Lawless

by K'wan

“I was thinking I was helping my pal out,” Keith said. His voice was still trembling a bit from the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

  “Thanks, man. For a minute, I thought someone was gonna get hurt,” Carl said.

  “They were,” Nate said, catching the glint in Keith’s eyes. He had seen that look many times when they were deployed into the field, and knew better than most what could’ve gone down. “You good, Keith?”

  “Yeah, I’m straight. Let’s just get inside and catch what’s left of the game,” Keith said, then walked ahead of them toward their entrance.

  * * *

  The Hawks game was a good one, one of the best games he’d seen the team play. They battled ferociously against the Chicago Bulls in game seven of the Eastern Conference semis. By halftime, the score was knotted up at fifty points, and the second half promised to be an all-out fight. Unfortunately, Keith wouldn’t be there to see it. It was time for him to head out to Buckhead.

  As Keith walked back to his car, he thumbed away on his cell phone, texting Bernie to let her know that he was on the way. She texted back a dry okay, at which he just shook his head. He was about to sit through what was sure to be a shit show of plastic smiles and bland food, and she was the one with an attitude? He had just arrived at the spot where he left his Mercedes when he felt the hairs on the back of his neck prick. His military training kicked in, and he spun in a defensive stance, ready to engage the threat. At first, all seemed quiet, but then he spotted them, three shadows doing a piss-poor job of concealing themselves. He knew who they were and why they had come long before they stepped into the light of the single streetlamp on the block.

  “Where you off to, tough guy?” the kid wearing the jersey called out.

  “Look, bro, I don’t want any trouble,” Keith told him.

  “First off, I ain’t your fucking bro. And second, where’s all that tough shit you were talking back at the arena? You ain’t so tough without them rent-a-cops to hide behind, huh?” Jersey taunted.

  Keith could feel the blood begin to boil in his veins. They wanted trouble, and normally, he wouldn’t mind giving it to them, but he had somewhere to be. “Okay, so what’s it going to take for us to put this bullshit between us to bed?” he said, trying to bow out and hoping they’d let him.

  Jersey looked at the shiny silver Mercedes. “I think your ride will do.”

  Keith looked from his car back to Jersey. “You’re shitting me, right?”

  A gun appeared in Jersey’s hand. “Does it look like I’m shitting you? Run those keys!”

  Keith had tried so very hard to avoid trouble while he was living in Atlanta, and until now he had been successful. He could tell that the only way out of this situation was to speak to the young men in a language that they understood. “Is this what you want?” He held up the small black box and hit the button to release the silver key. It glistened in the moonlight like a small dagger. “You got it.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Nearly thirty minutes later Keith was burning up the road to Bernie’s sister’s house. He would arrive later than he had originally said he would, and this was probably already being chatted about among the Hunts. He’d have to think up a good excuse, because the truth certainly wouldn’t do.

  He adjusted the rearview mirror to examine the spot on his temple where one of the boys had sucker punched him. The blow had barely landed hard enough to make him stagger, but it had succeeded in making him angry, and that was when things had got nasty. Keith had set out to give the boys a good spanking just to teach them a lesson, but things had gotten out of hand. The first order of business was to separate Jersey from his knife, which was easy enough. He was a thug, not a highly skilled Ranger, so even though Jersey had a gun, he was still in over his head. It was hardly a fair fight. When Keith’s car key bit into the muscles of Jersey’s forearm, it caused him to lose his grip on the weapon. It was a minor wound that would heal in a week or so, but the two ribs Keith cracked when he slugged him in his side would probably take a bit longer to mend.

  It was while he was busy with Jersey that one of the other boys punched him in his head. Keith respected the fact that this boy was trying to help his friend, but that didn’t stop him from breaking the boy’s jaw. When the third boy saw what had become of his friends, he took off running. His cowardice would probably earn him a nice ass whipping when his crew caught up with him, but Keith was more concerned about his three-hundred-dollar jacket, which had gotten ripped during the fight, than he was about what would happen to the coward. It was their own faults. They had come in search of prey and instead had found a predator.

  It had been a long time since Keith had felt the soft tearing of a man’s flesh beneath his knuckles. He had thought it would make him feel better, but it hadn’t. In fact, he felt terrible. On that back street, he’d left two broken men, while he had walked away with a few aches and bruises, but he’d still lost the fight. Maybe not physically, but spiritually he’d gotten his ass kicked. For years Keith had fought so hard to suppress the old anger and find peace within himself, and in the blink of an eye, it had all been undone. Over what? Words? Pride? Or maybe it was as his mother’s old words coming back to haunt him: “A man can change who he is, but what he is will always be.”

  When he pulled into the circular driveway of Sasha’s plantation-style home, he found Bernie standing outside, waiting for him. She was wearing one of his favorite dresses, a short black number that dipped in the front, showing off her full breasts. Her short hair was loosely feathered, and a single red rose was nestled on one side. Standing there, arms folded and oozing sex appeal, she reminded him of Dorothy Dandridge when she played Carmen Jones. He gave himself the once-over to make sure there were no lingering signs of his scuffle and then got out of the Mercedes to greet his lady love.

  “Damn, girl. You look good enough to eat.” Keith went to plant a kiss on her lips, but she turned and gave him her cheek. “Oh, we still on that?”

  “Please, let’s not do this here,” she said in a tired voice. “Where’s your jacket? I thought I told you this was a formal dinner.”

  “I spilled mustard on it at the game,” he lied. “I could always rock it as is, though.” He faked like he was going back to the car to retrieve the jacket, hoping that she’d stop him.

  “Just forget it. You’re already late, and everybody is waiting so we can sit down and eat. Let’s just go inside so I don’t have to hear any more of my father’s shit,” Bernie said with a major attitude.

  “We sho’ don’t wanna keep ole Massa Hunt waiting!” Keith said in his best slave drawl. He was trying to make a joke, but it was lost on Bernie.

  “Don’t do that, Keith. This isn’t about my father complaining about you being late. It’s about you respecting my family enough to be on time when you’re invited to something important. If I’m ever fortunate enough to meet your family, I’ll be sure to show them the same courtesy.” Bernie stepped back. “And for the love of peace, please try to be nice. I can smell the alcohol on your breath, and you know you’re a mean drunk.”

  Keith blew his breath into his hands to see if it was true. “I had only a half of a beer. I’m not even buzzed,” he said, omitting the fact that he’d also partaken of a pot cookie. “And why wouldn’t I be nice? Me and Sasha have always gotten along.”

  “I’m not talking about Sasha,” Bernie told Keith while ushering him inside the house.

  As soon as Keith walked inside the house, he understood why Bernie had been on him about being nice. One look at the cast of characters seated around the dinner table and he knew that it was going to be a long night.

  As usual, Theodore sat perched at the head of the table, in all his omnipotence. His face was a blank slate, but Keith could see the judgment in his eyes as they washed over the assembled guests. His date for the evening was his current flavor of the month: a high yellow piece with bleached blond hair. Keith wasn’t sure, but he thought he had seen her in a magazine ad somewhere. She’d
spend the majority of the night scrolling through her phone, while occasionally raising her head to offer a fake chuckle at whatever Theodore said, funny or not. She was as plastic as her tits and was just Theodore’s type. Since Theodore and his wife, Bernie’s mother, had divorced several years ago, he spent most of his nights trying to recapture his youth in the wombs of women half his age. It was the first, and likely the last, time any of them would ever see the model.

  When Theodore spotted Keith, he gave him a curt nod. Skulking in Theodore’s shadow, as usual, was the reason Bernie had warned Keith to behave himself . . . Julian Sands. When Julian and Keith made eye contact, a mutual hatred passed between them.

  “I thought this was a family function,” Keith whispered to Bernie through clenched teeth.

  “It is. Julian has been with my father for years. You know he’s like family to us.”

  “He ain’t no kin of mine, and if he keeps looking over here like he’s getting big ideas, me and him are gonna go out in the yard and have a conversation,” Keith said seriously.

  “Keith, please!” Bernie tightened her grip on Keith’s hand.

  “You got it, babe,” he conceded.

  Sitting on the other side of Theodore was Bernie’s oldest sister, Estelle. She was the lightest of the three sisters. In fact, in the right light, Estelle could pass for a white woman, and sometimes she acted like her fair skin gave her a sense of entitlement. Of all Theodore’s daughters, she was the one who had been created most in his image. In fact, she’d even branched out and started her own legal practice down in Augusta, Georgia. She was a hard woman who was difficult to like, which was probably why she was the only one at the party without a date.

  When Estelle saw Keith walk in, she looked at him like he was shit on a shoe, and he returned her glare. From the daggers they were shooting at each other, one would never guess that at one time they had actually been pretty cool. This was before Keith had discovered the truth about why Estelle couldn’t seem to keep a man. After divorcing her first husband, Arnold, who was a well-to-do Jewish accountant, Estelle had played the field, going through man after man, discarding them all like broken toys. According to her, none of them could live up to her high standards, which was why she hadn’t bothered to settle down yet. It was a good enough excuse to keep her father from pressuring her into getting married again, but it was only partially true. The men Estelle dated did fall short of her standards, but that was only because she had acquired a taste for something a bit different.

  Keith had discovered Estelle’s secret one night when he happened to be in Magic City, a strip club in Atlanta. He was there to double-check some information that one of the dancers had given him for a case that he was working on. He was on his way out after the follow-up conversation with the dancer when he spotted his future sister-in-law huddling in one of the darkened VIP sections. Seeing Estelle’s uptight ass in a strip club was surprising in and of itself, but watching her in a lip-lock with one of the dancers left him speechless. When she finally came up for air, she spied Keith watching her and made a speedy exit. Keith had no plans to expose Estelle, but she was so afraid that he would, she started throwing dirt on his name to her sister in an attempt to break them up. In spite of Estelle’s petty tactics, Keith had never revealed her secret, but the fact that he could kept Estelle on edge whenever he was around.

  Next, Keith focused on Bernie’s other sister, Sasha, which was easy, since during dinner, Sasha made sure that the attention never stayed off her for long. She looked like an older version of Bernie, but her skin was slightly darker, and gravity had begun to tug at her tits and ass. The golden ball gown she wore and the matching elbow-length gloves were a bit much, but Sasha wouldn’t be Sasha if she didn’t overdo it. Keith sat there listening to her go on and on, dishing all the latest tea being poured around the Atlanta social scene. The girl seemed to know everything and probably could’ve had a successful career in journalism had she only been willing to put forth the effort. That was the difference between the Bernie and Sasha: Bernie was more than willing to go out and make her own way, while Sasha was content to live off her family’s name and wealth.

  To Sasha’s credit, she had gone all out for her dinner party, as she did with most things. Whenever she threw a dinner party, she went with a theme. This time it was an ode to the South, and she had poured it on thick. Probably too thick. The entire waitstaff was composed of black folks, with the men dressed in shirts, tails, and white gloves, while the women wore traditional black-and-white maids’ uniforms. They bustled around the room, carrying platters of fried pork skin, which they offered to the guests, along with cool glasses of mint julep. One of the male servers made eye contact with Keith, and he could’ve sworn the man was trying to signal to him to run. Keith felt like he was in the middle of a scene from the film Django Unchained.

  Despite the eerie setting, Sasha did well when it came to the food. The meal consisted of three courses, including dessert. To prepare it, Sasha had flown in one of Memphis’s top barbecue masters and his team. She’d even set up a fire pit in the back to make sure all the meat was perfectly smoked. The piece of cookie Keith had ingested at the game had him ravenous, and it showed in the way he tore through the ribs on his plate. Bernie even nudged him under the table and asked him quietly if he was high. Of course, he lied and said he wasn’t, but that cookie was kicking his ass. “Low dosage, my ass,” he mumbled.

  Dinner with the Hunts was about as much fun as watching paint dry, and Sasha’s flavor of the month didn’t help make the evening any easier. His name was Broderick, but he insisted that everyone call him Brick. He was a well-built, light-skinned dude with slick hair and a cartoonish square chin. He reminded Keith of a black version of Dudley Do-Right. Whenever Brick opened his mouth to speak, he droned on mostly about himself, and it was irritating the hell out of Keith. He was almost as big a narcissist as Sasha, which was saying a lot.

  Midway through the meal, Keith’s cell vibrated in his back pants pocket. He slipped it out and looked at the caller ID. A phone number with a 337 area code flashed on the screen; it was likely someone calling from Lafayette or possibly Lake Charles. Thinking it may be his sister again, he was about answer when Brick stopped him.

  “So, I hear you’re a part of the family business too, Keith,” Brick remarked.

  “Not quite. I’m a defense attorney who just happens to work at Mr. Hunt’s firm,” Keith said, correcting him, while slipping the phone back in his pocket.

  “Same difference.” Brick shrugged. He hadn’t meant his comment to be offensive, but Keith interpreted it that way. Brick was working his nerves.

  “They call him the miracle worker,” Estelle added, giving Keith a look. She was trying to get under his skin.

  “Among other things,” Julian mumbled.

  “Did you say something, Sands?” Keith asked sharply.

  “I was just commenting on your case from earlier. That was quite the feat you pulled earlier, getting that boy off when the DA surely had him dead to right. One who didn’t know any better might think you found some way to rig the case.” Julian’s tone was almost accusatory.

  Keith shrugged. “Sometimes justice actually prevails.”

  “Brick is also in law enforcement,” Sasha announced.

  “Really?” Keith faked surprise. “City or state?”

  “Federal,” Brick replied, then whipped out his badge and showed it to Keith.

  “Must be exciting,” Bernie chimed in.

  “It has its moments, but Georgia has actually been pretty laid back, not like the last field office I worked out of.”

  “And where was that?” Keith asked. He really didn’t care, but he was trying to make small talk.

  “Louisiana . . . Baton Rouge, to be specific. Julian tells me you’re originally from those parts,” Brick informed him.

  “Did he now?” Keith cut Julian a look.

  “Yes. He was chatting about you quite a bit while we were waiting for you to ar
rive for dinner.”

  “I’ll bet,” Keith mumbled.

  “Brick, do you know that Keith was in the service too?” Sasha offered.

  “Is that right?” Brick asked, with an interested expression on his face. “Which branch?”

  “The army. I was part of a Ranger unit,” Keith said proudly.

  “Now, that’s some heavy stuff. I was a marine myself, but I was friendly with some Rangers. Real solid guys, and about as lethal as they came.” Brick paused. “Did you see much action, Keith?” he asked.

  “A bit,” Keith said modestly. In truth, he had found himself in the middle of some really nasty situations, and there were times when he’d thought he’d never make it out alive. His time in the service was yet another part of his life that he didn’t like to talk about.

  “A straight arrow like you, I can’t imagine you behind a gun,” Brick teased him.

  “I could say the same about you being behind a badge. Bet you work some nice desk job, huh?” Keith shot back.

  “No, most of my work is done in the field. I’ve been the lead on a few organized-crime cases,” Brick told him.

  “I didn’t realize they have mobsters in Louisiana,” Estelle said sarcastically.

  “Organized-crime syndicates aren’t exclusively limited to Italians in suits running around New York and Chicago. There’s an outfit for just about every color of the rainbow,” Brick informed her.

  “Baby, tell them about the man you were telling me about the other night. The serial killer,” Sasha said excitedly.

  “Oh yes. Eldridge Savage. Goes by the moniker Mad Dog.”

  Keith almost choked on his water.

  “And he has totally lived up to the name,” Brick continued. “Mad Dog comes from a long line of criminals who’ve been raising hell in the South since before I was born. Bank robberies, murders, drugs . . . You name it and the Savages have dabbled in it. That whole clan is dangerous, but in my professional opinion, Mad Dog is the worst of the lot. That boy’s name rings through the legal system like church bells on a Sunday. His antics keep local law enforcement on their toes at all times.”