Out a Order (9 page)

I
n Rico's basement the crew was shooting pool and playing the pinball machine. Rico and T-Bone stood off in a corner of the room talking.

Rico put his arm around Michael Claybay's brother, T-Bone, playing the game for all it was worth. “Michael's death is gonna be vindicated. We ain't going out like that,” he said with a mixture of sincere sympathy and vengeance. “Have I ever let you down before?”

T-Bone shook his head. “Naw.”

“And I ain't going to let you down now. You're my brother and you know that.”

“Yeah, man, you're always there. I know you got a brother's back. I know that. But I ain't letting no bars separate me from Shannon Davenport, yo.”

“Looka here. Don't even sweat that, man. If I have to I'll bond Shannon out just so you can have him. But there's one thing I've got to have your word on.”

“What's that?”

“A man's word is his bond,” Rico said.

T-Bone nodded. “Word is bond.”

“You can rough him up but you can't take him out. He's mine.”

T-Bone wrestled with this thought. He wanted Shannon in the worst way and he didn't want any strings attached as to how he would get him. Rico told him Shannon had killed his brother, and revenge was in his heart.

Rico, on the other hand, needed to make an example out of Shannon. He wanted Shannon to represent the dust of an era long past. The O.G.'s. Leaving him as the one who brought in a new day.

He didn't have time for old-school punks trying to revitalize their names on the streets. Shannon's daughter was dead and that was that. Rico had paid props for that. He had a daughter of his own. Shannon should've gotten over it, but since he hadn't Rico would help him along.

Michael had been T-Bone's only brother. He'd always looked out for T-Bone when he was small and growing up. Although everyone knew he was a drunk, when it came to T-Bone he had played both mom and pop, always making sure he had what he needed even if it meant passing up a bottle or two.

Michael was blood. And as his grandfather used to say, blood is thicker than water. Nothing was supposed to come between you and your blood.

Rico, sensing T-Bone's reluctance to give his word on this, gripped him by the shoulders to drive his point home. “I'm serious, man. You've got to let me pay props for you. You're my boy. That's my heart to you, man. We family.”

T-Bone sighed. He wasn't happy about it, but he looked up to Rico and he respected the ranks of the streets. If Rico caught a body for him, it would elevate his status in the crew, as well as with the other thugs on the street.

Rico's crew was the only other one besides Ballistic's that didn't have a street moniker. Rico was of the frame of mind that his crew was known by their actions and therefore didn't need a name. Ballistic, on the other hand, was the only name a person needed to know.

After evaluating the situation T-Bone finally said, “Yeah. Okay. You got it. But I ain't waiting too long. If Shannon's ass is not on the streets soon I'm going to make like a magician and penetrate them bars downtown to get him. You feeling me?”

“I feel you. Don't worry, you won't have to wait too long.”

In the police station Lombardo was smiling. This was a day he had been waiting for. He was tired of catering to Shannon Davenport. He had an ill feeling about the cat-and-mouse game Campbell insisted on playing with him.

He'd grown up in Bloomfield, which wasn't that far from Newark. He knew how hard it was to make it. He hadn't been born with a silver spoon in his mouth.

But as far as he was concerned, being poor and black was no excuse for the insanity that spewed across Newark's streets, making victims of the hardworking people who didn't want any part of the madness. Those were the people he was there to protect as well as his own.

They definitely couldn't have the crime from Newark spilling over onto the streets of Bloomfield. Although every city had its problems in Bloomfield you would never see dealers, thugs, and lowlifes out on the corners kicking it like they owned the world.

Bloomfield didn't put up with that nonsense. If they tried that in his city, he knew darned well they would lock them up, give them fifty years, and throw away the key like it was nobody's business.

He considered it to be his job to at least keep it confined, if he couldn't control it. He didn't want that poison and the venomous attitudes that went with it in the town where his family resided.

Lombardo came out of his reverie as Campbell walked into the room. Campbell's face looked grim, and he was bone weary tired of all the game that was being run. “We have to release Shannon Davenport,” he said to Lombardo.

Lombardo narrowed his eyes. This was not the way he had played out the scene in his mind. “The hell we do. Why?”

“Shonda Hunt is why. She's Davenport's alibi. She says he was with her. Smokey Cooke, the Dome's bartender, confirms Shannon was in the bar with Shonda. He left the bar with her. He also says he saw Shannon lend Michael his lighter the other night. The medical examiner has confirmed that the time of death is consistent with the time Shannon was in the bar. He didn't murder Michael Claybay.”

Campbell took a seat across from Lombardo.

Lombardo smacked his hand on the desk. “There's no doubt, huh?” Deep inside he had known it was too easy, but he had ignored the feeling. Grudgingly he had to admit that somebody with Shannon's street smarts wouldn't make a mistake like that.

Besides, he wasn't a young thug; he didn't come from the same cloth as these kids. He was an old-school planner. He would try hard to get away with whatever he was going to do.

Campbell said, “They've all been checked out. They're clean. No records. No nothing. There is one thing we can prove.”

Lombardo brightened. “What's that?”

“Adultery.”

Lombardo frowned.

“Shonda Hunt works for Tawney Davenport. It looks like she's been giving Shannon more comfort than Tawney.”

Lombardo whistled. “Our boy doesn't travel far for his sympathy. Still, he'll slip. When he does I'll be there because I'm his looking glass.”

Campbell knew Lombardo wasn't letting this go. For some reason Shannon rubbed him the wrong way. Maybe because Shannon had pushed him in the hospital and gone down on him, breaking the legendary choke hold Lombardo had on him. He had to admit Shannon Davenport had moves on him.

He also knew it didn't help that Shannon kept addressing Lombardo as a cracker. It was pure nastiness on Shannon's part and definitely not helping with Lombardo's attitude.

Newark was one of the few pro-black cities in the country. Primarily it was run and controlled by blacks at least on the surface. There was a black mayor and a black city council. He knew a lot of blacks resented having white officers in their neighborhoods policing them. He guessed Shannon was of this breed.

Still, he was tired of all the piss-ass games on both sides of the fence. He was getting too old for this crap. He had become a police officer because he felt that his people needed their own heroes. That they needed to handle their own problems. But there were days when he felt he was fighting a losing battle. It seemed that for every one of them they got off the streets for distributing their poisons and violence, ten more popped up to take their place.

Ten more were anxious to prove themselves, to be in the know. They wanted to be invincible. If it wasn't that, then there were ten million black kids in the country wanting to be the next Michael Jordan. As if bouncing a basketball would be their savior. They never took the time to look at the odds.

Campbell thought about the three young brothers from Newark who had written that book called
The Pact.
They had struggled from these same neighborhoods, but they had beaten the odds and lived to tell about it. They had become doctors and dentists working in their own neighborhood.

They even had their own clinic. He wished more young black kids would read that book, be inspired, and follow that example.

Instead he felt like he was faced with a million to one who wanted to be top-dog criminals. What a thing to aspire to. They didn't want to look weak in front of their friends. So there was a constant cycle of proving one's self. And the game was getting deadlier and bloodier by the day.

Campbell sighed, picking up the phone. He punched a button. “Shannon Davenport is free to go.”

A short while later Lombardo tapped on the bars of Shannon's cell. Shannon, who had been leaning back on his bunk, opened his eyes.

“Just remember. I'm your looking glass,” Lombardo told Shannon with a gleam in his eye.

A police officer appeared behind Lombardo with the paperwork and keys.

Discovering the primary source of his release from the murder charge, later that day Shannon decided to thank Shonda for being stand-up. They stood outside on her front porch.

“You didn't have to help me,” Shannon said. He looked out across the street thoughtfully. “I owe you.”

Shonda put a soft hand to his cheek, looking deeply into his eyes. Shannon mistakenly believed the glow that peeked out from her eyes was warmth.

She looked up at him, adoringly and with a keen sense of want. “I did have to help you,” she said softly.

“Why?”

“Because that's what friends are for,” she whispered like a breeze in his ear.

It was a good thing Shannon never went into the house, because he would definitely have gotten an idea of what a breeze suddenly turned into a cyclone could do.

Nana Mama, who was peeking out from behind the curtain, observed the face her granddaughter was showing Shannon Davenport. It was trickery, nothing but pure trickery.

Trembling the old woman hurried back to her room as fast as her years would allow. Picking up the phone she punched in the number of the one woman she knew she could talk to.

Mama.

W
hen Ballistic had stated he wanted a fear deeper than the depths of hell to fall on Rico DeLeon Hudson, he had meant it. Literally.

So far Trey, Warren P., and Bobby had done a good job of taking down Rico's houses and tracking down his right-hand man, Eight Ball. Taking him out of his misery had been Ballistic's pleasure.

If he hadn't needed to give Eight Ball's head to Rico to make his point, it would have become a trophy to be hung up on the wall as one of his many accomplishments.

Milkbone's death was a bonus.

He happened to step out of Rico's Jeep at an opportune moment. He just wanted this little punk to know that he never slept. That he could be wherever he was, controlling the situations, slipping in and out, like a ghost in the night.

He had acknowledged Rico's little grandstand play at Spence's funeral. It was pure child's play. But Rico had mistakenly stepped over the boundaries. He had disrespected a bond, so for that he would have to pay dearly. And today was the day. Ballistic would take care of this personally. An eye for an eye.

Rico's cell phone was ringing off the hook because a number of his stash houses and street lieutenants had been hit. Some of them were minor players, but coldly and systematically Ballistic was spreading his web.

And Rico hadn't gotten the most important call of all yet. But he would.

The saying goes, as a man thinketh so is he, and Ballistic was a man with very dark thoughts. He was also a carrier. He carried out whatever came to his mind. It was all a game to him. It was a very dangerous one because Ballistic had no conscience. There was no stop mechanism in his brain, nothing that registered compassion or sympathy. No regrets for pain and sorrow.

He was like a machine covered in flesh. An open vessel for whatever evils spewed forth from the land. And he was loving his position. He had cheated death more times than he could remember. The testament was in the hole in his throat and the limp he walked with.

However, these weren't handicaps. They were badges of honor. He wore them as though they were prestigious. They were a salute to the Darkling. Evidence that he was a man who would pay what he owed, for receiving more than one life.

Ballistic was sometimes a man of two faces. Not both of them were his. He looked into the red eyes of his German shepherd. The unusual color mesmerized him.

He crossed his legs, diverting his attention from the dog, giving a full-force impact of his presence to Kesha, Rico's lady.

She was sitting in a chair across from him in Rico's living room. Ballistic acknowledged silently that the boy had taste in both living large and women. Kesha was a tasty-looking little morsel. However, her sensuality didn't faze him in the least. He had long ago lost any sexual appetite he might have had.

Sex was a weakness for most men. It had caused the downfall of many of them. Ballistic knew he would never be among such numbers. He had no desire for women other than what he could use them for. They were simply tools, a means to an end.

For a brief moment Ballistic got caught up in the reverie of his past. He had been sodomized repeatedly from the age of five to the age of thirteen by his mentally ill stepfather.

The man should have been institutionalized, but in the black community counseling, psychiatry, or anything that smacked of it was taboo. Doctors were for white people. Churches were for black people. Unfortunately neither antidote had been enlisted to help Ballistic, although his mother was a staunch Christian.

She was a Christian who never seemed to see the face of evil, though. Not in its purest form. Only now after so many losses was she beginning to recognize it. Even though she'd had recent cause to come in close contact with it, she would never fathom the magnitude of it that had burst forth from her own womb.

The deranged twisted systematic stripping away of Ballistic's sexuality stopped on his thirteenth birthday. That was the day Ballistic put a bullet in his stepfather's head and buried his body beneath the cellar, leaving his mother to raise two children on her own. She thought he had simply walked out and left her a single parent.

Ballistic left her with her thoughts. Doing so was easier than the truth. That had been his first body. After that he had sat over that grave in the dark on many a night summoning the powers of darkness, getting high as a kite. Two things had come from it. He never had a craving for women. And he had come upon a power to be reckoned with.

Ballistic pulled his thoughts back to the present.

Kesha shivered as a glow peeked out from the depths of Ballistic's coal-black eyes. She'd never seen such emptiness. There was no way she could appeal to this man.

She felt it deep in her bones. There was nothing to connect to. Sitting before her was not an ordinary thug or gangster, and she knew that, instinctively.

No. Although this man possessed the physicality of humankind, his spirit was not such. Kesha could feel waterfalls of sweat pouring from between her armpits.

She looked at the German shepherd, then back at Ballistic. With astonishment she saw that the pupils of both their eyes were red. Something dark clawed at her memory banks, but for the life of her she couldn't put her finger on it. So instead she shivered as though she had been thrown in a freezer.

She looked over at Bobby, Warren P., and Trey. Her eyes pleaded with them to reconsider, to help her. Although they put up a good front, each one of them was as terrified of Ballistic as she was. They would be no help, she realized with a pang.

Looking back at Ballistic through his eyes she fast-forwarded through a tunnel, tons of dirt fell on her face and her body suffocating her. She tunneled through pure blackness. There was no light. Finally, he released her.

Kesha heaved trying to get air. As quickly as she had been transported through the tunnel of Ballistic's eyes, she found herself back, bound and gagged in the face of darkness. She had taken a mind trip into the depths of hell, seeing her own burial in the process.

He smiled. Kesha nodded, her heart hammering in her chest, knowing her death was sealed, and she had been given an opportunity to stare it in the face.

She was only glad her daughter wasn't there. Her sister was babysitting for Ebony. Thank God. She would be spared the same fate as her mother because Kesha knew if Ebony had been there for this monster, it would have made no difference. He would take whatever life was in the house.

Ballistic tilted his head just as Kesha raised hers a bit higher, her chin pointed in a position of pride. He felt his first stir of admiration as he realized she was facing her death without pleading, begging, sobbing, or crying. Respect tingled through his body. He'd seen men who didn't have her strength.

Then he nodded at the dog that had been awaiting his silent signal. In that moment Kesha knew what had been tingling at the base of her memory. She was staring at a man marked by the devil. The revelation broke out a new sheen of sweat on her skin. She didn't believe she'd ever been that close to evil until now.

In a flash she knew this was about more than hustling, gangbanging, clocking dollars, and wearing designer clothes. It was about more than the game they had all played. This was high stakes, and it was not on the grounds or by the rules with which they were used to playing.

In Ballistic's eyes she saw more than mere revenge. She saw eyes that weren't his. She saw, simply put, damnation. And an eye for an eye.

“Lord Jesus,” was all she said aloud, but in her heart she sent out a prayer for all of their very souls. She prayed for forgiveness in the last hour. They had been dancing with the devil and didn't even know it.

At Ballistic's nod the German shepherd attacked the bound Kesha. He sank his clawed teeth into her soft skin, tearing her to shreds. The girl's screams were quickly silenced as the dog tore her windpipe from her throat.

He shook her like a rag doll. Mercifully by this time Kesha's spirit had separated from her body so there was no more pain and terror. It was just as well she had been spared the sight of her own body being ripped to shreds, and gasoline being thrown in her face.

Quickly they doused the entire house with gasoline. On a look from Ballistic they lit the match torching the girl and the house.

Ballistic limped back out the way he had come. The only thing left was the Darkling, whose howls of anger reverberated in the intense burning flames of the house as he stared at the darkened, black charcoal carnage of the body on the floor.

As the spirit had separated from the body the Darkling had missed an opportunity to gather it as one of his own, and he was incensed with anger.

Unknowingly Ballistic silently saluted him, not knowing that in the flesh he had hit his mark, but in the spirit he had missed his shot.

The Darkling didn't accept misses.