by Teri Woods
“Gone? Gone where? She’s got to testify or I’m going to go to jail for the rest of my life,” said Nard not wanting to believe his probable fate.
“Listen, Bernard, we’re gonna handle it. We got to see how all this plays out. I might be able to get a plea deal. I can talk to the DA and we can plea this thing right out if this girl doesn’t show. For today, though, we need to get a continuance.”
Tommy Delgado swung open the double wooden courtroom doors and walked into the courtroom, over behind the prosecutor’s desk, shook prosecutor Barry Zone’s hand, whispered in his ear, and peered over at the defendant and his lawyer.
The prosecutor was betting his last dollar that DeSimone would request a continuance, and sure enough, DeSimone approached the side of his wooden table.
“Hi, Bobby DeSimone,” said Bobby extending his hand.
“Barry Zone,” responded the DA, grasping DeSimone’s hand, returning the hello.
“Listen, I’m in the position of having to request a continuance, based on my witness being out of town. I’m not comfortable with going forward.”
I bet you’re not, thought Delgado to himself. He thought of the one time he had met the alibi witness. She was unknowing, scared, and had the most intriguing shade of green eyes he had ever seen.
“Yeah, sure, why not? I won’t object, it’s the judge’s call,” responded Zone, looking over at Delgado to see his reaction.
Sticks sat patiently still, silently praying that Daisy would walk through the door. Of course, he knew that she might or might not have gotten the gist of the situation and how critical her testimony was, not only for Nard, but for him, and the predicament her failure to testify would create. He got up and walked out into the hall. He dialed Daisy’s number and listened as the voice operator said the number had been disconnected. Disconnected?This bitch done disconnected the damn phone? What the fuck. She knew we had court on the twenty-third. She knew that shit. The day had come and gone and he sat and watched as his man stood in front of the judge with no witness and no alibi. DeSimone did the right thing. He immediately asked for a continuance, not wanting to move forward with the trial. The judge granted the postponement. The court date was scheduled for two months away, on the third of October. The judge banged his gavel and court was adjourned.
Simon Shuller paced the floor of his small office in the back of Fabulous Willie Man’s barber shop off Twenty-seventh and Susquehanna. He had been popping Tums and antacids all day, with no relief. It was no surprise that Simon Shuller’s health was failing. He was getting too old for the stress of it all, the worry and frustration of the streets and everything that came with them. Not to mention the black man wasn’t black no more. Or at least that’s how he felt. Simon Shuller was an older hustler, and truth was he was beginning to frown upon the young gangsters of today. Back in the day, the streets had codes and real men upheld and honored those codes. Not the young, hip, gangster types you saw on the streets today. Simon Shuller was more of a quiet man, not too flashy, but styled and classy. He ran the streets with an iron fist and was in on everything. Simon Shuller was the man, in charge of everything from drugs to numbers. Yes, he was the one who ran the numbers game for Philadelphia. Every night you had the Lotto and you had the street numbers. If you won, it was Simon Shuller who paid out, but for the most part, Simon Shuller won and paid nothing. Night after night after night that money went into his pocket right where it belonged—at least to hear him say it, it did.
“Man, that pacing you doing is making me dizzy over here,” said Dizzy, one of the few people Simon Shuller trusted to a degree. Dizzy James had been his friend for over forty years.
“Well, good then… Shit can match your name,” said Simon as he stopped, said his few words, then went back to walking the floor. “I should have handled this shit from the beginning. I should have followed my heart.”
“So, what’s the investigator you hired sayin’ now?”
“Lasworth ain’t said nothing but what I already know.”
“What’s that?”
“They fucked up. The alibi for the kid was a no-show. And Sticks, the motherfucker’s a walking nightmare. Instead of him coming to me, you now got a string of murders following behind the Somerset Killer and it’s just a big mess,” he huffed, shaking his head, picking up his medicine bottle, and popping a few more pills.
“That god damn medicine gonna kill you.”
“Shit, I’d be dead without it,” he joked back, hating that time was truly the grim reaper, but sharing the laugh with his old comrade. “But, naw, Dizzy, man, the mole say this kid Nard is a real thoroughbred, a trouper. He’s not talking and he’s gonna ride, even if it means the worst. He wants his family taken care of, especially his mother to be looked after, you know? But that fucking Sticks got that kid jammed up. He wasn’t where he should have been and now he gets the kid jammed up with no alibi and shit, ’cause no one can find this girl.”
“It was Sticks who set this kid up with the alibi?” Dizzy asked. He had heard little about the story up until now.
“Yeah, and if he didn’t pay the girl, it would explain why she didn’t show up for court,” said Simon as he stood back up, exhaled, then sat back down.
“You all right?”
“Naw, I’m not,” said Simon, looking at his oldtime friend. “Ay yie yie, you know the only thing is, if the girl was paid fifty thousand dollars, why she wasn’t there?”
“What did he say? Didn’t you ask him?”
“Of course I asked him. I’m telling you, this guy is not fucking thinking with his head on straight. He’s not covering the bases. His story to me was that she had a death in the family and had to leave town, that she would be ready the next court date. I don’t know, just don’t sound right, for fifty thousand, you don’t need to be at no funeral, motherfucker already dead. Shit, she was supposed to be there.”
“You right, Simon. When you’re right you right. She should have been there and nine chances out of ten, you’re right about this Sticks character. He’s no good. I’ll put a call into Mira, he’ll be able to track this girl down. If she’s still breathing, he’s your guy, he’ll find her, no matter where she’s fucking hiding. And Sticks, I wouldn’t keep playing around with him.”
“If I find out he took that money and didn’t pay the girl, Daisy or whatever her name is, I’ll bury him with a stick in his ass. Fucking stupid-ass kid, what the fuck is this guy thinking?”
“I don’t know what these guys out here today even got going through their minds. But I’ll find you a stick and have it on hold, ’cause something’s telling me you gonna need it,” Dizzy said, hoping some comedy would ease the tension. He had known Simon for a long time, and in his heart of hearts he knew that if Simon found out this guy Sticks was up to something, he would bury him, stick in his ass and all.
Sticks pulled out of the parking lot and replayed his conversation with Simon Shuller in his head. It didn’t sound like anything was a problem. Simon took the postponement news and moved on to another matter. That eased Sticks’s mind automatically. But deep down inside, he knew Daisy had to be found, and that was his number-one priority. She really was the straw that broke the camel’s back with her disappearance. She knew we had court. She knew we was supposed to be there. Why the fuck did I give this bitch my old car? Fuck, something told me not to. He pulled up on the block, but didn’t see the Seville. Man, where is this chick done disappeared to?
“Fuck!” Sticks commented as he hopped out of his car and quickly made his way up to Daisy’s building. He began ringing her bell and banging on the front door, so loud that Lester heard the commotion inside Ms. Selda’s apartment on the third floor.
“Hey, hey, what’s all the noise about?” said Lester, after making his way down the stairs, as he opened the door to the building of the apartment row home.
“I’m looking for Daisy.”
“Daisy’s gone; she don’t live here no more,” said Lester trying to slam the door on th
e thug standing before him.
“Gone, where she go?” questioned Sticks, quickly using his foot to prevent the door from slamming. He pushed the door back hard and busted into the vestibule of the row home. “Who the fuck is you?” he asked, lifting Lester up off the ground and onto the wall. “How the fuck you know she gone?” he questioned, choking Lester half to death.
“I’m… I’m… the landlord. I just know she… gone, that’s all.”
“Where she go?” asked Sticks.
“I don’t know,” said Lester, and it was at that moment that Lester decided to take a stand. He was tired of the young thugs running wild in his neighborhood. Young men and boys, as young as twelve years old, trying to be gangsters and thugs, carrying guns, intimidating the community, and running around believing that they was so bad and determined to run something. Lester wasn’t having it; you wasn’t running Lester Giles.
“Let’s see if this can help you remember,” said Sticks, pulling out a gun and pointing the barrel at Lester’s forehead, his finger on the trigger.
“You think that gun makes you a man, son?” Lester asked him, coming from the old school and hoping he could talk some sense into the young man standing before him.
“Nigga, shut the fuck up, don’t ask me no fucking questions.” Quickly, he took the tip of the gun and whacked Lester in the head. Lester took the blow, falling back against the wall and down to the floor as blood began to run down the side of his face. He held his hands over his head and face, fearing that Sticks would hit him again. “I swear to God, I’ll kill you in this motherfucker. Get the fuck up the stairs and let me in this bitch’s apartment,” Sticks ordered, grabbing Lester and forcing him up the staircase.
“Yo, old man, you need to start talking, for real. I know she left a forwarding address with you, I know she told you something. She wouldn’t have just left.”
Lester tried to lie. “She didn’t tell me nothing. She just left, that’s why all her furniture is still here.”
The apartment had been cleaned. Sticks began searching, looking for a forwarding address. But Daisy had been pretty clean about leaving, knowing that she was leaving her apartment to Lester. All her personal stuff she had taken with her, and everything else, she had bagged up and left behind for trash.
“Listen, I know you know something. You can tell, it’s all over your face. I know she told you something.” Sticks began to roughhouse Lester, pointing the gun at his head, threatening to pull the trigger, punching him with uppercuts and jabs. Because the man was old, Sticks had the advantage.
“You know what, I’m not even gonna play with you no more. I tell you what, if you don’t tell me something, I’m going to kill you right here and now, motherfucker, so this is your last fucking chance,” said Sticks as he spun around, getting madder and madder at Lester. “Do you hear me?” Sticks screamed at him. “This is it, tell me where she is before the count of three.”
He put his gun to the old man’s head and counted one. Sweat was pouring down the sides of Lester Giles’s face and he saw his life flash before his eyes. He heard Sticks count two. He knew he was going to die on three.
“Wait, I know where she’s at. She’s down in Tennessee, down in Nashville somewhere where her peoples live at. She’s got an aunt, I don’t remember her name. That’s where she told me she was going,” he said, shaking his head yes, for certainty.
“Why the fuck didn’t you just say that shit? Why put me through all this shit? Stupid fucking old-ass man,” said Sticks as he lifted his foot and pounded it down on Lester, kicking his side, cracking his rib.
“Aaarrr, help me, Jesus. Please, mister, please stop,” said Lester, unable to take any more pain. “I’ve told you all I know,” he said before collapsing.
“You should’ve told me sooner,” Sticks said as he raised his gun and brought it down on Lester Giles’s head again, leaving Lester Giles lying on the floor.
Sticks kicked him again and turned and walked away, not realizing that the beating he had given the man had caused a stroke. Lester Giles lay on the floor struggling for his last breath. Blood gushed throughout his brain cavity. He was already paralyzed by the time Sticks drove down the street and turned the corner, and in twenty-two more minutes he would die lying on the floor of Daisy’s apartment.
SECRET AGENTS
Agent Vivian Lang and Agent Nathan Chambers were ready to speak to Daisy Mae Fothergill. They had pulled her last known mailing address and checked every bureau database, collecting a profile on her. They had everything from a prior arrest for soliciting a police officer to cashing her mother’s Social Security checks after her mother was dead. Yes, they had her entire history. It all popped up on the screen in black and green. Vivian could see where she even had a subpoena issued in a state court proceeding. And Agent Vivian Lang had every intention of following up on that lead and seeing where it led her.
Ms. Selda from the third floor was on her way downstairs just in the nick of time. Just as Agent Lang was about to ring the door bell, the door flew wide open.
“Excuse me,” she said, recognizing them as the police, undercover officers like those on her show, Law and Order. Mmm, I wonder who’s in trouble, probably that girl on the second floor, she looks like a bunch of trouble. Maybe it’s that damn Lester, they could take him on to jail right now for me before rent comes due next month.
Nathan walked in first, looking up the stairs. He took his gun out of his holster on the side of his suit jacket as Agent Lang did the same. She carefully closed the door behind her, making sure it locked. They went up the stairs and knocked at Daisy’s apartment door. No answer. Agent Chambers twisted the knob, and the door opened with a creaking sound as Vivian Lang pushed it as far open as it would go.
Agent Chambers, gun in hand, moved silently to the right covering the dark and unknown territory as he moved into the apartment and down the hallway toward the bedrooms, keeping his back against the wall, his eyes piercing the empty apartment. Vivian Lang made her way to the right of the door and peeked into the kitchen. It was clean. She moved to the end of the wall and peeked around the corner.
“Chambers, I got a body,” Lang called out, surveying the room and confirming that it was clean. Chambers finished his search of the bedroom, turned around, and followed his partner’s voice into the living room.
“Okay, I am so not here right now. Don’t touch it!” he ordered with stern conviction.
“How long you think he’s been here?” she asked, knowing that Chambers was forensics’ key guy.
“Looks like days. Come on, get away from it. All you need is a fiber or a hair to fall on this guy.”
“Damn, we’ll make an anonymous 911 call.”
“Yeah, sounds great,” he said, wiping the doorknob with a handerkerchief. “Don’t touch anything. Fuck, I hate finding dead people.”
“Boo, Chambers,” she said, tickling his side. She pulled out a pair of gloves from inside her skirt suit jacket, put them on, and begin sifting through the apartment, her gun still in hand and ready.
“There’s nothing here. She’s gone. You think she’s using an alias?”
“Why would we be so fortunate?”
“Hey, we’ve seen stranger, come on, let’s get out of here before someone else sees us. Fuck, man, I see fucking Grayson from Internal Affairs. I fucking see him with a big light and you know what, he’s flashing it inside my asshole.”
“Oh, Chambers, give it a rest, will you,” Vivian spat. “Where is your heart, man?” she asked, as she fumbled through a kitchen drawer. “Look, Aunt Tildie’s phone number. What good, loving niece wouldn’t keep in some kind of touch with Aunt Tildie,” said Vivian, waving a piece of paper. “Isn’t six, one, five Tennessee?”
“Fuck me! Oh, geez, why do I have to get stuck with the partner from ‘I’m-just-looking-land, with a dead man on the floor.’ I’m bent the fuck over. See me now. I see it, I see it now, all for Aunt Tildie’s phone number.”
“Hey, it beats a blan
k, this could be the lead we need to catch this girl. Stop whining, come on, let’s go.”
“No, from now on we follow the rules.”
“What fun would that be?”
The next morning the police followed up on an anonymous tip, called through the 911 line, along with a missing persons report the police finally let Lester’s wife, Euretha Giles, put on record.
“So, where do you think she is?” asked Merva, biting into a hot dog, standing outside Daisy Mae Fothergill’s building as the body of Lester Giles was being brought out on a stretcher.
“I don’t know, but wherever she is, she’s got some pretty ugly people looking for her.”
“Yeah, pretty ugly isn’t the word. Everybody around this girl is coming up dead. Calvin Stringer, her boss, now her landlord, I mean come on, that poor girl and her son, and for what? And you were so nice to her, caught up in cleavage I guess,” she said, changing her tone, trying to be funny.
“Um, Merva, for the record I was not caught up in cleavage and I, unlike you, was giving her the benefit of the doubt. I still am. You can’t blame these deaths on her. She didn’t pull the trigger, or beat anyone to death. She’s running, and she’s scared.”
“She’s a prostitute, a stripper, she’ll do anything for money, anything. Do you think she cares about these people? Why are you constantly passing out validity to these people?”
“What’s these people, Merva? The less fortunate, to some degree, look at the way of life, I mean, come on.”
“No, you’re right, so everyone gets a pass for crime then? Huh, because they’re impoverished, or just financially inept, or life’s been so hard, they can’t get right so they can just commit crime in your book.”
