“Coo,” Ryan said. “I’mma find these niggas personally and put a round of bullets in they head for killin’ my brother in cold blood like that. Y’all know Byron ain’t deserve this shit. And I hope I find them niggas before the police do, cause they black asses been all over the news in the last couple of days.”
Knight and Juan got their clothes on and headed out of the house. The first thing on their mind was food as they slowly walked down the walkway toward the street.
“So, what you want us to do?” Knight asked, seeing the anguished look on Ryan’s face.
Ryan hesitated before answering. “Just hold tight,” he said. “I need to get some information real quick then I’mma hit y’all up. But best believe, we gon' find these niggas if it’s the last thing I do. They not gon’ just kill my brother and get off like that by goin’ to prison. I want them to suffer. I don’t think they know what the fuck they done did. I’mma torture they asses just like findin’ my brother was torture for me. Best believe that shit.”
Juan and Knight looked at one another as they climbed into their van. They then noticed how Ryan walked back across the street and got into his Escalade. He walked in such a way that would tell anyone he was ready to kill at any moment. Juan, who was behind the wheel, shook his head. “I hope we find them niggas,” he said. “They went too far over some shit that we ain’t have nothin’ to do with. And they don’t know who they done fucked with. Ryan really don’t play about his shit.”
Before Ryan rolled down the street, he pulled up next to their van and looked inside. Juan lowered the window to hear what he had to say. With tight lips, Ryan said, “Y’all niggas make sure you answer the phone when I call, okay? Answer the phone.”
Chapter 3
When Ryan pulled up outside of the house of Rocko’s child’s mother, he looked up and down the block. This block, which was Lowe Avenue between 27th and 28th Streets, had long been known to be a rough area on the south side of Chicago. Because Ryan knew how to handle himself, he knew he could walk up the street and into the house with little problem from the guys standing around in groups. All he had to do was look into their eyes and they’d know. He was not the one to play with, especially today, as his eyes were red from nearly bursting into tears on the highway. The thought of someone killing his brother, and him having to find his body, made him want to pull his gun out and simply shoot up somewhere as if he were a mass killer. After all their family had been through in the last couple of years, the very thought that someone would kill his brother was just too cruel to even imagine.
Ryan walked up to the unkempt, two-story Victorian. The front yard was nearly bare of the green grass that once covered it, replaced with dirt from cars being parked in the yard and children playing on top of it as if there were not plenty of parks and fields in the area. Ryan waved at the children, not bothering to remember who was who. With Byron’s phone in his hand, he knocked on the door. After waiting a minute or so, Rocko came to the door and welcomed him in.
“Damn, nigga,” Rocko said laughing. “You ain’t hear a nigga tell you that the door was open and for you to come in?”
Ryan, sadly, shook his head. “Naw, man,” he said, quietly. “I ain’t hear you. My bad.”
Rocko, who was a few inches taller than Ryan but much lighter in weight, hugged his friend and they shook hands. It didn’t take Rocko very long to pick up on the fact that Ryan was upset about something. As he led him through the living room then dining room, Rocko had to break the ice.
“Man, wassup with you?” Rocko asked Ryan. “You look like you been cryin’ or somethin’. I ain’t used to seein’ you that way.”
Ryan waved at Jasmine, the mother of Rocko’s son. She sat in the kitchen with two other women – two women who seemingly were looking for a man as they were eying Ryan as if he were a piece of meat. Ryan then followed Rocko, tight lipped, down to the basement where he sat at a table in the middle of the concrete room, across from the washer and drier.
“Man, I just done had a real fucked up day so far,” Ryan explained. “I went over to Byron’s house earlier today.”
“Oh, yeah?” Rocko asked, smiling. “How is that nigga doin’ anyway? I ain’t seen him in a minute. I been meanin’ to hit him up, but I ain’t had the time to roll through and chill with him or nothin’ like that.”
Ryan paused before he spilled the news. “He’s dead,” he said.
Rocko’s face immediately looked concerned. “What the fuck you mean he’s dead?” he asked. “What the fuck happened to my boy? When he die? I ain’t heard nothin’ about it, I don’t think. What the fuck you talkin’ bout man?”
“He’s dead, Rocko,” Ryan said, flatly. “I went and found him this morning when I went over to his house. The nigga hadn’t been answering my calls or texts for like two days. So, I decided to roll over there and see what the fuck was goin’ on and shit.” Ryan took a deep breath. Going over the story with the police was one thing; going over it again with Rocko was another thing entirely. “So, I get there and look around the house. I see his Bugatti ain’t out there or nothin’. Anyway, I get there and look around and stuff. Looked around the first floor, then the second floor, then the attic. Finally, when I went down to the basement, I found him down there.”
“How man?” Rocko asked. He, too, could feel his heart turn at just hearing such a story. “How was he killed and shit, if you don’t mind me askin’, that is?”
“A bullet,” Ryan said, simply. “When I found him, he was on the floor, leaned up against the wall with a bullet in his head. Man, that shit was so foul I hate that I even gotta talk about it. There was blood spattered all over the wall and the carpet. It look like they just put one bullet through his head and that bullet killed him.” Ryan sniffled, trying to hold back his tears so Rocko wouldn’t have to see a grown man cry. “Man, this shit is so fucked up.”
“I hate to ask you this, man,” Rocko said, shaking his head. “But do you know who would do some foul shit like that.”
“Actually,” Ryan said, pulling Byron’s phone up onto the table and setting it down. “That’s why I came to you. See, here’s the deal. I talked to Byron’s boys, Juan and Knight, I don’t know if you know them or not. I talked to them and shit and they said that it was some niggas named Tramar and Jackson that Byron was havin’ some problems with. I won’t go into detail over what the problems were, but them niggas done fuckin’ went too far. So, I hit you up with Byron’s phone, ‘cause I kept it ‘cause I ain’t want the police to find it and try to use it against him or some shit. You know how the law is. They say freedom of speech and shit, but as soon as a nigga do something wrong, they try’na find everything he done said to somebody in the last sixty days and shit. I wanna break into Byron’s phone and shit so I can see who he been talkin’ to. And, even more, I wanna see if I can hit up them niggas Tramar and Jackson.”
Rocko grabbed the phone and looked at it. “Okay, okay,” he said, nodding his head. “I can definitely help you out with this shit. Whatever you need to help you find the niggas who would do some coldhearted shit like kill Byron in cold blood, with a bullet in the head like that. They deserve to be hunted down and shot.”
“Well,” Ryan said, looking down at his folded hands on the table. “I gotta hurry up and figure out who the fuck did this shit ‘cause I ain’t the only one lookin’ for the niggas I think did this shit, so I really gotta get on the move.”
“What you mean you not the only ones lookin’ for them niggas?” Rocko asked. He stepped over to a desk and lifted his laptop up, bringing it over to the small table. “You mean to tell me that them niggas is out there killin’ other niggas and stuff too? What you mean, like they serial killers or some shit?”
“Naw,” Ryan said, shaking his head. “I mean, maybe they are, but they in trouble with the law and shit. Not only in Illinois, but also across the border, over in Indiana. You seen some shit on the news about a couple niggas robbin’ banks?”
Rocko took a moment to
think. His eyes widened as he thought about how on Saturday morning, when the kids had gotten up to eat breakfast, they’d all been watching the news and listening to the report. “You know what, man?” Rocko said. “Now that I think about it, I think I did hear about that shit or somethin’. Was it two niggas who robbed a bank downtown during rush hour or some shit, and they was dressed in suits and shit? Then they went and did the same shit over in Indiana, in one of them small towns over there?”
Ryan nodded his head as Rocko went to work breaking into Byron’s phone. “Yup,” he said. “That’s them niggas. They wasn’t friends of Byron’s or anything like that. So, don’t think that Byron was connected to someone robbin’ some damn banks or anything. But now they got the fuckin’ police after them and shit, but a nigga just don’t give a fuck. Of course, I ain’t gon’ go downtown and be try’na work with the police or nothin’, but I’mma have my own little manhunt goin’. I’mma find these niggas and kill’em my damn self.”
“And you sure they the ones who ran up in Byron’s house and killed him like that?” Rocko asked.
“Yup,” Ryan said, looking into Rocko’s eyes. “I know it was them because that same night, Juan and Knight had said that they’d seen Tramar and Jackson about the shit they had goin’ on. Man, they just busted right on through the French doors. You know them doors that Byron got down in his basement that look out into them woods and shit. Well, when I went down into the basement, there was fuckin’ glass everywhere and wind and leaves and shit blowin’ into the house. It looked like they crashed through the door like some shit you see in a movie or some shit. And that’s when they did it.”
Rocko finished up what he was doing, shaking his head as he hurried. Byron had always been a good guy, especially to him. He truly found it a shame that someone would kill him like that. When Rocko finished breaking into the phone, he slid it across the table.
“There you go,” Rocko said to Ryan. “The phone is open now. Get to findin’ out who them niggas is and where they at so you can get them before they go killin’ other niggas out here that are actually some good ones. You said they names is Tramar and Jackson?”
“Yeah,” Ryan responded, grabbing Byron’s phone. “You think you know them niggas or some shit?”
Rocko leaned back in his chair, looking blankly at the table. “I don’t know,” he said. “I mean, the names sound familiar and shit, but how many Tramars and how many Jacksons are there in Chicago?”
“Prolly a lot,” Ryan said, making his way through Byron’s phone to the contacts. “But I bet you money that there probably ain’t too many niggas with them two names that happen to be friends and shit. I’mma find they ass, though. I’mma scour this fuckin’ city until I do. They not gon’ just get away with this shit and think that everything is jus gon’ be coo and shit. It’s not. And I ain’t even called my family yet. I’mma do that shit in a little bit. I know they gon’ be devastated as fuck, so I gotta get myself together for that.”
Ryan scrolled through Byron’s call logs and text messages. After reading over everything, he was more than convinced that Jackson and Tramar were the ones who did this. Even in the text messages, in their wording, Ryan could see that there was so much tension between them and his brother. He cringed as he looked at how many times Byron had called Ryan on Saturday night, and for the length of time they’d talked on the phone.
Just as Ryan was about to ask Rocko a question, one of the kids came running downstairs. “Daddy?” the little girl said.
“Not right now,” Rocko said, waving the girl away. “Daddy is talkin’ right now, and I need a little more time.”
“Okay,” the little girl said, heading back upstairs.
Rocko looked back at Ryan. “Sorry about that, man,” he said. “You know how kids can be.”
“Naw, man,” Ryan said. “You coo. I’m actually about to head out. I need to go home and figure out what the fuck I’mma do. I also need to call some people and see what the hell is goin’ on out in these streets. I’mma call these niggas and see what the fuck they say and let’em know that I’m out to get that ass and ain’t nowhere they can run to. I swear to God, I’mma find them niggas and kill’em, no matter what it takes.”
“Man, just be careful,” Rocko said. “You know how these cops is out here with niggas nowadays. Just make sure that you stay low and shit so that maybe you can sneak up on they ass. If you want, I can ask around and see why the names Jackson and Tramar is soundin’ familiar to me. Sorry, man, but I just can’t think of where I know them names from, but I swear to you, bruh, they do sound familiar as fuck. They from Chicago or Naptown or Milwaukee or what?”
Ryan stood up. He shrugged his shoulder. “Shit, I don’t know,” he said. “I ain’t even know that Byron was havin’ a problem with them. But that’s okay, though. I’mma find them soon enough. I don’t care where they from. All I care about is where they goin’. And I’mma make sure that they goin’ to the grave and shit when I’m through with them. Even if I gotta go after they family like they did mine, then so be it. This shit is about to get more live than either of them dumbass niggas can even imagine.” He balled his fists. “I’mma fuck them niggas up so bad.”
Rocko led Ryan back upstairs. They walked through the dining room then living room and out onto the front porch. Now, even walking out into the front yard in broad daylight seemed different to Ryan. It was as if nature knew that his brother was no longer with him. Not only had the temperature dropped, but also the clouds rolled over the city, and blocked out some of the sun’s rays.
Rocko hugged Ryan and the two shook hands before Ryan walked back out to his Escalade. Once inside, a tear rolled down the side of his face as he pulled off and made his way to the nearest major street. The entire ride back to his north-side apartment, he was not only thinking about how his family was going to take the news, but also how he was going to call this Jackson dude when he got home and let him know the deal. When Ryan pulled up into the parking garage of his apartment tower, he hurried inside and shut the door. He pulled out Byron’s phone and tapped on Jackson’s name in the call log.
***
“You sure you wanna head out on the road today?” Jackson asked Tramar. The two of them were sitting on the couch in Durrell’s basement. Durrell still had company over, who had remained upstairs for the better part of the middle of the day. Durrell had assured Jackson, Tramar, and Ayana that they could leave anytime they felt like it. However, they knew that they really had nowhere to go right now in Omaha. Their next move was to get to Kansas City, which was only a couple of hours to the south. From there, they were contemplating whether or not they wanted to go to Los Angeles like they had originally thought, or Texas.
“Yeah, nigga,” Tramar said, standing up. He went into the spare room and pulled his bags out into the main room of the basement. “What you thinkin’?”
“Nigga, I was thinkin’ we could head down to Kansas City at night instead of going in the day,” Jackson said. “I mean, that would seem like the smart thing to do. I think we should travel at night instead of during the day.”
“I agree,” Ayana said. “Tramar, think about it. If we travel during the day, we run the risk of people seeing us and recognizing us. We ain’t got time for all that, not to mention the risk. But, if we travel during the night, like that, people ain’t gon’ see us so much.”
Tramar nodded. “I see what you mean,” he said. “But what we gon’ do about Byron’s car? Y’all thinkin’ that we should just keep drivin’ that?”
Jackson shrugged. “I mean…” he said, hesitantly. “I think we’d be better off drivin’ that shit than stealin’ some car that the police gon’ be lookin’ for.”
“What if the police done already found Byron’s body and shit, and now they lookin’ for his car to be out on the highways and stuff?” Tramar asked.
“Nigga, I doubt that,” Jackson said. “I mean, what are the chances that the police done even found out that Byron is dead yet. That ni
gga is prolly still layin’ over there with the bullet in his head on that basement floor right where we left him.”
The three of them decided that if they could get to Dallas soon, they could find a car that the police would not be looking for. “Between all them Mexicans and whoever else that be flowin’ into Dallas and shit from other parts of the world,” Jackson said, “I know we can get another car down there that will last us until we figure out what we gon’ do from there. We just gotta get away from Chicago as far as we can and get with some people who know how to change they names and shit.”
“Mexicans,” Ayana said. They all chuckled because they knew there was some truth to that stereotype.
A few second later, they were taken by surprise to hear Jackson’s phone ringing. Tramar jumped up off of the couch.
“What the fuck?” Tramar said.
“Calm down, nigga,” Jackson said, pulling his phone out of his pocket. “Ain’t no reason for you to go trippin’ and shit. You don’t even know…” Jackson’s words trailed off upon seeing his caller ID. His heart practically skipped a beat when he saw that the person calling his phone right then was Byron. “What the fuck?”
“What?” Tramar asked.
“What?” Ayana asked, following Tramar.
Jackson held his vibrating phone up for Tramar and Ayana to see. “It’s Byron,” he said. “It’s that nigga Byron callin’.”
“What the fuck?” Tramar said. “Y’all saw me put a bullet in that nigga’s head. Y’all saw that shit. I know I ain’t trippin’. When we left that fuckin’ house, that nigga was dead in the basement and shit. How the fuck he gon’ be callin’ and shit? Hospitals and shit can’t save no nigga who got a bullet in they head, can they?”
Jackson and Ayana looked at one another. The fact of the matter was that none of them had an answer to such a question. Before his phone stopped vibrating, Jackson answered. “Yeah?” he said.
“This Jackson?” a voice asked.
When It All Falls Down 4 - It Just Ain't Over Yet: A Chicago Hood Drama (A Hustler's Lady) Page 5
