Price of Justice
a novel by
Tim Kornegay
Smashwords Edition
Copyright © 2011 by Tim Kornegay
Smashwords Edition License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Acknowledgements
First and foremost on the list of people I want to thank is my mother, Juanita Kornegay. While she was on this earth, she loved me, supported me, believed in me in spite of all the things I wasn’t and taught me the meaning of implicit love and loyalty. My father, Raymond Kornegay, is a man I grew up wishing not to be like because of his conventional attitudes and approach, but now wish to become everything he is. Ann Pearlman’s encouragement provided the energy that propelled the process that resulted in this book. My first wife, Tanya, believed in me when no one else did and also put up with my bs and peculiarities longer than anyone else would have been willing to do. My daughter Keianna is loved beyond her awareness. Juanita Kornegay’s (Mini-me) love motivates me to keep going when I feel like quitting. Dymond, my youngest daughter, I’ve loved since the moment of her conception, but have never been able to show her. Wiz (Elizabeth Hinton) is a wonderful person in my life who has renewed my faith in the existence of human kindness. And Melina Hinton proves once again the ability of people to change attitudes. Dr. Linda Sherby’s keen eye polished the prose. And Dr. Moses Everett’s encouragement and praise offered support. M.A. Collins’s friendship was both needed and appreciated. The Homie, R. Jefferson, my brother from another mother, stepped up and threw me a lifeline when I was on the verge of drowning in a sea of adversity and uncertainty. My first cousin, Gary’s, early football career has led him to be efficient at giving me the 42-fake (You know what I mean, G.). But his contacts reestablished my ties to an old friend, Jerome Carter, the individual who believed in this story and gave it a chance. Good look’n out, Cuz. And Jerome, thanks for the opportunity.
Chapter One
Pacific Palisades is an exclusive beach community situated between
Santa Monica and Malibu. The area’s predominantly White population is sprinkled with Blacks and Mexicans who are lucky enough to afford to live there and confident enough not to care what White folks think. Big Dee scores high in each of these categories. He doesn’t give a fuck what anybody thinks, Black or White. He has earned his station and paid the price handsomely to live where he lives, how he lives.
Close to his house is the West Coast’s most notable kickboxing and yoga studio. Big Dee sits on a matted surface in the corner, his sweat pants and shirt darkened with perspiration, his legs spread as he completes the last phase of his cool down stretch. Some of the members are from the pampered elite, a fact flaunted by a parking lot filled with vehicles whose price tags eclipse the mortgage of the average home in South Central where Big Dee grew up. His Jaguar convertible is parked among them, although he is neither pampered nor thinks of himself as elite. He is one of the studio’s oldest and most disciplined members. Within the studio walls, it is all business. No TVs, no air conditioning, no designer water bottles. Instead it is hard core free weights, heavy bags, jump ropes, grunts echoing from strain, the smell of sweat. Close to twenty members, most of them female and White, move around the designated work out areas.
He inhales, exhales deeply, springs to his feet and walks into a nearby room and slings his gym bag over his shoulder. On his journey out, he catches the eye of two White women working out together. One, he knows from studio chat, is a prominent criminal defense attorney. The other has titties and ass like a soul food-eating sista. Both send inviting “best dentist in town” smiles. He acknowledges them with the old-school two finger peace sign before pushing open the exit door. He doesn’t smile easily. Laughter comes quicker.
Outside, he squints from the glare of the Southern California sunshine. Using his hand on his forehead as a shield, he sees an unmarked police car behind his Jaguar. The two detectives are no strangers to Big Dee. Tall and scrawny, Dave Marquet leans against the Jag’s front fender, Bob Houston sits on the hood. They’ve been dogging Big Dee since he got out of prison twenty years ago, punk-ass cops who “remember when”. Police are always after a Black man who hustles himself out of the streets or out of the game successfully.
“Last time I checked, civil servants can’t afford cars like this. So, gentlemen, please get your asses off my car.” Dee’s stride is confident.
Marquet steps toward Big Dee, pushes his sunglasses up to the bridge of his nose. “You’re a long way from the ‘hood, Dale. Don’t forget your place.”
Big Dee’s jaw clenches at the use of his given name.
Marquet places his hand on his gun. “Come on, Big Dee. Give me a reason, I’ll blow that ugly face off and no one would care.”
Dee narrows his brows and clenches his hand, his motion interrupted by the two attractive White women now strolling from the studio doors, laughing. Big Dee turns to them.
Marquet eases his hand from the gun.
The women cease talking when they notice the scene with Big Dee and the detectives.
The defense lawyer, with concern in her brown eyes, walks to them. “Is everything alright, Dee?”
“You’d have to ask these officers.” The advantage has swung Dee’s way.
“Yes, ladies. Everything’s fine.” Houston, his belly stretching his shirt, awkwardly bounces from the hood of the Jaguar. “We were simply admiring the car.” He rubs the car’s fender then tilts his head to Marquet indicating that it’s time to leave. As the two detectives drive away, one of the White women mimics Houston’s rubbing action, but she slows down the motion and whispers in a husky voice, “They’re so right. This is a nice car.”
The defense attorney produces a business card from her bag, hands it to Big Dee brushing his hand in the process. “If you ever need a good lawyer…” She winks. A touch of added movement exaggerates the sway of her hips as she leads the way to a Bentley sedan parked a few spaces down. Big Dee overhears the defense attorney stage whisper to her friend as she enters the car. “I bet he’s a monster in the sack.”
Big Dee curves through canyons lush with vegetation and a meandering brook on his drive home. Stone and brick homes have curved towers of windows, wide winding entry stairs, forests of landscaped shrubbery and trees. Then he glimpses the shore. Every time he drives home, Dee is reminded of how far he’s come and what he’s had to do to get there. The tension in his body caused by his encounter with Houston and Marquet wanes. He looks forward to the soothing jets of his shower, the steaming hot water cleansing him of the irritation.
He turns in the driveway of his home, triggers the garage door, and parks the Jag beside a Bentley.
Big Dee doesn’t see Houston and Marquet cruise by in time to catch a peek of his cars before the garage door reaches the ground.
“I’d like to meet the friggin’ prick that said crime don’t pay. Shove my gun up his ass.” Marquet slams his fist against the steering wheel and does a thrusting motion with his free hand. “And make him pay me not to pull the trigger. Crime doesn’t pay, my ass.”
Houston, accustomed to his partner’s tirades, doesn’t respond. It would only fuel his ranting.
“A Bentley and a Jag and this two million dollar house and crime don’t pay? Yeah. Right. For slugs like us.”
Big Dee taps in the code at the digital key panel next to the door. A blinking red light turns green, letting him know he can enter. Stepping into the kitchen, he goes straight for the fridge. He retrieves the fixings for a turkey sandwich, and a bottle of strawberry flavored water. With the skill of a well practiced single man, he slaps together a better than decent sandwich. He walks to the living room and places the sandwich and the water on a table next to the telephone. There are three messages. He thinks about dealing with them, but instead steps over to a maple entertainment center. Shuffling through his CD collection, he inserts one into the player. The smooth sound of the Whispers, Are You Going My Way, flows through the surround sound speakers. He dances a quick two-step with an invisible partner, lip synching Come take full advantage of this human shell my heart is living in, as he returns to the table and presses the button on the message phone.
“Dee. This is your boy, Easy. Got something up. Money written all over it. Holla.”
“Pops, this me. What up with the pool party? Me, Magic and Ree-Ree, we ready.”
Lisa’s voice ends the messages. “I need to talk to you, Dale.”
He devours the remaining sandwich and bottled water as he walks toward the wall of windows that line the back side of his house. A sun beam reflects from the pool’s surface and makes pale blue wave patterns across his face. Beyond that is the canyon. He is proud of his son, Heshima. He has no regrets for promising to throw a party before he and Ree-Ree go to college. Even though their missed classes almost fucked it off. And in spite of the fact that he doesn’t want to deal with the ghetto fabulous crowd he knows they’ll invite, Shit. I know one of them is gonna try to steal something, he reminds himself, Don’t forget where you come from. He chuckles at the irony and answers himself out loud, “I won’t.”
Big Dee leaves a trail of clothes marking his path to the shower. He adjusts the water prior to tentatively sliding under its massaging spray, swirls of steam rise from the shower-head confirming the hot temperature and explaining his hesitance. A pleasant fog releases his tensions and opens the door to memories of Lisa.
The first day he saw Lisa, she accomplished with a glance and a slight smile what no other woman had. Her eyes traveled to a place inside him beyond the playa shit. Her smile broke down his defenses and his heart picked up. The fact that he was in a courtroom facing a prison sentence became irrelevant. He wanted to return her reluctant smile, and imagined a life with her.
She felt like she belonged in his arms. Her smell was fresh and natural. She avoided the overpowering perfume most women used which was an added plus. Dale thought women who doused in Chanel no. 5 were hiding how they smelled. And smell was so much part of it all. Then the sharp edge of her voice cut through him, “Don’t you get at me with that player, gangster bullshit, Dale. You fuck me over and a Judge will be asking why I did it.” And just that quickly, his romantic memories were replaced with memories of arguments and pain. Reality is with him. He shuts the water off, suddenly lonely for the familiar anger he felt following the run-in with Houston and Marquet. It’s easy to be angry with the cops, but Lisa turned Dee from what he was into a figure of envy.
He pours a glass of Tanqueray Gin and switches the Whispers to Ice Cube. Ain’t no way you’re gon’ win , cause I come from a tribe of O.G. and my skin is my sin erupts from the sound system. After a gangster sized gulp, his mood starts to elevate. Nodding to Cube’s beat, he’s ready to get dressed and make it happen.
Ten minutes away in South Central Los Angeles, in a white house with royal blue trim that fits comfortably with the two and three bedroom homes adorning both sides of the street, Lisa Jackson busies herself vacuuming. Her vacuum cleaner coughs, clogged by a shoe string trailing from under the couch. “What the fuck is this?” She bends to free the string and pulls the Nike connected to it. She shakes her head in anger.
Rap music blaring from outside interrupts her. She turns to it, cussing under her breath. Then the phone rings. She answers and holds a hand over her other ear to block out the music. “Hello. Where the hell are you? You told me you’d be here over an hour ago. Look, Dale, I’m not one of those bitches you fuck with. Do I need to refresh your memory?” She kicks the shoe toward the back of the house. “Okay, he’s outside, a second away from getting his butt kicked behind that loud ass music.” Lisa listens with glaring eyes, clenched brows, and stretched mouth. “Alright. Bye.” She bangs the phone down.
At the curb is Heshima, Lisa and Big Dee’s eighteen-year-old son. He has his mother’s rich brown eyes and long hair currently braided in corn rows. Everything else is courtesy of his father, from his medium brown skin tone, his six-foot, 190-pound frame. His expression is accented by a dimple directly between his eyes left there as evidence of his inability to outrun an exploding cherry bomb. The dimple makes him appear either serious or angry. As usual, he’s dressed in the current fashion trend: like a gangsta. He wears an oversized gray Tee shirt and a pair of acid washed jeans perched on his ass. A pair of blue nylon Nike Cortes with a grey swosh on the sides on his feet.
Looking out the window, Lisa bristles, but accepts his choice in clothes because she knows he’s on the way to college. Otherwise, she’d set fire to it all. His two best friends are with him. Magic is the splitting image of NBA basketball player Gary Payton, but can’t play basketball to save his life. And Magic’s over-the-top tomboy sister, Renea, who everyone calls Ree-Ree, is always willing to let her brother know she’s the one with the basketball skills. She’s as tough as Magic and Heshima, but neither passes up the opportunity to tease her and she doesn’t do anything to discourage it. If her mannerisms or her dress are any indication, she covets it by looking and acting like a boy. The three of them bop to the loud music transmitted by Heshima’s car.
Lisa steps through the decorative iron security gate protecting her front door onto the porch. “Boy, if you don’t turn that goddamn music down…”
Heshima ducks inside the car’s open window and lowers the volume. “What’s up Momma, so you a square now, huh? You wasn’t all that square yesterday when we was banging that Gerald Levert and you were dancing like a sixteen-year-old.”
Magic and Ree-Ree start laughing.
Lisa smiles. “That’s different. Anyway, I just spoke to your father. He said he’s on his way over to get you.” Lisa goes back inside.
A couple passes on the other side of the street. The man cranes his neck to watch Lisa and bumps into his girlfriend. The woman cuts into him with a barrage of profanity. Heshima, Magic and Ree-Ree laugh at the familiar scene. Lisa always attracts attention, her long neck accentuating a figure that, even in her 40’s, is a head turner. She’s only 5’4”, but there is a power associated with someone taller. Her brown complexion has a tint of bronze and is so creamy her pores are invisible. Even without make-up, she glows with youth. Heshima knows his mother is fine and wonders why she doesn’t have a man.
The other women in the neighborhood whisper among themselves that Lisa must be at least forty-five years old and on the verge of bankruptcy from the plastic surgeries she’s had to look so youthful and beautiful. But Lisa is far from broke and hates hospitals. There’s nothing artificial about her. No acrylic nails, no highly processed hair. She is one of those women blessed with a natural beauty that has been both a benefit and a curse. She’s the only one who knows how old she is. All the other women can be sure of is that Lisa is fine-looking. But no woman should fear Lisa. She’s only been in love twice. Once with Dale Jackson and now with Heshima with no intention of adding to that number. Her maternal love leaves no room for any other man in her life. Lisa has committed herself to making sure Heshima doesn’t succumb to the influence of his father or the temptation of South Central streets. She looks around her living room, the carpet in fresh stripes from her vacuum. She’s made one step up from her childhood, each year a little better, a little easier. She turns to watch her son. He’ll make one more step. Maybe more, she smiles to herself.
As the arguing couple travels up the block, Heshima, Magic, and Ree-Ree grin at the Lexus 400 LS coming their way.
“It’s Big Dee,” Magic says proudly.
The car pulls up, stops, the tinted driver’s window slides down. Dale waves at Lisa watching through the front window, then motions for the three of them to get in. Heshima and Magic scramble to see who’ll get the front seat. Heshima wins and climbs in. Ree-Ree and a defeated Magic hop in back. Dale steers the car from the house. As soon as the car turns the corner, Dale asks, “What’s up y’all?”
“What’s poppin’, Big Dee?” Magic and Ree-Ree reply almost in unison.
Heshima looks at his father, trying to be cool. “What’s crackin’, Pops?”
Silence fills the car until Dale says to Heshima. “Ya Mama tellin’ me some shit ‘bout y’all. You, Magic, Renea not takin’ yo ass to school?”
“Big Dee, why you trippin’?” Ree-Ree says.
“Trippin’?” A slight hint of anger is in Dale’s voice. “Girl, don’t make me have to kick yo ass. You know I know what’s goin’ on.”
Heshima says nothing.
“Damn. Gettin’ ya clown on today, huh, Pops?” Magic jumps in, poking fun at his sister.
Dale glares in the rearview at Magic who hunches his shoulders together and slides down in the seat.
“That’s what you get, stupid,” Ree-Ree whispers at him.
“Nickle slick ass, Magic. I used to be just like you. Don’t test me.” Dale’s tone causes Magic to freeze. “Y’all don’t want me to keep havin’ this conversation. This is the last time I’ma say it. Next time, it’s on. I’ma kick all three of y’alls behinds. It’s gonna take an archeologist to dig my foot outta y’alls butts, understand?”
Dale drives his car to the mall, finds a parking space, peels three one hundred-dollar bills from a bankroll and hands one to each of them. “I’m not going in. Go get you something and I’ll meet you right here in 30 minutes.”
The three bail out of the car and race for the mall’s entrance. Dale keeps an eye on them from inside the car and smiles to himself.
At the mall, Heshima buys a bottle of Clandestine perfume for his mother. Magic sees the purchase and says, “Damn, nigga. You’s a straight up Momma’s boy.”
“You motherfuckin’ right. Cause ain’t no bitch ever gonna have my back like Moms.”
Ree-Ree opens her mouth as though to argue, but Magic jerks on her arm. They walk to Zales where he pays on a gold watch he has on lay-a-way. Ree-Ree purchases a book of Maya Angelou’s poetry and some stationary.
They’re back in Dale’s car in thirty minutes. “Don’t say anything to ya momma about where I took y’all. Tell her we had a long talk and it’s all good.” When they reach Lisa’s house, the kids exit, Dale honks the horn and drives off.
Magic stops at the front porch, turns to Heshima and says, “Damn, Cuz. Ya pops be trippin’ like a motherfucka.”
Heshima’s anger builds remembering Dale had given Magic a hundred dollars, too. “Fool. You ain’t got to tell me that shit.”
“Cuz, ya pops be poppin’ that stay-in-school shit like he a role model or something. He ballin’ outa control fo-real.”
“Nigga, you don’t know nothin’.”
“Come on, cuz. Big Dee be suited and booted everyday. Keep a fly ass vehicle and his name ringing in the hood like he Black Jesus or some fuckin’ body. I ain’t feelin’ that shit he be talking.”
Ree-Ree laughs.
Heshima glares at her, annoyed she’s siding with Magic. “Oh, that’s funny, huh? I’d be wrong if I said something ‘bout yo bulldagger-lookin’ ass.”
Ree-Ree yells, “Fuck you.”
Heshima walks up the porch steps, opens the security gate, slams it behind him. Lisa hears the gate clatter and hurries into the room. “Hey. We don’t slam no door in this house.” Heshima strides past her to his room. Lisa looks through the iron curlicues to see Magic and Ree-Ree walk away.
Magic looks at his sister, and because of her down turned eyes thinks she’s on his side. “Man. That nigga be on some bullshit, too.”
Ree-Ree considers the statement Heshima made about no woman but his mom having his back. She would. “You know how he is about Big Dee.”
“I ain’t feeling that shit. We could be in the game if Heshima wasn’t with that scary ass shit.”
Then Ree-Ree realizes that Magic’s anger isn’t at Big Dee. It’s at Heshima for not getting involved in Big Dee’s business. “That’s what this is all about? You want to be a ghetto super star and Heshima won’t hook up with Big Dee and pull you in?”
Magic tries to shift the focus. “Whatever, girl. I think you and cuz bumpin’ dicks anyway. That’s why you stickin’ up for him.”
Ree-Ree flushes and her mouth opens. She turns her nose up and says, “Nah, homeboy. Ain’t goin’ down like that. You just a ig’nant fool.” Then, like a trained fighter, she spins, socks him hard in the chest and runs. Magic tries to grab her, but knows she’s too fast for him and settles for cussing at her fleeing figure.
In his bedroom, Heshima’s absorbed in playing a video game when the pitch of Lisa’s voice travels from the kitchen. “If I have to call your black ass again, you won’t be eating in this house tonight.” He drops the handheld console and makes a beeline for the kitchen. Walking through the hallway, the aroma of his mother’s fried chicken awakens his hunger. Heshima’s pace quickens and he hits the kitchen doorway almost slipping on the linoleum surface. Lisa stands with her back to the stove, a hand leveraged on one of her rounded hips, the other holding a plate of chicken. Lisa wears an apron, the belt lapped twice around her waist. Her hair is straight back cinched in a ponytail with a scrunchy. The hairdo and absence of lipstick make her look even younger.
Heshima’s eyes widen at the steam rising from the plate. Lisa walks to the table, dropping the plate of chicken. It rattles a little, but not enough to break. Sitting down, she exhales an exaggerated sigh. It’s the kind of sigh that could be interpreted as exhaustion, but Heshima knows it’s for his benefit.
“Okay, Momma. I get it.”
Lisa frowns as if he’s cussed her out. “I can’t tell you get it. I had to call you ten times!”
Not wanting her to continue her act, he says, “Sorry, Momma, but you know how I get when I be playing video games.”
“’How I get when I be?’” Lisa imitates his voice. “Boy, you sound like an old slave. I be…Is that how you’re going to talk when you get to college?”
Heshima leans forward for a piece of chicken. Lisa playfully smacks his hand away. “Come on, Momma, what’s that for?”
Lisa slides the plate further from his reach. “I asked you a question.”
Heshima extends his hand like a small child. Lisa pulls the plate a few more inches away. Heshima looks to the side as if he’s trying to remember the question. Then he turns back to her. “About me saying ‘I be’ or college?”
“Both.” Lisa nods.
Moving faster than his mother can react, Heshima leans across the table, snatches a piece of chicken, takes a quick bite. It burns his tongue and he starts juggling it in his mouth, trying to talk at the same time. “Haven’t decided about college, therefore, the question about grammar is moot.” He smiles at the taste of the chicken and satisfaction at his articulate language.
Lisa returns the smile in spite of herself. “Ah, like your smart mouth father, huh? Since we’re on that subject, what did you all do today? God! I hope he wasn’t driving you guys around filling your heads with those ghetto scary tales he loves telling.”
“No. Nothing like that, just the same old stay-in-school-or-else stuff.”
Lisa helps herself to a piece of chicken, peels a strip of meat away with her fingers. Heshima’s face draws into a mask of humorous contempt before she can put it in her mouth. The meat poised an inch away from her lips, Lisa rolls her eyes and snaps her head to the side needling him. “What?”
Heshima mimics her actions precisely. “’What?’ You know what. Momma, for somebody raised in the hood, you boughee.” They both laugh.
“I was raised in the hood, but the hood isn’t all I know. That’s why you better listen to your father. He’s a good man who wants you to stay away from the street life.” Lisa leans forward, her forearms on the table. Heshima’s lips are straight.
“If he’s such a good man, Momma, how come he doesn’t live with us? There’s something else, too. Big Dee is a major figure in the game, how come he don’t want me to be a player?”
Lisa rises from the table, walks to the sink and stares out the window. “He doesn’t live with us because of our differences. And what in the world do you know about the game?”
Heshima shakes his head. Big Dee is common knowledge in the streets. “You know what I’m talking about. The cars, the jewelry and as far as I know, he ain’t never worked an honest day in his life. Hear you say that all the time.”
Lisa blinks as her own words make Heshima’s point. Dale guards his activities vigilantly and Lisa doesn’t know exactly what he does. He doesn’t expose his game. A smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. She twists slightly at her waist to look at Heshima waiting her response. A familiar pain invades her. “Believe me, he’s made sacrifices to live that life that you would never understand.” What had Dale said? “Gotta put distance between us and create an illusion I don’t give a fuck. Love both of you too much. I must send a message to the haters that it’s a waste of time to get to me through you.” Then, he handed her the deed to the house. So Dee decided to separate because he knew having money would draw out the envious. Drama and violence would visit and he didn’t want Lisa or Heshima to be used against him. But Lisa knew what he didn’t tell her. He loved the excitement; he loved his own flash and power.
Momma always defends him, Heshima thinks as he grabs two more pieces of chicken from the plate and leaves the table.
We’ve both made sacrifices you’d never understand, Lisa thinks.
A few blocks from Lisa and Heshima’s house is the modest two-bedroom home Magic and Ree-Ree live in with their grandmother, Jan. It is one of the older houses on the block, a single level, dull beige stucco. It’s not run down, but needs a fresh coat of paint and the lawn is unkempt in comparison with the surrounding houses. Jan has a mouth like a liquor store wino, accompanied by a sense of humor that could peel the bark off a tree, both activated the moment she takes “her medicine” which is anything eighty proof or better. Jan relaxes in a chair, the TV playing news of the Oklahoma City Bombing, a cup of orange juice laced with her medicine on the table next to her. She sips from the cup. Ree-Ree runs through the front door panting. Her sudden appearance startles Jan and she spills some of her juice. Ree-Ree runs toward her room.
“Hold up one goddamn minute,” Jan explodes. Before she can yell a full steam of cuss words, Magic barrels in. She glares at Magic like he’s lost his mind. “Nigga, I know you and Ree-Ree are crazy, but y’alls ass ain’t goin’ be tearing through here like you ain’t got no home trainin’. Lord. That girl run through here and like’ta give my old ass a heart attack.” Jan clutches her chest.
Magic sees the puddle of juice and gets a napkin from the table to wipe the floor.
Jan smiles, the effects of her medicine taking effect in her eyes and voice. She casually pokes a thumb over her shoulder in the direction Ree-Ree ran. “What you and that girl got goin’ now? Why cain’t y’all be civilized toward one another?”
Magic glances in the direction Jan pointed and takes off.
Jan talks as though he is still listening. “Yeah, both y’all crazy. Think I don’t know? Making me spill my medicine.” She looks around before taking another sip of her juice. “Nar one of em payin’ a goddamn bill ‘round here. And Renea carr’n on like she a boy. Shit. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. I’ma have’ta catch her sleep ta see if that girl done growed herself a dick when I wasn’t lookin’.” Jan laughs at her own humor, turns up her cup and drains the last few drops.
In Ree-Ree’s room, the walls are covered with Hip-Hop posters and advertisements for a few recent urban flicks. Ree-Ree stretches across the bed on her stomach writing in a journal. Her muscular shoulders and arms, short hair, make her look like a young boy. Only with scrutiny would her curving hips and pant-filling ass reveal her sex. Rapid banging on the door turns her head.
“Open this fuckin’ door, Ree-Ree,” Magic snarls.
She closes her journal and slips it under her pillow.
Magic rattles the door knob.
Ree-Ree, secure from past experience, shouts, “Man, find you some business.”
Magic kicks the door before leaving.
Ree-Ree retrieves her journal. Then something gets her attention and like a dog hearing a low frequency sound, she cocks her ear to one side, listening. Indecisive, she glances at the window and then returns to her writing. But the window wins the contest for her attention. She jerks the curtain aside and there’s Magic with his face pressed against the glass making silly faces, fogging it up with hot breath from his mouth and nostrils.
Ree-Ree jumps back, trips on her own feet, and lands flat on her ass. Magic falls to the ground. His previous anger fuels his laughter as he rolls around on the ground clutching his stomach on the verge of tears. When he gets control of himself, he’s on his back peering through blurry eyes. Heshima stands above him, his arms folded across his chest, shaking his head from side to side.
“How much of that did you see?”
Heshima extends a hand to help Magic up. “Enough to know if Jan catches you in her medicine she’d go’n whup yo black ass.”
Magic brushes himself off. Ree-Ree lifts the window. “Okay. I see now. You two conspiring against me, huh?”
“Fool. You know if it’s a conspiracy going down it’ll be the three of us against whoever,” Heshima says.
Ree-Ree makes her way out the window, puts an arm around Heshima and Magic shoulders. “So y’all straight?”
Heshima and Magic signal their agreement with some ‘dap’ and both say, “Like that, like always.”
The next day, Heshima, Ree-Ree, and Magic leave the liquor store talking about the party at Big Dee’s.
A convertible ‘62 Chevy lowrider, top down, music thundering pulls to the curb next to them. Marion, the self-elected leader of the neighborhood gang, drives. D-Wane, the gang’s number one shit starter and finisher, sits in the passenger seat. Marion lowers the music so he can be heard. “Hey, college boy. I thought you was goin’ to do the thang and let us put you on the hood?”
“Nah,” Heshima shakes his head, “I pass.”
D-Wane stares at Ree-Ree with undisguised lust, although nothing about Ree-Ree’s pulled down baseball cap or her baggy clothes suggests she’s trying to attract desire.
“What the fuck you lookin’ at, nigga?” She squirms.
“You. You need to stop playin’ and let a nigga like D peel you up outta that boy gear and beat them hips up.” D-Wane’s words underscore his wicked smirk.
Magic steps to the passenger side of the car.
D-Wane moves the gun from beneath his thigh and puts it on his lap.
Marion, chuckling, returns the volume to ear numbing level, stomps on the accelerator. The car’s small tires burn rubber as it launches down the street.
Heshima, Magic, and Ree-Ree stroll in the same direction on the sidewalk. “That fool D-Wane is a straight Bee-otch.” Ree-Ree fumes.
Magic’s pride won’t let him say anything because he feels D-Wane punked him by displaying the pistol. Heshima, knowing Magic like he knows himself, reinforces Ree-Ree’s sentiment so Magic won’t have to. “Yeah, busta ass motherfucka. Talkin’ ‘bout puttin’ me on, knowin’ I’d whup all of em.” He looks at Magic and adds, “Nigga, you know they cain’t fuck with us.”
“D-Wane know if he didn’t have that popper I’da tossed his punk ass up for dissin’ Ree.” Magic’s face turns into the most sinister mask he can muster.
Ree-Ree warms at her brother’s protectiveness, but she has to keep their rivalry intact. “What is this? Y’all can get your clown on, but nobody else?”
Heshima and Magic smile at her, “Yep.”
She takes a weak swing at Heshima who ducks under it and grabs her. “Damn, Renea,” he calls her knowing it’ll fire her up. D-Wane reminded him of how much a woman she is and now he’s reminded of her tomboy ways. “If you gon’ look like a boy, you need to learn to fight like one.” Heshima lets her go and he and Magic run away laughing. She takes off behind them, but intentionally allows them to out distance her.
From her porch, Lisa sees them after they turn the corner. They arrive, huffing and puffing. “What you three do now?”
They take up seats on the porch. “You talk to your father?” Lisa asks.
“No,” Heshima says.
“Well, he said he’s coming this way to talk about the party, after he takes care of some business.” Lisa walks in the house.
“Hey, that motherfucka goin’ be Piz-oppin’” Magic thinks Lisa is somewhere in the house out of ear shot, but she’s on the other side of the security gate listening. “Yeah. I’m wondering if some of those big booty snow bunnies from around there are goin’ to hop over and get it wet?”
Ree-Ree scoffs at the sexual innuendo. “What you know about some snow bunnies? You ain’t never been pass Crenshaw.”
Lisa stifles the urge to snicker to remain hidden.
“Ain’t ‘bout what I know about them. All about them gettin’ to know a li’l sumptin-sumptin ‘bout me.” Magic gets up and starts humping the air in a sexual manner pretending to slap the ass of the imaginary White girl he knows is going to be in front of him come party time.
“Magic, when you’re done getting it on with that imaginary girlfriend of yours, y’all come on in here and eat.” Lisa announces from behind the security gate and pushes the gate open so they’ll know what she said is as much a demand as it is a request.
Chapter Two
The community of Palisades is quiet except for the whoosh of occasional tires on the roads, the hum of crickets. Some entrances are lit with exterior lights. Most of the residents are settled in for the night except for an older couple walking their dog. The man notices the unmarked car with Marquet and Houston parked strategically at the corner of the street giving them an unobstructed view of Big Dee’s home. Houston, prompted by the man’s curiosity, presses his detective shield against the window.
The dog barks, the couple continues their walk.
“Can you believe that? We’re the fucking police and they’re checking us out. Got one of the city’s - shit, maybe the state’s - biggest crooks living around the corner. And they’re checking us out,” Marquet barks.
To Houston’s relief, Big Dee’s Bentley zips past preventing any further griping.
Big Dee talks on the Bentley’s hands-free phone system. “Easy?”
“That’s me last time I checked. Who this?”
“Long as we been partnas you don’t know my voice?”
“How’s it treatin’ ya’, Dee?”
“Fair to square. What’s the play?”
“Meet me at Eddie Devac’s on La Cienega. I’ll lace you,” Easy’s words were so smooth you could hear melody in them.
“Alright. But I gotta shake these wheels and roll in the under bucket. You know how Beverly Hills PD be on a playa. If I’m a little late, order me a turkey burger and a vanilla shake?”
“You drinking?”
“Like a fish. Order me an Absolute Sinner.”
Big Dee executes a few driving maneuvers to shake any potential police or jackers who might be entertaining ideas of fucking up his night. A stretch of Pacific Coast Highway, several miles of the 405 Freeway, then the 90. He pulls into the garage area of a Marina Del Rey condominium complex. (thought the cops were parked at Dee’s in Palisades already – confusing)
Marquet and Houston, fooled by none of Dee’s tactics, watch him drive in, satisfied they were able to maintain surveillance without discovery. The Bentley appears minutes later. Marquet and Houston continue following the Bentley. Five minutes later, Big Dee eases out of the condo complex in his Lexus.
Several blocks into its journey, the Bentley pulls next to a mailbox. Annie, a friend of Big Dee’s, places a package inside.
Marquet growls and hisses, swearing so fast his spit hits the windshield, pounding the wheel with his fist. Houston lights a cigarette to get a head start on the stress filled night that lies ahead. He glances at his partner’s red and sweating face and remembers the composed man Marquet was when they were fresh from the Academy. Houston wonders if the negative current in the streets has changed him as much. Maybe it seeped in so slowly he can’t see it.
Big Dee, traveling along Wilshire Boulevard, presses the speed dial on his cell.
“Hello,” Lisa answers after two rings.
“Give me about thirty minutes to an hour. I’ll…” Dee is distracted by boisterous laughter and music in the background of Lisa’s home. “What’s all that?”
“That’s them kids in there. Magic acting silly as usual, cracking jokes.”
“Okay. Forty-five minutes to an hour, I’ll be through there.”
“Thought you said thirty.”
“There you go.”
“Whatever, Dale. Bye.”
Call Ended flashes across the window of his cell. Dale shakes his head, wondering why he even tries and yet knows he never had an option. At restaurant row on La Cienega, he makes a left hand turn traveling to Eddie Devac’s Old School 50’s theme restaurant. Big Dee cuts into the driveway, gives control of his car to the valet, eager to conduct his business with Easy.
Easy waits at the bar, a glass of cognac in one hand enjoying the 50’s Doo-Wop pumping from the vintage jukeboxes and the waitresses in full skirts. Easy and Dee spot each other at the same time. Easy motions for Big Dee to join him at a booth in the rear. When they’re both seated, Easy gets a waitress’s attention. She walks over in her tight sweater, poodle skirt, bobbie socks and black and white oxfords.
“Already ordered. Just tell ‘em it’s for Easy.”
The waitress flashes her minimum-wage-plus-tips smile, then spins, her skirt billowing.
“Remember all those crazy-ass stories you used to tell us?” Easy asks.
“That’s what this is about? Remember-when stories?”
“No.”
“Get to the point.” Dee got annoyed with Easy’s sliding style.
“I know some people who know some people and if that video tape…”
Big Dee’s eyes flicker with surprise.
“You used to say you had it in case you ever got caught up?” Easy continues.
“Man, how long ago was that? Ten, fifteen years?”
“Something like that, but if it’s true?” Easy slides a piece of paper with a phone number across the table. “Call that. And you’ll never have to worry about money again.”
Big Dee surrenders to a restrained laugh, “You ain’t knowing, Easy. I don’t worry now.”
They hand pound over the table. Then their food arrives, Easy bites into his chili cheeseburger immediately, chewing and talking. “If?” He takes a French fry and points with it. “Look out for Easy on the back end?” Easy waits for Big Dee’s reaction.
Big Dee lifts the bun on his burger, inspects the ingredients. Content with what he finds, he takes a bite as he slides the number into his pocket. Easy grins. The light in the restaurant bounces from the two single carat diamonds he has set in his front teeth. Big Dee starts laughing, covering his mouth to keep bits of food from flying out. “Man, I thought you got them thangs taken out?”
“You know I gotta do me. In case you forgot, I bought ‘em from you and Royal.” Easy hopes Big Dee’s laughter is the perfect opening to lapse them into small talk about old times.
Big Dee’s demeanor flexes with energy. “You know I keep in contact with my boy.”
“Royal?”
“Yes, sir. Gotta maintain that love and loyalty with the real ones. I was thinking about Royal earlier when I ran into those detectives, Marquet and…”
“Houston.” Easy completes the statement. “Watch those two, Dee. They’re foul.”
When they finish eating, Easy pulls out a hundred-dollar bill, sticks it under his empty plate. The waitress arrives at their deserted table as they exit the restaurant. She frowns, thinking they stiffed her, until she sees the hundred-dollar bill partially visible under the plate.
Outside the restaurant, two valets hurry to meet them. Easy and Dee hand over their ticket stubs. Easy’s 1967 280 Mercedes convertible is the first to arrive. The valet lowers the top, exposing a busty Asian woman sitting in the passenger seat. Her jet black hair is expertly styled in a bob that frames her face like curtains, highlighting eyes as black as her hair. Big Dee raises his eyebrows in curiosity.
“You know how we do. That’s my burglar alarm,” Easy says.
The other valet arrives with Big Dee’s car. Easy tips them both, hops in his car, hits the driveway and fades into the flow of light traffic.
Big Dee takes the surface streets to Lisa’s. Hardly a mile into the trip, he feels uneasy and wishes he had taken the freeway even though it’s out of his way. He’d come from these same streets in South Central. He was considered one of the best hustlers or gangsters the west side produced. He notices the tint of the street lamps had become brighter with a blue glow. His uneasiness increases. Is this a secret signal? Did the “powers that be” decide that the ghetto had to be brighter at night? It makes him, he admits, nervous, cautious.
At the intersection of Venice and La Cienega, he makes a legal left hand turn onto Venice. The interior of his car glows from the red emergency light mounted on the dashboard of Marquet and Houston’s unmarked car.
Told yo ass to take the freeway, he screams at himself. Simultaneously, he wonders if his bad luck or their good luck is responsible for this second encounter.
Marquet rejoices like a child who has won a prize at the fair, looking from Houston to Big Dee’s car. “Got his Black ass now!” Marquet’s moment of elation fades when he realizes Big Dee isn’t stopping.
Big Dee calculates all the potential charges of running the red light, not acknowledging their attempt to pull him over versus Easy’s warning and his own suspicions. He decides to take his chances before letting them pull him over without an audience. Crossing the intersection at Venice and La Brea, he goes half way up the street and turns into the employee parking lot of “Mid-City” police station. He kills the engine and extends his hands out the driver’s side window.
Marquet, from sheer frustration, rams the rear bumper of Dee’s car. Houston feels helpless watching his partner’s out-of-control behavior. He should have prevented the streets from worming their way inside his partner and then his fall off the moral cliff. A team of armed officers runs out to investigate the commotion. Marquet and Houston use the open doors of their vehicle as a shield, guns trained on Big Dee, detective badges held high to identify themselves to the station’s officers.
“This is bullshit,” Big Dee shouts from his car. “I’m unarmed. I thought they were trying to rob me. That’s why I pulled in here.”
“Fuck you, asshole. Open the door from the outside. Get the fuck outta the car.” Marquet yells.
The station’s commander, who is Black, gives the okay for his officers to holster their weapons. He approaches Marquet, squatting behind the car door.
“Attempted to pull the suspect vehicle over,” Marquet justifies the scene.
“Your reason?” Marquet’s hesitation sets off alarms. The commander walks to the driver’s side of Big Dee’s car. He takes a cautious glance at Dee’s outstretched arms, shines his flashlight inside the car. “Got any bazookas in there?”
“No.”
“Okay. Let’s get you outta there. Get some cuffs on ya and we can try to figure this out.”
Marquet’s face grows beet red as the commander takes Big Dee from his car, cuffs him, and escorts him inside the station’s back door. Big Dee is paraded through the fluorescent lights of a police station like a trophy from the hunt. A familiar sickening sensation invades his stomach. His relief at being spared the annoyance of dealing with Marquet and Houston is no consolation. The commander halts at the door to the detainee holding cell and opens it. He removes Big Dee’s handcuffs. “Relax. I’ll get to the bottom of this cluster fuck.”
The cell is empty. Big Dee welcomes the isolation. He wasn’t looking forward to listening to anyone’s sob story. He stares at the wooden bench extended from the concrete wall, scans the unidentifiable stains on the wall, carved names of old loves, gangs, some of which he recognizes, and burns from years of cigarettes, anxiously smoked and then stabbed out. His street sense lets him know the first few moves of this contest favor him. But how many of the next? Easy’s proposition of no worries doesn’t sound too bad. He pats his pocket with the telephone number.
The cell’s metal hinges creak when it opens. The commander says, “Okay, Jackson. Let’s get you processed so you can make arrangements for bail.”
“On what charge?”
“Simple evading.”
Big Dee weighs the benefits and consequences of spending a couple of days in jail or calling Lisa and being forced to hear her shit. He doesn’t say anything about his damaged car. It’s only a tool. And he doesn’t want to bring more attention to himself. The least number of pigs in the business, the better. He inhales. He’ll take it on the chin and charge it to the game for not listening to his first mind. Two uniformed officers drag a disheveled drunk past Big Dee and the commander as they step away from the detainee cell. When the officers reach the cell door, the drunk heaves, spewing vomit all over the cell floor. The odor wafts back to Big Dee. He’d rather deal with Lisa.
Magic and Ree-Ree left Lisa’s hours ago. Lisa and Heshima are asleep. The phone rings several times. Heshima rolls over in his bed, looks at the clock on his nightstand. “Shit. 3:00am. Ain’t for me.” He rolls away, drapes the covers over his head.
The phone starts up again. Lisa reaches out, eyes still shut, groggy, she almost knocks the phone to the floor. Eventually, she gets a hand around it. “Hello.”
“Lisa?”
She’s not sure if she’s dreaming or awake.
“Lisa. It’s Dale. I’m in jail.”
“Jail? For what this time?” She snaps awake.
Big Dee pauses at Lisa’s accusing tone.
She uses that time to find the clock. “3:10?”
“Look. Don’t jump to conclusions. It’s faulty. Just come scoop me up. I’m at Mid-City station.” The connection dies.
Lisa swings her feet over the side of the bed, hangs up the phone, gathers her thoughts. Why am I getting out of my comfortable bed, she checks the clock again, at 3:15am to go get this man out of jail? ” Then her thoughts shift in the direction of Heshima’s room. That’s all the answer she needs.
Heshima’s sleep has also been disrupted by the phone. He flings away the covers with intentions to creep in the kitchen and raid the fridge. The front door’s slam sends a jolt of apprehension through him. He rushes into his mother’s room. Empty. He reaches the front room in time to witness the taillights of her Toyota shrink in the distance. He steps to the phone in the living room and presses star 6-9. An automated service fields the call. “You’ve reached Mid City police station. If…” He returns the phone to its berth.
The police station is only a few miles from Lisa’s house, but provides her with enough time to consider all the things she wants to say to Big Dee. She parks her car in front of the station, doesn’t bother to lock the door. Steal a car in front of the police station and you’re either stupid or you need it more than I do. That thought carries her up the steps and through the front doors. The officer on duty watches her walk to the plexiglass. A circular template of holes has been drilled in the barrier. Lisa leans into the holes. “I’m here for Dale Jackson.”
The officer shuffles through a pile of papers, locates the one with Big Dee’s information and slides it free. “Dale Jackson. The bail for tonight is ten-thousand dollars, but if you wait for his arraignment, it’ll probably be reduced to around twenty five hundred to five-thou at the most.”
Lisa, upset at herself for anticipating Dale’s bail amount and glad she gauged it correctly, produces a stack of bound bills from her purse. The bank’s currency sheath identifies the amount as ten thousand dollars.
The officer assumed Lisa would prefer to leave Big Dee in jail for a few extra days to save money and has swiveled away.
Lisa taps a knuckle against the plexiglass and shows him the wad of cash.
Veiling his disbelief, he scoots his chair, and releases a compartment for her to pass him the money. He takes it, leaves by the rear door. Lisa glances around the small lobby, decides she’s had enough of police stations for one night and elects to wait in the car.
Big Dee, in a room no larger than a phone booth with a small window, observes the officer from the front desk showing the money to the commander. He can’t hear their conversation, but guesses they’re discussing him when they glance his way.
Lisa falls asleep in her car. Big Dee exits the jail, stands by the car and watches her. She was there for him when he did time. She gave him the ticket to ride into being a serious hustler, teaching him to use his head. And, he played into their mutual interests. He examines her face searching for more, but suddenly feels uncomfortable spying on her and knocks on the window. She opens her eyes to the sun shining and unlocks the door for him, starts the engine as he climbs in.
“Hold up, Lisa.” He places his hand on hers, preventing her from putting the car in gear. “I know you’re already mad, you can cuss me out later. Right now you’ve got to go back and sign some IRS forms for those ten Gs.”
Lisa slams the door with such force it rattles the window. Big Dee knows he has to come up with an apology powerful enough to soothe her compounding anger.
Then, she’s back inside the car, shifting it into gear, steering away from the station. Her eyes are straight. Her silence palpable. She trusts it says what’s on her mind. She stops for a red light.
Big Dee notices the muscles in her jaw move from clenching her teeth. A bad sign. But he’s ready with his smoothest apology.
She returns his gaze.
Her furious, tight mouth causes him to forget his thoughts. Her silence indicates her refusal to listen to his excuses, and the disappointment in her eyes makes it clear she isn’t interested in anything he might say. Big Dee closes his eyes and rests his head against the headrest. The hum of the car’s motor calms him and he dozes off.
When Lisa pulls in her driveway, she sees the blinds of her front window flutter. Her anger magnifies because she knows Heshima has been worrying about her. She permits herself a reluctant peek at Big Dee, annoyed at how innocent he seems in his sleep. She wishes she could slap the hell out of him, wake him up and scream, “Stay out of Heshima’s and my life forever.” Instead, she settles for smashing the brakes, jerking him forward. She’s out of the car faster than he can lodge a protest, key in hand. Before she can insert it into the lock, it opens. She shoots Heshima the same expression she shot at Big Dee a few moments before. It wipes his mind blank of any thought other than getting out of her way. Her thrust to enter the house and his slide away happen in strange harmony. Heshima is saved from finding out if she’d knock him away.
Heshima holds the door for his father who’s putting room between him and Lisa by lumbering slowly. Big Dee has one foot in the house when Heshima, eager to know what’s going on, asks, “Man, what happened?”
Big Dee heads straight for the phone.
“I know it had something to do with the police. “ Heshima walks behind him.
Big Dee places his hand over the receiver. “If you know that, you already know what happened.”
“Ain’t enough. I want to know how you ended up in jail.”
Big Dee holds a finger up demanding patience. “Annie. This Dee. Yeah, you wouldn’t begin to believe this, but I ran across those fleas I scratched off when I left your spot.”
Big Dee waits.
Heshima realizes Big Dee tells both of them.
“Okay. I’m at Lisa’s. Come scoop me up. One more thing. Look in my bread box and bring two sandwiches. I’m starvin’.”
Lisa appears in the hallway, arms folded.
Big Dee and Heshima both translate her stance as a signal to go outside. They move to the front porch and Big Dee begins with the encounter after his work-out, lays out the detail leading to his arrest. Lisa glances out the window and sees them laughing with no clue they’re talking about Easy’s front teeth and his unconventional burglar alarm. This is the kind of nonsense Lisa hates Big Dee telling Heshima. By the time Big Dee finishes, his Bentley travels up the block from one direction. Magic and Ree-Ree stroll to the house from another.
Heshima walks with his father to the Bentley. Annie slides to the passenger side. As soon as Big Dee gets in and closes the door, she gives him two stacks of money identical to the one Lisa used to bail him out. He passes the stacks to Heshima. “Wait ‘til later and give that to your momma for me.” He eases the Bentley away smoothly.
Heshima holds the money not fazed by Magic’s greedy look or the curiosity in Ree-Ree’s face. He tucks the money in his waistband. “Don’t even ask.”
Marquet, aided by a pair of high-powered binoculars, sits in the front seat of the car parked two blocks from Lisa’s house. His lips stretch in a mean grin as he sees Heshima, Magic and Ree-Ree enter Lisa’s house. Houston, along for Marquet’s ride, smokes a cigarette and visualizes a life of retirement free from ghetto chess games. He closes his eyes as he inhales and imagines a nice fishing boat with blue skies and sea as far as the eye can see. His reverie disintegrates when the ear shattering rap streaming from Marion’s ‘62 Chevy passes. Houston activates the car’s sirens. “Get behind that moron.”
Marquet complies.
Marion glances in his rearview, sees the police car and pulls over.
Ree-Ree helps Lisa tidy up her kitchen. Magic and Heshima go to his room. He takes the money from his waistband and tosses it on his bed. Magic, eyes on the cash, pulls out a 9mm handgun from his waistband. “Yeah, another reason we need this heat.”
Heshima darts to the door and locks it. “What you got that for?”
“To protect our chips.” Magic aims the barrel at the stacks of bills.
“You don’t know, I don’t even know about this.”
Magic eyes the gun. “You right, H. This is for them suckas who did that punk ass shit, Marion and D’Wane. Next time….” He points at the door, one eye shut looking down the sight.
Lisa’s knock startles him and he almost drops the gun. She turns the door handle. “What you two in there doing?”
They hide the money and the gun.
Lisa hears them shuffling. “You got three seconds to open up.”
Gun and money hidden under the mattress, Heshima unlocks the door. “What up, Momma?”
“Why’s this door locked?”
”We did that to keep Ree-Ree nosey a…nosey butt out.”