Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

  “What’s she gonna think?” he asked himself. “I hope she likes it.”

  When Spits saw the limo pulling into the driveway of the two-story detached, contemporary, Colonial split-foyer home with five bedrooms, three-and-a-half baths and covering approximately 4,100 square feet, his dick almost grew rock hard.

  As the limo-driver put the car in park and got out to open the door for them, Spits repositioned Ginger’s face for a kiss. He tapped her lips with his own, and fixed her hair behind her ear. When she seemed to be waking up, he whispered to her, “Wake up, Gin. We’re home, Mommy.”

  Ginger opened her eyes, squinting to adjust her vision to the dome light as the driver opened the door on her side. When she looked up, Spits grinned and said, “Come on, baby,” as he smiled back.

  They got out of the limo and the look on Ginger’s face was worth ten times the $3.2 million Spits had dropped down on the house. After rubbing her eyes to get a better look at the surroundings that she wasn’t at all used to calling “Home,” a look of bewilderment fell over her pretty facial features. Then, a burst of energy seemed to flow through her body, as her eyes grew intensely larger and larger while her jaw dropped. She looked at Spits and then back at the house. After her body started to tremble a little, she grabbed on to Spits and let out a joyous holler while she held on to him for dear life. When their embrace came to an end, he opened the door to their new palace and simply said, “Welcome home, baby.”

  The doors opened up to a spacious foyer that led down two steps into the sunken living room simply decorated with a gray throw-rug with black and white designs, two plush black leather sofas facing each other and a few small white statues. The windows adjacent to the entrance almost completely covered the whole entire wall except for a pillar in the center, which contained the fireplace, and mirrors covered the walls on the side. The wood floors were made of a freshly polished oak, and the high ceilings had retractable windows. To the right of the entrance were stairs that led to the second floor, but just beyond that was the family room. Also decorated very lightly, it merely contained one long sectional couch positioned in front of a big-screen television. On the left of the main entrance was what used to be the dining room, now transformed into a game room with a pool table and a dart board. It was furnished with a small white leather sofa, barstools that were set up along the wall, and a white carpet covered the space. Just on the right side of the game room was the kitchen. In the master bedroom upstairs was a private bathroom decorated in white and black with a standing shower made completely of marble, an old-fashioned bath tub, and twin sinks with vanity mirrors. Beneath a king-sized bed covered with white silk sheets, a pure white carpet sheltered the floors. From the master bedroom, there was a terrace overlooking the pool and the patio.

  By the time they got to this room in the house, the master bedroom, Ginger had no energy left to do anything but fall into the bed and wrap her body in the silk sheets. Spits began rubbing her neck, back and feet until she slipped away to dream land. When she was asleep, Spits slowly undressed her and got in the bed next to her. He lay naked next to her and wrapped his arms around her.

  In the morning, she’d wake up bright and early from the tickle of his tongue on her clit. All night, Spits controlled his arousal, only poking her playfully in her back with a fully enlarged penis. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he went underneath the covers and decided to wake her up the best way he knew how.

  After making love for about an hour late into the morning, Spits left Ginger spread out in the bed to go downstairs to make breakfast in their new kitchen. He let Ginger rest herself until he was done cooking for them both: some scrambled eggs with cheese, sausage, toast and fresh slices of watermelon and pineapple. When they were done with their breakfast, Spits prepared Ginger’s final surprise.

  “Oh, shit!” he said, as if something had slipped his mind.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Ginger, now worrying what must’ve been disturbing Spits.

  “Fuck!” he said, sustaining his frustration. “I didn’t even fuckin’ realize that the mu’fuckin’ limousine driver was only supposed to wait for us until noon.” He paused to take a glance at his wristwatch. “It’s damn near three o’clock, and shit.”

  “Well, what are we going to do?” Ginger asked, now sharing his frustration.

  “Awe, fuck it,” Spits responded as a small grin peeked from his facial expression. “I fought it for as long as I could, but I guess you gonna have to drive now.”

  He placed the keys to her brand-new Mercedes-Benz SLK drop-top coupe on the kitchen table, and glanced up at her to catch her reaction. When she looked at the keys, she looked at Spits and began to smile endearingly. Her eyes filled with tears, and they began to run slowly down her cheek. She lifted the keys from the table and held them close to her heart with one hand. With the other, she gave a tug at Spits’ T-shirt to pull him in close enough for a kiss. Ginger gave Spits a long passion-filled kiss with tears still running down her face. They hugged after that, and then Spits escorted Ginger to their three-car garage where her new car had been waiting the whole night with a big red bow tied around it that simply said, “Happy Birthday, Mommy.”

  She absolutely loved it. It was perfect.

  CHAPTER 14

  “Yo, what up, my nigga?” yelled Spits to a kid standing on the corner of 216th and Bronxwood Avenue.

  “Ain’t nuttin’, King,” responded “Pookie,” one of the many loyal workers for the Time Bomb Family. “King” was a name that Spits was sometimes called by the younger generation of the TB Family as they referred to him as the “Kingpin.”

  Now Pookie was dark-skinned and had a frail frame. He stood about 5 ft. 11 in., and only weighed about 140 lbs. The only reason he was even considered to be put down was because the kid Little Jay had vouched for him. Little Jay was his older cousin, and he’d guaranteed that Pookie would be a loyal soldier. When he’d finally convinced Spits and Cee about his cousin, they let him work a spot that Little Jay ran for them. This way Pookie would be Jay’s responsibility—one way or another—if something went down. It had only been about a month and a half now since he’d started, and he’d already expressed his dedication to the Family on numerous occasions.

  “So, what’s up? How’s this shit moving out here?” asked Spits.

  “Oh, it’s been kind of slow since the morning rush, but it’s moving though,” answered Pookie. “It shouldn’t be long before it pick back up.”

  “Oh, i-ight, that’s cool. Where that paper at?” asked Spits as he shot him a smile and a wink.

  Pookie paused for a split second as he was unsure of Spits’ intentions for this uncommon visit, and then he went for the stash where he kept the money that was made before it was enough to make a drop. He walked down a small alley that separated a building and a private house until he reached the area of the alley that was kept for garbage. He tilted an old broken refrigerator to the side and reached underneath it until his search was satisfied. He grabbed the brown paper bag which held a few knots of ones, fives, tens, and twenties that totaled about $1,700. Pookie made his way to the curb where Spits patiently waited in his black S500 Mercedes while scanning the block for police. When he was standing beside the car he stuck his hand in the window and dropped the paper bag in Spits’ lap. Spits took a peek inside the bag and when he was content with his findings, he looked back up at Pookie, who was standing there still a little baffled.

  “So . . .” he began. “What’s the occasion, King?” he asked, once his interest was piqued.

  “Wha?” Spits snapped as he shot him a hostile look.

  “I mean . . .” he stuttered. “I was just about to drop that off in another minute. I hope I didn’t do nothing wrong.”

  “Don’t fucking worry about that, nigga,” answered Spits. “That’s nothing for you to concern yourself with. Just tell Little Jay that when he’s doing the count that he’ll come up this much short and have him confirm that with me. You understand me, ni
gga?”

  “Umm . . .” Pookie stuttered. “I’ll let him know.”

  As the words were still fresh out of his mouth, he noticed that Spits’ passenger wasn’t familiar to him. According to Spits, they were only to do business around Family, and he had no idea who this dude was. He also wondered what had Spits on the jumpy side, when he was usually the calmest and most collected and relaxed nigga you could ever meet. When his mind told him to satisfy his curiosity by subtly attempting to introduce himself, he quickly and respectfully reconsidered. With Spits already in a “Fuck You” mind state, this would definitely push him to make a scene and possibly embarrass his ass right there in the middle of the street. With all of this going through the inexperienced and very unevolved mind of this youngster, he hadn’t even realized that Spits, along with his mystery passenger, had blown from the spot already . . .oh well!

  After a few blocks, Spits could no longer conceal his obvious uneasiness. He took a glance at his passenger seat, and after a roll of his eyes, his top lip lifted on one side and he spat, “So what the fuck was you thinkin’, nigga?” He paused for a second, seeming to have released his frustration, and then he yelled, “How much fuckin’ trouble we went through?! All the fuckin’ work we put in, you gonna fuckin’ do some dumb shit like this! I can’t fuckin’ believe that you thought anything was important enough to jeopardize this thing of ours. What the fuck was that important to you . . .huh, Trig?!”

  He had nothing to say to rebut Spits’ comments. He’d practically shown up from out of the clear blue sky at Spits’ old apartment building. Purely coincidently, an unsuspecting Spits just happened to be passing through his old neighborhood when he’d spotted what looked like his man Trigger in the courtyard of his old building. After a second thought, Spits shrugged off the occurrence, thinking that it couldn’t possibly be true, even though something inside of him wished that it was. When he stopped at a streetlight at the end of the block, his wish would come true. Trigger came up on the car from the passenger side and excitedly banged on the car window to get Spits’ attention. Although Trigger seemed happy to see him, Spits was completely displeased. He couldn’t believe it. Before Trig could spit a word, Spits hurried him into the car and drove off nervously looking in his rearview mirror to see if they were being followed. Once in the car, Trigger attempted a long-time-no-see greeting, but was quickly detached from that mind state after noticing Spits’ manner. The objective for Spits hadn’t been the warm welcome that Trigger had anticipated, but to zigzag through the blocks to make certain they didn’t have someone tailing them.

  What made the situation even worse was that in the trunk of Spits’ car, he had two kilos of cocaine he’d just picked up from a new connection. He was on his way to drop it off at his man Dave’s apartment over on Tillitson Avenue and Boston Road where he could cook, cut and bag it up. With this surprise visit, he was faced with a dilemma. He had to either first make sure Trigger was on a plane back to California or risk making the drop. He couldn’t trust any one of his workers with this package because of the intended secrecy of the situation. He didn’t want it getting back to anyone from the Ortiz family that he may have been pondering a new connection. That’s when he decided that they would need to have some extra money available regardless of where this took them. And Spits only chose that particular spot because he knew that there wouldn’t be anyone there to recognize Trigger. After they left the Block, Spits began rambling to himself as he tried to figure the best solution to this problem.

  “I have to think,” said Spits as he fumbled on his thoughts. “This shit is not happening. Nigga, you couldn’t have picked a worse time to just show up like this.”

  “I had to, Spits,” mumbled Trigger, finally responding to Spits’ comments. “I just had to. It wasn’t supposed to be like this though, son.”

  “Then how was it supposed to be then, nigga?” asked Spits. “This situation is fucked up; no matter how you put it.”

  “I couldn’t even bring myself to try and have this conversation over the phone, as if that would’ve been any better anyway. I had to come out here so that it would be right.”

  “What the fuck is you talking about, nigga?” Spits curiously asked as he pulled over by a bus stop to give Trigger his full attention.

  “I’m talking about . . .” Trigger began, unable to complete his sentence.

  “What, nigga?!” Spits yelled impatiently. “What?!”

  “I came here to tell you that . . .” Trigger continued before Spits cut him off.

  “Aw fuck!” uttered Spits.

  “What happened?” asked Trigger, still uncertain if he should continue.

  “Hey, Les,” said Officer Albert Hargrove to his partner Lester Moore. “Are you ready or what, man? What’s taking that greasy crap so long? We’re going to be late again; now let’s go.”

  “Aw come on, Al,” responded Officer Moore. “Don’t be so paranoid. And please, I don’t need another health lecture. Spare me. We’ll make it to roll on time, trust me.”

  “Trust you, huh?” asked Al sarcastically. “That’s what you said the last time.”

  “Well, what would you like for me to do, starve?” asked Lester.

  “No, I’d like you to be ready every morning with enough time to get breakfast,” answered Albert.

  “Well, I guess I wouldn’t have to worry about that if I had a nice wife like yours that could cook me breakfast every morning, huh?”

  “Well, I didn’t say that,” said Al. “But when are you going to get out there and find yourself a woman and settle down again? You aren’t getting any younger, you know? You’re only getting older and uglier.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why don’t you settle down on this?” said Lester as he gave him the finger.

  Officers Moore and Hargrove were two of NYPD’s finest. This year made the ninth year they’d shared each other’s company on the streets of New York, and they both hadn’t expected to still be in such an undeveloped position this far along into their careers. Lester Moore came from a long line of successful and well-known police officers, and often felt the pressure of following in the footsteps of his father, his father’s father, his brothers, uncles and so on. He was now forty-eight years old and already had fifteen years of the police force under his belt. In his earlier years of crime-fighting he’d possessed the fire in his eyes that could take a young police officer to heights such as detective, lieutenant and beyond. In fact, his relentless dedication to his profession would lead to his wife leaving him for another man. Ironically, this occurrence soon led to him losing that fire, and his career had been in a slump ever since. Lester stood about 6 ft. 2 in., with pale white skin. What hair he had left on his head had begun turning dusty gray, and he’d developed a healthy gut since his career as a cop had taken a turn for the worse.

  Officer Albert Hargrove, on the other hand, was the younger, happier, and more focused version of Lester. He had a wife and two young sons at home that he loved with all of his heart. The only difference between him and Lester, at that age, was that he took every opportunity to show his undying love for his family. They understood that when he went to work, it was because he had to provide for them. Al stood about 5 ft. 10 in. tall and had a dark brown complexion. He was thirty-three years old and had become Lester’s partner after only two years on the job. Although Albert was black and Lester was white, and they had completely different upbringings, it seemed as though their superiors had seen the connection in them and thought they could learn from each other.

  Al and Les were currently two of the most dissimilar officers partnered together in the whole 47th Precinct but they’d once shared the same goals. They both had a passion for the law, and honestly got into the business of law enforcement to clean up the very neighborhoods in which they spent their childhoods.

  “Look at that,” said Lester as a black Mercedes passed through an intersection where they were stopped for a red light.

  “What, the Mercedes?” Al asked. “It’s
sweet, huh?”

  “Yeah, it’s sweet,” Lester responded. “Too sweet.”

  “Aw, come on, Les,” said Al. He could see where the conversation was headed. “Could we please just go to the damn PD, and maybe show up on time for a change?”

  “Doesn’t that get to you?” asked Lester, expressing his frustration. “That motherfucker has got to be no older than eighteen, and he’s driving a hundred and twenty thousand dollar luxury car. That doesn’t shift you around in your seat just a bit?”

  “Actually, no it doesn’t,” Al simply replied. “That kid was probably born into money, man. Just because his parents are probably loaded, it’s not his fault.”

  “Born into money?” repeated Lester. “That’s gotta be the most gullible shit I’ve ever heard. Wake up, Al, these guys have got to be into something illegal. Look at them.”

  “You know, you can’t judge a book by its cover,” said Al, showing his disappointment at Lester’s comment.

  “Call it what you want,” countered Lester. “But if this was a book, it would be a crime story. This is the kind of shit that destroys our neighborhoods from the inside out. People see these scumbags and think that pimps and drug dealers lead a more fruitful life. And look, they think they can just park anywhere they want with no regard for those good honest people waiting over there for the bus to take them to work. Somebody’s got to put these kinds of people in their rightful place.”

  “Oh, here we go again,” Al mumbled.

  “I swear, everything always gets all fucked up all at the same fucking time,” Spits cried. “First, you show up out of nowhere at the worst fucking time possible, and now this shit.”

  “Oh, shit!” Trigger hollered as he saw the police lights go on behind them.

  “Yo, just be cool,” Spits suggested. “I’m dirty right now.”