An honest drug dealer. Imagine that.
The Big-Pun lookalike came from behind the bar table and stood in front of Saint. Shiny metal on the side of his hip glistened, as if it were saying, ‘Try anything slick, and I’ll blow your half Korean, half Egyptian head clean the fuck off.’ Saint handed him one hundred dollars and on a dime, the dealer spun around and placed the bag in Bomb’s hand before returning to his seat and reaching for a large blue and white Big Gulp. He sucked on the straw with due diligence, his full light pink lips a vacuum taking no high fructose corn syrup prisoners as he glared at the television. The man who’d opened the door for them reappeared to show them the way out. It was as if the entire thing was a carefully fine-tuned drug-induced orchestra. It’s amazing how organized illegal activities could be.
~***~
Saint drove Bomb around the block and asked him where he wanted to do it, knowing damn well whatever the man’s answer was, it would be the wrong one. Bomb refused to answer that question anyway. Instead, he kept pointing and saying anxiously, “Why can’t you just drop me off here? I don’t want you with me. Drop me off right there!” But Saint refused. None of those places were any good.
Where the hell is that school?! It must’ve been torn down…Damn!
“Let me the fuck out this car, man,” Bomb finally said, his expression grave as he gripped his bag of heaven and hell with both claws. The green veins in his hands protruded as he palmed the bag, masturbating it to death with anxious anticipation.
“Did you forget our agreement?” Saint purred.
“What agreement, man?!” Bomb was getting more and more agitated. You didn’t want Bomb disconcerted, whether he was high or not.
“The one about you going to rehab after this last hit. You said you would. You owe me.”
“Yeah, yeah, you dropped a hundred for me, thanks,” the man said dismissively. “I’ll pay you back once I get on my feet.”
“I don’t give a shit about the money, man.” Saint turned the corner. “It’s the principle. I bought coke for you. I don’t want to be wrapped up in some shit like this. I’ve got a family, I could’ve gotten made, going in and buying coke… This was an exception, this was for you!” Bomb of all people should’ve known you never get shit for free, even from Saint. It was about to go down…
“Man, you sure have turned righteous,” Bomb mocked. “Like it’s the first time you’ve bought cocaine, Mister Preacher Man all of the sudden. Let me outta this car.” Bomb beat on the car like a drummer from a rock band but the doors were locked from the inside. Parliament Funkadelic played in the background. The song ‘Knee Deep’ gave the whole scene an extra kick.
“…she did the monkey! It wasn’t funky, no moooore!…she turned me on and out!” George Clinton crooned.
Bomb was that desperate where he was willing to jump out of a moving vehicle…or maybe, just maybe, a part of him knew that Saint wasn’t in on this shit. That he’d paid the cost to be the boss, and now he owned Bomb, lock, stock and barrel. Saint smirked and turned the music up so loud, the car vibrated. Without giving one gram of a fuck, Bomb reached over and snapped it back down, almost snatching the knob off. He was sweating now, at the brink of an uncontrollable rage. Bomb may have been half the fighter he used to be, but that half of a fighter was still stronger than most of the cats roaming the city. Saint didn’t want him messing up his pretty face, but business was business.
“Nah, it ain’t the first time. I sold it one time. That was one time too many. I did it when my money was low, back in the day. But I was a different person then, I was still a kid. All I knew was that my mama was dead, I didn’t have shit, and I needed some things that my father couldn’t afford.” He shot Bomb a sluggish glance out the corner of his eye. Bomb glared at him, wanting to punch his head clean off with his bare fists. Saint read his thoughts loud and clear. “Found out I wasn’t cut out for it, it attracted too many bad elements, so I just stuck to my weed. I don’t like the shit, you know this. Call it righteous if you want, but you owe me, because I owe you. You saved my life, so I’m going to save yours. We are a circle, we are a family, Bomb.”
“What the fuck are you talkin’ about, Little Pharaoh? I’m sick, man! I need to take care of this—I fucking hurt! Don’t make me jack you up, man, now you let me out of his car right the fuck now!”
“You really think I could let you kill yourself?” Saint’s brow wrinkled and he grinned. He’d spotted the old school, which looked like desert ruins. Perfect. “I can’t lose you, Bomb. Sorry.”
“Pharaoh, you’re talkin’ crazy. Why are we over here?” Bomb said pitifully. Saint knew the man had already sized him up, trying to decipher if he could take him on. “ Don’t nobody come the hell over here anymore,” Bomb spat. “Fuck it.” He opened the bag, prepared to snort right then and there.
“You are here for serenity.” Saint batted his lashes and brandished a lying grin, the kind a henchman of the Devil would deliver right before sucking a person’s soul and leaving only a carcass in his wake. “So you can get high and get right in peace, man.” Saint leaned back in his seat, getting real quiet as he heard the rumpling noises of Bomb’s busy hands.
“I need something to put this damn shit on, man! You gotta book or something in here? I know you read, you square mothafucka!”
Saint casually reached over to the glove box and pulled out the car manual, handing it to Bomb. The man snatched it from his grip, whipped out an expired train card and went to town on drawing out his lines like he was a damned architect.
“Gimme a dollah.” Saint took a dollar out of his wallet and handed it to the man. Bomb snatched that away, too.
Saint leaned back and closed his eyes while Bomb snorted, sighed and went through all the motions. Cocaine addicts suddenly turned into surgeons with steady hands, balancing acts fit for a circus acrobat as they equalized their product on bended knees. Saint understood addiction and this was something Bomb obviously didn’t get. Sex addiction wasn’t much different. Instead of a hot pipe to spark, it was his own throbbing cock and the merchandise was wet, snap-back ebony pussy. He would go through the same withdrawal symptoms if he didn’t get it at least once on a daily basis, with many different women. He’d tried to fill a void in his heart that was actually the size of a crater, growing deeper and deeper instead of more satisfied after each lay. Shaking, looking for his next piece of ass, he’d find it, telling the woman a bunch of bullshit. He never lied though, but he was a sweet talker as sure as his name was Saint. He’d manipulate a woman to death, especially if she was someone he really wanted to get in bed. Saint’s mind worked like that of a seasoned pimp. He’d find out all about her, pretend to care. He would soon discover her weaknesses, and use that knowledge to his advantage. He’d take whatever she told him, find ways to incorporate it in their sexual rendezvous, blow her goddamn mind and then like the wind, be gone onto his next conquest.
Sometimes the women knew whatever the hell he was saying wasn’t anything to take seriously, sometimes they didn’t. It didn’t matter to him. He wanted to fuck, dig in some guts, become the plumber and lay some pipe. It was the same shit, as soon as he’d slide in, get that first good, deep thrust, he was sent deeper into his sickness, overdosing on sexual euphoria. Now Parliament Funkadelic was going on into, ‘One Nation Under a Groove.’ That’s right. Everyone was gettin’ down for the funk of it…
Bomb was grinning, his dancing eyes mostly closed. They were tiny slithers, no doubt seeing the fucked up world in a whole new way as he nodded and bobbed about. Cocaine usually animated folks, turned them into mission-men, but Bomb was in a dream world, disappearing within himself. Saint surmised he had other shit in his system already, the all mixing together, creating a custom-made high that would first kiss Bomb sweetly on the cheek then have him tweaking fairly soon.
“So wide can't get around it! So low you can't get under it!...Daaah, Da-yee do do do do do do!” the chorus went on…
He glanced at the school buildi
ng and smiled. It was time. Turning off the car, he got out and walked over to the passenger side. He opened the door and took Bomb by the knobby elbow, ushered him across the desolate street. Yellow tape, construction lines, a parked bulldozer and signs to keep out were all over the place. Shattered rainbow glass crunched under his feet as he kept moving like a nomad in the desert leading his camel away, until they stood in front of the steps of the school. This place looked bombed out, roped off with tape and boarded up. The buildings didn’t even have complete roofs anymore. It wasn’t fit for prostitutes to take their johns, junkies to get high, or drug deals to be made because it didn’t have a cover of protection and looked more like an old city made of cardboard boxes. Saint was grateful for that.
Bomb moved along with him, slowly, surely, his head still bobbing about.
“Where we goin’?” he slurred. Ahhh yes, Bomb was drifting further away. Perfect.
“Right up in here, Bomb.”
They climbed the uneven concrete steps. Saint tore the tape away and kicked the two plasterboards covering the front entrance. The front double doors were locked with a thick, rusty chain. The damned thing had turned orange-red, as if it had been left under running water. Holding onto Bomb with one hand, he removed a fingernail file and clipper from his pocket. Fidgeting a bit, drawing on his days of hoodlum-ery, he finagled the thing open, exposing a curtain of thick cobwebs and an old sign that read, ‘District 4.’ He hitched his arm around Bomb’s, leading him inside. Initially, Bomb went with the flow. Saint searched his memory banks, trying to find that tiny room he and Raphael used to go into and smoke weed while they waited for the night to fall and the Saturday action to begin. It had been the size of a large closet with a small window, a prison cell, and no one seemed to know about it but them. All the other bastards running around shooting craps and humping girls were none the wiser. It was his and his best friend’s private retreat.
He knew of many places like that, which he and his friends had discovered in their travels—places to have sex, to smoke, to hide out and if homeless, to sleep. They were dotted all over the place, and since Bomb wanted to go to Harlem, Saint decided upon this location. It would work just fine. Saint walked gingerly on creaking floor boards as he ushered his brother closer and closer to the tiny closet, still probably tagged with his and Raphael’s names, amongst others. It was too dark inside, the sun was going to sleep and that tiny window that used to allow them to see birds and people mulling about was now covered in thick layers of dust and dirt. Saint whipped out his cell phone and cast light on the situation.
“Here you go, man.” He pushed Bomb inside. All they had to sit on was a wobbly stool, so small it looked like it belonged in a kindergarten room. Saint scanned the tiny enclosure, noting the scribbling on the walls, covering any work he and Raphael had sketched out. The air hung heavy with the sickening odor of mildew.
“Whu…what’s this?” Bomb fell to the floor. This was exactly why he let this bastard get high. Not because he felt good about the shit, but he needed Bomb a bit out of his mind to handle him easier. When he was lucid, Saint would’ve had a serious fight on his hands, regardless of Bomb’s age and thin appearance. Bomb was fucking insane, and everyone knew crazy people could fight, and to not mess with them unless you just had to. But Bomb was intelligent, too, and he understood how to move his body around to get the results he wanted while dueling with a chump who mistook him for a fool. If he’d been in the right hands, he could’ve been a prized fighter, better than Jagger and him combined. The last thing he wanted was to frighten Bomb by using psychic strength. Bomb wouldn’t believe his eyes anyway, so what was the point of exerting all of that energy?
Saint exited the room, leaving Bomb inside, and secured the entrance with a bike chain.
“Where are you goin’ man?!” Bomb shouted out, as if on cue. He’d come alive like an animal suddenly realizing it’d been trapped.
“I’ll be back, man. Go ahead and relax.” Saint started to walk away. He heard a loud thud as Bomb began to pummel the walls. Even in his state, he was still making the pipes rattle.
“Open this fucking door, Pharaoh!”
Saint ignored him and kept walking as the pounding, shouting and cursing grew louder and louder. Now, Saint was no longer ‘Little Pharaoh.’ He was ‘motherfucker’, ‘cocksucker’, ‘sperm run-off’ and other unkind titles…
You are going to sober up whether you like it or not, Bomb. We have a deal, and I’m going to make sure you stick to it…
~***~
The flame propagated and danced on the steaming hot Hibachi grill as Saint and Raphael’s family huddled around in awe at the show. Saint bounced Isis up and down on his lap, the baby girl drawn to the flaming onion rings and the cheering from strangers as their food was used to not only nourish, but entertain. Not one empty table in sight at Ariang Hibachi Steakhouse on Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn, and Saint hadn’t been that relaxed in weeks. He nursed an ice-cold draft while Xenia and Latrice spoke about the television show and their children. Raphael’s eyes gleamed as he snuck contemplative looks at Saint, while drinking his beer.
“So yeah, man, that’s what happened with that,” Saint said as they finished discussing a conference to be held soon. “Lawrence is taking care of it. There was too much on my plate. I speak at all the conferences but after the car accident, they could either postpone, go on without me, or cancel it altogether. They’re waiting.”
“You bring in too much revenue. You are the main reason the crowd is as big as it gets. They want to hear you speak.” Raphael took another swig and glanced at their wives, smiling and huddled up close. “Xenia sure looks good, especially for a woman that rolled around in a car down a damn hill, man. I was sick when you told me what happened.”
“Yeah.” Saint looked over at her then kissed the top of Isis’ head. “She could’ve died. She’s a fighter though…”
“Not one scratch that I can see…” Raphael teased, knowing full well what happened. “Just like the rabbit you healed in class.” He chuckled.
Saint warmed with amused embarrassment. He had no idea why, but talking about him healing his wife made him feel that way. He knew Raphael understood what he was capable of, what he could do, and what he’d done, but it made him feel odd—not in a bad sort of way, just kind of removed from it all, as if the man were speaking of someone else.
“And I called your pops man, to make sure he was okay now.” Raphael refused to let the whole healing conversation die.
“Ahhhhh!” Several people joyously screamed from a nearby table as their grill went up in happy flames and sake was passed around like wine at a church communion.
“Yeah, what did he say?” Saint already knew how his father was. He stared straight ahead, his eyes glazing over from the smoke.
“He said he felt brand new.”
“He should, he gotta woman now.” Saint cackled.
“You’re kidding me.” Raphael grinned.
“Nope. Her name is Kyung Mi, and I can tell in her hay day, she was a sight to behold. Very nice lady. She’s still pretty, and she’s cool. I like that. You know my Dad likes those Koreans, man,” Saint said real slick, a naughty grin on his face as he took another gulp of beer and watched a shrimp being tossed onto his plate.
“Ohhhh man, I gotta tease him about this next time I see him. He always acted so straight laced, you know, acted like he never paid any attention to women. I’m happy for him.”
“I am, too.”
“Do you feel any kinda way, like deep down though, man?”
“Nah.” Saint looked at Hassani and Dakarai snickering as they challenged each other to eat a raw onion they’d begged for. “I told him several times he needed to find him a woman. Mama wouldn’t want him to be alone. She doesn’t have any use for that. He’s still in the flesh, he still needs somebody, you know?” Saint gripped the neck of the bottle, his lips pursed as he turned toward Raphael.
“So tell me about this woman.” Raphael goa
ded. He was always ready for a sordid tale of lust.
Saint grinned and looked straight ahead. “She’s a librarian. She’s quiet, like Mama, but, she likes a lot of the same stuff my father likes. It’s a good match. She’s a widow, too. They have that in common. She has grown kids that live on the west coast.”
“So y’all just be one big happy family huh? Step brothers and sisters on your way?”
“You know, I never thought about that.”
“Does she uh, know about your dad?”
Saint smirked. “Yup. I healed him in front of her. That’s how we let her know what the deal was.”
“I would like to see a healing,” Raphael said pitifully, envy infused in his words. “What do you all do at a healing?”
Saint gave a light chuckle.
“I heal.”
“I know that, man—but like, what do you do?” Raphael hunched down closer to him, for they were discussing something that was top secret.
“The process?” Saint looked at him eye to eye.
“Yeah, man. The process.”
“I find out where the problem is, and I take care of it. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Is it freaky looking?”
“Raphael.” Saint chuckled. “Shit, I don’t know. I mean, shoot.” He looked down at the top of Isis’ head. “It probably is. Most people aren’t supposed to see it, but I figured, under the circumstances, it would help her.”
They were quiet for a while as their food was piled high on their plates and everyone dug in. Saint stuck his fork in a bite of grilled zucchini and offered it to Isis.
“You want some, baby?” The little girl opened her mouth wide, he slid the fork inside and she took it in fast. She worked the zucchini over, assessing whether she liked it or not. She whined a bit, letting him know she did in fact like it and wanted more. He placed more on the fork and gave her another taste.
Saint's Sacrament - Sins of the Father Page 63
