“Believe me when I tell you all this . . . Now I’m not saying the mayor has not been doing his job; it’s hard in a crime-infested city like this to stop illegal activities. But a blatant out-in-the-open organized drug transaction for the entire world to see is—and should be—totally unacceptable. If this was going on in the suburbs, it wouldn’t fly—so why in Detroit? Why here? The people deserve better. If I were mayor, we’d be kicking down doors of criminals, even the so-called residents that oftentimes aid the dealers in exchange for money. People should not condone, facilitate, or tolerate this type of activity.” His carefully worded speech went on as Dorie and Whip were finally apprehended and led out of the rear of an abandoned house. “Now the reign of terror on this neighborhood is temporarily shut down, and as my brother, Reverend Bernard Richards, can testify to, this day has been a long time coming. From selling drugs, stolen Walmart trucks, dead bodies discarded, and, of course, those poor Water Department workers last seen alive in this district, under my new leadership, if elected, things will most certainly change. If you don’t believe me—look behind me. This day was successful because with the assistance of the police, my brother’s detailed information about the drug dealers, and the help of dedicated citizens, we can make this city great again! Thank you!”
Clay
“I’m glad that fool back in there has been acting like he has good sense.” Clay helped the elderly woman up into his truck. “I would hate to have to speak to him again.”
“No, son, I told you it’s okay. It really is.”
“Well, that’s all that matters. He should’ve known his place.” Clay made sure the radio was turned off before starting the engine. “Sit back, and I’ll have you home in no time.”
While they were riding, Mrs. Gale held her Bible tightly, finding the courage to ask the young dope dealer a personal question. “Clay, where is your family, son? Your mother, father, brothers, sisters?”
After a brief silence, Clay finally spoke. “Well, to be honest with you, I don’t have a family. I’m out here alone and have been since I was way younger.”
“Oh no, son. My goodness, no,” Mrs. Gale grandmotherly sympathized. “By yourself?”
“Yeah,” he kinda smiled while nodding. “I been homeless, broke, hungry, in and out of juvenile and jail my whole life. Don’t nobody care about me but me.”
“That’s terrible, son. Whatever happened to at least your mother, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“My mother?” Clay replied with a faint sigh. “She died when I was younger. She was dealing with a lot of issues; kinda like depression. And as for my father, I don’t even know who he is. I never did. My mother acted like it was some type of top secret lie, and she took the truth to the grave with her. So like I said, I been out here on my own. I still am. For real for real, no one cares about me or if I live or die. I’m just another nigga out here trying to eat day to day. But I’m good with that. That’s life!”
“Don’t say that, son. God loves you if no one else does.”
“Well, if that was true, then, dawg, I mean, God has a strange way of showing it.”
“Well, when in doubt, son, pray. He’ll answer you. Trust me, he will. God will show up and show out when you least expect him to!”
Clay never knew God to show for him, but he didn’t have the heart to dispute the old woman. As they pulled up on the block, Clay could immediately see something was wrong. The quietness in the air was strange, to say the least. The entire block appeared deserted of all the familiar faces he had on his payroll. Besides some of the whispering neighbors, Mr. and Mrs. Jessie, and Trinity pushing her kids in a stroller, the street seemed to be two seconds away from tumbleweeds blowing by. Even Mrs. Gale knew something just wasn’t right. There were no teenagers darting in between the fields, no crackheads walking down the sidewalk like zombies, and no cars lined up near the alleyway.
“What in the hell?” Clay snatched his cell off the console dialing first Dorie’s number, then Whip’s. Weirdly, each call went straight to voice mail. “Damn! What the fuck?”
As Mrs. Gale got out of the truck on her own, she was soon met by Mr. and Mrs. Jessie, who looked worried. Trinity, wide eyed, wasted no time pushing the stroller in the middle of the street and up to Clay’s driver-side window.
“Clay, I’m glad you wasn’t here. It was crazy.”
“What was fucking crazy, girl? What the fuck happened around this motherfucker? What the fuck!”
“This morning, out of nowhere, the ho-ass police showed up.”
“What?”
“Yeah, they came from every-damn-where. It was like some shit off of TV.” She waved her hands around explaining what she’d seen and heard. “One minute, people was getting served back around there,” she pointed toward the alley. “Then, bam, here come sirens and cars from every direction. A fucking helicopter was even flying overhead.”
“You bullshitting.” Clay kept his foot on the gas. “What about Dorie and Whip? You seen them?”
“Yeah, after they caught some of the runners and some heads, they finally caught them.”
“Aww, fuck, naw!”
“Yeah, it was all on the news. That fucked-up, creepy-ass Reverend Richards and his brother was all in front of the cameras talking that shit.”
“The reverend?”
“Yeah, and they was mentioning,” she got closer to the truck so no one could hear their conversation, “they found that van those ho-ass niggas was driving.”
“What ho-ass niggas? What you talking about?” Clay frowned as his eyes scanned the block focusing on the Outreach Building.
“Them guys that tried to . . . you know,” she lowered her head in shame. “It’s all over the news.”
“Fuck.” Clay slammed his fist on the side of the steering wheel, causing Trinity and her kids to jump.
“Listen, if you want to, you can drive down to my house and see it on television,” she suggested. “They been playing that bullshit footage all damn day.”
“Yeah, all right. I’ll meet you down there,” Clay agreed just as Rhonda’s good-stalking ass slowly drove by mean mugging both he and Trinity.
When Clay finally finished watching the informative news interview, he was livid. He was more pissed than he’d been in years. It was bad enough his entire crew, including Whip and Dorie, were locked up, and he had lost thousands of dollars in revenue and was in line to spend more on bail for them, but at this point, he could give a fuck less if the Coast Guard discovered the van or the three bodies, even though Trinity volunteered to go to the police and tell them what the shady trio had tried to do to her. None of that mattered to him. He could and would deal with whatever. That was part of the game and the bullshit that came with the territory.
However, Reverend Bernard Richards and the backstabbing betrayal that rat bastard had obviously orchestrated was another. Clay didn’t deal well with one man pissing on another just the fuck because he could. That was a serious no-no. There was some rules to the game, and the reverend had violated Clay’s code of ethics. His name was his name in the streets of Detroit, and hiding behind the cloth of Jesus himself wasn’t gonna stop Clay from revenge. That was the point, and the principle consequences be damned.
After he contacted his lawyer to start bailing his people out that couldn’t get released on personals, Clay jumped back in his truck driving off to gather his thoughts.
Chapter Twenty-two
Retribution
Reverend Richards was beyond feeling himself. Although he hadn’t actually talked to Clay personally, he knew his team was locked up and the block was quiet. There were hardly any users in search of drugs, no teenagers on the corners looking out for the cops, and no one harassing and begging folk for spare change. Having called the Block Club president several times since the impromptu raid trying to hear if he’d seen Clay and not receiving an answer, Reverend Richards decided to go and knock on Mr. Jessie’s front door. He knew even if Mrs. Gale had heard from Clay, she p
robably wouldn’t tell him, especially since their last controversial conversation.
Knowing Clay didn’t and wouldn’t have the nerve to show up on the hot, high-profile street, the cocky preacher started his slow stroll victory walk up the block. Waiting for the well dressed schoolteacher to drive by he’d threatened with exposure if she didn’t stay away, he laughed, knowing she couldn’t purchase her drugs today—not in his neighborhood. Passing the two Muslim kids going to the store for their mother, he forced them to speak, even though they didn’t want to. Getting closer to Mr. and Mrs. Jessie who were in their yard talking to Mrs. Gale, the reverend got his game face on.
“Hello, neighbors,” he greeted them.
“Hello.” The group response was cold.
“I’m glad all of you good people are out here,” he gloated in a condescending manner. “That way, it’ll make it easier for y’all to thank me for doing what y’all didn’t have the courage to do all these years.”
“What?” Mrs. Jessie spoke out in an angry tone.
“Yeah, what, motherfucker?” Clay eased through a vacant lot gun in hand with Trinity trailing behind. “Tell us all why we should be thankful to you again.”
“Clay!” Reverend Richards was shocked as were the rest of them.
“Yeah, nigga. It’s me—what you thought? Me and you got unfinished business.”
“Say what now—unfinished business?” Mrs. Jessie wasn’t done trying to get an understanding as the schoolteacher now parked, walked around the corner, blending in with the others.
“Yeah, this snake nigga was supposed to be calling my black ass when and if the cops were coming. Instead, he flipped the script. Threw a nigga right under the bus and drove that motherfucker himself, didn’t you?”
“Naw, Clay! I didn’t! I wouldn’t do that!”
“Come on now, Rev, have some pride about yourself. Be a man about yours like you wanted me to be so damn bad. Boss the fuck up just one time, old man—one freaking time.”
“Wait! Wait! Come on now, please, wait! This is a mistake; nothing but a huge misunderstanding between two men. This ain’t right, son; it ain’t.” Easily, you could hear the sound of sheer uncut desperation drag out in each syllable of each word. Praying to God he was anywhere else other than where he was at this very moment, he defensively held up his hands. Taking several deep breaths, he felt his chest heave in and out. It was hard to speak, all things considered, but the reverend pushed through. “Do you know what you doing? You can’t, you just can’t,” he shouted answering his own question.
“Say what? Are you serious, old conniving house nigga?” The reply came swiftly, knowing time was ticking by and the police might show up at any given moment.
“Are you high on something? Wait; put that gun down. Put it down. Please.” Once more, the overly desperate words rang throughout the entire city block. “Remember, ‘vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord.’ You need to think about what you’re proposing to do, son. This ain’t God’s way.”
“You funny as shit right about now, but it ain’t gonna work out for you, playa. Not this time, not today. You official fucked in the game.”
“No no no! Hold up! This ain’t right,” the preacher’s bargaining to live to conduct another Sunday service continued. His mouth kept moving, but the words coming out were obviously redundant and falling upon deaf ears.
“Shut the fuck up.” The tension grew as the jaws of several people standing around dropped wide open. “Matter of fact, Rev, shut the fuck up before I shut you all the way up. See I’m a real nigga 24/7 with mines. I don’t talk shit and strong-arm motherfuckers. I say what I mean and mean what the fuck I say. So stop begging and negotiating; you done.”
There was nothing but tears on both cheeks. With warm stinging piss running down his creased pants leg, Reverend Richards waved his tattered, covered Bible wildly in the air. At this point, he would do and say just about anything to escape his punishment. He showed absolutely no pride. Time for all of that was over. Praying his words would work and the hardened criminal, seasoned thug would show him a small bit of mercy, the reverend continued. “Look, you gotta listen to what I’m saying. Please, I don’t deserve this. I’m begging you. It was all just a misunderstanding; a big damn mistake.”
“You don’t deserve this, huh? Yeah, right. Come on, now, Rev—don’t play yourself and don’t be standing out in these grimy Detroit streets acting innocent. Begging is out of season around these parts. Correct my black ass if a nigga wrong, but I warned you not to jump out there with me. I done told you I’m one of them motherfuckers that make fools act right whether they want to or not.”
“Please, Clay, please. This ain’t God’s way,” the terrified man continued to plead hoping, for a Hail Mary miracle. “Let him handle my final judgment. He has the final say.”
“God’s way—old man, please. I got the final say today; trust that. And would you stop pretending like you give a damn about me and my fucking soul? Keep it a hundred, with your money-hungry ass.” Clay’s clean-shaven bald head sweated in the scorching hot summer sun. As his blue jean shorts slightly sagged, showing the upper band of his boxers, his unlaced Tims stayed firmly planted on the curb. Tightly, he held the rubber grip handle of the gun. Strange as it may be, it seemed to be eagerly urging Clay to hurry the hell up and kill the lying son of a bitch standing in front of him taking a cop. “Rev . . . You know you ain’t about nothing. And all these weak-minded cowards out here looking at me like I’m half crazy after you done blackmailed them should know the bullshit too. Man of the cloth—yeah, right; you straight foul. I’m surprised somebody ain’t been bodied your punk ass.”
“Don’t do it, son. He ain’t worth the bullet,” a random voice nonsympathetically shouted from the small group of spell struck spectators. “He’ll answer for his sins one day.”
“Listen, if you or anybody else don’t wanna see this nickel slick Negro pay for what he done did, then I suggest y’all go home—’cause today is his fucking day,” he responded after hawking a huge glob of spit in his soon-to-be victim’s face. Clay wasn’t in the mood for any interference of what he planned on doing. He was 100 percent official with his. Raised in the streets, he couldn’t be easily manipulated. He wouldn’t be conned by “the Word,” like so many others, in the uncompassionate crowd the preacher had “worked his magic on” in the past, had been. The blank, dark expression in the youngster’s stare told it all. It revealed he could care less about the many potential eyewitnesses that stood idly by. If he caught a murder case, then so be it. It was what it was. Clay was intent on revenge, and today was that day.
Reverend Richards, dry throat, struggled to speak. Short of breath, he grew nauseated. He was sick to his stomach. Panic-stricken, his breakfast and lunch wasted no time reappearing. Gagging from the smell and sight of his own vomit, his heart rate increased. Realizing the local dope boy wasn’t trying to hear one of his long drawn out sermons, he hyperventilated. He knew the end was drawing near as the tears flowed from his eyes and snot slid down his jaw. Life in Detroit had never been more real in his fifty-one years of living than it was at this moment. He had never been so terrified. He had never been so regretful of his actions. He wanted to repent for everything wrong he had done or said over the past few decades but knew it was way too much for God to forgive. He wanted to believe a miracle was seconds away, but it had yet to come.
“Son, just listen to me. You gotta listen. Hear me out,” Reverend Richards, with hands folded, begged in vain, stalling the inevitable. Where are the authorities when you need them? What’s taking them so long? Why haven’t none of these people called the police? God, please help me! Please stop this savage from what he has planned. I know I’ve been doing wrong and not honoring your Word, but please, Lord. Please save me from this boy’s wrath. I can change. Just let help come. Desperate, he wondered when, and if, the police would show up in time to save his life. “I can switch things up. I can clear up all the confusion that has you so angry. I’m s
erious. Clay, just let me make a call to my people. Let me call my brother. It was just a huge misunderstanding. I swear,” he loudly alleged, begging for his life. “Please, for God’s sake—one call.”
That was it. It was over, and Clay had heard enough. No more time-outs; no more reprieves; and no more lies of making right all the wrongs he’d done. Fed up with hearing the man beg, Clay let one round off. His aim was dead-on. Striking the so-called man of the cloth directly in the left kneecap, stunned neighbors covered their ears to deaden the sound. The good reverend dropped his Bible. From that point on, it was as if everything were moving in slow motion. In agony, not able to stand, the constantly scheming preacher collapsed onto the pavement. His head just missed slamming into the edge of the litter-filled curb. With an immediate gush of dark-colored blood quickly leaking through Reverend Richards’s dress pants, one elderly woman looked away while strangely, another person wickedly smirked with satisfaction.
Slowly walking up on the now-sobbing pastor, Clay didn’t smile. He didn’t frown or show any real true sentiment about what he’d just done or was about to do. This was a part of street life to him; revenge on his enemy when need be. Towering over the cowardly older man, Clay finally sneered with contempt. With his gun still held tightly in one hand, he made use of the other. Ruthlessly, he snatched the gold chain and diamond cross from the wounded man’s neck, letting it fall to the ground. Clay was hell-bent on what had to come next. God can’t save your ass this time. You done fucked over way too many motherfuckers. Still showing no emotion or regret, Clay coldly placed the muzzle of his pistol to the trembling, corrupt preacher’s wrinkled forehead. As the small crowd of neighbors watched in disbelief... but oddly content, Clay taunted his moaning prey one final time.
“You fake hypocrite—you predator. One call. Is that all you need, one more call? Your credibility is like below zero with me,” Clay, standing over the man, vengefully mocked his victim, still showing no mercy. His winter-white wife beater showed off every angry, bulging muscle and every ink-carved tattoo. Lifting his right boot, Clay slammed the sole directly into the middle of the older man’s chest. “Your days of ‘making calls’ and ‘fixing thangs’ around the way are over. Negotiations are over—believe that. You gotsta give another pint or two for all your sins. How about that for God’s so-called homeboy?”
Testify Page 15
