On the Run with Love (17 page)

“Hey, Ben,” Detective Crawford called, sticking his head into Detective Wilson's office. “Got a minute? I think I may have some good news for you.”

“Good news? I remember that concept vaguely. Come on in, Andre.”

Crawford entered the small, messy office carrying a few faxes in his hand. He proudly handed them to Wilson. “It's about the cop shooting and homicide a few months back,” Crawford informed him.

“Believe me, son, I haven't forgotten. Every time I see Officer Williamson in that wheelchair, I'm reminded of this Holmes bastard,” Wilson sneered. Freddie had managed to elude Wilson for close to a year, and that infuriated him. He was used to making arrests within days. “What am I looking at? All these funny codes and numbers. I'm in no mood for riddles, son.”

“It's not a riddle; it's a Visa printout,” Crawford informed him. “Remember the girl? You asked me to keep track of all her credit cards.”

“Yeah?” Wilson answered sourly. “Didn't they go bad months ago?” He was wondering what Crawford was getting at chasing dead credit cards.

“Well, it turns out that, for whatever reason, Ms. Jackson tried to run the card. It was rejected, naturally, but it still registered with the credit bureaus.” Crawford smiled and Wilson's whole demeanor changed as he got up on his feet.

“Son of a bitch! Goldsboro, North Carolina! There it is in black and white! Son of a bitch!” His eyes went to the words “Winn-Dixie.” “Winn-Dixie? What is that? Sounds like a supermarket or something.”

“Exactly.”

Wilson couldn't have been happier. “Do you know what that means, Andre? That she tried to use her card at a supermarket?”

Crawford's brow curled up. “No.”

“Think! When people go food shopping, they usually do it close to home. Had this been in Raleigh at a clothing store, it would have been like trying to find a needle in a haystack. But this tells us he's definitely in Goldsboro, probably in that very area.”

Wilson grabbed his suit jacket off the back of the chair. “Get on the phone to Goldsboro PD and fax 'em a shot of our man, Freddie Holmes,” Wilson ordered.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.” Wilson smiled. “To pack for the trip to the Dirty South.” Then he was out the door.

Slug sat in the back of the Soul Bowl, a famous soul food joint that boasted the best Southern cuisine. He ate there every afternoon and this afternoon was no different. He was enjoying his meal of fried catfish, turnip greens, yams, and cornbread, with a side of coleslaw and French fries. He hadn't seen Freddie in days, since Freddie told him they had been cut off.

* * *

Slug knew there was more to it than Freddie was letting on, but he decided to let it play out. Then a few days ago, he got word that dudes in Wilson were moving major weight. Slug didn't put it past Freddie to cross him out, but he didn't expect it. He hoped he hadn't. Family or no family, if Freddie had cut him out, then it was Freddie who had violated, so no one could blame Slug when he served justice.

Then again, his mental channel changed, maybe it was all for the best. Slug was sharper than Freddie was, and he understood the game's tide. It rolled in and you got wet. The trick was not to get washed away when it rolled back out. Slug understood this, so he had been stacking. And now that he was married, it was time to make a power move to the 'burbs, mow lawns, and parlay. The feds were everywhere, and it was just a matter of time before his name came up, on a humble, and he couldn't see doing a fed bid. He knew Kiki couldn't handle it. She loved him, but she wasn't cut out to bid a stretch. She was the type of woman who needed constant attention, and he planned on being around to give it to her. If Freddie had cut him off, he could make it on his own.

While he was filling his mind with thoughts and his belly with Ms. Jones's good cooking, he heard the jingle of the bell attached to the front door. He looked up and filled his eyes with the full figure of a woman who looked like she had been raised on a steady diet of grits and cornbread, but she wasn't fat by a long shot. She wasn't from around here, either. Her Coogi dress hugged her curves and the split up her left side revealed a succulent, mahogany-toned thigh. Her Manolo Blahnik boots had a four-inch heel sharp enough to stab someone with, and they were clicking in his direction.

She wore a pair of dark Chanel sunglasses that hid her eyes, like Aaliyah used to, and her layered bob accentuated her features. “Slug.” She said his name like she knew him well enough to be comfortable speaking it.

“You askin' me or tellin' me?” he drawled smoothly, wiping chicken grease from his mouth.

She smirked. “May I?” she asked, referring to the chair to his left. Slug nodded and she sat down, taking off her sunglasses, revealing the eyes of a woman with an agenda.

“You don't know me. But I know you, and we both know Freddie.”

“Freddie?” Slug questioned as if he'd never heard the name before.

“Freddie. The ‘five a month' Freddie. Ring any bells?”

Slug now knew whom he was talking to: the connect. He should've figured it was a woman. Now Freddie's attitude about getting cut off made all the sense in the world. Freddie had fucked up, and Slug was about to find out just how bad.

“Don't you mean ‘used to be five a month' Freddie? That river done run dry, li'l mama,” Slug said, taking a bite of turnip greens.

“Well, that depends.”

“On what?”

“On you,” she stated, making ironclad eye contact.

“I'm not sure I'm following you, li'l mama,” Slug replied, wanting the picture made clearer. She understood perfectly.

“As they say, one monkey don't stop no show. What Freddie lost could be your gain,” she explained. “But for you, Slug, whatever the quantity, I'll guarantee it, as long as you traffic it. And I'll give it to you for the same thing Freddie was getting it for: fifteen.”

Slug chuckled. “Son of a bitch. Ol' boy said you was chargin' eighteen, and then you went up to twenty.” Freddie had been playing him the whole time.

“Looks like Freddie was playing us both,” she replied, with an undeniable bitterness that Slug had to question.

“Both?”

She hesitated before she answered. “Ever been in love, Slug?”

He held up his left hand, showing Gina his wedding ring. “Either that or rooted.”

She leaned in closer. “Be good to her, Slug. Because there really is a thin line between love and hate.”

“I'll keep that in mind, but, uh, what's the catch to your proposal?” Slug wanted to know. “I mean, no disrespect but as fine as you are, still, I know you ain't no fairy godmother and it ain't my born day, so what's the catch?”

Without blinking or stuttering, Gina stated firming, “Kidnap that bitch Simone.”

Her words caught Slug off guard. His mind thought she would say something about Freddie, but shorty wasn't playing fair. She was hitting where it hurt.

“I'm not asking for her to be hurt, but if she is that's not my problem. I just want that bitch snatched up, and I want you to ask for a hundred thousand dollars,” she demanded, remembering the amount Freddie told her he had saved. “I want every dime he's got, every dime he made off me.” Her top lip quivered and her voice trembled slightly with a rage that made Slug glad he wasn't in Freddie's shoes.

“You sho' know how to hurt a nigga, don't you, li'l mama?” Slug commented, sucking the meat out of his teeth and pulling out a Newport.

She smiled seductively and narrowed her eyes in an aphrodisiac-like gaze. “I know how to hurt a man,” she cooed, then reached out to touch Slug's face, “but I know how to please one even better.” Then she licked her lips slowly.

Slug moved her hand away from his face. “Dig, shawtie. I damn sho' wish I could find out, but uhhh, no offense, but I see what dick do to you, so I ain't even tryin' to put myself in that position.”

She smiled, appreciating the weight of his statement. “I like you, Slug.”

Gina was working both ends of the East Coast. While she was working out the deal with Slug to kidnap Simone and take all of Freddie's paper, she had a plan working in New Jersey for Freddie.

“I'm comin' yo! Damn!” Cream yelled as he rolled lazily out of bed. He rubbed his face and checked his Cartier watch on the dresser; it was well past noon. He looked around for his wife as the door buzzer rang again. “Kandi, get the fuckin' door!” He got no reply. “Where that bitch at?” he asked out loud as he went down the steps to the front door of his two-story house.

“Kandi, you down here?” Still no reply. He opened the door to the foyer and glanced out the peephole, but he didn't see anyone. “Who da fuck playin' games, yo?” he asked, irritated that he had gotten up to answer the door, but whoever had come was now gone.

Cream opened the door to see if he could catch whoever it was before they left, but he saw no one. All he saw was a car turn the corner. He peeped down the street, but still saw no one.

That's when he looked down at his feet and saw an envelope. He bent over and picked it up. It was sealed but there was no address, no writing on it period. Cream ripped it open and found a picture inside.

It was Freddie.

His blood pressure went through the roof and he scanned the streets again, thinking somebody was playing with him. He looked at the picture again, and then he turned it over. Some handwriting caught his eye:

Cream couldn't believe it. They had been looking for him for months, and now, out of the blue, someone had delivered Freddie to Cream's doorstep, literally. Cream ran inside to call Dante.

Dante was at his crib with a thick, topless redbone in a purple thong. He was taking pictures.

“Come on, ma. This is for my dudes in the feds. Bend over that chair and let 'em see that ass,” he ordered.

She bent over and stuck her ass out real far, as if to kiss the camera with it. “You like this?” she flirted, mimicking fuck faces for the camera.

“Word. Hold up. One more. A'ight, spread that pussy and stick your finger in it,” Dante said.

“Tay, you nasty,” she responded, but did as she was told.

Dante was hard as a rock. “A'ight, take one wit' my dick in your mouth, yo.” He grinned.

“No, Tay! I'm not taking any pictures like that.” She pouted and sat down on the couch.

“Chill, yo,” he said, approaching her and pulling out his dick. “I ain't gonna take it of your face, just of your mouth.”

She looked up at Dante's dick in front of her face. “Just my mouth, Tay!”

“That's what I said, ain't it?” he answered as she slipped her juicy lips around his shaft.

“Luk diz?” she asked, with half her mouth full of Dante's stiff, pulsating dick.

“Naw, the whole thing,” Dante said, making her deep throat him while he took pictures of her whole face.

His Blackberry rang.

“Damn,” he cussed, dropping the camera while the redbone continued to brain him. “Yo,” he barked into the phone, upset at the interruption. “Who this?”

“Cream, yo! Ay, Tay, you ain't gonna believe this shit! I know where that dude Freddie at!”

“Word? Where?” Dante asked, almost ready to cum.

“He down South, son. Down in the Dirty, slippin'!”

“Ay, yo, word to Mannie! We goin' down there today, yo, today! Be ready!” Dante yelled and hung up.

“Who was that?” the redbone asked, now licking around the head of his dick.

“Your clown-ass husband. Hurry up, Kandi, yo. I got a trip to make.”

Simone had long since stopped caring about who Freddie was fucking. She disregarded the hickies, the nights he didn't come home, and the mornings he returned. She even ignored the numbers she found in his pockets, which, instead of throwing away, she laid on his nightstand. The only change was that she made him wear condoms whenever they had sex, which was more and more infrequent. The only thing they had in common was the joyful anticipation of their coming child. She and Freddie would share the experience of their unborn kicking inside her. She would beam proudly, and Freddie would beam, equally proud. Simone didn't carry her grudge with an attitude; she just accepted the situation. If women were stupid enough to give him money, she was cool with spending it.

That morning she had been lying back on the couch, watching
Brown Sugar
on DVD. “So when did you first fall in love with hip-hop?” She loved that movie. While lying there, she heard a knock at the door. She struggled up from the couch thinking Freddie had lost his key again or that maybe it was Kiki. She looked out the peephole and saw a man dressed in brown and a UPS truck in the parking lot.

“Yes?” she said through the door.

“Delivery for Simone Jackson,” he replied dryly.

 

Delivery?
She hadn't ordered anything to be delivered. Then she thought that maybe it was a surprise from Freddie. He did still pamper her. She opened the door. “I'm Simone. Where do I sign?”

“Right there,” was the last thing she heard before the delivery man held a rag up to her face. She felt herself struggle momentarily. Then there was total darkness as she faded out of consciousness.