“What the fuck you fin' to do?” Slick was straining, trying to free himself.

“Give yo' azz a bath 'cause you stink, dawg. All people stink to me. Germs and bacteria do that. Know what I'm saying?”

“Man, please…just let me go. You won't have to worry 'bout me again. I swear. You sick and you need help.”

Topps wasn't listening. He whistled a tune while he went on with his business, happy as a worker at a car wash on a hot day. First he poured bleach over Slick's head, then squirted dishwashing liquid all over him, took up a toilet brush and got busy scrubbing the man down, head to feet. After three good lathers, he hosed him off.

“Man, stoppit!”

“You should thank me for this shit, dawg. People should be clean coming into this world and clean going out. Tell me another friend that would do this for you.”

Slick could barely beg for the bleachy suds in his face. His eyes burned like hell, making him grind his teeth to keep from screaming.

“Now,” Topps concluded, cutting the water off. He was in his face again, so close he could smell the bleach fumes coming from his mouth. “Topps is very upset because his boo-bitch is missing, and the drugs she was dropping are missing. And Topps thinks that you know where his bitch and his drugs are. Tell me.”

“Man, I swear, I don't know.”

“I tried to track her on the fuckin' computer, but it's not working either. You probably had somethin' to do with that shit, too. Now, this the last time I'ma ask you nicely. Where is she?”

Slick kept his eyes shut, trying to squeeze out bleach and soap residue. “Man, I swear, how the fuck should I know?”

“Sorry, dawg, wrong answer.” Topps picked up the bat and swung at his head. Blunt force sent the chair backward. Mouth wide open, Slick lay on the concrete floor with blood seeping from his mouth and ears. He was barely conscious.

Topps stood over him looking down. “Topps can't stand muther-fuckers taking what's his. You knew that shit! Not my product, not my bitch, not my kids. Nothing. Got that, you piece of shit!” He dropped the bat and picked up the water hose, placed it in Slick's mouth, and fed the hose deep into his throat. Some duct tape helped to secure it. He turned the water on slow flow.

“Looks like it's gonna be a long night, dawg. But no sweat, we boys. We can hang like that.”

Later, his task done, he dragged Slick's water-bloated body out through the secret tunnel before heading back to wash the germs from his hands.