The Corner II

Other titles by Alex Richardson

Lines Crossed: (
the true story of an undercover cop)

The Corner (Slim’s Revenge)

Lies, Lust, Consequences (erotica)

Phoenix

Miller Beach Publishing Presents:

The Corner II

(The Queenpin)

By Alex Richardson

This is a work of fiction. The author has invented the characters. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

If you have purchased this book with a ‘dull’ or missing cover you have possibly purchased an unauthorized or stolen book. Please immediately contact the publisher advising where, when and how you purchased the book.

Miller Beach Publishing

PO Box 11502

Fort Wayne, In. 46858

www.millerbeachpublishing.com

Library of Congress Control Number: 2009904700

ISBN: 978-0-578-02443-1

Author: Alex Richardson

Cover design/graphics: www.mariondesigns.com

Edited by: Lu Ann Wells

Cover Model: Demetria Stephens

Cover Model Photo by: Dean Scott Photography/LModelz Modeling Agency Indianapolis

Copyright © 2009 by Alex Richardson. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages to be printed in a newspaper or a magazine.

Second Trade Paperback Edition Printing July 2011

Detroit 1995

Anthony Davis sat on the porch drinking on a forty ounce Colt 45 and smoking weed with his homeboy, Smiley. It was a hot and humid day and the two teenagers were celebrating graduating high school—just barely. If it weren’t for Smiley laying the pipe to their forty-year-old English teacher Ms. Maduski, they wouldn’t be standing on the porch listening to Biggie rap
Gimmie the Loot.
They would be sitting in summer school trying to make the grade to graduate. The two had been friends since the mid-eighties when Anthony moved to Detroit from Chicago with his mother. Anthony was only eight and didn’t know anyone and was a bit shy when it came to meeting new people. When his mom made him go to the park alone to make friends, Smiley, one of the popular young kids in the neighborhood, befriended him. Within an hour they were jawing about who was the best Jordan or Isaiah, Cubs or Tigers, Bears or Lions with Anthony getting the best of Smiley when he talked about the Bears and their hard-hitting defense. They cut their conversation short when the tunes of the ice cream truck grew louder. Anthony reached in the pocket of his cut off Toughskins jeans and pulled out some change. Brushing the lint to the side he counted his money—twice. When he realized he had enough to buy something for his newfriend who’d shared Boston Baked Beans and a Chico Stick with him, he offered to buy Smiley a Bomb Pop.

Anthony paid for the ice cream treats and was on his way back to the playground when two kids who looked to be a year or two older than he confronted him. Smiley, who was a good distance away, sitting on the monkey bars, noticed what was going on. The two kids who were bigger than Anthony but were the same size as Smiley, were known trouble makers around the neighborhood and Smiley knew what was up. Before he could make it over to Anthony one of the kids smacked the bomb pops to the ground and stepped on them. Anthony was upset but had never been in a fight. The two boys were laughing as they grabbed and shook Anthony asking if he had any more money. That’s when one of the boys caught a fist to his eye. Smiley’s oldest brother who was seventeen taught him that the first lick should be to a person’s eye so they would have a hard time seeing what was coming next. Smiley did what he was taught—the next blow was to the mouth. The busted chops leaked a lot of blood that covered the boy’s chin and shirt. Anthony stood dazed until the boy who’d been hit in the eye clocked him in the nose. He fell to the ground. When Smiley yelled for him to get up and fight, he did—especially after seeing his bloody shirt. With a lot of rage and anger flowing through him he began swinging quickly and accurately. The same way he’d watched Detroit’s Tommie Hearns do it. Smiley was amazed and the two put a whipping on the two neighborhood bullies.

When the kids ran off, Smiley brushed the dirt and gravel off his clothes and Anthony took off the bloody shirt that was now ruined. Smiley told him to tilt his head back and he used the shirt to apply pressure to stop the bleeding. He had seen one of his four brothers do this. They were always fighting and into something. They were only teenagers but were in the streets every day and night. They always taught their little brother to stand up for himself and for his friends and Smiley knew that if word had got back to his brothers from any of the kids on the playground that he hadn’t helped his new friend—his brothers would have whipped him.

Anthony was worried that his mother was going to kill him for messing up his t-shirt.
I ain’t got that type of money for you to be messin’ up your clothes!
He imagined her yelling. Smiley saw the look on his friend’s face and asked him was he worried about what his mother was going to say? Anthony told him that he was, so Smiley offered to walk home with him in case he needed a witness to what had happened. As they walked up the street Smiley saw his older brother on the corner hustling and he kept walking—remembering the rule.
Don’t come and talk to me while I’m on the streets. A lot of shit can happen and I don’t want you caught up in it.
So much for the rule, Tavarious called Smiley over to him.

“Yo, Smiley, what’s up?” Tavarious glanced at the shirt Anthony had clutched in his hand. “Why this kid you with carrying a bloody t-shirt?”

“He got in a…uh…I mean we got in a fight,” Smiley said proudly knowing that they had just mopped up the two boys.

Eyeing a Park Avenue that was cruising toward him slowly, Tavarious said, “Oh yeah. By the looks of that shirt and the blood on y’all shorts it looks like y’all got whooped.”

Hoping to impress his brother, Smiley stuck out his chest proudly saying, “We beat them fools down!”

“No shit, little man? Good, good.”  Tavarious said as he continued to eye the Park Avenue as it came to a halt.

An older white man rolled down the window. Anthony and Smiley looked on as they thought about how they very rarely saw white folks in their neighborhood unless they were the police or some politician out preaching
their
word.

Anthony looked on as Smiley’s brother handed the man what looked to be some broken off pieces of soap and the man handed Tavarious a couple of twenties. Anthony was amazed at how fast Tavarious had made the money and the look was painted all over his face.

Tavarious noticed the gleam in Anthony’s eyes. He walked toward him, asking, “You like that little man? How fast I made that loot?”

Anthony, always the one to say what he was thinking, shot a one-word answer to the dark-skinned teenager, “Yeah.”

Tavarious told him, “You’re too young right now. Holla at me in a few years.”  With that answer Tavarious sent the two youngsters on their way.

The two made it to Anthony’s street. He was worried about what his mother was going to say about him ruining his shirt. He and Smiley stopped in front of his house. There was a pause. Smiley asked his friend for his phone number so he could call him whenever he was going to head to the park. Embarrassed, Anthony put his head down and stared at the pavement. He kicked at one of the loose rocks while telling Smiley he and his mom didn’t have a phone. Smiley told him that it was okay. That his mom and brothers didn’t have a phone until his brothers started hustling. Anthony wouldn’t have known what hustling was if he hadn’t seen Smiley’s brother Tavarious getting money from the white man in the nice car. So all he did was put two and two together.

“See ya tomorrow,” Smiley yelled as he trotted down the block to his house.

Anthony’s mother was standing in the doorway of the front door. He had his head down when he opened the screen door. He was ready for the tongue-lashing and possible whipping from his mother. He walked past her—no shirt on but it was clutched in his hand with blood on it.

Anthony’s mother followed him as he headed to his room that wasn’t far away seeing as how the low-income house only had a living room, kitchen and two bedrooms that were tiny. Gloria put out her Virginia Slim as she passed the coffee table. Anthony had already made it to his room. He was digging in his closet looking for something. Gloria leaned against the door jam and watched knowing what her son was searching for. She noticed the sad but pissed-off look on her son’s face as he handed her the belt that was designated for his ass whippings.

Arms folded, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want no whippin’,” he pouted as he held the belt toward her.

She had a slight grin as she asked, “What happened to your shirt?  You know we don’t have that type of money that you can mess even one up.”

She asked the question even though she knew what had happened. She had brothers and had grown up on the west and south side of Chicago and they had all come home with torn, dirtied or bloodied clothes one time or another. She was actually glad to see her son in this position. The only thing she needed to know was the outcome.

Anthony was still holding the belt but it was at his side now. His head was down when he answered, “I got in a fight.”

“Why?” Her voice was steady.

“I don’t know. I was just getting some ice cream for me and my friend Smiley—”  

She cut him off, asking, “The kid who was walking with you?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah?”
Her voice rose and neck craned.

“I mean yes.”

“Finish telling me what happened.”

“After I got some ice cream, these two boys came and knocked it to the ground and hit me and tried to beat me up but my friend helped me and we beat the boys up.”

“So you were defending yourself?”

“Yes.”

Gloria lit another cigarette. She was proud of her son. In one dog day afternoon in Detroit her son had his first fight and from the looks of his shirt it was a good one. She took a long hard drag and inhaled the smoke. She put her hand on his forehead and tilted his head back so she could inspect his nose. She touched it. Anthony squirmed. It was bruised but not broken.

“That boy you were with, he helped you, huh?”

“Yes.”