Eraserheads

by Brick

  My eyes widened with each tap, and I cautiously pushed back from the computer, holding my hands up.

  “Well, now, isn’t this interesting? I remember you, doll face,” said the person before me. He gave a snap of the fingers, then chuckled. “Yes. Mama, I remember you. You were being handled by cops near Morton’s. I was the one in the Audi . . . and curiously, you were on my block today. That was you, wasn’t it?”

  Butterflies in my stomach had me feeling fear, and I said nothing. Lights flickered on, and I saw a fine, tall brotha with the sexiest eyes and smile known to man staring me down. My mouth dropped open, and I realized who I was staring at. The man in the boots. The man both Code and I had been stalking. I thought the white guys with the creepy eyes and blond hair were after us, but it seemed like the crew I hung with had other enemies as well.

  Ain’t this some shit, I thought.

  A second male dressed in all black with a spot of purple came into view. He, too, was fine, but there was a hard edge to his handsome dark face. His brown eyes looked me up and down as he strolled forward. One gloved hand held a Glock; the other suddenly reached out my way.

  He gave me a pearly white smile, which belied his serious intent. His lush lips parted; then all I heard was, “Don’t struggle.”

  I swallowed hard, then mumbled as I felt myself being lifted up. My arms flailed out, and I kicked erratically. I tried to use my father’s moves to take this guy down, but it didn’t work. This dude was too big, and his grip was too hard.

  Pissed off and shocked, I glanced at the man in the doorway. He was dressed in simple dark jeans, a gray vest over a black button-down shirt, and one of those small caps dudes back in the day used to wear. He seemed interested in only me as he played with a familiar bullet in his hands.

  Life was not a box of chocolates. Life was a bag of shit, and now everything fucking stunk. I stopped my frantic struggling, in realization that there was no getting out of this, and then I muttered, “Oh shit . . .”

  Mister in the boots gave a smirk, walked up to me, then took me by my jaw. He locked his gaze on me, then chuckled. “Damn right, beautiful one. Now tell me . . . Where’s my product?”

  Chapter 10

  Code

  “Damn, chiquita,” my cousin Mark said when he opened the door to let me into the old man’s domain.

  I was bloodied and battered. Hadn’t expected to get into a firefight in the middle of fucking Riverdale. I shoved him out of my way and headed toward Papa’s study. I needed to shower, but I opted instead to stop and grab a bottle of the old man’s Cuban rum. He had had it made especially for him by an old-world rum-making family. It was the only rum he would trust to drink. I took the stopper out of the bottle and took some to the head. The spicy liquid burned my throat and chest as it went down and left an aftertaste of molasses and sugarcane in its wake.

  “What the fuck happened to you?” Mark asked me.

  Mark was Frederick’s younger brother, but unlike Freddie, Mark was a monster. He lived up to the reputation most of the men in our family had. Mark had no heart. He didn’t have that little voice in his head telling him to think about his actions. If the old man gave him an order, he followed it without question, and oftentimes with a smile on his face.

  “Got into a fight,” I told him.

  Sweat rained down my face as I coughed, then spit up blood in the trash can. After sitting at the town house with Auto and the rest of the team for an hour, I knew I had to do something that Auto could never know about. But I had to be sure our asses were covered. No way, with all the damage done, we could keep the heat off us for long. So, I had to see the old man for another favor.

  “Looks like you got that ass tapped,” Mark taunted me.

  “Fuck you.”

  “Say when.”

  I frowned and spat in his direction, “Sick motherfucker.”

  He only smiled as his eyes narrowed. Mark and I didn’t care for one another. I’d always bested him in whatever task the old man had for us. Even when it was only for show and entertainment, I had been better than him. He had always detested me for that.

  “No sicker than you, Maria Rosa.”

  I hated the way he said my name. It rolled off his tongue like venom in a snakebite.

  “Fuck off, Mark, and tell me where the old man is.”

  “In his study. Let me guess . . . Was it you and your friends who caused the mess down in Clayton County?”

  I ignored him, rolled my eyes, and made my way down to the end of the dimly lit hall, where the old man was holed up. On the wall was a floor-to-ceiling picture of a dark-skinned woman. None of us knew who she was. We just knew she was always watching us. Her ’fro was majestic, and her eyes were big, like a doll’s, and the color of copper. She was built like an Amazonian warrior and dressed in the regal fashion of Khemet, now known as Egypt.

  “Papa, I need to talk to you,” I yelled at the picture as I looked into the woman’s eyes.

  I knew the old man was watching me. Through the eyes of that woman, he was always watching. After a few minutes, with no response from him, I sighed.

  “Please, Papa. It’s important!” I yelled again.

  Finally, the picture clicked. Sounded like someone had unsnapped a button. Then it slid to the side to reveal a brass door. I didn’t waste time; I pushed the door open and stepped over the threshold. Behind a red-oak desk, in front of a picture window sat the old man. His white blazer was neatly draped on the back of his Tudor-style wingback desk chair. Necktie hung on the coatrack, next to his Kangol hat. The top buttons of his black dress shirt were open, showing the top of his chiseled chest and his white wife beater. His curly salt-and-pepper hair was tapered on his head. His jaw was squared, and muscles ticked on either side of it, which meant he was pissed about something. I knew what it was since Freddie had already told me word had gotten back to Papa about the shoot-out.

  He grunted, then growled low in his throat as he glowered at me. “You come to me filthy. What is this disrespect?”

  I rolled my eyes. The old man’s OCD had slipped my mind with everything else I had going on.

  “I mean no disrespect, Papa,” I said softly to him in his native tongue. “I just ran into a little trouble and need some help.”

  He kept eyeing me—up and down, then down and up—with a scowl, as if to ask why I was in his presence while bloodied, dirty, and smelling foul.

  “You need a bath. You need to go and come to me like you know who I am. and not like I’m some pinche pendejo off the streets, Maria Rosa. Don’t disrespect me,” he spat out.

  I walked closer to his desk and watched as he bristled. “Can you please, for once, overlook the mundane—”

  “Get the hell out of my office before I toss you out on your ass. Come back with some modicum of veneration!”

  I almost flipped the old man off, but I knew that would only set him off more. We stared each other down. Nothing in his office was out of place. Even the books in the wall-to-wall bookcase were in alphabetical order by the author’s name. The mahogany wood floor had been hand shined to perfection. Since I knew I needed a favor and could catch more bees with honey than with vinegar, I stormed from his office.

  About thirty minutes later, I reentered the old man’s study. This time I was dressed in skinny denims, a black button-down that tapered to my waist, and black combat boots. My hair had been pulled back into two French braids.

  After he looked up from the papers on his desk, he gave me the once-over, then nodded.

  “I need a favor,” I said.

  “Go on.”

  “We got into some trouble today. I want to know if you can make sure nothing falls back on me and my friends.”

  I was antsy. Needed to get back to the shop to see if Smiley was okay. Though she was new to the team, she had done her thing today, and I couldn’t be mad at her for hesitating at first. I would have done the same had I found myself in her shoes. Still, in the end, she had come through. I needed to go make
sure she had come through on the other end of things as well. Needed to make sure she was safe.

  “Why was it wise of you to have a shoot-out so recklessly, bonita? Have I not trained you better than this?”

  I nodded, still standing, so he could sense my urgency. “Sí, Papa, but my friends—”

  “Eh,” he spat out, then grimaced, as if he had something bitter on his tongue. “These people, these so-called friends of yours, don’t know any better, then?”

  “They know better too. They . . . We just had no choice. It was kill or be killed, Papa. You know the rules.”

  “Of course. I helped to invent them.”

  “Then you know it was imperative that we fought back.”

  “Tell me why someone would be so anxious to come after you in such a way, Maria Rosa.” He leaned back in his chair, then laced together the fingers of his big hands as he studied me.

  “They stole from us. We took the stuff back, then some. They felt they had the right to come for revenge.”

  “So simple?”

  “Sí, Papa. It’s that simple.”

  In the back of my mind, I was scared shitless that the old man would read through my half-truths. He hated to be lied to. Even more, he hated when his family lied to him. For a long while, he just watched me coolly. The look he was giving me would make most people, even the toughest of men, shit their pants. But it only reminded me that I had a Glock tucked against my spine. There was no way I could win a gunfight with the old man, but I would wound him and would die trying. He knew this. That was probably why he gave a sinister smirk, pulled his gun from his desk drawer, and then laid it on the desk.

  I took my Glock from its hiding spot and placed it on the desk, alongside his. A truce to show we were both thinking the same thing. My facial expression was still stoic. If I showed no feeling, there was no way my emotions could give me away. He clicked the phone on his desk. I didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until one of my cousins, Officer Bryant, better known as Fuego to us family, picked up on the other end of the line. Papa put him on speakerphone and told him what he wanted. Fuego assured him it would be handled from the governor’s office on down to the mayor, on down to the police commissioner.

  “Tell Margaret I’d like it to be known that a new gang is trying to terrorize Clayton County. Make it look as if they started a turf war or something. We don’t want it traced back to Maria Rosa or her people,” Papa ordered Fuego as I stood there listening.

  Papa and the police commissioner were on first-name terms. She’d been in his pocket since before she became the commissioner.

  “Maria Rosa okay?” Fuego asked.

  “She’s here. You can ask her.”

  “You good, cuzzo?” Fuego asked loudly.

  “Sí, cousin. All is well,” I answered.

  “You need me?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “No,” Papa interjected. “Fuego will focus on the task at hand.”

  I asked, “What task?”

  “You’ll know soon enough,” was how Papa answered.

  A few minutes later all was done and I was set to walk out of the old man’s office.

  “Wait, Maria Rosa. Why in such a hurry?” he asked me.

  “I need to see about my people.”

  He shook his head. Slid his desk chair back, then patted his lap. Nervousness settled in my spine and traveled up my back like a chill. To show that I didn’t want to sit on my papa’s lap would be to offend him. The last thing I needed to do was have him pissed at a time when my makeshift family needed him most. I put on my best smile, then walked over and sat on the old man’s lap. I didn’t flinch when he sniffed my hair, then rubbed a hand up and down my back.

  In a quiet but serious voice, I asked, “What do you need from me, Papa?”

  “You’re my favorite grandchild. Do you know that?” he asked.

  I nodded. “Of course I know this, Papa.”

  “And because you’re my favorite, I will do anything for you, sí?”

  “Sí, Papa.”

  “Will you do anything for me still, bonita?”

  His voice was deep. The more he spoke, the deeper it got. Most people would be revolted by the tone he took with me, being that I was his granddaughter, but I was used to it. He used that tone with all the women he loved, including the ones he fucked for his sole satisfaction.

  I dropped my head, then went to that dark place in my mind. “Sí, Papa.”

  He wrapped his arms around my waist and laid his head against my back. “Anything?”

  My flesh started to crawl, if for no other reason than for the simple fact that I knew anytime I did “favors” for him, I lost a little bit more of my soul.

  “Anything,” I assured him.

  “Then I need a favor in return for my favor to you and your friends.”

  I nodded. “Go on.”

  “You and your friends deliver and receive cars all over the United States, no?”

  “Sí, we do.”

  “I need to employ your services.”

  I swallowed hard, then turned to look at the old man. His dark eyes gleamed as evil danced just behind his pupils. It was no wonder so many women got ensnared in his trap. His eyes hypnotized you.

  “Tell me what you need . . .”

  “I need you to transport a few shipments for me. I need them to come from the Port of Miami and to be shipped up to the Canadian border,” he replied.

  My heart thundered in my chest. I knew what he was asking me, and there was just no way could I put my family in jeopardy like that. Papa dabbled in illegal activities all over the place. From drugs to guns, he did it. No way I could bring that kind of heat to Auto. He was my brother. He trusted me. I couldn’t do that to the empire he’d built.

  “Papa, I . . . can’t do that . . .”

  His jaw hardened. “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Papa, you’re asking me to put my team’s freedom in—”

  “Their freedom? You don’t think I will protect them?”

  “If it came down to us and them, they’d be cannon fodder.”

  He chuckled. Leaned back, then took the time to light a Cuban cigar. He puffed, then put the cigar to my lips. To turn it away would be another slap to his face. I puffed, inhaled, then exhaled the smoke. The cigar had a very pronounced, robust, spicy flavor, and if I weren’t used to it, it would be too strong for me. Papa’s big hand caressed my waist as he held me on his lap.

  “My Maria Rosa doesn’t trust me,” he declared.

  “I do trust you. I trust you to be who you are, and since I know you, I trust you to always put you first,” I stated matter-of-factly as I handed him the cigar.

  He chuckled. “So is that still a no?”

  I took his hand in mine, kissed the crested ring on his finger, then the palm of his hand before standing.

  “Yes, Papa, my answer is still no. I can’t put them in that kind of trouble. Tell me something else to do and I’ll do it for you. Just not that.”

  If one didn’t know me, one wouldn’t be able to tell I was afraid. I’d just said no to the old man. Nobody said no to him and had all end well. So imagine my surprise when he scooted me off his lap, stood, placed that familial kiss on my lips, then smiled.

  “I understand, chispita,” he told me.

  He’d called me his little spark, a name he hadn’t called me since my first time handling a gun, the one he’d given me for my fifth birthday.

  He ran a finger lovingly down my cheek, then moved toward the door. He placed the cigar back between his lips. I didn’t know what scared me more, his calmness at my answer or the way he smiled at me as he left the room.

  I didn’t have time to dwell on that, though. I’d think of another way to handle the old man. I left the study, rushed out to my car, hit Smiley’s cell, only to find out the number was no longer in service. I pulled my phone from my ear and looked at it like it was defective. I tried calling her number again, only to get the same message. I hung
up, then called Auto.

  “Hey, you heard from Smiley?” I asked him as soon as he answered.

  “She was at the shop, taking care of that business. Why?”

  “Trying to call her and can’t reach her.”

  He chuckled. “Mama got this app that destroys her number after a certain amount of usage.”

  “Damn. She does?”

  “Yeah. I told her I needed it. And apparently, she wiped out the Scandinavians. Pascal just got word from his person at the bank.”

  “Damn, she works fast,” I commented.

  “True.”

  “Everybody still at NorStar?” I could hear light laughter and mumbling in the background.

  “Yeah. Laying low until the sky dogs and cops cool off.”

  Sky dogs were what we called police helicopters in the sky.

  “Yeah, well, you need to find a way to meet me somewhere,” I told him.

  “I know. We need to get to the shop to make sure Smiley is okay. She hasn’t called me back yet. She said she would. Last thing I want is to get her caught up in this shit. She has no idea what the fuck is even going on,” he replied.

  “I know. I’m going to swing by the shop, scoop her up, and then come back there. We can fill her in then.”

  “You do that, but don’t bring her here. Take her to my place. She’ll be safer. I’ll be there.”

  “Any word from Chandler again?” I asked.

  “No. Nigga’s probably dead.”

  Auto said that with no emotion. Said it like he hadn’t once held the man in high regard. Auto had a low tolerance for betrayal of trust. It didn’t surprise me that he no longer gave a damn about what happened to Chandler.