Out a Order (2 page)
Chapter 1
A
isha Jackson ran up to Jasmine. She tagged her. “You're it,” she shouted.
isha Jackson ran up to Jasmine. She tagged her. “You're it,” she shouted.
Jasmine stomped her foot, starting to count. “Ten, nine, eight, seven, six . . .”
The kids squealed, laughing. They ran to find hiding places. At the corner of the block several young men were hanging out.
Standing on the corner of Muhammad Ali Boulevard and 18
th
Avenue as though he owned it, and everything within its range, was Temaine Perry, who was seventeen years old.
th
Avenue as though he owned it, and everything within its range, was Temaine Perry, who was seventeen years old.
He was a tall, rangy, wiry youth, with an edgy, moody personality. His dark edge was a source of attraction, but his restlessness was a magnet of trouble.
Never one to miss a shot he said, “Man, Ballistic is trying to roll down on niggas. It's time to drop that nigga. He can't get no action on this turf. That punk is from Irvington. How does he think he's gonna get a slice of Newark's pie? This is Port Newark, baby. We is running things up in here.”
Rico DeLeon Hudson was nineteen years old. He was serious, methodical, and as territorial as a panther, roaming the jungle. Although he was a good two inches shorter than Temaine's six feet one inches, there was no doubt he was the leader. He was persona grataârespected, awed, and not to be played with.
Rico had been dodging bullets, running the streets, and true to da game since he was twelve years old. He had also always been the leader.
Everybody who was anybody on the streets knew Rico, who sported a nappy Afro that was always groomed to perfection. His face was angular, sleek, and his eyes emitted one truth, if one looked closely enough. That truth was death. It sprang from the depths of his eyes as lithe as a panther.
His deception was the seeming innocence that oozed from him. He was a mother's nightmare. A slick sheen of charm covered the veneer of who he really was.
Underneath the veneer of innocence was a cold, cruel, calculating mind. He was of a generation that had to have it all, right now, by any means necessary. Coming in second was not an option.
Rico stared at Temaine. They had been running the streets together since elementary school. They had taken a blood oath to always have each other's back. Rico, who was always dressed in the latest sports gear, tugged at the collar of his leather jacket.
He straightened the hood on the jacket and then stuffed his hands in his pockets. He stepped to the curb swearing under his breath.
High up on a roof Spence Parkinson was dressed in black, complete with a black cap pulled low covering his forehead. He aimed the weapon with the scope at Rico. Rico stepped into sharp focus. Spence nodded his head slightly.
Jasmine shouted even louder, “Five, four, three, two . . .” She ran toward the corner. Spence hoisted and balanced the weapon. He zoomed in. The scope teetered back and forth.
Rico stooped down on the side of Temaine. The scope followed him. The red dot centered on his heart. Jasmine careened into Rico, shouting, “One!”
Rico jumped back.
The rifle kicked, and the blast let loose, ripping through the girl-child, Jasmine. Her arms spread like the wings of an angel, her body airborne. The blast lifted her off her feet, knocking her to the ground.
Rico's crew ducked and ran. Kids screamed. A high-pitched wail sliced through air. Rico did not know whose it was, but it shattered him in a deep secret place.
The entire incident had happened in a split second. For an instant every bit of noise on the street became a deafening silence. The kids running up and down froze as though someone had shouted, “Freeze frame.”
Rico rolled Jasmine over, staring into the dull expression on the little girl's face. Though it was out of character for him, gently he cradled her in his arms, running a hand through her hair. Blood smeared all over his leather jacket, and the acrid smell of the blood and gunpowder drifted up into his nostrils.
Temaine was bugging. What the hell was Rico doing? He tugged on Rico's jacket. “Let her go, man! Come on! We've got to raise up out of here!”
At the sound of Temaine's voice, Rico recovered, jumping to his feet. They cleared the area as though they had never been in existence. In an instant they were ghost.
A crowd gathered in the street. Jasmine lay faceup on the concrete, where Rico had dropped her. Marcus Simms, who was ten years old and Jasmine's best friend, stared at her lying on the ground.
He trembled as he saw her blood seep into the dirty gutter. He watched it trickle and spill down into the sewer at the edge of the curb.
Her eyes were sightless. Her face was expressionless. She resembled a porcelain doll that had been abandoned in someone's wake. Although the air had been still a moment ago, the trees now shook with an unknown spirit.
Marcus stared into the trees, watching what amounted to a mist until it disappeared. He heard an unearthly shrieking that pierced the core of his being.
Although he couldn't quite make out the words that were being shrieked it sounded like something scraping across glass. The sound was high-pitched and shattering.
From the corner of his eye he saw a huge pair of black wings flapping, or he thought he did. He blinked. It was gone.
He turned back to the shell that was Jasmine Davenport. Frozen in place, he did not move. Unconsciously he whispered, “Someone please call 911,” knowing that in his neighborhood that's all it was, a call, a disembodied voice on a wire. There was no real savior for them on the other end of the line. That thought sent a tear chasing a spot of dirt down Marcus's cheek.
They were standing on shaky ground. That ground was Newark, New Jersey. The Central Ward. Newark's Central Ward was legendary even among the dark and dangerous.
The most curious thing about the Central Ward was the level of cohabitation.
It was home to some of the most notorious, ruthless thugs breathing, as well as to those who were regular citizens struggling for upward mobility.
And of course there was always the low income, those who were simply trapped. Not having any paper to spread around meant they were not captains of their own existence.
They were the forgotten victims sitting on a patch of dirt that society at large had basically given up on, victims of those who knew how to drain money out of misery and were raking in the cream, at the expense of the downtrodden and defenseless.
There were housing apartment complexes that you simply couldn't go in. There were pockets of the Central Ward where death lurked in every corner and crevice. In almost every sound there was the click of a gun barrel, the sliding of a clip or laser rays that tracked human heart beats.
And your own shadow was something you wouldn't see. If you saw a shadow, most likely it would be a silhouette of death.
There were projects where a person could disappear, never to be heard from again. Many a skeleton cried out from behind the cement walls. The projects had their own roaming securityâpacks of young boys ranging in age from eight to fourteen, had it locked down. Corporate America had never employed security that was as tight as this.
Coexisting right alongside the older apartment complexes were new developments with landscaped lawns, barbecue grills, and bright shiny new Cadillac Escalades in the driveways.
There was a very conflicting contrast between someone trying to make a change, as the new developments were testament to, and those who would not change one iota.
There were those who were as forgotten as the older dilapidated buildings, people leaning out of the windows on hot days, gunshots ringing out from the hallways, or blood flung against the walls.
And even the least of the animals in a jungle knew that it was the fittest of the fit that survived. But these were not animals, these were people. They were living, breathing souls, all trying to survive. In some cases they were trying to survive in surroundings not fit for human habitation and in conditions that should long ago not have existed.
In the final scheme of things the Central Ward was not about surviving. On the surface it appeared to be, but it wasn't. You weren't surviving if you were scared to death, trapped, and couldn't get out. You were just one of the living dead. And in this death there was no light.
The mechanism for survival had died long ago; this was defeat, existing but never living. The Central Ward was actually about law and lawlessness, and what the rulers thereof decided.
On the corners of these streets the churches, the bodegas, the liquor stores competed for passing bodies. Needless to say the churches weren't winning out. And no one could really figure out why.
The churches were dying on the same corners as the people, since there was a lack of youth to fill the inside pews. There were barely any children to add their voices to the choir.
Although the body drops were occurring at an alarming rate, there were no bodies to fill up the pews in search of salvation, freedom, or hope. An entire two generations were missing from the churches.
Business at Perry and Whigham funeral homes, which were located around the corner from each other, was at an all-time high. They were raking in the remains of what the churches did not. Death had become a profitable business in the black community.
Death was the only real means of escape. It was, for some, the only way to get out.
And then there was the darknessâit sprouted from the souls of men, it danced in their blood spilled in the streets, and it permeated the very air they breathed.
They lived with darkness on a daily basis, even when the sun was shining. Yet they didn't see it and couldn't really comprehend it. Darkness had become an invisible shroud.
They didn't know what it truly was. And they didn't know its name. Not really, because they didn't believe in the savior, they didn't believe they could combat the darkness.
They thought that was just the way it was. Deceit was at its highest level, the players being played because they didn't believe they had the power to change it. And if you didn't believe in power you couldn't receive it.
Such was the Central Ward.
The tragedy of it was they didn't see it. Couldn't see it. God, why couldn't they see it? Death was an alternate escape route.
Little Jasmine Davenport had escaped. Marcus Simms, who sat watching her lifeblood disappear into the sewer, had seen but as of yet he didn't know what he'd seen.
“Someone please call 911,” he whispered for the second time that day into an empty pit where no one seemed to answer. His voice was a small echo in a really big abyss.
After all, this was the Central Ward. There really wasn't any hurry. Was there?
Jasmine Davenport was only one of the children who were lost. And she could count herself lucky because she had escaped with her soul.
There were many others who would not.
Welcome to the Central Ward.
And be forewarned, you will need to see with your spirit, not just with your eyes.
Upon this reading you have crossed a realm and entered a different world. It is a world that coexists by its own laws.
And that world is in and of itself OUT “A” ORDER! Believe that.
Chapter 2
F
inally there was a rush for the little, dead black girl in the vehicle with the red flashing lights. The ambulance carrying Jasmine screeched to a halt in front of Beth Israel Hospital. The lights flashed. The sirens rang out full blast.
inally there was a rush for the little, dead black girl in the vehicle with the red flashing lights. The ambulance carrying Jasmine screeched to a halt in front of Beth Israel Hospital. The lights flashed. The sirens rang out full blast.
And the equivalent of a black beast passed in their midst, invisibly viewing the spoils of its own revenge. Its latest carcass was little Jasmine Davenport.
The medical attendants jumped out of the back door. They hauled the stretcher holding Jasmine, with breakneck speed, through the emergency room doors. They were a day late and a dollar short, but the appearance of saving a life needed to go on.
Jasmine's daddy, Shannon Davenport, thirty-six years old, a tall, slim man, was right on their heels. Fire, devastation, and despair were competing with each other from under his heavily lashed eyes.
He had insisted they bring his daughter to Beth Israel, although UMDNJ was where she should have gone. In retrospect he would realize this request was nothing more than misplaced pride and authority in a situation in which he'd had absolutely no control.
The medical attendants hauled the stretcher through another set of doors. He did not miss a step. He was right behind them.
A young doctor blocked his path. “I'm sorry, you can't go in there.”
He pushed the doctor with brute force. He flew backward, landing on his behind. As Shannon reached down to grab him by his collar, a white police officer in uniform issued a choke hold on him from behind.
He dropped low, elbowing the cop in a soft spot, breaking the hold. The cop landed on the floor with the breath knocked out of him.
The doctor scrambled to his feet, looking a little dazed. A short distance away a black uniformed officer watched the unfolding scene with interest. He saw his partner put his hand on his gun.
Deciding it was definitely time to swing into action, he ran over to where the commotion was taking place. “That's enough. You just hold it right there,” he said to Shannon Davenport. He put out a warning hand to keep him in his place while helping his partner to his feet with the other hand.
“Now, just who are you?” he said.
“I'll tell you who he is. He's a stupid punk who's going to jail,” the officer who had been knocked to the floor said.
Shannon glared at him. “When hell freezes over.”
The doctor, not liking where this was heading, spoke up. “Just a minute. Maybe I can be of some help here. Are you with the little girl who was just brought in?”
“Yeah.”
“What's your name?” the doctor said.
“Shannon. Shannon Davenport. That's my little girl in there. I need to know that she's going to be okay.”
The police officers relaxed. This man was one of the many distraught parents they ran into when they were working the emergency room shift. Although they did not like his actions, under the circumstances they decided to forgive them for the time being.
The officer who had been knocked to the ground said, “I'm sorry. I didn't know. No harm done. Okay?”
Shannon nodded.
The black officer sighed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling.
“Mr. Davenport, your daughter was radioed in as critical. It only complicates things to have people in the room who are not part of the procedure. Just let us try to stabilize her first. I promise as soon as she is stable I will personally come out and talk to you. Okay?”
He put a soothing hand on Shannon's shoulder. Shannon nodded. His face was etched in grief, a picture of both gut-wrenching hope and the truth hovering behind denial.
“How about a cup of coffee while you wait?” the black officer said.
“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”
Behind the closed doors Jasmine lay in a bed on a mound of white sheets and blankets. Blood was staining the hospital linen at an alarming rate. The atmosphere was tense. They had hooked her up to monitors. Tubes were protruding from her arms and mouth.
A small platoon of doctors diligently worked on her. A number of nurses assisted. They did everything they could to restore life to the little girl's lifeless body, but it was to no avail. Finally they had exhausted every possibility.
The young doctor who Shannon Davenport had knocked to the floor looked at the monitor, seeing the flat line. He ran a hand through his hair.
He bowed his head in despair. “Damn. Not again.” He glanced at the small, still face of the little girl. She was a beautiful child who had turned out to be another body drop.
“She's gone. The truth of the matter is she was gone when she got here. But we had to try,” an older doctor said.
The doctors and nurses slid off their masks. They removed their bloodstained rubber gloves. Someone turned off the pump and various machines, silencing the low hum that had been emitting throughout the room.
The older doctor, sensing the young doctor's despair, put a hand on his shoulder. The young doctor shrugged it off. “This is the third child in a month.”
He walked over and glanced at Jasmine's chart. “From the same neighborhood.
What the hell is going on over there?
What kind of monsters gun down children in broad daylight?”
What the hell is going on over there?
What kind of monsters gun down children in broad daylight?”
The older doctor sighed. “Look, Peter, there's nothing we can do except try to save their lives when they arrive.”
“Someone needs to do that before they arrive, Dr. Spinelli. Because by the time they arrive, most of the time it's too late.”
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