Out a Order (5 page)
Chapter 8
A
t a deserted warehouse in the Ironbound section of Newark, four young men stood outside a steel door. All of them were underlings, reporting to Ballistic. Unlike so many of the other gangs in the area, they didn't have a name or a moniker.
t a deserted warehouse in the Ironbound section of Newark, four young men stood outside a steel door. All of them were underlings, reporting to Ballistic. Unlike so many of the other gangs in the area, they didn't have a name or a moniker.
The only thing close to a moniker that their activities resided under was Ballistic. It was enough to inspire fear, even in those who claimed otherwise.
Ballistic was the grungiest of Newark's crime lords. In the truest of traditions, he was a combination of street thug, old-school Mafia, and the new-millennium criminal enterprise entrepreneurs rising in Newark.
He was one of the savviest, and hands down the most dangerous thug to ever grace Newark's streets.
Ballistic was the Central Ward. He was spawned from its loins although he'd come from Irvington. He was a product of what the Central Ward represented in every aspect of the word. The two couldn't be separated. The Central Ward was targeted, spirited ground. And Ballistic was at the other end of its umbilical cord.
Born in Newark, raised in Irvington, he had moved on to the Newark turf with a simple plan. One was to take over. Two was to turn anybody who got in his way into a corpse. Plain and simple.
He wasn't taking no shorts.
Trey, a sullen-looking young man of seventeen, sauntered up to the small crowd. Neither one of these boys nor the ones in Rico's group was older than nineteen.
“What's up?” Trey said.
Bobby removed the hood of his sweatshirt. His eyes bored into Trey. They shook hands. “You black. You and my man Ballistic.” He nodded toward the warehouse.
Warren P. stepped up to Trey. “What's up, money grip? You be summoned by the man too, I see.”
Trey nodded briefly. “What's the level on this scene?”
“Spence caught a bad hit. Got body-dropped into the Davenport girl's spot in the ground. The heat is on.”
“Where was his cover? I heard about the accident with the li'l girl. Not good.” Trey lit a blunt. He blew smoke rings in the air.
Warren P. laughed sarcastically. “Wasn't no cover, Trey. Nigga went buck wild crazy and decided to do a solo. Ballistic don't accept no misses. My man Rico had his ground covered.”
At that moment a discreet-sounding buzzer went off. The young men entered the warehouse. Trey put out the blunt with the toe of his boot.
They all filed quietly down a long dark corridor until they reached an open space in the warehouse. There was one chair in the room with the back turned, among a scattering of crates.
A huge muscle-bound German shepherd sat with danger generating from his eyes. He sat at attention watching the men enter.
The room was dark and dank with a single bulb hanging from a suspended wire in the ceiling. They stood at attention until the figure in the chair turned to face them. When he did he stared coldly, while lovingly stroking the dog's head.
Ballistic had a hole in his throat with a breathing tube attached to it. His voice when he spoke was deep and raspy. His eyes sparkled like dark black diamond chips.
He was holding a black cane with a wood handle. He surveyed each of the young men standing before him individually, coldly.
“You niggas think that I am somebody to be toyed with?”
There was a collective shaking of heads as they shifted uneasily in their spots. They knew better than to speak.
“Someone is trying to make a fool of me?”
Complete silence from the crew.
He rose from his seat but not before kissing the top of the dog's head. He rubbed the dog's nose. He walked the room with a noticeable limp. He was dependent on the cane.
The dog sat stock-still. Only his eyes moved while following Ballistic.
“I am not happy with Rico DeLeon Hudson's message to me. Understood? The income from that turf he cannot keep. Because I am king of this patch of land. No?”
He walked up to where he could smell the breath of the first boy he approached. He looked so deeply into the boy's eyes that he could see the blackness of his soul. He continued this ritual until he reached the fifth boy in line.
As he stepped back without warning, his cane whipped through the air. The sharp point of it landed in the heart of the fifth boy. The boy dropped dead without so much as a sound to the concrete floor.
Bobby, Warren P., and Trey stared straight ahead as well as the fourth man in line. Ballistic snorted. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket.
He blew his nose, sticking the handkerchief back in his pocket. Then he limped his way down the line, back the way he had come.
He halted in front of Trey.
“I want a fear deeper than the depths of hell to fall on Rico in under twenty-four hours.” He raised an eyebrow at Trey. Trey stared at him with deadpan eyes. He gave a slight nod.
Ballistic twirled the cane. Trey didn't flinch. He spat a wad of phlegm at Warren P.'s feet. A gurgling sound emitted from the tube in his throat. Warren P. didn't appear to have noticed. Ballistic's gaze found the fourth man. “Clean it up.”
The fourth young man stepped past him to do so. Ballistic grunted in disgust. He shook his head before putting his Glock to the base of the young man's head. Then he fired. The body dropped at Warren P.'s feet.
“Five is too many. All I need is three. Trey, Warren, and Bobby. Understood?”
He turned on his cane, limping from the room. The dog gave them a brief look, before trotting behind his master out of the room.
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You are listening, aren't you? You should begin to listen with your inner audio as well as your outer audio. You will need more than just your ears to hear.
We're no longer in your world. We're in the Central Ward. And the Central Ward is in and of itself Out A' Order.
Chapter 9
L
ombardo glared through the one-sided mirror, with a look of disgust on his face. He didn't know why Campbell insisted on treating Shannon Davenport with kid gloves.
ombardo glared through the one-sided mirror, with a look of disgust on his face. He didn't know why Campbell insisted on treating Shannon Davenport with kid gloves.
He watched Shannon and Campbell spar off across the table from each other in the interrogation room.
“I can't help you if you won't talk to me,” Campbell said.
“You can't help me if I do talk to you,” Shannon shot back.
“Who shot your daughter, Shannon? May I call you Shannon?”
“Whatever.”
Campbell sighed. He rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Shannon, who shot your daughter?”
“I don't know.”
“Who shot the boy at your daughter's funeral?”
“I don't know.”
“Can you describe him?”
“No.”
Campbell stood up. He leaned across the table in Shannon's face. “I have eyewitnesses who say he stood as close to you as I am right now. And you don't know what he looks like?”
“No.”
Campbell changed tactics. He sat back down. In a friendlier tone he asked, “Who shot up your bedroom tonight?”
“I don't know.”
“Any idea why someone would feel the need to plaster your bedroom with bullet holes?”
Shannon shifted uneasily in his chair. Lombardo listened intently on the other side of the glass. Shannon tossed a hostile look at the mirror on his side of the room.
“Maybe they don't like my decorating. Actually, I was hoping you might tell me that. You're the investigating officer.”
Campbell got to his feet. He paced the room. “I'm growing weary of playing these word games with ya, black. Just so ya know.”
Shannon warmed to the sound of the street code. Finally this cop was speaking his language. “Now we're on the same page, my brother. 'Cause I'm getting sick of you and Rambo pissing off in the wrong direction.”
There was a discreet knock at the door.
Campbell opened it. He stepped into the hall. A policewoman handed Campbell a sheet of paper. “There's no sheet on the wife. She's clean. She's a very hardworking young lady. Holds down a respectable managerial position in the bank. Appears to have married wrong, though. I guess you already know the husband has a different story.”
“Yeah. It's pretty much what I expected. But I can't afford to leave any rocks unturned. Know what I mean?”
The policewoman nodded. Lombardo appeared. He was itching to get in Shannon's face. “Let me take a shot at him, Campbell.”
Campbell and Lombardo entered the interrogation room together. “I have a couple of questions for you,” Lombardo said.
Shannon stood up. “I ain't got no answers for you.”
Lombardo ignored him. “You have plenty of quirky little incidents that I could drive a tractor trailer through. For instance, why would someone shoot at you after your little girl's funeral?”
Lombardo paused, then continued. “And why would Spence Parkinson's body be dropped into Jasmine's grave?” Lombardo shrugged. “Like maybe Spence killed Jasmine. Revenge or a deal gone bad.”
Shannon refused to utter a word. Lombardo moved closer to Shannon. “And maybe you hired my boy at the cemetery to kill Spence. A little revenge of your own?”
Shannon's eyes shot sparks. “Are you charging me with something?”
“No.”
“Do you have a reason to hold me?”
“Not yet.”
Shannon smiled. “You want me, hunter?”
Lombardo shrugged. “Not unless you step out of line.”
Shannon walked to the door. “You don't draw my lines, Little Italy, I do. You're barking up the wrong tree, hunter. You should be out beating the bushes. Any young rookie knows that.”
It was Lombardo's turn to smile. “Don't let it worry you. I'm there too.”
“Well, make sure you don't step up behind the wrong bush,” Shannon issued him a veiled threat.
Campbell stepped in. “You've got eight untraceable years, supposedly clean, Shannon. My advice to you is to keep it that way.”
“When I want your advice I'll be sure to run right down to get it, my man. Count on it.” Shannon stepped through the door, closing it behind him.
“Any word on the street?” Campbell said to Lombardo.
“Not yet.”
“I want to know who killed Jasmine Davenport and why.”
“Yeah. It's going to be a sad day if we find her father on the other side of the trigger.”
“I guess we better start beating the rookie bushes,” Campbell said. “You never know what you might shake out of one.”
They both grinned.
Chapter 10
T
awney sat behind her desk in the bank staring at the untouched game of solitaire. Her fingers played out a rhythmic tap dance against her mouse. Her concentration was nonexistent, a thing of the past.
awney sat behind her desk in the bank staring at the untouched game of solitaire. Her fingers played out a rhythmic tap dance against her mouse. Her concentration was nonexistent, a thing of the past.
Her office was full of assorted flowers from her colleagues as well as her staff showing their sympathy. Just looking at them made her want to throw up. She practically gagged at the smell of them.
But it would be rude to just throw them in the trash, which is what she felt like doing, while screaming at the top of her lungs. She had never been this edgy in her life.
The loss of her daughter made her feel as though she were walking around in a nightmare. Waves of blackness covered her skin like a veil.
It was hard to believe she would never hold Jazz again in her arms. Or nuzzle the warm spot in her neck. Or watch her run down the street. She wished she hadn't gone there with that thought because it conjured up images of her child being gunned down like a dog in the street.
Whatever.
It was just inconceivable that Jazz was gone. Wrenched from her grasp, while she had been sitting in some damn office, having a normal day. Probably in some mundane meeting, while the life was being snuffed out of her child. It was a complete travesty.
There was a light tap on her office door. She looked up to see Shonda Hunt, who was a member of her staff. Shonda looked at her timidly, “I'm really sorry to disturb you, Tawney. I just wanted . . .”
Tawney waved her into the office. She was trying hard not to be the witch on wheels she was feeling like. She really wanted to tell Shonda to get the hell away from her door.
But that was just not appropriate. Instead she said, “Come on in, Shonda,” her voice relaying a calm politeness she did not feel.
Shonda perched on the edge of the chair in front of Tawney's desk. She cleared her throat. “I just wanted to say I'm sorry for your loss. If there's anything I can do . . .”
“No. There's nothing. Thank you for offering.”
Gazing at Tawney, Shonda wondered what the hell Shannon Davenport saw in this cardboard, wannabe fashion statement. So she was player hating. So what? She had met Shannon Davenport at last year's office party and she couldn't help but wonder. He was fine as wine.
Tawney's skin, while a carmel brown, was surrounded by a halo of blond hair that flowed past her shoulders. Cat-green eyes completed the picture in a face accented with high cheekbones, indicating a possible Indian heritage somewhere in her genes.
Shonda wanted to throw something at this Oreo cookie, which was all black on the outside and white on the inside. Tawney was tall and slim with a shapely build. She gave off a picture of flawlessness.
Shonda knew better.
Tawney was in fact smooth, intellectual, and corporate with the hots for gangster-type men. Her image was a facade for corporate America, so she could get paid, but it didn't fool Shonda one bit.
Shonda would bet her bottom dollar that Tawney's IQ testâand she was rumored to have an IQ that was extraordinaryâhadn't revealed her penchant for slumming in the hood.
After an awkward moment Shonda said, “I know this probably isn't a good time, but I wanted to talk about the written warning in my file. It's just that my performance review is coming up andâ”
“Shonda, I'm here, but I'm not really here, if you know what I mean. As soon as I'm able to deal with this I will. Okay? You have my word.”
Shonda nodded. “Thanks, Tawney. I'm sorry. I know it's not a good time.”
Tawney rose from her desk, stifling the urge to physically throw Shonda from her office. “No, it isn't a good time, but it's not your fault.”
Bright tears shimmered in Shonda's eyes, making Tawney feel guilty for thinking about physically hurling her from her office. She hugged her, hoping to ease the girl's awkwardness and pain, even though her own pain was slicing through her like a knife.
“I'll be okay soon, sweetie. Don't worry about your performance review. It's going to come out all right. You'll be happy. I promise.”
Shonda brightened. She swiped at a falling teardrop. “Thanks, Tawney. I'm here if you need me.” She stepped from the office.
Before Tawney could recuperate, Dominique St. James, her best friend, stuck her head in the door. “You gonna make it girlfriend?” She hugged Tawney.
“Domi.” Tawney used her pet nickname for Dominique. “I need a cigarette in the worst way and some fresh air. Let's get out of this building. Can you break?”
“Yeah. Let's go.”
Outside the building strolling along, Tawney lit her cigarette, taking fast, short puffs. Dominique observed this but didn't say anything.
They walked along for a while before Tawney said, “Dominique, I feel like I'm living in a nightmare. My only child has been gunned down like a dog in the streets. And I don't know why. And then some boy got killed at Jazz's funeral. You saw that. And someone brought his body to Shannon.”
“I didn't see who it was because Shannon was on top of me. There was so much confusion. But I can't escape the feeling that . . .” Tawney took a long drag from the cigarette. She stopped walking.
“What?” Dominique said.
“I don't know. I thought Shannon had really changed. But lately I just don't know. What if he's been doing things I don't know about? What if his past or present has cost me my child? I don't know that I can live with that, Domi.” Scalding tears rolled down Tawney's cheeks.
Dominique gathered her in her arms. “It's going to be okay. Just cry it out, girlfriend. You're entitled. Don't you ever forget that you're entitled.”
Dominique sincerely hoped that Shannon's bad attitude and street antics hadn't cost them the life of little Jasmine Davenport.
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