Authors: Evie Rhodes

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense

Out a Order (3 page)

BOOK: Out a Order

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Chapter 3

T
awney Davenport raced through the emergency room doors. Her hair hung limply in a string of wild-looking curls. Tears streaked her face. Her eyes had a haunting savage look to them. She spotted Shannon drinking a cup of coffee.

The emergency room at Beth Israel Hospital was jam-packed. It was a picture of total chaos. Beth Israel received about eighty thousand annual visits, including approximately twenty-four thousand annual emergency room visits in pediatrics.

This made for a hot bed of emergency medical treatment that was needed at any given time. Located in the heart of Newark, Beth Israel was at its busiest when Tawney ran through its doors.

There were an array of injuries that needed to be attended to, including gunshot wounds, stabbings, domestic abuse, as well as of those who had fallen victim to the savage beast of gangbanging.

Stress was at an all-time high in the neighborhood of Newark, so there were cardiac patients, heart attacks, and a man afflicted with a stroke. High blood pressure was rampant, the silent killer of the black community. It seemed as though the entire city of Newark had turned out for medical treatment.

When Tawney burst through the emergency room doors of Beth Israel, all eyes that could follow her did as she broke through the monotonous wait of pain and suffering.

“Shannon! Oh God, Shannon! Where's my baby? What happened?”

Shannon reached out to gather Tawney in his arms, but she backed away. She knocked the cup of coffee from his hand. Hot coffee splattered all over his shoes.

“Please. Do not touch me. Do not. I want to know what happened to my daughter.”

Again he reached for her. Tawney threw both of her hands in the air. She stepped back. “Just tell me this is a mistake. Tell me you didn't let anybody shoot my baby!”

He dropped his head, not meeting her eyes.

“Look at me, Shannon!”

The white police officer moved forward, but his black partner put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Tawney, Jazz is going to be all right. The doctors are going to make sure.”

Tawney turned her back. The blood was drumming in her ears. She couldn't believe what he'd said. He must be crazy. She turned back, looking at him as though he were stupid.

She started to speak, sputtered, and then tried again. “The doctors. The doctors are going to make sure my baby is all right. It was your job, Shannon, to make sure my baby was all right.”

“The damn doctors are not God! So how would they know? Tell me. How the hell would they know? Hmmm?” Tawney's voice was on high octave, screeching across notes, like that of an opera singer out of control.

Tears shone in Shannon's eyes. His shoulders slumped. He bowed his head. His voice was deep, husky when he spoke. “I'm sorry. She was outside playing with the other kids. The last time I checked she was fine.”

At that moment Peter Connelly, the young doctor, stepped through the doors. He walked over to Shannon. He glanced briefly at Tawney. As if on cue, all noises in the emergency room ceased for the briefest of moments.

The silence was absolutely eerie.

“I want to see my daughter, man. Is she all right? My wife and I want to see her right now.”

Peter's expression turned solemn. His eyes darted in the cops' direction. Briefly they flitted at Tawney. The cops moved closer.

Peter looked at Shannon. “I'm sorry. We did everything we could. She was too far gone.”

Tawney's shrill screams ripped through the air, sending shock waves rippling throughout the room. All motion came to a halt.

“No!” she screamed. “No! Oh God! No! It can't be. My baby is dead. Jazz is dead. I want to see Jazz. Jazz!”

She broke into a run. Everyone ran behind her. She burst through the doors. She saw her daughter lying silently where she had been left. “Jazz. Jazz. Jazz, wake up. It's Mommy. I'm here. Jazz, it's time to wake up now. Come on, Jazz, we have to go home.”

Her mind screamed, one long shrieking wail. She couldn't hear herself think. The screaming was too loud. Insanity seized hold of her brain, and for a moment she thought she would faint. But she had to stay on her feet. She had to be there for her baby. She took a deep breath and with it a tentative step toward the remains of her child.

When she reached the bed she looked at the blood-drenched sheets in horror, her face crumbled as though it were only a mask held together by a flimsy foundation. She looked at her little girl's face. Her own became a portrait of wretched, heart-wrenching despair.

She put her face close to Jazz's. She lifted a dead arm to put around her neck. Jazz's arm fell back to the bed. Tawney tried again, this time holding Jazz's arm in place. She put her nose against the child's neck, where a warm pulse should have been beating.

They all looked on. There was nothing to say. Anything said would be the worst type of intrusion. Shannon stood alone with a blank look in his eyes as he watched Tawney holding their dead daughter.

“Jazz, wake up so Mommy can take you home,” Tawney whispered to the little girl. At those words Shannon turned away. Pain sliced through him, as though someone had gutted him with a shiv.

The black police officer touched Shannon on the shoulder. “Mr. Davenport, I'm sorry but we need to ask you a few questions. Would you mind stepping out with us?” Shannon gazed at his wife and daughter, and then shot Dr. Connelly a look.

The doctor lifted his chin for Shannon to go. He moved closer to Tawney, who was still holding and whispering to her daughter.

Another child lost in the belly of the beast.

Chapter 4

T
he police led Shannon to a small office that was cramped and tight, which they used as a miniheadquarters on the premises of the hospital. There was a single lightbulb, a desk, and a couple of chairs.

It was definitely not the friendliest of environments. It was certainly not an environment for a grieving parent who had lost a child.

“Have a seat, Shannon. I'm Officer Campbell. My partner here is Officer Lombardo,” the black police officer said.

Shannon took a seat. Campbell perched on the edge of the desk. He pulled a pad and pen from his pocket. Lombardo chose to stand in the corner.

“I'm sorry to have to put you through this so soon after the shooting of your daughter. But the quicker we move, the better chance we have of catching her killer. Mr. Davenport, do you know who shot your daughter?” Officer Campbell said.

Shannon laughed. “If I knew who shot my daughter, do you think I'd be sitting here?”

Officer Lombardo jumped in. “It's our job to catch the person who shot her, Mr. Davenport. Not yours.”

“Naw, my man. It was your job to provide safe streets before this happened. Now she's dead, so that means you don't have a job.”

Lombardo leaped from his corner. “Just what the hell does that mean? We do everything we can.”

Shannon was on his feet, shaking with rage. “Everything wasn't good enough. Was it, Lombardo? Because if it was, my wife wouldn't be holding a dead child in her arms.”

Lombardo was awash with guilt, frustration, and rage. The streets of Newark were a ticking time bomb. He had no desire to carry the full weight of it on his shoulders. Still, the combination of squalor and the cash-rich streets irked him in a place that he'd rather not visit.

New Jersey had a 130-mile coastline and two major seaports, New York/New Jersey and Philadelphia/Camden. Port Newark and the Elizabeth Port Authority Marine Terminal, part of the New York/New Jersey Seaport, together constituted one of the largest containerized port complexes in North America.

As a result the streets of Newark were a cash-rich, criminal enterprise, with an undetermined amount of drug traffic crisscrossing the city. The bottom-line result was that Newark's crime rate was more than two times the national average.

The helplessness of the situation washed over Lombardo. He lashed out at Shannon. “Those are your streets and your neighborhoods. What the hell are you doing about it? I don't see you people doing a damn thing but complaining.”

Campbell slid off the desk. He couldn't believe Lombardo had gone there. He had said, “You people.” Any fool of a different race knew better than to use that term.

He couldn't believe Lombardo had let his anger get the better of him, although he was known to be a bit touchy, as well as a bit of a hotshot on the streets.

Campbell's face was dark with an unnamed emotion. Lombardo had committed an unpardonable offense. Campbell quickly closed the distance between them. “You're out of line, Officer,” he spat at him through clenched teeth.

He stared Lombardo down until he had the decency to look away. Realizing his offense, Lombardo clamped his mouth shut. He yanked the chair from under the desk. He paused with his hand on it.

The tension grew.

A spot of spittle appeared in the corner of Shannon's mouth as he gazed at Lombardo in impotent rage. His fist was clenched rock hard at his side. He was so mad a tremor raced through his body. This bastard had balls, and Shannon was just the one to chop them off for him.

“What's up?” Shannon said in a nasty gutter tone.

Lombardo released the chair. “Whatever you want it to be.”

Campbell saw a flash of impending doom. Whether the two of them realized it or not they were both frustrated by the same statistics. But their being on opposite sides of the race card was making this territory shaky ground.

He stepped between the two of them. “Enough.”

“Naw. You ain't seen enough yet. But you will.” Shannon looked Lombardo up and down. He stormed to the door and threw a last malicious look over his shoulder, before slamming the door shut behind him.

Campbell threw his pad and pen to the floor. He kicked over one of the chairs in frustration. He'd heard about the shooting of the little girl on the police scanner before she'd arrived at Beth Israel Hospital. Her murder was sheer savagery at its worst. Another grandstand play in the Central Ward.

Jasmine Davenport had been a beautiful little black girl with red ribbons all tied in her hair.

Now all that would be seen of her was another hood memorial of balloons, candles, flowers, and ribbons tied on the street corner. The ghetto equivalent for remembering. Another innocent child lost in the jungle.

It felt like these memorials were all over the Central Ward, and he was tired of seeing them. They were enough to make you want to lie down and weep.

They represented loss and despair, but primarily they represented hope lost, life reduced to the ashes of a symbol. It was a constant reminder that they weren't winning the war.

And a war it was, although nobody took responsibility for declaring it. They were fighting an unseen enemy.

It was tragic beyond endurance, and all it did was sow hatred in the hearts of more men, creating a disturbance like the one that had just transpired between Shannon Davenport and Lombardo.

This was a ticking time bomb. Jasmine Davenport's death would prove to be a catalyst to a pot that was already boiling over.

Lombardo stared at the closed door that Shannon Davenport had left behind him, with open hatred beaming from his eyes. This man didn't have any respect for authority, but Lombardo planned to help him learn it before this was all over.

Shannon Davenport was skirting dangerous ground, very, very dangerous. He was skating on thin ice. And Lombardo knew that this ice couldn't take another blow before it began to crack.

Chapter 5

T
hat night a gang of young men gathered in Rico's basement. The room had an air of masculinity about it. The furnishings were bare, but the room contained an awesome stereo system. A big sixty-inch screen TV, a huge pool table along with a club-size pinball machine.

The room was jammed. There was an air of coiled tenseness. All of the young men were strapped. They had the doors covered, as well as the windows. At the slightest movement, they would blow someone away without hesitation.

Two of them were playing pool. One of them in particular stood out. His name was Eight Ball. He had a bald head, two gold earrings, and glasses. Tattoos were visible on his muscular biceps.

His voice was a deep baritone. He sounded like a bass instrument whenever he spoke. He was Rico's right-hand man. They were very close friends.

T-Bone was also a trusted confidant of Rico's. He was a likable kind of guy, built like a linebacker. He leaned forward and took a shot, sending a ball into a side pocket.

In his excitement over the shot, he accidentally kicked over a library bag with books in it. Some of the books spilled onto the floor.

Eight Ball sighed. “Yo, man, pick up the books.”

T-Bone laughed while picking them up. “Chill, man. They ain't gold.”

Eight Ball gave him a strange look. “What's considered gold is different for every man, son.”

“That might be. But I'd prefer to see mine in gold bars.”

Laughter erupted.

There was a slight knock on the basement door. It was opened by a crew member to admit a short pretty young woman named Kesha. She was Rico's lady. She came in carrying a chubby baby girl who was fifteen months old, named Ebony.

Kesha scanned the room. The vibes made the hair on her arms bristle. She wasn't big on Rico's lifestyle. She was actually a nineteen-year-old straight-A student at Rutgers University, majoring in business.

However, she loved roughneck thugs, and Rico fit the bill hands down. He'd talked his way into her pants and she'd gotten pregnant, so here she was.

She knew he was a gangster, but she tried to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye while walking a thin line between both worlds. In the process she reaped the benefits of his ability to generate major paper.

The truth be told, this was part of what had seduced her in the first place.

She was a bright girl intellectually, but she liked to show off for her girlfriends. Rico kept her pockets stuffed with cash, bought her a Jeep to cruise in, and had her hair freshly styled in the top salons every week. She also received the latest in spa manicures and pedicures. So homegirl was sprung.

She had it like that, and liked to flaunt it to all her friends. She knew they were jealous because she had snagged this ghetto player, and she liked to keep it like that. She wanted to be top dog and untouchable among them.

The present atmosphere that was making the hair stand up on her arms was just part of the payment. She figured when she graduated from the university with her degree she'd get out and her real life could begin.

A nigga couldn't holla at her because he had paper, then because she'd be generating her own paper, and with her talent for business economics she'd be gracing the front pages of
Business Week
and
Black Enterprise
magazines and others like them in about six years.

She walked up to Rico, managing a smile. “Ebony wanted to say good night to her daddy.”

Rico chucked the little girl under her chin. He cooed at her.

“Dadda,” Ebony said. He took the baby girl in his arms. He held her high in the air, which she loved, so she kicked and squealed. Finally, he planted a kiss on one chubby cheek, then handed her back to her mother.

“I'll be up soon, Key. Okay?” he said, using his nickname for her. He was the only person who called her Key and he knew it always softened her up. Rico knew she was disturbed by the heavy gang presence in and around the house, as well as the presence covering the street, but it was necessary.

Kesha nodded and headed back the way she had come. Rico watched her walk away.

Ebony smiled. She reached out a hand for him. As soon as the door closed behind them Rico dropped the mask and paced the room agitatedly. He watched the pool game, not really seeing it, between Eight Ball and T-Bone.

Temaine slouched back in a chair with a moody expression on his face. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. He sucked sullenly on his ever-present piece of licorice.

A telephone rang. Rico reached into his pocket, placing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said.

Dickie's voice floated over the wire. He too was a trusted member of Rico's crew. In their world he was called Eyes and Ears. His job was similar to that of a newscaster. He gathered the facts. He reported, pure and simple.

His profile was low, and no one knew who Eyes and Ears was accept a chosen few. In the present climate of the Central Ward the only person who knew who Dickie was was Rico.

The created distance insured his life span. The information insured his cash flow.

“Word's in my, man. The little sister's lights are out. She's dead.”

Rico continued pacing. He stopped in front of Eight Ball. Eight Ball stared at Rico intently. His eyes flashed behind his glasses. He leaned his pool stick on the table.

“And?” Rico said into the phone.

“Ballistic has decided to draw first blood. Yours, man. He hired an independent. Spence Parkinson. He's our triggerman. Mr. Rooftop himself.”

A cold smile crept across Rico's face. He clicked off. Eight Ball stood ready.

Rico stared deep into Eight Ball's eyes. “Spence Parkinson is the hit man. He missed. The accident is going to cost him, man, 'cause we don't be hitting no kids. It's a violation of the most sacred street law.”

Rico picked up a pool stick. He broke it over his knee.

“For starters I want Spence
dead!
This is my turf, man. I created the ground these niggas are standing on. I'm getting serious paid. I'm the only bankroller on these streets, dawg. Ballistic can't have it. All he's going to get is air shipment in a body bag to his mama's house in Irvington. Understand?”

Rico paced the room again. “Damn. I watched that little girl grow up. We'll be at the funeral at a distance. Leak the word on the street. Spence will take another shot. When he does you'll take him out. You're gonna have to get off the streets after the hit.”

Eight Ball nodded.

“Spence is just a weak-ass punk. Ballistic will get my message,” Rico continued. “I'll take care of Ballistic in my own time. You can consider that nigga history walking for now. In a New York minute I'm gonna erase that history, and he's gonna see death. Word.”

“Where you want Spence buried?” Eight Ball asked.

“Right beside the Davenport girl.” Rico looked at Temaine.

“My nigga.” Temaine smiled.

BOOK: Out a Order

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