After telling him her address, Trinity wanted to cut off into him about how much she always like him and wanted to get with him. Yet considering the fact he’d just seen one man banging her and another man’s hookup in her mouth, she knew this wasn’t the time or the place. Just thankful Clay had rescued her from God knows what was enough for the time being. Getting the stroller out of the backseat, helping her with the kids, Clay walked to the rear of the truck, opening the hatch once more. As she stood on the curb thanking him once more and promising to return his clothes once she washed them, Trinity felt her chances of being his woman fade even more.
“Here you go.” He handed her a small-size box that looked familiar to her just as schoolteacher Lynn Banks, late for work again, drove by in a rush.
“What’s this for?” Trinity asked, never getting something for nothing before.
“I saw the one my manz Whip blessed you with was smashed, so here you go. Take this one. It’s a different color, but it’s all the same.”
Amazed at his kindness at that point, Trinity wanted her hero even more than ever. Before driving off, Clay reminded her that what went down in the alley was their secret and no one, not even Whip, would hear about it from her. He had her solemn word.
Clay
More than an hour and a half had flown by since Clay abruptly left the block. Returning with a slightly different attitude, he had a few bags of groceries in tow. Getting Dorie to help him, Clay gathered a couple of household items from the stolen Walmart truck, along with a 27-inch flat screen. Not even asking Dorie or Whip if the count was right and was business on point, he headed a couple of doors down as nosy Mr. Jessie from across the street watched his every movement like a hawk. Momentarily staring up at Mrs. Gale’s window, he asked Dorie if she had gone anywhere. When he found out she hadn’t, the two men climbed the stairs to what Clay calculated had to be the elderly woman’s apartment door. Before he knocked, he had Dorie go back downstairs and tally up the money they’d made so far.
Clay returned twenty or so minutes later. Without so much as a single word in the way of an explanation to his crew about his newfound concern for the “old woman,” no one dared ask, and he didn’t volunteer. Listening to the cash amount and an update, he then took the money Whip had rolled up in a thick blue rubber band. In deep thought, he went to sit in his truck. Usually they waited to the end of the day to count up, but Clay was the boss, and if he wanted his money in all wooden nickels at four twenty-three in the morning, then so be it. It was his world—his way. After making a few phone calls, he rolled the window down telling his two next-in-charge cohorts he’d check them later and was once again out.
* * *
Clay paid off some trusted guys he often dealt with from the East Side of the city to remove the rapist city-issued van. He also needed them to dispose of the bullet-riddled dead bodies from the alley. He didn’t want to run the risk of some nosy kids playing hide-and-seek have their innocence snatched away by the sight. Or a few scrap metal-seeking scavengers discover them sprawled out, pants down, shot in the manhood and right between the eyes. Clay was beyond emotionally drained and rightly so. Fighting a terrible migraine, he headed home, which was out of character for him. It felt like he was coming down with the flu, yet he knew that wasn’t the case. It was his mental mind taking over. Over the years Clay had suffered from them. Always in a battle with his conscience and demons from his past, this time he felt no remorse whatsoever having had taken three human lives. After all, his latest victims brought death on themselves coming in “his neighborhood” doing as they pleased. There were consequences to doing that, and they paid the ultimate price—death.
As Clay drove, he couldn’t help but to think back on the day “Uncle James,” as his mother had him refer to one of her “special friends,” kicked in the rear door of the lower flat they lived in. His mom had been seeing “Uncle James” on and off for a few months. At first, he started off good in Clay’s youthful eyes, just as every random man his mother would bring home did. He never tried to stay the night after loud sexing his moms. He always had McDonald’s or Burger King in tow and had even paid for Clay to go on a school field trip. Good old “Uncle James” was a winner to him . . . until late one night.
In a deep sleep, Clay thought he was dreaming when he heard the thunderous sounds of someone kicking the side door, then the rear. Dragging himself out of bed, he wiped the sleep out of the corners of each eye. He thought it was good old “Uncle James’s” voice screaming out his mother’s name and calling her everything but a child of God. He was confused. Maybe he was still dreaming. Standing in the hallway not knowing what to do or say next, Clay soon felt his mother’s hands on both shoulders. Roughly, she pushed him, urging him to go hide. Of course, he did as he was told. In a matter of seconds, Clay’s life and mental were forever scarred.
After hearing his mother trying relentlessly to move what sounded like the small two-chair table across the kitchen floor, Clay heard one more final kick on the door. He realized it was the sound of the door crashing onto the kitchen floor. At that point, he knew for sure it was “Uncle James’s” voice indeed. He was yelling. He was cursing. He was knocking things off the countertops. And most disturbingly, the man who once came bearing gifts had yoked up Clay’s mother. He vowed she would never leave him and be with no other man. Clay was terrified and in tears. His mother was struggling to scream out for help, but her pleas were muffled. Knowing he had to come to her aid, eight-year-old Clay came out of hiding. Searching his bedroom for something to use as a weapon, he emerged back into the hallway, a huge plastic toy sword in hand. Running into the kitchen, he was prepared to do battle.
Entering through the doorway, Clay was stopped dead in his tracks. His jaw dropped, and his heart raced. “Uncle James” was on top of his mother. Panting while making grunting sounds, his pants were down to his knees. The smell of strong liquor mixed with the night air breeze. Clay stood motionless as he and his mother locked eyes. The young boy saw the pain on her face. After a few brief seconds, he made his move. He dropped the toy sword he was holding and grabbed a butcher knife out of the drawer. Without saying a single word, Clay planted the majority of the sharp blade deep into “Uncle James’s” lower back. In obvious agonizing pain, he yelled. When the man, four times his size, fell over and off his mother, Clay ran over in the corner to grab a broom. Before he could swing the red-handled makeshift weapon, his mother was back on her feet. She took him by the hand, and they both bolted out the door to a nearby neighbor’s for help. By the time the police had come to apprehend “Uncle James,” he was long gone.
Years went by, and neither Clay nor his mother ever saw him again, which was good. Clay hated busters that strong-armed the pussy from bitches since that day. He had zero tolerance for that type of shit, which made it extra easy to do what he had just done back in the alley.
Not wanting to think about the memory of his awful past any longer, the sworn thug shook that shit off. Stopping by a soul food restaurant, Clay picked up a dinner to eat later and a bottle of Tylenol. Forced to constantly push IGNORE throughout the morning on his phone, he had about had it and was ready to change his number—again. Rhonda was relentless, not really knowing what she’d said or done to make Clay lose interest and was hell-bent on finding out. Whip texted him she’d come on the block more than three or four times looking for him since he’d left. Her drugged out Grandmother Ida was even with her once, running off at the mouth.
For the time being, Clay couldn’t give a shit about Rhonda, Dorie, Whip, who had the best dope, the girl he’d saved from getting gang-raped, or the three guys he bodied because of her. He was headed to bed.
Chapter Eight
Nosy Neighbors
Well, after the block shut down and the dealers, along with the heavy flow of customers, had left, Mr. Jessie couldn’t help himself. What he’d saw had been eating at him. Taking his job as Block Club president to heart, he wasted no time calling his longtime neighbor a
nd friend, Thelma Gale. Considering the fact she was elderly and left to fend for herself most of the time, Mr. Jessie made her one of his top priorities when patrolling. Observing the main person who he knew was the boss, Clay, along with his worker Dorie, enter the building Mrs. Gale lived in, he’d waited all evening to invite himself over to her apartment to find out if she knew or had heard anything that would aid his attempts to shut the ill-mannered dope crew down.
“Sure, I’m still up, come on over,” she cheerfully offered, welcoming the company. “I’ll make us some coffee.”
Before she could hang up the phone, stand up with her cane, and make her way to the kitchen to put on the coffee, there were two knocks on the door.
“I’m sorry to bother you so late, Thelma, but I need to ask you something. It’s been kinda troubling me all day.”
“No, no, I was up. I’m glad you called. Come on in while I fix us some coffee.” Not being able to normally have enough for herself, let alone someone else, the fixed-income senior citizen was overjoyed having been blessed not once by whom she could describe as an angel, but twice.
Having been in his neighbor’s home several times a month helping her bring in her groceries, care boxes, or serve as somewhat of a bodyguard to fend off the always-begging, predator-intent addicts, Mr. Jessie was stunned as soon as he stepped foot through the door.
“Oh my goodness, Thelma! What’s all this?” Confused, he touched the DVD player that was attached to the fresh-out-of-the-box flat-screen television. “And all of this?” He nosily marveled at her countertop that was filled with everything from lotion and aspirin to mouthwash and cans of coffee, one which she had opened and was brewing in her new coffeemaker. “Where did this all come from?”
Not the least bit ashamed of her windfall, Thelma answered. “A new friend of mine blessed me with some things. Praise God.”
“What—a new friend?” Mr. Jessie looked bewildered with raised eyebrows. “And did this new friend also mysteriously bless you with all these groceries I see spilling out of your cabinets as well? Those are not the brands of can goods and whatnot we give away at the church. I can see you have a lot of top-shelf items. Wow, things and your circumstances have suddenly changed, I gather.”
Handing him a hot cup of coffee, Thelma reached for her new television remote, turning the sound down as she sat in her favorite chair. “As a matter of fact, he did. Why do you ask?”
“No wonder I didn’t see you go to the Outreach Pantry this morning. The reverend was looking for you also. He saved you a box . . . even brought it over to my house himself. I set it right outside your door.” He hissed in disgust and disappointment alike. “Wow, I knew something was strange when I saw you come home in a cab yesterday.”
Thelma knew where he was going with the questions and quickly realized the true purpose of his impromptu visit. “I think I know what you’re going to say.”
Cutting his elderly neighbor off, Mr. Jessie went into his wannabe police mode. “Thelma, please tell me you haven’t made friends with those street hooligans—those thugs down the street. I hope you haven’t accepted these items as any sort of payment for your silence for all the crimes they’re out in the street doing.” Clearly agitated, he set his coffee down, fed up with what he now knew, or at least thought, was going on.
“Listen,” with shaky hands, she placed her mug on the table beside his. “I don’t know what you think but—”
“Thelma, was that thug over here today—in this apartment or what? Is this where he and that other one were taking that all that stuff to? Please tell me they haven’t threatened you or tried to intimidate you. Is that what this is all about?”
“Slow down. No one has threatened anyone,” she insisted with a feisty attitude. “You are the only person who has come in here yelling and carrying on. The boy was kind and polite. He talked to me with respect.”
“Kind and polite? Respect? Is that what you call all these probably stolen items he has so-called blessed you with—respect? He and his posse are like cancer to this neighborhood! You look out the window every day. You see the madness they’re causing. Hell, you were almost trampled the other day.”
“That young man didn’t cause me any harm. He was only being generous and helpful like the other day.”
“Other day? What you mean other day? Just because that idiot stopped you from being knocked to the ground face-first he’s some sort of hero, like my dead son, may he rest in peace? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Oh my God,” she pressed her hand to her chest. “Calm down, Jessie, please. I’d never compare him to your son. I know what tomorrow is too. I haven’t forgot.”
Mr. Jessie suddenly felt like he didn’t know who Thelma was anymore. Harboring mixed responses of anger, sorrow, and regret hours before the anniversary of his only son’s death fighting overseas, the father had zero tolerance for a man he felt shouldn’t even be alive while his child was dead “Okay, Thelma, it seems like those criminals have somehow bamboozled your usually good judgment of character. I guess you wanna turn a blind eye to what they stand for, the crime they’re responsible for, and the change in our once-quiet neighborhood.”
“Of course not.”
“Then explain all of this ‘stuff’ and your newfound tolerance of that low-life drug dealer! He and his crew are animals—homegrown terrorists!” The conversation intensified.
“You have it all wrong. But all your screaming and accusations are too much!” Thelma’s soft-spoken voice rose. “Now, I’ve had just about enough, Jessie! I don’t have to explain to you or anyone else my actions. He saw I needed help, and he stepped up and helped me; nothing more and nothing less.” Her voice trembled as she spoke. “And, yes, I’m thankful to Clay. I don’t think he’s the monster you’re painting him to be.”
“Wow, so you two are on a first-name basis, huh?” Visibly disappointed, Mr. Jessie shook his head with contempt in his voice. “Well, just so you know, my police scanner first picked this up; then I saw it on the news. A Walmart truck full of merchandise was reported stolen and recovered a few blocks from here—broken in, stripped, and empty, of course.”
“Really? A truck? Near here, you say?” Thelma, rendered speechless, puzzled, hoping the obvious wasn’t true as her blood pressure skyrocketed.
“Yes, Thelma, right around the corner damn near. You didn’t see it on this new fancy television of yours?” sarcastically he said, heading toward the door. “They say everyone has a price, but I didn’t think a woman as strong as you are in the faith would be bought off so cheaply. Jesus help you, Thelma!” He made his longtime friend feel all the more guilty before delivering the final blow of insult and scare tactic. “And just so you know, receiving stolen property is against the law!”
Seconds after walking out of senior Thelma Gale’s apartment, Mr. Jessie tripped over the cardboard box filled with food he’d set down by the door. Beyond aggravated, he pushed speed dial on his cell.
“Hello, yes, it’s me. We need to talk.”
Mr. Jessie
Swamped by various heartfelt sentiments all night long, Mr. Jessie, like his wife, awoke with mixed feelings of pride and sadness. Today, on the second anniversary of their son’s death—or murder, as they often referred to it—they got dressed to visit the cemetery. Placing flowers on their child’s grave at least three times a year—today was especially hard for the couple. Somberly leaving from their front door and walking on to the porch, Mr. Jessie and his overly emotional, distraught wife had no time or interest in what Clay or his cronies were doing or going to do. As far as they were both concerned, the thugs could have the block this one morning. Mrs. Jessie even forgot to snarl at the passing Abdul and his little sister, what she did every chance she saw the pint-size Islamic soon-to-be terrorists that she felt were directly related somehow to the death of her military son.
* * *
“I wonder where they nosy asses headed to so damn early—probably a meeting for snitches! They probably take
classes in that bullshit!” Whip’s wild assumptions were followed by Dorie’s on the early-morning crowded street.
“She got a Bible in her hands, fool, and it ain’t even Sunday. Plus, she got some kind of stuffed animal or something.” He couldn’t help but notice Mrs. Jessie’s overall sad demeanor and slow reaction mannerisms. “They’re probably headed to a funeral or something like that—maybe a kid they know.” Checking his cell for the time, Dorie suggested they get the block pumping before Clay got on set, or they’d mess around and it would be one of their funerals.
Momentarily watching Mr. and Mrs. Jessie wave at the old grey-haired woman from the building his once coldhearted boss had taken such a sudden interest in, as well as the fake do-gooder Reverend Richards, who were both standing on the corner talking, Whip got to work getting the customers in line and the runners in place. Ida, feeling she was special and bigger than the game, shoved her way to the front beasting, even managing to elbow the schoolteacher, Lynn Banks, out of her cherished spot.
Seeing Ida instantly reminded Whip to try calling Trinity once more. Listening to Ida talk reckless about the size of their rocks versus the next crew and her irate granddaughter, Rhonda, complain about not being able to catch up with her self-proclaimed “man” the evening before had set his twisted thoughts and mind in motion. Finding out Clay had allegedly dropped his latest conquest and her badass kids off at her house and not even mentioned it to him caused Whip to be even more suspicious of Clay’s outta-the-blue strange behavior. Whip wanted to flat-out ask him what the deal was but knew that would cause a major problem. Too many other out-of-the-ordinary things had gone down over the past few days in the hood. There was no need to rock the boat any further.
From where they came from and the number of females that were begging to just “be around,” he had to appear to remain in total beast mode. Just having hit it, he definitely wasn’t set tripping over the worn-out pussy, but was just curious. However, it was no secret to him or half the people standing around. Clay didn’t like questions or those who asked them. Whip’s only hope in knowing the true 411 was Trinity. Strangely, the desperate, thirsty-to-come-up female was all in the other night on his nut sac, but was now sending him to straight to voice mail, stuntin’ like she was some sort of a G. He was no hood detective and definitely not on no spy shit, but in Whip’s book, something wasn’t right and didn’t add up.
Testify Page 8
