by Teri Woods
“I can’t do that, how ’bout something else?”
“How about you roll out the Blue Carpet for me so I can crip walk my black ass up outta here?” asked Reds, as if that would do the trick. “Oh, yeah, a Dutch and some chronic, too, while you at it.”
“Hey, Bryant, let’s get him something to drink,” said Officer Friedling.
“Man, look, y’all ain’t gotta bullshit me. I don’t want nothing from you muthafuckas, nothing. So don’t try doing me no favors. Unless y’all gonna give me my phone call so I can call my lawyer, I don’t want shit,” said Reds, being extremely confident in his choice of words.
“You haven’t been given your phone call?” asked Officer Friedling, as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Man, y’all muthafuckas ain’t even read me my Miranda rights. I still don’t know what the fuck you even got me in here for.”
“No one read you your rights? Hey, Bryant, you hear this? No one read this guy his rights.”
“Fucking read ’em for what, fuckin’ niggas don’t have any rights anyway, waste my fuckin’ time reading you your fuckin’ rights, fuck outta here,” replied Officer Bryant, with a thick northern New Jersey accent, laughing at Reds.
“Man, fuck you!”
“That’s exactly what they’ll be doing to you, where you’re going, hotcakes. Come on, let’s get the fuck out of here,” Officer Bryant said to his partner, Officer Friedling.
“Sorry, I tried to help,” said Friedling, following behind Bryant.
Reds looked over at the mirror hanging on the wall. “Y’all muthafuckas gonna have to do better than that. Fuck outta here wit’ your good cop, bad cop routine. Shit ain’t gonna work here, crackers, shit ain’t gonna work; fuck, fuckin’ five-O, I hate you!”
Reds continued to sit there and grouse at the mirror, cursing, sometimes shouting, sometimes just simply talking, but saying nothing at all the plainclothes detectives wanted to hear.
Rasun peered around the windowless room nervously. He kept looking over at the mirror hanging on the wall. He knew he was being watched. He could feel the eyeballs eyeing his black ass as he sat there wondering when all this would be over. He wished this day had never happened. He sat still thinking of all the things that could have kept him from being arrested today. Damn, I should have went over to my aunt’s house with my mom like she asked me to. Then he remembered what Lieutenant Ratzinger told him earlier. Ain’t no way they ran up in my mom’s house. They must be bullshitting, yeah, they’re definitely lying. His leg shook uncontrollably, while sweat poured from his palms. His shirt was wet with perspiration around the underarms, and he fiddled with his fingers like there was no tomorrow. He knew the saying “never let them see you sweat,” but he just couldn’t help it.
The detectives watched from behind the mirrored-glass window, as Rasun looked as though he was about to explode.
“We can crack this cookie, look at him,” said Ratzinger, watching Rasun’s every move.
Lieutenant Ratzinger walked into the room with Rasun, closing the door behind himself.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” Rasun told him.
“Good, ’cause I don’t want to talk to you either,” Ratzinger told him. “The captain made me come in here to see if you wanted to work a deal.”
“I ain’t cutting no deal with you, so you might as well stop wasting your time,” Rasun said.
“You know what, you’re right.”
Lieutenant Ratzinger picked himself up from the table he had been sitting at across from Rasun and walked out the room. We’ll see how you feel after twenty-four hours of sitting in that room with no food and nothing to drink.
He walked into the room where Reds was sitting and found Reds still handcuffed.
“They still got the handcuffs on you, buddy.”
Reds looked at Ratzinger like he was crazy. Man, this dude is out of his fucking mind. Who the fuck is he calling buddy?
Reds had decided he would have nothing else to say to anyone. They could send the president in this motherfucker, he wasn’t saying shit.
“You know that’s a lot of crack we found today, Reds. You guys really seem to have a very organized and profitable operation out there in those streets. I bet you make a lot of money. Hey, I understand, I know exactly how you feel. If I were in your shoes, I’d probably be doing the same thing. I mean, come on, let’s keep it real. Isn’t that what you guys say, keep it real? Well, I don’t blame you, son. I just want you to know, I think it’s a damn shame you’re even here. You should be home right now. Hey, as a matter of fact, you should be hustling on your block getting money right now, and you know what, Reds, I’m here to let you go do that. I just need you to answer a few questions for me.”
“Hey, buddy, let me keep it real with you,” said Reds, leaning in to the lieutenant.
Ratzinger’s heart skipped a beat and he leaned in to Reds to hear what he had to say. “Yeah, let’s keep it real,” Ratzinger agreed.
“Suck my dick.”
“Your choice, kid. You’re going to jail.”
He punched Reds so hard in his mouth that Reds fell backward in the chair and rolled onto the floor.
“Suck that, you piece of shit,” Ratzinger said before walking out the door behind Friedling.
Two days had passed and they were still in the interrogation room. Unfortunately, Reds was requesting only food and blunts, and a television to watch BET. He would be a tough cookie to crack and he wasn’t cooperating at all.
Rasun, on the other hand, wasn’t doing that good. He wasn’t as slick as Reds and wasn’t as sophisticated in his answering techniques and he ended up holding conversations, and that was his first mistake. The police had him handcuffed, with his feet shackled. They escorted him down a long hall and into the back room of the processing unit. The police set up the stage for Rasun to see his mother being fingerprinted. The tears were dried on her face, but you could see her eyes were swollen and her heart was broken.
Ratzinger seated himself on the empty table just in front of Rasun.
“Here’s the deal, Rasun. Your mother is going to be charged with the drugs that we found inside her house, and you’re going to be charged with the drugs that we found at the cleaners. Things are going to get pretty bad for your family. Your mother is facing a very long sentence. She could end up serving a forty-year sentence at a women’s federal prison. And let me tell you something about these women facilities. The lesbians outnumber the straight women, ten to one. And most of those bitches are built like linebackers from the Eagles. Your mother could end up doing some very rough time.”
Rasun shook his head because he had completely forgotten that there was a quarter key of crack in the garage. He remembered hiding it there a couple of days ago because he didn’t want to leave it outside in the car, just in case the car got broken into. He was supposed to relocate the cocaine, but he was moving so fast, he never took it to the stash house to have it broken down and vialed up. Not to mention, he was moving so fast, handling so much product, he forgot he had left that shit at his mom’s altogether.
“Look, it doesn’t have to be this way,” Ratzinger told him. “There is a way to get your mom out of going to prison, without you having to take her time.”
Rasun looked up.
Detective Ratzinger nodded. “And the best part about it is that you won’t have to go to jail either. Your mom will be released, her arrest record will be cleared, and you’ll be able to go free.”
“How is that?” Rasun asked.
“Well, the way things work around here is that I look out for you, and you look out for me. We keep everything on the DL. It’ll just be between us. I know that you’re not a bad guy, Rasun. But what I need for you to do is to help me get the real bad guys off of the streets. You got a little brother, right?”
Rasun nodded.
“I want the streets to be safe for him,” Ratzinger told him. “I want the streets to be safe for your mother, and your father, and your gran
dmother. We want them to be able to sit outside on their porch at night and not have to worry about some goddamn drug-related drive-by.”
Rasun shook his head. “Man, I ain’t down for no snitching.”
“I ain’t asking you to testify against anybody,” Ratzinger assured him. “All I need is a little bit of information. Your man Rik, he’s up right now. He took over the crew after Quadir Richards got killed, right?”
Rasun looked down.
“C’mon, Ra,” Ratzinger smiled. “That is what they call you, isn’t it? Ra? We already know most of the shit, we just want to confirm the shit that we already know. You ain’t giving us nothing new.”
Rasun shook his head.
“See, it’s like this,” Ratzinger continued. “Either you play ball, or we go all the way. We press full charges against your mom. And then, we seize your car, your mom’s car, and your family’s house. You know that we can do that, don’t you? Since we found the drugs inside the house, that gives us the right to seize your parents’ house. You want your mom in prison, and your dad and brother out on the street, all because you don’t want to help us confirm some shit that we already know? Are you that stupid? Do you think that Rik would choose you over his mom? Do you think that Rik would let his mom go to prison for forty years, just to save your black ass? Rik’s going to prison anyway. We’re already on to him. We already have his number. Might as well save your ass, and your mother’s ass, before we pick his ass up, and this once-in-a-lifetime chance goes away.”
Rasun shook his head.
Ratzinger patted Rasun on his back. “I’ll tell your mom that you said fuck her, Rik’s more important.”
Ratzinger rose from the table.
“Man, this is some bullshit!” Rasun said.
“I’m walking out of this fucking door,” Ratzinger told him. “And when I do, the offer is off the table. If I walk out of this door, that’s it. Your mom is going to prison, you are going to prison, and your mom’s house is getting taken away. Every fucking thing that your parents worked for is gone! Gone! Do you fucking hear me, Ra? It’s gone! All because you want to adhere to some bullshit street code that no one else adheres to anymore. There is no more code of omerta! There is no more code of silence! Even the goddamn mobsters sing like fucking opera singers once we get them behind bars. Well, you stick to your fucking code of the streets, and I hope you feel like a real big man, and a wonderful fucking son, kid! Your mother . . . Aw, fuck this!”
Ratzinger turned to walk out of the room.
“Okay!” Rasun told him. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
Ratzinger turned and smiled. He had figured that it would take more than one session to crack this cookie. These so-called street hustlers were getting weaker with each passing year. He turned back to Rasun.
“You made the right choice, kid. If it were my mother, I would have done the same thing. Fuck Rik. Your mother raised you, she’s more important than that sorry, low-life motherfucker.”
“You’ll drop the charges against my mother?” Rasun asked.
Ratzinger placed his hand on Rasun’s shoulder. “Kid, I’m a man of my word. Not only am I going to not press charges against your mother, but I’m not going to file the papers to seize her house. And I’m also going to suspend our case against you for right now. You do right by us, and your case will never go before a grand jury. You made the right choice, Ra. You chose freedom.”
Ra looked down. He felt relieved. He didn’t really fuck with Rik like that anymore, anyway. Fuck that nigga, he had to do what he had to do, that’s all there was to it.
“I’m going to take care of the paperwork, and I’ll be back in here to talk to you in a minute,” Ratzinger told him. “I’ll need you to sign some papers for me, and then I’m going to turn you loose.”
“And Reds?”
“He ain’t going to know shit,” Ratzinger told him. “We’ll run him before the magistrate, let him post bond, and then turn him loose too, that way you’ll both be back out on the street and nobody will suspect anything. Trust me, we’ve been doing this for a very long time.”
Rasun nodded. He had just jumped in bed with the devil.
SAY CHEESE
Gena rounded the corner in her brand-new Porsche Gemballa and hit the brakes. The BMW was sitting parked just in front of her. She couldn’t see who was inside, and really, she didn’t want to. She just wanted to get away from there immediately. And she did.
Gena mashed her foot down on the accelerator and the Porsche propelled itself forward like a fighter jet scrambling down a runway. The car’s rapid acceleration thrust her back into the driver’s seat and pinned her against it. She had never experienced power like that before, and she was glad to have it. The black BMW was nowhere to be seen.
Jerrell peered down at his brand-new Rollie and wondered where in the hell his date was. She was supposed to meet him at the park at six, and it was now five after. He wondered if she had stood him up, hoping desperately that she had not. He really wanted to tap that. Baby girl had an ass that you could set a cup on.
Gena rounded the corner in her new car and spotted Jay standing next to the park bench. He looked fly, real fly. She could tell that the nigga had been shopping. Along with his fresh haircut, he had brand-new everything on. The sun was reflecting off his white Air Force Ones so brightly that they had to be fresh out of the box. The watch on his wrist and the piece hanging off his chain were sending off enough light to land a plane. She was glad that she had given him her number and even gladder that he had called. She pulled up next to him.
Jerrell rested his hand on the passenger door of the Guardsman black convertible.
“What in the hell are you doing with this?”
“You like it?” Gena asked, smiling from ear to ear. “It’s my new ride.”
“You mean, your man’s new ride?” Jerrell asked.
Gena shook her head. “No, baby, this is all me.”
“Yeah, right!” Jerrell laughed. “What happened to the Benz?”
“Nothing,” Gena told him. “I wanted to park it for a while.”
“Damn, so you balling like that, huh?” he asked with a smile.
Gena shook her head. “Not really. But I am starving. No, I’m famished.”
“I was going to tell you to park your car and roll with me, but fuck that, I’m rollin’ with you.”
Jerrell opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat.
“So, where are we headed?” Gena asked, pulling off into traffic.
“Any place you want to go, ma,” he said with a wide grin. “Tonight is your night.”
“Oh, really?” Gena asked, lifting an eyebrow. “So, you going to spoil me tonight, huh?”
“The world is yours, ma,” Jerrell told her. “The world is yours.”
Jerrell turned and peered out of the window. She had bought a custom Porsche, easily worth over a hundred grand, and yet she claimed that she didn’t have a man. What is wrong with this picture? Jerrell wondered. Her wrists, neck, and fingers were blinging more than his. He sat in the passenger seat adding up her wrist and fingers. She holdin’ more than me. Who the fuck is this broad? Jerrell wondered. He needed more information. Hell, he needed a picture. And he knew just how to get one.
“Hey, I got a taste for something Italian, baby,” he told her. “Let’s go to the Spaghetti Warehouse.”
Gena nodded. Spaghetti Warehouse was all right. Not too expensive, but pretty good. She shifted gears and turned the corner and headed in the direction of Spring Garden Street. Could he be my new Man of Life? One never knows, does one? she pondered as she smiled over to him.
“So, what do you do for a living?” Jerrell asked her.
“I’m kinda in between jobs right now,” Gena told him.
Jerrell nodded, “Oh.”
Maybe she sells real estate or maybe she’s one of them ho’s that sell cosmetics and shit. Naw, that shit don’t pay. She don’t look like a salesperson and besides the only kind of job she m
ight have driving some shit like this is a lawyer or a doctor and she ain’t neither.
“So what do you do when you’re not in between jobs?” Jerrell asked.
Gena shook her head. “I just want to relax tonight. I don’t want to talk about work.”
Jerrell nodded.
Mmm hmm, she don’t want to talk about work. I just bet she don’t. She can’t be in the game. I know all the majors in this town. So, who the fuck is she? A police bitch, maybe? Naw, she was too scared about being followed. Maybe she was pretending or maybe she’s just fucking a real live nigga, either way it can only be one of the two. It’s got to be one or the other. And I’m going to find out.
Jerrell crossed his arms, leaned back in the seat, and kicked the question of Gena’s identity around in his head until they arrived at their destination.
The Spaghetti Warehouse was a quiet, romantic, authentic Italian restaurant nestled in downtown Philly. It was a casual place, with a bar to the left as you walked through the doors. Imported Italian travertine marble covered the floors. The restaurant resembled an old Tuscan village, with hand-plastered walls, Etruscan vases, stone columns, and wrought-iron artwork throughout. There was even an old-time trolley car that sat in the middle of the dining-room floor. Dim wall lighting was augmented by soft paper-covered candles on the dining tables. Modern Impressionist artwork graced the beige plaster-covered walls, while white-jacketed waiters and sommeliers fanned out throughout the restaurant, providing the guests with impeccable service. Gena and Jerrell were seated in the rear corner of the establishment, where they were assured their privacy.
“What may I get you to drink?” the waiter asked.
“A bottle of Pinot Grigio,” Jerrell ordered.
“Very good, sir,” the waiter told him, while writing down his order.
Gena closed her menu. “I already know what I want.”
“Oh, then I guess we’re ready to order,” Jerrell told the waiter.
The waiter opened his tiny notepad again. “Very good. And what will you be having tonight, madam?”
