by Erica Hilton
Melodrama Publishing
www.MelodramaPublishing.com
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Brooklyn Bombshells Part 1: Black Beauty. Copyright © 2018 by Melodrama Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information, address [email protected].
www.melodramapublishing.com
Library of Congress Control Number:1620781005
ISBN-13: 978-1620781005
eISBN: 978-1620781074
First Edition: January 2019
Printed in Canada
Prologue
Jamaica Estates, Queens
It was Christmas Day, and the swanky house at the end of the block in Jamaica Estates was decorated with a dazzling array of lights. The home represented affluence at its finest with a Mercedes Benz and a Lexus parked in the driveway. A marked squad car pulled up to the place and came to a stop. Two officers climbed out and were met by a concerned neighbor who stood outside the front door waiting for the police to arrive. The Johnsons were a pleasant and social couple, and every Christmas morning, they would invite neighbors and family over to have breakfast and share gifts. It had been a routine of theirs for ten years. But today, their house sat in silence and was absent of any cheerful activity. The entire place looked bleak and almost dark, except for the Christmas lights.
“Something’s wrong, officers. I know it,” the neighbor lady told them.
“When was the last time you heard from them?” asked the senior cop.
“Two days ago. But every Christmas, this place is lit up with family and friends over for breakfast and gift giving. The Johnsons are that kind of couple—always giving and having folks over for a good time. They always open their doors to everyone,” she said.
She filled them in on the couple. Malik was a corporate lawyer and Liasha ran a successful online business as an SEO consultant and web designer.
“Okay, we’ll check it out,” said the partner.
One of the officers jiggled the doorknob and found the door to be open. Seeing that, the neighbor immediately became worried. The cops slowly entered the home on alert with their hands against their holstered weapons, and they started to call out the residents’ names, Liasha and Malik Johnson. But there was no response. Right away, the officers noticed the disturbance inside. The home had been completely ransacked. Both men being veterans on the force, they instantly knew it was a home invasion.
They carefully went through the house, and each room was the same—items wildly scattered everywhere, furniture turned over, and cabinets and drawers open and looking rummaged through. Inside the master bedroom was where they found the real horror. The couple was gagged and bound on their king size bed in their underwear, and they had both been shot in the head at close range. Their bodies were stiffened by their violent deaths and were reaching rigor mortis stages, meaning that they had been dead for a couple of hours now. The officers gazed at the scene in wide-eyed horror.
“Shit! Call it in,” said the senior cop.
When the neighbor heard about the tragedy, she immediately burst into tears. She couldn’t believe it. Not the Johnsons—and not on Christmas Day. Word of their ghastly murders started to spread through the affluent community, and their families were notified. It was heartbreak all around—tragic news that thrust everyone into profound grief over the horrific murders of their favorite neighbors.
Chapter One
A shirtless Butch Brown sang a slurred rendition of “Jingle Bells” and danced around the project apartment to music that wasn’t playing. He took another healthy swig from the half-finished bottle of Hennessy he clutched and continued to sing.
“. . . laughin’ all za wayyy—ha ha ha! It’s Christmas in Brooklyn!” he continued.
Butch was a forty-year-old alcoholic and a part-time mechanic. He was a skinny man with reddish brown skin, freckles, hazel eyes, and flaming red hair. He consumed most of his meals from liquor bottles.
He staggered to the window and peered outside at the projects on a sunny, but cold Christmas afternoon. He was already full-blown drunk, and it was only 1 p.m. But a drunk Butch was a friendly Butch. It was when he was sober that everyone had to worry. He became vile and angry, and no one liked to be around him and his quick temper. He would go crazy and lay hands on his girls, including his wife, Bernice. At times it got so bad that the cops were called to the apartment, and Butch had spent plenty of nights in jail. Although everyone knew he should be in rehab, they would encourage him to drink or buy him a bottle because a sober Butch was unbearable in the household.
“Look at Daddy. He’s actin’ all exalting and everything,” Butch’s seventeen-year-old daughter Claire said with a giggle. She sat on the couch with an English textbook in her hands, staring and laughing at her father, who had distracted her from reading with his drunken antics.
“Daddy, you know what you are right now? Jolly and inebriated. But that’s fine—we need some contempt in this house, and some agitation too,” she added.
Exalting? Contempt and agitation? What the fuck? the youngest daughter, Chanel, thought to herself. She gave Claire a peculiar look. Claire was known to use big words wrong, but no one in the family except Chanel knew the meaning of the words she used. Claire was heading to college in the fall, and everyone was proud of her.
Chanel didn’t say anything. If she spoke up and corrected Claire, World War III would break out inside the apartment. Instead, Chanel coolly lifted herself from the couch and left for the bedroom to be alone.
“Daddy, you so stupid,” Claire added, laughing. “Bacardi, you need to come in here and get your husband.”
With her reddish brown skin, freckles, hazel eyes, and red hair like her intoxicated father’s, Claire Brown sat there on the raggedy living room couch trying to look high-class in the ghetto apartment while her mother cooked neck bones, collard greens, and white rice in the kitchen. There was a sickly and sparsely decorated Christmas tree in the corner with no gifts under it.
Butch continued to sing, drink, and dance around the living room like he was getting paid to put on a show for everyone, and he would occasionally stare out the window. It was Christmas Day, and he had the perfect gift in his hand—liquor.
“Butch, you need to go sit your fuckin’ ass down somewhere,” Bacardi hollered at her husband. “It’s too damn early for this shit!”
Butch turned around and smiled at his wife. He then outstretched his arms and jovially exclaimed, “Come dance wit’ me, baby! C’mon, let’s get our groove on . . . oh yeah.”
Butch started to do a hilarious late-eighties Michael Jackson routine by the window. His shoulders shifted up and down in a robot-like move, and then he spun around on his heels and roared with laughter.
Bacardi shook her head at her husband like he was crazy. She wasn’t in the mood to dance. “You’re a damn fool, Butch. Sit your silly ass down before you end up hurting yourself. We ain’t got time to take your ass to no fuckin’ hospital on Christmas.” She went back into the kitchen to check on her neck bones cooking.
Bernice Brown, AKA Bacardi, was a weathered looking forty-year-old with a foul-mouth, dark chocolate skin, a straight nose, and thick permed hair. As her name suggested, Bacardi drank and smoked weed regularly. She had a nice shape back in the day, but now she was thick with a wide butt, matching wide hips, and a protruding gut. Bacardi was proud of two things—her job with the city
at ACS that she hated but was grateful to have, and the three-bedroom apartment in the Glenwood Houses she shared with her husband and three daughters. She believed their apartment was luxury because the Glenwood Houses were one of the better projects in Brooklyn with less violence, but mostly because they lived next door to a white family.
Bacardi was in a foul mood this Christmas Day. She was dead broke and pissed off about it. She had put $500 to the side to get her daughters some gifts for Christmas, but she had gone to her best friend Keisha’s apartment to play cards a few nights earlier. Drinking heavily and winning more than losing, Bacardi got trashed during the card game and passed out on Keisha’s couch. She woke up the next morning to discover that someone had stolen the $500 she had stashed in her bra. As expected, Bacardi became enraged and ready to turn violent. It was all the money she had. Immediately, she blamed Keisha.
“Bitch, who fuckin’ stole my money?!” Bacardi had growled at her friend.
Keisha was completely dumbfounded. She had no idea who took the money, but it was Keisha’s place and Bacardi held her responsible. Bacardi wasn’t leaving without her money. The two ladies came to a compromise, and Bacardi gave Keisha two weeks to replace her money or else trouble would rain down on Keisha, best friend or not. The clock was ticking down on the deadline.
Butch took another mouthful of Hennessy and continued with his erratic behavior. The bottle was nearly depleted.
“It’s fuckin’ Christmas, bitches!” he shouted. He wildly spun around with the bottle and accidentally spilled some of his brown juice onto the couch and some onto Claire and her textbook.
Claire sighed and frowned, suddenly not finding her father’s behavior amusing. But it could be worse. He could be sober and cruel—cursing everyone out and carrying on. His drinking was the lesser of two evils.
Somewhat upset, Claire said, “I’ll be in the bathroom.” She shot up from the couch with her textbook in her hand and marched to the back.
While Butch, Bacardi, and Claire occupied the living room, kitchen, and bathroom, Chanel locked herself in the bedroom she shared with Claire. Her oldest sister Charlie had her own room whenever she was home, but she had been gone for two days now.
Chanel sat by the window and gazed aimlessly outside at the chilly streets from four stories up. Christmas Day in the projects, and everything seemed quiet; there wasn’t a crackhead in sight. Chanel didn’t want any part of her family’s foolish activity in the next room. She didn’t feel wanted—never had.
Chanel was sixteen years old, considered awkward, and she was the black sheep of the family. She wasn’t close with either of her sisters and not even her mother. Her dark complexion and dark brown eyes were the utter opposite of her two older sisters. With her straight nose, full lips, and long, jet black hair that she forever styled in two braids or two ponytails—simple—some said she looked like a young Naomi Campbell. Her natural hair was wavy like her mother’s, but her mother and sisters were always telling her she needed a perm and constantly saying to her, “With your nappy hair.”
A deep sigh emanated from Chanel’s mouth. Outside her window, she noticed a black Jeep come to a stop and park across the street on Ralph Avenue. Chanel watched the doors open, and exiting the vehicle were Charlie and her boyfriend, Godfrey—God for short. Chanel felt no excitement seeing her sister coming home after being gone for two days. The only thing she felt was more drama arriving into the apartment. It was the last thing she needed. Nonchalant, Chanel removed herself from the window and plopped face-down on her bed. Why me?
Hearing knocking at the door, Bacardi ran toward the door like a child expecting Santa Claus to show up. She was all smiles seeing Charlie arrive with God. They came bearing gifts, carrying large black garbage bags full of surprises. Charlie came marching into the apartment wearing a brand new auburn mink coat that swept the floor when she walked. The coat looked a little too big for her, but who cared? It was a mink coat. Bacardi was wide-eyed and in awe.
“Shit, bitch! Who the fuck did you rob?” Bacardi joked.
“You know I couldn’t let Christmas go by without showin’ my family some love,” said Charlie with a wide smile.
Bacardi hugged her daughter and God. “Where’s Fingers at? How’s he doing?” she asked, referring to God’s friend.
“That nigga home wit’ his peoples playin’ Santa. He good, though,” God replied.
Bacardi wasn’t the only one excited about Charlie and God showing up. Butch was all smiles, and Claire was happy to see her big sister too—especially when she saw the bags filled with gifts. It was officially Christmas Day for the family.
Charlie was eighteen years old and she was her parents’ pride and joy. Like Claire, she had reddish brown skin, freckles, hazel eyes, and curly red hair. Charlie was the hustler of the family. She got money, and that was what mattered most to the family.
Reluctantly, Chanel exited the bedroom and joined the others in the living room where Charlie and God stood clutching the garbage bags like Santa’s toy bags. The family was like wide-eyed children anticipating what Charlie had brought them.
“C’mon, Charlie! Let’s get this party started. I’m overwrought and ready to see what I implemented this Christmas,” said Claire excitedly, once again misusing her big words.
Chanel rolled her eyes and shook her head—and Claire was supposed to be the smart one. Yeah, right, she thought to herself.
Charlie started to dig in each garbage bag and hand out the goods. The first to get a gift was Bacardi. Charlie tossed her mother a Valentino bag and a leather shearling coat, which was a little too tight on her, but Bacardi didn’t care. She also received some Christian Louboutin shoes—which were a half-size too big—and an Apple watch. There were plenty of oooohs and aaaahs at the start, and it escalated to excited yelling getting louder with each gift presented. Bacardi was over-the-moon. It was becoming the best Christmas ever!
Butch received Christian Louboutin men’s hard bottoms, which fit him perfectly, along with old school Adidas and Puma sweat suits, a cashmere sweater, slacks, and Beats by Dre headphones. Butch right away kicked off his smelly sneakers and put on the expensive shoes, the cashmere sweater, and headphones. He started to slide across the floor trying to balance himself, swirling around like he was a skilled dancer.
“Damn, look at me,” he hollered. “Ooooh watch out now!”
Butch started to dance like he was one of The Temptations, entertaining his family. Even God had to laugh at Butch’s silly antics. Butch behaved like he was a man in his sixties, but everyone loved seeing him this way, funny and affable—because an inebriated Butch was a tolerable Butch.
With her parents’ gifts out of the way, Claire was thirsty to see what her big sis had brought her. She eyed her mother’s red bottoms because she wore a 40 too, and she wanted those same shoes. Claire soon got her wish. Charlie reached into the bag, pulled out the nicest boots Claire had ever seen, and tossed them at her. Claire was flabbergasted. She clutched the boots tightly to her chest and started to scream and run around the house like she had no sense. Joy filled her eyes to the brim.
“Ohmygod, Ohmygod, Ohmygod, I love ’em! Oh shit! I got fuckin’ red bottoms, bitches! I can’t wait to see these hoes start to hate on me out there when they see me rockin’ these,” Claire breathlessly exclaimed.
Everyone laughed. They loved the moment.
Charlie continued with her benevolent nature toward her family. She continued to remove gifts from the bags, handing Claire a mid-length tan mink coat. You would have thought Claire had won the lottery for a billion dollars. She started screaming at the top of her lungs again and shedding tears of joy at the same time. She snatched the coat so quickly from Charlie’s hands that even the Flash couldn’t keep up with her. Claire tried on the coat, and it was a little too big for her, but that was nothing a thick sweater couldn’t fix.
As Claire pranced around the
living room in her new coat, Charlie had one demand for her. “I get to wear it when I want, Claire. And I don’t wanna hear any shit from you, or else I’ll keep it for myself.”
Claire didn’t like the ultimatum, but she agreed to it, for now.
Bacardi started to feel some kind of way. Unable to restrain herself, she spewed, “And where the fuck is my mink coat? I’m the fuckin’ one that gave birth to you.”
Charlie glared at her mother. “Damn, didn’t I give you enough, Bacardi? You got a leather shearling. Why you gotta be such a greedy bitch?”
“I’m sayin’—a mink is always nice to have,” Bacardi retorted.
“Bitch, I just gave you some damn near two-thousand-dollar shoes and then some!”
“But I always wanted a mink.”
“These coats can’t fit you, Bacardi. Damn! Stop being fuckin’ greedy! If one coulda fit you then I woulda blessed you wit’ it.”
And just like that, an argument erupted between Charlie and Bacardi—dysfunctional family at its finest. While the two argued, Chanel stood on the sidelines still waiting her turn to see what her big sister had brought her for Christmas. But leave it to Bacardi to ruin everything.
It took Claire to get between the two ladies before the situation escalated. She shouted, “Can we just all chill and have a nice Christmas for once?”
In the meantime, Butch sat on the couch entertaining himself with his gifts, tuning everything out for the moment.
Bacardi and Charlie fell back from each other and their argument ended, but something Charlie had said caught Claire’s attention. She pivoted toward her sister and asked, “And what do you mean, Charlie? Where did these coats come from? Y’all didn’t buy them for us?”
Charlie frowned. “What’s wit’ the third fuckin’ degree? Y’all some ungrateful muthafuckas in this apartment! Don’t be askin’ me any stupid fuckin’ shit like that! And y’all can either keep the fuckin’ gifts or give ’em the fuck back! Fo’ real.”
