Virtuous Deception 2

by Leiann B. Wrytes

  “The first in the area? Sounds like a plane museum to me.”

  “Ha, maybe it is. Listen, I got another job if you’re interested.”

  “I’on know ’bout dat. I barely want this one. Plus, the way you looking around all nervous and shit, that job don’t hardly seem legal.”

  “Trust me, it’s legal. Two stacks in it for you.”

  The cabbie turned his nose up in disbelief. Frank rummaged through his duffle bag and pulled out two stacks of fresh hundred-dollar bills. “They are yours, if you accept.”

  “Frank . . .”

  Frank glanced down at Lisa and noticed the blood seeping through her blouse. Fuck.

  “What happened? Was it the bag?”

  Lisa’s head rolled slowly from left to right, but Frank couldn’t discern her answer. Not that it mattered. The damage was done, leaving Frank to hope that it was something minor, within his scope of medicinal practice. Departing his parents’ home, the residence that his brother assumed ownership of, had not been difficult, but Lisa insisted on doing something useful. Frank failed to dissuade her, resulting in that something materializing as her carrying the duffle bag, the lightest in their possession, to the cab.

  “Lisa . . . Lisa . . . ”

  Lisa did not verbally respond, but the somersaults her face was doing indicated the pain she was in.

  “Shit.” Even more desperate than before, Frank looked at the driver again. “Come on. My wife needs medical attention. I could really use a hand.”

  “Say, son, that ain’t none of my business right there.”

  “Two stacks to carry the damn bags. That is all I need you to do.”

  “I don’t know, son. You look like you into some shit that I want no parts of.”

  “I don’t have time for this shit. Take the fuckin’ money.”

  “Nope, not me. Not Simmy.”

  Frank diverted his eyes away from the mirror, breaking contact, took a deep breath, and looked again. “I’ll throw in another stack.”

  “I’m saying, though, my grandma need this operation. . .”

  Frank wanted to wrap his hands around Simmy’s neck and shake that snarky grin off his face. He couldn’t believe he was being extorted by the fucking cabbie. Frank bent his knees, hovering in the door, and looked up at Lisa, his anger quelled by the sight. Her honey cover was flavored with different shades of cherry, and her eyes were wet with tears. The medicine still had not kicked in. He needed to get her inside.

  “Five stacks! Five thousand dollars to grab my fuckin’ bags!”

  “Cool. I got yo’ bags.”

  “Thank you.” Frank rose to his feet and shoved his hand in the duffle.

  “No prob, son.”

  “Fuckin’ Republican.”

  “I’ll carry them to the gate.” Simmy turned the car off, removed the keys, and hit the button, turning on his hazard lights. “This can’t take too long, though, ’cause I ain’t tryin’ to lose the cab.”

  “Here.” Frank passed him two stacks. “Get the rest at the gate. Don’t try and fuckin’ run with that cash. It’s nothin’ to send the guy after me in your direction.”

  “It’s not even like that, son. Man of my word. Scout’s honor and shit.”

  “Are you a Scout?”

  “I could be the fuckin’ King of Zamunda. Don’t matter.”

  Frank, without options, had to trust Simmy. Worst case scenario: he’d be out of his luggage and two thousand dollars, things he could replace. Truth was, he needed Simmy to accompany them to Dallas. He did not know who he could trust there and would need help with Lisa, presumably having impeded her healing. The move was risky, but if Frank’s assumption was correct, Simmy would be of great benefit to him.

  “Guess it doesn’t,” he said.

  “Cool, but yo’ cab fare is separate.”

  “Are you fuckin’ serious?”

  Unfazed, Simmy replied, “I ain’t ’bout to pay my job out of my ends. Not to mention the meter has been running this whole time, so don’t try and stiff me.”

  Frank stifled a laugh. Simmy hustled him for five thousand dollars to carry some bags, and he was yelling about getting stiffed on a cab fare. If anything, Simmy was audacious. “Five thou and you still chargin’ fare. Un-fuckin-believable.”

  “That is a separate job. Two jobs, two payments, yo.”

  Frank rolled his eyes, slamming the door closed with a swift kick. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

  “I ain’t no Republican, neither. I’m a Black Panther.”

  Halting his movement, Frank threw Simmy a quizzical look. “What?” Frank had completely forgotten about his Republican comment.

  Simmy elaborated. “It’s a political party.”

  Frank cocked his head at an angle, eyeing Simmy with an exaggerated squint.

  “You know . . . the Black Panther Party?”

  Shaking his head, Frank turned toward the entrance, stepping away from Simmy, who continued, determined to complete his thought. Frank had knowledge of Panthers. He didn’t know of anyone he grew up with that didn’t. Simmy bringing them up in the manner that he did was what confused him, and that was something he could not undo.

  “You know, the Black Panther Party, like the rest of ’em—Democrat, Green, Tea. Only difference is they actually care about black folk. So, I fucks with them.”

  Frank had no words. He dared not pause to look at Simmy. “Just come on.” Simmy’s youthful ignorance filtered through his tough-guy speak a little more with each word. Frank figured he was not too far beyond the legal drinking age, counting it as an advantage. However, Simmy’s mouth threatened to force Frank into pulling the plug on his exit strategy altogether.

  With the duffle on his shoulder, Frank scooped Lisa up into his arms, carrying her like an infant. She held on, with an arm around his neck, as best she could.

  “Frank, I think I’m losing a lot . . . of... blo . . . blood.”

  “Stop talking, babe. Save your energy. It’s probably the medicine taking effect. I’ll take a look once we find a secure space inside.” Frank tried to keep her as still as possible, concerned about the stitches in her chest, but he couldn’t prevent her from shuffling in his arms.

  Her speaking pattern reflected as much. “Do you . . . rea . . . lly think your . . . brother would . . . send for us?”

  “I know it. He hasn’t changed. Still wants to control everything, control me.”

  “But does he . . . even know we’re gone?”

  “Yeah, son, who are you running from at three in the morning?”

  Ignoring Simmy, Frank answered his wife. “Babe, I don’t know if he knows yet, but I’m not taking any chances.”

  “Wait . . . you running from some dude who don’t know if he chasing you? Is he into Voodoo or something?”

  “Simmy, stay out of this.” Simmy had found the perfect set of chords to strum Frank into an asylum. He could not recall a person who had annoyed him with such tenacity.

  “I don’t play with that Voodoo-hex-type shit. Fuck that. Nope. Not Simmy.”

  “What are you talking about? No one said anything about Voodoo.”

  “Well, no one said Voodoo was off the table until you said it right then, so I was forced to prepare for a Voodoo priestess bitch to pop up.”

  “Something is wrong with your fuckin’ mind.”

  “What? I can’t ask no questions. Got me carrying yo’ heavy-ass bags through this big-ass airport. It’s like a whole otha city in here.”

  “Please. Shut the fuck up. Damn. Give your lips a fuckin’ rest. Shit.”

  “I picked you up, yo. If this dude got you sneaking out in the middle of the night, am I safe? Maybe I need to come with’chu.”

  “Come with me where?” Frank had no idea how he was carrying Lisa and engaging in this weird-ass conversation. He noticed Simmy took to scanning their surroundings as well and would have found some comfort in that if he had any clue as to who he needed to look out for. Sure as hell wasn’t no damn Voodoo
priestess or whomever else had entered Simmy’s mangled mind.

  “I don’t know. Where you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Then why in the fuck are you powerwalking through the airport?”

  “You are not coming with us.” Frank’s adrenaline was pumping fast. His muscles strained under Lisa’s weight, but he refused to falter. He pushed through it, holding her as high as he could.

  “Do you really want me here with the crazy dude that might or might not be chasing you?”

  “Fra . . .” Lisa started drifting into La La land, her medicine lulling her to sleep, wafting on the edges. “Le . . .”

  “Shhh. We’re almost there.” Frank searched for a semi-secluded seating area. The airport was bustling with people even at this late hour, making the task a difficult one.

  “Over there.” Simmy spoke from behind Frank, pointing over his shoulder to the left. Not bothering to wait for Frank, Simmy headed that way.

  Frank followed the kid around the corner to a few clusters of chairs, each holding four or five chairs, nestled behind a few artificial trees. The spot was not bad. It was out of sight but still allowed Frank to keep an eye on the main floor of the airport. Frank settled a sleeping Lisa into one of the chairs, propping her into what he hoped would be deemed a comfortable sleeping position if she were awake.

  “She doesn’t look hot, yo.”

  “That fee doesn’t cover unsolicited medical advice.”

  “No worries. That’s for free. She look ill.”

  “Thanks, but my wife is not your concern.” Frank sat beside Lisa to peek at her stitches. The bleeding had stopped, but the fact that she had been hemorrhaging at all was troublesome. He didn’t want to disrobe her in view of Simmy, but from what he was able to see, the stitches looked intact. He surmised it was the strain of her aggressive movement that had caused the bleed.

  “Yeah, but if she drop cold, then you’ll be looking at me like, why you didn’t say something?”

  “I told you, no one is dying.”

  “You also offered me five Gs to drag some bags through the airport.”

  “I did, and I’m questioning my decision.”

  Simmy lifted his hands, waving them in front of his chest. “No need for that. I’mmm not tryin’ to question yo’ judgment or nothin’.”

  “I need to hit the teller, purchase our tickets.” Frank stood to leave.

  “Our? You mean one for me, too?”

  “Your cab is parked outside in a no park zone.”

  “I’on care about my uncle’s cab.”

  Frank did not respond to his admission. From the moment they entered the cab, Frank had determined Simmy was either new to the profession or posing. He didn’t even turn the meter on until Frank prompted him.

  “Are you serious about coming with us?”

  “As a trail of gas near an open flame.”

  “Why?”

  “Always wanted to go to Texas.”

  “Who said anything about Texas?”

  Patting the top of one of the suitcases, Simmy replied, “These expired airport tags.”

  Frank was mildly impressed. Simmy was literate, resourceful. So far things had gone in accordance with what Frank had envisioned.

  “Those don’t mean I am headed there now.”

  “I’on care where you goin’, yo. I can take the money and fly myself wherever, but I’d rather roll into yo’ city.”

  “What’s in it for you?”

  “The duffle. Yo, you pay, I’m there. Nothin’ poppin’ here.”

  Frank stood in silence, pretending to mull the decision.

  “Yo, you might want to hurry up.”

  “Got somewhere to be?”

  “Nah, but I think dude in the black trench got a brick for you.”

  Turning to see who Simmy was referring to, Frank slid behind one of the trees, peeping through the branches, and spotted the black trench coat. He breathed a sigh of relief when the guy turned, confirming that he wasn’t Ghost.

  “He’s just another patron. No problem.”

  “Yeah, but clearly dude got you shook, yo. I’m a loyal dude. I can help you, yo.”

  Frank made him wait a few more seconds, baiting him, checking to see if he would make another push. Simmy held his peace, and Frank liked that. Maybe there was some hope that Simmy wouldn’t constantly be yappin’.

  “I’ll be back. Watch her.” Frank left Simmy sitting there without an answer. He made his way to the main desk to purchase three tickets on the next flight headed to DFW. If Simmy was still there upon his return, the last ticket belonged to him.

  Chapter 40

  Aiyana Jones, say her name, Aiyana Jones, say her name, Aiyana Jones, say her name, won’t you say her name. Sandra Bland, say her name . . .

  As the chant sprinted forward, she felt her center plummeting, forcing a hole through her gut, landing in the inches between her feet. She felt paralyzed by the Afrikaans’ drums dancing behind Janelle Monet’s anguished cry for justice. The moment again rose like tiny speed bumps, recreating the horror in her mind.

  Hellll yoouuu talmbouuttt? Hell you talkin’ ’bout? . . .

  Leaning forward with her head cemented to the door, smearing her DNA across its surface, Michelle pleaded with her body to move. Her fist was poised to request entry, grappling with her inability to maintain her indifference, the necessary space she had created to hold on to her sanity in the turbulent social climate the country had revealed itself to exist in.

  There was too much life happening for her to keep up with it all. Death had been a recurring theme lately. Black Death all over the Internet. All over the country. Over and over, story after story. Unarmed black bodies dropping to be resurrected with hashtags, protests, and T-shirts. She couldn’t help but see her father in their sullen faces, and that hurt. She, too, longed for justice, for something to ease the ache, erase the fear, but she didn’t have the energy to lend to the street. She did not have anything to offer anyone.

  The beat vibrating through the air, massaging the minds, anchoring the spirits of the oppressed and the weary in its rhythm, had claimed her hero. The Black Lives Matter movement, birthed from a collective pain, swallowed many, night after night. Michelle, too broken to dance, felt the angst of resisting the urge. Residents in Ferguson, Missouri took to the streets while a mother’s son lay sprawled out in the hot Missouri sun for four-plus hours. Michael Brown was not special, not unlike other sons who have fallen victim to violence. Not special, not unlike other sons who had been forced to eat lead from department-issued handguns, except this time, the people said enough.

  Maybe it was the callous disregard for the boy’s humanity on behalf of the officers involved, their fellow brethren, and eventually the city of Ferguson, Missouri that changed the hearts and minds of the people there. The horror of seeing his broken body on display that set ablaze a spirit of resistance that swept the nation and spread all over the world. Michelle couldn’t know, but what followed was the unleashing of a constant Polaroid of unarmed black bodies taken by police violence. No black body was safe; not man, woman, or child.

  Back then, Michelle had Brianna to rescue, her parents to find. There was plenty to keep her attention. But now, she had nothing—no energy to do anything, not even cry for herself. Grayson had been a godsend to her, removing her reservations and permitting her to grieve in whatever way felt proper. The vicious cycle of the constant exposure to state violence through social media had not radicalized her or Grayson during the year following Brown’s murder, but things had changed. Grayson was not the same man from even two weeks prior to this moment. He had left her to do his part. The movement, as necessary as it was, had taken her sole confidant into its grasp.

  And Michelle knew exactly when it happened. It almost took her, too. Sandra Bland, a woman twenty-eight years young, just a few years away from Michelle; a woman very much like her was found dead in a Texas cell following an illegal arrest originating from a routine traffic sto
p. Nothing made sense to Michelle. She couldn’t see how a woman so vibrant, intelligent, and determined could take her own life as the authorities claimed she had. No one could accept it.

  She didn’t get her information from the news. Twitter was her source, preferring to see and hear from people like herself on the ground, but it was Grayson who had relayed the awful details about Sandra Bland, creator of Sandy Speaks, an inspirational vlog geared toward encouraging black youth.

  Michelle had not been on social media. The unraveling of her relationship with Armand had forced her mind closed to the world. Grayson had been considerate of this, until that moment. She could still see the look in his eyes, a mixture of anger and despair. It was a look that failed to leave him for days. Sandra was too close to home, too close for Grayson to continue being the man she needed him to be for her. A new light shone in his eyes. His energy, his attitude, had changed overnight.

  Amadou Diallo, say his name. Amadou Diallo, say his name. Amdou Diallo, say his name, say his name, won’t you say his name....

  The song continued to play. Name after name rang out, adding to her pain, punishing her for listening, for hearing, for knowing and pretending otherwise. Some part of her yearned to put her journalistic skills to use, lending her eye, her gift to narrating the truth often ignored or misconstrued by mainstream media. Some part of her wanted to do something, but what good was a car with no gas? Where could it go? That was how she felt, empty. Her life was in shambles, and she had not a clue of how to change that. Searching for a solution took everything from her. Some days, showering felt akin to standing atop Mount Everest. She was barely of any of use to herself, let alone others.

  She smiled at the irony of it all. As long as she could remember, she had longed to live without inhibition, but the safety of her existence precluded her from doing so. The injustices piling up before her eyes, stacked with bodies too high for her comfort, should have been a great propeller. Ordinarily, she imagined, it would be more than enough to send her to the front lines, where she would gladly sacrifice her body in the name of freedom. She knew she would be with Grayson, fighting alongside him and others, exposing the hypocrisy within the system. It was a system she watched break her father down, one she became familiar with during her time at Rice. But this was no ordinary time for her. Michelle was already in a fight for her life.