by K'wan
“The angel!” Jonas remembered when he had first been pulled from the lake and initially thinking the white-haired man was some type of celestial deity.
“Detective Ceaver will do. ‘Lou,’ to my friends, but whether we become friends remains to be seen. I warned you not to waste your second chance; yet, here you are about to flush it down the toilet.” He shook his head sadly. “What’s your name, idiot?”
“My name is Jonas, but everybody calls me Raf.” He ignored the insult.
“Wrath,” Detective Ceaver let the name roll around in his mouth. “Yes, I can see that. So much fury in those young eyes of yours. Wrath is a perfect fit, my violent little friend.”
“I didn’t say Wrath; I said—” Jonas tried to correct him, but the cop ignored him.
“So, Wrath, what do you propose we do about this little mess you’ve made?” Detective Ceaver tapped his chin with one of his slender, white fingers.
“What do you mean?” Jonas was totally confused.
“We can’t very well leave him like this. By now, I’m sure his boys are curious about where he’s disappeared to. What if they come looking and find him here? He’ll surely tell them who did this to him. Or worse, an ambulance could come along and save his worthless life. I’m sure you and your family will be the first people Eight-Ball visits when he gets out of the hospital. No, letting him live will never do.”
“What are you saying?”
“What I’m saying is you need to finish what you started,” Detective Ceaver said as if the answer should have been obvious.
Jonas couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Here was a sworn officer of the law trying to convince him to commit murder. It had to be a setup. “Nah,” he whispered.
Detective Ceaver looked at him curiously. “Oh, I get it. You’ve got trust issues, is that it? Thinking I’m about to pull the old bait and switch?” He gave Jonas a stage wink. Then to Jonas’s shock, the detective whipped out his pistol and shot Eight-Ball once in the head. “Problem solved. You and your family are safe.”
“And what do you want from me in return? I ain’t stupid enough to think you’ve done this out of the kindness of your heart,” Jonas told him.
Detective Ceaver laughed. It was a very sinister sound. “No, kindness has never been one of my strong points. I’ve done this out of need. The need to correct a mistake that’s haunted me for some time now. If we can bring ourselves to trust each other, I can promise you that neither you nor anyone in your family will ever be a victim again.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Jonas was leery of the grinning detective. There was something about his too-white teeth that reminded him of a shark.
“I’m afraid you’ve got it wrong,” Detective Ceaver draped his arm around Jonas, almost lovingly. The leather of his jacket was ice cold against the teenager’s skin. “My work was done with our dearly departed friend, but yours is just beginning, Wrath.”
Part III
“For he is the minister of God to you for good. But if
you do that which is evil, be afraid; for he bears
not the sword in vain: for he is the minister
of God, an avenger to execute wrath on
him that does evil”
—Romans 13:4 (KJV)
Chapter Eighteen
Jonas sat in the backseat of the Chevy Suburban in front of Popeyes on 125th Street, looking out the window, people watching, as he did whenever he was forced to sit in one spot longer than he was comfortable. It wasn’t a conscious thing, just something his brain was trained to do. The man in front of the store drinking his beer, the old woman cursing her kids out at the bus stop . . . Everybody had a story to tell, and he was good at piecing them together. Jonas could look at a person and pick up certain things about them; their lips looking scorched or dark said they preferred blunts to joints, constantly moving eyes meant good liars, if they leaned too heavily to one side when they walked, that meant they were likely packing. There were at least a dozen little quirks that he could zero in on. It was a strange habit that he had picked up over the years, but it had helped him more than it didn’t.
The cigarette he had been smoking burned through the filter and singed Jonas’s fingers. He sucked whatever life was left from the butt and tossed it out the window before taking another one from the pack. Jonas didn’t have many vices, but over the years, he had come to enjoy cigarettes and Hennessey. He wasn’t yet old enough to legally partake in either, but it didn’t stop him from indulging.
He lit the second cigarette and went back to his watching. Though he made it a point to observe everything and everyone around him at all times, his focus was on a boy named Tavion.
Tavion was a few years younger than Jonas, but in their time together, he had proven to be far more of an adapt hustler than Jonas had been at his age. Tavion was always the first one on the block and the last to call it a night. Sometimes, he would clock a twenty-four-hour shift and still try to get back on the money the next evening. Jonas admired his enthusiasm, which is why he kept him close.
Jonas had been bringing Tavion along gradually, charging him with different menial tasks just to see how he would hold up. So far, he had always managed to rise to the occasion, proving that though he was young and still somewhat green, he was still capable. With this in mind, Jonas had assigned him to a special mission that day. Something that would tell him for certain how high Tavion’s star would rise.
There was a dude named Tito who owed a debt to Jonas’s crew for some drugs that he had accepted on consignment. Ace had warned Jonas that it was a bad decision to front Tito, but Jonas believed in giving every man a chance to eat. He was kind in that way. For his kindness, Tito had burned him on the package. It wasn’t a substantial amount of money and really wouldn’t make a dent either way, but the fact that he had been ducking made it a matter of principal at that point. Jonas had charged Tavion with the task of collecting the debt, which had been outstanding for nearly three weeks. When they spotted Tito in front of Popeyes with a few of his boys, Jonas pulled over across the street and gave Tavion his marching orders: Don’t come back without that. Tavion jumped out and went to do as he was told. He had been on the corner haggling for the last few minutes.
“Bet a hundred he folds,” Mula said from behind the wheel of the Suburban. He was so short that he could barely see over the wheel of the SUV, but still, Mula was the best driver in their crew. He didn’t have a license, nor had he ever taken a road test, but his years of stealing cars for bread taught him far more than what he could’ve ever learned at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It was a skill he had picked up when Ace’s and his weed business had crashed. Mula and Jonas had become closer over the years. As it turned out, they had more in common than their mutual friendship with Ace. Both the young men excelled at violence. They would often enter into a competition about who could outdo the other when it came to putting in work.
“Nah, he’s solid.” Jonas exhaled smoke.
“Then put your money where your faith is,” Mula challenged, extending his hand.
“That’s a bet.” Jonas shook his hand. Now that they had agreed to the wager, Jonas rooted even more for Tavion to complete his task.
They continued to watch as Tavion went back and forth with Tito. From Tito’s flippant body language and the unimpressed smirk on his face, you could tell that the situation wasn’t going in Tavion’s favor. Tito barked something at Tavion that Jonas couldn’t hear from where they were parked, but when he grabbed Tavion’s nuts through his jeans, it gave Jonas an idea of what he had said. Reasoning that Tavion wasn’t going to be able to get the job done and he would have to end up paying Mula for losing the bet, Jonas prepared to get out of the car and intervene, but Tavion had one more card to play.
Tito’s crew was laughing at Tito’s disrespect of Tavion, but their comical moment wouldn’t last long. Much to all their surprise, Tavion hauled off and snuffed Tito. It was little more than a glancing blow, but the fact t
hat he’d even had the heart to swing with the numbers being against him made Jonas’s heart swell with pride. He’d made the right choice when he pulled the young man in. Tavion had nothing else to prove to him.
Tito and his boys were in the process of kicking Tavion’s ass when Jonas stepped onto the curb. The young man was giving as much as he got, and he never stopped fighting. Jonas grabbed the back of the hoodie of the closest person to him, a tall kid with bucked teeth. When he turned to see who had dared lay hands on him, Jonas slammed the butt of his .44 Bulldog into the kid’s mouth and knocked out one of his protruding incisors. The second kid, this one wearing cargo pants and a fake chain, took a hostile step toward Jonas, but the Bulldog in his face gave him pause.
“If you need it, I, for sure, got it for you,” Jonas warned him. The kid in the cargo pants threw his hands up in surrender and looked at Tito, unsure what to do next.
“Yo, Wrath, what the fuck is this?” Tito asked, trying to sound tough.
Jonas turned the gun on him. “This is me having to remind you niggas the importance of doing good business. Why do I have to run all around town looking for you, T?”
“It ain’t like that, Wrath. I just been moving around and making moves trying to get this money right,” Tito explained.
“Been a week since my last visit. I’m assuming by now you have what you supposed to have for my peoples,” Jonas pressed him.
“Wrath—”
“Tito, anything other than yes, I have your money, is unacceptable at this point. Think before you speak,” Jonas warned.
Tito felt his bowels shift. The two of them had known each other since peewee football games in Queens. They weren’t friends but had a history. He had heard stories about how Jonas handled people who welched on what they owed him, but there were dozens of witnesses about. It was the middle of the afternoon on a crowded city block. Wrath was dangerous, but he wasn’t stupid. With this in mind, Tito tried to play it cool. “Jonas,” he called him by his government name, “this is me, baby. We played the backfield together. You know I’m good for it.”
Jonas looked at Tavion, nursing a busted lip, and watching him to see how he would play it. Jonas knew that whatever he did beyond this point would play a large role in shaping young Tavion’s career. “Tito, me and you wreaked a lot of havoc on defense, but this ain’t about games; it’s about setting an example,” he told him before shooting Tito in the face.
The corner of 125th and St. Nicholas was thrown into chaos. People were screaming and running for cover as Jonas pumped two more bullets into Tito’s already-still body. The kid in the cargo pants and fake chain took off running down the block. Tavion made to chase him, but Jonas stopped him.
“Yo, Wrath. We need to catch that nigga before he tells somebody what happened,” Tavion said.
“Let him,” Jonas replied. “I want him to spread the word far and wide. If you owe us, you’ll either pay us or see us.”
Tavion jogged back across the street to the waiting SUV, but Jonas took his time. He moved at a stroll as if he were nothing more than another shopper on 125th. When he got in the truck, Mula peeled off. When they were safely away from the scene of the crime, Jonas dug into his pocket and counted off fifty dollars, which he handed to Mula.
Mula thumbed through the money and frowned. “What is this? The bet was one hundred.”
“He didn’t fold; he just didn’t get it done,” Jonas replied.
Mula shook his head. “Man, you always trying to find a loophole in some shit. You should’ve been a lawyer instead of a shooter.”
“Maybe, but I’m better at death than litigation,” Jonas said with a smirk. “Now, slow your ass down before you get us pulled over with these guns in the car.”
Chapter Nineteen
Mula eased the big truck through traffic on their way back to the block. It was silent, save for the sounds of The Stylistics humming though the speakers. Jonas wasn’t a fan of old school, but Mula loved the throwback music. He played it whenever they were on their way to or from a job. He claimed that it soothed his nerves. It only irritated Jonas. Give him some 2Pac or Biggie, and he was ready to rock.
As they got closer to their neighborhood, the mood in the car lightened. Mula rolled the driver’s-side window halfway down so that people could see who was behind the wheel. Certain blocks they passed, people smiled or waved, while others, dudes shot them mean mugs. You either loved Jonas and his crew, or you hated them, but everybody knew them. They had been making quite a name for themselves over the last few years as both hustlers and killers.
Jonas couldn’t help but smile as he passed the familiar blocks . . . his blocks. He and his team had come a long way since their days of selling dime bags of weed in the park. This was due largely in part to his relationship with Detective Ceaver.
For the last few years, Jonas served the detective in whichever capacity was required of him. Ceaver used Jonas to carry messages he didn’t trust delivered on phones or put people in line who had forgotten their place. Jonas had broken more than a few jaws and various other bones in the name of progress. His status had increased, but in the beginning, he had been little more than a glorified errand boy.
This wasn’t to say that having a cop in his pocket hadn’t come with perks. Ceaver was always good to give him a heads-up when the block was going to be raided or point him in the direction of easy marks for him and his crew to rip off. The most value came from his get out of jail free card. Jonas could pretty much do whatever he wanted, within reason, and Ceaver would smooth over any legal troubles that would arise. That was cool, but he was still waiting for all the bells and whistles he had been promised. This would come later in the way of a tip that would prove to be the turning point for him in his criminal career.
The night Eight-Ball had been killed, the detective promised Jonas that he would change his life. If Jonas had been expecting immediate results, he was disappointed. Months had gone by, and he hadn’t seen nor heard from the man. He was beginning to think that it had been an empty promise . . . until the day he came across an article in a newspaper he was reading while riding the subway to school one morning. It detailed the story of a black man who had been shot by a cop, which was nothing new. Police killed black and brown kids every day, especially in the ghetto. Jonas was about to skip over the article and continue to the Sport’s page . . . until he spied a picture of the victim. It was an old prison mugshot of a face Jonas was all too familiar with. It was Bruiser.
Jonas had been avoiding Bruiser like the plague since Eight-Ball’s death. Word on the streets was that he hadn’t taken his best friend’s murder too well and was out for blood. There was a $5,000 bounty placed on the head of Eight-Ball’s killer. Besides the detective, no one could place Jonas at the scene of the crime, but he reasoned it was still best to keep a low profile for a while. He stayed close to home, going only to school and back. He had even stopped hanging around with Ace and Mula too. He wanted to remain hidden until things blew over, or he graduated high school and left for college. Whichever came first.
According to the newspaper, Roderick Joseph, aka Bruiser, had been gunned down while attempting to rob a liquor store. An off-duty detective happened on the scene and foiled the robbery. While attempting to escape, Bruiser fired on the detective, who returned fire, killing him.
Jonas closed the newspaper, trying to process everything that he had just read. None of it made sense. For one, Bruiser was a thug and a drug dealer, not a robber. When Eight-Ball died, it was Bruiser who took his place at the head of their crew. He wasn’t as good a hustler as Eight-Ball, but he managed to hold the crew together enough to where the money didn’t stop flowing. With that being said, why would Bruiser be robbing a liquor store? Something even more perplexing was the name of the detective who had gunned Bruiser down: Louis Ceaver. There was no way in hell it was all a coincidence. There had to be more to the story, but Jonas would not receive the final pieces of the puzzle until later that day when school le
t out.
He and Prince were walking from the train station on 135th Street, discussing a fight they had seen that afternoon when an unmarked white Caprice started coasting alongside them. From the missing hubcaps and long antenna on the back, they knew it was a police car long before the driver hit the siren. Prince took off running. He had a knapsack full of stolen goods and had no intention of getting busted with them. Jonas stayed where he was. He hadn’t done anything and didn’t have anything on him. When the window rolled down, he found himself staring into a pair of familiar blue eyes.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite almost murderer,” Detective Ceaver greeted him. “Get in.” He pushed the passenger door open.
Jonas didn’t move. He just kept looking up and down the block suspiciously. The last thing he needed was anyone from the neighborhood seeing him getting into a police car, and he wasn’t under arrest. He’d be branded a snitch, even if he weren’t.
“I don’t plan on asking you twice,” the detective said in an icy tone.
Jonas knew that he would create a bigger problem by not getting in than he would have if he did. “Fuck,” he cursed under his breath before jumping in.
“For a minute, I thought I was going to have to make a scene,” Detective Ceaver said, peeling away from the curb. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“Oh, so we’re friends now?” Jonas asked sarcastically.
“I thought so. Friends do favors for friends, right? Last time I checked, I had done you a huge one. Or have you forgotten about our rapist friend?”
“So, you gonna hold that over my head now?”
“No, blackmail isn’t my game, Wrath. You don’t have to ever worry on that account. Though, I do believe that a word given is a word kept,” Detective Ceaver said, running through a red light and almost hitting a woman who was crossing the street with her child. He never even spared them a second look.
