Hard Candy Saga

by Amaleka McCall

  “Uncle Rock!” Candice called out. She didn’t get an answer. “Uncle Rock, you here?” she called again. There was no sign of her uncle, except for the herbal tea packet on the table, which indicated he’d had his liquid breakfast.

  She heard a noise coming from the small bathroom to her left. Placing her face up against the raggedy wooden door, she shouted, “Uncle Rock, you all right?”

  No answer.

  Candice knew something was wrong. She rattled the doorknob, but the door was locked. Candice’s uncle was a master locksmith and booby trapper, so getting inside could prove very difficult.

  Candice was worried sick about her uncle Rock. She knew he wasn’t well but wasn’t sure what exactly was wrong with him. Lately he had changed. He didn’t exercise anymore. She remembered a time when Uncle Rock would ask her to load his back down with the heaviest books in his library so he could do push-ups with them on his back. An impossible feat it seemed, but he would execute it effortlessly. Not anymore.

  Uncle Rock was a very private man, who didn’t complain when he was in pain; in fact, he rarely complained about anything.

  Candice decided to wait for him to come out of the bathroom on his own time, so she resigned herself to the threadbare sofa that sat in the middle of the nearly empty living room. She placed her fist up against her cheek in sheer boredom because there wasn’t even a television in the apartment. Now that she thought back, she didn’t know how she had ever survived as a teenager living there with no electronic entertainment. Maybe that was why as soon as she got her own place, she purchased every gadget imaginable, including flat-screen TVs, Blu-ray DVD players, and iPods. You name it, she had it.

  The one thing Uncle Rock did own was shelves and shelves of books. When Candice first began living with him, she was so bored, she read every book in his library, including The Art of War and The Anarchist Cookbook. Looking around the room, she remembered her first night at Uncle Rock’s house, four years ago today.

  * * *

  Faced with the massacred bodies of her family members, Candice bent over and retched up the contents of her stomach onto the floor. A fine sheen of sweat covered her entire body, and her legs and hands shook fiercely. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hands and stumbled toward the front door and down the outside steps.

  Terrified, Candice fled her house and ran down her block. When she got to the corner, she was out of breath, so she leaned up against the base of a silver lamppost to get her bearings. She whirled her head around in several directions. Although there was no one behind her or even looking at her, she felt like she was being chased. Her mind was flooded with wild thoughts, especially, What if my family’s killers are looking for me right now? She didn’t know where to go or what to do.

  Candice’s father had always taught her and her siblings to be wary of the police, so she never even considered calling 9-1-1. But then she remembered something her father told her one day, after she’d heard him arguing with one of his workers named Junior.

  “Daddy, what’s wrong?” she had asked her father as he paced the floor, clearly fuming mad. She wasn’t used to seeing him so upset and angry.

  Inhaling deeply, he walked over to her and stroked her head. Candice could tell he was fighting to keep his composure, since he didn’t like to display anger in front of his children.

  He bent down and got on eye level with her and said gently, rustling his hands in her hair, “If anything ever happens to me or your mother, you and your brothers and sister run straight to Uncle Rock. He is the only man I trust with your life, Candy Cane, even if your mother thinks you’re hard like a boy.” Then he picked her up and hugged her tightly.

  Candice could tell he was in a better mood already. “Daddy,” she said breathlessly as he held her tight in his arms.

  “Yes, Candy Cane?”

  “I can’t breathe.”

  Candice faked like she was suffocating, and they both busted out laughing.

  With the memory of that day flooding her mind, Candice fled to the one person her father had trusted with her life.

  Gasping and sweaty, she banged on the door three times before Joseph “Rock” Barton finally pulled back the door to his tiny apartment. Candice’s chest was heaving and she was covered in sweat. Not only had she practically run the entire distance on foot, but it had taken her a while to remember the specific neighborhood and house where he lived.

  Candice knew she looked half-crazed, her eyes stretched wide and wild, her body trembling with suppressed emotions. She looked up at Uncle Rock and opened her mouth, but no words would come out. She then jumped into his arms, which caught him completely off guard. If he wasn’t the master of balance and coordination, the jolt would have sent both of them tumbling to the ground.

  Shocked and at a loss for words, he stiffly held on to Candice’s trembling form. Of course, Rock recognized Candice as the eldest daughter of his longtime friend and business associate, Eric “Easy” Hardaway. Candice was sobbing into his neck, while her long legs dangled from Rock’s rigid arms.

  At fourteen, Candice was tall for her age, and she loved to play basketball. This much Rock knew about her, since he was a regular at the Hardaway home. Easy had always made him feel like a part of the family, even instructing his kids to address him as Uncle Rock, which he found deeply amusing.

  Uncle Rock stood rigidly, holding Candice as she cried. This was the closest human contact he’d had in fifteen years, aside from the handshakes and shoulder bumps he shared with Easy whenever they met to discuss business. Candice finally moved her wet face from Uncle Rock’s neck and spoke through her tears. Rock’s ears were ringing, and his stomach muscles clenched anxiously. He knew he wouldn’t like what was about to follow.

  “Daddy told me . . . that if... if anything ever... ever happened to him and Mommy that I am supposed to come to you,” she managed to blurt through gasps of breath.

  Rock flexed his jaw so hard, his temples throbbed from the pressure.

  But instead of continuing the explanation, Candice burst into more racking sobs.

  Rock walked over to his raggedy couch and placed her down on it. Then he sat across from her in his favorite recliner, a beat-up, old-fashioned La-Z-Boy that looked as if it had been to Vietnam with him when he was in the Marines. The chair had holes everywhere, and the cushioning was spilling out in spots.

  Rock looked around at the shabby décor, old moth-eaten curtains, scratched and chipped wood furniture, mismatched table chairs and worn-out couch and chair full of holes. For the first time, he felt slightly embarrassed about his home. He never had visitors, except for Easy, so he never paid much attention to such things.

  “Candy, what happened to your daddy?” he finally asked, his voice cracking. He didn’t talk much, but when he did, it took a while for his vocal cords to work.

  Candice looked over at him with her swollen eyes. “They are all dead! Somebody killed them. There was a lot of blood. All of them! Bri-Bri was naked and real beat-up. Mommy was tied up, and Errol had a cut on his neck. The birthday cake was still on the table, and Daddy’s head was busted open in the back. Eric Junior’s head was like, like almost missing. He was right by the door. There was a gun. And, and they all had tape and rope on their arms and legs!”

  Rock listened intently, his face stoic, but his blood rushing hot in his veins, as Candice wailed, incoherent at times, describing the scene she’d come across. He was having an Incredible Hulk moment and felt like he’d just explode out of his clothes and turn into a monster. Her description of the scene was making him physically sick. Rock couldn’t help but think that what had happened was partly his fault, a residual effect of a hit he had recently carried out for Easy, killing one of Easy’s top workers, and an overwhelming sense of guilt transformed his mood.

  He placed his head in his hands and squeezed his balding head. He felt off-kilter, like the room was spinning off its axis. Easy was his only friend and family. Rock was grinding his back teeth and didn’t
even realize it. Feeling angry enough to kill someone with his bare hands, he gripped the edges of the recliner to prevent himself from bolting out of the chair.

  “Can I please stay here with you?” Candice pleaded. “I don’t have nobody else.”

  The question reverberated in Rock’s ears like a loud explosion. He knew he wasn’t equipped to take care of a fourteen-year-old girl. His lifestyle, his home, and his profession were not at all conducive to child rearing.

  Rock stared at the helpless teenager, speechless. A self-proclaimed loner, he hated noise and relished quiet. He didn’t speak much and often stayed up all night long studying his craft and doing research on his marks. All he had in his home was a bed, recliner, couch, chairs, bookcase, refrigerator, stove, and very little food. He was a dedicated professional and spent nearly all of his time preparing for his hits.

  Yet, something deep inside his chest stirred him to life. He wanted to be there for her, but he knew he had long since closed his heart to love or affection, which she clearly needed right now.

  “Uncle Rock, did you hear me?” Candice asked softly. She could tell he was uncomfortable with the situation, but something in his eyes told her he would keep her safe.

  * * *

  “You’re here early,” Uncle Rock’s voice boomed behind Candice.

  She jumped, startled out of her daydream, and turned toward his voice, and a sense of panic set in when she looked at him. He looked unbelievably thinner and older than the last time she’d seen him, two weeks ago.

  She furrowed her eyebrows with worry. “Uncle Rock, are you okay?” she asked, noticing that he dabbed at his mouth with a rolled-up white towel. “I wish you would tell me what’s wrong. Since I moved out, you seem like you’re sick. Please tell me what’s wrong,” she pleaded, the corners of her mouth pulled down in dismay.

  Rock walked over to his raggedy La-Z-Boy recliner and flopped down. He clutched the towel like Linus would his security blanket.

  “Are you going to work today? Because, on a day like this, I think you should take off. It’s not like you need that job, anyway.” Rock was an expert at changing the subject to avoid questions about his health.

  Candice rolled her eyes in frustration. “Yeah, I’m going in. I just came by to check on you. I wish you would tell me what’s wrong. You’ve been losing weight, and you haven’t been working out. We haven’t even been to the gun range in weeks,” she said, pressing the issue, concern lacing her words.

  “I’m a big boy. You need to stay focused on taking that test and getting your diploma.”

  Although Easy had left a trunk full of money behind in Rock’s care, which he had given to Candice when she turned seventeen, Rock still wanted her to get her high school equivalency diploma. He had spent years homeschooling Candice during the day after she had moved in with him. At the time, he believed that it was the only way to protect her. In Rock’s assessment, the killers assumed they had killed the entire Hardaway family, so Candice couldn’t risk going back to school.

  Rock had made all of the funeral arrangements, since Easy didn’t have relatives and Corine’s had disowned her after her marriage. However, he’d made sure that Candice had a very private service prior to the public viewings and burials. Rock was amazed at how many of Easy’s own enemies had come to the services just to make sure he was really dead.

  Candice sucked her teeth and stood up. She knew Uncle Rock meant well, but she wasn’t interested in taking the GED test. There was only one thing she was interested in these days.

  “I gotta go,” she said. “I just came by to let you know that I’m okay with today. I know I usually fall apart on this day, but for some reason today I feel fine about it. I’m going to work.”

  Candice had tried to convince Rock that she was working as a bartender during the evenings and studying for her GED during the day. But Rock knew better. He eyed her up and down seriously. He knew when she was lying and telling the truth. Rock knew exactly what had her preoccupied, and it definitely wasn’t a job or a test.

  Over the years he’d studied Candice like she was one of his marks, watching her body language and listening for hidden meanings behind her words. Over the last four years, he had come to know her like she was his own child. He had actually started to feel like she was his daughter.

  Rock knew when Candice was hurting or happy. He was there for her when she got her first period and when she had nightmares about the murders. More importantly, he helped teach her the necessary skills for surviving in the streets.

  At first Rock tried to hide his profession from Candice, but she was too sharp. Candice watched Uncle Rock leave on some days, dressed in all black with his long, black military bag thrown over his shoulder. She would take those rare opportunities to search his bookshelf and his nightstand drawers. Uncle Rock always had addresses written on small slips of paper, and each time he returned, he’d burn the papers in an ashtray. He also owned a large box filled with brand-new black leather gloves. Candice noticed he would get a new pair from the box each time. She even recalled her father instructing him to “make that nigga ghost.”

  One day after Uncle Rock had prepared Candice a sandwich with chips and a soda, her favorite meal, she pushed away from the table as he was preparing to leave and confronted him. “Uncle Rock, I know you kill people for a living,” she blurted out matter-of-factly. “I want to learn how to do it, you know, so I can get back at the guys who killed my family.”

  Rock, caught off guard, dropped his black bag on the floor and swiped his black knitted hat off his head. Nostrils flared, he stormed into his bedroom and slammed the door.

  Candice stood in the middle of the floor at a loss for words. She had never seen Uncle Rock react so strongly to anything she had said. She began to cry. She knew she had overstepped some unknown boundary. She thought for sure he would kick her out, and her family’s murderers would then find her.

  Candice pleaded with him through the door to come out. She apologized over and over again, until she finally fell asleep on the floor in front of his bedroom door.

  When Uncle Rock finally emerged, he picked her up from the floor and put her in her bed. He sat and stared at her for hours, contemplating how to handle her request. The next day, as soon as Candice had awaken, Uncle Rock sat her down and gave her a stern lecture. He told her he was not a killer or hit man, but a “cleaner.” He explained that cleaners simply rid the world of despicable people who make the world unsafe, while hit men killed for their own selfish gain.

  That made sense to Candice, who had listened intently. Then she begged Rock to teach her everything he knew about being a cleaner.

  Reluctantly, Rock went about training Candice, little by little, showing her the real way to hold a gun and how to use her sights. He also warned her against using the “sideways cowboy style” that hood niggas liked so much, where they ended up always missing their intended targets and shooting innocent bystanders. He also taught her the two-handed, thumb-over-thumb hold and worked with her for hours on her grip.

  “Squeeze with your support hand and relax your strong hand,” he told her, after explaining the different role each hand played.

  Candice found that this method was quite effective at keeping the weapon from flying up out of her small hands whenever she shot.

  Uncle Rock made her stand with the gun in her hands in the proper hold and with her arms extended for long periods of time.

  “This is so you never get tired in a gunfight,” he explained. “You need to be able to shoot until the threat is eliminated.”

  He also tested Candice on the nomenclature of several types of weapons, including the MP5. Rock took Candice to a gun range in New Jersey and trained her until all of her shots were center of mass on the targets. He even taught her about different types of cover, showing her how to blade her body behind something as skinny as a pole and become nearly invisible to a distant target.

  Candice had the most fun when Uncle Rock showed her how to shoot fr
om a prone position and from a fetal position with the gun between her knees. Hitting a target center of mass while lying down on her side and stomach was exciting.

  “See, as long as you use your sights and have the proper trigger pull, you can hit anything from any position,” Uncle Rock told her.

  Uncle Rock spent an entire week using himself as a crash test dummy as he taught Candice how to make a person catatonic with pressure points on the body, like the jugular notch and brachial stun. When she placed her index and middle fingers into his jugular notch and applied pressure, she forced his large body to his knees.

  Gasping for breath afterwards, Uncle Rock told her she was a natural. He’d even tested her on the arteries she needed to hit “to make someone bleed out in less than ten seconds.” Candice had remembered the term femoral artery by equating the word femoral with female, she being a female that now knew how to kill someone in ten seconds.

  * * *

  Rock didn’t know if it was his overwhelming sense of loyalty to Easy or guilt that made him take care of Candice and guard her with his own life. Today he watched his protégée prance toward his apartment door as she prepared to leave. She’d grown into a beautiful young lady, a far cry from the rail-thin tomboy that had shown up on his doorstep.

  Rock had protested initially when she first told him she planned to move out. He knew deep down inside that one day she’d grow up and leave his home. He also knew of her intentions on the streets. Rock had failed to take revenge on the people responsible for the massacre of the Hardaway family. At the time, he felt he was too emotional after the murders to exact revenge, but he’d also been very preoccupied with caring for Candice. He refused to carry out hits while his emotions were running wild. Being emotional while working could cost him his life. Rock’s philosophy was that emotions weakened one’s natural instincts.