“Ralphie, it won’t open!” the goon shouted as he pulled at the latch on the back of the truck.
Ralphie stuck his gun in Braylon’s rib cage. “You’re playing games with me Braylon?” he asked tauntingly.
Braylon winced as the tip of the gun bruised his ribs and replied, “There’s a button on the inside of the truck. It releases the hatch.”
“Hit the button on the inside!” Ralphie instructed, his voice revealing his eagerness. The extra thirty grand had not been something he had expected, but it was a lovely addition to the pot.
After a few minutes of searching the goon yelled, “I don’t see it.”
“Fucking idiot,” Ralphie mumbled as he impatiently pushed Braylon toward the car. “You do it.”
Braylon walked cautiously to the driver side with Ralphie right behind him. With his automatic start in his pocket he secretly hit the button that turned his interior lights off. Once he was inside the truck, he leaned down and reached underneath the passenger seat. Ralphie thought he was reaching for the button to pop the trunk. He had no idea that Braylon always kept an extra burner underneath his passenger seat. The feeling of the gun in his hand gave Braylon a sense of security in the tense situation. Braylon knew that it was a great possibility that it may have been his day to die, but he was gonna make sure that somebody went with him. If Zoey had to grieve him, he was going to make another bitch across town a widow right along with her.
With Ralphie standing directly behind him, Braylon sent his size eleven Timberland boot slamming into Ralphie’s groin area. The wind was knocked out of Ralphie as he instantly doubled over, grabbing at his crotch. Braylon started his vehicle and put the car in reverse. Without thinking twice he hit the gas, running down the goon that was behind his car.
Boom! Boom! Boom!
Gunshots erupted throughout the building as Ralphie put Swiss cheese holes in the body of Braylon’s truck.
Braylon racked his gun and stuck his hand out the window, firing back wildly at Ralphie and his henchman as he drove simultaneously. Braylon was fucking the warehouse up as he barreled his Range Rover into the card table in an attempt to murder the young kid who was using it as cover. Enraged, Braylon jumped from his truck and ran up on the injured Hispanic kid.
Boom!
The hollow tip that Braylon put into the kid’s forehead silenced him forever. Braylon snatched the kilos of heroin and the black duffel bag up from the ground before hopping back into his truck. Braylon was like a marksman with his pistol as he shot it out with Ralphie and his goons, but the bullets that riddled the Range Rover were dangerously close to ending his life. I’ve got to get the fuck out of here, he thought as his heart pounded in fear and anxiety. Braylon put the truck in reverse and prepared to exit out of the garage, but a bloody Ralphie stood between his Range and the exit. Braylon watched as Ralphie raised his gun. Just as Ralphie pulled the trigger Braylon stepped on the accelerator, sending the car flying backwards. Ralphie jumped out of the way just in time as Braylon blew past him and swerved out onto the deserted city street.
Screeeech!
His tires burned the pavement below as he came to a stop before he switched gears. Before he could even put the truck in drive, he felt the bullet as it ripped through his right shoulder.
“Aghh!” he hollered as his entire right side erupted in excruciating pain. Braylon ducked down as he returned fire on Ralphie and desperately grasped his bleeding shoulder. Braylon threw the truck into the right gear and sped off into the night, leaving Ralphie firing at him in the distance as Braylon looked at him through the rearview mirror.
Braylon raced through the city streets in paranoia as he gripped his arm to try and stop the bleeding. He really needed to go to the hospital, but knew that it would draw too much attention. He had the resident hood doctor on speed dial and decided that he would call him once he arrived home. He looked over at the dope that sat in the seat next to him. He had gotten off with the money and the product, but at that moment they didn’t seem to be worth all of the trouble. Ralphie had tried to kill him and although Braylon had been able to take out his goons, Ralphie was still breathing. He would undoubtedly come after him. The next time I see that fat mu’fucka, I’m murking him ... no questions asked, Braylon thought as his nostrils flared and he bent three unnecessary corners just to ensure that he was not being followed. Paranoia consumed him as his blood shot eyes surveyed his surroundings and his neck sat on a constant swivel.
He couldn’t believe that Ralphie had set him up. Braylon was positive that Ralphie had intended to kill him and the fact that Ralphie was aware of where he rested his head at night had Braylon shook. He pulled up to his home and sat in the driveway for fifteen minutes as he tried to detect any movement inside. Everything appeared to be the same as he had left it, but this still didn’t ease the worry from his heart. He reloaded a fresh clip into his gun before grabbing the duffel bag and stepping out of the truck. The familiarity of his home allowed him to breathe easier, but he had a nagging suspicion that he just couldn’t shake. There was no way he would sleep on Ralphie. Now that Ralphie had shown Braylon pure shade, Braylon wouldn’t be caught slipping again.
The silence in his house caused goose bumps to form on his arm as Braylon went from room to room, turning on lights ... letting his gun lead the way. He called Zoey’s name but got no answer. For some odd reason, he felt like someone was in the house. He called for her once more, but again ... nothing. Thoughts of Ralphie sending his goons to wait on him had him paranoid. He was ready to pop something. His nerves were shattered because he knew that he could have easily been getting tags on his toes at that very moment. Braylon finally calmed down and took a deep breath. What a day, he whispered as he shook his head and lowered his gun, realizing that he was tripping. He knew that Zoey was probably at the dance studio practicing late so he had time to clean himself up before she came home. He went into his room and emptied the contents of the duffel bag onto his bed. He removed his blood soaked shirt, wincing as he moved his bloody shoulder. The bullet had gone in and out so he decided that he wouldn’t go to the hospital. Braylon tried to rotate his arm but a sharp pain shot threw his entire body. As he raised his head, he heard the sound of footsteps sneaking up behind him. Gun already in hand and with a hair trigger Braylon turned around and fired.
Boom!
Zoey’s eyes bulged from her head as her mouth dropped in an “O” of protest as the bullet entered the center of her head and exited out of the back of her skull.
“Noo!” Braylon shouted as a crimson dot appeared on Zoey’s forehead. As if time slowed down, he watched as Zoey’s legs gave out from underneath her. She fell in slow motion ... first to her knees and then face first into the carpet.
“No ... no ... Zoey,” Braylon pleaded as he dropped the gun and felt his knees began to get weak. He then rushed to her side, pulling her up onto him for support as he collapsed onto the floor. He called her name repeatedly, begging her to live…to breathe, but it was too late. She had died on impact. Her eyes stared back lifelessly as Braylon picked her up and cradled her as her limp body dangled from his arms. Braylon let out a series of thunderous roars that came from the bottom of his gut. Tears began to form and fall as he cried like a baby, knowing that he had just mistakenly took the life of his one true love.
“I’m sorry baby. I’m so sorry. Please wake up,” he whispered as he rocked her back and forth and gently kissed her forehead, hoping that she could somehow come back to life. Deep inside he knew she was gone. Her body was limp and there was no denying that her heart had stopped. He knew it because for a brief moment his heart had stopped also. The moment he had pulled the trigger his life had also ended.
Chapter Three
This Can’t be Life
Braylon sat with the screw face as his eyes roamed the men around him. He didn’t trust any of them and the ones who had tried to befriend him or take him under their wing aroused even more skepticism. There was nothing friendly about a nig
ga locked up. They almost always had hidden agendas, but Braylon wouldn’t even give them room to plot on him. He was prepared to do hard time. He would body a nigga before he let anyone chump him or step on his toes. The beast in him had lay dormant for awhile. Yes, he had put in work considering his profession, but overall life with Zoey ... or better said, the love of Zoey had tamed him. Losing her was his breaking point. No longer would he think before he acted. He was throwing caution to the wind ... it was all about survival and it was always of the fittest. The strong would devour the weak and he refused to be the latter.
As he pondered his circumstances he had to fight with himself to let go of the past. There was no point in looking back. To remember the curves of Zoey’s body or the graceful tone of her dancer’s back would only incite a yearning in him. To recall her laugh or the softness of her touch against his face would only make him miss her more. The unfortunate fact was that he would never see her again. He hadn’t meant to take her life, but despite his regrets and his pleas for God’s forgiveness, he would never get to stare into her eyes again in this lifetime. Their moment in time had passed and he wasn’t even good for a bouquet of flowers on her grave. He couldn’t even cherish her memory because he was caged like an animal. The entire situation overwhelmed him, but it was out of his hands. God couldn’t have constructed this plan. There was too much pain, too much bad, too much sin for HIM to be involved. Hustling had gotten him paid. He had felt the adrenaline and prestige that came along with being up and coming on the drug scene, but now he was living the flip side and experiencing all the pitfalls that came with it as well. Death, destruction, incarceration, loneliness, deceit… all those things told the story of his life. As his cell door opened a C.O. yelled, “Kennedy, you have a visitor!”
Braylon heard his last name as it was called out, but he ignored it. There wasn’t anyone on the outside who would visit him. He knew Boobie didn’t do the jail thing and he respected it. Nobody wanted to hang around speaking through plexi-glass and reminiscing about the way things used to be. The only thing that mattered was what was, and his reality consisted of nothing but bars and steel.
“Kennedy!” the C.O. called with irritation lacing his tone.
Curious, Braylon stood and peeked his head out of his cell. The officer nodded and said, “Next time you will forfeit the visit if I have to call your name twice.”
Knowing that arguing with a county jail cop was pointless, Braylon shook his head and pulled up his tan Dickie pants as he sauntered into the visiting room. He stared around the room looking for a familiar face but found none.
“This a joke a’ something man?” he asked as he looked back at the C.O. in confusion.
“Booth four,” he instructed.
Braylon peered at the man sitting on the other side of the glass in booth four. Fuck is he? He asked himself as he walked over and sat down, reaching for the telephone receiver.
“Yo I know you fam?” he asked.
The dark skinned man didn’t respond immediately, but instead took in Braylon’s appearance, causing Braylon to do the same. He noted the diamonds that crowded his wrist watch, the low cut caeser, and Sean John apparel. Braylon kept his circle tight so he was positive that he had never dealt with the man before.
“Somebody sent you? You got a message for me?” he asked with hostility, thinking that the guy was one of Ralphie’s goons.
“Calm down Braylon. I’m here to help you,” the man said.
“Fuck out of here with that shit duke. I don’t even know you,” Braylon shot back. “I know you got two seconds to start talking before I get up and walk up out of here though. What you here for?”
The man leaned into the glass to avoid anyone else overhearing what he was about to say.
“My name is Dame Reed ... and I’m an undercover federal agent for the Drug Enforcement Agency,” he stated.
“Conversation’s over,” Braylon said as he stood up from the table abruptly while slicing his hand across his neck, signaling that it was a wrap. He walked away before the man even had a chance to protest. I don’t have shit to talk to that mu’fucka about, Braylon thought as he went back to his cell. He had absolutely no interest in assisting Detective Reed. If there were more real niggas in the world then he wouldn’t be in the position he was in. Pigs walking around looking like real live hood niggas, Braylon thought. I’d hate to be in his crosshairs. They’ll never see him coming. Braylon didn’t want anything to do with Reed, but shaking the detective would prove difficult.
The next day Braylon was escorted into a private visiting room where attorneys usually met with their clients. When Dame Reed walked in Braylon stood in defiance.
“Sit down,” Reed said, with authority.
“C.O.!” Braylon called while shaking his head in disgust at the Detective.
“If you ever want to see life outside of these walls again, you’ll sit down and hear me out,” Reed stated seriously, arousing Braylon’s attention.
Braylon looked at Reed trying to read him, but he emulated a street cat so well that he didn’t wear his heart on his sleeve. Reed wore a serious poker face as he nodded to the chair, signaling for Braylon to take a seat. Braylon walked to the chair and sat down reluctantly as Reed sat down in the chair across from him.
“At least you look like your own kind now,” he shot as he sat with both hands nestled comfortably behind his head. The cheap black suit that the detective wore revealed his true identity and the badge that was proudly clipped to his belt confirmed it.
“Listen Kenneth,” Reed said.
“Braylon,” he interrupted. “The name is Braylon.”
“Right, Braylon,” Reed said with a smirk. “I’ve been following your case since the moment you were arrested and although you couldn’t convince a jury that the murder of your girlfriend was a mistake ... I believe you. I also believe that you would have never been caught up on drug charges if this incident never occurred. You’re smart ...”
“Man what do you want?” Braylon said irritably as he sat back against the back of the chair and extended one leg outward. The detective was doing too much ass kissing for Braylon’s liking and was acting as if they had something in common. He didn’t even want it to be said that he had dealings with a cop. He knew what it would look like, him holding secret meetings with a narc, and he didn’t want to go down that road. The life of a snitch behind bars was something he didn’t want to experience. He didn’t need that label put on him.
“I’m here to give you your freedom back,” Reed stated, unflinchingly.
For the first time Braylon looked the Detective in the eye. He had his attention, but Braylon knew that his freedom wouldn’t be granted for nothing. It would come at a high cost.
“Oh, yeah? How you plan to do that?” he asked sarcastically.
Dame Reed rubbed his neatly trimmed goatee and leaned into the table as his hands folded on top of it. “I’m serious Braylon. There’s a program that you would be perfect for. We’ve established a drug cooperation task force that reduces, and in your case pardons, first time convicted felons. We don’t want you Braylon. We want to catch the men you used to cop from ... we are hunting the highest level dealers and suppliers,” Reed said as he stared at Braylon intently. “All you have to do is get in with the right people, make a few moves in the street. We will supply you with everything you need to play the part.”
“I ain’t a fucking snitch,” Braylon replied.
“I didn’t call you one,” Dame answered. “But you don’t strike me as a stupid man. My organization and I have chosen you out of thousands of inmates who would surely jump if given this same opportunity.”
“I’m not a puppet. I don’t scratch my head if it don’t itch and I don’t jump at every opportunity I’m offered. Like I said, you can go find one of them other hoe ass niggas in here cuz I ain’t no rat,” Braylon seethed angrily. Braylon stood tall and didn’t break. In his eyes this little rendezvous was over.
“So you’re jus
t going to give up your freedom that easily? You’re going to rot in here for the rest of your life instead of making something good out of a bad situation. What about Zoey? Did she die in vain?” Dame asked.
“Don’t speak about her,” Braylon said. His voice was so low when he spoke that it sounded like a whisper, but it carried the weight of a threat all the same.
“She wouldn’t want you to die inside these walls. Don’t you want to be able to at least visit her at her gravesite or put flowers on her head stone?” Dame asked. The sorrow that passed over Braylon’s expression let Dame know that he had finally hit a nerve. Bingo, the narcotics detective thought. He had found the angle that would sway Braylon into seeing things his way. “All the wrong that you contributed to the streets ... give some good back to it. It’s not about being a snitch. Be a man and stand accountable for the things that you’ve done. Do it for Zoey ... she was a good girl. She was going places and now she’s going nowhere. Think about all the other Zoey’s out there ... all the other young innocent ladies who fall victim to the flip side of the game.”
“Why me? Why you barking up my tree with all this?” Braylon asked as his inner guilt began to seep out, tainting his judgment. He was plagued with visions of Zoey and he closed his eyes to stop himself from feeling too much. Braylon stood but the idea of being trapped in his tiny cell, alone with his thoughts, was more challenging than facing Dame. His wounded heart bled fresh emotion as he paced back and forth in turmoil.
“Fuck!” he exclaimed as he put both hands on the table and put his head down in disgrace.
There was no way that he could block out all that he was feeling. He was going through too much inside and the anger on top of resentment boiled to the surface. He had told Zoey he was sorry a thousand times in his mind. He hadn’t even been able to attend her funeral services because he had no legal ties to her. She wasn’t his wife and the system didn’t recognize or even acknowledge their connection. So he was forced to mourn her from his cage and miss seeing her face one last time. At that moment he felt like he had nothing to lose. He needed to go to her grave ... to see her name spelled out on the marble stone. He wanted nothing more than to have the ability to go to her and speak to her even though he would never hear her speak back. All of those things are what made him ache to be free.
Dopeman: Memoirs of a Snitch (Part 3 of Dopeman's Trilogy) Page 3
