B-Careful

by Shannon Holmes

  “I made bail? Yeah right,” he said to himself.

  His luck didn’t run like that. He didn’t have a get-out-of-jail-free card in his back pocket. Sykes had done too much dirt to the people that loved him for them to ever come get him out of a jam. The only person who would come get him out of jail, his mother, had died over ten years ago. At any second, he fully expected his cell door to shut close and he could resume his slumber. Yet he watched and waited for something to happen that just didn’t.

  Click-Click, Click-Click.... His cell door methodically moved back and forth before moving back to an open position.

  Angry, this time Sykes jumped out of bed barefoot and marched over to the cell door.

  “C.O., stop playin’ wit’ me, yo!.....” Sykes yelled.

  The Correctional Officer snapped. “Sykes, you wanna go home or what? If so, let’s get a move on now. I got other inmates to process out on bail. If you don’t wanna go now, then you can try your luck on the next shift. The choice is yours. Make up your mind quick my man.”

  There was honesty in the man’s voice, which led Sykes to fully believe him now. He saw past all the tough talk to the heart of the matter, the truth. Now something told him that the Correctional Officer wasn’t playing at all. Sykes rushed back into his cell, quickly got dressed, grabbed a few meager belongings, some commissary items, and exited his cell.

  Suddenly the tier was in an uproar. Prisoners began to call out to Sykes from nearby and down the tier as they bid him farewell.

  “Sykes, stay out there this time, yo!....” someone yelled.

  “Sykes, this Bey, holler at my people for me,” another man shouted. “Tell ‘em I’m short. All I need is a thousand dollars to get me out yo!”

  “Alright, Bey!” Sykes lied, knowing damn well it would be the last thing on his mind once he hit the streets. “I got you, yo.”

  Happily, Sykes rushed down the tier, not believing his luck. In the back of his mind he thought it was a clerical error and it might be discovered once he got to admissions. He still was unsure. So on the way off the tier, he stopped at an old comrade of his that he had done some serious time with in the old jail in Hagerstown, Maryland.

  “Chicken!” he shouted. “Here yo! I’m leavin’ out. I just made bail. Take this commissary. If I come back, I want my shit. If I don’t, it’s yours, yo.”

  “Alright yo,” Chicken replied, accepting the prison items. “Stay strong soldier. I’ll see you when I get uptown.”

  “Sykes!” the Correctional Officer shouted. “We ain’t got all day!”

  “Alright, here I come,” Sykes announced as he walked away from the cell door. “I’ll holla at you niggas later yo. Y’all stay up!”

  “You’ll be back!” someone hollered out.

  “Fuck you, you jealous whore!” he yelled back while strutting down the tier.

  Sykes was still in denial by the time he got down to the admissions area of the jail. He was placed in a holding cell along with a few other inmates fortunate enough to make bail. Sykes exhibited a nervous energy that made him very talkative.

  “Hey C.O., I wanna know, who bailed me out?” Sykes inquired nicely, with his face pressed to the steel bars.

  “Listen Sykes, for the umpteen time,” the Sergeant groaned, “you’re not going to keep bothering me. I’m very busy. I have a job to do and that’s to get you guys out of here and off the morning count. And, I don’t have that information in front of me. End of story.”

  He continued to press. “Could you find out who it was? Please?”

  The Sergeant snapped. “Jesus Christ! You wanna go home or what? If so, excuse me while I get back to work. You’re about to go home now, that’s all you need to know. If you really want to know, take it up with your bail bondsman tomorrow.”

  “Sorry Serg,” Sykes spoke. “I just was wonderin’, that’s all.”

  The Sergeant was right, Sykes mused. He decided to give the man a break, relax and wait for his name to be called so he could go home. Suddenly his mind began to race about the things he wanted to do when he got home. The first thing he planned to do was get a shot of dope. That had been on his mind since he got arrested. So much so he had dreamt about it several times, even while he was dope sick.

  Soon those thoughts would manifest themselves into reality as Sykes planned on visiting his old haunts in search of some good dope. A few days in jail weren’t enough to kick his heroin habit. He had been shooting heroin on and off for twenty something years. The swelling in his hands and the nasty abscesses and scabs on his forearms were proof of that.

  In an hour or so, Sykes was released after signing the necessary legal documents. He was given some court paperwork, telling him his next scheduled appearance in court. In the wee hours of the morning, he and a handful of other prisoners were released back into society, onto a dark block, on East Eager Street in East Baltimore.

  “Lemme get a cigarette, yo,” Sykes asked another recently released inmate who was smoking nearby.

  The man handed over a cigarette and a lighter, which Sykes placed between his lips and lit. He handed him back his lighter and proceeded to go about his business.

  “Thanks, yo,” Sykes stated through a cloud of smoke.

  “No problem,” the man replied.

  Quickly, Sykes began walking away from the jail as fast as he could, trying to put as much distance between him and the correctional institution as possible. He was nervous that his release had somehow all been a mistake, yet he was anxious to get to a dope spot. He knew an all night shop up on Greenmount Avenue, where he could get some credit or at the very least bum a blast. He had no inclination that he was being watched, followed, and stalked from the moment his feet hit the concrete pavement.

  The further away he got from the jail, the more at ease he became. Sykes stopped looking over his shoulder for a police car a few blocks ago. At the moment his actions were primarily being dictated by his insatiable thirst to get high. The anticipation of his drug use put Sykes in a very vulnerable state. He wasn’t moving as safely as he normally would.

  Tone crept through the dark alley, gun drawn. In the near distance he heard a loud voice, which he identified as belonging to Sykes. He knew the sound of his loud mouth ass anywhere. Using an acute sense of hearing, Tone followed the sounds a few yards to a nearby row house. There a light from the kitchen window illuminated through the darkness. Tone cautiously approached. Carefully, he walked through a beat-up metal fence. Quietly, he approached the window. Tone walked gently on the ground, careful to avoid any sticks, glass or bottles, anything that would make noise. After accomplishing that feat, he settled into the shadows.

  When Tone was close enough to sneak a peek inside, he carefully raised his head until his eyes were clear of the windowsill.

  From his vantage point, he could barely see inside. A thick film of grease and dirt covered the windowpane of the scarcely furnished kitchen. Everything was blurry. He couldn’t see much in terms of facial recognition. What he did see were two men standing next to each other, in stark physical contrast of one another. One was fat, with a big belly, which Tone knew to be Sykes. The other person was skinny and frail in appearance. This person’s identity was unknown to him.

  Tone continued to look in the window with great interest, waiting for the precise moment to strike. He had shadowed Sykes from the time he was released from jail to the house where he went to cop his dope, to this house, where he was about to shoot his dope. It was safe to say that Tone didn’t come this far to stop right here. If need be, he’d shoot or kill the other person too. As far as Tone was concerned, the man was in the way. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  “C’mon yo. Gimme a lil sumthin’,” the man pleaded with Sykes. “I’m lettin’ you shoot up in my house. This late at night man, I usually don’t even open the door. I only did it cause it’s you.”

  “Damn, I hate a whinin’ ass nigga, yo,” Sykes snapped. “That’s all you do.”

  Now the ma
n was having second thoughts about letting Sykes into his home. Sykes was trouble. He was known for not giving anyone a fair shake, especially when it came to sharing dope. With Sykes, the man felt he was damned if he did and damned if he didn’t. Had he not opened the door for Sykes, tomorrow, the next day or whenever they saw each other again, Sykes would lay hands on him, humiliating the man wherever he saw him.

  “Huh!” Sykes exclaimed, throwing a bag of dope on the kitchen table. “You and yo bitch better be happy wit’ that, cause that’s all the fuck you gettin’ from me, yo.”

  Hurriedly the man snatched the bag of dope up off the table before Sykes could change his mind and take it back. He gripped the bag in the palm of his hand as if his life depended on it.

  Sykes continued, “I need a set of works. You gotta extra set?”

  “Yeah,” the man replied. “Follow me upstairs.”

  Obediently Sykes followed the man as he exited the kitchen. Patiently, Tone waited in the darkness. Silently he debated in his mind when and where to make his move. He knew timing was everything. He decided to keep a close watch.. Tone felt now wasn’t the time to strike. He’d let Sykes get high first before he decided to do anything. Then Sykes wouldn’t know what hit him.

  Soon Sykes returned to the kitchen. He sat down at the kitchen table and prepared himself to shoot heroin. He laid his hypodermic needle on the table next to a few bags of dope, a cigarette lighter, blood stained cottons balls, a soda bottle filled with water and a large silver spoon. Tone spied through the window as Sykes tied his belt around his arm in an effort to locate a good vein. Eventually, he found a vein that was suitable enough to use.

  For the next few seconds, Tone watched and waited, praying no one would enter or exit the house until he was ready to spring into action. He reminded himself how easy Sykes would be to kill once he got high. His mind would be in a stupor and his reaction time would be slow at best. Tone clutched his pistol harder, just thinking that his target lay just beyond the cloudy glass. He lay in wait, watching for the precise time to attack.

  Just as Tone raised his pistol and prepared to make a move for the backdoor, a large rat scampered across his foot. The rodent startled Tone, causing him to knock over a nearby trashcan. The noise from the alley attracted Sykes’ attention. He got up and made his way over to the window to take a look. Quickly Tone pressed himself flat against the row house in an effort to conceal himself.

  Sykes squinted his eyes in an effort to see through the dirty windowpane, but his vision was obstructed by the filth on the glass. He looked around in the darkness briefly before chalking the noise up to a stray alley cat.

  Tone exhaled slowly when he saw Sykes’ shadow suddenly disappear from the window. He knew he had blown a chance to shoot Sykes, but Tone would rather look Sykes in the eye, man to man, so he could know who did this to him and why. Once the shooting began, he wasn’t worried about Sykes or anyone else seeing his face, because it would be the last face they would ever see.

  Sykes busied himself, carefully dumping the brown contents of the pill into a spoon, along with a few drops of water. He grabbed the lighter and put the flame to the bottom of the spoon. Quickly, the brown powder and the water merged to form a dark, gooey substance. Sykes watched as the dope began to boil and bubble, dissolving the cutting agents. Satisfied it was ready, Sykes turned off the cigarette lighter, carefully placed the spoon on the table, and reached for a cotton ball and his needle. He stuck his cotton ball onto the spoon and then inserted his needle into the cotton ball, using it as a filter, as he slowly drew up the entire contents of the spoon into his syringe.

  Gently, Sykes placed the hypodermic needle between his teeth as he slapped his arm, looking for the perfect vein to invade. When he found one suitable enough for his purpose, he took hold of the needle, stabbed his flesh, and slowly released the poison into his bloodstream.

  Tone studied Sykes’ every movement until he was sure he was completely under the spell of the dope. He saw Sykes’ eyelids begin to droop until they closed as his chin slumped into his chest. Periodically, his head jerked as he began going into a deep nod.

  Silently, Tone walked toward the back door. With a sudden burst of fury, he raised his leg and with all the strength he could muster, he exploded in the direction of the flimsy door. Fragments of wood spewed into the air as Tone burst into the kitchen. He stood before Sykes, gun drawn, prepared to settle the score once and for all.

  “What’s up now, muthafucka?” Tone said through clenched teeth.

  Sykes’ eyes displayed a look of surprise. He didn’t plan on running into Tone, definitely not now. Sykes did the only thing he could do at the moment. He begged for his life.

  “New York, it ain’t gotta go down like this,” Sykes stated, with droopy eyes and a slurred voice.

  Suddenly, Sykes knew who bailed him out and why. He had been caught slipping.

  Tone gave Sykes an evil grimace as he approached. He noticed Sykes’ eyes open wide. There was a flash of fear in them, although his pleas were less than convincing. The fact of the matter was, Sykes was too dangerous to be left alive.

  Tone announced, “It’s too late to cop a plea!... This is for Shorty.” Tone winced as he let off a barrage of shots from a nine-millimeter. The first shot caught Sykes directly in the middle of his chest. The impact of the bullet sent him sprawling onto the kitchen floor. Sykes staggered to his knees while one bloody hand clutched his chest. Tone pumped slug after slug into Sykes’ body until the impact of the shots forced him to lay on his back. Then he walked over to his body and dumped at least three more shots into his head and face. When the shooting was done and there were no signs of life left in Sykes’ body, Tone fled, leaving just the scent of gunpowder and blood in his wake. He disappeared into the chilly Baltimore night, assured that his nemesis was dead.

  10

  Netta violently pushed the thin hospital blanket away from her body. Her subconscious was being rocked by another bad dream. Once again she was in a fight for her life. The blanket represented her attacker’s grasp, which she, by any means necessary, had to free herself from. She struggled long and hard until his grip was broken. But this altercation was far from over. Netta continued flailing her arms in self-defense, but little good did that do. As he rushed her, Netta used her nails to claw at his face until she drew blood.

  “You fuckin’ bitch!” Black spat. “I’ma kill you this time, yo!”

  Netta knew she had to get away. But unfortunately, nothing that she did could break this death grip.

  Her attacker had broken into her home while she was asleep, not to commit rape or burglarize her home. His sole intent was to kill her. Whatever physical resistance she was putting up just wasn’t enough to stop him. It was Black, he had come back to kill her. He had come back to finish the job.

  In a last ditch effort, Netta tried to scream as loud as she possibly could. She opened her mouth wide, but nothing came out, not a sound or a syllable. This scared the hell out of her. She began to panic as Black’s large hands clamped down around her throat, slowly crushing her windpipe. A sinister smile spread across his lips as he proceeded to strangle Netta. Her eyes began to bulge out of her head as she desperately clawed at his hands in an effort to break his grip.

  Black could have killed her in a multitude of ways, but he wanted to look Netta in the eye. With all the strength that he could muster, he continued applying all the pressure he could, until he succeeded in cutting off all the oxygen to her brain. Everything went black. At that point Netta’s body went limp. Her lifeless form crumpled to the floor with Black’s hands still applying the deadly chokehold.

  This wasn’t the first time she had dreamt that her former boyfriend Black tried to kill her. However, this was the first time he had succeeded. Netta usually managed to escape or wake up out of her dream before he completed his task. This time she didn’t, and that was the scary part.

  Netta could put up a brave front as if she didn’t fear Black, but her subconsciou
s suggested otherwise.

  Slowly, Netta began to awaken from her medically induced coma. The constant beeps from the life support machines in a strange way were soothing. Those noises let her know that she was still alive. In her hospital bed, she lay motionless, unwilling to move, maybe even believing that she couldn’t. For the moment she hadn’t yet opened her eyes, instead she relied on her keen sense of hearing, and it told her that she was in the hospital. She didn’t know how long she had been there or even her medical condition, still she was there.

  Ever so gently, she pried her eyes open; they took a few more moments to adjust to the sunlight after being plunged so long in darkness. The bright lighting of the room caused her some immediate discomfort. She squinted her eyes to minimize the amount of light that she took in. Netta was saddened to find herself alone, in a hospital room, with none of her so-called friends. Mimi and the other members of the Pussy Pound were nowhere to be found. If she had died, would anyone have known? Would anyone have cared?

  Just as she was gathering her bearings, Netta was hit with an intense migraine headache. She began to feel the aches and pains exploding all over her body as she attempted to move. She reached for the nurse call button that dangled on the side of her bed and immediately requested a nurse’s assistance.

  A buzzer at the nurse’s station alerted the medical staff members to Netta’s request for help.

  “I got this one. You look a little busy,” Nurse McNeil said as she watched her co- worker fill out some medical paperwork.

  The African American middle-aged nurse rose from her seat and headed to the room in question. Within seconds Nurse McNeil was standing in front of Netta.

  “Oh my goodness. You finally woke up, chile,” the nurse marveled. “Praise the Lord ... I’ve been waiting on this day. I’ve been praying for you, Shanetta.”

  Netta was confused. She hadn’t the slightest idea how long she had be laid up in the hospital or why this nurse was so excited to see her awake.