Out a Order (6 page)

S
hannon walked over to the neighborhood nightclub called the Dome. The glittering lights flashed above a neon sign that had the club's name on it. It was a tightly built structure with a glass dome top. He could see the kaleidoscope of colors reflecting through the glass roof.

He reached in his jacket pocket for a cigarette. He lit it with his monogrammed lighter. The one Tawney gave him for his birthday. Just looking at it reminded him of her. Her pain over the loss of Jazz was wrapping around him like a blanket. Her pain mingled with his own, felt like a hollow hole in his chest.

He pushed open the door to the club. He stood inside adjusting his eyes to the smoky, dusky atmosphere before approaching the bar. Smokey, who had been the bartender for as long as Shannon could remember, hurried over to him.

People were playing pool and watching TV. The jukebox was playing on a low volume.

“Sorry about Jazz,” Smokey said before Shannon could speak.

Shannon looked around the club. “Yeah, man. But death doesn't automatically end things. You know what I mean?”

Smokey nodded.

He poured some gold liquid from a bottle of Jack Daniel's in a glass. He passed it to Shannon. Shannon downed it in one shot. He put the glass on the counter. Smokey automatically refilled it. “Yeah. I know.”

Shannon looked at him closely, taking another sip from the glass. “What's the word? My past is haunting me, man. I need answers.”

Shannon drained the glass. He snuffed out the cigarette. Smokey refilled it. He leaned close to Shannon, after taking a quick look around. “Michael Claybay is T-Bone's brother. T-Bone works for Rico. A bottle of this”—Smokey lifted the Jack Daniel's bottle—“will loosen his tongue. Nothing happens in this city that he don't know about.”

Smokey lifted his head toward Michael where he was sitting at the end of the bar drinking cheap wine. “You know him, right? From back in the day?”

“Yeah. I know Michael and I know Rico, who's a stupid young street punk with nothing better to do than hang out on street corners.”

Shannon lit a cigarette; he swigged from the Jack Daniel's bottle.

Smokey shook his head. “Rico used to be that. Now he's a dangerous, deadly young entrepreneur who's getting serious paid. He's clocking, man. No joke. If you ain't noticed, my man has lost his puberty.”

Shannon narrowed his eyes. “Is that right? No more gangbanging?”

Smokey wiped the bar nervously. “He's graduated. Turf wars. High stakes and lots of green stuff with Solomon's Temple pictured on the back.”

He hit a button on the cash register, pulling out a dollar bill. He pointed to the temple on the back. “Solomon was a wealthy and wise man. These boys ain't wise and they want to be wealthy. A dangerous combination.”

Shannon swigged a long, healthy gulp directly from the bottle. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his pocket, handing it to Smokey. “Here you go, man.”

Smokey refused. “This one's on the house, man. I'm buying.” He gave a slight imperceptible nod toward Michael Claybay, and then moved on to serve other customers.

Shannon made his way down the bar to Michael. He sat on the stool next to him, plopping the bottle of Jack Daniel's between them. Michael eyed the bottle with appreciation. He was a skinny little dude with a fast, quirky way of talking.

“What's up, Michael?”

“You black. Sorry about your kid.”

Shannon slid the bottle over to him along with his glass. Michael poured. He swallowed the liquor in one gulp.

“Yeah,” Shannon said. “Me too. Drink up. A man with a lost child doesn't like to drink alone. You know what I mean?”

Michael poured another shot. He downed it. Then another. They sat in the kind of companionable silence one can only find in a bar.

After a while Michael fidgeted in his seat. He poured another glass. He reached in his pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes, searching for a light. Shannon gave him his lighter.

He lit up quickly, inhaling deeply. “So what brings you out? Ain't seen you on the streets for a long while.” He leaned back in his chair. He cast an eye on the game on the overhead TV, even though the sound was turned down.

Shannon studied him before replying. “Answers, man.”

“About?”

“Jasmine.”

Michael shrugged callously as the liquor surged through his body, creating a comfort level, taking control. “What's there to know? She's dead, right?”

It was all Shannon could do to keep from knocking him out of the seat. But this would not be a wise move. At least not yet.

“I need to know why she's dead.”

Michael downed another glass. He immediately refilled the glass. He grinned at Shannon. Shannon flicked open his jacket. He gently fingered a roll of bills. He never looked at Michael.

“So what if I knew a tidbit or two? What would be in it for me?”

“Cold hard cash good enough?”

“Depends on how much.”

“Two G's.”

Michael ran his tongue around the rim of the glass, savoring the taste of the liquor. “All right.”

“Start talking.”

The club was starting to come to life around them, and so did Michael Claybay by way of a lethal tongue. “Word is, Rico's boy Temaine flipped to the other side. He's tired of being an underling to Rico. He's hooking up with Ballistic undercover. More profits, less fear, because Ballistic's one nasty mother. He's Rico's most dangerous rival. The man put the D in danger. Trust me on this. Anyway, he wants it all. The turf and the profits.”

Michael pushed the glass away finally. His jaw twitched. Shannon was silent.

“Rico found out about Temaine. He hired Spence Parkinson to hit Temaine. A little cash independent contract. Spence was an independent hit man. For the right price.”

He shrugged. “Anyway, it would look like an everyday rival hit. No big deal, right? Rico is about the money and ain't getting shut out a' no profits, right?”

Shannon nodded. “Right.”

“Except something goes wrong and Jasmine gets hit, seriously jeopardizing Rico's position.” Michael shifted. He pulled the glass closer again, taking another sip.

Pure malice leaped from Shannon's eyes, but Michael was oblivious of it. “Only the tables turned on Rico because the word is that Ballistic hired Spence to hit Rico, which means that Rico paid for a hit he was never gonna get. Spence double-crossed Rico.”

Michael drained the glass. “Rico's running scared. So he kills two birds with one stone. One, he has Spence taken out. Two, he sends a powerful message to Ballistic that he ain't rolling over. A declared war. He pays props for Jazz's death by taking down her killer. He's still got time to take care of Temaine. He ain't suspicious. He thinks the hit was on Rico.” Michael shrugged.

Shannon beckoned for a glass. He poured a stiff shot, sipping from the liquor. “There's more.”

A nervous tick jumped in Michael's jaw. “Rico wants you out of the way. You're a liability he can't afford to worry about. One he didn't anticipate on having. An angry father with the police watching him.”

Michael took another sip. He raised his eyebrows at Shannon. “Didn't your house get hit?” He stood up. He picked up the cigarettes and lighter from the bar, putting them in his pocket.

Shannon glared sparks of hatred at him. They locked gazes. Michael finally got a sense of something being wrong, off kilter and out of balance, through the alcoholic haze he was floating in. “I can't afford no leaks, man, or my life ain't worth two cents.”

Shannon stood up. He laid two cents on the counter for Michael. “That would be deadly justice.”

Michael looked at the two pennies. “Yo, man, this ain't what we discussed, you son of a—”

Shannon dropped him with a fast right to the jaw. He stepped over him to walk to the men's room. Down the bar, Smokey frowned at the scene.

A
fter leaving that nigga Michael Claybay lying in his tracks cold-cocked, Shannon walked down the street in a self-inflicted fog.

The pain was so deep about losing his daughter that it sliced through him in white-hot spasms of flashing electrical currents. He thought he might get lost in this void and never come back.

He leaned against a pole and doubled over as another spasm shot through his stomach. As he dry-heaved he realized that just this simple act provided some comfort. At least it provided a physical outlet for his hurt and despair.

He could deal with the physical. It was what he knew best.

He wiped his mouth, standing up straight. He had changed his life for that little girl. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he realized his life would never be the same. He had ceased to be a criminal, just like that.

His daughter upon her birth had skin the color of a chocolate-brown mink, with shining bright eyes. Her eyes shone like new money, as they used to say. He had considered her a prize, and had treated her like one.

The instant she had looked at him the bond had been set. It was he, not Tawney, who had gotten up for her feedings at night, changed her, cradled her in his arms, and sung nursery rhyme songs to her in his off-key baritone.

He hadn't wanted his daughter to grow up without a strong male figure for support. There were too many black kids who grew up without ever knowing their fathers, or having any type of positive relationship with them.

So he and Tawney had virtually switched roles. He had become the stay-at-home dad, and Tawney had pursued her career. Tawney was not the domestic type in the slightest sense of the word, so it was all good.

He had decided then and there that he wouldn't be in the streets when his daughter needed him. Nor would he be in jail, where her first glimpse of him would be like looking at a caged animal. He vowed that she would never see him through the vertical bars.

Or view his body in a casket, because of some street mishap. The only way he could ensure that was to get out of the streets and get out for good, and so he had.

After settling debts, putting cash aside, and severing all street connections, he had become in every sense of the word a daddy. In truth he had been both Daddy and Mommy to Jazz in many ways, because Tawney was always busy climbing the corporate ladder, career building or networking, trying to reach the next rung on the ladder.

However, it was an arrangement that made them both happy, and one that worked well for their small family. He loved being there for his daughter. He realized with another sharp pain that Jazz had been the only thing in his life that he had ever loved purely.

He loved the shine of her eyes, her twinkling smile. The way she threw her arms around his neck at night when he read her stories. He could still feel the soft, warm bubble bath smell rising up from her childlike innocence.

Hell, he had even learned how to braid her hair, make ponytails, and tie red ribbons in it. The two of them loved red ribbons. Jazz had been his image of the perfect little girl, almost like a storybook fantasy come true, and he had been a part of creating her.

Dear Jesus, how he missed her.

An unbidden image floated into his mind, as he remembered noticing that one of her ribbons was missing as she lay on the white hospital sheets, in a pool of blood, lifeless. He remembered thinking that the figure lying there couldn't be his child. But it was.

How ironic that he had lost his only child to the streets, after fleeing the streets so he wouldn't lose her. The sins of the fathers visited upon the children. Oh God, if he could only take it all back.

With that thought a flood of tears rolled unstoppable down his cheeks. No one would have believed it. At one time he had been considered one of the most dangerous, lethal criminals on the streets. No one dared cross him. He was what the old-school rappers called an Original Ganster, an O.G. in every sense of the word.

On this night he was a man with a dead child, lost to him forever. A howl of wounded anger, frustration, and loss echoed across Central Avenue. It sounded like it came from a stranger. He sat on the curb, hugging himself, rocking and crying like a baby. He couldn't believe she was gone. Not his Jazz. She couldn't be gone.

He was a man who had survived gunshot wounds, stabbings, gang beatings, the police, the system, and any number of contracts that had been put out on his life.

For the first time he wondered if he would survive the death of his daughter. This was the one thing he didn't know if he would make it through.

Without realizing he was going to he yelled out loud, “Aw, Jesus, why'd you have to take her? Why?”

Engulfed in waves of pain he decided to pray. He hadn't prayed since before the night Jazz was murdered. He prayed for the resting of her soul in peace. This child he loved so much.

A branch swayed in the wind over his head. Shannon looked up. He could have sworn he'd heard his daughter's voice. Grief-stricken, he knew he was really losing it. Right next to his ear, he had felt Jazz's soft breath whispering, “Daddy, don't cry. I'm here, Daddy.”

Shannon bowed his head between his legs. He knew as long as he lived, he would forever hear her voice.

T
he following day Rico, Temaine, and Milkbone, another one of Rico's crew members, sat in Rico's Jeep on Springdale Avenue watching a hot dice game being played out on the avenue. Money was spread out all over the ground. There was lots of shoving, yelling, and rivalry going on.

Rico moodily stared out the window of his Jeep. “Them niggas don't ever get tired of ripping each other off.”

Temaine burst out in laughter. “That's because they ain't got no real cash kicking in. It's the way of the world. What you ain't got you take. Them niggas be real bored, man.”

Milkbone cleared his throat. “Temaine, you never fail to surprise me. I know by now you heard Ballistic is going ballistic. You know what I mean? And here you sit like you ain't got a care in the world laughing at some silly niggas instead of spreading a plan that's gonna keep this wacko at bay.”

Disgusted, he hit the back of Temaine's seat. “You is one amazing nigga, man.”

Rico shot Milkbone a cold glance through the rearview mirror. “Chill, my man. Ain't nobody ignoring that fool. Just ain't nobody worrying about him either.”

Temaine jumped in. He was livid with anger. “And why don't you get on the right page, Milkbone? Shannon Davenport is being harassed by the police right now because his daughter's dead, and because his house got shot up.”

“Which means, you dense-ass nigga, he may be looking for some answers of his own. And niggas like Ballistic used to wet their pants at the sound of his name back in the day. He's a legend. An O.G., man, that nigga created the game we're playing. You with that?”

Rico sighed. He banged his hand on the steering wheel. Temaine with his two faces was making him sick. He couldn't believe he had grown up and been best friends with this double-crossing weasel. He was a walking dead man. This punk was going to find out soon that Rico knew that the only allegiance he paid was to the almighty dollar.

He actually sounded like he looked up to Shannon Davenport. He was worshipping that old-school punk in his presence. The only name on the streets of Newark that was gonna inspire fear and awe was his. Temaine would know that soon enough.

Not ready to lay his cards on the table yet, Rico said, “Shannon Davenport is a liability I can't afford. He won't be around long. He's going to be one less mama's son. Believe that. I'm gonna do him. In the right time and in the right place. The police are all over him.”

Milkbone grimaced. “When?”

Rico locked gazes with him in the rearview mirror. “I don't answer to you, Milkbone. When I'm ready and when I say so. That's when.” He spat out the car window.

Milkbone rolled his eyes, staring out the window, avoiding further eye contact with Rico. “You know what? I didn't mean nothing by the question. I was just asking. I'm out of here. Okay?”

Milkbone hit the door handle on the Jeep. He stepped out. Just as he did his attention was drawn to a shadow on the roof. But it was too late. An eerie, weird keening sound exploded in the moment of silence.

A voice with a surreal sound to it, distinctly sang, “Rockabye, baby.”

The barrel of the gun that was pointed at Milkbone kicked off a shot, dropping him in his own blood. The crowd on the street dissipated. Skilled in the menaces of the hood, they knew the drill and they were immediately ghost.

Rico hit the ignition as he watched smoke drift up from Milkbone's slain body. The Jeep lurched forward. Milkbone's body got caught under the tire as the Jeep sped away, dragging the body along with it. It finally shook loose, lying facedown in scattered blood all over the street.

 

 

Aisha Jackson, Jazz's friend, stood wide-eyed holding on to her bedroom curtain. The little girl's body shook as she stared through the curtain at the familiar figure. She was so scared she couldn't move.

She had just witnessed her first murder. She stared in the eyes of the murderer. He smiled. What held Aisha frozen in her spot was not the person she saw shoot Milkbone.

Aisha was used to hearing gunshots, as well as police and emergency vehicles screeching through the night, in her neighborhood. She had even witnessed her friend Jazz die. And she knew the shooter was a bad man.

What held her scared stiff, and trembling in her spot, was what she saw standing just behind the murderer. She blinked, hoping to open her eyes and find it gone.

When she opened her eyes the shooter was gone, but riveted to the spot just beyond where the shooter had stood was the one who didn't leave. The one who didn't smile. It was the one who had come to stay.

The one who would rock all of their cradles before it was all said and done. “Rockabye, baby,” it sang. The lyrics fell like the impending doom they were in the midst of.

Aisha dropped the curtain. She backed away. She half expected it to appear in front of her. But it didn't. At least it didn't on this night.

The little girl climbed into her bed. She pulled the covers over her head. The only sound in the room was that of her teeth chattering. She might have gone to tell her mother except that her vocal cords had been temporarily stricken. She couldn't speak.

The only movement in the room was her trembling body. And the Darkling wasn't worried because it knew she would never speak again.