Apple Brown Betty

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  I nod at the pencil and folded piece of paper in his hand. “You need that stuff to shut off a phone, George?”

  He looks down at his hand but can’t say shit.

  “Talking to you, nigga,” I say.

  His back straightens and he clears his throat. “This is some…never mind,” he says. “We need to get back to what we were talking about, boy. Your mama’s a stone-cold junkie. We gotta deal with that.”

  I’ve got my fists balled tight. I straight up hate this motherfucker. My mama. Your wife, I feel like telling him.

  Eff it, why am I sparing this nigga’s feelings? “My mama is your wife now, George? Remember, you stole her away while my daddy was still cooling to death?”

  “What do you even remember of your daddy, boy? You were only five when he passed.”

  “I remember he was my daddy,” I tell George.

  George shakes his head. “You don’t remember nothing in particular then?”

  This fool is trying to play me, always has, always will. “Aiight then,” I say. “I do remember him taking me to a Sixers game. We got a flat in that old beat-up car he had and he changed it and still got to the game on time. I thought for a long time I wanted to be an auto mechanic.”

  “Versus the Celtics,” George says, smiling. “I remember that. I gave him those tickets.”

  My shoulders fall for a second but I quickly raise them back proud so George won’t notice and consider it a victory. This motherfucker always got to get one up on me. “You’ll be waiting the rest of your life if you expect me to thank you, George,” I tell him in my most menacing tone.

  George shakes his head and turns extra serious. “Don’t worry about that,” he says, stammering like a bitch. I like this, with George looking all small before me and shit. “You know people. I need you to help me with your mama,” he continues.

  “The people I know ain’t no help to Mama.”

  “She’s gotten beat up a few times going out there for that stuff,” George says. “It ain’t safe out there for a woman. I’m at the end of my rope.”

  That’s when it all comes clear to me. Why George was going through my phone and acting all suspicious and shit when I straight up caught him. Looking for a drug connection in my address book and shit.

  “You ain’t asking me to set you up with a drug source, is you, George?” I ask.

  George’s eyes droop. I know this motherfucker ain’t trying to get me into that shit. “You are most definitely top-notch, George.”

  “Don’t judge me, you not carrying around this burden, boy.”

  “Ain’t I though? I know you think you’re the only one in Mama’s world, but I came before you, George. Who you think tries to keep an eye on her during the days while you at work? I know you don’t think calling her on all your breaks is gonna keep her from pounding that pavement. You see for yourself that hasn’t worked. She’s slippery like an eel. A junk—what you said she is.” It was still too difficult to admit it out loud. Junkie.

  George softens. “I don’t want to fight you, Shammond. I need your help. She’s not gonna give rehab another shot, not now at least. I know you don’t want her out there any more than I do. Give me a name and a number. This is a short-term solution, believe me.”

  Name and number, damn, I was right. I ain’t giving him shit, though. And dollars to donuts, as my mama would say, he came across some numbers already in my celly.

  “What you always had against me, George?” I ask him. I want to what they call “humanize” this motherfucker before I walk him straight into a wasps’ nest.

  George crinkles his nose as his eyes and mind head somewhere else. “You remind me so much of Dare. I think of your daddy and the word waste comes to mind first thing.”

  I smirk. I gave him his chance and he fucked it up. “I’m wasting my time here, George. I’m out.” I can’t contain my smile as I put together a plan in my head.

  “Go, boy,” he says.

  Sure he don’t care if I goes, ’cause just like I thought he got a few numbers from my celly and he’s just itching to try them, see if he hit the jackpot.

  “You’re foul, George,” I say before I leave. “Always was, always will be.”

  He goes over by the couch and plops down right next to the table with the phone on it. His hand rests on the table, inches from the phone. That makes me smile. I’m gonna definitely walk this motherfucker into the wasps’ nest. Definitely.

  Out in the hall, I pull my cell phone and check it for missed calls. None. Smiling, I start dialing numbers, out to alert my peoples that if they hear from George they should humor him…then hit me so we can plan just how to sting this motherfucker.

  CHAPTER 22

  “My mother is a black woman,” Slay fumed. “My sister is a black woman. I wouldn’t ever bring harm to a woman with the same brown skin as my mother and sister.” He ended his short outburst with a slam of his fist on the table in front of him.

  Officer Jackson smiled warmly. “Young Ms. Rucker mentioned she was meeting you for a party you were throwing, but the hotel staff we talked with said no party took place. Can you explain that?”

  “I canceled it,” Slay said.

  “You didn’t tell young Ms. Rucker that the party was canceled?”

  Slay smiled. “I was planning on still having that little private party.”

  “But you didn’t?”

  Slay shook his head. “I’ve got a conscience, Officer. I’ve got a good woman by my side. I couldn’t go through with cheating on her with young Ms. Rucker.”

  Jackson nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll check with the owner of that record shop to corroborate your presence there.”

  “Rafael,” Slay offered.

  “Yes, Rafael.”

  “And I also stopped by Cush for those desserts,” Slay added.

  “Can’t get enough of the Ruckers?” Officer Jackson asked.

  “A sweet tooth for them,” Slay said. “If you ever tasted that apple brown betty, or got a look at young Ms. Rucker in one of her sexy outfits…you’d understand.”

  “I’ll be checking into all of this,” Officer Jackson said.

  Slay touched his chest. “I’m free to go, Officer?”

  Jackson nodded.

  Slay smiled and rose from his seat. “I hope you catch up with whoever did that to young Ms. Rucker. She was a nice girl, didn’t deserve no shit like that to happen.”

  “You keep close,” Jackson said. “I might have some more questions for you at some time.”

  Slay said, “Right, right,” a smile inappropriately wide for this terrible situation plastered on his face.

  Outside in the hall, he took a deep breath. His head throbbed. Damn, this had gotten seriously out of control.

  Desmond clutched his keys in one hand, Felicia’s arm in the other, as he led her from the hospital to his truck. Away from probing law enforcement and medical staff. Soon he’d be alone with Felicia, traveling home. He’d have to talk with her. He’d have to offer her comfort. Unfortunately, he didn’t believe himself up to the task. It made his stomach churn. His thoughts went to Cydney and her deception, her brother’s certain role in this situation. Those thoughts made his mind churn.

  “You okay?” he said as Felicia groaned with a step.

  “No,” she said softly. “I’m not okay.”

  Desmond rubbed her arm. “Couple more steps and we’re there.”

  They reached the open passenger side door of Desmond’s Range Rover. Felicia stopped and considered the climb into her seat. “Couldn’t buy a Honda Civic or a Toyota, could you?”

  Desmond smiled. It was important she kept a somewhat lighthearted outlook on things. He helped her inside and closed the door behind her. Desmond looked up at the lowering clouds as he moved behind the truck. His mind flashed again on Cydney’s admission. He hadn’t told Officer Jackson about Shammond Slay being Cydney’s brother and Officer Jackson hadn’t seemed to know. Desmond wasn’t sure if he’d tell Felicia, either.
>
  “Where did you disappear to earlier today?” Felicia asked as Desmond drove from the parking lot.

  “I had Officer Jackson take me to pick up my truck. I didn’t have any ride home.”

  “How did you get to the hospital?”

  Desmond hesitated. “Cydney dropped me off.”

  Felicia lowered her eyes. “She knows about what happened to me?”

  Desmond nodded.

  “She left, huh? I guess she didn’t want to meet your soiled sister.”

  Desmond found himself defending Cydney. “No, it’s not like that. She couldn’t stay.”

  “I can’t say I blame her.”

  Desmond tapped his fingers on the steering wheel as he made a turn. “I don’t think me and her are going to continue seeing each other anyway.”

  Felicia turned to him. “What! You really liked her, Desmond. I thought things were going so well.”

  “Romance is tricky,” Desmond said.

  Felicia looked away. “I’ll say.”

  Desmond looked over at Felicia, staring absentmindedly out her window. “Tell me about this guy, Shammond Slay.”

  “Sort of a thug,” Felicia said, talking slowly. “He’s the guy I told you about that came to our door wanting to use the place for a rap video.”

  Desmond gritted his teeth. He vaguely remembered Felicia mentioning that. This meant Cydney’s brother had made a calculating play on Desmond’s life, had come into his inner circle looking for a weakness. What did that all mean? What kind of relationship did this Slay have with his sister, Cydney? “I remember that,” Desmond said. He wondered if he could have saved Felicia from this ordeal if he’d paid more attention to her that day when she first mentioned Shammond Slay. Felicia had told Desmond about the situation with an air of nonchalance, but as Desmond now remembered it there was definitely a gleam in her eye.

  “He was cute,” Felicia continued. “Hard acting, but it was like a role he played more than the real him. He took me out for Italian hot dogs.”

  “Why did you never mention any of this?” Desmond asked.

  “You never told me you two went out. You just said some guy came by like it was nothing. No hint that something might be blossoming.”

  Felicia shrugged, her back still to Desmond. “You were busy living your own life. Plus, you bug out over stuff like that. I didn’t want you fitting me with a chastity belt.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this Shammond Slay guy, Felicia.”

  Felicia rubbed her arm. Desmond turned up the heat.

  “You hear me, Felicia?” Desmond said after the blowers started to release hot air into the cool interior of the truck.

  Felicia frowned. “The police questioned him. He wasn’t there. He didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “I don’t buy it.”

  Felicia looked at Desmond. “Why? Why are you so gung ho about him being involved? It was a random…thing.”

  Desmond watched the road. “Just doesn’t add up. Have you talked with him since the…” Desmond gritted his teeth.

  “Rape,” Felicia said. “I struggle to say it myself, but neither one of us can continue pretending it didn’t happen.”

  “Have you?”

  Felicia shook her head. “Officer Jackson said Slay wanted to call me but they suggested he didn’t until they finished their investigation.”

  “Why don’t you give me his number, Felicia. I’d like to have a word with him.”

  “No.”

  “I’m a little bothered by the whole thing. I just want to have a few words with the guy.”

  Felicia put her hand up in protest. “Just leave it alone, Desmond.”

  Desmond sighed. “How are we going to tell Mom and Dad?”

  “We’re not,” Felicia said.

  “What?”

  She grabbed his arm. “I don’t want to tell them, you hear? I want to deal with this in my own way, under my own terms. I don’t want you talking to Slay, either.” Desmond thought about Shammond Slay. He could understand his sister wanting to handle things her own way. Desmond was prepared to handle this situation with Shammond Slay his own way. “You hear me, Desmond?” Felicia asked more forcefully.

  “Yes.”

  “Promise me you won’t say anything to them, that you’ll let me handle this my own way.”

  Desmond gripped her hand. “I promise.”

  After a moment, Felicia settled back into the leather seat. She sighed. “Why, Desmond?”

  “Why what?” Desmond asked.

  “Why would those guys do this to me?” she said. “Men are such sick animals. You would never have four girls gang up on a guy and do such foul things to him.”

  Desmond didn’t have any reasonable response. Men were sick animals at times, and Desmond, he was a man. Sick at times just like the rest.

  It was an ugly day. The sky had a hint of blue and a dusting of gray, but those colors could do nothing to make up for the missing sun’s colorful orange smile. Moments before, large drops of rain had fallen, widening into clear splotches as they collided against Slay’s windshield with the thud of heavy mud-caked boots. The raindrops had come in a flash, and disappeared just as suddenly, but still held the sky hostage with the threat of a return. The to-and-fro swiping of Slay’s windshield wipers broke through the otherwise silence in his car. The hum of rubber kissing glass served as the perfect hypnotic backdrop for Slay’s wandering thoughts. Slay looked out his window at the quiet boardwalk, thinking of Kenya, his mother, the father he never really knew, Cydney, Felicia…

  Meet me down at the boardwalk in Long Branch around ten.

  Cydney’s words echoed in Slay’s ear, the angry tone, the directive. She hadn’t given him time to reply. They were the only words she said before the dial tone chased the venom in her voice. Slay frowned and ran his hands over the sloping curve of his steering wheel.

  Directly in front of Slay was the slice of boardwalk where the seasonal vendors conducted their business: the ice-cream parlor, the pizza shop, the psychic, the gaming center. No one was in sight now though, except for a woman with black roots streaking through her blond hair. The woman wore a purple jogging suit, and judging by the puffiness of her form, probably a full set of clothes on under that. She ran by, stopped after about fifty feet and walked a stretch before breaking off into a trot a second time. Before she disappeared from Slay’s range of view he saw her stop and walk, then break off into a run again, then repeat the process. He shook his head, wondering why she couldn’t decide if she was a jogger or a walker.

  Ten minutes later, Cydney’s car pulled up in a spot next to Slay. Her appearance beside him was quieter than those NJ Transit electrical trains. Cydney sat in her car, trying to look composed and strong, but the crumpled Kleenex tissues on her dashboard and the dark sunglasses she wore exposed her—she’d been crying. Slay sighed, cut the engine of his BMW and slid outside. He walked around to Cydney’s car and gripped the door handle. The door wouldn’t budge; the locks on. He waited a beat and tried again. It was still locked. He leaned down and made a gesture to Cydney. She didn’t look in his direction. He tapped against the glass. After a moment she clicked the locks and he opened the door and sat inside.

  “I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to jimmy your door, Cydney,” Slay said in an attempt at levity.

  Cydney turned to Slay at that point and started beating her fists violently against his chest and face. Slay let Cydney get off a few shots before putting his hands up to deflect her punches. Cydney tired and fell against her door, crying. Her sunglasses fell off and landed in the jamb between the door and seat. Slay touched Cydney’s shoulder and she shrugged away from him. He bit into his lip, nodded his head in understanding.

  “You’re a son of a bitch,” Cydney said after a while. “I hate your ass.”

  Slay didn’t respond.

  “Desmond’s sister is eighteen,” Cydney cried. “Eighteen! Did you have to get her involved in this?”

  “I was so
rry to hear about what happened to her,” Slay said. “But I wasn’t there.”

  “How convenient that was.”

  “You think I had something to do with her getting raped?” Slay tried to sound shocked, but even to himself it sounded like a soap opera actor putting too much histrionics into a simple line of dialogue.

  Cydney shook her head and looked at Slay with contempt. Red veins, like tree roots, shot from her dark pupils and ruined the whites of her eyes. Her eyelids twitched as if she had some kind of nervous condition.

  Slay couldn’t bear to look at Cydney so visibly upset. He turned away. “I didn’t have anything to do with what happened to that girl.”

  “I’ve always made excuses for you, Slay,” Cydney said. “When you got sent to juvie the first time I tried to pretend you weren’t snatching women’s purses and that you didn’t beat that boy to near death with that rusty hubcap. When you came out the second time with all of that anger in you I explained it away. Who wouldn’t be angry at having most of their childhood stolen? Who wouldn’t be angry at living a prison existence when they should be at football practice or lip synching to Michael Jackson records in their bedroom? Who wouldn’t—?”

  “Be angry about coming home and finding out the man who claims he was going to be a father to you—” Slay spat the words out “—adopts your sister but not you. Tells you pretty much that you an unwanted bastard.”

  “Put that to rest,” Cydney said.

  “Who wouldn’t be angry,” Slay continued, “about getting in a fight and stabbing your fast-assed sister’s maniac boyfriend, just to have her take the crazy fucker back like he was Denzel fucking Washington? How convenient it is of you, Cydney, to leave that situation out. You and I both know that was the final straw that got me sent to juvie a third time—protecting you. I know I was doing a lot of messing up, but with football going so well and all those college scouts paying me some attention, I was trying to get my shit together. Then I go and take on Byron because I was sick of him beating the shit out of you and…”

  “I—”

  Slay ignored Cydney. He was on too much of a roll. “…you taking it like a dumb ass. I always been your protector and you’ve always wanted me to be when it was convenient for you.