by Erica Hilton
***
God lit a cigarette and took a few drags. He sat alone in the idling Ford Taurus parked across the street from the Kings County Criminal Court in Downtown Brooklyn. The area was bustling with people and police—too much police for his comfort. His girl was finally being released after two days. He had paid the girls’ bail via a bondsman and had to come up with six thousand dollars total. It was a small setback, but he couldn’t leave his baby in lockup.
“What the fuck is taking them so long?” he griped to himself.
His head was on a constant swivel. He was vulnerable not to just the police, but to anyone that didn’t like him. He had enemies. He didn’t have a pistol or weed on him, and the Ford was legit. The last thing he needed was police fucking with him.
Two days after it happened, the shooting was still major headlines. The slain officer Krokowsi had three young daughters, and his distraught widow seemed inconsolable. His colleagues, friends, and family repeatedly proclaimed to the media that he was a wonderful officer and an excellent human being who cared about everyone. But God didn’t care. To him, the only good cop was a dead cop.
He sighed heavily and continued to wait. His cigarette was dwindling with every drag. He eyed civilians and cops coming and going from the building. He hated to sit in one spot for too long. His cell phone rang and it was Fingers calling him.
“Yo, what’s good?”
“They out yet?” Fingers asked.
“Nah, I’m still parked in this bitch and waiting.”
“A’ight, then. Holla at me when they get out. We need to talk.”
“A’ight, my nigga. One!”
“One.”
Their call ended. After a few more pulls from the cigarette, God turned to his left and saw Charlie and her family coming out looking a hot mess—their hair was in disarray and their clothes disheveled. God climbed out of the car and approached Charlie with concern.
The minute Charlie saw him she beamed and ran toward him. “Baby!” she cried out. Her arms wrapped around him tight, and they kissed passionately in public. “Thank you for getting us out.”
“You know I got your back,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here. You know I don’t like police.”
“Fo’ real,” Charlie agreed.
Everyone piled into the car, and God couldn’t leave the area fast enough. He didn’t look back.
“I just want to go home and wash up. Ohmygod, I never stank so badly,” griped Charlie.
“You got another cigarette?” Bacardi asked him.
God handed her the Newports, and each girl removed a cigarette from the pack and lit up, needing a smoke after their tiresome ordeal in lockup. The smoke was flavorsome and the one good thing they had to enjoy in the last 48 hours.
Bacardi exhaled. She had questions. She stared at God and asked, “What the fuck happened at my apartment?”
God was silent, driving and looking ahead. His expression was deadpan. The traffic in downtown Brooklyn was gruesome in the early morning, and he wanted to get far away from the area.
“You know who shot that cop?” asked Bacardi.
“It was Fingers,” said God.
“Fingers!” Charlie voiced with worry.
“Yo, he ain’t had no choice. That cop was on us and he was going after Fingers for some reason. Fuckin’ Fingers spun around and put a bullet in his chest. He was vested up and fell back—tried to reach for his gun. But Fingers went up to him and shot him three times in the head,” God said.
“Good for that muthafucka!” Charlie beamed. “Break up our party by bringing that dumb bitch to the apartment.”
“Fuck his racist ass!” chimed Bacardi.
Claire was the only one who didn’t celebrate the cop’s death. “We need to think undoubtedly about this and not look too inept and assertive, y’all. It’s gonna get crazy. Let’s not gloat too much right now,” she proclaimed, trying to start with her articulate talk.
Bacardi cut her eyes at her daughter and shouted, “Claire, shut the fuck up! I’m not in the mood to hear any of your reasoning. That muthafucka got what he deserved.”
“I’m just sayin’—”
God quickly interrupted them, glancing through his rearview mirror. “Yo, I think we’re being followed.”
The girls all turned around to look out the back window to see a black Crown Vic behind them.
“Shit!” God muttered.
“You clean, right?” asked Charlie.
“Yeah! I ain’t no fuckin’ fool. I knew these muthafuckas was gonna be on us,” he said. “Y’all got ya seatbelts on, right?”
They did.
“Is this car clean?” Bacardi asked him.
“Yeah. We good.”
As they predicted, the police lights started to flash behind them, and a loud whoop-whoop blared from the Crown Vic, indicating for them to pull the vehicle over and stop.
“Here we go wit’ this bullshit,” God griped.
He slowly pulled the Ford to the side of the road and put it in park but kept the engine on. Not to take any chances, everyone inside the car placed their hands outside the window. Claire, thinking quickly, made sure God turned on his cell phone to record the entire incident. He left the phone hidden in the seat.
Two Caucasian plainclothes detectives climbed out of the Vic and cautiously approached the Ford. They flanked the car on both sides, with their hands on their holstered weapons.
“Turn off the car!” said the detective by the driver’s side.
God did so slowly. “What’s the problem, officer? Why did you pull us over?”
“We ask the questions, you understand? License and registration.”
Both detectives looked inside the vehicle, fixing their eyes on the three females who’d just left lockup. Everyone inside the car remained silent.
God handed them the information they requested and said, “This is a friend’s car.”
“Everyone slowly step out of the vehicle, and do so calmly,” the detective demanded.
“Seriously?” Charlie protested.
“You wanna make this difficult?” said the detective on the passenger side.
Both of them were ready to be assholes and exercise their authority to the fullest. Not having a choice, all four occupants slowly climbed out of the car and were forced to stand by the trunk. One detective started to thoroughly search the vehicle while his partner did an impromptu interrogation in public.
“Godfrey Williams, huh?” he stated while looking at God’s identification.
God stood there deadpan. He didn’t respond. What he wanted to do was kill that pig right where he stood, but it would be suicide.
“Where are y’all coming from?” asked the detective.
God frowned. “You know where we’re coming from.”
“Don’t get cute, Godfrey. I can make this a good stop or a bad stop for you. Your choice.”
“The courthouse, sir!”
“Any drugs or weapons in the car?”
“Nah, nothing,” God replied dryly.
“And who are these bitches? Your hoes?”
The remark made Bacardi’s face tighten with anger. She wanted to go off on the detective and knock his head off. White-ass honky, she wanted to scream.
“They family,” God said.
The detective continued to be an asshole to everyone and he took delight in doing so. It was a cold day in January and the girls were freezing, but the detective didn’t care. His partner was taking his sweet-ass time searching the car. To embarrass God even more, the detective patted him down and made him unbutton his shirt to see if he was hiding any contraband. He wasn’t. But it was only to put on a show, to harass and humiliate God. They felt that he was connected to the murder of Officer Krokowsi, but they didn’t have any proof. The stairwell didn’t ha
ve any cameras, and well over two dozen people fled the party.
“Anything, partner?” the detective asked the man searching the car.
He retreated from the interior of the vehicle and replied, “It’s clean. Nothing.”
“I guess this is your lucky day.” He tossed God his ID and stared him down. “But you won’t get too many of those, I’ll bet.”
“Can we go?” God asked with a scowl.
“Yeah. You’re free to go—your hoes too.”
God pivoted and got back in the car. Bacardi and her daughters followed suit. God was so mad he wanted to put the car in reverse and run over both detectives several times. And he wasn’t the only one. Bacardi and Charlie gritted their teeth in anger, feeling the two cops had no right to do what they had to them.
“I swear, if I see them two pigs again, I’m gonna fuck ’em up,” God said as he started the ignition and drove off.
The two detectives had gotten what they wanted—the name of the driver and to let them know who was in charge and that they were being closely watched.
***
Fingers finished off the cigarette he smoked and extinguished it in the ashtray next to him. Once again he got up from the chair, walked toward the window, and gazed outside. Nothing. Everything was the same. There was no SWAT team there to kick in his front door and fuck him up. He tried not to be paranoid, but he had just killed a cop and there was no coming back from that. He wasn’t going back to jail either. It was him or the cop.
He paced around the room and picked up his cell phone and attempted to dial God again. But he needed to keep his cool. He looked at the gun on the dresser and he shook his head, knowing it was a mistake to keep the weapon he’d used to shoot three slugs into the cop’s head. It was overkill, but he hated the police. He needed to get rid of the weapon before it came back to haunt him.
Shirtless and slim with curly twists, Fingers didn’t have the look of a killer—but he was one. He was twenty-two years old, and he’d had his nickname since he was a child. His hair looked like small fingers when he was a little boy, so for humor, his friends started to call him Fingers.
Fingers had a scar across his cheek and right lip from a razor that’d opened his face up during a fight in the juvenile detention center. The scar came from a young punk named Crooks. Crooks was a mean muthafucka who picked on those he deemed weaker than him. Fingers defended himself inside, but it came with a cost—his scar.
It took a few years for Fingers to carry out his revenge. He ran into Crooks by chance at a Miami nightclub, and the nigga looked the same after three years. Seeing his opportunity, Fingers followed him to his car and shot Crooks eight times while the man was seated in the front seat. It was his first kill, and it was personal. Once Fingers began killing people, it was rumored that his nickname came from being quick to pull the trigger.
Fingers wiped the gun clean and placed it in a brown bag. He then got into his Accord and jumped onto I-87 northbound. He drove an hour and a half away from the city, near a small town called Middletown, and came across an arched bridge with a river underneath it. With no one around, he tossed the murder weapon into the river and watched the river carry it away. He sighed with relief and then lit a cigarette. He felt that if the cops hadn’t come for him already, they weren’t coming. But for sure, it felt good killing that cop.
Chapter Six
With her mom and sisters locked up for two days, it was up to Chanel to clean up the ransacked apartment and take care of her father. The last task was nearly impossible. Mostly, Butch just drank and stayed in his bedroom either passed out or drinking and watching TV. He barely ate, but Chanel would leave his plate by the door and knock. She figured he would either take it or not. Mostly he didn’t. Butch would rather drink than eat. She still cooked for him when she knew he despised her. Why, though? What had she ever done for her father to hate her so much?
For two days, Chanel had repeatedly tried to call Mecca to see if she was okay, but Mecca didn’t return her calls. She understood that her friend was upset. It was fucked up how they were treated, and Mecca wanted to sue the NYPD for harassment and abuse. Landy had unequivocally told her that they could no longer be friends because her parents were spooked by the cop being shot and wouldn’t allow Landy over at the Browns’.
The only good thing that came from the chaos was that the apartment was somewhat peaceful. There was no Bacardi to abuse her, and no sisters to talk shit to her or call her black and ugly. Her father kept to himself, and she didn’t bother him, except to bring him the meals he didn’t eat.
But that bizarre and beautiful solitude soon came to an end.
Chanel brought Butch a plate of breakfast, gently tapped on the door, and turned to leave as she usually did.
“Stop banging on the gotdamn door, Chanel,” Butch yelled from his bedroom. “You fucking wit’ me too early in the morning.”
Chanel rolled her eyes. She knew that voice. It was the voice of a sober Butch.
She ran to the kitchen cupboard, and sure enough, all the liquor from the party was gone, which meant that Bacardi needed to get home soon or else. Chanel began washing the dishes, and within minutes her father appeared.
“What the fuck I tell you!” Chanel stared at Butch—a long look. He looked terrible, worse than his normal wear and tear. His body was a bony frame that appeared malnourished. His narrow face was gaunt, his eyes bulged, and his naturally red skin tone had a yellow tint to it. His jeans held on for dear life by a thick leather belt that could have been wrapped around his tiny waist twice. He was irate because his body was going through withdrawals. It usually took a full day before Butch needed a drink. Now, just under ten hours had passed, and his body was going through the signs of detox.
“Clean up this mess, Chanel. Your mother should be home soon!” His shifty eyes darted back and forth at the almost spotless apartment.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“What’s that shit over there?” Butch pointed toward the folded laundry, but had to lower his arm because it was shaking uncontrollably. In fact, his whole body had the shakes, and that infuriated him. He was embarrassed that he couldn’t control his movement. He continued with, “You need to put all that shit away!”
“And you need to stop drinking before you die!”
Butch was still the man of the house, and nobody spoke disrespectfully to him. He went after Chanel quickly. She dropped the glass she was washing and took flight. Her father’s strong, bony fingers stretched out and grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her toward him.
“Oooowwww,” she screamed and tried to wiggle free.
His free hand punched her head and face several times until her lips split open and blood gushed out. He then tossed her up against the wall like a ragdoll. She felt a sharp pain in her ribs. He hovered over her like he was about to go in for the finisher.
“Daddy, no!” She cowered in the corner covering her vital lady parts. “Please! I’m sorry! I just love you . . .”
Butch was about to deliver more harsh blows, but truthfully he was already winded. He wasn’t steady on his feet like he used to be, and the shakes weren’t helping the matter. When Butch tossed Chanel up against the wall, he nearly came tumbling down behind her. He knew he needed to stop drinking, but the alcohol had a hold over him. He had an addictive gene, and if he had to choose life, his wife and kids, or the booze, sadly his addiction would win.
“Now stop fucking around and do what I say.”
“Yes, Daddy.”
Butch began walking back to his bedroom but suddenly stopped. “Hey, you got five dollars?”
Chanel just shook her head and continued to weep quietly.
Butch snorted. “Just like I thought. Good for nothing!”
***
Chanel was in her bedroom when she heard the front door open and slam shut. Immediately she heard the
ruckus. She heard her mother’s fearsome voice and Charlie’s complaints. They were ranting about the NYPD and the mistreatment they’d endured earlier.
“I fuckin’ hate cops!” shouted Charlie.
“I swear, all them muthafuckas can go to hell!” Bacardi added.
She then heard Claire’s voice. The entire gang was back home. God had dropped them off and left. It was too hot at their place. There were cops everywhere. They were maintaining a strong presence at the projects, and they planned on harassing folks until whoever was responsible for killing a cop was brought to justice. The Brown girls were going to be enemy number-one.
Chanel sighed and walked out of her bedroom to sadly greet them, looking like an obedient dog. She wanted to be praised and thanked for her efforts in cleaning up the outrageous mess that was left behind. It took a lot of hard work and elbow grease, but Chanel had the apartment looking spectacular—almost brand new. Most importantly, she wanted Bacardi to see what Butch had done to her face. But of course, she received the exact opposite. They ignored her and her bruised face and busted lip. It was like she wasn’t even standing in the room.
“I need a fuckin’ shower,” said Bacardi as she placed a couple bottles of hard liquor on the counter.
“Me first,” Claire said.
“I need a fuckin’ drink,” Charlie chimed.
They didn’t even look at Chanel. In fact, Charlie removed her coat and just tossed it aside, and the other two started to remove their clothing and leave things scattered everywhere in the living room, disrupting the tidiness of the place.
“We need to talk about this shit before we do anything,” Bacardi said.
“About what? I’m tired, Bacardi. I just want to shower and get some sleep,” Charlie said.
Bacardi finally shot a hard glance at Chanel. “Claire, you and Charlie come to my room so we can talk.” They marched down the hallway to her bedroom and closed the door, leaving Chanel in the living room alone. She went into the kitchen.
Inside the bedroom, Bacardi and her girls went over the events. Butch was finally passed out on the bed and didn’t look like he was waking up anytime soon.
