“Okay, y’all, listen up. From this point on, I’m putting down a 100 percent zero tolerance when it comes to bullshit crime in this district.” He took a long swig of a bottle of water, then continued.
“Huh?” a few of the guys wondered out loud.
“That’s right. No fucking crazy-ass crime is to be going on around this motherfucker.” Clay paced the floor holding court. “No stealing petty shit outta people garages. No breaking car windows because some asshole accidently left some spare change in their ashtray. No kids jumping on each other or stealing outta Sam’s store up there.”
“Man, Clay, how we gonna control all that? Niggas gonna be niggas,” Whip laughed, elbowing a confused Dorie. “Especially in Detroit!”
“That ain’t my damn problem how you do it.” Clay stood still scanning the room with authority. “Just do it. Make my word fucking law—y’all understand? Spread the word.”
“Okay, Clay, okay, relax. I’m all over it. Don’t worry, I got you,” Whip agreed, realizing his boss was serious as two back-to-back heart attacks.
“Good. And I got another news flash. Starting tomorrow, we doing shit different. We moving the whole hookup on both corners to the south side alleyway.”
“Say what?” Whip was again surprised hearing Clay’s additional plans for the first time alongside of the workers. “Damn, dawg, how custos gonna get thru all them bushes and shit? I don’t think—”
Momentarily, his full attention shifted to Whip. “First of all, what the fuck—you thinking now? That’s my job, so fall back. That shit becoming a bad habit.” Clay mean mugged one of his right-hand men as the others, wide eyed, looked on. “And second—that’s where they come in.” He pointed at some of the youngsters that served as block captain lookouts. “I got two lawn mowers, saws, and a few shovels in the back of my truck.” He tossed the keys to Dorie. “Go give each one of these workhorse fools a task and clean out two pathways on each end—one for coming and one for going.”
“No disrespect, Clay,” Dorie hesitantly spoke up before heading toward the door, “but that is a lot of work. It’s gonna take some hours. Do you want these guys off post for that long? Who gonna watch for the police?”
“Fuck the police,” Clay blurted out with contempt, pulling a thick knot from his front pocket. “Fuck ’em!” His pride and cockiness could be felt throughout the room. Having double-wrapped, beige-colored rubber bands barely holding the currency together, he grinned. “Now, you young PlayStation warriors trying to get paid or not? It’s y’all call. Who want this bread?”
Without hesitation, five of the seven workers tripped over one another knowing if nothing else, at the end of the day, they’d be eating and smoking good thanks to Clay’s generosity. The remaining two who were a little bit older and more seasoned in the dope game stood silent. After the overly eager five followed Dorie out the doorway, they cut into Clay about becoming new “alley crew leaders,” which was fine with him. Promising them all bumps in salary if shit ran smoothly, everyone was happy—except for Whip who was still full of questions and doubt but was smart enough to keep it to himself.
Reverend Richards
“Bro, don’t worry. I got you covered. I told you trust in the Lord.”
“Bernard, kill all that God-will-provide bullshit you run on those people at your soup kitchen! Just spare me and tell me the plan.”
“Well, there’s one boy around here that’s probably behind half, if not all, of the crime.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah, his name is Clay. And the thugs around this district damn near worship him.”
“And?”
“And—as of last night, he and I became partners.”
“Partners? Is that what you said?”
“Yes, partners,” the reverend gleefully repeated. “He and I are throwing together to make a significant slowdown in crime in this district.”
“And tell me this. Just how do a preacher and a dope dealer join forces like some Batman and Robin superhero motherfuckers to fight crime? You are messing around on a damn slippery slope.”
“Easy. We both know some of the patrol cops from the Tenth Precinct are in my pocket and turn a blind eye when need be. Well, now they in Clay’s too.”
“What? What you saying?”
“I’m saying that young man has an unlimited freedom to sell as much drugs as he wants—no interference from me.”
“Bernard—what in the hell!”
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s the only way to get those numbers down for you.” Reverend Richards daydreamed. “Once you mayor and you appoint me to the citywide delegation, I can shut this God-forsaken program down and get me a new church and congregation. One with deeper pockets that like to give on Sunday mornings. After that, Clay and the rest of these low-life animals that live in this district can kill each other for all I care. I’m out.”
“Damn, brother! I see carrying all those Bibles around ain’t truly help you one bit.” The power-driven candidate shook his head, holding his office phone close to his ear. “At the end of the day—you’re the same person you used to be growing up . . . a conniving, manipulative, devious, jealous-hearted son of a bitch.”
“Well, coming from you, the next mayor of Detroit,” Reverend Richards chuckled, leaning back in his black leather chair, propping his feet up on the desk, “I’ll take that as a compliment. Just know from now until the primary, me and that boy is gonna be tight . . . or so he gonna think we are.”
“Bernard, you best be careful fooling around with that ruffian. Kids these days will kill you just as fast as they look at you.”
“Don’t worry,” the reverend sat up, reaching for one of his many Bibles. “The deck is stacked, and I got God on my side.”
* * *
The following days went by without incident. Whenever the police patrols rolled by, they turned a blind eye to Clay and his people. With the bushes and the paths cleared to and from the spot, they were getting served wide open. The crackheads seemed to like the setup much better as well. There was no confusion or line jumping. You’d get your product served like an assembly line and keep that shit moving.
Even though it had been less than seventy-two hours since the reverend and he had struck a deal of sorts, Clay noticed a spike in sales. Not having to temporary shut down when the lookouts spotted potential trouble headed in their direction, coupled with the fact his competition all of a sudden got hit hard by first the city narcos, then the Wayne County Sheriffs conducting raids, Clay did as he promised, sharing the additional revenue with the entire team.
No one questioned why he switched up the normal routine, and Clay didn’t feel the need to offer an explanation, even to Whip and Dorie—his right-hand men. The front of the houses, the streets, and their residents were back to seemingly normal while the always-litter-filled alleys were off the chain. It was like stepping over from heaven to hell in a matter of seconds, depending on your pleasure. Reverend Richards had kept his end of the bargain, and Clay had done what he could in the way of putting a small Band-Aid on some of the crime. He and the preacher both knew trying to eliminate crime altogether in that hardheaded Detroit neighborhood was an impossible feat that even God himself couldn’t pull off. Robbing, stealing, and killing were human instincts and the nature of the beast. And unfortunately for the law-abiding citizens like Mrs. Gale, Mr. and Mrs. Jessie, and countless others in the city—the beast was the only game in town.
Just as the good Reverend Richards used to make calls to fix things for his loyal and faithful parishioners—he was now making the calls on Clay’s behalf.
Chapter Nineteen
Clay
“All right, Dorie, check this out. I want you and this crazy nigga here,” Clay jokingly pointed to Whip, “to get here a little bit earlier and set up shop. We need to run wild with the rest of that hookup so we can make room for the new package.”
“Oh yeah?” Dorie responded in a matter-of-fact way, brushing his waves.
“Yeah, dude. I’m gonna be kinda late. I gotsta swing by CVS and holler at old boy on that shit.” Content on how things were going, he’d up’d the amount of dope he was copping. They were making money hand over fist the last few days and considering the ancient Chinese secret he was holding on to, he felt it was best to ride the rapids and come up while he could.
“Don’t worry, boss,” Whip bragged, grabbing at his nut sac, “I’m spending the night in the hood with this new bitch, so I’ll be around here at the crack of dawn, for sure.”
“Good, then I’ll see both y’all in the a.m.” Clay slid both his boys an extra $300, prepayment for the early-morning shift they were gonna put in, and pulled off heading home.
Reverend Richards
“Yeah, hello.” The reverend almost knocked over the lamp on his nightstand as his phone rang.
“Yeah, hello, Bernard, it’s me.”
“Me who?” he groggily asked, rubbing the sleep out of the corners of his eyes.
“Your brother, that’s who.”
“What’s wrong? What time is it?” Reverend Richards noticed it was still pitch black near the sides and top areas of his curtains. “What’s going on?”
“You haven’t watched the early-morning breaking news?”
“The news?” He immediately sat up searching for the remote. “No, I was asleep. What’s on there? What channel?”
“Channel seven and two.”
“Okay, let me see. It’s just coming on.”
“Well, apparently, one of these fool-ass teenagers was popping pills and jumped off the damn Belle Isle Bridge thinking he can fly.”
“Oh yeah?” the preacher’s television screen soon lit the otherwise dark room. “I see the Coast Guard now. But what’s that got to do with me? And damn, bro, it’s four-thirty in the morning!”
“Well, Bernard, while the Coast Guard was dragging the river searching for the body, they discovered some parts of a van.”
“A van? Okay and—”
“And it is a city-owned van; a van belonging to the Water Department. The VIN numbers come back to the van those three missing workers were last spotted in. You know, in your district.”
“Oh wow! Sweet baby Jesus!”
“Sweet baby Jesus, my ass. You know the bodies ain’t far behind floating somewhere near the bottom! Dateline, 20/20, and my contacts at CNN all want a quote and a backstory to go with this bullshit! Man, I can see it now plastered on every national news organization. Detroit mayoral candidate and his brother throw a dragnet around crime in the very neighborhood those three innocent, hardworking city workers went missing in.”
“That does sound good.” Reverend Richards was all the way awake now, plotting with his kin.
“I know it does. And since you in cahoots with that drug dealer and know his method of operation, let’s let him have it big time.”
“Huh?” he puzzled, heading toward the bathroom. “What you mean?”
“I mean, by daybreak, the cameras and every reporter in town gonna be swarming all over the area those unlucky bastards were last spotted.”
“And—”
“And why not give them bloodsucking media mongers something to report—something big—something major? Courtesy of me—the soon-to-be new mayor of Detroit.”
“Yeah but—”
“Yeah but nothing, Bernard. You owe me, fool. Especially behind that last news conference you called on your damn own. Now get your head straight and to hell with that drug dealer. It was gonna be over for him sooner or later anyhow. So throw his criminal ass under the bus now. He ain’t your family—I am.”
* * *
“Is everybody in place?” Dorie asked as Whip bent the corner with a medium-size brown paper bag in tow. “Is them young hustlers ready to get this day started or what?”
Whip belched, throwing a small plastic red Faygo bottle into the bushes. “Yeah, them boys on post and the customers that gotsta punch that factory clock is already lined up; even that stuck-ass bitch in line waiting like she got some sense this morning!”
“Well, let’s get this shit popping so we can start on the new rock ’em sock ’em Clay promised was next on deck.” Dorie removed thirty-five safety pins which held twelve plastic dime baggie rocks of crack. “I’ll get these to the fellas on the left side of the corner, and you can get the right, cool?”
“Yeah, we good, dawg.” Whip took the bag back holding the remaining forty or so pins.
Getting their morning started, each posted up trying to sell out before Clay showed up.
Chapter Twenty
Clay
Climbing out of the bed, Clay stretched, standing in the mirror. Thinking he had to move soon since Rhonda’s “keep-calling-good-bitter-ass” knew where he laid his head at, he frowned. Never again. I swear on every dime I make, from now on out, I’m fucking these hoes at their room. After taking a long, hot shower, Clay fell back on the bed with nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Daydreaming about how life was when he was a kid, he felt a cold, eerie chill in the air.
Fighting the overwhelming urge to stay in the house and just watch television all day, Clay got up and got dressed. Grabbing his cell, wallet, and keys, he was soon out the door. Still receiving a gang of anonymous calls to voice mail, he stopped by the nearest Metro PCS store getting them to change his phone number as soon as possible. Knowing he was running late to meet Ankit at the CVS for his bimonthly box of chemicals, he jumped down on the freeway. Next stop, the hood.
* * *
“Hey, now guy,” Clay calmly greeted his foreign pharmaceutical connect leaning over the countertop. “You got me about ready?”
“No, Clay, no quite yet,” he discreetly replied, not wanting his assistant to overhear his conversation. “I need some time to get some of these customers’ prescriptions out the way; then I can get it together.”
Looking over at the waiting area seats, Clay coincidently saw Mrs. Gale sitting down reading her Bible. “Hello.”
“Well, hello, son, how are you?” She gave him a faint but reassuring smile. “Are you doing okay?”
“Yes, I’m okay. I’m just here taking care of some business.” He looked back over his shoulder at the pharmacy. “Matter of fact, that fool ain’t giving you any more problems, is he?”
“No, son, he is very respectful now. And thank you for that.”
After getting her prescription, Clay asked Mrs. Gale to wait for him because he wanted to personally give her a ride home—this time, right to her front door. Of course, she obliged.
Chapter Twenty-one
Just like the preceding days, the block was running smooth. Everyone was getting served without arguing, complaining, or coming with shorts. Strangely, it seemed like the heads were even now getting trained to have their money out so they wouldn’t slow down the progression of the next man getting high. It was like the addicts had formed a new union and code of ethics regarding the process.
“What’s your count looking like, Dorie? How you holding?”
“Man, Whip, we clocking on my side. These young boys ain’t playing around with they ass. We making that bread.”
“My side neither. We cranking. You know, I’m putting my foot on they throat to push this shit pronto.” Whip pulled out his cell pushing Clay’s number. “Matter of fact, let me call this nigga and see if he want us to run an ‘early-morning blast’ special on this last shit we holding.”
“Yeah, do that,” Dorie quickly agreed, counting the ticket money out in the open.
“Man, what the fuck?”
“What’s good, nigga? What’s the deal?” He continued his count glancing up.
“Naw, Dorie, hold up. Maybe I’m bugging.” Whip pushed Clay’s contact number and was once again met with an annoying disconnection recording. “How in the fuck this wannabe hood rich motherfucker gonna have his phone turned off? Damn!”
Before Dorie could respond to Whip’s sarcastic rant, all hell broke loose, catching everyone—the w
orkers, drug addicts, and neighbors alike—completely off guard. From every direction possible—north, south, east, and west—swarms of the Detroit Police Department strategically invaded Clay’s stronghold-controlled environment in full force. Obviously having every single detail suited and out on the street, crime in other parts of the cash-strapped city had to be catapulting.
The Gang Squad chased down worker after worker through the thick, unsafe pathways that only the teens knew. With money flying and drugs being thrown, some “should-be track stars” ultimately got caught; others safely got away. The narcotics officers and the uniformed patrol cops tried their best corralling the multitudes of scattering customers in one sweep, but that didn’t work out as planned. Once again, the people who rip and ran the streets, walked the streets, lived in the streets, and used drugs in the streets, knew all the shortcuts and emergency escape routes, leaving the cops coming up short. Most, if not all, of the officers had families to go home to and weren’t interested in being dead heroes trying to venture into the unknown world these dealers and disease-infested junkies called home. So whoever they could easily catch, good. The others, so be it. They’d have to see them at a later date.
Reverend Richards
Keeping an eye out for Clay, he felt some sort of way for double crossing him so quickly. With the news cameras from every station in the city and some national ones rolling, a still gleeful and proud Reverend Richards grinned. With his chest stuck out, he stood shoulder to shoulder alongside his mayoral candidate brother. As his sibling made a long-winded speech detailing him and his “loyal to restoring the neighborhood to peace” plan to capture these deviants and return to the true tranquility that should be within the city of Detroit boundaries, Reverend Richards gloated. With a backdrop of young, angry, handcuffed thugs and zoned-out-faced addicts being roughly escorted to awaiting police vehicles, the brothers took the opportunity to shine and, hopefully, garnish votes from the current administration.
Testify Page 14
