Cracked Dreams

by Michael Daniel Baptiste

  El Don would provide backup for Cee, while Poncho would drive the getaway car. When Cee was ready, they met on the 224th Street and Bronx Boulevard, down by the park. If he was stupid enough—and he was—Fish would still be in the liquor store getting drunk, making it even easier for them to roll up without him getting the drop. They planned to drive up 228th Street and come down 224th Street. There, they could just make a right turn and be directly in front of the liquor store. Everything was going as planned. After pulling ski-masks over their faces, Ceelow and El Don hopped out of the hooptie and approached the front of the store.

  Through the glass door, Fish spotted a couple of dark figures coming in his direction. Before he knew it, one of the figures was in the store with him while the other stood out front blocking the door. Inside of two seconds, a long black object came from behind the figure standing in front of him dressed from top to bottom in black. He thought he was dreaming, but he wasn’t. This wasn’t just a dark figure that had just appeared in front of him from out of nowhere, and it wasn’t just a black object that was now pointing directly at his chest. Maybe if it was his imagination, he wouldn’t have anything to worry about, but it wasn’t. This black figure was Ceelow, and the object he had in his hands was a black 12-gauge shotgun. All he heard was the sound of a slug being chambered before he came to his senses, but by then, it was too late. BOOM! That was the last sound Fish heard before half of his insides hit the wall behind him. When he fell to the ground lifeless, Cee let him have it again just to make sure. BOOM . . . BOOM! He was gone now, and wasn’t nothing bringing his ass back.

  Trigger and Spits just fell silent to Rachel’s comment. Spits hadn’t ever once seen his big sister lose her cool; and even though this is what Trigger had asked for, he himself was even surprised at the statement she’d made. They both just waited with anticipation for her to fill in the blanks that they needed for immediate action to be taken. She looked at Trigger in his eyes as she searched her memory banks for the best way to describe what had happened. Then, she looked at Spits to unconsciously assist her in her description. After another look at Trigger, she looked away—out of the window—and uttered under her breath, “It was a burglar.”

  “What?” both Trigger and Spits said at the same time.

  “It was a burglar,” Rachel repeated. “When I came home, I found somebody in the house. Before I even got a chance to get away or call the police, he was swinging a damn baseball bat at my head.”

  “Did you see his face?” Spits asked. “Did he look familiar?”

  “Yeah,” she answered. “I saw the bastard’s face, but he didn’t look familiar. He was about five feet, eight inches, with long hair in corn rows. He had a brown skin tone, and he was wearing all black. That’s all I remember.” With that said, Rachel just paused and waited for a reaction. Spits reacted first.

  “All right,” he said. “That’s cool for now. Don’t stress yourself out behind this, Rachel, until you have enough strength to deal with this shit in your own mind. Let me talk to Trig right quick and I’ll be right back.” Spits got up and walked toward the door and Trigger followed close behind him, still not taking his eyes off of Rachel. When they were outside the door, he said, “Yo, you think you could find something out from the description she gave? I know it ain’t shit, but we ain’t got shit else right now, you know?”

  “Yeah,” Trigger replied. “That’s just gonna have to be enough, I guess. I’m gonna see what the streets is talkin’ about, i-ight? I’ll call you here if I find out anything, cool?”

  “Yeah, no doubt,” Spits said. “You do that. I’ll be here.”

  “Yo, it was good seeing you again though,” Trigger said as they exchanged a pound and a hug. “Even under these circumstances, you know?”

  “Yeah, I feel you, son,” he said. “Let’s see if we can’t make the best out of a fucked-up situation.”

  When Spits and Trigger ended their embrace, Trigger was off. As the elevator doors were closing, Spits reentered the room where Rachel was. Startlingly, Spits returned to hear the sound of Rachel sniffling. When he came from around the curtain, she had formed a small puddle of tears on her pillow. When he rubbed her back to attempt to console her, her cries grew worse.

  He said, “Don’t worry. We gonna find this mu’fucka, and I swear he’s gonna die for what he did.”

  When Rachel could no longer conceal her hurt, she looked up at Spits. She wanted him to just be able to read her mind without having to say what she was about to say, but he couldn’t do that. She would just have to come clean. She softly uttered two words under her breath that got Spits’ full attention the moment he heard them. She said, “I lied.”

  “What are you talking about?” Spits asked confusingly.

  “I lied to you, Michael,” she said, looking him straight in his eyes. “I never once had to lie to you, until now. I lied.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked. “You lied to me about what?”

  “I loved him, Michael,” she said now staring out of the window. “I loved him with all of my heart. I could’ve never imagined that he had it inside of him to do something like this. Never in a million years, Michael . . . never!”

  “I don’t understand, Rachel,” he said. “You’re starting to confuse me.”

  “I gave him everything,” she continued. “And I guess it wasn’t good enough. I thought I was going to die. He almost killed me!” she screamed with all the energy she could muster. “I told him I was pregnant with his child and he called me a liar. He accused me of cheating on him with another man. I thought he would be happy for us.” She paused for a second, and then continued, “I thought you would be happy for us, but he didn’t think so. He said you’d kill him if you found out.”

  As Spits sat there and listened to Rachel rambling, her words started to make sense to him. Everything that had happened started to come together like a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces of one story were being pulled from everywhere. All the things that didn’t make any sense were starting to become clearer. That’s why . . . he thought to himself. And that’s what made him . . . he figured. Could this be the answer to all of these questions? He couldn’t believe it. He started to reject the obvious. He went through a brief period of denial, and then rage filled his body. He needed to hear it in plain English.

  “I wanted to say it right to his face,” Rachel continued. “I wanted to scream, ‘You bastard, look what you did to me!’ . . .But I couldn’t . . .I just couldn’t do it.”

  “I need to hear you say it, Rachel,” Spits desperately requested. “I need to hear the words.”

  “You know what I mean,” she cried. “Stop trying to fight it!”

  “Just say it!” he yelled, as a tear leaked from his bloodshot eyes. “Just fucking say it, goddammit!”

  “It was Peter!” she yelled at the top of her lungs. “That’s right! It was your best friend. Peter’s the one that did this to me!”

  Spits dropped to his knees and leaned on the bed over Rachel’s legs and thought to himself, How can this be happening? He was just standing face to face with this punk mu’fucka, and he had the nerve to say that he was going out on the streets to find out who did this shit. His top lip curled up on one side as he thought to himself what he would do when they met face to face again.

  Spits suddenly got up off of the floor and, in a menacing trance, he walked toward the door despite the numerous cries from his sister to come back. His mind brought him to the waiting room where Red was still sleeping. Before he knew what he was doing there, he was waking him up to ask if he had a pistol on him. When Red confirmed that he was holding, Spits demanded his pistol and the keys to his car. When Red complied, he handed Spits a pair of keys and a shiny, nickel-plated .8mm Beretta, and Spits started toward the stairway. After numerous inquiries from Red as to where Spits was going fell short of his attention, he followed him to the stairs to let him know that he was parked in space number 2036 on the second floor of the parking lot. Spits shot him a “Good
lookin’,” and instructed him to stay with Rachel until he returned. Red complied once again.

  When Spits found himself at space number 2036, he was surprised at what he discovered.

  As Ceelow and El Don got back into the car, Poncho hit the gas. Everything went according to plans. Poncho drove calmly from the crime scene and went down 226th Street. He let Ceelow out of the car on 224th Street and Carpenter Avenue so that he and El Don could dump the car. Ceelow got out, leaving the shotgun in the back seat, and headed up the block where he would go home and change clothes before coming back out to see if there would be anybody talking to the police about the murder that had just taken place. By the time he got upstairs, changed, and then back out to the front of the building, about half an hour had passed. By now, the cops had reached the crime scene, and they were sealing it off from the crowd that had gathered. Almost everybody that lived in 666 was standing outside by now, asking each other what was going on. Cee posted up in front to make his own inquiries as to what had gone down.

  “Yo!” he called to Winston. “What’s all this shit about, dog?”

  “Me no know,” he answered. “A bwoy must’ve get shot up, seen?”

  “Oh, for real?” Cee asked.

  Just then, out of a car that had just come to an abrupt halt in front of the building came another dark figure. But this time the dark figure was coming towards Ceelow. This dark figure also had an object in hand, cocked and loaded. When the dark figure pointed the object, Cee realized that the dark figure was Jacob and the object was a .9 mm pistol. POW! POW! The sound left an echo in Ceelow’s ears, and he heard nothing else. Everybody was scattering now. All it took was a blink of the eye, and Ceelow could now feel some sort of hot liquid dripping down the side of his face.

  When Spits confirmed that he was at the right space number in the parking lot, he found a blood-red Ducati Monster 800, with a matching blood-red helmet tied to the back seat. Spits quickly hopped on the bike and started the engine. He placed the Beretta in his pants behind him and rode off spinning the tires out. He had still been traveling in some sort of trance when he left the parking lot, and he didn’t even know where he was going, but his subconscious was taking him exactly where he needed to be. He made left turns, and right turns, until he found himself on the freeway. He hit a small bump in the street and all of a sudden came back to his senses. He found himself behind a black Dodge Durango. He stayed behind it for a little while before taking a deep breath and pulling along the side of it. He crept up on the right side of the truck until he got a clear glimpse of the driver. Spits bit his bottom lip and his eyes began to bulge out of his head as he realized it was Trigger in the driver’s seat. He sped the bike up and cut over in front of Trigger. Then, he slowed down on his left side until he was parallel with the driver’s side door.

  By now, Trigger’s curiosity had been piqued, as he wondered What the fuck is this dude doing? By the time he figured it out, it would be too late.

  Spits kept the helmet cover down, but kept looking over at Trigger to see if he had his attention. When Spits was sure he had Trigger’s undivided attention, he faced him and lifted the helmet cover. The look on Trigger’s face was worth a million in cash. When he saw Spits’ screwed-up facial expression, his heart dropped down into his ass. He hit the gas but Spits wouldn’t get left too far behind him. They climbed up to speeds as fast as 95 mph, but never once did Spits break eye contact with him. They locked onto each other’s eyes for what seemed like hours. Every memory they had together went through their minds. They both thought about when they were kids, when they could only dream of experiencing the things that they’d experienced now that they were all grown. Nothing could hurt a man more than being stabbed in the back by someone that he could have referred to as a brother.

  Spits’ and Trigger’s whole lives together flashed before both their eyes, until Spits reached behind his back and pulled out what looked like a bolt of lightning. The way the newly risen sun shone off the nickel-plated Beretta made Spits’ hand look like it was completely consumed with light. He lifted the light, and still parallel with Trigger doing over 100 mph, he shut his eyes for the split second it took for him to pull the trigger. He let off one, two, three . . .four, five shots at Trigger, shattering his window into a thousand pieces and sending brain bits and blood onto the passenger side window and all over the interior of the truck. When Spits took one more glance into Trigger’s dead eyes, he sped off. As what was left of Trigger’s head fell lifelessly onto the steering wheel, his truck lost control and swerved into the median flipping over thirteen times before it came to a complete stop. Nothing could explain the tranquility that Spits felt as he rode off hearing the noise of Trigger’s truck flipping over, while the wind blew on him. He had just committed his first murder and he didn’t even consider giving it a second thought, even though he had just taken his oldest and best friend’s life.

  When Ceelow felt that hot liquid, he thought for a second that he was the one that was hit. That thought quickly vanished when he realized that Winston’s lifeless body was lying on the ground next to him with the back of his head blown out.

  Cee had realized that Jacob was finally taking revenge for the scuffle he’d had with Winston. Now Winston was dead, and all he died over was a fucking ten-dollar bag of weed. Jacob got Winston back for that day, but when he went fleeing, the gunshots didn’t stop. They only continued as he attempted to engage himself in a gunfight with the police, of course making him the next to fall victim to the streets. It had happened so fast that if you blinked for too long, you would have missed it. Inside of sixty minutes, three people were dead in the streets of the Bronx.

  Before Cee got a chance to make his own getaway, the police had already surrounded him. Now he would be going through the system, ironically not even for the crime that he’d actually committed that night. He wasn’t worried about it, but he couldn’t have picked a worse time to get arrested, with it being the end of the week, plus with all the following week containing the Christmas and New Year’s holidays. Before he knew it, it could be a week or two before he got to see a judge. Cee would have to call Riker’s Island home for a little while.

  CHAPTER 20

  “Did you hear about what happened in California?” asked Special Agent Cassett as he walked up to his partner sitting at his desk.

  “Yeah,” responded Clifton. “Peter Beckford, a.k.a. Trigger, was gunned down on Interstate 680 early this morning. The shit is all over the news. This whole thing is going to lead to a huge shit-storm. I can feel it.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t normally say this, but I ain’t too sad to see him go,” Cassett said.

  “The little fucker must’ve pissed off the wrong people out in California,” Clifton said. “I wonder what he was doing out there to begin with.”

  Just then, one of their colleagues came over to where they were sitting and said, “Hey, fellas! The Assistant Director wants you guys in his office, ASAP!”

  “Aw shit!” Clifton snapped. “You know we’re in for it now.”

  “Yup!” Agent Cassett agreed.

  When they reached Assistant Director Chistov’s office, they were directed by him to be seated until he was done on the phone. They sat there with their backs straight up and their hands folded, as they waited for him to complete his phone call, which seemed like a more “politically correct” version of the chewing out they would be receiving. With every word spat at him from the other end of the phone, his face grew more and more twisted. He began staring at Cassett and Clifton with a fierce and vengeful look on his face. They knew for a fact that they would be in for it.

  When Chistov finally hung up his long and drawn-out phone call, he began in a calm voice by saying, “I’m pretty sure you boys heard about what happened to Peter ‘Trigger’ Beckford in California not too long ago?”

  They both nodded in agreement.

  “You may have most recently been informed of his alleged involvement with another crime syndicate loca
ted in the Sunnyvale part of California?” He paused for a second, and then continued, “But what you probably don’t know is that Peter Beckford has been living in California under the name Nathaniel Evans, and that he’s probably been living it up out there since he jumped bail.” He paused again, and then went on in a higher tone. “I cannot believe . . .that this Time Bomb Family is showing so much blatant disregard for the laws of this country, and yet they continue to be given the easy way out!”

  “Well, sir,” interjected Agent Clifton. “I think that many would agree that Peter Beckford got what he deserved, and that he wasn’t granted the easy way out.”

  “Excuse me, Clifton,” Chistov answered. “Did he stand trial?”

  “No sir, but—” he said, before the Assistant Director cut him off.

  “Did he serve time?!” he yelled at the top of his voice.

  “No, sir,” Clifton answered, seeing the direction of the questioning.

  “Well,” Chistov said firmly. “Then he got the easy way out! When I say I want someone to go down, then that’s what I mean. Now, if that doesn’t happen because we were too busy sitting on our asses, then we’ve lost, gentlemen . . .we’ve lost!”

  “We still have the East Coast organization in our grasp, sir,” Cassett reminded him. “We can still move forward with the plans that we have laid out.”

  “I’m sorry, but I’m a little bit concerned about our plans now,” Clifton added. “If we’re going to move, I think we need to move as soon as possible. I don’t think, with his new development, that we have the option of waiting any longer.”