Nude Awakening II

by Victor L. Martin

  He smiled, thinking of a name change for the benefit of his trade. “The Mailman” seemed suitable to him since he could strike come rain, snow, sleet or hail. He would strike tonight, quick and fatal.

  ***

  “Yo Rick! You got a call on line four.” A studio assistant with a blond Mohawk shouted from the front desk down the hall.

  Rick was down on the first floor chatting with a cute Haitian receptionist in the lounge. “Take a message,” he said, figuring if it was somebody important they would have had his cell number. “So how long have you been working?”

  “Yo, they said they got some info on that I-95 shooting.”

  Rick quickly excused himself from the receptionist and then hurried down the hall to the front desk. “Hello, who this?”

  “Uh, ain’t gonna say my name, but I got some info for you.”

  Rick tried to match the dude’s voice with a face but he couldn’t. “What kind of news? And what do you know about that I-95 shooting that wasn’t on the news?”

  “Listen, and this all I’ll say about it. I know about that trip you and Swagga made up to West Palm Beach before the shooting and that wasn’t on the news.”

  Rick motioned the assistant to step off so he could have some privacy. “Okay, I’m sold. What’s this info you got for me?”

  “Here’s your warning. Two niggas in a purple Dodge Ram are somewhere near the studio waiting for y’all to leave, and them niggas ain’t playing the radio.”

  “And it’s real?”

  “Ya think? Damn right it’s real! Ignore this warning . . . I guess you’ll be out of a job by tomorrow because you can’t guard a dead man, can you?”

  “Alright. I need more—Hello? . . . Hello?” The line went dead. “Shit!” Rick slammed the cordless phone down, and then ran to the elevator making a call on his cell phone. He couldn’t afford to ignore the call, even if it wasn’t his life that was on the line. As the elevator took him up to the third floor, his call was connected with a posted bodyguard up in the studio with Swagga.

  “Whut up, Rick?”

  “Yo, Tweet! We gotta code black. I repeat, code black!”

  “Ai’ight. I’m moving now!”

  Rick made a second call to one of the two bodyguards that were down in the parking lot watching the three vehicles.

  “Yo?”

  “Hey Rock, we gotta code black an’ this shit is real. Tweet and the boys are moving Swagga as we speak. What y’all holdin’ tonight?”

  “Uh, me and Bobo packing two Glock nines apiece, and I got a Mac-10 too!”

  “Ai’ight. Be on point, and y’all know what to do! If it’s the same two from the first time, we gotta be heavy ‘cause them niggas had an AK last time.”

  “Okay, dawg. We moving!”

  Rick made his last call just as the elevator reached the third floor. He called 9-1-1.

  Swagga was in the middle of recording a track when Tweet bullied his way inside the recording booth. Swagga’s initial reaction was him snatching his headphones off and shouting, “What the fuck! Don’t you see me—”

  Tweet uttered two words and grabbed his arm. “Code black!” From day one, Rick had preached to Swagga about the dire seriousness that could initiate a code black. To make sure Swagga knew what to do in such a predicament, Rick had explicitly stated, “Don’t ask no questions! Just shut the fuck up and move! Let me and my men do our job, simple as that.”

  Swagga was sandwiched between two of his bodyguards as they rushed toward the fire exit. He knew shit was dead ass when Tweet paused to check the fire exit with a black 9-millimeter that was fitted with a laser beam under the barrel. Rushing down the stairs, his heavy chains and diamond pieces bounced off his chest and stomach. Reaching the second floor, Tweet shouted for Swagga to hustle faster. Fear seeped quickly inside of Swagga. He wasn’t ready to die. Not tonight.

  ***

  Fritz was in his element. Hunting the prey, clad in black boots and matching cargo pants and T-shirt, he crossed the lit parking lot with his head down. He was aware of the surveillance camera positioned to his left on a lamppost. With the pouring rain it would help distort his features. He walked with a fake limp, knowing the footage would later be reviewed by the police. Even without the fake limp, he would be a ghost, coming and going. Out of the range of the camera, he reached his target’s high-priced car. Without pausing in his steps, he reached inside the rear left wheel well and removed the quarter-sized GPS tracking device. He dropped it in his front block-shaped pocket, and then moved into the shadows. From his conceded position, he had a clear view of the first door where his target would soon exit.

  Fritz ignored the rain that ran down the bridge of his nose and saturated his clothes. This was luxury in comparison to the last locale where his talents were needed.

  Down on one knee, he turned stone like, only his eyes moved. Waiting. Not a minute later he saw two silhouettes in the living room window. The tendons in his legs became tight. He waited. Moving only his right hand, he removed the silenced Glock 19 from a custom holster fitted under his left arm. His breathing slowed as he thumbed the safety off.

  Fritz came up out of the puddle he was kneeling in. Still in a squat, he watched his target exit the apartment with a dark colored umbrella. Perfect! Fritz thought. The rain beating on the umbrella would most surely cover any sounds of his approach.

  His target moved briskly down the sidewalk, keying the alarm and remote starting his car. Fritz stood still, hidden in the shadows behind his target. Easing his finger on the trigger, he moved with a purpose. He sped up when he saw the interior light come on inside the target’s ride. He darted between two cars, making his approach from the rear. His target slid inside the car, pausing to close the umbrella. Fritz reached him just as he swung his legs inside the car.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Fritz called out.

  His target jerked up in the seat, startled by Fritz’s sudden appearance.

  “Yeah, what—”

  Fritz struck. His finger eased back on the trigger twice. His target moaned in agony after two hollow-point bullets pierced his crotch area. Blood pooled from the lethal wound, turning his target’s pants red. Fritz watched him, writhing in pain and gasping for a breath that he would never take. Fritz took three deep breaths, and then he nudged his target with the silenced tip of the Glock-19. His target coughed up blood, not understanding that he couldn’t move his leg because he was paralyzed from the waist down. Fritz knew he could walk away and leave the chances of survival of his target up to whatever higher power he believed in. If he survived, he would never walk again. Fritz held the Glock steady, nudging his target once more. A heartbeat later, their eyes met. Fritz nodded at his target. Then he shot him three times in the face at point-blank range. The body went lifeless, slumped across the center console with three holes above his left ear and cheek. Fritz was closing the door with his elbow when a scream cracked the silence. In a moment’s breath he saw the girl his target had been with. She stood six-feet away on the sidewalk holding an umbrella and wearing a T-shirt and jeans. A cell phone fell from her hand. A cell phone that apparently belonged to his target. She was filling her lungs to scream again. Fritz took it all in, and then coldly shot her twice, once in the forehead and once in the throat before the cell phone clattered to the wet sidewalk.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-One

  I Will Cry for You

  Back up in West Palm Beach, Art and Veto were putting as much distance between them and the studio as possible. The decision to haul ass was common sense after they heard the APB over the police scanner. Art was heated as he left the scene. His eyes kept roaming over the rearview mirrors, praying against all hope that no blue lights would appear. He knew he had some bullshit traffic violation warrants over his head, but that wasn’t shit compared to having a fully automatic assault rifle. As for Veto, he was shitting bricks just the same.

  Art was heading south, leaving the city limits of West Palm Beach. After driving for six
minutes on edge, Art reached for his cell phone.

  “We should get rid of these guns before we get pulled, my nig,” Veto suggested with the mind to toss everything.

  “Bruh, chill!” Art shouted, and then checked the speedometer to make sure he wasn’t speeding. “We good. Just . . . sit back and chill.”

  “Look, man. You’re the one talkin’ ‘bout shit ain’t right. Now look what the fuck just happened! Who the hell called the po-po and gave ’em the description of your truck?”

  “’On’t fuckin’ know, bruh! Who I look like? A fuckin’ psychic or sumthin’! Just . . . we good. Lemme call this bitch right quick.”

  Veto frowned as Art made a call.

  “Yeah, hello? Who’s calling?” a female answered.

  Art sucked his teeth. “Yo, lemme talk to Jamilah.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  Art sighed. “Art! Now put Jamilah on the phone!”

  “Damn, Mr. No Patience. Hold on?”

  Art turned on the high beams as he drove down a back road leaving the city behind.

  “Hey, baby,” Jamilah answered a minute later. “What’s up with you?”

  “Bullshit!”

  “Huh?”

  “Look, you know I can’t say too much over this phone, right?”

  “I’m listening.” She sounded worried.

  “Somebody talking.”

  “How! Do Swagga know—”

  “Nah, just listen. Yo, somebody called the police before we could ah . . . go see our boy.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And they knew what I was driving.”

  “Ohh fuck!” she groaned. “Where are you now?”

  “Leaving West Palm Beach.”

  “Where Veto?”

  “Right here with me. Look, get my car and meet me at my aunt’s house in Opa Locka. And yo, where Nashlly?”

  “In the kitchen playing cards.”

  “She made any calls in the last thirty minutes?”

  “. . . Ah, not that I know of, baby. I hope you aren’t suggesting she called—”

  “I just don’t trust that ‘ho!”

  “I don’t see her doing that, Art. But damn, somebody had to call.”

  “This shit is all fucked up, so I’ma lay low for a minute.”

  “What about Swagga?”

  “Jamilah! Didn’t you just hear what I said! Somebody tipped the police off!”

  “But—”

  “But—my ass! I already did that dumb shit the first time and damn near got ran off a fucking bridge! Listen, whatever plans you had wit’ Swagga, don’t change it.”

  “Baby, I’m scared. What if—”

  “Hold up! Don’t start that shit, so stay calm. Okay?”

  “I’m trying.”

  “Look. I’ll see you later. Oh wait. Never mind, I’ll holler atcha later.”

  “Okay, bye. Baby, wait. Do you want me to tell Nashlly what’s up?”

  “Uh . . . no. But bring her with you.”

  “Okay. I’m leaving now.”

  Art ended the call as Veto adjusted the settings on the police scanner. “We going to my aunt’s crib,” Art said, wishing he had a cigarette.

  “And then what?” Veto sat up waiting for an answer.

  “Between you and me—fuck all this shit. Fuck Jamilah, fuck Swagga, and fuck D-Hot! I’ma hit the stash, gas up my Impala, and go visit my fam’ up in New Bern, North Carolina. Ain’t ‘bout to risk my life or freedom, so fuck ’em both. So what you gon’ do?”

  Veto scratched his ear, grinning. “Shit, you ain’t leaving me down here. I’m goin’ with you, my nig.”

  ***

  Ariana softly nudged Jurnee on her shoulder, waking her.

  “Your phone is ringing,” Ariana muttered, flipping her pillow over.

  “What time is it?” Jurnee asked with her head under the covers.

  Ariana sat up rubbing her tired eyes before she focused on the digital clock across her bedroom. “Um . . . three twenty-two.”

  Jurnee mumbled a few words before throwing the covers off her head. She answered the call without checking the ID.

  “Hello?” Jurnee said, lying on her side.

  “Uh, Jurnee, this is Ruby. I’m glad you answered. I was told to call you and inform you that there’s been a shooting—”

  Jurnee sat up. “Who was shot?”

  “All I can say is that you’re to meet Ms. Babin at the morgue.”

  “Ruby! Who was shot? I need to know, dammit!”

  Ariana was slipping out of the bed when Jurnee gasped, dropping the cell phone. Things moved with an urgency as the two women got dressed. Jurnee was unable to control her emotions as tears ran unchecked down her face. Ariana was at Jurnee’s side to comfort her, showing her compassion even in the early stages of their bond. Since Jurnee was too unstable to drive, Ariana drove off with Jurnee crying in the passenger seat of her SUV.

  ***

  Janelle wiped her wet eyes as the white female homicide detective entered the small office. After they shook hands and introduced themselves, the detective offered Janelle a cup of coffee, which she declined.

  “Thank you for making the time to talk to me,” Janelle said. “I’m sure it’s been a hectic night and all.”

  “Just the weather,” the detective replied, nodding at the rain streaked window behind Janelle.

  “Can you tell me what you’re at liberty to discuss?”

  “Two victims. One female, shot twice in the face area. The male we found inside the car was shot multiple times, and the crime scene is still being processed.”

  “Do you have an assumption of how it happened?”

  The detective nodded. “I think it was a possible robbery attempt that went wrong. I think the suspect was caught in the middle of the act and killed the girl. But what I find interesting is no one heard any shots.”

  Janelle wiped her eyes again. “I have the next of kin info your partner asked for.”

  The detective and Janelle spoke for another few minutes before they parted. Janelle’s mind was numb. She couldn’t come to grips with the pain she had to face. Knowing her tears were meaningless, she was unable to stop them. The events were surreal to her, but yet the moment moved on, regardless of how she felt. She cried. Janelle prayed, asking for strength that she knew she needed in the approaching days.

  When Jurnee arrived, she only had three words to say. “Is it . . . true?” she asked Janelle, hoping that a mistake had been made.

  Janelle, with a somber expression, slowly nodded yes, and then embraced her friend in need of comfort.

  CHAPTER

  Twenty-Two

  Guess What Happened?

  February 8, 2012

  Wednesday 2:30 pm South Beach, Florida

  Two weeks later . . .

  The sultry sun claimed its dominance over SoBe (South Beach) with the aid of the cloudless skies. With the beach beckoning temperature in the high 80s, Janelle and Jurnee lay out tanning on the sand. Both were topless, wearing yellow bikini bottoms. After attending two funerals in the past nine days, both were open to a more upbeat mood.

  “How’s Victor doing?” Jurnee asked Janelle about her fiancé.

  “Working on a new novel,” Janelle replied as the heat warmed her back and legs.

  “Tell ’im he better still put me on the cover of his next book.”

  “I will,” Janelle said as two Asian women walked by with their small, big nippled titties exposed.

  “Been a rough year, huh?” Jurnee said with her arms crossed under her chin.

  “Yeah, and it’s just the beginning,” Janelle added morosely.

  “Uhm, about Trevon.”

  “Don’t wanna talk about it,” Janelle retorted, brushing sand off her elbow.

  “All right. So, you were telling me about that last call you got from Brooke Vee.”

  Janelle smoothed out the edges of her orange beach towel. Then she lay back down on her stomach facing Jurnee. “She called me like—an hour or s
o before they said it happened. She said D-Hot was over and that he came to say he was sorry for that stunt he pulled at the office.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Said something about him finding his chain, and she even put him on the line to apologize to me. I told him it was okay and that his main concern should be Brooke Vee since he accused her of stealing his chain.”

  “I heard what you did for her baby.”

  “I was there when her baby was born. The least I can do is make sure Brooke Vee’s mom won’t have any problems financially raising that child.”

  Jurnee’s face suddenly lit up when she spotted Ariana waving at her from the rollerblading path. The two had been inseparable since the day Jurnee left Trevon back on the 24th of last month.

  “I see you and Ariana are doing well,” Janelle commented as she slid a wisp of hair off her cheek.

  Jurnee beamed. “She’s a breath of fresh air,” she said, waving back at Ariana before she took off down the crowded path rollerblading.

  “Are you bringing her to the party tonight?”

  Jurnee shrugged. “It depends if we can get out of the bed.”

  “You are such a big freak.” Janelle laughed.

  “Hey! Did you hear about Swagga being shot at?”

  “When?”

  “Last month. Ariana told me about it. She said there was a small story on it in the Hip Hop Weekly.”

  “Girl, if it don’t land on my desk, I don’t know about it. But since you mentioned him, he’s been keeping it low for a minute.”

  “I think it’s by force since Future and Drake and all them are tearing up the airwaves. It might be over for Swagga.”

  “His problem. Not mine,” Janelle replied, welcoming the heat on her skin.

  ***

  “Don’t raise your voice at me, Anthony!” Tahkiyah said firmly as she packed her suitcase.

  “Baby, you’ve only been home for twelve days and you’re going back down there! It doesn’t make any sense!”