Apple Brown Betty

by Phillip Thomas Duck

  “Who wouldn’t be angry about being the only one to care two shits about their crackhead mama, just to have that same mother go and call you all kinds of nigga ’cause you won’t go get her some rocks to finish the job the last rocks didn’t? You judge me when you want, Cydney. Funny though, I don’t remember you judging me when I gave you money to buy your condo and pay your tuition.”

  “There’s a part of you that is noble and gallant,” Cydney agreed, a hitch in her voice, her nose runny. “But you choose to let that other side dominate, that nasty, ugly side that rapes unsuspecting girls in stairwells.”

  “I wasn’t there,” Slay said. “I spoke with the cops and they let me go.”

  Cydney shook her head. “I bet they were part of your gang, too.”

  “Oh, now I’m a gang leader?”

  “You said it, not me.” She twisted her mouth into a smirk of a smile. “Tell me exactly how it is you earn such a nice living for yourself without any signs of a real job that I can see?”

  Slay huffed and waved her off. “At least I didn’t run from my own family like they had the fucking plague. At least I ain’t some stuffy-ass wannabe that forgot where I came from.”

  “No,” Cydney said, “you sure didn’t forget where you came from, Slay. And I know where you’re headed, too. Facedown in the gutter, probably with a bullet hole in your head. I came today to let you know that I look forward to that day. It pains me to realize it, and even more to say it, but you’re of no worth to anyone here on earth. You’ve been hurting me for longer than I want to admit. I’ll be glad when the world is rid of you.” The words were harsher than she’d meant for them to be, but she took a special pride nonetheless in having the strength to say them, for having the strength to stand up to Slay. And, truth be told, it was exactly how she felt at the moment.

  Slay turned to his sister, his mouth half-open, words stuck somewhere in him that he couldn’t seem to find. The hate in Cydney’s voice surprised him. This time it was more authentic than in any of their past arguments and disagreements. Cydney held her glare on Slay as he processed what she’d said, as his mouth finally closed, as he gasped for air to clear his head, as the hardness of his shell cracked under the weight of one simple tear falling in a trail from each eye. Cydney was the only person in his life he’d let see him cry.

  “You think your boy, GQ Smooth, is the be-all and end-all,” Slay said after he composed himself. “But he ain’t. Only thing I’ve ever done is tried to be there for you and you toss me aside like this, like I’m some piece of trash.” The tears of a moment prior were replaced on Slay’s face by a smirk and the smirk’s hateful cousin scowl. “Ask your boy, GQ Smooth, about Hot Tails. Ask him about the dancer that works there, Ha-seen-ta. I dare you, Cydney. Your boy ain’t all you think he is, and neither am I. He’s not all good and I ain’t all bad.”

  Slay opened the door. He got out and closed it behind him with a child’s gentle touch. Moved around the back of Cydney’s car and went to his BMW. Started the engine, backed from the slanted space and slowly drove up the block, no music playing, alone with his thoughts.

  He was getting used to being in this place.

  Getting used to being alone.

  Changing Lanes Bowling Alley held down one of the darkest streets of Asbury Park. The bowling lane’s location was fitting, seeing that no matter how much track lighting was installed and lit in the building the place was darker than the tomb that couldn’t hold Jesus. The establishment was also one of the few in town that welcomed the graffiti sprawled in contrasting colors along its brick facade. The graffiti gave it that gritty quality, a spice that kept the place packed with the city’s lowest common denominator from midday to late night. Drunks saw a trip to the alley as an opportunity to work off some barley calories and an excuse for chugging beers at a breakneck pace. Teens fed the arcade games an endless stream of quarters, danced to the music from the jukebox and flirted members of the opposite sex into bathroom stalls for their quick expressions of love. Unlike the suburban bowling alleys, this one didn’t cotton much to families. Fights broke out at Changing Lanes on an almost daily occasion. For the owners the place was a perfect business, they didn’t have to worry about the expensive price of upkeep and they kept a packed house.

  Slay had called Tuffy early this morning and set up a meeting at Changing Lanes.

  Now Slay spotted Tuffy in the arcade section as soon as he walked through the door. Slay walked over, his conversation with Cydney still burdening his heart. “Peace.”

  Tuffy bent down as he wiggled the joystick, a grimace on his face, intensity in his eyes as he challenged the game. He didn’t look in Slay’s direction but acknowledged him after he made his move. “Peace.”

  Slay nodded at the throwback game of Pac-Man across from the Mortal Kombat game Tuffy played. “Pac-Man. I ain’t seen one of those in a minute. I used to be nice.”

  Tuffy continued maneuvering the joystick. “Yeah, that’s an old-school joint there.”

  Slay leaned in closer to Tuffy so he could see the screen on the Mortal Kombat. “My other shit was Double Dribble. Remember that joint?”

  “Nah,” Tuffy said.

  “How old you now, Tuff?”

  “Seventeen.”

  Slay thought back on where he was in his own life at the age of seventeen—tossing footballs to social counselors and fellow juvenile delinquents instead of preparing for a Division I football scholarship. “That’s a tough age.”

  Tuffy shrugged. “You say so.”

  “You gonna get together with your family for Thanksgiving?”

  Tuffy got his head ripped off in the game. He slammed his fist against the machine in disgust. He turned to Slay. “What’s that?”

  “Thanksgiving…You got folks to spend it with?”

  Tuffy narrowed his eyes. “What? You writing a book on me or something? You askin’ a lot of questions.”

  Slay smiled. “Nah, just curious, I guess. I like to know a little of what’s up with my top dawgs.”

  Tuffy smiled at the compliment. It made his day. Tuffy shook his head, turned with his back facing the game and leaned against it. “Nah, I ain’t got no family besides my nana. Pops ran out before I was born and my moms, she died from leukemia or some shit, I ain’t really sure.”

  “Your nana takes care of you?”

  Tuffy cracked his knuckles. “I take care of myself.”

  Slay nodded. “I hear you.”

  Tuffy paused. He cleared his throat. “I appreciate what you done for me, too. You been like the father I never had.”

  Slay frowned, gritted his teeth. He couldn’t reconcile himself as a father figure.

  “But, check it out, yo,” Tuffy said. “That model girl was off the hook like you said. She came up in that stairwell like she owned the motherfucker. Had on some nice-ass shit. Titties hanging out. My boys held her down and I jammed my fingers up—”

  Slay turned away from Tuffy. “Where’s the bathroom up in here?” The mention of Felicia made his mouth salt over with nausea.

  Tuffy pointed to a far corner.

  “Aiight,” Slay said. He reached in his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills, handed them to Tuffy. “My stomach is bubbling from this chicken I ate. I better go handle this. I’ll get up.”

  Tuffy took the money and clumped it into his side pocket. “I did good on this last job? ’Cause you know I want some more work.”

  Slay managed, “You took it a little far…”

  “How it goes sometimes,” Tuffy said.

  Slay nodded, though he didn’t believe it. “Yeah, you did a good job, Tuffy.” He tapped the young boy on the shoulder and headed for the bathroom, his stomach a mess of nerves and guilt. The vision he had in his head of Felicia Rucker on that stairwell made his insides feel as if they would spill out at any minute. He was getting soft. Soft was a dangerous thing to be where he came from.

  SLAY

  “Need to keep your hands off my sister,” I say.

&nbs
p; Byron looks at me, an amused look on his face, then turns that look on the girl on his arm. “You believe this little fake gangsta nigga, baby?” he says to the girl. She looks me up and down, smiles her own self.

  “This fake gangsta nigga will fuck you up,” I say to Byron.

  His head turns to me real quick. His eyes narrow. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out some crumpled bills, hands them to the girl, eyes on me the entire time. “Tomalika,” he says to the girl, “baby, go on ahead and get your outfit. I’ll catch up.”

  The mall isn’t crowded yet, which is good, ’cause there is no telling what I might do to this nigga.

  “Yo, Tomalika,” I say, “see if they selling new names or tits in the store. You need both.” I look her up and down. “I’d probably try for the tits.” I don’t need to be tossing stones at her name like my name is William or Michael or someshit.

  She gives me the finger, hugs Byron and jets.

  “Her tits is just fine, Slay. They don’t slap me in the face like Cydney’s big-ass tits do when I’m banging that ho like nobody’s business, but they make do.”

  I ignore that jab. “Let’s step outside, Byron.”

  He does a fake shiver. “What, little fake gangsta nigga, you watched Scarface on television or something today?”

  I start walking and he follows.

  Outside, I wheel on him. Grab his collar. “Keep. Your. Hands. Off. My. Sister.”

  The fear is in his eyes. He attempts to remove my hands. I move one my own self, slap his face with it. Hard. His eyes water. Then I let him go and push him back.

  “You done fucked up now,” he says, rubbing his face.

  I take a step forward, he shadows it, but backward. I smile and stop. “I wish you’d put your hands on me the way you do Cydney,” I taunt.

  “Oh, you like taking it in the ass. In the mouth. In the—”

  I lunge forward again, pounce on this nigga. Push him against the building. Slap him a couple more times. I’m bouncing on my feet, like I’m jumping rope, hands balled in fists, ready to do more damage. “Say something else, pussy. Say something else.”

  “I ain’t studying Cydney,” he says, breathing heavy, bent over but with his eyes on me. “I’ll leave her stank ass be. The only one thinks that pussy is worth anything…is you.”

  My knife is out of my pocket and in Byron’s stomach before I know what happens. I leave him there and walk to my car without a worry in the world.

  CHAPTER 23

  Officer Raymond Jackson parked his unmarked patrol car outside Cush and walked inside. He was dressed in dark blue slacks and a thick brown sweater. Despite the nip outside, he wore no jacket, keeping himself warm throughout the day by drinking steaming-hot cups of coffee at the rate a heavy smoker puffed on cigarettes. All about business, Jackson didn’t stop to admire the fancy awning outside the restaurant, or the elegant setup once he was inside. The pretty woman at the podium reminded him of his wife, going back some years, of course, before the accumulation of late-night worry started lining her face with wrinkles that makeup couldn’t conquer and Jackson’s proclamations of “I’ll be okay” couldn’t slow. The streets and the random crime on them had taken so much of Jackson’s life. Where once he considered himself a hero, and his greatest goal was to make the streets safe for everyone, he now considered himself a victim, and his greatest goal was to make it through the day without becoming any more embittered than he was when it started.

  “Welcome to Cush.” Karen beamed at Jackson as he walked in.

  Jackson looked past Karen instead of at her. “Is Desmond Rucker in?”

  Karen’s smile faded. This guy was like the scent of nailpolish remover, harsh. “Yes, he’s in his office.”

  “May I speak with him?”

  “Is it anything I might be able to—”

  Officer Jackson looked at her like a parent looks at an unruly child. “Tell him it’s Officer Jackson waiting to talk with him.”

  Karen shook Jackson off with a roll of her eyes. “I’ll see if he’s busy.”

  “You do that,” Jackson said. He stepped back and took a seat on the leather chairs they had on either side of the aisle. He crossed his legs and sat back, whistling some long-ago song that hadn’t even been popular when it first came out.

  Karen returned to the podium in short order. “He’ll see you in his office,” she said tersely.

  Jackson stood. “And his office is…?”

  Karen turned, pointed. “Right down that path, to the right. The door marked Office.”

  Jackson tapped the podium as he passed. “Thank you, dear.”

  Karen smiled a closedmouthed little ditty. “You’re quite welcome, sir.”

  Jackson moved to Desmond’s office door and knocked once. He opened it and stuck his head in without being invited to.

  Desmond wheeled his chair to face Jackson. “Officer,” he said in a monotone.

  “Mr. Rucker.”

  Neither of them offered a hand to shake.

  Desmond did extend his hand toward a chair, though. “Have a seat.”

  Jackson shook his head. “I’ll stand.” Jackson turned and made sure the door was closed behind him. “I called your house and spoke to your sister. She seems to be coming along. She told me you were here working. Nice little spread you got here.”

  Desmond leaned to the side, eyes on Jackson. “Thanks.”

  “Your sister said an investigative officer informed you both at the hospital that the Shammond Slay guy checked out.”

  “Yes.”

  “He had a receipt showing that he was at a record shop about the time the crime was committed, and the record store owner, Rafael, he confirmed it.”

  “Right,” Desmond said.

  Jackson scratched the side of his scalp. “Also, curiously enough, he stopped in here and got two desserts to go. Apple brown betty, he says. He told our investigators ‘it’s the bomb,’ and that he got the desserts and went over to his girl’s place.”

  Desperately as Desmond tried, he couldn’t hide the surprise in his eyes.

  “You weren’t aware that he came by here, Mr. Rucker?”

  Desmond shifted his weight in the seat. “No, I wasn’t.”

  Jackson looked up and around the perimeter of the ceiling. “You have surveillance cameras here, Mr. Rucker?”

  Desmond shook his head.

  “Would you mind if I have a word with the woman out front?” Jackson asked. “She matches the description of the woman Slay says took care of him.”

  “That’s fine,” Desmond said, “but please don’t mention what happened to my sister.”

  Jackson nodded, put his hand on the doorknob, but didn’t leave. “All quite suspicious about this Shammond Slay, don’t you think, Mr. Rucker? And you say you never met him?”

  “No, I’ve never met him I don’t believe.”

  “I’m as sure as I think you are, though,” Jackson added, “that he’s somehow involved with what happened to your sister. It’s difficult, though, because people around here don’t like to talk too much against him. That guy has some serious pull in underground Asbury, as I told you. Nothing but a hoodlum, but he has major league connections. Word is he had something on some pharmaceutical executive that summers down here on the shore and he used whatever he had to blackmail the guy, get himself some money, start up his own little enterprise.” Jackson nodded to himself. “He’s involved. I just have to figure out how and why.”

  Desmond shook his head. “Yes, it all seems fishy, doesn’t it?”

  Jackson smiled. “I was meaning to ask you the other night why your special lady friend left so fast, and what seemed to upset her so.”

  Desmond eyed Jackson. “She was shocked, traumatized. She didn’t need to be there.”

  “What was her name again?”

  “Why does that matter?” Desmond asked.

  Jackson shrugged and looked around the office. “I’ve always wanted my own business, but I wouldn’t know a thing about han
dling a business. Say, running a restaurant like this,” he said. “And I’d make a big mess of it if I ever tried.” He looked at Desmond. “You should leave that kind of stuff to the professionals. You know what I mean?”

  “Sometimes you just follow your heart,” Desmond said. “If it’s something you feel you must do, you do it and let it work itself out however it does.”

  “Many of lives negatively impacted by folks following their heart,” Jackson shot back.

  Desmond tapped his watch. “I don’t mean to be rude but I have quite a few things I need to attend to.”

  Jackson smiled again. “Of course,” he said. “I’ll be talking to you again, I’m sure.”

  Cydney looked across the table at her two friends. They both looked stunned by what she’d told them. Victoria’s hair peeked from under an expensive-looking burgundy scarf. She sipped her Starbucks coffee slowly, leaving a smudge of auburn-colored lipstick along the foam lip of her cup. She had a pastry on a napkin in front of her that she kept twisting like a chess piece but didn’t bite into. Faith was dressed down, in a Reebok jumpsuit with a hood, and purple mittens that she hadn’t removed yet. She had a cup of coffee, too, but had only sipped it once.

  “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell us about your brother and mother before,” Faith said, breaking the silence of the table. “Why you had to make it seem you grew up differently than you did.”

  “She was embarrassed,” Victoria said. “I can understand that.”

  Cydney looked at Victoria with a frown. “Thanks.”

  “I don’t mean that you should have been,” Victoria said. “Just that I can understand that you were.”

  “And you think your brother had something to do with what happened to Desmond’s sister?” Faith said.

  Cydney nodded. “I’m pretty sure. Slay has a problem, he’s overprotective, and he’s a hoodlum.”

  “How did he get into that life, get this power you say he has?” Victoria asked.