He looked at his watch and sucked in a deep breath of air. The vibration of his undercover phone against the wood on his nightstand shattered his nerves. He rushed over and snatched up the device. “Where the fuck are you?” he screamed into the phone.
“Don’tchu fuckin’ dare move until I get there!” he ordered.
Avon skipped down the building’s steps two at a time. Once outside, he looked up and down the deserted block. There was no one in sight. The doctors and lawyers residing in the area must’ve all been inside their condos and expensive townhomes getting ready for another day of being responsible, upstanding, tax-paying citizens. In Avon’s book, his neighbors were all boring-ass prudes who sat around having quiet cocktail parties where, the conversation was so low-key, one could fall asleep mid-sentence.
Either way, the serenity of the neighborhood was one of the reasons the DEA undercover research team had chosen the Park Slope block for Avon’s new residence. Although Avon surreptitiously maintained another apartment in Brevoort Houses, where his alter ego, Tuck, resided, as far as Junior and the crew were concerned.
Avon rushed up the street, looking over his shoulder several times. Finally, at the corner, he made a left. He walked at a feverish pace until he made it to a small hole-in-the-wall, pub-style greasy spoon. After checking his surroundings, he dipped inside.
The owner of the restaurant was used to Avon holding his regular meetings there. Avon nodded to the greasy-haired man behind the counter and continued all the way to the back of the place. He squeezed into the cramped booth and exhaled. He sat opposite of Brad Brubaker. Avon’s eyes hooded over and his shoulders tensed.
“You all right?” Brubaker smirked, his blue eyes rimmed and icy today.
“Don’t fuckin’ ask me if I’m all right! Where were you when I called you?” Avon growled in a harsh whisper, his fists clenched tightly next to his thigh as he leaned into the table.
“You know how it is. I had to fly out to D.C. and deal with those motherfuckers after Corey Jackson went missing.” Brubaker was unnervingly calm, almost like he was mocking Avon. “You can thank me later for once again saving your ass and your fuckin’ case.”
“Fuck you! I don’t need you to save my ass from those monkey suit–wearing motherfuckers. I need you to protect me on these fuckin’ streets! You’re my fuckin’ case agent. Act like it!” Avon scowled. He felt like slapping the shit out of his smart-ass coworker. They had both fucked up in the past. But for some reason, the DEA insisted on placing the brunt of the blame on him for the incident that had changed both of their careers.
“Well, I’m here now. Let’s talk,” Brubaker said, softening his tone as he decided to get to the point of their emergency meeting.
“Shit is not right out here, Brad. I found out that Razor wasn’t murked by rival drug dealers. He left the club running behind a girl and then just vanished. Next thing, we get word from the New Jersey locals about the body. I’m sure you heard how bad he was fucked over . . . missing fingers and shit. I think somebody is watching Junior’s crew, and it ain’t as simple as pitting one gang of hustlers against the other.”
Brad wore a serious expression. He seemed to be concentrating. Both men were silent for a few minutes as they digested the information.
The fat waiter waddled over to their table, breaking up the moment. “What can I get you fellas?” The man huffed like he’d just run laps around the place.
“Our usual,” Avon answered, rushing the man away from them.
“So the last person to see Corey Jackson alive was a girl?” Brad asked, rubbing his chin.
“Yeah. She’s a friend of Broady’s girlfriend, Shana. Remember? The one I told you I almost blew my cover protecting one night when he was beating her,” Avon reminded Brubaker. “The night Razor went missing was the first time I had ever seen this new girl.” Avon could see Candice’s cute face and thick hips in his mind’s eye.
“This girl, where’s she from? What’s her name? Did she just show up out of nowhere?”
The line of questioning took Avon aback. He felt slightly protective of Candice even though he didn’t know her very well. “Why you askin’ about a chick when I’m tellin’ you somebody might be after these dudes?”
“Every detail counts.”
“She calls herself Candy or something like that. I don’t think it was like a date. Razor followed her outside, and from what the girl told Broady’s chick, she and Razor spoke for a few minutes and parted ways.” Avon didn’t give up too many details about Candy because it would only elicit more questions from Brubaker.
“Well, she was the last person to see him alive, as you said. Maybe she set him up,” Brubaker mused.
Avon rolled his eyes in disgust. Brubaker was way too jaded with life and people in general. From what Avon could tell, Candy wouldn’t hurt a fly, although her mouth was certainly venomous at times. Avon thought she was too classy and sexy to be hanging around Broady’s crew anyway.
“I’m just trying to help you figure this shit out,” Brubaker said defensively.
“What don’t you get? I’m telling you I don’t feel right about this shit. Seems like there is somebody after them that we may have overlooked. Razor’s death was definitely a crime of passion, considering the torture he endured.”
Brubaker threw up his hands. “One low man on the totem pole goes missing and you count that as a big fuckin’ conspiracy at work? What am I missing?”
“I’m in the trenches with these motherfuckers. Nobody is gonna kill somebody like Razor who doesn’t fuckin’ matter in the bigger scheme of things. Razor was a nobody in Junior’s little chiefdom. Whoever killed him was trying to send a message! Get the fuckin’ message? I need to know you got my back on this shit.”
“I still think any number of people could have killed him. Maybe he picked up a prostitute that night and her pimp fucked him up. Maybe it was a robbery gone bad out there. C’mon, Tucker, think like a fuckin’ cop. This guy was a fuckin’ two-bit drug-dealing piece of scum.”
Avon leaned into the table, ready to lay into Brubaker’s ass.
“Here you go! I put some extra TLC into it tonight,” the fat waiter sang, proud of his greasy creations.
Avon moved back in the booth seat and fell silent. He watched the fat man’s stomach move like a bowl of Jell-O as he sat their food down on the table.
“Eat up,” the fat waiter said with a yellow-tooth smile.
Brubaker attacked the meal with gusto, but Avon, upset and worried, didn’t have an appetite.
Brubaker could feel the heat from Avon’s eyes on him. After stuffing a couple of steak fries into his mouth, he noticed Avon’s lack of appetite.
“What?” Brubaker asked resignedly.
Avon didn’t respond to the prompt.
“Okay, Tucker. I heard you loud and clear. I’ll set up a covert surveillance team.”
Avon’s face lit up partially.
“Here, take this phone.” Brubaker slid a new phone across the table. “It has more than just the standard cell phone GPS chip. It has a laser locator, so we’ll know where to find you at all times. Just don’t put the shit in your pocket with anything magnetic, or else you’ll be fucked if you get in trouble out there.”
Avon furtively swiped the phone off the table and put it in his back pocket. “And don’t fuckin’ disappear like that again. Nothing is more important than me being out here in the trenches. Nothing!”
Brubaker nodded in agreement.
Avon grabbed a few fries off his untouched plate of food. “Make sure you tip the guy,” he said as he got up to leave. “I’m sure you made some good per diem money on your trip to D.C.”
* * *
Candice lay in a prone position with one eye open and one eye closed as she peered through the round scope, her legs spread, her feet lined up with each hip, just like Uncle Rock had taught her. She could hear how hard and rushed her breath sounded as it escaped her nose and mouth. Her elbows were covered with pads and
rested on the hot tar of the roof.
She adjusted the scope to focus in on her target. The eye of the scope was so precise and powerful, it was like the target was standing right in front of her.
“Don’t move, don’t move,” she whispered out loud. Keeping her body as stiff and still as she could, all Candice moved was the pad of her trigger finger. “Trigger, trigger, trigger,” she chanted. Another thing she’d been taught by Uncle Rock. He’d taught her that repeating the word would keep her mind off her trigger pull and keep her from anticipating the shot.
Candice was surprised by the sound of a click. Just like she was supposed to be. Every surprise shot was always on target in her experience.
She let out a long sigh as she flipped over and lay on her back atop the black tar roof. Practicing with Uncle Rock’s AR-15 sniper setup had exhausted her. Her muscles ached with tension, and she was burning hot from the sun beating she’d taken in the hours spent on the roof. Everything took practice and precision; she knew that, but she wanted to be ready. No more of her mission would be interrupted. It was time to start carrying out her plans.
After a few minutes of lying on the roof with her eyes closed, she unhooked the legs from the weapon and folded them down. Then she handled the weapon like it was a crown jewel. She placed it in the case Uncle Rock had made especially for it and then slung the leather strap of the case around her chest and let it hang down her back.
She started the stopwatch she had hanging around her neck. Then, with the craftiness of an Olympic tri-athlete, she moved her body with speed, taking the roof ladder down two and three rungs at a time. Finally, she jumped off the ladder and went back into her building.
She checked the stopwatch for her time this go-around. “Fifteen seconds. Damn, Candy! You need to make better time.”
Candice was great at applying all of the things Uncle Rock had taught her over the years, but her obsession with getting her marks had made her oblivious to the obvious. A set of eyes focused on her, following her every move.
Broady sat in the small compact car that he had a hood rat chick named LaLa rent. Dark shades covered his bruised eye, but the dark circle that rimmed his neck was still visible. The gun he’d recently purchased lay on the passenger side floor, covered with Shana’s leopard print Snuggie.
Broady was parked about seven cars away from Phil’s barbershop. His initial plan was to wait until Phil showed up and just go Rambo and start shooting up the place with the brand-new toy he’d just laid six stacks on. But he knew better. Jail wasn’t his final destination.
He watched the sun peep up behind the tall Harlem buildings. There was really nothing like a sunrise in the concrete jungle. He yawned and cracked his knuckles. He hadn’t slept in two days, since his incident with Junior. His insides boiled each time he thought of Junior’s betrayal, believing Phil over him. He hadn’t even gotten a chance to show Junior the evidence that proved Phil had indeed murdered Razor. His anger and his habit wouldn’t allow him to rest easy. Broady would deal with his Judas of a brother in good time.
“Early bird gets the mu’fuckin’ worm, nigga,” Broady whispered to himself. He fumbled with a note he had clutched in his hand. He read it to renew his anger for Phil.
Broady had been waiting almost six hours before Phil’s sleek black S550 pulled up outside of the barbershop. It was ten o’clock in the morning and still no real hustle and bustle on the main street. Broady knew that although Phil was pulling his gates up at ten, there wouldn’t be anybody strolling in before noon.
As he watched Phil climb out of the car, fish for his gate keys, and go about unlocking the iron gates, Broady had an out-of-body experience. He had murdered once and knew he could do it again. He pictured himself blowing Phil’s head off and then returning to the car.
Broady’s plan to push Phil inside the store, tie him up, and kill him was thwarted when another person climbed out of Phil’s car. Although tall, it was clear that the boy was young. The boy was dressed in a maroon Polo shirt, a pair of fitted jeans, a maroon Yankees fitted cap and a pair of maroon and grey Prada sneakers.
Broady squinted his eyes into slits and bit down into his jaw. “Where the fuck you come from, li’l nigga?” he grumbled under his breath. He immediately hated the kid for breaking up his plan. Trying to tie up two people at once wasn’t a risk Broady was willing to take. Broady seethed inside. He had sat in that little-ass car for all of those hours, and now this little boy had fucked shit up.
He watched as the young’un helped Phil pull up the gates on the barbershop. The boy was either Phil’s son or brother. He couldn’t be sure which. Broady could see the love for the kid in Phil’s eyes and actions, his pats on the back and their shared laughter and smiles.
Broady was instantly jealous. He honed his attention in on the young boy. When Phil and the boy disappeared inside of the barbershop, Broady thought the adrenaline rushing through his veins would make his heart explode.
The boy reemerged after a few minutes to retrieve a CD from the car. He rushed back inside the barbershop with a big smile on his face.
Broady captured the boy’s smiling face in his mind. He started the rental car and pulled out of the Harlem neighborhood, his anger palpable but controlled. He would write that face to his memory for use at a future date.
* * *
Rock rushed into his apartment after being out all day. He was on top of his game lately, sickness and all. He had a mission, just like Candy did, except his was to protect her from herself.
He flopped down onto his favorite raggedy recliner and unfolded the papers he had picked up from his lawyer’s office. Rock’s hands trembled as he read the words over and over again: Last Will and Testament.
Rock had never thought he’d need a will, since there was a time when he didn’t have any family, through blood or affiliation. As far as he was concerned, his last will and testament could have been just one sentence that read: “Everything to Candice Hardaway.” But there was someone else he needed to leave something for, not materially, but more so in the form of an explanation or maybe even an apology.
Rock had some years to make up for, but his pride and hurt heart wouldn’t allow him to do it in person. He decided that in death he would be able to speak and make his peace. Time wasn’t really on his side anyway, but in the meantime, while he was still alive, he had to continue carrying out his plan to keep Candice out of harm’s way.
After placing the document down on his worn wood coffee table, he went to pick up his cell phone to call Candy, but a couple of rapid-fire knocks on his apartment door prevented him from completing the task.
Gently placing the cell phone down on the table, Rock stared suspiciously across the room at the door. He knew it couldn’t be Candice, because she had the keys to his apartment. No one else visited him. Period. He remained quiet and waited.
There were three knocks again, this time harder and more insistent.
Rock slowly rose from his recliner and, walking as lightly as a man his size could, went into his bedroom. He retrieved his .357 Heckler & Koch and stuffed it into the back of his pants. Sweat droplets lined up like ready soldiers across his forehead, and a few drops ran down his temples. Rock felt an overwhelming urge to cough, but he stifled it.
“Barton!” A familiar voice filtered in from the other side of the door. “Open up!”
Rock’s chest tightened with dread. He couldn’t swallow, and he could no longer hold in his cough. Suddenly, a loud cough erupted from his chest. They said they’d never come back. I was done with their program and set free, he thought. His stomach muscles clenched, and the burning in his chest flared up like a newly kindled fire.
“Barton, don’t make us put your business in the streets for all of your neighbors to hear. Now, open up,” the voice boomed again.
Those words propelled Rock forward, his steps heavy and mechanical. Flipping and twisting locks, he finally pulled back the door, fear flitting through his heart. Rock had experienced this fe
eling only one other time in his life—when he’d been captured in Vietnam and offered over to the CIA.
“Barton, what’s the matter? You don’t look happy to see us,” a tall, wrinkled white man said with a crooked Clint Eastwood grin.
Rock knew the man well. They were around the same age. Only, Rock had aged much better. He took a few steps back, stumbling as the man and his younger counterpart pressed forward, invading his personal space. Rendered powerless, Rock eyed them with unsuppressed hatred. He was willing himself not to kill them on the spot and quickly dispose of the bodies. Rock knew his plans were futile at best; the old white man most definitely had countersnipers posted outside his place. That was their style. Rock had, after all, been one of them.
“So I guess you won’t be inviting us in for tea,” Wrinkled Face stated, his false teeth clicking slightly against the roof of his mouth. He looked around at Rock’s meager living arrangements.
“Okay, we’ll just make ourselves comfortable, if you don’t mind,” the fake Clint Eastwood look-alike said, patting a place next to him on Rock’s threadbare sofa for his partner to sit on. “So this is what became of one of our best-trained assassins, huh?” the man commented, with a smirk.
Rock’s face remained stoic, his eyes hooded over, and fists clenched.
“Barton, I’ll get right down to it. This is, of course, not a pleasure visit. I know we haven’t spoken in eons. How long has it been? Thirty-plus years, right?” Wrinkled Face looked up at the ceiling like he was recalling their past from some far-distant place in his mind.
Rock could still hear traces of the man’s British accent. He regulated his breathing and calmed himself down.
“How’ve you been feeling these days, Barton?” the old man continued, trying to goad Rock into talking. “We’re all getting old, I suppose.”
“What do you want?” Rock finally spoke, his words barely a whisper.
“We have one more job for you.”
Rock’s facial expression turned stony; his mood dark.
“I know after your debriefing we told you that you were free to go forever, but now there is one last thing we need from you.”
Hard Candy Saga Page 11
