Authors: Evie Rhodes

Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #Suspense

Out a Order (7 page)

BOOK: Out a Order

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Chapter 14

A
cross the street from Aisha Jackson's house an old woman known as Mama sat in her spot by the window, peeking out from behind her shade. Only on this night she wished she hadn't. Sometimes you were better off not seeing things.

Mama and Papa, as they were respectively known, had lived in the Central Ward for close to fifty years and had grown old there in their time. Mama was a spry eighty and Papa was eighty-two.

Papa had always warned Mama about being at that window. He'd admonished her, telling her that when people always looked for things, sometimes they saw things they didn't want to see. But Mama had paid no heed to the old coot, because he'd never know a thing if it wasn't for her.

His nose was always stuck in that newspaper or on a Yankees game. He couldn't care less what happened on the streets. Mama, on the other hand, was very perceptiveâsensitive to certain things. Because of this secondary sense her world was a much broader one than Papa's.

Papa looked over at Mama and he didn't like what he saw. “Mama, I told you to stay away from that window.” He had heard the shots. “What's wrong?” The hair on the back of his arms was bristling.

When Mama turned to him he knew there had been a subtle shift in things. He didn't cotton much to all the nonsense about senses and all that, but within himself he did have a healthy respect for Mama's sight.

In fact he had a li'l of it himself, but it didn't make no sense to go around spouting that kind of stuff to people. They didn't believe in much of anything these days.

Besides, he much preferred dealing with things he could see. Even if they showed up in the form of gats and Uzis. Breaking out of his reverie he gazed at Mama, shut his eyes, and then opened them to find there was no change.

The whites of Mama's eyes was all he could see. Her eyes were rolled up in the back of her head.

Spittle was forming in the corner of her mouth. Papa hobbled over to her as fast as his eighty-two years would allow. Gently he touched her arm. He knew that fast movements might lock her in the trance for longer than he wanted.

“What's wrong, Mama?” he repeated, trying to penetrate her psyche.

Mama blinked. Her eyes rolled back to their proper place. She looked at Papa as though she couldn't see him, but could only feel that he was there. “They done shot Milkbone. He's dead.”

Mama knew all the players.

She had fed and clothed enough of these kids over time when their no-good sorry mamas had preferred getting high to feeding and clothing their kids. She had seen enough of them trading their food stamps for drugs, letting their kids go hungry.

Papa waited. He knew there was more. He felt it in his bones. In fact his left knee was throbbing. That never happened unless something more than what was on the surface was going on.

“Aisha Jackson, that precious little darling, was in her window, Papa. She done saw the whole thing. Why was she in her window?”

Papa didn't know how to answer so he remained quiet, like the still waters he had been reared in. He was a quiet man by nature, one who observed more than he spoke.

“It's here, Papa. That's why all this killing's going on. Our people don't understand their spirits is being traded.”

Papa put an arm around her shoulder. Slowly but surely he guided her away from the window over to the couch. Mama looked at Papa. She swallowed hard before saying, “It done took Aisha's speech. That girl's in trouble. We've got to get it back.”

Papa definitely didn't like the sound of this one. It reminded him of the swamps of Louisiana many a year ago. Sometimes when the realms or spirits as they are known to some people were fixing to act up this was the kind of stuff you heard. Problem was, these people in the North didn't know nothing about that.

And he knew today's kids were wide-open vessels to the magic of darkness. They didn't have nothing to fight with. Finally Papa couldn't hold his peace. He spoke. “Mama, what's that you saw?”

“It.”

Papa sighed. “What'd it say?”

Mama stared at him as though he'd done lost his mind. A shiver raced up her back. “It said rockabye, baby, Papa.”

Papa froze.

Before Mama could utter another word, he reached for his gilt-paged Bible.

Chapter 15

R
ico paced his basement while Temaine sucked on his licorice. There was a knock on the door. Rico pulled his gun from his shoulder holster.

Kesha appeared in the doorway. “Michael Claybay, T-Bone's brother, is here. He wants to see you. He says it's important.”

Rico holstered the gun. “Send him down.”

A moment later Michael walked in. He glanced nervously at Temaine. “I got some information for you. It's gonna cost you two G's.”

Rico reached into his pocket. He flicked the bills into Michael's hand without asking any questions.

Michael stared greedily at the bills, before snatching them out of Rico's hand. “Shannon Davenport is gonna take you out. He's got it in his mind that you're responsible for his daughter's death.” Michael's jaw twitched.

“Is that right?” Rico glanced at Temaine.

Michael's voice was fast and clipped. “It is.”

Rico nodded. “And how do you know this?”

“He told me.”

“And what did you tell him?”

Michael glanced nervously at the floor. “Nothing. I don't know nothing. What could I say?”

Rico nodded. “Do you know where I can find him?”

Michael laughed. Temaine stopped sucking on his licorice. He watched Michael with interest.

“Yeah. The Dome.”

Rico peeled off ten one-hundred-dollar bills. He shoved them into Michael's hand. “You're on my payroll as of now. Let's go.”

Michael visibly relaxed. He smiled.

Rico looked at Temaine. “I said let's go.”

The Dome was in high gear. It was jumping. Shannon sat alone at the bar, sipping Jack Daniel's. Shonda walked in, standing by the door, adjusting her eyes to the dark. Looking around she spotted Shannon Davenport alone at the bar.

She was dressed in a short gold dress, with matching gold heels. Her legs were oiled and accented to perfection. An air of seduction clung to her like a second skin as she tossed long blond-weaved braids over her shoulder.

She walked straight up to Shannon, tapping him on the shoulder. “Don't I know you?” she said in a lilting, sensual, husky voice that dripped with an invitation to anywhere he wanted to go.

Shannon showed no trace of memory. But appreciation leaped into his eyes. “Do you?”

A slow caressing smile displayed itself across Shonda's lips. “Yeah. We met at the office party last year in the bank. You're Tawney's husband, right?”

Shannon glared at her. She'd ticked a nerve without meaning to.

“I'm Shannon Davenport, if that's what you mean.”

Shonda traced a polished nail down his arm, quickly recovering, saying sweetly, “Shannon Davenport. That is exactly what I meant.”

Shannon smiled, chiding himself for taking out his bad temper on this gorgeous, specimen of a female. Looking into her eyes, a glimmer of recognition nudged him. “Yeah, I remember you now. You look different without your bank clothes on.”

Shonda returned his smile. “I have a life outside of the bank.”

He gave her a once-over. “Is that so?”

She returned his gaze. “It is.”

Switching gears, Shonda laced her voice with just the right amount of sentiment. “I'm sorry about your daughter. That's real messed up.”

Shannon nodded as the familiar ache squeezed his chest.

“May I sit down?”

“Yeah.”

She sat next to him, placing her hand warmly over his. He felt the warmth against his chilled hand, and decided he liked it. How long had it been since Tawney had reached for his hand?

“If there's anything I can do for you and Tawney, please let me know.”

“I will. What are you drinking?”

“Hennessey. Straight up.”

Shannon signaled Smokey. “That's a strong drink.”

“I'm a strong lady.”

Smokey arrived in front of them.

“Give the lady a Hennessey. Straight up.”

Smokey poured the drink. Before he could finish pouring, shattered glass came raining down through the roof of the club. A body hit the floor with a thud. People screamed and scrambled to get out of the club. The music came to an abrupt halt.

A man's body, bound and gagged, lay in the middle of the floor. Shannon shot out of his seat, making his way to the body. His eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down at the blood-filled lifeless eyes of Michael Claybay.

There was a piece of paper attached to the body. Chaos reigned supreme in the club. Shannon looked around to see if anyone was looking. Satisfied that there was enough confusion going on, he unpinned the paper. It had three thousand dollars in bills attached.

The note read
You're next.

Shannon broke out in a sweat. He balled the note up in his hand. Shonda tapped him on the shoulder. “Come on. We need to get out of here.”

He didn't move.

Shonda took his hand. “Come on!”

In the midst of the night Shannon left with the femme fatale, ignoring the one word that screamed through his mind. That word was,
don't!
He could no longer hear anything except the blood pounding in his ears.

It was on. And it was on in the biggest way. Slowly, he felt his salvation slip from his grasp. Replacing it was a murderous, vengeful rage.

Heed my earlier warning about seeing with your spirit and not just with your eyes. Vengeance spawns darkness, and in the darkness there is no light. The Serpent's head is reared even when you cannot see it.

Chapter 16

S
hannon followed Shonda up to the porch of the shabby two-family house. The house was in desperate need of some repairs, but Shannon barely noticed it.

He needed to put a plan together to stop the madness that was surrounding him. Shonda fumbled for her keys. Locating them she stuck the key in the lock, revealing a living room that was as shabby as the outside of the house.

Apparently while she liked to be in the streets dressed to the nines, this particular attitude hadn't extended itself to her sleeping quarters.

Every stick of furniture in the room was old and worn. Paint was peeling off the ceilings. Shannon was in a fog; the surroundings barely registered a blip in his mind's eye. Shonda tugged on his arm, pulling him forward to meet her nana mama.

“Nana Mama, this is my friend Shannon. Shannon, this is Nana Mama.”

Shannon extended a hand toward the old woman, wondering at the brightness of her eyes and the folds of lined skin falling from her face. She was an interesting-looking woman, who looked like she could've been around for more than a century. “Nice to meet you, Nana Mama.”

Nana Mama sized him up quickly, her eyes penetrating and alert. “You too, young man. Any friend of Shonda's is a friend of mine. Make yourself at home.”

The smell of homemade apple pie reached Shannon's nostrils, along with what smelled like collard greens. Nana Mama, noticing he had smelled her cooking, smiled.

“My nana mama's the best cook in the hood, Shannon.”

He replied politely. “I'll bet she is.”

Meanwhile a picture of Michael Claybay's body falling through showers of glass flashed in his mind.

“You're welcome to have something to eat,” Nana Mama said.

Shonda shot her a nasty look. “Later, Nana Mama. I'm gonna show Shannon my room.”

Nana Mama eyed Shannon once again. “Well, he's a good-looking young buck.”

Shannon blushed, his skin flushing warm. The old woman smiled again, knowing she had hit her target. She hoped Shonda had landed one with some money for a change. They could sure use it around here.

Nana Mama wasn't too crazy about that other boy Shonda had latched on to. He was what Nana Mama called death-struck. You could see it in his eyes.

She sighed. She knew her granddaughter didn't have near enough sense to key into what she was thinking.

Shonda turned to Shannon, her eyes animated from the heat of wanting him. “Let's go.”

There were no preliminaries with her. She had always gone after exactly what she wanted and gotten it. Shannon followed her up to the bedroom. Perhaps he could drown his pain, even if it was in the arms of a stranger for one night.

Tomorrow would be a different day.

Proverbs 2:16: To deliver thee from the strange woman, even from the stranger which flattereth with her words
.

Chapter 17

T
he following morning a bleary-eyed Rico, along with Temaine, who looked rested compared to Rico, went out to climb into the Jeep.

Rico threw the keys to Temaine. “You drive.”

Temaine caught the keys. He pressed the button for the automatic door lock. Pulling the door open he jumped back. On the seat of the Jeep was Eight Ball's head. There was no body to go along with it. His vacant eyes stared out at Temaine as though he could actually see him.

Rico's cell phone rang. He answered while wondering at the shocked expression on Temaine's face. “Yeah?”

A deep raspy voice emanating chords of darkness snaked its way through the phone lines. “Rico, my boy. Why don't you look and see what has your boy in shock?”

Rico looked around. He didn't see anyone. The streets were practically deserted at this time of the morning. All the night players were shut in, keeping the light out of their eyes until time for the evening's business.

Rico peered into the Jeep. He saw Eight Ball's head residing on the plush leather of his seat. “You son of aâ”

Ballistic cut him off. “In the future, Mr. Rico, you will have to learn to find better hiding places for your friends. This is the only time I'm going to change your Pampers, baby boy.” The phone went dead in Rico's ear.

Rico bugged out. He kicked the Jeep door in a rage, until a dent appeared. “That punk-ass nigga is insane.” Rico surveyed the area. He motioned to Temaine to do something about the head in the Jeep. Temaine grimaced.

“This punk done lost his mind, man,” Temaine said. “We're gonna have to pump up the volume.”

Rico nodded.

Rico's mind was working overtime. He would definitely have to turn the heat up under Ballistic. And it would have to be lightning quick. His Cuban connect had already questioned him, word having reached him through the grapevine of a war on the streets.

Rico had assured him it was all under control. The connect would move quickly to displace him if there was a problem, and he knew it. All they cared about was the bottom dollar. Who was controlling the turf in Newark didn't mean jack to them. They would supply whoever was holding it down.

He needed a grandstand move, one that would solidify his stronghold. But first he would toy with this nigga. He would show him that he hadn't uprooted him with Eight Ball's death.

Jasmine Davenport's funeral had definitely given a nigga one up. Dropping Spence in her grave would be a legend that would live on the streets for years to come.

Rico was always one to top even himself, and he knew just the thing. He had been running things since he was what the old-timers called a piss spot on the sheets. But now he had risen. He was going to set the standards for these niggas. When his name rang they were going to know to bow down.

Rico didn't have to wait long to recreate himself. The opportunity presented itself at Spence's funeral services. Outside the church on Clinton Avenue vehicles were stacked and packed, triple-parked along the streets.

All had come to pay homage to one of the fallen in the game. There were enough Cadillac Escalades on the block to stock a showroom.

The hearst and a line of black limousines were lined up at the head of the block, so as to lead the procession from the church. The ghetto was glistening and glittering on this day. There was enough gold, diamonds, Versace, and Prada in the house to make Fifth Avenue proud.

Tiffany's window display of diamonds and rubies was front and center on the women who had players that were getting real paper.

Funerals in the hood had become like hot spots for the latest nightclub. It was less about a life being lost, and more about who was who, who appeared to be connected because their face was seen in the place, as well as who was with whom and who had on the latest gear.

It was the perfect spot for the spectacle that was about to go down. Rico and his crew parked directly in the middle of the street, in front of the church. Soft music floated out onto the streets.

Rico jumped out of his Jeep, and the crew followed, their guns drawn. He strutted up to the doors of the church, pulling them open arrogantly.

Stepping inside the church, the crew looked like an ensemble from the
Men in Black
movie. They were all dressed down in black silk suits, with matching black brims, black leather ankle-length coats and gloves, with black sunglasses sporting gold Dolce & Gabbana emblems on the side.

Everyone had a Glock that was drawn, with the exception of Rico, who stood in the lead. The infrared lights on the Glocks crisscrossed the pews, landing on the preacher's chest, creating a patchwork effect of infrared light.

There was a stunned silence. Everything came to a halt as Rico locked eyes with the minister, who was standing behind the pulpit, presiding over the coffin.

Not breaking eye contact Rico strolled down the aisle. Stopping in the middle of the aisle, his crew spread out around the church. It was a well-orchestrated move, conducted by a street master. Rico glared his hatred, venom spilling from his very pores at the seated mourners.

The mourners were scared. Some of the minor rivals who were in the house to show their respect were not happy with being caught short. If anything broke out, Rico had the advantage. They were quickly tallying up their tabs, evaluating whether or not they would be in the line of fire.

Once the crew was in place Rico continued his leisurely stroll until he reached the coffin. He looked inside at Spence's body. Somebody had spent top dollar with the undertaker because the hole they had blown in Spence's head was barely visible.

That meant somebody had spread serious paper. Rico wondered at the source. Again Temaine's double-crossing ways surfaced in his mind, pushing Ballistic out of the forefront. Red flames of rage passed before his eyes.

Not a sound could be heard in the church. Even the music had stopped playing. The only thing you could hear was breathing, as though all the guests had taken one collective breath.

Rico leaned over the coffin. He spat in Spence's dead face. A woman let loose with a high-pitched scream that scraped against the stained-glass windows of the church, and echoed back to the audience in sheer pain.

Others were yelling and crying. Rico snapped his fingers. Some of the crew convened on the coffin. The woman who screamed was Spence's mother. She thought she was going to pass out.

Not only had she lost one of her sons, but also his body was being violated right in front of her eyes. It was the work of the devil. She had been a God-fearing woman all of her life. She was a faithful follower of Jesus Christ.

She had not, however, been able to instill these values in her sons. Try as she might she had lost the battle. They wanted everything now. They resented poverty. They wanted to be rich and powerful.

She was unable to bear the humiliation and deep-rooted pain of yet another intrusion from children she didn't know, who displayed antics that were usually only reported when countries were at war.

She had had her children late in life. She was living in a time that was as foreign to her as a faraway land. When she was a child, adults spoke and children listened. She never thought she'd see the day when black people had to fear their own kids. Their own blood was turning against them, and they had lost every ounce of respect.

For a brief moment she remembered the scene from
The Greatest Story Ever Told
when Christ was on his way to the cross, heading to his own crucifixion. People were weeping. He had stopped in front of a woman and said, “Do not weep for me; weep for that which is coming forth from your wombs.”

Closing her eyes with a pain as sharp as that from a straight-edged razor, she now understood those words. The black women of America had their own crosses to bear.

She and many other mothers were rearing, or had reared, children, who were bearing fruits of evil that they couldn't live with. It was beyond her comprehension. This hoodlum standing in front of her was the final straw.

Unable to bear any more she decided to beg, anything to appeal to this young man, to stop this madness. It was just too much.

Lord knows she had tried to raise these boys right. She was a single parent with little in the way of economics. She had given them the best she had, but had lost them to the streets anyway.

Today she was burying one of them. She shouldn't have to endure more than that.

She managed to stand though her legs were wobbly. Her knees were shaking. She was sure everyone could hear them knocking together. Especially Shonda, who had stood up on the side of her for support.

“Please,” she said.

She found the strength to look directly in Rico's eyes. Nothing but black waves of hatred emanated in an electrical current that she would have found hard to believe if she hadn't experienced it.

Trying to connect she looked behind the depths of Rico's eyes. There was nothing there. Knowing it would be to no avail she stated her case anyway.

“Please. Please don't do this.”

Rico spat at her feet. He looked coldly in her eyes. “Your son doesn't deserve your pleas.”

“In the name of Jesus,” she said.

Rico gave her a look that would have shriveled her had she not known the power of the name she called on. And she would never know that in that blink of a second she had been one step away from being dead herself, as Rico was just about to give the signal. Many of the lights from the infrared Glocks had been trained on her from the moment she stood up.

Rico twitched for the slightest of seconds. It was so minor it wasn't even noticed. Refraining from giving the order that would turn Spence's mother into the equivalent of Swiss cheese, he simply said, “Your son doesn't deserve the Lord's blessing, lady.”

He gave a signal indicating to his crew that this lady should be taken out of the crosshairs of fire. Instantly the Glocks were repositioned.

Feeling the slightest bit uncomfortable, but having shown his hand now, Rico took a step back from her. He snapped his fingers. “Get him out of here.”

At the issue of the order, there was more screaming and hollering from the women. The crew removed the body from the coffin. Mercifully Spence's mother fainted. The crew moved down the aisle with Spence's body in tow. Rico pulled up the rear.

When he reached the church doors the minister's voice rang out through the hallowed walls. His voice was trembling with anger. “How dare you disrespect the house of the Lord in this way, young man? You will burn in hell for this.”

Rico turned around slowly. He looked deep into the minister's eyes. He looked around the pews. Then he threw his arms in the air, spreading them wide. “I'm already burning in hell, Mr. Preacher Man. Look around. And so are you.”

“You have no respect for the dead,” the minister countered.

“I ain't got none for the living either.”

Rico turned his back on the minister. He walked arrogantly out of the same doors through which he had made his entrance.

Yeah, he was a ghetto legend. And they knew that. They'd better never forget it either.

Later Spence's body would be found in Branch Brook Park, riddled with bullet holes lying under a tree.

BOOK: Out a Order

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