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Authors: Maxine Thompson

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BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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“It was an ambush. One of our men who got away saw them. I didn't see who took him, but I think it's a Mexican cartel. They say they were wearing face masks, too.”
“What makes you think they were Mexican if they were wearing masks?”
“They had a Mexican accent.”
“How about the tattoo?”
“The Eses wear those. According to J-Rod, the one that got away, they come from a family. From what one of my boys who got away said, one wore this strange tattoo that had a cobra wrapped around a pole.”
“About what time did this happen?”
“It happened about two in the morning last night.”
I knew that was an unusual tattoo. I'd already learned on another case there was a special tattoo parlor in downtown L.A. that specialized in unusual tattoos.
“Do you think my brother's a snitch?”
He shook his head. “H ... h ... hell naw! Who told you that?”
“I'm trying to rule out something that was told to me.”
“Look, he did several bids where he could have taken people down and he didn't.”
“What did he want me to come to you for? He said you would know what to do.”
Tank paused, before speaking. “Okay, Z, this is important. You've got to get Mayhem's kids. If you don't, they may get murked.”
“Wait. Slow down. This is a lot of information for me to digest. First things first. Where are my nephews?”
“They're with my sss ... sister. Them li'l niggas be wilding out, so please hurry and get 'em. Here's her address.” He handed me a note. “Name's Rena Holt. She's in Bellflower. Here's a note to give 'er from me to let her know you are who you say you are. You've got to get them kids out of Cali, though.”
“Okay.” I felt numb.
“Something else, though. Mayhem told me to set this up for you. I talked to him last night. Here's a passport; you'll just have to put a recent picture in it. And here's a ticket to Rio de Janeiro. You're gonna need a tetanus shot, a ten-year vaccine for yellow fever, and a prescription. That's on that note too, with a doctor's name and address; he'll see you right away.”
I looked down and saw the sister's address, a doctor's name and address in Hollywood, and the name of an antimalarial drug, Lariam.
“What? Slow your roll. Why Brazil?”
“This thing is big. Big Homie was going to do a deal in Brazil. But somehow Appolonia wound up goin', I guess 'cause she knew the language. Anyway, now, they holding her hostage. The money that was going to go on the deal can be used to release Big Homie.
“You've got to leave tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you get this prescription and the shots for yellow fever.”
“Why?”
“You'll be near the Amazon. A woman named Esmeralda will meet you at the airport. She'll have a sign. Here's a picture of Appolonia.”
I glanced down at the photo of an attractive Brazilian woman. She had thick auburn curly shoulder-length hair, a rich bronze complexion, and full lips, which seemed to sneer out at the world. She had a small beauty mole on her upper lip, and almond-shaped eyes, which gave her a sultry look. She had the sheer dazzle and glamour of the late Elizabeth Taylor–except with that South American beauty factor combined. Yes, she looked like the type of eye-candy woman Mayhem would want as a trophy wifey on his arm. “What's her last name?”
“Silva. I don't mean to rush you, but you really need to get your nephews somewhere safe.”
“Has there been a direct threat against the kids?”
“They want all three of 'em. They got a hit out on 'em.”
“What can I do with them?”
“Just get them somewhere safe before you leave the country. You'll find them with my sister. You've got to get them out of L.A.”
By now my heart was beating a maniacal rhythm up against my rib cage, I was so upset.
“I want to show you something.” He went over to the computer and flipped it on. “I think this where all the damn trouble began. Mayhem had a lot of Web sites that was doing good. He'd even started investing in stocks and bonds on Wall Street. That's when the Feds and everybody started coming down on him.
“Then these bloggers started talkin' shit 'bout him because he was tryin' to get a rap group out there. The bloggers the ones get beef going with people. Then they go sit on they ass behind their keyboards and laughin' at niggas. I ... I told Big Homie this Internet ain't nothin' but the devil's playground, but, naw, he said this was the new way of doin' business.”
I was surprised how quickly Tank's sausage fingers could type. I waited while he pulled up accounts, opened them, then closed them and saved the information to a flash drive.
“These are just some of Mayhem's accounts. This is the one you'll have to have the money transferred to. It's also the one you can draw money out of for your trip and your services. I'll call you if I find out anything else. I got your number in my cell.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Hey, you're fam. Family take care of each other.”
Chapter Seven
The purplish cast of a breaking aurora gave way to a mauve overcast morning as I drove to Bellflower. I tried to map out what I would do with the boys once I found them. My heart was pounding and I felt myself hyperventilating. The rivaling drug dealers would shoot babies, women, and children. Just as in war time, women and children were collateral damage. The cartels didn't believe in leaving any witnesses behind, either. In the case of male children, they didn't want the boys to grow up and seek revenge.
I picked up my speed and jumped on the 105 freeway.
Okay, calm down,
I assured myself.
The boys will be fine.
Then a strange thought hit me: if I got the boys, where would I take them?
Should I call Department of Children and Family Services? The Child Abuse hotline who can alert Child Protective Services?
If I couldn't find anyone to take them, what was I going to do with some kids? That's why I never had any in the first place. As much as I loved Romero, I didn't even try to do the stepmama thing with his six-year-old daughter, Bianca.
How old were my nephews anyhow? Were they in diapers? Toddling? Walking? But, no, they must be older if Mayhem had described them as “thuglets” last year. Tank even said they “be wilding out.”
I put in my earplugs so I wouldn't get a ticket for driving while talking on a cell phone. I pushed my speed dial and called Shirley. “Oh, this man is running me crazy,” was almost the first thing out of her mouth. No “Hello, Z”; no “Kiss my toe”; no “Kiss my foot.” Just straight rambling. She
was
stressed out.
“Since he got back from running away, he's throwing fits. He wants to wander around the house all night. I had to stay up with him all night. I'm exhausted.”
“Oh, Shirley. You poor thing. I feel bad I can't help you. I might have to go out of the country.”
I could tell Shirley was so upset she didn't even really register what I'd said. I hung up, feeling defeated. I guessed I wouldn't be able to bring the children there for respite until she could get them somewhere. Shirley was in need of respite herself.
The sun was burning off some of the morning fog as soon as I arrived at the Cape Cod–style cottage belonging to Tank's sister, Rena. She was a thirty-something fair-skinned woman. She wore her hair in locks. She was small boned, quite a contrast to her brother. She looked both exhausted yet relieved to see me. From her uniform I assumed she was a nurse. “I'm glad to see you. I just got in from work. I'm a CNA. I work nights at a nursing home and this is already getting to be too much.”
I guessed Tank had alerted her that I was on my way to pick up the boys.
As soon as I set eyes on the three boys, my long-lost nephews, I knew they were my brother's children. They each looked like various shades of what I remembered of Mayhem when we were children. One had his long slope head, another one had his full lips, and the youngest one had his pudgy nose. They were well-built, muscular children. Although I remember Mayhem saying he had three different baby mamas, the boys all looked like him. The oldest wore his hair shoulder length, the middle one had a Mohawk, and the youngest son wore a shag haircut. They were all well dressed, wearing Sean John's outfits. They sported what looked like brand new Nikes, too. I didn't like the earring pierced in the oldest boy's ear. I couldn't tell how old they were because of the hardened looks in their eyes. I felt a sense of kinship akin to how slaves had to feel after Emancipation when they reconnected with long-lost relatives. Inside I was elated, but that sense of elation was soured quickly.
“Who are you?” The oldest demanded with the same brash confidence that Mayhem possessed when he was a child. He was bowlegged and stood with his legs arched back the same way Mayhem used to do.
“I'm your Auntie Z.”
“My daddy ain't never tell us nothin' about-'chu.” This little defiant man-child even had his mouth twisted up the way my brother used to do, too.
I suppressed a grin. “Well, he told me about y'all.”
I recalled my first meeting with Mayhem after fifteen years. He'd referred to his sons as his “little thuglets” and I could see why. The oldest one already had what I presumed was a battle scar on the right side of his face. An inch higher and it would have put out his eye. The two-inch keloid glared against his fair complexion. The way he acted though, this little man wore this scar as a badge of honor.
That's when I realized I didn't know any of their names. “What are your names?”
“How you s'posed to be somebody auntie and you don't even know our name,” the oldest bleated in my face.
“Well, I am your auntie,” I said firmly. “That's a good question.” I showed Tank's note to Rena.
Rena, who had receded into the background after she let me in, spoke up. “Their names are Milan, Koran, and Tehran. Milan is ten, Koran is nine, and Tehran is seven.”
“Okay, Milan, Koran, and Tehran, I'm your Auntie Z. You're coming with me.” To break the awkwardness, I gave them each a hurried hug, which none of them responded to, but what did I expect? I was a stranger to them. We were tied by blood, yet, at the same time, we were separated by years and distance.
A faint sadness swept over me. How many more families had been separated because of this madness–gangs, prison, drugs? As I huddled the still disgruntled boys into my car, with their backpacks, I wondered where I could take them. Then I had a thought: why not at least try Shirley, despite my earlier reservations?
But almost as soon as I thought it, I realized Shirley really was out of the question. Besides, she had protective custody of all four of Chica's girls, and having prepubescent, mannish boys in the same age group probably wouldn't be a good idea. Plus, she had restrictions with her foster care license. Girls and boys couldn't sleep in the same room and her rooms were all full.
That's when I thought of Venita. At first, I thought that was a crazy idea. How could I even consider my biological mother? Hey, she didn't even finish raising us. But then I thought about it. After all, she was their grandmother. This could be her redemption. Perhaps this would give her a second shot at being a mother. She sure messed up with us.
And, as much as I hated to admit it since I didn't want to forgive her yet, she was different now–in a good way. Maybe she could give her grandchildren what she wasn't able to give us: a suitable, stable home. She was now clean and sober. She had slowly rebuilt her life since her release a year ago. Against all odds of recidivism, prison had rehabilitated her, or so it would seem.
Why shouldn't she take her own grandchildren? But would she want to take them now that she was free and living her own life?
Chapter Eight
I pulled over to a curb, and stepped out the car so I could call Venita and talk in private. I didn't want to scare the boys, although they didn't look like you could frighten them easily. I wondered if they knew their lives were in danger.
My mother answered on the first ring, as if she was waiting by the phone, expecting a call from me. I could tell she was both happy and surprised to hear my voice. At the same time, I could hear the relief in her voice.
“Are you going to help?” she asked eagerly.
“Do I have a choice?” I knew it was a rhetorical question.
“What can I do to help?”
“Can you take Mayhem's kids?”
“Sure. Bring them babies to me.” There was no hesitation in her voice and I felt a smidgen of jealousy.
“They're not babies and they are a handful. They're just like Mayhem.”
Shirley chuckled. “I can handle them.”
“Well, you're going to have to get them out of L.A. They're in danger. Whoever has Mayhem will kill them if they find them. Are you off parole yet?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Do you have any money to get out of the state?”
“David set up an account for me about six months ago. I still have the money because of my job.” She said the word “job” with pride. That's right, Venita worked at a floral shop. First time in her life my mother had held down a job, and from what I could see, she'd been a good employee over the past year. Before she went to prison, she'd always been a welfare queen and sugar daddy baby.
For a moment, I felt a stab of jealousy in my stomach, though, when she called Mayhem by his real name, but then I remembered Venita gave up twenty years of her life for my brother when she took the fall for the murder her ten-year-old child committed. I'd always known he was her favorite, even when we were little. All because he was a boy.
To mask my feelings of sibling rivalry, I became brusque. “Well, this is the time to use the money. You've got to get out of town today and take his boys with you. Can you do that?”
“I'll do whatever I have to do.”
“Do you need a ride to the bus station or train station? Do you have someplace you can go?”
“I know where I can take them. No, I can catch a cab. You need to get moving to try to help David.”
I felt a little envy again when I hung up.
Help David.
That was my birth mother's first concern.
Help her first born.
In an ideal world, she would have said, “Thanks for sticking out your neck to help my criminal son and his underworld mess,” but I guess that was in a dream world. This was the real world.
I climbed back into the car.
“Where we goin'?” Milan demanded.
“I've got a surprise for you,” was all I said. The boys and I drove in silence to Venita's colonial in View Park. I hadn't been to her place before, but I knew her address. I was thinking about my mother. She'd come up in the world in a short time. A year ago she was living in a halfway house. Now she was living in what was an old, settled middle-class Black neighborhood in South Los Angeles. I guess the same way the NBA players looked out for their moms, Mayhem had looked out for Venita. But could he buy her back twenty years of her life? Did they ever discuss what went on between them? I wondered.
I hustled the boys out of the car, all the time looking over my shoulder. I rushed up the brick walkway and banged on her heavy mahogany door.
“Is that you, Z?” Venita called through the door. She peered through her peephole and snatched open the door.
As soon as Venita saw the boys, she broke into tears, grabbed all three boys at once, and began to kiss them all over their faces. She held all three of them in a headlock embrace. I was shaken. I'd never seen my OG Cripping mama cry before. I guess time brings about a change.
“Leave us alone with all that mush,” Koran said, pushing Venita away.
“Who is you anyway?” Tehran demanded, lip curled in defiance.
“Yeah, we're not babies. We're soldiers.” Milan stood with his shoulders back, bandy legs arched, like he was one of those Ugandan children soldiers.
“Now you see how bad this Crip thing is, Venita?” I shook my head in distaste.
Venita ignored me. “Boys, I'm your grandmother.”
“No, you ain't. My grandmother in Brazil.”
“My grandma live in Arleta.”
“My grandma live in Southgate.”
“Well, I'm all y'all daddy's mama. Y'all may have different mamas, but y'all all got the same daddy. He my son. Y'all all look just like that boy.”
“I thought his old lady was in jail,” Koran scoffed.
“I'm his old lady, and I'm here. Do I look that old to you?”
“Yeah,” Tehran piped up. “You
real
old.”
I cringed. I remembered how vain Venita used to be, and with her new Rihanna-red weave and super long fake acrylic nails, she still thought, at fifty-one, she was quite a diva, even if a ghettofabulous one. Venita's mouth crumpled and I could tell she was hurt.
“Hey, Tehran.” I stepped in to soften his childish, outspoken blow. “You need to take charm lessons from your daddy. Now take Mayhem. He was a charmer, even when he was a little boy.”
“You got that right. He sho was,” Venita said, eyes glazing over with her happy memories of my brother's childhood before she went to prison.
We stepped inside the living room. The house boasted light rosewood floors. A new, expensive-looking French provincial sofa and loveseat sat in the corner. The boys sat down. For all their bravado, the boys seemed at ease with Venita. I guess game recognizes game.
“So you really
is
our daddy mama?” Milan asked, kind of with curiosity, kind of in awe. Apparently, Mayhem had told them about Venita and how her street reputation preceded her. If there was such a thing as being a ghetto celebrity, well, then Venita had been that back in the day. Whipping police's assess, shooting, riding on drive-bys with the men, the whole bit.
“Yeah. I sure am. What else you wanna know?”
“I wanna know was my daddy a Crip when he was my age?”
“Sure was.”
“Well, why don't he want us to be one? Talkin' 'bout he wants us to go to college and work on Wall Street. Talkin' 'bout how that's really gangsta.”
I was tickled myself at that. Mayhem may have been a criminal, but he was telling his boys the truth about that. More companies, countries, and Savings and Loans had been derailed by white collar crime than street crime could ever touch.
However, Venita ignored their questions. “Come on in and eat some grits and toast. Your daddy loved grits when he was a boy.”
“Venita, you're gonna hafta get out of dodge–soon!” I urged. “Y'all can do the grandma-grandson thang once you get settled.”
“Okay, okay, but they got to eat something. We'll be out of L.A. by two this afternoon. There's a Greyhound I can take.”
“I don't care where you go but make sure it's not Atlanta or a big city where they can be traced. Change your phone number, and call me from a phone card when you get wherever you're going.”
I said my good-byes and awkwardly hugged my nephews. As I turned to leave, Venita reached up and hugged me.
“Thanks, Z. I know this is a lot... .”
Reluctantly, I hugged her back. I guess we had a new bond. We were both getting ready to descend into hell together.
I didn't breathe easily until I left the boys in Venita's care. I felt like she was strong in a way that I'd never be strong. Like the fact she'd had babies and survived being separated from them, yet still could have hope at a second chance at life.
I still wouldn't feel right until I got word they were safe out of the state. Somewhere. Anywhere. I didn't even care. Anywhere but here.
BOOK: Slipping Into Darkness
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