Hustle & Heartache

by D. Gamblez

  Her deadbeat father, formerly Detective Xavier Foster of the Gary Police Department, had ditched me at the first mention of my pregnancy and he and I have been at odds ever since. The messed up thing about it was that he and I had been prominent detectives in the Gary Police Department’s Gang Unit under the command of former Sergeant Carl Hensley for about a year before I got knocked up by him.

  Prior to my pregnancy, Foster had been as close as partners could get. When I say he and I were partners, I do not mean in the spousal sense. I mean, prior to him abandoning me to raise a kid on my own seven years ago, he and I were very close as he had been my partner in law enforcement for the first three years of my career.

  Well, up until the moment I had gotten pregnant with his kid, that is.

  From our shared stories, Foster and I had started off as rising stars out of the same academy and were both later hired by the Gary Police Department a few months following our graduation. And as fate would have it, after a few months of training and getting familiarized with the streets of G.I.—me not so much as it was already my hometown— we both ended up in the Gang Unit. We were plucked fresh from our beat by none other than then Sergeant Carl Hensley himself. And despite Foster and I drifting apart and going in separate directions three years later, we had somehow managed to make our way up through the ranks of our profession, but it had taken us both almost ten years in total to do so.

  Foster and I had originally started off as friends, but our working together for such a lengthy period of time pushed us into a budding relationship. However, our differences of opinion regarding traditional roles in our relationship would later pull us in opposite directions. And even though three of those years spent together were the most romantic whirlwind of love two people could ever hope for, sadly, it did not work out as we both had hoped.

  I thought nothing could stop us from achieving what every other failed relationship in the department could not. But just like those failed relationships, ours followed suit. Thinking that we would be together forever, we got careless and I ended up pregnant. Not wanting kids as he felt he was too young and not ready to be a father, Foster had offered to pay for me to get an abortion.

  I refused, of course, but the fact that he could even consider that as an option and the fact that I could never take an innocent life, it pitted us against each other in the worst way. So much so that it began to affect our ability to do our jobs, so my father had forced Foster to put in for a transfer to the Chicago Police Department.

  Now Foster and I do not only resent one another, we mutually hate each other as well. For he blames me for our failed relationship, and I blame him, so, yeah, that was the end of that.

  On a positive note, however, I was now a sergeant at the Gary Police Department and had been employed there going on ten years now.

  After finally being able to get off work at 8:00, I had just gotten home. I had to pay the babysitter an extra ten dollars because I was an hour later than usual. Now that I thought about it, this was my third time being late to getting home this month.

  I stayed in the Grant Circle Condominiums out in Merrillville, so the commute from Gary to my apartment could be a little off sometimes. I knew moving closer to my job would make things a whole lot easier, but I liked being near the Southlake Mall, which was located off of 80/94, only a short driving distance from where I now lived compared to how far it would be if I lived in Gary.

  Plus, it was so much nicer here.

  After a quick bite to eat−chicken potpie and a bottle of Pepsi−I sat my police-issued 9mmdown next to also police-issued pump-action shotgun inside my stainless-steel gun safe. I kept it hidden behind a secret panel in the wall of my bedroom closet. Then I took off my Kevlar vest and removed my black T-shirt with the letters GPD stitched across the front and the words Homicide Unit on the back. I kicked off my black tactical boots, pulled off my denim blue jeans, and removed my socks, black D-cup size sports bra, and lastly, my thong.

  I stood naked in my bedroom and, like I have done every day since I moved into the cozy two-bedroom apartment about a year and a half ago, I studied my body in the full-length mirror located beside the dresser. I lifted my hand and used my index and forefinger to trace the outline of the gunshot wound I had sustained about five years ago underneath my right breast. I had not worn a vest then because I had not been afraid of anything, not even death. But I had nearly paid for that mistake when some kid with a loaded gun decided to shoot up the police department and one of those bullets found its way to me, impacting itself into my chest within inches of my heart.

  Two other people were hit that fatal day, but neither one of them made it out alive. They say that out of every 3 people who are shot, only one of them lives to tell the story. Guess I was the 1 person that day. Since then, I had been keeping my guard up.

  Funny how someone who was not afraid of death could come within inches of experiencing it and have their entire perspective on life changed afterwards. I am not saying that I was a religious woman or anything like that, but, yeah, I could definitely see things in a whole other light now.

  I removed my ponytail holder, releasing my long, dark-brown hair, letting it unravel until it reached its full length just past the middle of my back. I turned sideways to see if my 35-year-old booty was still as plump and toned as it was yesterday. It was. I knew that changes to the human body were not as noticeable in as short a time as a day, but that did not stop me from checking myself for effects of old age every day of the week. I placed my hands on my hips and pursed my lips, trying to look cute. I did not think I did.

  I turned back to face the mirror and noticed how bushy my pubic hairs had gotten. I usually kept it well-groomed down there, but with all the extra hours I had been working as of late, I had not yet had the time to pamper and primp myself. I decided that I would try to do that tonight.

  I glanced back at the mirror to watch myself walk away as I exited the room and headed to the bathroom to turn off my bathwater. I could smell the wonderful aromas of Lavender Lust bubble bath I had poured into the tub and the large Twilight Woods scented candle I had lit as well. I had gotten both items from Bed, Bath, & Beyond two months ago, and I had been anticipating the day I would get to use them ever since.

  As I entered the bathroom, I pushed play on my Sony CD player and Johnny Gill’s There You Go began to play low and smooth throughout the bathroom. I turned off the bathwater and wasted no time getting into the relaxing, sudsy liquid. I submerged my dark-skinned body into the warm, waiting waters and leaned back in the tub until my head was the only thing visible above the bubbles.

  Then I grabbed the pink vibrator from the windowsill and turned the little dial at the bottom until it was at maximum power. I slipped it beneath the bubbly water and slid it down my body, starting between my breasts then working my way down until I reached my awaiting furry peach.

  “Ooh, yes. This feels so damn good,” I moaned as I began to slide the vibrator in and out of my plump, tight vagina, corkscrewing my hot, juicy tunnel in rhythm to the sound of Johnny Gill’s sexy voice. I was right at the brink of climax when the mood-killing sound of my phone chirping, destroyed the serene atmosphere in my bathroom and cost me an orgasm that had been building up for the past three months. I sighed deeply then closed my eyes.

  Come on, God. I know I’m not much of a Christian, but please don’t let this be something that I have to go in to the station for. I really need a day of peace and quiet for once.

  I reached up to the spot on the windowsill next to where I usually kept my vibrator whenever I bathed, which was rare nowadays−for the vibrator, not the taking a bath part−and grabbed my cell phone.

  * * *

  THERE’S BEEN ANOTHER HIT!

  * * *

  “Fuck!” I said aloud after reading the text from my former partner and father of my child.

  After noticing the battery was nearly depleted, I hopped out of my wonderful bath, wet hair and all, and wrapped myself in a towel
before heading to the living room to grab my cordless phone from the charging station atop the Sony entertainment system. I wiped the water from my right hand on the towel and dialed the familiar number.

  “We’ve got another one, Detective,” Sergeant Xavier Foster answered gruffly after the third ring. He and Hensley purposely referred to me as “Detective” instead of “Sergeant” out of spite.

  “The Death Dealers?” I asked, hoping it was something that could wait until morning.

  “The Death Dealers,” Foster confirmed. “I know you just got off work and all, but you said to keep you posted on this thing. But, I mean, if you’d like to sit this one out and stay home with our little girl, I’d understand. God knows you need the rest. I could give you an update in the morning.”

  I could hear the sarcasm in his voice, and I knew he was just trying to get under my skin by referring to M’kayla as “our little girl.” But I was not going to bite. Nice try, deadbeat.

  Ever since he had taken over the Gang Unit two years ago, which coincidently, was the exact same time my father had decided to promote me to Sergeant and had chosen me to head up the Homicide Unit, Foster has been doing his best to get under my skin. Not only did he not believe I deserved to be a sergeant, or believed that I deserved to head up my own unit, he believed that the only reason I had been promoted and given the job in the first place was because my father was the chief-of-police and felt sorry for me due to my claim that Foster had gotten me pregnant and shucked his responsibilities as a parent, leaving me to raise a child all on my own.

  To my dismay, because my father and Hensley had become bosom buddies and because Hensley loved Foster like the son he never had, Hensley had requested my father bring Foster back. My father was against it at first, but then Foster had called my father and lied to him about the reason for our relationship ending, claiming that I did not want him in M’kayla’s life from the beginning because I was too afraid of commitment and too headstrong to listen to reason. He had even complained about how I was not cut out for the job and that I would fail the moment things got too thick, just like I had done in our relationship. With Hensley backing his story−which was really him just lying for Foster−my father had changed his mind and welcomed Foster back with open arms.

  But bringing Foster back was not enough for Hensley as he felt Foster deserved more respect due to the fact that in only five years he had become a sergeant within the Chicago Police Department. He claimed that it would be doing him a dishonor if he was simply brought back to the GPD just so he could serve under someone else’s command.

  So, at Hensley’s request, upon his return to the GPD, my father promoted Foster to head of the Gang Unit just to be fair. But I suspect my father had done it more so for the fear that others would suspect favoritism shown towards me and see it as a weakness of his character.

  As the icing on the cake, as a way for us to prove to him that we could all get past our differences, not only had my father put Lieutenant Hensley over the Homicide, Gang, and Narcotics units, but he had personally tasked my and Foster’s respective units with solving the case of who was behind the latest string of violence plaguing Gary, Indiana: the Death Dealers; a murderous group of masked assailants who seemed to only be targeting gang leaders and drug dealers.

  He had stated in no uncertain terms that if the three of us failed to work together on this case, then he would personally reassign us all. Ever since then, Hensley and Foster has been working together hand-in-pocket, and Hensley has been more than eager to make sure that I was uncomfortable with his bonding with the father of my child and his authority over me.

  Hensley’s and Foster’s goal was to solve the case without the assistance of my unit, and to prove to my father that the two of them deserved more recognition than they have been receiving as of late, but to also show my father that I was not cut out for the job. That is the reason I made sure Foster called or texted me for any little thing related to the case. I was not going to let him or that prick Hensley show me up. Even though our feelings toward each other were mutually hateful, and even though I felt more than hurt for my father not choosing his own flesh and blood over two misogynistic assholes, I would rather work alongside Foster and under Hensley’s authority and solve the Death Dealers case than risk my career because of my personal feelings.

  “How ‘bout you sit this one out, Naomi, huh?” Foster pushed, his voice bringing me back to the present.

  “Not a chance. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” I said assuredly.

  “That’s pretty impressive that you know how long it’ll take you to get here when I haven’t even given you the address yet,” he said smugly.

  Smart-ass sonofabitch! I thought to myself. “What’s the address, Foster?” I asked.

  “432 Gerry Street, on the Westside. Right down the street from Taco Bravo. Vice Lord territory.”

  “I’ll be there in fifteen,” I said again, not letting him get the satisfaction of proving me wrong.

  “Sure you won’t be longer than—”

  I disconnected the line before he could finish his smart-ass remark.”Smug motherfucker,” I gritted my teeth as I ran to my room and redressed in the same clothes I had taken off twenty minutes ago.

  After I had finished redressing, I ran out into the hall and, as I did not want to wait for the service elevator, I used the stairway to go to the first floor of the two-story four-apartment condominium and knocked on the door of my best friend’s apartment.

  “What the hell, girl?”Winona Baxley said sleepily as she opened the door. “You know I have to teach yoga class tomorrow morning.”

  “Got to keep that sexy 33-year-old body limber for Jonathan, huh, Nona?” I said, trying to butter her up for what I was about to ask.

  “I’m not with Jonathan anymore,” Winona revealed, tucking a few strands of her long, black Native American hair behind her ear. “I’m with Kevin now.”

  Kevin was one of the other yoga instructors she had hired about five months ago at her yoga gym, Yoga-Mania Dance Studio. Jonathan had been her business partner up until about seven months ago when Winona had decided to buy him out after she had found him in his office with one of the female instructors doing... Well, let us just say he was giving her a private yoga lesson. She had broken up with him momentarily but then decided to get back with him, but only so she could manipulate him into giving up his share of the business. I guess she had gotten what she wanted and was now done with him.

  “Listen,” I put a hand on her shoulder to better relay my need of her. “I have to go in for a few hours, so I really need you to do me a solid and—”

  “I know, I know,” she said, waving her hand haltingly. “Let me just grab something to read, then I’ll be right up. Just make sure you’re back before I have to leave for the gym. And you owe me lunch this weekend.”

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you so much!” I exclaimed, grabbing the sides of her face and kissing her on the lips.

  * * *

  “Watch it, sexy bitch,” Winona smiled, biting down on the tip of her finger. “You know I like to switch up the wood for some nice, fluffy carpet every now and again.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, ignoring her playful bi-sexual banter as I handed her the keys to my apartment. Then I ran through the lobby and out the door like a roadrunner with a fox on its tail. I hopped in my unmarked police cruiser, a black four-door Crown Victoria, and left tread marks on the tarmac as I peeled out of the carport.

  This’ll be the fourth time these assholes struck in less than six months, since this whole “Death Dealers” thing started, and we have yet to make a dent in the damn case. If these guys are this elusive, how the hell are we supposed to stop them if we can’t catch them? No district likes to bring in an outsider to assist them in solving a case, but if the Death Dealers death toll continues to pile up, we may just have to tuck our dicks between our legs and call in the FBI or BAU.

  As I pulled up to the brick home, I knew it was goin
g to be a bad one. Almost everyone who lived in this neighborhood was out here tonight. Even their kids were outside, standing in front of their parents or older brothers or sisters like penguins under the protection of the adults.

  As I exited my vehicle, a sudden gust of wind whipped my wet hair into a messy frenzy. I had no time to dry it as I was doing my damnedest to make it here in my proposed fifteen minutes, which I managed to do in twelve, by the way. As I maneuvered through the crowd of onlookers and opened the gate to the fenced-in yard of the two-story home, showing my badge to the young male patrolman who was trying his best to keep the rowdy crowd from getting past the yellow crime scene tape, I noticed a bloody handprint on the inside of the front window of the home.

  The patrolman put his hand up, signaling for me to stop. Then he eyed me curiously. I understood why he did not recognize me because I did not recognize him either. The bureau had gotten a lot of new recruits on the force in the last six months or so to help curb the crime and the city, and I suspected this guy was one of them.

  “Sergeant Mills,” I announced myself to him over the loud raucous coming from the angry mob that lived in this neighborhood.

  Because of the lack of streetlights on the block−mostly due to being broken out by drug dealers so as not to be seen by witnesses or the police−the young officer had to squint to see my badge, which was hard for him to do as he was trying to keep his focus on the intimidating large number of people. After about ten seconds of scrutinizing my badge, he nodded his consent for me to enter then resumed his position behind the closed gate, blocking distraught friends and family of the victim’s from coming through and contaminating the scene.

  “We called ya’ll three hours ago, you punk-ass police!”I heard one angry neighbor shout as I ascended the concrete steps to the front door.