Push Comes to Shove

by Oasis

  “GP. When is the next time you’re gonna talk to her?”

  “Tonight. Why, what’s up?” Trouble parked in Dirty’s driveway and honked the horn.

  “Tell her that me and Kitchie is in jail, downtown on some bullshit. I need her to come get the kids; they’re down here, too. These people is threatening to turn them over to DSS if someone doesn’t come for them.”

  Too damn bad. “That’s fucked up.”

  “Is there some way you can get in touch with her before later? This is important.” GP stared at Kitchie through the wire mesh and watched her eyeliner run.

  “Nah, dawg. I gotta wait until she hits me. I’ll let her know, though. Keep your head up in there.” He hung up, then touched fists with Dirty when he climbed in the car. “The butch went on a little vacation. I say we stop by her apartment tonight.”

  “I’m with that.”

  GP placed the receiver on its cradle.

  Kitchie stuck her fingers through the wire. “My mother is impossible.”

  GP faced her and laced his fingers with hers. “Jewels is gone. I don’t know who else to call. I’ll figure something out.”

  “We can’t let the kids stay, not even one night, in some custody crap.” She wept. “Junior is afraid of the dark…and Secret has to sleep—”

  “Time’s up.” The officer stuck a key in the first cage’s lock. “Mrs. Patterson, your escort is here to take you to the women’s lock-up.”

  “Kitchie, listen to me.” GP penetrated her with his eyes. “I’ll do something.”

  Kitchie turned to the officer. “Please. Let me see my babies first.”

  “Uno!” Secret threw a card onto the table.

  Junior sat on his knees to boost himself in the chair. “Uh-uh, you draw four.”

  The conference room door swung open. Nancy Pittman strolled in wearing a tacky business suit. “Hello, Secret, Greg Jr. How are you guys doing this evening?” She set her briefcase on the table and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

  Secret’s face tightened. “We’re fine. Can we go home now?”

  “I’m here to speak with you about that. I’m Ms. Pittman. I’m with the Department of Social Services.”

  Junior laid his cards on the table. “Where’s my mom?”

  Ms. Pittman squatted beside him. “I’m afraid that she and your father will have to stay in jail; at least overnight. Are you hungry?”

  “I said, we’re fine.” Secret sucked her teeth.

  Junior looked at Ms. Pittman. “That real fat police lady gave us McDonald’s.”

  “Secret, do you have any relatives that can come for you and your brother?”

  “We already called my Aunt Jewels and left a message. She’ll come when she checks the answering machine.”

  “Does your Aunt Jewels have a cell phone? Do you think she’s at work?”

  “Aunty Jewels says she’s allergic to work; it breaks her out with the hives.” Junior scratched a mosquito bite. “Secret doesn’t know the cell phone number.”

  “Would you shut up!”

  “I ain’t got to.”

  Ms. Pittman pulled out a third chair and seated herself. “Where are your grandparents?”

  Secret looked at the ceiling and exhaled. “Are you always this nosy? They live in New York.”

  “Yes, I am. I’m concerned about your well-being. I’m not your enemy; I’m here to help.”

  “Then let my mom and dad out so we can go home.” Secret curled her lips up out of frustration.

  “Yeah, they’re not bad people.” Junior stared.

  “I have no say in the matter, and I’m sure your parents aren’t bad people. Do you know your grandparents’ phone number?”

  Secret showed Ms. Pittman her ID bracelet. “All of my important information and telephone numbers are on here.”

  “Can I see it?” Ms. Pittman noticed the same bracelet on Junior’s wrist.

  Secret gave it to her. “The first number is Aunt Jewels’s; the next is my abuela.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “It’s Spanish for grandma.” Junior stacked the cards.

  “And whose number is this?” Ms. Pittman pointed to a third set of digits.

  Secret rolled her eyes. “It’s to a pay phone downtown.”

  “Excuse me a minute. I’ll bring this right back.” She took the bracelet and left the room.

  Ms. Pittman seated herself in the hall and tried the first number from a cell phone.

  It only took Squeeze forty minutes to travel from the inner city to the country. He guided the Chrysler up a quarter-of-a-mile gravel driveway. Squeeze loved his ranch-style home because there wasn’t a neighbor’s house in sight.

  He went inside and found Hector standing over a fish bowl. He felt an unpleasant vibe seeping from Hector. “What’s wrong with you?”

  Hector turned around with watery eyes. “I went to feed Pablo and he was floating in his bowl. He won’t wake up.”

  Squeeze never understood Hector’s attachment to the goldfish. Had he been the one to find the dead fish first, he would have had it replaced just as he had all the other times.

  Hector stuck a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. “Pablo and me been partners for five years now.” He thought for a moment. “What are you doing here? Miles must’ve come clean.”

  “No.” Squeeze’s eyes communicated all that needed to be said.

  Hector pushed the door open and entered a large bathroom. He didn’t bother to wipe his tears. “It’s your fault Pablo is dead.”

  Jap was gagged and duct taped to a chair sitting inside a round tub in the center of the room. His eyes widened with alarm. “Hmmh, umm hmmh.” He wiggled as Hector approached with a .357 aimed at his face.

  “All your fault.” He pulled the trigger.

  Blood and brain matter splattered inside the tub as the bullet passed through Jap’s face and created a crater in the back of his head.

  “Feel better now?” Squeeze leaned on the doorjamb.

  “Uh…” He pulled the trigger two more times. “…a little.”

  Mrs. Garcia was putting dinner dishes away when the phone rang. She wiped her hands then answered. “Garcia residence.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Garcia, I’m Nancy Pittman, a social worker for the Department of Social Services here in Cleveland. Forgive me for disturbing you this evening, but I’m here with your grandchildren.”

  “I’ve spoken with my daughter earlier.”

  “Then you’re familiar with the situation.”

  “Yes, I’m aware.”

  “I’m putting forth my best efforts not to put your grandchildren in the care of the state. To be truthful, I’m running out of options.”

  “Kitchie had you call me, didn’t she?”

  “No, ma’am. I actually got your number from Secret. She’s quite a lady. Is there some way that I can turn the children over to you until their parents handle their legal affairs?”

  “Miss, I’m more than nine hours away. I don’t have transportation.”

  Ms. Pittman crossed her legs. “If you would take them, we’ll make the arrangements to get the children there safely.”

  Mrs. Garcia sat down to rest her aching feet. “Miss, I’m up in my age. My husband and I live in a one-bedroom apartment on a fixed income. We’re not capable of handling them children. Where will they sleep? I can’t give them the attention they need. I already raised my children. I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Garcia. You have a good evening.”

  “Do the same.” Mrs. Garcia ended the call.

  Ms. Pittman stared at the door for a minute before she went in. “Secret, Greg Jr., gather your things. We’re leaving.”

  Junior stood and stretched. “Where are we going?”

  Even after nine years of being a social worker, this was the part of the job that she still hated to perform. “To a place where you guys can play with other children your ages.”

  Trouble
kept a close eye on the stairwell as Dirty jimmied Jewels’s door.

  Two years ago, Dirty could have walked up to a door with a crowbar and opened it like he had the keys. Tonight, he’d been trying to gain access for over five minutes.

  “Would you hurry up! Goddamn!” Trouble talked over a shoulder.

  “Chill, I almost…” He pushed with everything he had. “…got it.”

  The door burst open with a sharp sound.

  “About time.” Trouble closed the door behind them. “Who said you have to play a number to hit the lottery?”

  Dirty was amazed by the living room. “She got this rinky-dink apartment looking like something you’d find in a Florida Design mag. Look at this shit.” The more he took in, the more he was impressed by Jewels’s living arrangement.

  “Stop fronting; you can’t read.”

  “I count good as hell, though.” Dirty stood at the entertainment center. “These eight kickboxing trophies right here explain that big-ass speed knot on your head, and that constant reminder she left on your face.”

  “Fuck you. Let’s toss the place; see what we come off with.” A blinking number stole Trouble’s attention as he rubbed the lump on his forehead. He seated himself at the computer and pressed play on an answering machine beside the monitor.

  “Aunty Jewels…Mommy and Daddy—” He skipped to the next message.

  “Aunty, if you’re there, pick up the—” Another skip.

  “Jewels, you’re not going to believe this shit. I’m in jail—” Skip.

  “Yo, Jewels, I plugged you in. I got you the—” Skip.

  “Yes, I’m with the Department of Social—”

  Dirty had a handful of jewelry. “Man, you got to see the bathroom. Play that last message again. Swear that sound like that old-school hustler, Sticky Fingers.”

  “Sticky wouldn’t fuck with Jewels. She’s out of his league.”

  “Don’t be so sure; look around you.” Dirty motioned toward the plasma flat-panel television and the designer glass and cashmere theme throughout the apartment. “Play it back.”

  Trouble mashed the button.

  “Yes, I’m with—”

  “The one before that one.” He began adding up the total weight of the iron on the bench press. 200…225.

  “Yo, Jewels, I plugged you in. I got you the sweetest deal I could on those corporate numbers. Ten stacks a piece. If you cop ten, my connect will throw in all the equipment you need to work your magic. The equipment alone will run you fifty stacks. The only thing dividing you from petty hustling and real wealth is you linking with us next Saturday at the Improv with your paper. Holler at your boy, Sticky Fingers.”

  “Told you I knew that voice.” Dirty laid a Patek Philippe watch against his wrist. “They say he’s nasty with a gun and don’t have no problem getting his man in broad daylight.”

  “That was in his heyday. It’s official street thugs like me now.” Trouble glanced at the jewelry Dirty gathered and began wiping his prints off of the phone. “Put all that back, and clean up behind yourself.”

  “You got me fucked up. I didn’t pull a B and E for the fun of it. This here is me.”

  Trouble’s voice hardened. “Don’t get hurt! I’m not about to go through this bullshit with you. Use your head sometimes and stop being greedy. Sticky Fingers is calling this bitch personally. Didn’t you hear what he said?”

  “What you know about corporate numbers? I don’t know shit about them.”

  “I don’t need to know about ’em.” Trouble smiled, displaying his chipped tooth. “What I do know is how much it takes to buy them, when Jewels is supposed to buy them, and where she’s going to buy them.”

  “I doubt she has that type of cash stacked. And if she does, it’s stashed in here—” He pointed to the carpet. “—right now.”

  “All right.” Trouble stroked his goatee. “Put that petty shit back, and let’s find the money. If we don’t, we lay on her like bandits and intercept the ball next Saturday.”

  Dirty hunched his shoulders and stalked toward the bedroom.

  Less than three minutes into their search, someone banged on the door.

  Trouble froze; his eyes widened. Dirty tipped into the living room with a .40 caliber pointed at the door. His heart thumped in his chest.

  More door banging.

  “Ms. Jewels Madison, this is maintenance. We had a tub overflow in the apartment above yours. We hate to bother you, but I’m afraid we’re gonna need to get in to check for water damage.” An old salt-and-pepper-haired man nodded at his balding co-worker.

  Baldy unclamped a large key ring from his waist and began his search for the key that would unlock Apartment 302.

  Trouble slid the couch back in place and pointed to the fire escape. The sound of keys entering the mechanical lock registered in their ears. Dirty stuffed the big gun in his waist, then lifted the window.

  The door was pushed open without turning the key. Baldy examined the doorjamb. “While we’re here, might as well fix this thing, too. Anybody can get in here.”

  The old man picked up his tool bucket. “The more overtime, the more Viagra I can buy.” He pushed past Baldy.

  Trouble eased the window shut and followed Dirty down the fire escape.

  CHAPTER 5

  Bacon and scrambled eggs scented the air this morning, a once-a-week occurrence in the Reynolds’s Eastside Group Home. Secret sat in the gloomy cafeteria, holding Junior’s hand under the table. “Go on; eat your food.”

  “I wanna go home with Mommy and Daddy.”

  She squeezed his hand to reassure him. “They’re coming for us.”

  “Hi, I’m Samone.” A high-yellow girl with two long cornrows placed her tray on the table and sat beside Secret. “Has anybody told you yet?”

  “Told me what?” Now Secret’s legs began to shake underneath the table.

  “Nah, you don’t know shit.” Samone bit a strip of bacon. “I’ll give it to you raw. Mr. Reynolds is evil. He hates everybody. Stay out of his way and away from his ‘off-limits’ room.”

  “What’s that?” Secret posed the question, but she and Junior looked at Samone and waited for the response.

  Samone forked some eggs and washed them down with milk. “Actually, it’s not a room. It’s a door that leads to the loading dock. He stores his caskets there.”

  “Caskets, as in dead people caskets?” Secret blocked out the collective chatter from the other children in the cafeteria.

  “Yeah, it’s his side hustle. He owns the shop next door; sells headstones, too.” She stopped eating and looked at Secret and Junior as if to say I’m serious. “But the most important thing is to do your chores, stay out of his way, and don’t break his rules.”

  Junior leaned forward and looked past Secret. “What’s the rules?”

  “Who knows? He makes them up as he goes. I’m always getting in trouble…well, breaking the rules by being out of bed some nights. You gonna eat that?”

  Secret slid the tray, allowing Samone to get the bacon. “Then, why don’t you stay in bed if you know you’re gonna get in trouble?”

  “It’s not like I want to break the stinking rules, but I sleepwalk sometimes.”

  Denise, a rough-looking girl, sat down across from Secret. Two other girls stood behind her. Denise looked at Samone. “Go scrub a toilet or something.”

  Secret watched Samone walk away without saying a word.

  Denise snapped her fingers. “Hey, I’m over here. What you in for?”

  “Huh?” Secret noticed that the rest of the children scattered throughout the cafeteria were watching them now.

  “Y’all runaways, your parents abandon you, they died in a freak accident, y’all just fuck-ups or what?”

  “No.” Secret rolled her eyes and popped her head with intended sassiness. “We won’t be here long.”

  Denise laughed and her entourage followed suit. “One of those. Hate to burst your bubble; everyone is here long. You smoke?”
/>   “No, I’m only nine.”

  “You do now.” Denise put a pack of Newports in the empty slot that was soiled with bacon grease.

  Junior’s chest rose and fell with anger. “Leave us alone.”

  “Wooo, little brother to the rescue.” Denise’s rough features turned fiercer as she narrowed her focus. “You fucking punk! Say something else and you’ll be wearing black eyes to lunch.”

  “Nobody’s gonna do shit to—”

  “Shut up.” Denise leaned forward. “This is how it works around here. I’m running shit. Either you can be down with me and be cool like us…” She motioned to the girls behind her. “…or you and the tough guy can be our personal punching bags like the rest of these sissies.”

  “How am I supposed to hang out with somebody whose name I don’t know?” Secret still held on to Junior’s hand.

  Denise smiled. “Nise, that’s what my girls call me. What you go by?”

  “Nise, I’m not scared of you. You might kick my butt, but you’re gonna know you’ve been in a fight if you mess with us. All we wanna do is go home.”

  Mr. Reynolds walked in, his hard-bottom shoes thudding against the floor. The cafeteria fell silent.

  The two girls, who had stood behind Denise, were now rushing to find seats.

  Denise stared at Secret and lip-synced the words, I’m gonna fuck you up. “Promise.”

  Secret sucked her teeth and shrugged.

  The children did not dare make direct eye contact with the heavy man as he walked the aisles between the tables. At fifty-seven years old, he had earned his respect amongst children by his actions.

  The thudding hard bottoms came to a stop behind Secret. “There’s a punishment for every rule broken under my roof.”

  Denise smiled.

  Mr. Reynolds put his liver-spotted hands in his trouser pockets. “I don’t believe in leniency, not even for new people, Secret Patterson.”

  “What did I do?” Secret looked at Mr. Reynolds over a shoulder with surprise.

  “There is no smoking under my roof. Cigarettes are forbidden.”