“Ghetti,” she said softly.
“Yeah?”
“I think we are speaking on the wrong topic. You got to take care of your problems first and then we can . . . Her voice faltered.
“Maria. I didn’t hear ya, we can whut?”
“Ummm, I’m back. Sorry, I just thought I heard something.” She stood up and started pacing the floor. “Okay, like I was saying. When things are straight, we can focus on us. That’s if you still feel the same.”
“And if I don’t?” He laughed.
“Te voy adar una pata por el culo!” she fired rapidly in her native tongue.
“Whut that mean?”
“It means,” she giggled. “I will kick your ass! Now please tell me where you are since your number is blocked out.”
“Where you want me to be?”
“Want me to be honest?” she whispered provocatively.
“All the time.”
“Okay. I want you to be deep in my tight and wet chocha with my legs up on your shoulders,” she whispered. “And then I want you to fuck my chocha all night long until I cum all over your dick.”
“Keep going,” he said in hopes to lead her toward some phone sex.
“Not until you trust me and tell me where you’re calling from.”
“C’mon, baby”
“No! Tell me.”
“Aiight.” He gave in. “I’m down in Miami.”
Maria sat back down on the bed with her back still facing the door. “Really?”
“Ain’t got no reason to lie to ya. And for the record, don’t tell nobody that you talked to me.”
“Duh, I’m not stupid.” She smiled.
“Yo, ’member that night them two dudes got shot up the street?”
“Mm hmm.”
“Did Poo mention anything to you ’bout it when he came in that night?”
She adjusted the bra strap under her shirt as she thought back to that night. “No, but he was acting funny when he found out who was shot. He wouldn’t tell me anything and I got scared because he stayed up all night with his gun. He was high too, so you know he was acting stupid. I just thought he was tripping off whatever he was using,” She said. As she pondered on the events, things started to become clear. The police were looking for Ghetti and she was now assuming the reason to be the two men killed on her street. Did he do it? Was he a man wanted for a double homicide? She cleared her itchy throat. “Ghetti, did you do it? Those two guys?” She heard him release a deep breath.
“Okay, listen. This is what—”
“Let m-me call you right back,” she blurted.
Before he could even say good-bye or get a word in, the
call had ended.
Maria was in a paralyzing state of terror as Poo-Man crumpled up the written note he had held in her face. It read, “Tell that nigga bye.” Her fear was inflamed from the crazed look on Poo-Man’s face and the .38 in his hand.
“Stand up you wet back slut!” he shouted.
Maria rose to her feet filled with trembling fear.
“Gimme that!” Poo-Man yanked the cell phone away, slinging it against the wall. “So you miss Ghetti, huh? You think you can shit on the Poo-Man and get away wit it, huh? Bitch, you understand what the fuck I’m sayin’!” he spat in a rage. Releasing all of his pent up rage, he cocked back a tight fist and punched her dead in the face before she even thought about ducking. Her neck snapped back, followed by her small frame as she collapsed to the floor. A bruise instantly formed under her left eye and across the bridge of her nose. She was dazed. Moaning in pain, she rolled to her side. Poo-Man laid his gun on the bed then unconsciously began to pummel Maria with his fists. She tried to fight back. Poo-Man showed no mercy. Punching and kicking with all his strength at any parts of her body. He ignored the blood pouring from her nose and mouth. Ignored the sickening sound of one of her ribs cracking, the way two of her fingers snapped as he stomped on them. Relentlessly he punished her. Pain discovered every inch of her body. He ripped her clothes away like a savage as she tried to crawl away, leaving the carpet saturated with her blood and tears. She was near the door when the first lash of his leather belt slashed against her flesh. Over and over in a blind rage, he punished her with the belt. Each hit left a welt. Her back, legs, arms, and even her face was a target. He whipped her with not an ounce of forbearance. When the welts on her back began to bleed, it only pushed him to whip her harder. He took the heavy metal buckle and used it on her knees. Her cries began to lessen. The only sounds were the belt whizzing through the air and the sound of it connecting. Her body began to shut down. She could no longer feel the belt splitting her skin, nor hear the sound it made slapping her flesh. She was thinking about her childhood with Carlos when Poo-Man dropped the bloody belt and picked up the .38. She never saw his demented expression when he aimed the gun at her face. Her mind had removed her from the pain.
Nosey Wanda was at Maria’s front door. She was paying a visit to ask for some cooking oil and of course to be nosey. She had rung the doorbell instead of knocking.
POW!
The sharp gunshot was a familiar sound to Wanda. It caused her cellulite ass to run at full speed back across the street and straight to the phone to call pops. Poo-Man was easing back on the trigger when the doorbell startled him, throwing his aim off at the last split second. Rushing out, he slipped in her blood, but gave no thought to the body he left beaten and bloody in his wake.
CHAPTER 9:
Conscience
Durham, North Carolina,
Twenty minutes after Poo-Man fled out the back door, Maria’s crib was swarming with the pops. Detective Hartford had arrived before Detective Carter and five minutes after Maria was rushed to the hospital in critical condition. Detective Hartford stood to the side while five crime scene investigators collected the evidence from the bedroom Maria was found in. Detective Carter motioned for Detective Hartford to step inside the kitchen.
“Amanda,” she said. “I have a bad feeling that Regail did this.”
“Then it’s my fault,” Detective Hartford said. “It was my idea to let him out. How did you get here so fast? I thought you were in Goldsboro?”
“Don’t try to throw me off, Amanda,” Detective Carter said firmly. “I will not allow you to put the blame on yourself. We made the decision together, Amanda, and we will work this out. And to answer your question. I was at home when you called me.”
Detective Hartford rubbed her forehead then folded her arms. She was clearly upset with herself. A rookie cop poked his head into the kitchen getting their attention.
“Detective Carter, I just got word from the hospital and ummm that girl is talking. The sheriff wants you and your partner over there as soon as possible.”
*Duke Hospital*
9:18 P.M.
Detective Carter stood in the corner as Detective Hartford sat next to Maria’s bed. Maria had half of her swollen face covered in bandages. She was fading in and out and the doctors were debating about even allowing the police to talk to her. Detective Hartford only had one question and she simply asked, “Who did this to you?”
At a faint whisper, Poo-Man’s name rolled through her busted lips. Detective Hartford leaned over the rail and softly kissed Maria’s bruised cheek. Once Detective Carter stepped out of the room, she had her cell phone to her ear. Detective Hartford walked down the hallway filled with guilt. She placed the blame on herself and it was tearing her apart. In less than five minutes, Detective Carter had an A.P.B. out on Regail Fields A.K.A. Poo-Man. Detective Carter knew that she and her partner would get the full blame over letting Regail out in the first place. Pushing that from her mind, she knew she had to focus on catching him and it had to be soon.
*Miami, Florida*
Same Time
Ghetti had tried to call Maria back about five or six minutes after she hung up, but he received no answer. She had ended the call by telling him that she would call him back. How could she do that when his number was blocked o
ut and he hadn’t given her the number? He came close to dialing her home number, but changed his mind. He would have made her phone ring at the exact time that Detective Hartford showed up, but what stopped him was Jazmine at the front door. She had driven Skyy’s car over with the excuse of getting some items from her bedroom that Ghetti was now using. Fly was still out and Ghetti and Skyy knew how late Fly would stay on the hustle. One thing led to another and Ghetti and Jazmine got into a small argument. The reason was due to Jazmine coming clean about the set up she helped Skyy with.
“Why the fuck you on some bullshit like that?” Ghetti followed her out of the bedroom.
“Ghetti, I’m sorry, okay? I really thought she wasn’t going to show up. I—”
“Ain’t even tryin’ to hear it,” Ghetti said, cutting her off. “You got too much shit wit’ you.”
Jazmine dropped her bag turning to face Ghetti. As usual, she was looking her best. Her customized jeans were making love to her 23-inch waist and 40-inch hips.
“How about, we make up.” She reached for her rhinestone belt buckle.
“How ’bout you pick up your shit and bounce. You ain’t ’bout to fool me twice,” he said, heated. “Fuck you take me for? Joe Lame?”
“Are you serious? You don’t want to fuck?”
Ghetti gave her deceptive ass a screw face then went toward the kitchen.
“Fine!” Jazmine snapped. Snatching up her bag, she left, slamming the gated door behind her.
Ghetti was pouring a glass of orange juice when the cell phone on his hip began to ring. “Yo whut up, San?” Ghetti answered upon seeing San’s number on the screen.
“Ghetti, shit is fucked up.”
“Whut is it?”
San first explained that Poo-Man was out of jail and how Rasta Mark had sold Poo-Man a .38. He then filled Ghetti in on how Poo-Man had roughed up his nephew and pulled a gun on him.
“I’ma kill Poo when I find his bitch ass and that’s my muthafuckin’ word! But dawg, there’s more. Man, Poo put that girl in the hospital,” San explained. It took San a few minutes to tell Ghetti about Poo-Man beating up Maria and shooting her.
“The pops are everywhere looking for Poo-Man,” San continued.
Ghetti sat down at the kitchen table nearly at a loss for words.
“Look, yo, lemme hit you back because I need to focus on finding Poo before the pops do, but I’ll keep you posted. Peace yo.” San hung up.
Ghetti laid his cell phone down on the table. He was not about to shed any tears for Maria because instead of sadness he was filled with anger. What in the hell could push Poo-Man so far over the edge? Poo-Man did not have a street rep as one to bust his guns. Yeah, he stayed strapped, but Ghetti knew it was mainly due to Poo-Man wanting to be known as a gangster. Ghetti had underestimated Poo-Man. Pushing away from the table he went to the bedroom to pack his bag. His intuition was telling him to go back to North Carolina.
*Durham, North Carolina*
9.33 P.M.
There was only one person who was firmly against Poo-Man’s conditional release, and that was his ‘by the book’ probation officer. What really fueled his reason was based largely on the secret beef he had with Detective Volanda Carter. As soon as Bruce received a call about the APB and warrant for Poo-Man’s arrest, he decided instantly to damage her name. Rushing out of his house, he went on a laborious search for a rare object, a working pay phone. Once he found one he made an anonymous call to the local TV station to drop the dime on how Regail Fields had no business being out of jail. He knew it was mainly that white bitch, Detective Hartford’s idea to release Poo-Man, but he laid the blame all over Volanda.
Poo-Man was still in a hectic state of mind. Somewhere in a vacant space of his mind, he was surprised at his explosive acts of violence toward Maria. Yeah, he perpetrated hard like a gangster, but Poo was not a killer. He knew he would have to lay low. Unlike Ghetti, Poo-Man did not have enough money to vanish. All he had left was $589 from the lick with the Arabs. What he needed was a quick lick. The first victim that formed as his target was Rasta Mark. He thought he could catch Rasta Mark slipping. Making a u-turn, he headed back toward the hood on the motorcycle.
Rasta Mark sat behind the wheel of his charcoal gray Yukon Denali cruising the hood in search of Poo-Man. San sat beside him with a nickel-plated .40 caliber ready to murder Poo-Man on sight.
“Ain’t no telling where Poo-Man at,” Rasta Mark said while cruising down the 1000 block of Franklin Street.
“Don’t matter,” San retorted. “He can be at the church and I’ma still get at his bitch ass! Pull a fucking burner out on my little nephew!”
Poo-Man rolled through the Liberty Street Apartments. His thin, long sleeve jacket was not keeping the cold air from his body or his hands. He rode around for ten more minutes with no sight of Rasta Mark when the fuel light came on. He circled the block once more with his eyes searching for Rasta Mark’s rimmed up Denali.
Rasta Mark had missed Poo-Man by one block. “Swing by the BP,” San said. “Too many pops riding around this spot.”
“I was finnatsay the same,” Rasta Mark replied, doing a spot check on the three mirrors.
“I wanna put my hands on Poo so damn bad!” San slammed his fist into his palm.
“Your nephew all right?” Rasta Mark asked, adjusting his black Rasta tam on his dreads.
“Yeah. His crazy ass said he shot back with a BB gun.”
“I’ve been thinking about a few things.” Rasta Mark gestured with his free hand. “I sold Poo that thirty-eight without a care about how he was going to use it. What if he had shot your nephew? That shit would have been on my conscience, San. All these bangers and fully auto’s I be selling end up in these streets.” Rasta Mark swept his hand in front of him. “We be busting at our own people. Black people are afraid of Black people and we all in the same hood. You think it was like this back in the fifties and sixties? My granddaddy told me how it was and it was not like this. We are our own enemy. I call myself being above these young bucks out here shedding blood for blue or red, but in reality, I ain’t. I’m the one that’s arming these gangs and all I’ve been focused on is the money. I got family in these streets. I ain’t gonna wake up until someone in my family becomes an innocent victim from one of my guns so I’m waking up now.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m done with selling guns.”
San felt Rasta Mark’s words and truth stood firmly behind them. The more he thought about Rasta Mark’s views the more he realized that his actions would only keep the cycle of violence rolling. Okay, if he killed Poo-Man, then what? He knew the life-altering consequences he would face. Starting out, he would have to worry about the pops charging him with murder. San was not a child. He was a thirty-three-year-old grown ass man with kids. Yeah, he stood only five-feet-two, but his size did not relate to his mature mindset. He still needed to teach Poo-Man a life lasting lesson.
“San!” Rasta Mark pulled his truck under the bright lights at the BP gas station. “Don’t wild out, but there go Poo-Man getting on his bike.” Poo-Man started grinning while twisting the fuel cap back on. He no longer had to search for his lick. Rasta Mark had found him. He waved the Denali over, briefly checking out how the sparkling chrome rims rolled slowly over the pavement. He had no idea that the kid he had roughed up was San’s nephew.
“Whut’s good?” Rasta Mark had the tinted window halfway down.
“Ain’t shit,” Poo-Man replied. “Who rollin’ wit you?” He looked past Rasta Mark and spotted San sitting in the passenger seat.
“I been looking for you,” Rasta Mark said. “I got this new nine millimeter I want to show you.”
“Let me ride over to the side right quick.” Poo-Man was pulling his helmet from under the webbed strap when the pops pulled up on the scene. The police behind the wheel recognized Poo-Man immediately. Once they made eye contact, it was on. One second, Poo-Man was standing next to the motorcycle and the next he was accelerating hard fr
om the gas station tucked under the small visor. Before the pops could even make a u-turn, Poo-Man was blazing down the streets with his dreads stretched out in the wind. “I’ll holla!”
Poo-Man made the chase a short one as he lost the single police in less than a minute. Adrenalin had him ignoring the frigid air blowing on him as he got missing. If there was one thing he was good at, it was riding a motorcycle. About ten minutes later, he was hiding behind a department store freezing his ass off. He knew the pops would be suspicious of every motorcycle that came in their sight and he was not up to chance his luck on losing them again. Reality sank in when he realized that he was wanted for murder. He was going off his last vision of Maria and the bullet he put into her. He knew his fingerprints were left, but hell that was Poo’s girl’s crib. Poo-Man had his mindset on not going back to jail. He blamed everything on Ghetti as he paced in the darkness. Pulling his small flip phone out, he turned it on with his hands covering up the bright screen. He saw that he had four text messages and five voice messages. He hoped they were from his cousin, Riff. His hope was trashed when he saw that his probation officer had sent the four text messages.
You need to turn yourself in!
You can’t run forever. You will get caught!
You have no friends. We will find you!
You fucked up big time Regail.
Poo-Man texted his probation officer back with a terse response.
Suck my dick faggot J
All of the voice messages were from his probation officer saying a bunch of dumb shit about how he should turn himself in. With his numb thumb, he dialed in his cousin’s number in Chapel Hill. After the ninth ring, he ended the call. Slipping the phone into his pocket, he felt something crusty on the edge of his pocket. Pulling the phone back out, he turned it on then used its light to look at his pants.
“Oh shit!” he muttered. His jeans and the toes of his boots were specked with blood. No damn wonder the people in the store were acting funny when he went inside to pay for the gas. Poo-Man knew he had to get out of Durham County ASAP. Moving to the motorcycle, he popped the fuse box and removed the fuse for the lights. At night, the motorcycle lights were too easy to spot, coming or going and this might help Poo-Man escape the APB. He rode off into the darkness without revving the engine. He hit the back roads and stayed off the main streets and later he crossed into Wake County. It was then he replaced the fuse to continue his escape with hopes of leaving his troubles behind. He had another cousin that stayed in Raleigh, so he rode at the speed limit with his reflexes ready to push the YZF-R6 to a triple digit speed at any sight of the pops. Ignoring the ice-cold breeze, he stood motionless in the dense grass. Peering through the matte binoculars, he focused in on the Lexus LS that sat in front of Volanda’s BMW. He had watched her apartment before she had gotten home. Out of a jealous curiosity, Bruce had scrawled down the tag number from the Lexus. What made his blood boil was how the man driving the Lexus had entered the apartment with a key. Volanda had never given him this privilege when he was fucking with her. He knew the man was not a family member when he saw the intimate silhouette shown in the bedroom window. Removing the binoculars, he continued to stare at the dark bedroom window. The thought of another man experiencing the art of love with Volanda caused him to shed a tear. It was not fair. He lowered his head then made the trip back home to his wife.
The Game of Deception Page 13
