Promising a few of the nosy seniors extra food boxes later and giving crackhead Ida some spare change if she took her begging on the other side of the district line, the self-appointed, one-man, crime-cleanup guru then made it his business to approach the same well dressed woman in the silver Toyota Corolla he’d see every morning parked at the edge of the street near the stop sign getting high. Informing her one of his loyal parishioners had copied down her license plate at his request, Reverend Richards seemed to take pleasure threatening exposing her to the Federation of Teachers if he saw her anymore “disrespecting” his community. Before the scared-to-breathe woman pulled off, he made sure to question her faith and spirituality, almost damning her to hellfire himself.
The closer he got into the thick of it all, Reverend Richards looked for the comfort of any familiar faces—but saw none. From porch to porch, curb to vacant lot, astonished, he watched the local dope boys darting in between houses and fields serving customers in broad daylight as if the drug trade was legal and a dead body wasn’t just found hours earlier. He knew Clay and his team were hardened by the way they carried themselves on a daily basis, but to be so nonchalant about a boy’s death that was nine outta ten times a friend of some of theirs was strange. The neighborhood he once loved and cared about making a change in was gone. Drugs and crime had taken over, and he could only shake his head, knowing he was also part of the problem. The preacher’s hands were not without the blood of the downfall. He knew better than try his “save the hood” act on them, so he kept it moving.
Finally at the spot Clay made his makeshift overseer refuge, he took a deep breath. Anxious about the reaction he’d possibly receive asking to speak to the drug lord face-to-face, the minister once again looked for his neighborhood favorites for mental strength and an extra pair of eyes—just in case. However, Mrs. Gale was mournfully tucked back away in her apartment, Bible in hand, asking the good Lord for guidance, knowing she’d taken place in serving as a lookout for what had ultimately turned into the high-publicized murder of a troubled teenager. The elderly grandmother tried to call a couple of her own children for advice, but, as usual, her calls fell upon deaf ears.
As for Mr. Jessie and his wife, he was suffering from his own firsthand grief, knowing he’d pulled the trigger, putting at least one hot slug into the youth’s body, while his better half was feeling no sort of remorse whatsoever. She, in fact, was infuriated beyond belief she, her husband, or even “badass Bobby Johnson” Clay hadn’t had the opportunity to kill the entire shameless group of hooligans that’d violated her home—one even disrespectfully urinating on her deceased military son’s flag that had once proudly draped his coffin. At this point, she was mad at God for letting the whole ordeal jump off in the first place and warned her husband, Mr. Jessie, about feeding the reverend any more so-called anonymous tips about Clay’s comings and goings and other activities, let alone him standing behind him at the press conference.
* * *
“Yeah, old man! What up, doe? What you need?” Whip was being a smart-ass, cocking his head to the side as he spoke. “You trying to get on or what?”
“Fall back, guy, I got this.” Dorie stepped up, quickly intervening before things got out of control. “What’s the deal, Preacher? The old lady up in the building and your people from across the street ain’t out pretending to sweep. So what’s up? You trying to get on? You trying to get high? Or you out chasing behind some of this young pussy out here?”
“How you two young men doing today? I didn’t come to see either of them, well, not today, anyways.” He ignored their insults and accusations of illicit intentions.
“Look, Preach, cut the dang formalities short, all right? What you need from us? Why you down here on our end of the block?” Dorie snapped, cutting him short. “What’s the deal?”
“Well, um . . . um, I was trying to get in touch with Clay. Is that possible?” He glanced around not seeing him. “Me and him need to talk. It’s important.”
Whip laughed at the man, who was known to call the law on them each and every chance he got. “Y’all need to talk? Aww, man—no, you didn’t. Come the fuck on with all the bullshit. What y’all got to chop it up about, huh? Is you about to give us the schedule that the damn police gonna make they rounds—with your good-snitching ass? Take your miserable ass on somewhere else.”
“Look, son, it’s not like that,” the reverend proclaimed with a straight face.
Once again, Dorie came in between the one-sided heated exchange, trying to maintain a straight face. “Okay, dude, he ain’t here. But whenever I get up with him I’ll be sure to let him know that y’all need to talk. So for now, you can just bounce!”
“Yeah—be gone,” Whip snarled just as Clay’s truck bent the corner with the re-up. “Go save some damn souls or some of that shocka locka magic voodoo y’all be doing.”
The block grew amazingly still as Clay slowed down, brazenly tossing a brown paper bag to one of the runners to hand off to either Dorie or Whip. As he parked in front of Mrs. Gale’s building entrance, he glanced up but didn’t see her sitting in the window. Refocusing on the surprise visitor that was standing near the stoop, Clay made his way toward the house as heads and kids alike begged for money before being chased off by an agitated Whip.
“What’s all this?” Clay frowned, skeeting a thin stream of spit through the side of his clenched teeth. Staring at the screen of his ringing cell, he shook his head. “Yo—why my streets looking slow? Y’all li’l niggas need to be out here picking up the pace before you be looking for work elsewhere!” Arrogantly, he walked past Reverend Richards like he wasn’t there. “Y’all out here holdin’ church and shit when y’all outta be getting my paper.” Like a ghetto king, he commanded his soldiers while he took his seat on his concrete top stair throne.
“Excuse me, young man,” the reverend fought to get a word in edgewise.
“Y’all heard my manzs,” Whip yelled before disappearing in between two vacants to stash the new package. “Let’s get this shit back pumping hard on they asses,” he reemerged, extra hyped.
“What’s the count?” Clay eased back on his elbows as the summer sun bounced off his unlaced Tims. “How we looking?” He kept shooting anonymous calls on his cell straight to voice mail. He’d been getting them ever since he turned his phone back on and was annoyed.
“We good money,” Dorie replied as the reverend tried getting closer to Clay before being physically blocked by Whip, who was looking for a reason to show out. “Ain’t no problems but this irrelevant old man.”
“I said, excuse me, Clay, but can I speak to you for a minute or two? I was telling your people—it’s kinda important.” The reverend put on one of his fake scheme-worthy smiles. “I just want to talk!”
“You wanna talk to me?” Confused and not giving a shit at the same time, Clay spit over the rusty steel railing. “Well, talk.”
The uninvited guest paused. All eyes and ears of the street were on him. He momentarily had the floor. Reverend Richards was used to being the center of attention behind the pulpit in front of his devoted congregation, but this was a command performance for the streets filled with the people that hated him the most. At this moment in time, Clay was Jesus Christ himself, and he was viewed as the devil burning Bibles on a Sunday morning on the church stairs. “It’s something we need to discuss in private, young man, if you don’t mind.”
“Maybe he wanna talk about being down the way fucking with our customers and shit,” Whip hissed, folding his arms with attitude. “Yeah, guy, I seen your fake scripture-quoting ass all up in the window of that uppity bitch car—or was you just trying to get your old dick sucked?”
“What?” Clay acted as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “Is that right—my custos?” Whip got his boss’s total attention. “He fucking up my money flow with my people—I’m sure he don’t want us to run up this Sunday fucking up his bread. That bullshit can go—just—like—that.”
“Son, wait, it’s n
ot like that,” Reverend Richards tried unsuccessfully explaining and defending his actions but got shut down.
“Yo, you calling me a liar?” Whip blurted out, ready to pounce. “That’s the shit I don’t like, so what’s good with that?”
“We can trade words all day, son, but, no, it’s not like that,” he bargained.
“Y’all can’t trade shit all fucking day on my damn clock, and you, rat-style nigga, it’s like this.” Clay sat up, tired of the verbal games being played. “Do I bring my black ass down to that pimp game church of yours talking about I wanna talk to you in the middle of a damn sermon? Hell, naw.” He then stood to his feet not waiting for a response as his voice grew louder and the veins on the side of his temples seemed to be popping out of his skin. “Or do I come down there interrupting you passing out them rotten fruit, expired-canned-meat welfare boxes? Once again—hell, fuck, naw! But you down here wanting me to stop doing my thang because all of a sudden—you wanna talk. What’s the occasion?” He rubbed his chin, smiling with contempt. “I thought you did all your talking to the damn cops or maybe that news reporter that clowned your media-thirsty ass this morning.”
Reverend Richards was second guessing what he’d gotten himself into. He had no clue what Clay and his henchmen were capable of. He was dry mouthed because as much as he hated to admit it, he had no defense. He did have a relationship with the police, and the reporter did ambush him. And he was out of order for expecting Clay to just bow down to his wishes. Throwing subliminal threats to get his way certainly wasn’t gonna work. “You know what, son, you right! And when you right—you right,” he conceded, praying to calm the situation down before he got jumped and stomped. He remembered what had happened to Reverend Wianns a few months back at the gas station and wanted no part of that type of possible treatment. “Well, if you can find time at the end of the day so I can have your ear for a few minutes, I’d appreciate it. I’ll be at the church until at least ten tonight.”
Not accepting or declining the impromptu invitation, Clay turned his head in the other direction, focusing on his money. The reverend didn’t hesitate. He wisely took that as his cue to exit.
Chapter Fifteen
“Thelma, I need you to try to talk to that wild boy. This district is out of control, and you know good as I do, Clay is behind most of the madness that goes on around here. He got something to do with the dead bodies, the drugs, the stolen merchandise, missing people—you name it, that monster has got his hands in it somehow.”
“Listen, Reverend, I told both you and Mr. Jessie, I don’t have any power over that young man.” She peeked out from behind the curtain watching Clay argue with an unruly girl. “He’s not gonna listen to an old lady.”
At his wit’s end, Reverend Richards poured himself another stiff drink. Taking two, maybe three, swigs, he started to reveal some hard-core truths he recently found out about Thelma. “Well, you have some sort of favor from that thug judging by the stolen goods in your apartment. And please don’t try to deny it.”
“What?” The elderly woman stared at the black screen of her television, then her new coffeemaker. “I can’t believe you’re saying that to me, Reverend, after all the years I stood by you and your ministry. Where is your Christian compassion?”
“Yeah, well, if you don’t want the entire Detroit Police Department kicking in your front door and hauling you off to jail for having all that Walmart stuff,” his voice started to slur as he blackmailed the senior, “then I strongly suggest you get him to show up before I leave for the night. I’ll be in the Outreach Building until ten.”
“Are you serious right now, Reverend? I can’t understand or believe what you’re saying to me. I would be lying if I said I was not in shock. You would call the police on me?”
Reverend Richards gave his longtime parishioner and supporter a devilish grin before answering. “To be honest with you, Mrs. Gale, yes, in a simple heartbeat. So, it’s in your best interest to do as I ask—or get ready to do some serious jail time. And at your age, that may be a death sentence.”
* * *
“These fools these day be doing way too much.” Whip shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see how they stay alive.”
“Yeah, that was some crazy shit. The minister trying to talk all of a sudden,” Dorie replied, easing Clay his money. “Bugged out!”
Seconds after getting his bread, a still extremely focused-on-the-block Clay was thrown off his square. Rhonda, her sister, and some random bitch pulled up like they were the police. Jumping out of the passenger seat, Rhonda was clearly double caught in her emotions. She got loud with Clay for the third time in four days since he’d cut her off. Running reckless at the mouth about this, that, and the third, she professed her loyalty and undying love for Clay. With her ghetto-minded crew standing off to the side of the curb watching and waiting for his reaction, they could see the steam rising from Clay’s body, even if Rhonda could not. Trying to negotiate with her to get back inside the car wasn’t working. Even though he’d smacked her down to the pavement the last time she got out of line, Rhonda was intent in wildin’ out. He tried his best to not nut all the way up, but Rhonda was begging to get hurt, both physically and mentally. She was seconds away from getting what she showed up for.
“Yo, nigga! I know you hear me talking to you, Clay. Why you doing me like this?” She tried tugging at his arm as he stared off into the distance. “What in the fuck did I do to you? Why you tripping all of a sudden? Why? I keep leaving you messages, and you just like fuck me like I ain’t shit. That’s bogus as hell.”
Clay was about done in the patience department. His normal personality didn’t call for allowing anybody say anything to him at any given moment, so today was out of the ordinary. First, the church Negro from down the block had his once-in-a-lifetime shot—now this worrisome bitch. While the customers, Rhonda’s crew, and his workers alike looked on wondering what was going to pop off next, suddenly, it did. Clay, without warning, reached upward. Roughly snatching Rhonda down to the bottom stairs by her throat, he never changed his expression. Tightening his grip, the more pressure he applied, the more color seemed to leave her face. “Look, you little nothing-ass tramp, I done warned you about coming around here trying to mess up my money. Now, you back over here on the block like fuck me. Like what I say don’t mean jack shit.” Saliva spewed from his twisted lips as Rhonda’s eyes started to bulge out of their sockets. “You keep blowing up my motherfucking phone like you don’t get the point. Bitch—I’m done with your needy ass. What part of that don’t your thirsty self understand?”
No longer on the curb, Rhonda’s sister and friend were near the stairs. They were begging Clay for mercy in hopes that he’d let Rhonda go before actually killing her. Each cried out, promising they’d make sure she didn’t come back anymore. Clay was no longer in the mood for negotiations. That window of opportunity was closed. The situation had become beyond explosive. Knowing the police might also show up at any given second, it was a high-alert moment. With the Block Club president walking his wife to her car, Dorie also urged Clay to free the relentless female. But Clay wasn’t moved. He had been pushed over the edge and to his limit with the disrespect Rhonda kept showing.
“Naw, Dorie, this slut think I’m some sort of a joke. I’m out here doing what I do, and she think she got some special pass to come around this motherfucker like I’m a bitch. Hell, fuck, naw. It ain’t gonna go like that.” He finally let go, but not before smacking Rhonda up. As she fell back with a split lip and a face full of tears, Clay felt no sympathy. He then attacked once more. “I don’t owe you shit. Now, I swear to God if you bring your punk ass around here anymore—it’ll be your last.” Raising his boot, he brought it down, cruelly stumping her hand before returning to the top of the stairs like it was nothing.
With three broke fingernails and two swollen, bloody knuckles, Rhonda struggled to breathe but was still caught in her emotions. “Naw, naw, he ain’t right. He ain’t right.”
/> “Girl—damn, shut the fuck and get the fuck on before shit really get extra for your ass.” Whip gladly came from across the street ready to clown. He was already off his leash from earlier. “You out here messing up our flow over some dick. You ain’t got no clue what you about to get yo’self into. Now, ole boy said bounce—so git.”
To add insult to injury, while Whip was practically skull dragging Rhonda by her weave to the car, ironically, Trinity bent the corner. Walking down the drug-infested block pushing her kids in the stroller, she had no choice needing one of the reverend’s care packages that included baby formula. The closer the young mother got up on the obvious commotion, the two females locked eyes. The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. With scratches on her face from her and Rhonda’s previous encounter, Trinity had the heart of a lion. The fact she immediately saw she was outnumbered meant nothing. If Rhonda wanted to go for round two—then so be it. Win, lose, or draw, it could be on. It was what it was. Plus, Trinity knew Clay wasn’t gonna let jack shit happen that bad to her or her kids in his presence. He’d proven that in the alley. Their bond was unspoken but understood.
“Aww, hell, naw. Not this tramp, low-life, ghetto-style slut. Let me go. Fucking let me go.”
“Look, Rhonda, leave that girl alone and get your black ass in the car before I fuck around and really lose my temper on you again and these hoes,” Clay shouted off the stoop as Trinity slowed down, getting braced for whatever.
“Oh, so y’all fucking, huh? Is that it?” Rhonda fought to get away and at Trinity. “I already beat that ass the other day. You want some more, bitch?”
“Whip, get this skank ho off my block.” Clay ignored the accusation as both Rhonda and secretly, Whip, waited for his response. “Matter of fact, from this point on, it’s a bounty on this trick’s head.” With his chest stuck out, he stood to his feet like a king holding court. “Any of you young trappers out here want a come up? If you do, here’s the deal. If y’all catch this broke, good dick-slurping, nothing-ass female on the block and kick off into her ass—it’s a rack for each broken bone you bless the bitch with.”
Testify Page 12
