Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father (96 page)

Pictures…because he sure wasn’t there and for the longest that was all she had
—photographic memories.

She
pushed the glum thoughts out of her mind and refocused on the future.

They left back out, and both burst out laughing
when they saw Dakarai and Hassani piled up in the tiny blue pool with Isis, the water barely covering her feet. Henry grabbed Xenia abruptly, taking her off guard as he laid a big kiss on her cheek and gave her a warm hug. She melted into his arms, wanting the affection from him so badly. She closed her eyes and squeezed harder, then a bit more. It was like some sort of dream come true. Under normal conditions, she could have given that check and not batted an eye, but with the way their money was all tied up, she had to be careful. It was from her personal bank account. Nevertheless, this couldn’t wait, and her Daddy needed her. Besides, he hadn’t asked, she
offered
, and she wanted him healthy and content, so she could enjoy getting to know him all over again…

~***~

Two dimly lit street lanterns, their twisted black grape vein bodies covered in bird droppings, exposed their dull illumination onto the warehouse garage accordion style door. Saint stood in front of it, his black leather jacket and jeans looking like a uniform as his comrades, Lawrence and Jagger, donned the same attire.

“Open that up, man.” Saint stepped aside and let Jagger have at the lock.

“No use.” Jagger huffed as he looked at his reddened palms. “We need to cut into this thing. I can fix the chain back later. Will take longer, but that’s the best option.”

Saint glanced at the side of the flat, rectangular building, noting a ‘For Sale’ sign shoved haphazardly in the hard earth. Lawrence reached into the black duffle bag he’d brought along and removed a pair of sharp
-edged industrial steel-cutters and handed them to Jagger. Moments later, the chain and lock snapped, disengaging. Saint swooped down on one knee, grabbed the dirt-covered latch and hoisted the thing upward, causing rusted steel to grind against the frame. The musty mouth of the place was soon exposed, greeting them with rotten basement breath. All three men coughed and waved their hands in front of their faces when debris, creepy crawlies and urban decay made themselves known. Their steps in unison as they entered, they slowly branched apart. The long skinny windows allowed slithers of street lamp light to dance upon narrow tables covered in thick layers of dust. A series of old sewing machines were set at the end of each row, along with toppled chairs and empty trash receptacles.

“He sure picked a hell of a place
,” Lawrence said as he ran his finger down a wall, picking up sludge. Grunting in disgust, he walked to another doorway.

“Yeah
.” Saint put his hands on his hips. “I’m not sure what he was planning, but seeing as this is out in the middle of nowhere, and he has access to it, I take it he has gotten into real estate and figured this would suffice for our little meeting.”

Saint removed his flashlight from his pocket and took a closer gander
at the high ceilings. Steel beams lined them, spaced approximately a foot and a half apart. On the other side of the room, he noticed a large washbasin. Stomping toward it, he looked down into it only to get a nice, stinking welcome from dark green, stagnant water with a dead rat carcass glued to the side of it. A family of roaches crawled about as he shined the light down into the thing. He tucked his flashlight under his arm, placed his finger under his nose to block the stench then used his other hand to toy with the corroded knobs. The faucet yelled out like a cat mating in an alley, then simmered down, running smooth and fairly clear.

“A guys! They got the water still on here.”

“Good!” Jagger yelled back as he filtered through a pile of worn fabrics stacked high. “This must’ve been a textile factory,” he added as he turned a rotted sample of burgundy drape back and forth between his fingertips.

“Yeah, it appears that way. This place is rough, but it will have to do.” Saint
turned around, taking total inventory. Lawrence appeared from a side room, his dark hair partially covered in cobwebs. He stepped farther from the shadows and stood in the middle of the space.

“The restroom is like nothing you’ve ever seen. Don’t go in there.” He laughed. “It’s the thing nightmares are made of.”

“Alright guys, well, let’s make this work.” Saint removed his bag from his shoulder and tossed it on the ground, causing a large puff of dirty smoke to billow. He unzipped it and removed his arsenal. “The big shit is in the trunk of my car. Let’s get started…”

~***~

Xenia stretched her legs as she lounged on Porsche’s couch with a glass of wine. She was proud of her sister. She’d finally moved out of Mama’s house and got her own little slice of the American dream. Now, she and her niece would have a bigger place to stay and Mama could stress a bit less.

“So, you like it?” Porsche returned to her, sitting next to her as she tucked her legs underneath her behind.

“It’s really nice, Porsche.” Xenia smiled. “And I love the artwork; you did a great job decorating.”

“Yeah, thanks. Gwen loves her new room.” Porsche pulled a dark orange scrunchie off her wrist and tied her relaxed, dark hair into a ponytail.

“Speaking of which, where is my baby? Gwendolyn! Where are youuuuu? Auntie is here!” Xenia grinned.

“Next door, girl. My neighbor’s name is Patricia. She is a single mom, too
, and Gwendolyn and her daughter are about the same age. I couldn’t believe my luck. We are going to carpool ’em and everything.”

“Well
, that worked out nicely!”

“It sure did.” Porsche put her hand on Xenia’s shoulder. “Xenia, thank you for loaning me the money for the deposit. I couldn’t afford it because of Dad. He needed help, so
…” She shrugged. “I’d rather put his health before this but I promise I will pay you back.”

Xenia
scowled. “What do you mean he needed help?”

“The money. Remember when I called you and told you he needed money from me, but I didn’t have it? I didn’t have it because I was saving up for a deposit for this place but then he called me later and let me know you couldn’t help him.” Porsche sighed. “I understand though. You still don’t trust him. I wish you’d give him a chance, but hey, at least you’re talking to him now.”

Xenia felt as if she’d been hit by a two by four. She ran her fingers along her cheek, feeling the warmth as her temperature rose.

“So, just how much did you give him?” Xenia took a nervous sip of her wine.

“The whole thing, the same amount you’d given me—three grand.”

Xenia
tilted her head far back and chugged the rest of that wine like it was water.

“Damn, Xenia!” Porsche laughed. “Saint stays home with the kids and you get out in the street and lose your mind
,” she teased.

Xenia’s eyes turned to slits as she cracked her neck back toward her sister, patted the woman’s thigh and laughed. She
bit on her lip to keep from screaming.

“Yeah, I guess I did.”
An angry smile budded, glued to her face like a quick-weave. “Have you spoken to Daddy today?” Xenia asked casually.

“No, not today.” Porsche sighed. “I called him, but no answer.”

Xenia had a pretty good guess where the motherfucker was—at Santa Anita Park, the racehorse track. All of these years of not speaking to the son of a bitch, when she did hear a word or two about him from people who knew the man and thought she gave a damn, some old Blood would stop her and say, “Yo’ daddy got lucky at the track tonight!” As if she’d be proud…

After another hour had passed, and Xenia’s heart started to beat as normal, she gave her sister a big hug and headed home. She’d already prepared to block Saint, just as she had during their separation. She walked through that door with a smile on her face while he and the kids were huddled on the floor, half asleep in front of the boob tube. He lazily waved at her, and she blew that sexy bastard a kiss before making her way up the beautiful winding marble steps to the master suite. She stepped out of her clothes,
let her cream romper suit puddled to the floor, and as she heard him approach, she locked herself away in the bathroom to steady her thoughts. She didn’t need to hear his, ‘I told you so’ and all of that other bullshit. No. She would handle this. Mama had him pegged, but she’d have to hold out on that future conversation as well. This had been a faux pas, and she’d make it right. Henry thought he’d found himself another sucker, and he didn’t seem to mind that it was his own flesh and blood wrapped around his ashy ass baby finger with a pretty pink bow. Well, she hoped he enjoyed his last lick, because this piece of Xenia candy was now bitter with arsenic, sure to leave a costly taste in his crooked, lying mouth…

~***~

Two days later…

A gold Lincoln pulled up, tires crunching on the gravel, headlights beamed. Saint ran his finger over his top lip, feeling a slight bit of stubble before stepping out of his shiny black Escalade. He stood feet far apart and cuffed his wrist, his sunglasses on in the middle of the damned night. A slight breeze grabbed a rotten shred of garbage, carted it to his nostrils and twirled it around, flaunting the funk. He snarled and turned away, his eyes glowing behind the dark veneer. Music bellowed out the car before the man shut it off. “Let Me See Your Private Parts” by Charles Hamilton.

At least he still has good taste in music…

One long leg wrapped in silky gray, foot encased in a shiny black wing tipped shoe, popped out from the open car door of the Lincoln, followed by the other. Sinclair got out, his profile in full view and a smile on his smooth face. He didn’t turn to Saint right away, but it was obvious the mothafucka was smelling himself. He had a pimp stride about him. He dripped in sparkly confidence as if it were a diamond necklace hanging around his neck. He paused, seeming to want him to take a full gander at his magnificence before coming closer.

“Nice night, huh?”

“Perfect.” Saint nodded.

“I’m going to need to check you and your car.”

“Now, Sinclair.” Saint smirked and shrugged his shoulders. “Why in the hell would I have someone in my car, man? I still need you to do your part, hold your end of the bargain.”

Sinclair grinned and looked toward the ground then back up at Saint.

“Open the damn car up,” he commanded as he drew closer and exposed a piece on his side. Saint surmised it was a 45. He backed away from the man and opened each and every door, including the trunk. He waited while Sinclair went through the damn thing, as if he were a drug sniffing German shepherd on an important mission.

“Be careful with my system, man. I don’t even know why you are all up in there
,” Saint warned as he watched Sinclair sit in the driver’s seat and open up various compartments. The man ignored him, continuing on until he was satisfied. A few moments later, Saint stood with his arms in the air while Sinclair swiped his limbs and pockets with a heavy pat down until he hit a large envelope.

“Is that my shit?”

“Indeed.”

“Oh
, yes.” Sinclair laughed lightly.

Saint followed behind him like a flunky, his head down, eyes burning hot behind the shades. He looked at the back of Sinclair’s neck and
had a hell of a time resisting the temptation to wrap his hands around it and snap it off with a swift twist. Sinclair removed a key from his pocket and jammed it in the lock. The man paused, and ran his thumb down the chain.

“Damn vandals. Someone tried to get in this motherfucker.” He sniffed, as if coming down from a high
, and pushed the key harder, rendering the lock open. It clunked to the hard ground. Saint wiped the smile off his face as he trudged along. Saint almost ran into Sinclair’s arm when he reached out to the side to hit the light switch. Their steps echoed throughout the dusty place until they were both in the middle of the room.

“Now, Saint. Hand me the money, and we will have a quick meeting.” Suddenly, a d
og began to bark aggressively. It appeared to be a Rottweiler, tied up in the corner, its eyes glowing and teeth bared.  Saint smirked.

So this is his protection? His little gun and Cujo over here? Isn’t that nice…

“That’s my buddy, Maximilian. I keep him with me during some business transactions, as well as my friend here.” He opened his jacket, flashing the gun once more.

He placed his hand out, waiting for that green. Saint slowly removed the envelope and placed it in Sinclair’s hand.
The greedy fiend counted it, sucking his teeth every so often. It seemed to take an eternity and Saint was getting restless.

“Perfect.” Sinclair’s teeth gleamed. “Now, I want you to understand something. I don’t give a shit about
you
or Xenia.” The ice in his tone didn’t move Saint; instead it would make revenge all the more delicious. “When you play games with a man like me, prepare to lose. I’ve always been the guy no one ever saw coming,” he bragged. “No one thought that straight-laced Sinclair Grayson would have the upper hand, or get what I deserved. You even called me Carlton.” He sounded convinced Saint was a bona fide idiot.

“And I couldn’t place it when I first met you, but I know who you remind me of now.”

“And who is that, Sinclair?” Saint asked, not really giving a damn.

“You look like John Travolta from the
’70s, man!” Sinclair laughed obnoxiously loud. It echoed throughout the building.

Saint had actually heard that several times before. He’d always found it to be a compliment. Saturday Night Fever was one of the best movies in the world, in his eyes.

“You seriously do! You move just like he did in the movie, you even sound like him. Mr. Cool! You must think you swagged out as fuck…you’re not.” His tone grew icy once more. “I’m understated and underestimated. I spent the bulk of my career, producing one-of-a-kind hits for top notch entertainers. I was
that
man. I could make a shitty song seem fabulous with just the right touches. In the studio, I made bitches that sounded like the old church lady with the scratchy voice on Sunday morning sound like Beyonce instead. I had a waiting list for me to do people’s videos,” he said, counting off his fingers. “Little Wayne, Jay Z, Keri Hilton and more. I had established mothafuckas coming to me for studio time and to help them get the best beats known to man. I was
that
mothafucka, you hear me, Mr. New York?” His voice rose at the end, but he didn’t wait for Saint to respond.

“You took all of that away from me…” Sinclair’s shoulders shifted, as if he wanted to fight. “That day I stopped by to talk to Xenia, yeah, as her new man, I guess you didn’t appreciate me showing up. I needed some money, you must’ve realized I needed her help and you got rid of me. You shouldn’t have done that; it was none of your damn business. I never asked that woman for shit, and the one time I needed her, you Deebo’ed the situation, and moved your big ass in the way. You didn’t even have enough respect for the game, from man to man, to let me say goodbye to her after you stole her from under my nose. When she called me and told me she was running off with another man, she was dead to me, as far as my love for her—didn’t mean she and I still couldn’t do business though.

“You contacted my enemies, and to this day, I have no idea how you knew what you did and who to call. No one was in the know, I made sure of that, but regardless, you found a way to stick your foot up my ass, and it was time you had the same done to you.” Sinclair laughed maniacally as he ran his hand down his jaw. “Then, you couldn’t stop there. I went to prison and some of those bastards were happy as sharks around a woman bleeding when my ass got thrown in there. They knew I wasn’t no damn thug, no criminal. They had me doing shit for them, just to stay alive. It was a fucking nightmare!” His voice rattled as he eyeballed Saint with pure loathing.

“When I got out, I tried to build myself back up again and I was doing it. I had a second chance. Then, imagine my surprise to see Xenia working not only in radio, but on the Morning Tea. That was a kick in the teeth because I knew some of those cats over the
re personally. Now listen…” He held his hand up. “Believe what you wish, but I never wanted any harm to come Xenia’s way because of some shit you did but after that little lunch we had, when you tried to pull my card like I was some ho, I realized I was dealing with a pretty insane, yet cunning fucker and I had to fuck with your mind a bit, to get what I needed. You have these people out here scared of you. I have no idea what you did, but I’m no pussy and there is nothing about you I find the least bit frightening. Matter of fact, I think your nose is so far up Xenia’s ass, you can’t see straight.

“You should’ve kept her as a bottom ho, because that’s
all
she is, a ho with class.” He laughed. “Yeah, that’s Xenia all right. She can fuck her little ass off, can’t she? You enjoyin’ that shit no doubt. And I’ll give it to her, she can be really sweet, and her body, whoa! That shit is a thing of fucking perfection. And look how old she is now…still putting these young girls to shame. Fuck man.” Sinclair gleamed. “When I saw her on the show, all those memories rushed back. She is one of the prettiest bitches I ever fucked with, and believe me, I’ve had some dimes… Hey, what’s your favorite body part on her?” the man taunted, trying his damndest to get Saint to do something, anything.

“Let me guess, her lips right?! Her lips are un
-fucking-believable… Big ass, Angela Jolie suckers! I used to have some photos of them matter of fact…wrapped around my dick!”

He
paused, waiting for a response from Saint, a rise. He received nothing, only Saint standing there with a slight smile and his hands clasped. He let Sinclair continue, uninterrupted.

“Xenia got a mothafucka with some cash. That’s the one thing she did right, that I can understand. And knowing you,
you’ll get back on the top of your game,” he observed with reluctant admiration. “But…I believe in the Bible. Eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth, Dr. Aknaten. You had some goons come after me, I had some goons come after you…You had me go to prison…you will be going to prison as well. You fucked up my reputation, yours is now shit on, too. You see?” Sinclair glared at him like a mad man. “It’s perfect, we’re even now.”

“You said you were going to call this off if I gave you the money.”

“Yeah, I said a lot of things and usually, I am a man of my word, but fuck you, mothafucka,” he said coolly as he flashed the gun, taking it into his hand. “I’m not going to shoot you, because I want your pretty ass to go to prison and get that ass fucked over and over. I want you to have to wash a mothafucka’s clothes. I want you to have to eat shit that tastes like somebody’s damn armpit after they’ve ran a race. I want you to be afraid you’re going to get shanked over some damn cornbread or shoes. I want you to feel what it feels like to be locked up in a cage with a lunatic and pray you don’t lose your damned mind, too. I’m getting out of town tonight, starting a new life. The life I would’ve had, had you not come and got pussy whipped, and fucked up the entire rotation. No man, this ain’t over. All this money did,”— Sinclair shook the envelope at him—“was ensure that I don’t come to you for seconds. Now
that,
you have my word on. I ain’t callin’ off a damn thang. No hard feelings…” Sinclair grinned.

“And take those damned sunglasses off. I want to look in your eyes before I walk away, and leave you standing here, looking stupid!”

Saint grinned back and cocked his head to the right.

“What are you, Stevie Wonder? It’s fucking two in the morning! Take those glasses off and stop bobbing your head around back and forth like there is a damn ribbon in the sky for our love!”

“As you wish then.” Laughing loud and louder, Saint gripped the side of the black glasses and snatched them off. The dog jeered and barked loudly, then cowered and whimpered.

Sinclair looked at him
in disbelief, then stepped back, gripping his gun, shaking in his spot.

“What the
…! What the fuck is going on with you, man? I will blow your damn ass away if you come one step closer to me.” He nervously fumbled with the envelope, shoving it into his jacket pocket.

Suddenly thick roped chains
and glimmering shackles dropped from the ceiling, clanking together and swinging like a little girl’s braids. Music began to blare from four speakers hidden behind a stack of old worn drapes…

Stevie Wonder, coincidentally, chimed in with the classic hit, ‘Superstition’, in loud, base-filled stereo. Dust, as if a storm was moving throughout the place, ushered in internal trade winds. Soon, the music transitioned to a different song as if an invisible DJ were spinning records.

Gucci Man rapped, “Lemonade.” The bass was so loud, the windows in the warehouse vibrated and rocked.

Sinclair’s head darted around in all directions as sounds
boomed from every corner, his hand wielding a death grip on the damn gun. He pulled it out and aimed it at Saint. Saint began to dance and laugh, clapping his hands to the beat as Sinclair screamed out. “Shut the fuck—”

But a pair of strong arms reached out and grabbed the bastard before he had time to finish his tirade and properly shoot
. Jagger emerged from the darkness, snatched him from behind and bent his arm so hard, the gun fell to the ground in a loud clank. Lawrence came out of a cloud of smoke, a sinister smile on his face, his long black hair blowing gently behind him like a damn cape. He gripped the fallen weapon and disappeared back into the white haze so fast, moving in reverse, like someone had a remote control pointed at him, controlling his movements—as if the man was never there. Meanwhile, Saint got carried away by the music…

“
Coward ass… yellow stripe, you a yellow back AK hit your dog and you can't bring Old Yeller back…You know you a scary cat!”
Saint rhymed the lyrics, his laughter now echoing throughout the warehouse while Sinclair kicked and screamed as if he were being stabbed to death. No. Stabbing would be far more pleasant than what Saint had in mind…