Hustle & Heartache

by D. Gamblez

  “Ya’ll on some bullshit, man!” another man said.

  “Ain’t no sense coming now−they all dead!” a woman in curlers and a housecoat shouted from outside the fence.

  I entered the home and immediately felt overwhelmed by the aftermath of violence. The creepy thought of the tormented spirits who had just experienced death and were now trying desperately to cling to a shell that once served as an inhabitable vessel, but was now broken and decomposing, gave me goose bumps.

  As I walked through the foyer, the smell of gunpowder and blood assaulted my olfactory senses. I had never gotten used to the smell of death, and I prayed that I never would. For some reason I believed that getting used to seeing death made a person less human.

  I stepped into the living room and a wave of emotions washed over me. Sadness...for the three bodies that lay dead in front of me. Anger...because one of those three bodies belonged toa 14-year-old kid of one of the mothers I knew in this neighborhood. And guilt...for not being able to solve this case yet.

  “Three teens. Males. All black. A slug to the back of their skulls, execution style,” Sergeant Xavier Foster was saying, informing Lieutenant Hensley as to the nature of the crime as they both came out of the kitchen and approached me. “And that’s not the worst of it.”

  “Sergeant,” Hensley said, his tone clipped as he hated referring to me as anything other than “Detective” or “Officer.”

  “Lieutenant,” I said, returning his affection as I hated referring to him as nothing other than “Misogynistic Asshole.”

  “I see you finally decided to join us,” Hensley said, taking a dig at me as he walked off to talk to the medical examiner.

  I could not stand the sight of him. A 46-year-old, baldheaded,6’2” black man with no facial hair and a beer belly, Hensley had been handpicked by my father−still currently the chief of police−and was promoted to the status of Lieutenant the same day my father had promoted Foster and I to the status of Sergeant.

  Dressed in all black as usual, Hensley’s shirt was a little too tight around his midriff. Everybody at the station claimed he looked like a rundown version of Samuel L. Jackson. In truth, he looked much worse. Maybe a rundown version of the famous actor’s stunt double is what he looked like to me.

  “What’s the worst of it?” I asked Foster, putting my disdain for the both of them aside and deciding to play nice for the moment as my job to serve and protect came first.

  “There’s a couple more bodies upstairs,” he stated nonchalantly. “Dogs. Rottweiler breed, I think. Dealer’s name’s Calvin Pope. Wife says Calvin was slanging meth and crack cocaine out of the place on a regular. Says three days ago, while Calvin was out running errands−probably slanging dope or re-copping−somebody broke in and robbed the place, held her and their 5-year-old daughter at gunpoint while they did it. At least that’s what she said she told Calvin of what had taken place that day. Whatever happened, the drugs were gone. Gone before Calvin could get enough of it out on the street and get it sold so he could at least break even with his supplier. According to the wife, earlier today, when this supplier guy came to collect his cut of the money from Calvin−money accumulated from drug sales and whatnot−he couldn’t pay up. Said the supplier was pretty pissed when he left. Out of fear his supplier might return in a more unfriendly manner, Calvin sent the wife and kid to her mother’s for the night.

  I’m thinking he may have assumed correctly as according to witnesses, about an hour ago, four guys in ski masks kicked in the back door and executed Calvin and his two corner boys. And since Calvin sent the wife and kid to her mother’s, fortunately they were spared the same fate as him and his buddies here.”

  “Think the wife’s telling the truth?” I asked in between jotting down every word he said in my notepad.

  “From the looks of it, her story about the supplier seems to check out, but I don’t think that’s what happened here. I mean, I could be wrong, but I’m willing to stake my shitty paycheck on it being another hit by the Death Dealers.”

  “Sarge!” a black chubby female officer from the Gang Unit called out from across the room. She retrieved something from the speaker tower and placed it into a clear plastic evidence bag, then walked over and handed it directly to Foster. “Found a camcorder hidden in one of the speaker towers. Some homemade security system or something is what I think. Thing’s all shot to hell, but the tape inside appears to be alright. What do you think, Sergeant? Might be something worth checking out?”

  “Indeed, it might. Good eye, Officer Rawlins,” Foster thanked her as he surveyed what seemed to be a small camcorder cassette tape. Suspiciously, he slipped the tape into his jacket pocket.

  “Guy got footage of who killed him and his buddies, huh?” I asked, making a point that I had seen the officer hand him the tape.

  “I believe so,” Foster said, turning to face me. “Looks like our boy got a little paranoid after the supposed break-in. That or he didn’t trust his wife. Would make sense; she looks like a crackhead, so who knows, she could’ve set the whole thing up from the jump, smoked up all her hubby’s dope then told him that someone broke in and robbed the place while he was out to cover her tracks. I mean, she probably didn’t think Calvin would get killed over it, but shit happens, right?”

  “That’s derogatory,” I told him.

  “What? Hell, it’s probably true.”

  “No, I agree with you on the theory aspect. I was referring to the ‘crackhead’ comment. It’s a derogatory term.”

  “Just stating the facts as I see’ em,” Foster said with a shrug. “Besides, like I said, I’m betting on the Death Dealers being responsible for this one.”

  “And you weren’t planning on sharing the tape with me and my team?” I asked in no subtle tone as I ignored his attempt at changing the subject.”Or were you just going to keep it between yourself and Lieutenant Hensley?”

  He put up his hands. “Whoa. Calm down for a second, Detective. We don’t even know if there’s anything to see yet. It’s damaged, probably from gunfire. I was going to send it to my tech guy, and if he was able to get anything off of it, then I was going to let you know.”

  “I don’t care if it’s damaged or undamaged, and I also don’t care if there’s something on it regarding this case or nothing at all,” I stated in no friendly manner. “If it’s at the crime scene, I want to know about it. Don’t bullshit me on this, Xavier. We’re supposed to be working together on this case, remember? Or do I have to inform my father as to the fact that you and Hensley had been trying to ice me and my team out of this case. And another thing: stop fucking referring to me as “Detective” when you know goddamn well I’m a sergeant, same as you.”

  He just stared at me for a few moments with a smug expression on his face. Like I was a little girl pouting for candy or her father’s attention. Then he turned his back to me and signaled over his shoulder with his hand for me to follow him.

  “No need to go crying to Daddy−I’ll play nice. Now, speaking of you being informed about everything dealing with this case, come with me, Sergeant. I wanna show you something,” he said as he led me to the upstairs area of the house.

  As soon as we got to the top of the stairs, I had a sudden feeling that I did not want to see what he had to show me. And when we entered one of the two upstairs bedrooms, I knew that feeling to be right. It was complete carnage and butchery.

  Dead dogs. Three of them. All of them of the Rottweiler breed. All laid out next to each on the king-size bed. All three of them had been put down from a bullet to the head. But that was not the worst of it.

  The worst part was their limbs had been removed along with their tails, and were now positioned on the floor at the foot of the bed.

  On the wall, written in blood, was the usual message that had been left at the other two crime scenes, taking claim for the murders:

  * * *

  GET OUT OF OUR CITY AND KEEP YOUR DRUGS AWAY FROM OUR CHILDREN, OR YOU WILL REAP THE BITTER FRU
ITS OF YOUR LABOR. GOD DOES NOT WANT YOU HERE AND NEITHER DO THE PEOPLE OF THIS CITY!

  -DEATH DEALERS

  * * *

  “Now you see why I believe the Death Dealers are behind this,” Foster said lowly, startling me as I was so distracted by the gory scene that I had forgotten he was in the room with me.

  “Yeah, this is definitely the Death Dealers,” I agreed as my eyes slowly took it all in. Whoever they are, they’re brutal.

  “And look at what’s written underneath it,” Foster said, drawing my attention back to the chilling message.

  Oh, God! I thought to myself as I inspected the wall much closer. At first glance, the bloody message seemed identical to the ones left by the elusive killers at the other two crime scenes, but then I noticed that at the bottom of this one there was an add-on. Like a post-statement:

  * * *

  BACK OFF, DETECTIVE...OR YOU’RE

  NEXT!!!

  * * *

  I knew the message was meant for me because the severed limbs of the Rottweiler dogs were laid out in a circle, and in the middle of that circle was dog chow, the dry pellet kind. The chow appeared to be just sprinkled about, but upon closer inspection, I realized that it had been placed their meaningfully as it was actually a a word... one word; my last name:

  * * *

  MILLS

  Audi

  “Would you hold yo’ ass still, girl?” Marisol said. She was trying to apply my makeup, but I had to pee really, really badly.

  “I’m about to piss myself, Mari,” I squirmed.

  My sister laughed. “We don’t want that again, huh, my little Wet Burrito?”

  “That’s not funny,” I said, but even I laughed.

  “Fine,” she relented, realizing that I wasn’t gonna sit still. “Go pee, then get yo’ ass back in here. I’m almost done.”

  “”“”“Me and your father paid a lot of money for this dress,” she had told me an hour earlier. “And I’m not gonna let you mess it up with makeup stains, or wrinkle it up from sitting on the floor.” Even though my father had bought the dress for me last month after much begging from me, my mother acted as if it belonged to her and she was only lending it to me for the night.

  “What the hell took you so long?” my sister asked as I sat down in my familiar spot on the floor in front of her, her in the chair behind me as usual. “And your makeup is smeared. Damn, Audi. What were you doing in there, eating?”

  “No, I wasn’t eating. I had to wash up real quick. I must’ve touched my face by mistake. I don’t see why I gotta where all this makeup, anyway. It’s only gonna be a few hours, at the most.”

  “Trust me, it’s important,” my sister stated flatly. “Now, hold still.”

  “You two still at it in here?” my mother asked as she entered the room carrying my white prom dress in her arms.”I swear you two would be late for your own funeral if it wasn’t for me.”

  “Hold on, mom,” my sister said. “She messed up her makeup, so I have to do something a little different.”

  My mother walked over to me and inspected my face. “Marisol, let that girl up. She looks fine. It’s not like she’s going up for Miss Mexico or Miss Cuba or something. Come on, now. Let her up! Shit, it’s almost time for the prom to start. And that damn limo driver has been in here three times already to use my damn bathroom. Bathroom privileges were not a part of the limo renter’s fee, so I don’t want him or his bladder coming back in here.”

  “All right, I’m done. Jeez! You two ain’t lady-like at all,” my sister said pointedly.

  “Everybody can’t be as loose as you, Marisol,” my mother retorted, slipping the prom dress over my head. “There...fits you perfectly.”

  And it did. I turned to survey myself in the mirror and almost did not recognize the beauty standing before me. As my mother zipped me up from behind, I inspected myself in my sister’s full-length mirror.

  The white backless Gucci dress with a red rose design fit my hourglass frame snuggly but perfectly. My makeup was perfectly matched to fit my dress, and my mother’s silver necklace she had decided at the last minute to let me wear−not without a stern warning that she would kill me if anything were ever to happen to it−just made everything pop.

  “Here, Audi.”Marisol instructed me to sit in the chair. “Put these on.”

  I slipped my feet into the white Gucci pumps my sister let me borrow, and then stood. But I had never worn pumps before, so my balance was a little off.

  “Do I have to wear these?” I whined. “They’re freaking hell on my feet.”

  “Stop being such a baby,” Marisol chided me. “Like you said, it’s only gonna be for a few hours, at the most.”

  “Fine,” I caved. “But don’t expect me to be all lady-like.”

  Honk! Honk!

  “Dre’s here!” Pedro shouted from the living room where he and his friends were playing Mortal Kombat, the latest violent competitive video game craze going around the neighborhood.

  “What up, my dawg?” I heard Dre say as he shook hands with my brother and greeted him. “Where yo’ sister at? She ready?”

  “She’s coming!” Marisol shouted. “Give us a sec.”

  A few minutes later, after my mother and sister put on the last finishing touches, I went into the living room. I nearly wet myself when I saw how sexy Dre looked in a white three-piece suit with matching vest .He also wore a black Polo dress shirt and white tie that had the words All Eyez On Me in black lettering written all over it, a white fedora with a black feather sticking up out of the black band encircling the top of the hat, and white gators to complete it. The silver chain he wore was complimented by the silver, diamond-encrusted Rolex on his wrist.

  I think I was drooling because my sister cleared her throat and elbowed me in my side to get my attention.

  “Damn, he fine,” my mother said. She looked over at me and caught me mean-mugging her. “Calm down. If I wanted him, I’d have had him already.”

  My sister and I exchanged a look, no doubt thinking the exact same thing. You mean, if he wanted you, you could’ve had him already. My mother was something else if not faking it when certain people came around.

  “Oh, so you’re just gonna ignore my sister and play videogames, huh, Dre?”Marisol said, smacking him lightly on the arm.

  “Hold up, shawty. Match almost over with,” Dre said, giving me a quick glance before turning his attention back to the video game. Then his head snapped back in my direction and he stared at me with his mouth hanging open. He sat the controller down and walked over to me.

  “Come on, fam,” Pedro whined. “Do that one finishing move where Scorpion pull a nigga head off with his spear. Nigga, that shit tight!”

  But Dre did not respond to Pedro’s request. He was too focused on me, which was causing my heart rate to increase by the second.

  “How does she look?” Marisol asked him.

  “Like nigga’s gonna be hatin’ on me for at least a year or two,” he smiled, letting his eyes roam over my body. Now he was the one drooling. I giggled a little too loudly, which got the attention of everyone in the room, causing their heads to swivel in my direction.

  Dre must have sensed my discomfort because he drew the attention towards him, coming to my rescue. “A’ight, ladies and gentlemen, ya’ll can save all questions for Ms. Escobar until after the performance, and also Ms. Escobar will not be taking any pictures or signing any autographs until next week; after the release of her latest album. So, if you will all excuse us, we have to get Ms. Escobar in the building and up on that stage so she can perform for her billions of fans. Which is what we all want, I’m sure. Thank you all and have a great night.”

  I was still laughing as my mother and sister followed Dre and I outside. When the limo driver opened the door for us, Dre feigned surprise.

  “How the hell did you afford a limo?” he said unconvincingly.

  “Don’t even try it, Mr. Smooth,” I said to him. “Mari already told me that your
sister Jackie told her that you splurged for a limo.”

  “Well, I didn’t wanna spoil the surprise, so I didn’t say nuthin’,” he explained.

  When our chauffeur closed the door, we spotted a bottle of Dom Pérignonin a bucket of ice with two champagne flutes next to it.

  I smiled and acted all lady-like−I know, I said I was not going to act all lady-like, but there I was, acting all lady-like−as Dre popped the cork and poured us each a glass of the expensive champagne. Not sure why he did it, but Dre had definitely gone all out for me.

  “I don’t mean to spoil this moment or anything, but, Dre, how did you get tickets for the prom? For you and me, I mean? And how were you able to afford this limo and this champagne? I’m not trippin’ about it, I was just wondering.”

  “Why?”

  “I just know how smart you are, and I don’t want you getting caught up in some bullshit when you don’t have to. I know your brother Damon was selling drugs and−”

  “Let me stop you right there, shawty. Even though it ain’t nobodies business but his, he did what he did to make it out here on these streets. But regardless of all that, I ain’t my brother, feel me? Where I get my paper is my concern.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies. Simple as that.”

  “Okay, that’s cool, I guess. Can you at least tell me how you got the tickets for the prom?”

  “Let’s just say some of these teachers ain’t as strict as they pretend to be. Especially the ones from the hood. But that’s all I’ma say about that. Let’s just sip on this here dranky-drank and enjoy this night that haters can only hate about and never enjoy.”

  “You’re so silly,” I chuckled.

  “To prom.”Dre held up his glass in salute for a toast.

  “To prom. And to the haters,” I added, toasting him.

  “True that,” Dre agreed, nodding for emphasis.