Big Ace was also confused as he pulled Elon to the side of a vending machine, grilling him about what exactly he and his brother were into, leaving a livid Simone arguing with Mitts. “What is y’all beefing about?”
“Dad, that’s the young cats who’ve been stepping on our territory.” Elon took his truck keys out of his pocket because he was about to ride out on Terrell.
“Well, why didn’t you come talk to me first before y’all started all this bullshit?”
“’Cause you told me and Donte to handle our own business, and that’s what we’ve been doing, and that’s what I’m about to do now!”
Simone, who was done trying to bully information out of Mitts, bolted over to Big Ace and Elon, trying to still find out for certain if they were talking about Li’l T. “Babe, who is they talking about? I know it ain’t Terrell.” She hung on to Big Ace’s arm.
“Yeah, that’s that crippled-ass nigga’s government name, Terrell Harris,” Elon answered for his father. “And that’s what they can put on his ho-ass motherfucking tombstone for shooting my goddamn blood! And that’s on my word.” Elon spun around and headed for the door. He jumped inside his truck, which was parked illegally up on the curb, blocking the walkway.
“Ain’t you gonna go and stop his stupid ass? That’s Li’l T your retarded son is talking about hurting!” Simone told Big Ace as she watched the black truck with the license plate that read I GO HARD disappear into the night. “Go after him!” Simone screamed out as she realized that was the same truck that was parked at Joi’s and Elon was the same dude she was talking to. That ho done set my kid up! I’m gonna kill that bitch!
Before Big Ace, distraught about what had happened to his own child, could respond to Simone’s unreasonable demands, one of the doctors came out the back, calling for the family of Donte James. “That’s me.” He quickly brushed passed a frantic Simone. “I’m his father!”
“Wait! Where you going?” Simone angrily argued, snatching the oversized man by his forearm. “Did you hear what I just said about my son? Are you deaf?”
“Your son?” Big Ace finally had enough of the “world revolves around me” routine Simone was playing, and he cut the game instantly short. “Listen, bitch! You said that shit right! Your son! Now real talk my boy is lying back there because some mess your boy might’ve done, and I’m about to go check on his status, ya feel me? And for the record, flat out, ain’t you or no other skank who sucks my dick or gives me the pussy on a daily basis gonna stop or slow that shit down.” Big Ace got louder as the doctor, clad in a white jacket and chart in hand, held the door impatiently, waiting for his patient’s father to follow him. “Now, Simone, if you wanna take ya slap-happy self over there and try stopping Elon’s hot-tempered ass from clowning on your seed, then so be it. Good luck with that! Do you! But with me, it’s family over any bitches all day every day, baby doll! Now peace!”
After putting Simone in her place, Big Ace vanished with the doctor behind the gray metal doors, leaving her looking like a total and utter fool. Turning around humiliated, Simone stared into the faces of all the people she was trying so hard to make feel bad when she first entered. With mostly friends of Elon’s and Donte’s standing around waiting for any news of their fallen comrade, it was simple for Simone to distinguish that she was on her own and completely out of place. Clutching her purse tightly, the previously boisterous female made her way out of the hospital and thankfully flagged down a cab that had just dropped off a mother and two small children at the emergency room entrance.
“Take me to the Gates, and hurry! I’ll give you a hundred dollars plus the fare if you step on it!” Simone instructed the driver of African descent. She tried calling Terrell on his cell phone to warn him of Elon’s intended rage of revenge. “Run the red lights if you have to! Just hurry!” Pushing the REDIAL button time and time again in her sudden concern, the distressed parent constantly got her son’s voicemail. Damn! Pick up, Li’l T! Damn! Answer the fucking phone! Simone prayed as the cab driver dipped in and out of traffic in hopes of receiving the bonus promised to him.
Chapter Ten
Stuff nervously stared down the barrel of Yankee’s gun, listening to him rant and rave about the world dealing him and Wahoo both fucked-up hands in life. As the out-of-control thief was trying to convince a hesitant Wahoo that somehow stealing from his friend Stuff and his family would right that wrong, Stuff took a deep breath and got prepared for his one chance, maybe his last, to stand up and be a man. For once in his young life, Stuff was not trying to find some sort of logic or reasoning as to why something was happening. This wasn’t the time to attempt to dissect Yankee’s brain or figure shit out. With the expressions of jealousy, envy, and hatred plastered on Yankee’s face, Stuff knew if he, his mother, and Prayer were going to survive the rest of the night and see daybreak, right here, right now was do or die.
“What you’re doing is wrong, son,” Prayer said to distract Yankee as Stuff watched his overly dramatic mother still passed out on the floor next to him. “There’s always a better way than murdering three innocent people.”
“I’m not your son, ho, and stop trying to make excuses for why you and all your stuck-up-ass friends think y’all better than the rest of the world!” Yankee demanded, shaking his gun around as Wahoo continued having second thoughts about what was taking place. “My mama sent me here from Brooklyn on the Greyhound to live with my aunt, who always treated me like a piece of shit. Wahoo’s granny ain’t been dead thirty days, and the State wanna tear the family apart! You know why? Because we ain’t got that loot!” Yankee paced the floor, still pointing his pistol.
“And is that our fault?” Prayer grew irritated that he felt like she was to blame for the problems of humanity.
“Hell yeah! You just like Terrell’s old girl, Simone, looking down on a motherfucker for not being born with a silver spoon in their mouth!”
“Nigga, please! Are you serious? That shit ain’t nothing but a front!” Prayer instantly fired back with some revelations of her own and got back to her roots of being ghetto born. “Me and Simone was raised up in the Truth Homes, nigga! So how ’bout it! We ain’t have shit to eat some nights but goddamn white rice and a stale piece of bread. And if our mothers were busy drinking or out somewhere running the streets, we were lucky to get that! Sometimes I had to wear the same thing to school for three days straight because I ain’t have shit else, but fuck it. I wanted that free lunch in my empty stomach, so I went anyhow!” Prayer was yelling at the top of her lungs as she got her point across. “Times were hard for me too when I was your age, but I found a way out without breaking the law! I struggled night and day and paid my hood taxes in full, Negro! So don’t come your roguish ass all up in here acting like you and your little thug friend is the only ones who done had it fucking bad in life. We all did! Don’t ever get the shit twisted about how a chick is blessed to be living now, because make no mistake about the dumb shit. Bitch! I am from the D!”
Shocked that Prayer, who at first glance seemed so refined and meek, had just gone off, momentarily lowering their guard, Yankee nor Wahoo were prepared for what came next. Stuff, dressed in his expensive suit and Big Block Gators, using every move he’d learned from three years of being on his high school wrestling team, bravely charged Yankee, knocking the gun out of his hand and onto the floor near Wahoo’s feet. With the force of the will to survive the battle on each teenager’s side, they fought by the coffee table, where Stuff almost choked Yankee out. They then struggled beside the couch, with Yankee’s knee pressed into Stuff’s chest while he repeatedly socked him in his jaw, resulting in blood spilling from Stuff’s mouth. The pair then rolled over near the antique grandfather clock, resulting in the irreplaceable timepiece crashing to the floor, barely missing Stuff’s mother. The angry son then retaliated with several strong punches directly into Yankee’s midsection, causing the young boy to gasp for air as he continued fighting. Both warriors were persistent in wanting to emerge victorio
us as they reached out over one another’s body to grab for the pistol.
“You think you better than me, nigga?” Yankee hungered for air with each insane movement that was packed full of animosity. “You all in the hood running up behind Shauntae’s nasty pussy like you own that bitch! You giving that tramp money and shit, making it hard for the next average neighborhood dude to get on! Why don’t you just run up in that Mexican slut you was just all hugged up with and leave our females alone!”
“Fuck you, Yankee,” Stuff said as he fought for survival. “You crazy! I told Terrell he couldn’t trust you or your boy, but he wouldn’t listen!”
“Naw, fuck you!” Yankee violently challenged.
With the gun still idly resting near Wahoo’s feet, Prayer thought about her option to also make a move either going for the weapon or trying to escape out the side door, which was located off the driveway. Seeing that Yankee’s pistol was only a few yards away but still much closer to Wahoo made the desperate female choose the second of the two options. She wanted to stay and try to convince Wahoo that what he was doing was wrong and maybe help Stuff’s mother who was still conveniently passed out, but at this point chaos was in effect, and any hope of a peaceful solution to this robbery, which was on the verge of turning to first-degree, premeditated, cold-blooded murder, was little to none. This might be Prayer’s only chance, and she definitely had to take it.
As Wahoo stood motionless in a trance trying to figure out if he really wanted to possibly spend the next fifty years of his life in jail for burglary, kidnapping, and murder, Prayer cleverly eased her way from the commotion of the fight and tried breaking for the hallway. Just as she thankfully made it to the side door unharmed, she heard a single gunshot go off and Wahoo’s voice calling out to his friend and partner in crime. Not once slowing up to see who had come out victorious between Yankee and Stuff, she twisted the knob and snatched the door open. She took off down the long driveway, stumbling past Stuff’s parked BMW.
Placing the palm of her trembling hand on the still-warm hood of the automobile to catch her balance, Prayer screamed out in terror as she heard a second gunshot ring out from the house, followed by a third. Taking off once again, she dashed out to the main road, never looking back to see or care if Wahoo or Yankee were behind her in pursuit. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. Prayer repeatedly prayed with each desperate step she made to get help, Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Please let Stuff and his mother be okay. God, please let Li’l T not be hurt! Oh, my God, please!
* * *
Coming into an empty house after his short trip away, Drake opened the refrigerator door. He took out a carton of juice and poured himself a tall cup. Just as his lips felt the cold wetness of the liquid, he dropped the glass on the floor after hearing screams for help off in the distance. Swinging the door open to investigate the cries, Drake soon discovered those screams were coming from his distraught wife. What the hell? he thought as he headed out the door, meeting her halfway down the driveway near the huge oak tree in their front yard. “Prayer, Prayer, what’s wrong?” Drake questioned as she fell into his arms, out of breath and looking over her shoulder. “Where are you coming from?”
“Ummmm, ummmmm. Oh, my God. I’m so glad to see you!” Prayer tried frantically to breathe as she clutched her chest, panting heavily. “Ummmm . . . Two boys . . . at Stuff’s!” she managed to say. “With guns, they shot him! They shot him!”
“Say what?” Drake was confused as he escorted her toward the house. “Shot who? Calm down and tell me what you’re talking about! Where is Stuff?”
Prayer rambled on while still keeping a watchful, suspicious eye on the main road as a car with its headlights off roared past, breaking the speed limit. “They know Terrell, and they have guns! I heard the shots! We gotta get help!” She jumped up and down like a child having a tantrum. “Hurry up, please, Drake, please!”
Grabbing his gun off his hip where he kept it, Drake, not fearing anyone, jumped in his car, backed it out, and gunned it toward Stuff’s house. With a hysterical Prayer on the passenger side with big tears streaming down her face, he handed her his cell phone as he drove with his pistol on his lap.
“Here, you call the police and let them know to send some cars out here, and then try calling Terrell!”
When they cautiously turned sharply up at Stuff’s house, Prayer immediately noticed that Stuff’s BMW was now missing. “The car is gone,” she blurted out after getting nothing but Terrell’s voicemail time and time again. “It was parked right here! I remember! Now it’s gone!”
“Listen, Prayer, you stay here and get behind the wheel,” Drake demanded as he got out with his gun in his hand. “And keep calling Terrell. If he doesn’t pick up, call Simone. Maybe she knows where he’s at!”
“All right,” she whined, keeping her teary eyes on the side of the house and the thick bushes that lined the driveway. “Please be careful, baby. They have guns!”
Drake bossed up, ready to enter the house and face whatever was waiting for him. “Yeah, well, so do I!”
No more than three or four minutes passed before Drake made his exit from the side door, signaling to Prayer that the coast was clear and she could safely come inside.
While still terrified of being held hostage at gunpoint by some unknown hooligans, hesitantly Prayer opened the car door, turning the still-running engine off. Peeking over her shoulder, still in fear, her eyes searched the perimeter as she heard the relieving sounds of police sirens in the near distance. Touching the cold metal door handle slowly, Prayer opened it and stepped back inside the house of recent horrors.
Closing her eyes tightly to temporarily drown out the sounds of the loud moans of pain that were coming out of the living room, Prayer eased around the corner and couldn’t believe what she was seeing. As she had expected but hated to see, Stuff was on his back with his body shivering as if he was cold. Agonizing with pity and fighting not to vomit from the sight of Terrell’s friend suffering, she held on tightly to the wall. Getting closer at Drake’s urging, she immediately held her mouth as she saw a golf ball–sized spill of blood flowing out of Stuff’s chest area. Oh, my God! Hurry! Prayer thought as she listened to the sirens pull up into the driveway.
Then, glancing over to the other side of the room, she saw Stuff’s mother scrunched up under the huge baby grand piano, rocking back and forward probably in shock. Slumped over limp on the side of the now-destroyed grandfather clock was Wahoo. I’m so confused, filled her thoughts as she crept closer to her now unarmed and obviously injured captor.
“Please help my family,” Wahoo begged for mercy as he tried to wet his dried, cracked lips. “I’m sorry. I tried to stop him. Please help them! Please!”
“What happened in here?” Prayer quizzed him as clots of dark blood started to flow from the gunshot wound that was on the side of his temple. “What happened?”
It didn’t take a rocket scientist to put two and two together and figure out what had taken place. From what Prayer could get out of the young, dying thug, Yankee did indeed win the struggle and shot Stuff. When he wanted to shoot his mother as well, Wahoo courageously decided he’d had enough of the crime spree and tried to stop Yankee, which erupted in both of them firing off a round at the other. Once again, Yankee had come out on top, obviously. Then he stole Stuff’s BMW and made his escape.
As the police entered the house, Drake got on his feet, identifying himself as well as his wife before he headed to his car. Soon he was en route to Detroit, straight to the Gates, in search of Terrell. Normally there would be a hundred questions to ask before the police would let you leave the scene of a crime, but Yankee was a hundred percent right when he said shit was different when you had that bread. The quick-responding authorities were familiar with all the well-to-do residents in their high-priced community and knew they were trustworthy and had enough money to fight any criminal case, eve
n capital murder.
Pressing the REDIAL button time and time again, Prayer, unfortunately, got nothing but Terrell’s voicemail. When the worried parent tried to leave yet another message, she received a recording informing her that Li’l T’s mailbox was full. With the police leading Stuff’s grief-stricken mother out into another room of the huge house, sorrowfully watching the EMS technicians pull white sheets over the faces of both Stuff and Wahoo, signifying their deaths at the hands of Yankee, Prayer increased her fear of Terrell’s safety, knowing a killer was on the loose.
Please let Drake get to the Gates and find Terrell before anything else happens. Prayer was diligent in her thoughts as the detectives started to ask her questions concerning the first homicides they’d had in their fairly crime-free city since the early nineties.
* * *
Enduring the excruciating pain of the gunshot wound in his left shoulder, Yankee still sinisterly enjoyed finally feeling the comfort of driving Stuff’s expensive high school graduation gift. As he entered the freeway, pushing the BMW, the young hustler now turned murderer quickly came to the realization that he had to get out of town. The three king-sized pillowcases stuffed with various items he’d stolen riding shotgun with him would definitely not generate a sufficient amount dough for him to live on. Calculating his next move, the envious teenager wasn’t satisfied he’d caused enough turmoil and heartache for the evening.
I wanna pop bottles like the next nigga out here in these wicked streets! I wanna buy the club out! Shitttt, I’m gonna be giving dudes da true business back in NYC! If Yankee was gonna have to relocate back to Brooklyn, it was gonna be in style, with his brand-new BMW and his pockets fat. Terrell better be ready to give me my share of what I got coming along with his, Stuff’s, and Wahoo’s backstabbing asses or else!
The System Has Failed Page 6
