Testify

by Ms. Michel Moore

  Shrugging his shoulders at her barrage of questions, Clay pulled off from the curb, not having time to deal with Rhonda’s mixed Kleenex tissue sentiments. The street drug pharmacist had less than thirty minutes to get on the block, hook up, and set up the new package. Although he had a small amount of product left from the night before, it definitely was not enough to satisfy his loyal clientele. With a one-track mind, nothing or no one would stop Clay making money, especially a wet bottom female.

  * * *

  “Yeah, Whip, I just dropped her worrisome ass off.” He looked in his rearview mirror referring to Rhonda. “She’s beginning to be a bug. Ain’t no girl worth all that mouth, you know what I’m saying? This bird never stops with the third-degree. Females need to know when to fall back!”

  “Man, I told you before you started hitting her, she and her family was cut like that; three generations of begging Negroes—from the grandmother on down. Straight headache hoes!”

  “Yeah, well, that part-time jumpoff about to run its course, but in the meantime, holler at Dorie and tell him I’ll be there in about fifteen or twenty.” Clay mashed the gas pedal, checking his watch. “I need to make a few stops first; then I’m official.”

  As he turned the gas-guzzling Hummer into the parking lot of the West Side CVS he frequently visited, Clay noticed it was growing increasingly cloudy. Aww, damn, it’s about to be messed up. He figured it was looking like rain which always slowed down business. Guess I gotta run a special on that work.

  After recounting the rubber banded money in his pockets, Clay got pissed knowing good and damn well it was $350 short of what it was supposed to be. He’d added his cash up the night before. Wrapping a different color band around each knot according to what he had to purchase, Clay knew Rhonda had to have hit him up. More than likely while he was posted in the shower. Fuck it, that tagalong really done tore her ass this time. I hate a thief! A lying motherfucker is one thing, but a thief is another. Well, she done—on to the next one.

  Before getting out of the truck, Clay erased Rhonda’s contact information from his cell phone altogether, including any text messages. Since he never answered any strange, unknown random numbers—by her own conniving hand, Rhonda was history. Gangster girl, ride-or-die tendencies or not—from this point on, that’s all Rhonda was—past tense.

  Chapter Five

  Unlikely Allies

  Having waited for the constantly late DOT bus to arrive, Thelma Gale’s heart was heavy. She would have to try to figure out what excuse she was going to give the cashier at the pharmacy if the copay amount exceeded the funds in her small change purse. With shaky hands, one clutching the handle of her cane, Thelma stepped off the bus. Making her way inside the virtually empty CVS, she sighed.

  “Well, hello, there, Mrs. Gale. Nice to see you,” the pharmacist trainee greeted the elderly woman who was a regular. “How are you this fine morning?”

  “Hello, dear. I’m doing well. Thanks so much for asking.” Thelma smiled, happy that someone was taking the time to share a kind word with an old woman.

  “Mrs. Gale,” the white jacket-clad head pharmacist rudely interrupted while watching the store’s entrance, “your doctor called in your prescriptions late yesterday. There are a grand total of three different ones this time.”

  “Three did you say?”

  “Yes, three prescriptions in total. One is covered by your insurance, but the others—the copay—cost almost twenty dollars for them both.” He sent his trainee to get the stapled closed bags. “So should I have them rung up for you or what?”

  “Twenty dollars you say?” Thelma was at a loss, knowing she had only a ten-dollar bill and two crumbled up singles to her name. “Well, let me see what I’m going to do.”

  Seeing the person he was waiting for come through the double glass doors, the pharmacist’s entire demeanor got disrespectful in tone. The Indian beige-skinned pharmacist grew increasingly short in patience, shooing the grandmother to the side to figure out her own financial hardships. “Hello, Clay. What’s happening?”

  “Nothing much guy, just trying to survive. What you got for me?” Inconspicuous as possible, Clay leaned over the counter, sliding the man a small folded knot of money.

  Looking down the semiempty aisles, then giving a subtle glance up at the security cameras, the pharmacist told Clay to give him a minute or two to get rid of possible prying eyes. Getting handed three separate bags from his trainee, he then raised his voice at the elderly, financially stressed woman. “Well, what’s it going be, Mrs. Gale? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m still trying to see which one I need the most.”

  “You obviously need them all. That’s why the doctor prescribed them.”

  When Thelma looked up to respond to his callous comment, she recognized Clay as the same young man on her block that had helped her the day prior from almost being trampled by a girl buying her morning blast. “Umm, I know that, young man, it’s just that—”

  “Just what is it this time, Mrs. Gale?” he feverishly replied as if he was fed up with the trivial back-and-forth conversation. “It’s always something with you!”

  Clay couldn’t believe his ears and the way this fool was addressing the old lady—an old black lady, no less. Forgetting about the illegal business at hand, the otherwise coldhearted cocaine hustler started to feel some sort of way. “Damn, man, why in the hell you talking to her like that? Have you lost your damn mind or something?” His chest grew swollen with anger and scorn.

  “Excuse me? What?” The pharmacist was thrown off by Clay’s reaction and tried explaining. “You don’t understand. Every few weeks, it’s the same routine with the lady, Mrs. Gale. If you don’t have the money, then why even bother to show up here? It’s common sense.”

  “You right! I don’t understand—I over damn stand!” Seeing the look of shame on the old woman’s face, Clay grew infuriated, coming to her rescue. “Look, Ankit,” he called him by his first name. “I don’t know how y’all treat old people where the fuck you come from, but that low-key fly disrespect ain’t bumping around here!” Even though Clay spoke to Ida and every other old drug addict like they were no more than a piece of hot dog shit on a stick, he recognized this old woman was a civilian to the street game.

  “But, Clay, I’m not running a charity mission. I can’t give medicine away for free.”

  “Who in the fuck said that crazy-sounding garbage? Not me,” Clay sneered at the trainee who stood back silent. “But you damn straight ain’t gotta talk all reckless! Sorry for cursing,” he directed his last comment to Mrs. Gale. “But this fool ain’t gonna be all up in a black neighborhood blowing that garbage out of his mouth.”

  Struggling to stand on her weak knees, the grandmother mouthed the words “thank you” before solemnly heading toward the exit door leaving the prescriptions, even the one that was covered by her insurance.

  “Man, you’s a motherfucker! How much is the medicine?”

  “Twenty dollars.”

  “Twenty damn dollars.” His voiced echoed throughout the store, causing other customers, including the renta-cop security guard, to take notice. “That’s all, and you talking to an old woman like that? Dude, someday a nigga gonna fuck you up in this motherfucker. Shit, if that was my granny, you’d been dead. Now here,” Clay peeled off a twenty, tossing it onto the counter. “Now hurry the fuck up and give me that medicine and my package so I can catch her. And, Ankit, I swear for God, if I come back in this store and catch you mouthing off at anybody’s mama or old-ass grandma like that again—it’s gonna be a no fly zone around this son of a bitch for you!”

  * * *

  Why, Lord, why? As a humiliated, defeated Thelma stood at the bus stop, she didn’t bother to look up as Clay eased his truck up to the curb, bringing it to a stop.

  Snatching up the three bags of prescription pills off his passenger seat, he jumped down from the truck. “Excuse me, ma’am. I was just inside CVS with you.”

  “
Oh yes,” she held her cane tightly, trying to have some pride about herself. “I pray my problems didn’t get you in any trouble, young man. I wouldn’t want that.”

  “No, ma’am. I’m fine,” Clay cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to disrespect you with the words I was using in there but—”

  “No, it’s fine, son. I appreciate what you said, but that man is right. I didn’t have the money.” Her voice lowered, sounding conquered. “I didn’t mean to waste his time.”

  “All of that bullshit, I mean foolish mess he was talking doesn’t matter. I took care of it for you.” Handing the bags to Mrs. Gale, Clay felt a strange sense of satisfaction coming over him being able to help.

  “Oh my goodness,” she said, overjoyed. She smiled not believing what was happening and the blessing she was receiving. “Young man, you didn’t have to do this. I would have managed somehow—God willing.”

  Clay returned her smile. “You’re much too pretty to have to ‘manage’ anything. Here, miss, I wanna give you something else too.”

  “Me?” Thelma blushed at the young man she always knew to be nothing more than a troublemaker running havoc on her block. “You’ve done more than enough. I already don’t know how I can repay you. God is gonna bless you.”

  “Knowing my luck, probably not—but just take this, please.” Usually having zero tolerance with people in general, Clay handed her two $100 bills like it was nothing. “I know you don’t respect where it came from, but that doesn’t matter to me. You need it, and I have it to spare—so take it. That should be enough to get your prescriptions for a while and at least take a cab home.” He looked at the clouded sky. “It looks like rain.”

  “But, son—” With aged, wrinkled fingers, she tried to argue, balancing herself on her cane.

  “Listen, I would take you on the block myself—right to your front door, but what would your good neighbors say?” he sarcastically chuckled, hailing a cab. “Take care, Mrs. Gale.” Clay then surprised the old woman again, remembering her name before walking back to the driver’s side of the truck, then speeding off.

  * * *

  Clay hit the block, and like always, it was on and popping. He’d been a little late, but that didn’t stop the flow of the business taking place. With his right and left hands, Dorie and Whip on point, Clay knew the early-morning rush of customers would be good. As he drove up two houses down from the spot and parked, he noticed an old-school once-playa-now-turned-wide-eyed rock smoker standing close to Whip. Clay knew whenever Hustle-Man showed up, a horse and pony show was sure to follow.

  Damn, it’s too early for this clown. I already know he gonna be on some old, wild-style dumb shit. Hesitating to even step foot outside his truck, Clay could tell by the expression on Whip’s face if he didn’t intervene quick, fast, and in a hurry, old Hustle-Man was on his way to getting his ass handed to him on a silver platter. “Okay, motherfucker,” Clay was ready for the scheming to start, “what kinda scam you trying to run this morning? Who you done fucked over?”

  “It ain’t no kinda scam, ya hear what I’m saying?” Hustle-Man attempted to explain while acting like someone was in hot pursuit. “It’s like this here. My people—”

  “What, nigga?” Whip laughed, watching him go through his twice a week, three times a day routine of acting like he was still making thangs happen in the hood. “So now you gots people? Who in the fuck is your people—like you’s a boss?”

  “Slow down, Whip.” Clay had to laugh as well. “Maybe this damn near expired fool is reviving the new world order of dope users; some type of union and fraternity mess.”

  Adjusting his filthy jeans and oil-soiled T-shirt, Hustle-Man ignored the young boys’ comments and insults. “Listen here, Clay. Last night a friend of a friend of a friend’s cousin got caught slipping.”

  “Slipping?” Clay quizzed, trying to finally see what the old head was talking about. “What in the hell you mean slipping? Slipping on what?”

  Hustle-Man, paranoid, looked around once more. “Well, what I’m ’bout to turn you on to gonna cost you.”

  “Life cost, nigga, so just come the fuck on and spit it out before I bounce,” Clay ordered as Whip folded his arms. “I ain’t got no time for fun and games, Hustle-Man. Now, what’s the deal?”

  “Okay, okay. It’s like this.” He knew his time was up for stalling. “This dude drive a truck for Walmart—one of those big ones. He was supposed to be in Toledo this morning—at a warehouse.”

  “And?” Whip tried speeding the story along, seeing Dorie coming back with their breakfast orders. “We about to break bread, fool, so and what?”

  “And he was with me and my girl last night getting high.”

  “So what, old head? Y’all was getting high. What’s so new about that bullshit?”

  “This the part that’s new and is gonna cost you big time. But if you want me to go over across on Twelfth Street with the deal, I can.” No sooner than he called himself threatening them, he knew he’d gone too far.

  Clay and Whip both had enough of the cat-and-mouse game. As they each turned away, leaving Hustle-Man standing there, he saw his golden opportunity to come up on some product, probably more than an eight ball, growing weaker by the second.

  “Wait, wait—hold up. Well, he fucked around and got some raw and a half ounce on credit from one of the Twelfth boys. And you know how them boys do. Twenty-four hours and you pay or get beat down or even killed.”

  Clay stopped dead in his tracks. Turning around, he looked Hustle-Man in his face. “Look, Negro, I know good and damn well you ain’t practically hold me and my manz hostage, making our food get cold, on no dummy mission.”

  “Naw, naw, it ain’t like that,” he urged them to listen. “The man gave me and my girl the key to his rig and the whole trailer.”

  At that moment, Clay and Whip realized what Hustle-Man was attempting to say. Hearing that the small-size trailer was parked behind an old, abandoned apartment building, stashed in the deep unkempt trees, grass, and bushes that were common sights in Detroit, made Clay more than interested. The normally nickel-and-dime con man made the streetwise opportunist an offer he couldn’t refuse. If they somehow busted the lock open on the Walmart secured trailer and it was filled, with no matter what, Clay would pay him. They agreed $500 would be a fair price, but they would have to act quickly before Walmart discovered the driver hadn’t showed up in Toledo and reported the vehicle, along with their stock, missing.

  Detroit’s Police Department wasn’t big on trying to locate stolen cars; however, this particular theft would be highly publicized. Every investigative reporter in town would be taking the opportunity to drag down even more the already rotten-labeled name of the city. Besides, as desperate as times were in the Detroit, whoever found an unattended trailer full of goods would clean it out first before, if even, alerting the authorities their damn self.

  Grabbing several huge crowbars from the basement of the spot, Clay got three of his runners to steal Chrysler minivans from the nursing home employee parking lot less than a mile away to haul some of the stolen merchandise he was anticipating. Clay warned Hustle-Man that if this was some dry run dummy mission they was on, he would pay the consequences. He would have Whip go ham, splitting his skull clear down to the white meat.

  Eighteen minutes later, they were in a small convoy with Hustle-Man leading the way.

  Clay wasn’t a fool. He was far from interested in possibly getting caught up in his Hummer, no matter how much stolen goods it could carry. Damn running the risk of his truck being seized if caught up, so he rode with Whip, leaving Dorie to hold down the block until they returned.

  After bending a few corners, Hustle-Man pointed over toward the left rear side of an old, dilapidated, six-story building that should’ve been torn down years ago. There, tucked back behind in plain sight, was the prize just as Hustle-Man had promised. The big blue letters spelling out Walmart was clear as day. Wasting no more time than necessary, the street-wise thugs use
d the crow bars prying the huge silver locks off. Grabbing the metal handles, they yanked open the small-size trailer.

  “What in the—hell, yeah!” Clay smiled joined by Hustle-Man, who knew he was about to get paid.

  “What the—maybe we need to renegotiate, young blood.” His eyes grew wider than the drugs he smoked usually made them.

  “Naw, dude, fall the fuck back. A deal is a deal,” Clay announced as he, Whip, and the three workers started unloading everything the three vans and the car could carry.

  From flat screens to diapers to aspirin and underwear, the vans were soon packed to the ceilings. Several trips in, the surely now-reported stolen trailer and its contents, all property of Walmart, was completely empty. Paying all the workers, a.k.a. van thieves, a few dollars along with some merchandise, Clay had hit a real lick thanks to Hustle-Man. Peeling off twenty-five twenties, Clay paid the promised fee. Hustle-Man, in turn, was happy to hand Whip back five of them for some much-needed product for him and Ava to smoke.

  As for paying the huge drug debt from the night before, the truck driver, who was hiding out in a vacant house thinking about what lie he could tell his boss, let alone the pissed dealer, was on his own. There was no honor amongst thieves, let alone baseheads.

  Chapter Six

  Clay

  “Damn, it’s been a long-ass day.” Clay ate a red velvet cupcake looking out the window, watching an always nosy Mr. Jessie pretend to be picking paper up from his front yard. Just keep doing you, old man, and stay outta my lane, and we gonna stay good.

  “Yo, Clay, come see if this is straight.” Whip struggled, holding the metal TV mount up on the wall as Dorie grabbed the drill. “I know it’s only twenty-seven inches, but I still want this mug straight and right where I can see it when I be counting that bread and getting them little niggas straight on they grind.”

  Finishing off his Dollar Store snack, Clay came in the living room of the spot laughing. “Are y’all two clowns serious—mounting that tiny screen on the wall? Throw that thing on an old milk carton and keep it moving. It’s about time we called it a day.”