Momentarily slowing down, the emotionally drained couple both noticed the otherwise bloodthirsty drug dealer that would normally let them both burn to death without so much as taking a piss to put them out took notice he had guns in both hands. Not wanting to fall victim to the ever-present swelling crime wave that Detroit was famous for, the pair rushed to the porch before Clay could warn them.
Damn! He now had to figure out what to do next seeing the overly cautious wife and Mr. Jessie closing their front door, unaware of what was awaiting them on the other side. Looking up once more at the old woman’s window, Clay darted into her building and up the stairs, taking them two, some three, at a time. Wasting no time, he banged on Mrs. Gale’s door hoping she, unlike her neighbors, would trust him enough to see what he wanted before passing judgment.
“My goodness,” she didn’t hesitate unlocking several deadbolts for the young man who had become her savior of sorts. “What’s wrong? Is everything okay?” she asked, holding her housecoat tightly seeing he had guns in his hands.
“I hate to bother you, but this is important. You know the man and woman across the street?” Clay ran over toward the window, peeking out through her curtains. “The ones who drive the black car with the rag roof?”
“You mean the Jessies,” Mrs. Gale was starting to get nervous as well as confused. “Of course I know them—been knowing them for years now. What’s this about? What’s going on? Son, why do you have those guns? What’s happening?”
“Listen, do you have their phone number?” Clay glanced over his shoulder long enough to make eye contact her, then went back to focusing on the lights that were now all on in Mr. Jessie’s house. “I need you to call them and see if everything’s okay. Can you do that please?” His breathing increased, observing the shadow of what appeared to be someone getting shoved around through their blinds.
“Please, Clay, they don’t mean you any harm.” She replayed all the horrific atrocious things Mr. Jessie, along with the good reverend, had been telling her about him all day. “I’m getting scared. Please! I’m sorry—you can take all this stuff back but please don’t hurt them.”
Clay knew then and there, no matter what he did or said, he was labeled a monster in her sight and always would be. But that was the title he rightly earned in and around Detroit and had to deal with the consequences that came with it. “Okay, listen, Mrs. Gale,” he watched her clutch her Bible to her chest. “I think someone broke in their house.” He shrugged off her misconceptions of his murderous intent, staring back out the window.
“Oh my God! No! We should call the police!”
“Look, I was gonna go handle it myself before it got to this, but they came home.” Clay finally turned back to face the old woman he’d grown strangely fond of. “That’s why I need you to call over there. I think, naw, I know, your friends done walked in on they asses! Ain’t no telling what’s going on behind them doors. And as for calling the police—even if you did—you know this is Detroit—they ain’t coming for at least two hours if they show up at all!”
Thelma knew what he was saying about the police was true and wasted no time dialing her longtime neighbor’s phone number which she knew by heart. Getting no answer the first time after letting it ring ten or eleven times, she tried again. Sighing with semirelief, the old woman finally heard the sound of Mrs. Jessie’s shaky voice say hello. Having been coached by Clay to just act normal and see what was what, she soon got the feeling Clay was right—something was seriously wrong in that household. Never having been rushed off the phone before by her friend, the conversation grew more random as the moments passed. “Wait now before you hang up. I just wanted to ask if you had any coupons for Tide detergent.”
While Mrs. Gale attempted to keep an elusive Mrs. Jessie on the line, Clay stood posted in the window, infuriated and pissed about what was now taking place on his block. Ain’t this a bitch! Not these young, reckless motherfuckers again! I’ma give they crackhead mamas something to do Saturday morning, fucking with me and my cheese. Recognizing one of the always mouthy teens he’d had a run-in with at the corner store, it became painstakingly clear what the small, inexperienced group of petty thieves were now caught up in. What they probably intended on being a simple burglary of a television, DVD player, and some jewelry had now become a home invasion, and by the looks of the youth marching Mr. Jessie from the rear of the house to his car, a kidnapping charge was not far behind.
“Keep her on the line as long as possible,” Clay whispered heading out the door into the hallway with both guns still in hand and another securely tucked in his waistband.
“What if she hangs up?” Mrs. Gale looked worried and distressed. “Oh my—then what?”
“Then grab that Bible of yours over there and get to praying ’cause somebody gonna to meet they Maker tonight!”
* * *
“Hey, yeah, it’s me, Whip.”
“Why you calling me? What you want?”
“What you mean what I want?”
“You heard me! I’m done playing all those fake games from earlier.”
“Look, girl, just meet me at the damn Coney Island, okay? I wanna holler at you.”
“For what, Whip? What we gotsta talk about so damn important?”
“Look, crazy bitch, I’m done with this phone shit—is you coming or not?”
“If I’m there I’m there; if I’m not, then so be it.”
“Then that’s on your slick-talking ass!” Pushing the red button on his cell, Whip then filled his boy in on his plans no sooner than Dorie finished pumping gas at the CITGO Station. “Hey, Dorie. You can drop me off on the next corner. I got some bitch business to handle in a few.”
“Your crazy ass must be about to hit old girl off again.” Dorie shook his head, turning the car’s engine on, pulling out into traffic. “Well, I hope your ass be in a better mood tomorrow than you was today, ’cause for a minute, I thought you was gonna have Clay fuck around and get on ten!”
“Yeah, dude. That no-wall-having rat been blowing my shit up all fucking day begging a nigga to come tear her thang out the frame.” Whip blatantly lied, jumping out half a block from the restaurant. “And FYI, Clay ain’t the only one that can get on ten! You must’ve forgot how a nigga like me gets down when pushed. I make boss moves when need be. I goes all the way off. Remember that drought and money was tight?”
* * *
After stealing a Jeep from the employee parking lot at the local college, Whip and his forever-loyal comrade Dorie hit I-94 heading east, putting the Hemi in the engine to work. As Dorie drove, Whip went through the owner’s glove compartment and center console hoping to find some petty cash or possibly a credit card. Finding nothing of great value, he reclined the seat for the short-distance ride they were taking. After twenty minutes or so, they pulled over at the mall, parking the car in far corner of the lot so no one would notice the broken steering wheel column. Going into one of the main entrances, they didn’t stop to window-shop as they exited at the far end, easily finding another vehicle to steal. Back en route to their destination, Whip followed the same routine in that car as well. Coming up empty-handed again after searching that glove compartment and console, he frowned. When his homeboy slowly turned into the parking lot of an out-of-the-way jewelry store in a not-so-crowded strip mall, he was back on alert. As they drove past, they noticed the showroom was empty of customers.
Momentarily seeing no one was coming in or out of the adjacent stores, the pair inconspicuously slipped on their mask. With hammers in their back pockets, they quickly exited the car, leaving it running and the doors unlocked. Within a matter of seconds, the wild, ill minded pair was inside the normally tranquil confines of the store. As a shocked staff hurried to mash the alarm button, the showcase glass was shattering, and Whip and Dorie were grabbing their hearts’ desires of rings, chains, and watches, putting them in plastic bags. Just as fast as the masked hooligans had entered the building, they were gone. Jumping back in their second
stolen car, they roared off and were soon back in the first one on I-94, home bound.
Before they could get back in the neighborhood good, Whip shot a move over a random female he was kicking it with. She had been blowing up his cell since the moment they’d stolen the first vehicle, and he wanted to set her straight. He wanted to teach her the life lesson that no ho strong sweated his balls. As Dorie stood guard on the girl’s front porch, Whip savagely beat her to sleep—almost permanently. When she regained consciousness, he had left her one of the stolen diamond rings. Whip and Dorie still laugh how the desperate bitch still be on his line.
Chapter Eleven
Easing his way across the eerily quiet block he normally ran with an iron fist, no fear, no second thoughts, Clay boldly walked up Mr. Jessie’s empty driveway. Standing close to the side of the brick wall in the darkness his anger grew. These little fuck boys gonna learn today! Sweaty palms on both guns, he looked back toward Mrs. Gale’s dark apartment getting a glimpse of the religious elderly woman peeking from behind her lace curtains serving as a Bonnie lookout to his Clyde. She better get that Bible ready! With the silence of a mouse and the heart of a lion, he perched down under an open window. Posted up, he was listening for any sounds of voices that would tip him off exactly where the young thugs were located in the dwelling that they so dumbly chose to take over. And most importantly, Clay needed to know where the innocent Mrs. Jessie was.
Listening to the cruel loud commotion of household items and keepsakes being broken, smashed, and thrown around, Clay made the decision that he’d heard enough and waited long enough. Mrs. Jessie’s desperate pleas for the wildin’ out teens to “please just leave” and “don’t hurt me,” along with the constant disrespectful names they were calling her was working the drug dealer’s last nerve. Oh, it’s on!
Taking several deep breaths, Clay got into his “by any means necessary” mode. Cracking his neck from side to side, he was seconds away from going all-out Dexter-Linwood Comanche style inside the back door that was still cracked open—both guns blazing. With one foot on the bottom stair and the other still on the ground, he suddenly saw the beaming glare of headlights pull up into the driveway shining in the backyard where he was at. What in the fuck! Assuming it was Mr. Jessie and the self-proclaimed leader of the gang returning, Clay hid behind the thick rosebush hearing both car doors shut and footsteps getting closer. Okay, wannabe grown motherfuckers! Let the games begin!
* * *
“You broke-down, expired, old crazy man,” the teen aggressively shoved Mr. Jessie in the small of his back with what he claimed to be a pistol. “What kind of bank only let you get a measly punk-ass $300? I should kill you in this backyard. Then go kill that ugly mugged wife of yours in there with the big booty; the same one my boys probably fucking the dog shit outta right now while you busy out here running your mouth.”
“I swear to God if you or those thugs hurt my damn wife!”
“What if we do? What the fuck you gonna do? Not jack shit. You straight pussy!”
“Listen, young man, please, let us be. Please. You’re not gonna get away with doing stuff like this. You all gonna end up in jail one day!” Relentlessly, the Block Club president tried negotiating his and his wife’s freedom from the living nightmare they were in. “Why don’t you kids get jobs or something? Go to school—I don’t know what’s wrong with your generation!”
Amused at the things Mr. Jessie was saying, the inexperienced-to-real-life criminal-minded adolescent was preoccupied with returning his own brand of opinions on his and that of his cohorts’ lifestyles. With his back now entirely turned to the in-full-bloom rosebush where Clay was hiding, waiting to pounce, he pushed the older man up the stairs, causing him to stumble, falling on one knee.
Clay knew this was the opportunity he was waiting for and rushed out, ambushing the boy half his size. With force, he snatched him up off his feet, squeezing his forearm tightly around the teenager’s throat. Smashing the side of his handgun onto the side of the youngster’s temple, he immediately knocked him out cold as a startled and confused Mr. Jessie looked on. Using the barrel of the other gun, he winked, placing it up to his lips, signaling for Mr. Jessie to be as quiet as possible and creep back down off the stairs.
With callous intent and his blood pressure sky-high, he quickly dragged the slumped over, now skull-busted youth around the rear side of the garage by the boy’s thick, freshly braided cornrows. Clay then trustingly took his chances doing something he never ever did before—gave a civilian to the street life a gun with his fingerprints on it—especially one that he knew fact for sure had bodies on it.
“Here, guy, take this nine in case this little bleeding pussy wakes up. And if he does before I get back . . . well, that’s on you to decide.”
Dried mouthed and at a total loss for words, Mr. Jessie wasted no time taking the firearm from the infamous NFL4LYFE-tattooed drug dealer he’d been trying to get arrested and locked up for years. Within a blink of an eye, the always-law-abiding citizen was now faced with the possibility of participating in vigilante justice of a wounded person. Now truly being faced with being judge and jury, the emotional night had just reached another turning point. Shaking with fear, he didn’t know what he’d do to the unconscious, pint-size menace if he woke up and tried to get away, the one who’d slapped his wife twice and spit in her face before making him go to the ATM and withdraw money from his savings account . . . but time would soon tell.
“Look, dude, just stay back here and chill. I’m about to slow walk them other little bastards out here with this crack baby.” Clay kicked the boy who was lying facedown on his stomach in the side of his ribs, but he still didn’t move.
“My wife,” Mr. Jessie’s eyes grew twice their regular size with anxious worry about his better half. “She’s still in there—with those monsters! I’ve got to help her! We gotta call the police!”
“Pump your mind flow, Block Club Prez. Around here, I am the police! I got you and her!” Speaking in a low tone, Clay held the man’s shoulder back talking him down from trying to be a hero. “Just don’t call no cops while I’m in there! Let me handle this! I got this!”
Bewildered, not knowing if Clay was directly working with the misguided group of hooligans or not, Mr. Jessie had to trust him in hopes that he would see his loving wife alive again. With no cell phone, trying to get help from a neighbor, or call the police—who had the worst response time in the nation—would be no use. Time was definitely not on his side. As he watched Clay take another pistol from his waistband and cautiously enter the rear of his home, his heart raced with anticipation over what was gonna happen next.
* * *
Two guns posted at his side, Clay slipped his muscle-chiseled body through the open doorway entrance into the kitchen. Careful not to make any noise, he overheard the ill-bred youngsters in the front room. In their own warped world discussing who was gonna get what and how much cash they hoped their boy was gonna return with, Clay, sneaking up on them, was the last thing on their young selfish minds. With the whimpers and sorrowful cries of Mrs. Jessie coming from a closed utility closet located off what had to be the basement stairs, Clay exhaled, glad she was at least out of harm’s way of what he had in store for the talkative misfits.
On a mission of mayhem and revenge, Clay continued through the strawberry-melon, candle-scented home with one thing—and only one thing—in mind—making the out-of-pocket crooks-in-training pay in full for stepping on his toes. Everybody and they mama in a ten-block range in each direction knew Clay had a strong grip on the various streets he hustled on and didn’t tolerate any sort of bullshit—especially shit that involved officers of the law or even the dogcatcher being called.
The fact these basic-acting Negroes violating his strict hood-inspired commandments were legally underage meant absolutely nothing at this point in time. It was unmistakably on. If they wanted to run buck wild with the big dogs, with no collar or leash on, then there were consequences—some fat
al. The game was the game, and they chose to break the rules. Justice would be swift.
“So, y’all punks think this madness is gonna fly, huh? Terrorizing old people.” Clay surprised the three peers of the sucker he’d left stretched out on the side of the garage leaking from the head. “In my damn neighborhood? Seriously, on my fucking block? Come on now, I know y’all knew better than that!”
“Aww, shit.” One jumped to his feet while the other two scattered to the far corners of the living room. “Clay, Clay, we . . . umm, we . . .” He stumbled on his words, wishing he was anywhere but in this room with a gun aimed in his face.
“We what, nigga—huh, what? What you wanna say now, big man, before I put a few of these hot lesson-learners up in ya? Y’all smart-asses need a li’l lead in y’alls undeveloped diet anyhow.” Clay grinned holding both .40 cals extended out in their direction, eager to pull the trigger. “Y’all should know I don’t operate like this. Didn’t I just warn you little bitch-prototype-fools the other morning about disturbing the goddamn peace around this motherfucker?” He gave them a cold dark stare as if he was daring one of them to contradict a single solitary word of what he was saying. “Y’all wanted to be about that life—well, hello, fag one, two, and three—you are now!”
“Dude, please!” Damn near in tears, the smallest of the trio begged, dropping a DVD player to the carpeted floor as he pissed on himself. “We was just messing around. We ain’t even wanna come in here—I swear!”
“Ain’t no passes on this right here! Now, I’ma advise all y’all to get over there on the floor.” Clay pointed one gun near the beige-colored La-Z-Boy recliner, tucking the other in the spine of his back. “And hurry the fuck up before I have y’all bleeding the hell out like y’all’s boy who think he so damn tough!”
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