by Teri Woods
“I want the chicken parmesan with a side order of fettucini alfredo and I think I’ll start with a ceasar salad,” Gena told him.
“And I’ll take the same,” Jerrell told him.
“And for dessert, madam?” the waiter asked.
Gena looked at Jerrell for a second, and then turned back to the waiter and shook her head. “We’ll decide after dinner.”
“Very well, madam.” The waiter bowed slightly and headed off toward the kitchen.
“So, what do you do when you’re not saving girls who are being followed?” Gena asked.
Jerrell smiled. “I thought that we weren’t gonna talk about work. I was kinda looking forward to enjoying a stress-free, work-free evening, with a beautiful woman.”
Gena blushed. “So what do you know about my restaurant?”
“What?” Jerrell asked. “You mean the Spaghetti Warehouse?”
Gena nodded.
“I eat here all the time.” Jerrell told her. “The calzones are the bomb!”
Gena nodded emphatically. “I know! They stuff theirs with pepperoni and at least four different kinds of cheese! I love those things!”
Jerrell leaned back in his seat. “Wow! A woman who appreciates good food! You’re a woman after my heart, ma!”
Gena laughed. “I love good food! Especially Italian!”
“So tell me this, Ms. Gena,” Jerrell said. “How is it that a fine-ass woman like you don’t have a man?”
Gena lowered her head for a moment and thought of Quadir. It still hurt deeply. She peered back up at Jerrell. “I don’t know why. I guess I just don’t.”
Jerrell reached out and clasped her hand. He turned it over and examined her ring by the light of the candle. “That’s some rock, ma. Big enough to choke a damn horse.”
Gena laughed. She nodded toward the diamond-filled charm hanging at the end of his diamond-filled chain. “You’re not doing too bad yourself.”
Jerrell smiled. He peered up in time to see the restaurant girl with the camera passing nearby. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers loudly.
The camera girl turned in his direction.
“Yo, can we get our picture taken over here?” Jerrell asked.
The camera girl smiled and headed toward him.
“You want to get closer,” she ordered, holding up her camera.
Jerrell scooted his chair next to Gena’s and put his arm around her.
“Say cheese, baby girl,” he told her.
Gena smiled for the camera, and the flash erupted.
“Another one,” Jerrell ordered. He rose and walked to the other side of Gena, where he knelt next to her. “Get my good side this time.”
Gena laughed, and the camera girl snapped the second photo.
The camera was a Polaroid, and the photos were instant. The camera girl set the pictures on the table, and Jerrell handed her a twenty-dollar bill.
“Keep the change,” Jerrell told her. The camera girl smiled and headed for another table. Jerrell lifted the photos off the table and examined them. He now had two clear pictures of Gena, from two different directions. It had been the best twenty dollars that he had ever spent.
If Gena wanted to play Ms. Mysterious, that was fine with him. He had other ways of finding out what he wanted to know. He would pass the photos on to his man on the streets and have this bitch’s entire history within a day. He would know every nigga that she fucked, all the way back to kindergarten, if she was giving it up back then. He would have birthdays, parents’ names, brothers, sisters, cousins, and practically the entire family’s history. He was Jerrell Motherfucking Jackson, and he didn’t get where he was by not knowing how to dig up shit. This simple bitch was way out of her league, if she was thinking otherwise.
Jerrell lifted the bottle of Pinot from the table and poured some into each of their wineglasses. He handed Gena her glass and lifted his own into the air.
“To new friends, and to making new memories,” he told her.
Gena clicked her glass against his. “To new memories.”
New memories were something that she could desperately use. All of her old ones were too painful to bear. She had loved Quadir with all her heart. She had made that man her life. And now that he was gone, she knew that despite the pain in her heart, she had to move on. She had found another gentleman—another kind, sweet, protective gentleman—who was promising her a second chance. She couldn’t believe it, but it was as if God was giving her a second Man of Life, because he had to take the first one away. She wanted this to work out. She wanted to be in love again. She wanted to share all that she had with someone again. She was convinced that Jay was the one to do it with.
Gena drank up, then lifted her glass into the air again. “To happiness, and laughter, and smiles. May they forever be a part of our lives.”
“Hear, hear,” Jerrell told her. “I couldn’t have said it better myself.”
Jerrell poured more wine into Gena’s glass. He wanted her to drink up. He wanted her tongue to become loose. He wanted her to slip and say things that she normally would not say when she was sober. And even if that didn’t happen, he really could care less. He would find out who she was soon enough. He would find out what she did for a living, where she was from, who her people were, and every damn thing else. Jerrell placed the photos beneath the candlelight once more and examined them briefly before tucking them safely away in his pocket. He didn’t want to forget them, and he damn sure didn’t want to lose them. They could be his ticket to a brand-new life. They could be his tickets to the jack of the century. They could be his winning lottery tickets.
WIRED
The van was disguised as a FedEx delivery truck, with all of the corporation’s authentic logos, decals, emblems, and insignia. An officer disguised as a FedEx deliveryman even climbed out every once in a while and made actual FedEx deliveries to the businesses located on the block. Inside the van was a communications set without peer. The Philadelphia police department had spent millions of dollars on this super-high-tech observation post on wheels.
Detective Letoya Ellington sat at the communications console with her headphones on, listening as the van’s digital recording equipment recorded everything that their wired confidential informant transmitted back to the van. They were getting some great information and had already gathered enough evidence to round up several of the smaller players who were engaged in the city’s nefarious drug trade. But now they were gathering information on a big fish.
“So what price did that nigga Rik say that we can have them thangs for next week?” Rasun asked.
“The nigga said that he was going to give us a good deal,” Reds answered. “If not, I hollered at that boy Blair the other day. That nigga got a new connect, and he says that he can help spread the wealth.”
Inside the van, Detective Ellington took notes furiously. She was writing down all the names that Reds and Rasun were mentioning. The more Rasun talked, the more people they would be able to target for investigation. The more people they were able to target, the more people they would be able to gather evidence on. The more people they were able to gather evidence on, the more people they would be able to present to the grand jury for the issuance of indictments, and the more people they indicted, the greater the chances of convicting a larger number of scumbags. The more people they convicted, the better her chances were of making lieutenant. It was all a numbers game.
So far, Rasun had given them information on twenty-three people, and through his conversations with others, they now had the names of more than seventy-three drug dealers. They knew stash spots, meeting places, distribution locations, and even the names of some of the East Coast’s biggest suppliers. They had names that the DEA only wished they knew about. Names that they would give the DEA to earn brownie points under the guise of intra-agency cooperation. Rasun had been a gold mine.
“So where’s all of the shit that we copped yesterday?” Rasun asked.
“Man, all of tha
t shit is at the spot,” Reds answered. He was becoming annoyed with Rasun’s constant questioning. “We gonna do this shit like we do it every week. I already called Ms. Shoog, and she said that she can cook that shit up for us tomorrow.”
Rasun laughed and shook his head. “Old Ms. Shoog! She’s gangsta, ain’t she? Damn, how long has Shoog been cooking this shit up for us?”
Reds laughed. “Yeah, Ms, Shoog is something. That old lady think she got mad game, don’t she?”
“She probably cook for half the niggas in Philly,” Rasun said.
“That old lady probably been doing this shit her whole life. I know that she done cooked up more than a thousand keys for you. And probably about ten thousand keys for my nigga Qua!” added Reds.
Detective Ellington wrote down Ms. Shoog’s name and typed it into her computer. A name, an address, and a criminal record popped up instantly. Ms. Shoog would have a nice fat indictment once this was all over.
“Sorry, grandma,” Detective Ellington exhaled. “But, they got a place just for you. It’s called a federal penetitiary.”
This conspiracy case that they were building was definitely going to be picked up by the Feds. And if Ms. Shoog had cooked as much cocaine as had been alleged in the wire communications, she was going to go away for a real long time. So long, she’d probably spend the rest of her life in prison.
Rasun tossed Reds a beer and walked to his Benz, where he turned up the stereo system. He cut it up just enough to hear the music, but not enough for it to interfere with the wire that he had taped to his chest. He walked back to Reds’s BMW and seated himself on the hood.
“So, Reds, on the real. What do you think the boy Rik is moving now?” Rasun asked.
Reds shrugged his shoulders. “Probably more than Qua was. Remember that nigga got his own shit, plus he got all of Quadir’s shit.”
“And that nigga don’t even break bread with us like that. Nigga balling like that, you’d think we could get some better prices out of his tight ass.”
Reds shrugged again. “You know Rik’s ass is tighter than a KKK hanging rope. Just be happy that he ain’t asked us about our side hustle that we got going on. I’m surprised that nigga ain’t figure our shit out by now. I guess that nigga’s getting all that money, he must be real preoccupied.”
Rasun sipped at his beer, then peered over at Reds. “You think he know?”
Reds smacked his lips. “The nigga ain’t stupid. He know that we done came up. He see the cars and shit.”
Rasun nodded. “What you think that nigga Amin doing?”
Reds lifted an eyebrow. “Doing? Doing like what?”
“You think that nigga pushing more than us?” Rasun asked.
Reds shrugged. “How the fuck would I know? And why would I give a shit?”
Rasun nodded and sipped at his beer. “Anybody talked to Kenny?”
“Amar and Wiz went and visited that nigga the other day,” Reds answered. “They got Kenny up CFCF still waiting on his trial. Man, they say that nigga’s twisted in that joint.”
“That’s fucked up. You think he’ll be all right?” Rasun asked.
“Kenny’s not really the type of nigga that can do time. You know what I mean? He ain’t built for that shit, you know?” he asked, looking at Rasun, wondering if Rasun knew that he wasn’t that type of nigga either.
“Yeah, I know what you mean. You think he needs some bread or something?”
“What nigga don’t, but if the nigga done lost his fucking marbles like they saying, I wouldn’t send too much at one time. Just enough, you know, to hold that nigga down for a quick commissary minute. I told y’all that nigga wasn’t wrapped too tight. He never was.”
“Damn, that shit’s fucked up,” Rasun said, lowering his head.
“I just hope that that nigga don’t start talking,” Reds told him.
“Talking?” Rasun quickly shifted his gaze to Reds. “What do you mean?”
“Talking . . . you know. I hope that fool don’t start snitching and shit!” Reds told him.
“You think he would?” Rasun asked nervously.
Reds shook his head. “Man, you never know these days. Hell, the nigga right next to you could be in bed with them folks.”
Rasun swallowed hard and took a long swig from his beer bottle.
Detective Dick Davis climbed into the back of the FedEx truck and removed his FedEx baseball cap.
“Whew, it’s hotter than a witch’s tit out there!” he declared.
Detective Ellington laughed and removed her headphones. She turned toward her colleague. “And you think it’s better in here?”
“Hey, you don’t have to carry packages up and down the street, sweetie,” Detective Davis protested. “Any time you want to switch, you just let me know.”
“Dick . . .”
“What?”
“Stop complaining like a little bitch,” Detective Ellington told him.
The two detectives shared a laugh.
“So, are we getting anything good?” Detective Davis asked.
“Are you kidding me?” Detective Ellington replied with a smile. She lifted her notepad filled with names, dates, amounts, and various other information. “This kid’s a gold mine! Christ, where the hell did we get him from?”
Detective Davis took the long yellow notepad and examined it. He smiled. “The kid’s telling on everybody but his mother.”
“Give him time,” Detective Ellington replied. “He’ll probably give her up too.”
Again, the detectives shared a laugh.
“So, how are we looking?” Detective Davis asked. “I mean, as far as the grand jury is concerned?
Detective Ellington shook her head. “Rock fucking solid. I just talked to the lieutenant. We’re processing this shit tonight and getting as much as we can over to the grand jury tomorrow.”
Detective Davis whistled, “Damn, that fast.”
“Baby, we’re trying to have the indictments out by tomorrow evening,” Detective Ellington told him.
Detective Davis lifted an eyebrow. “Tomorrow evening?”
Detective Ellington nodded. “Tomorrow evening. It’s going down tomorrow. So, you can get ready for some overtime tomorrow night, baby.”
Detective Davis tossed the notepad back onto the console. “The big roundup.”
Detective Ellington nodded and placed the earphones back over her ears. “We are going to try to hit as many as we can at once.”
Detective Davis whistled. “A lot of manpower.”
Detective Ellington nodded. “We’re going in with the Feds, the county, and just about everybody else. The Feds have some of the local guard on standby, just in case we need more manpower. I think they’re Army.”
Detective Davis wiped his sweaty brow and rose from his seat. He placed his FedEx baseball cap back on his head and grabbed some packages from the floor of the truck.
“Guess I better get back out there,” he said, smiling at his fellow detective.
“Just another hour,” Detective Ellington told him. “John and Rick are coming on duty posting as a utility repair crew. They’ll be taking over surveillance then.”
Detective Davis nodded. “I’ll just be glad when this shit is over with.”
Detective Ellington smiled and waved good-bye to her male partner. “Tomorrow, baby. Tomorrow, we’ll be handing out indictments like Halloween candy.”
“Trick or treat, motherfuckers!” Detective Davis said, laughing. He climbed out of the back of the FedEx truck and slammed the door behind him.
Tomorrow would be the big roundup. Tomorrow they would be taking a big chunk of Philadelphia’s midlevel dealers off the streets. Tomorrow night, the jails would be full, and so would their evidence lockers, and the price of cocaine on the streets would be sky fucking high. But the best thing of all was that tomorrow they would be getting hundreds of dope-dealing sonsabitches off the streets.
GENA’S SAKE
Gena seated herself at the breakfast tabl
e and unfolded the newspaper.
“Any good sales in there?” Gah Git asked. She washed her coffee cup out and placed it in the dishwasher. “Child, I sure do appreciate this new dishwasher you bought me. I ain’t never had nothing like this, all new and fancy. I can’t believe this thing really cleans dishes.”
Gena smiled and shook her head. “I’m glad you like it. I got some more stuff for you too.”
“What?”
“Yeah, just wait, you’ll see. I’m gonna take good care of you, don’t you worry.”
Gah Git exhaled, wiped her hands on her apron, and turned toward Gena. “Now, don’t you go starting on me about no moving again. Girl, I done told you, I’ve lived here damn near my whole life. Ain’t nothing wrong with living here. People just need to take care of they kids and work out they problems and be a family to one another. A few ass whoopin’s and this place would be back to the way it was.”
Gena laughed at her grandmother. “Gah Git, a few ass whoopin’s ain’t gonna solve nothing. Richard Allen is the worst project in Philly to have to live. At least let me get you a nice apartment in a decent neighborhood, since you won’t let me buy you a house.”
“Buy me a house?” Gah Git asked, placing her hand on her hip. “With what, Gena? Baby, you save your money. You done bought me enough already. A new refrigerator, a new stove, a new dishwasher, and all of those fancy new clothes that I ain’t gonna never get to wear!”
“Yes you will. We got places to go and things to do. And for the life of me, why do you want us to have to live in these godforsaken projects? Gah Git, it’s not safe, they always shooting at each other, and they killing people over here. I don’t like it here no more. I used to feel safe, but now, it’s changing. Ask Gary, he’s in the streets, he’ll tell you the same thing,” Gena said, trying to convince her grandmother of the truth.
“Look, Gena, I’m used to it. I done lived here all my life. I don’t want to go, that’s all. Now leave me alone.”
“Man, Gah Git, I don’t even sleep with all the sirens and guns poppin’ off, and I’m scared to walk to the store. See, you always sending us. But that’s not right. You go on out there and see if you like walking down the street. Shoot, I bet you’ll be ready to move then.”
