Stealing Candy

by Allison Hobbs

  Flashy also looked visibly relieved that Bullet wasn’t contemplating murder. “I’m just saying…You acting like you got a couple of loose screws.”

  “I gotta handle some unfinished business. That’s all.” Bullet shrugged like his unfinished business was no big deal.

  But Gianna knew Bullet’s many moods. She detected a simmering rage that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up.

  Slowly, he unsheathed the knife and smiled at it. It was a vicious-looking weapon that looked sharp and smooth at the top, while the center was curved with cruel, jagged edges.

  She considered wriggling off the bed and making a mad dash to the front door. Maybe when Bullet let Flashy in, he’d left the front door unlocked. Unfortunately, her legs were paralyzed with fear.

  “Put that ugly thing away, Bullet!” Daintily, Flashy covered his eyes as though the sight the serrated blade might cause him to faint.

  “I thought you had my back.”

  “Why should I?” Flashy screeched incredulously.

  “Because.”

  “Because what?”

  “You know…” Bullet’s lips spread into a cheesy smile. “You know, man.”

  “I don’t know a damn thing,” Flashy snapped.

  “Yo, stop being difficult.”

  “Hmph. I’m not making any assumptions. You gotta tell me what’s what.” Flashy waved his manicured hand around with great flourish.

  Bullet’s facial expression softened. “It’s like this…if you help me out with this, we can get it back like it used to be.”

  A flicker of a smile crossed Flashy’s face. “Seriously? Are you for real?” He giggled and then self-consciously smoothed down his short, permed hair.

  “I’m dead up.” Bullet wrinkled his brow and nodded, attempting to convey a large degree of sincerity.

  With a hand on his narrow hip, and bending at the waist, Flashy covered his mouth to contain the girlish giggles that had him twitching and shaking with glee. Pulling himself together, he stood straight. “Oh, my God! You’re not going to believe this. I went to a psychic. That woman was on point! She told me it was just a matter of time before you realized that you and I are destined to be together.”

  With his forehead knotted in a frown, Bullet looked confused, like he didn’t really know how to respond.

  Batting his fake lashes, Flashy gazed at Bullet with unmistakable love.

  Gianna prayed that Bullet intended to slice up Bubbles. Or Skittles. It didn’t matter which girl, as long as that wicked-looking knife wasn’t used on her. She had already been sufficiently punished. Her bloated jaw was a testament to that.

  She hated herself for being so gutless, but she’d endured more than her fair share of physical abuse from Bullet. She hadn’t developed a friendship with either girl, and owed them no loyalty. She had to save her own skin.

  If she had the courage, which she didn’t, she’d appeal to Bullet’s common sense. If her throat wasn’t so dry from fear, she’d clearly point out to him that from a business perspective, a few lacerations on those drugged-up hoes would keep them in line.

  Giving them flesh wounds with his knife would be a great replacement for the coma-inducing medication they’d been taking. Bubbles and Skittles could make a lot more money for him if they were alert and could put more enthusiasm in the tricks they turned.

  “What do you want me to do?” Flashy asked, using an overly feminine voice.

  “That bitch like playing with my phone, so I got something for her. She gon’ think twice before she try to make another muthafuckin’ phone call.”

  Flashy nodded in solemn understanding.

  Then, as if following a choreographed routine, Bullet and Flashy moved in concert.

  Worriedly, Gianna’s eyes followed the two men.

  Flashy yanked a pillow from behind Gianna’s head. “Sorry,” Flashy said, flinching at the sound of her head thumping against the headboard.

  “Hurry up, man,” Bullet barked.

  Gianna heard a clatter as Bullet knocked contents on the night-stand crashing to the floor. She began to shake uncontrollably.

  Following orders, Flashy ripped the pillow from inside the case and tossed it on the other side of the bed.

  Gianna didn’t know what Flashy intended to do with the pillow-case, but her instinct propelled her into action. She bolted up straight and tried to swing her legs off the side of the bed, but her limbs felt heavy and stiff as though paralyzed.

  Flashy pushed her backward and held her down. She put up a feeble struggle, but Flashy was much stronger than he appeared. Forcibly, he stuffed as much of the pillowcase as he could inside Gianna’s mouth.

  An explosion of agony erupted throughout the swollen side of her face.

  At the same time, Bullet grabbed her wrist. Forcibly, he stretched out the length of her arm, and then smacked her palm down on the wooden nightstand. He held the menacing blade over her index finger.

  “You like playing with phones?” he asked in a grating voice.

  Energized by fright, she bucked, trying to throw Flashy off her. He placed his bony elbow into her chest, keeping her torso in place.

  “Let’s see how many calls you make with a chunk of finger missing.”

  Frantically, she whipped her head from one side to the other. She pummeled the mattress with the heels of her feet, and then brought her knees up and then pushed them back down—changing to leg motions that resembled doggy-paddling in water.

  The bed linen became intertwined and wrapped around her legs, prohibiting further movement of her legs.

  Using the tip of the knife, Bullet stroked the length of Gianna’s index finger. Up and down, he dragged the sharp point. Then tauntingly, he broke the surface of her skin.

  Tears spilled from her eyes, but her sobs were muffled by the blue fabric that invaded her mouth.

  He pressed the saw-toothed blade in a horizontal position across the center of her nail, which was polished in a sky blue shade.

  Gianna’s heart shuddered in her chest. She swung wildly at Flashy with her free hand. Flashy ducked and dodged, and finally pinned her arm down.

  “Yo, Flashy…How much should I cut off? You think losing half an inch will stop this ho from tryin’ to fuck with my phone?”

  “Hell if I know!” Flashy shouted in a high soprano. He grappled with Gianna, who was fighting for her life. “Hurry up! Don’t you see me sweating like a field slave? I didn’t come here to struggle and tussle with this lil’ bitch,” Flashy gasped, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  Flashy was practically sitting on Gianna. Unable to move, her frightened eyes were drawn to her imperiled hand.

  Bullet was staring at her finger with his face scrunched up like he was stumped on the answer to a troubling question. She watched in terror as he studied her finger, trying to decide where he should cut.

  It was too much to bear. She squeezed her eyes closed and turned her head away.

  The chipping sound of the serrated blade cutting through her fingernail was amplified in her ears. She tried to snatch her hand away as the cruel little teeth of the knife began to chink into her flesh. But Bullet held her wrist in an unyielding grasp.

  Blazing, red hot pain sent her body into tremors as steel chopped through flesh.

  In an uncontrolled reaction, her head jerked in the direction of the nightstand. She gaped at the unbelievably grotesque spectacle.

  The top of her finger was split open. It had the appearance of a macabre, flip-top lid. My finger! Oh, God. My finger.

  “Ew!” Flashy squealed as blood spurted. “Oh, this is disgusting. Just nasty. I can’t believe I let you get me involved in this brutal bullshit.”

  Blood spatters decorated Bullet’s white T-shirt. Red sprinkles dotted his jeans. He looked down at his stained clothing and then at Gianna’s twitching, mangled finger and gave a belly laugh as if he were watching a comedy show.

  “Damn! I paid a grip for this shank. Why the hell is the top of her finger s
till hanging on?”

  “Stop playing, Bullet. I can’t take any more of this bullshit. Get this mess over with, dammit!” Flashy yelled, putting some unexpected bass into his voice.

  Determined to subdue her, Flashy flexed the manly muscles of his lean arms, and firmly held Gianna down.

  With the smooth part of the knife, Bullet made a clean slice through the final layer of skin. The severed tip of Gianna’s finger popped off and skidded across the nightstand.

  Savagely butchered, her finger looked decapitated. A trail of thick red blood oozed down her hand.

  As if electrocuted, Gianna’s body jerked and danced. Her teeth began to chatter as she slumped over, passed out from shock.

  CHAPTER 31

  Inside the multi-purpose room of the Haverford Recreation Center, Saleema, Amirah, Stacey, Tasha, and Chyna were seated in the front row. Saleema and the girls wore T-shirts bearing Portia’s image.

  Although Khalil and his students had gone door-to-door notifying residents of the importance of the community meeting, only a sparse few had bothered to show up.

  “Dag, ain’t hardly nobody even here,” Tasha complained, looking around at the vast number of empty metal folding chairs.

  Grumpily, Chyna slouched in her seat. “How come Dr. Gardner’s students didn’t come?”

  “They had something to do at school,” Saleema said absently, noticing that the few people who had come out were frowning and looking down at their watches.

  Chyna fidgeted in her seat. “Summer school is over at two. How come they’re not here?”

  “I’m not sure what they’re doing, Chyna. I’m focused on Portia right now.” Everyone knew that Chyna was boy crazy, but times like now, her obsession with the opposite sex was particularly inappropriate and annoying.

  Saleema looked in the back of the room. A few people lingered near the doorway, to ensure a speedy getaway in case the meeting turned out to be the snooze fest that it appeared likely to be.

  At exactly five-thirty, Khalil and the director of the center stood in the doorway. Upon seeing the poor attendance, they spoke a few words and then turned around and disappeared down the corridor.

  “Hey, what time is this meeting supposed to start?” barked a forty-something man who was posted against a wall at the back of the room. He was dressed in paint-splattered clothing. His face, arms, and even the thick hair on his head were also speckled with flecks of white paint.

  “The meeting will be starting soon,” Saleema said. “We’re just waiting for a few more people to arrive. We don’t plan to keep you very long, I promise,” she said with a warm smile.

  Frowning, the painter sighed and folded his arms. He inched closer to the doorway.

  Finally, a stream of senior citizens were escorted into the room by the recreation staff members. Khalil and the director followed.

  A scant few walked in on their own accord. Some came hobbling in using canes, some pushed walkers, while others rolled wheelchairs. Those on oxygen therapy arrived with the dual-pronged nasal cannula attached to their nostrils.

  After a few minutes of helping get the seniors situated in their seats, the director introduced Khalil, listing his credentials.

  Standing in front of the podium, Khalil said, “Good evening. I want to thank you all for coming out to this important community meeting.”

  “I didn’t want to come to no meeting,” grumbled a seemingly sturdy senior, who had walked into the meeting without any assistance. “What’s so important that I had to be snatched away from a game of checkers?”

  “What’s your name, sir?” Khalil asked.

  The man stood up. “William Daniels,” he said in a strong, clear voice.

  “Mr. Daniels, I apologize for interrupting the senior social hour. I assure you that we’re not going to keep you long. We want to share some important community information, and after that, you’ll be escorted back to the activity room.”

  “My name is Ruth Ann Wakefield,” a woman in a wheelchair introduced herself without prompting. “I left my daggone teeth home. Do you know if we’re getting applesauce with our snack? I’m not going to be able to eat anything else.”

  “Hush up, Ruthie!” yelled a woman with a scratchy voice. “You said the same thing when they handed out snacks a half-hour ago.” She shook her head. “Ruthie’s forgetful,” the woman explained to Khalil.

  “This meeting concerns Portia Hathaway…a missing teenager. Portia was born and raised right here in this neighborhood, but nobody is trying to find her—”

  “Oh, you’re talking about that bad-behind girl from around on Wallace Street.” The painter reared back in disgust. “I keep seeing her picture plastered all over the place, but I didn’t know that’s what this meeting was about. That girl’s not missing; she ran off from the detention center.”

  “Oh, shoot. I might as well turn myself around,” said a gray-haired woman gripping a walker. Struggling with it, she tried to get the stubborn wheels to turn.

  “Wait a few minutes, Miss Hattie,” the director encouraged the woman with the walker.

  Unsuccessful, Miss Hattie scowled over her glasses at Khalil. “When they hauled us out of the recreation room, we were told this was some kind of community meeting…something about making changes and improving the neighborhood.”

  “We certainly want to bring about some changes in this neighborhood,” Khalil began. “But—”

  “But nothing!” William Daniels cut Khalil off. “Most of us who got yanked out of our social hour have been living in this neighborhood since long before you were even born, son. So let’s talk about the issues that concern us.” He paused and gave Khalil a stern look.

  “Go right ahead, Mr. Daniels. You have the floor.”

  “I bought my house with the GI bill back in nineteen fifty-nine. Being a homeowner was something to take pride in. I thought I had got myself a little piece of the American pie.”

  There was a murmuring of agreement among the seniors.

  “Back then, we helped one another. Looked after each other’s kids. We took pride in the appearance of our neighborhood,” Miss Hattie joined in.

  “Men had good jobs back then. And women stayed home and tended to kids,” said the woman with the scratchy voice.

  The meeting was going off topic and there wasn’t much time. Saleema gave Khalil a look of concern, but Khalil gave the senior attendees his undivided attention, allowing them a voice that was seldom heard.

  “We all collaborated,” Miss Hattie continued. “Christmastime, the houses on every block had matching lights.”

  William Daniels exhaled loudly. “But that was a long time ago. Those were the good old days. Decades have passed since then. Times have changed for the worse.”

  “Sure have,” someone called out.

  “The sixties brought gang violence. Kids getting hold of guns and shooting each other for walking around in the wrong neighborhood,” William Daniels said grimly. “After the Vietnam War ended in the seventies, we had young boys coming home all messed up on heroin. That caused a wave of petty robberies around here. Dope fiends were figuring out crafty ways to get inside working people’s houses during the day, snatching television sets and anything else of value.” He shook his head.

  “That’s around the time we had to set up the town watch program,” Hattie reminded him.

  “Yeah, hard-working men folk had to donate their time, patrolling the streets, trying to do our part to keep our streets safe.”

  Wanting to have his say, a chunky, elderly man tapped the end of his cane on the tiled floor. “That town watch didn’t do much good when that crack epidemic started up in the eighties.”

  “Whoo-wee!” Hattie whooped. “That crack was the beginning of the end. Young mothers would go missing for days and weeks at a time. They didn’t even remember that their young children were left at home to fend for themselves.”

  “The nineties wasn’t much better…probably worse with drug wars sending bullets flying around
in broad daylight. Shooting up parks and playgrounds. Terrible times,” recalled William Daniels.

  Hattie sighed. “Don’t forget how the teenagers was risking their lives anytime they left their houses wearing gold jewelry, designer clothing, or even a new pair of sneakers.”

  “Is that true, Miss Saleema?” Stacey whispered, finding it hard to believe.

  “Yeah, I got stuck-up at gunpoint over a pair of gold earrings,” Saleema said in a whisper. “I was lucky that the dude holding the gun didn’t use it. But I’ve known kids who were murdered over designer items such as a Tommy Hilfiger shirt, a Nautica belt, Pelle jackets, and Alpina sunglasses.”

  Chyna turned up the corner of her lip. “Kids in Philly got killed over their clothes? That’s crazy.”

  “I know, right. Those designers Miss Saleema named sound too wack to be losing your life over,” Amirah commented in a loud tone.

  Saleema held a finger to her lips. “Shh! No designer’s gear is worth dying for.”

  Too weary to continue standing, William Daniels sat down and spoke from his seat. “We’re ten years into the new millennium. You’d think we’d see some kind of progress by now.” He shook his head grimly. “Most of the houses in this neighborhood are nothing but boarded-up shells with rats, bums, and whatnot taking up residence. I’m eighty-three years old and I don’t expect that I have much more time. So tell me, young fella, how do you plan to improve this deteriorated neighborhood?”

  Standing in the rear, the paint-speckled man folded his arms tighter and furrowed his brows as he waited to hear Khalil’s response.

  “The summary of this neighborhood’s decline was very informative. I found it particularly interesting when Mr. Daniels described the glory days of the nineteen-fifties when people looked after each other. It seems that the expression, ‘it takes a village to raise a child,’ was taken seriously during those times.”

  There was a chorus of agreement.