by Zaire Crown
She parked the Honda in the spot that had once been reserved for her Caddy. With bag in hand, she got out and closed the door; seconds later, the sound of two more car doors slamming echoed through the cavernous structure.
Tuesday looked back and saw two niggas step away from a burnt-orange Cutlass that she’d never seen parked in there before. One was tall slim, and she even thought was kind of handsome, while the other was a short, round nigga who looked gay because he had no hair on his face. They both had on black skull caps but the tall one had on a leather jacket while Fatboy played a dark hoodie.
Tuesday knew they didn’t live in the building but couldn’t be sure they weren’t there visiting somebody. As far as she knew, visitors were allowed to park inside the building as long as they didn’t take any of the spots reserved for the residents.
Tuesday glanced back at the duo and something in her gut warned her of danger. She didn’t see them pull in right before or after her, yet they didn’t get out of their car until she got out of hers: like they were waiting for her. Neither man spoke as they walked side by side thirty feet behind her. Tuesday might have been a little less suspicious if they were laughing or making casual conversation, but they weren’t. Both men were quiet, faces grim, and walking with purpose.
Tuesday had just found her friend murdered and knew something like that could fuck with her head. She figured she just might be tripping on some paranoid shit but still put some pep in her step. She also unzipped her big Louis bag and put her hand on the Heckler.
While she didn’t look back to confirm it, Tuesday sensed that they picked up speed too. She couldn’t hear their footsteps over the sound of her Louboutins snapping loudly against the concrete, but just felt they were getting closer to her.
At the rear of the garage there was a short hall that terminated in the doors to the elevator and an access to the lesser-used stairs. She knew the elevator would never get there before they did. She had the gun, but was certain they had guns too and didn’t like her chances against them in a confined hallway. So as soon as she bent the corner and was out of their sight, she took that last dozen yards in an all-out run and exploded through the door that led to the stairs.
Tuesday was closing in on the second floor when she heard them burst into the stairwell beneath her. No longer could it be chalked up to paranoia or some mind game she was playing with herself; these niggas had come here for her. The sound of them scampering up the stairs in pursuit made her move that much faster.
The heels were slowing her down and the sound of them was allowing the duo to keep track of her progress. When she reached the third floor landing, she kicked off her red bottoms and didn’t waste time bothering to scoop them up. The iron stair treads were going to be hell on her bare feet but she had better balance and was able to move faster. Plus without her shoes making so much noise, she was then able to keep track of them from the squeaking of their rubber soles.
Tuesday heard one of them grumble, “Hurry the fuck up” to the other and figured it was Slim talking to the fat one. From the sound of his voice she guessed she only had him by three flights, which was a floor and a half. She knew that lanky-ass nigga with those long legs was probably taking the stairs three at a time, in which case he would catch her quickly.
Tuesday bailed out of the stairwell on the fifth floor, hoping she could meet the elevator there. She lived up on twenty and had no plans on running the entire way. She was not that same girl who ran track her freshman year in high school. Going up twenty floors would be an effort if she was allowed to set her own pace, and she doubted if even a gold-medal sprinter could manage that distance at full speed.
Tuesday reached the elevator hoping that it would be at or at least close to the fifth floor. No luck. The overhead display indicated that it was up on eighteen and climbing. It would probably take three to four minutes to make its way back to the fifth floor, and Tuesday had less than a ten-second lead on her would-be killers.
The Seymour was a tall building with a long, rectangular base; and luckily, to accommodate its many residents, the fire code had insisted that it be constructed with a second elevator along with another set of service stairs. These were situated at the east end of the building in reverse position to the one where she stood.
Tuesday raced down the hall; bag leaping around her shoulders, feet bare and dirty, eyes wide from fright with the gun clenched in her hand. If she happened to bump into somebody stepping out of their apartment, they would most likely think that she was crazy and slam the door on her rather than help.
When Tuesday reached the elevator at the opposite end, the board indicated that it was on the second floor and headed her way. She looked back to make sure the lanky nigga had not appeared in the hall behind her. If she could just get inside before he came, then she could lock the doors with the emergency stop and call building security.
First the damn thing had to get to the fifth floor.
The display spent an inordinately long time at two before climbing to three, then spent a long time there. Fear had a way of warping time and made what was probably a normal wait seem much longer. Seconds were precious for Tuesday as she kept throwing glances back over her shoulder for Slim. She looked up to the board doing an anxious little dance like a child waiting to get into the bathroom.
Who sent these niggas? Why kill Tushie? Why in the hell were they trying to kill her? Tuesday’s mind swirled with a dozen questions but her adrenaline was pumping too hard to deduce plausible answers.
She cursed out loud because the elevator was taking so long. Any other day there were hardly two or three people on at one time, but on this day it was moving like a hundred were getting on and off at every floor. From four it was slowly making its way to five. Behind the closed doors Tuesday could hear the elevator car moving up the empty shaft; the sound made hope and anxiety grow in equal degree.
Tuesday glanced back for Slim one last time just as the doors began to open and was thankful he still wasn’t there. However, it was what she saw when she turned back that reduced her knees to jelly and sent icy spiders crawling down the length of her spine.
On the elevator was that sexy older Rick Fox–looking nigga who saved Nicholas and stayed next door to her up on twenty. Riding with him was Fatboy.
Tuesday then understood what it meant when his partner had told him to “hurry the fuck up.” They knew she would try to go for this elevator because the other was too far away and she could never outpace Slim on the stairs. So this chubby nigga had left the stairwell at the first or second floor and circled around to this one, knowing she would run right into him. That also explained why the elevator was taking so long, because he was stopping it at each floor looking for her.
Again, fear has a way of distorting one’s conception of time. What happened next took place in an instant, but for Tuesday it was played out in the slow motion of a Hollywood action sequence.
When the handsome neighbor saw Tuesday, he smiled and started to speak, but his expression quickly changed when he noticed the Heckler. This was the second time a door had opened and she had been waiting behind it with a pistol; he was probably starting to think she was some trigger-happy gun freak.
At the same time Fatboy’s eyes lit up with recognition and it was at that moment Tuesday realized that Fatboy was actually Fatgirl. She was a butch lesbian with short hair and dressed in men’s clothes—which explained the lack of facial hair and feminine features Tuesday noticed in the garage.
Fatgirl went for a gun that was tucked into the waistband of her loose-fitting jeans. Luckily, Tuesday had the jump on her, because her weapon was already in hand. There was no hesitation on Tuesday’s part, no time to consider the legal or moral ramifications. While Fatgirl’s gun hand was coming up, Tuesday’s was extending forward. She squeezed the trigger, didn’t yank it back or jerk it—just the way A.D. had shown her all those years ago when he first taught her to shoot.
There wasn’t a bang but more like a hollow pop
that was loud enough to make Tuesday’s ears ring. Fatgirl’s head jerked from the impact as the exit wound caused her skull to explode out the back of her wool cap. Blood and brain matter splashed against the rear wall and sprayed the neighbor, whose eyes went wide as golf balls. The round little dyke flopped onto her side with the Glock still curled in her fingers. She didn’t even get off a shot.
Her neighbor’s lips were moving but Tuesday couldn’t make out what he was saying. She was wondering if the gunshot had temporarily made her deaf when suddenly a slug pierced his chest and knocked him backwards off his feet.
Tuesday turned and saw Slim running toward her from the far end of the hall with a pistol thrust out in front of him. He was about forty yards away and Tuesday didn’t know if he was a skilled marksman or if her neighbor had been hit by a bullet meant for her.
She damn sure wasn’t about to hang around to ask.
She hurried into the elevator and began frantically tapping the button to close the doors. Slim was still coming with his barking. 40-cal leading the way. This forced Tuesday to flatten herself in the corner against the console as bullets poured in through the open doorway.
The elevator refused to close despite the fact she was laying on the button. In her panicked state it took her a second to realize that her neighbor had fallen into a position that left his foot obstructing the doors.
Tuesday had no choice but to put herself in the line of fire to pull him out of the way. She stooped down and tugged at his pant leg with Slim busting all the while. One bullet came so close that Tuesday heard it whistle past her ear before it tore into the rear of the elevator. He was twenty feet and closing fast with a gun that seemed to have an endless clip. When she cleared her neighbor’s foot, the doors finally sealed themselves a second before he reached the elevator.
Tuesday let out an explosive gasp but took no solace in her temporary safety. She instantly pressed for twenty.
At one time her plan had been to lock herself inside and wait for building security. Things had changed because she’d killed somebody. Now the plan was to get to her condo and grab what she could, then get the fuck out of there.
The sound of gunshots had probably made more than a few tenants call the police along with building security. Tuesday was now thinking in terms of eluding them and Slim. She had no intention of leaving the Seymour in either handcuffs or a body bag.
Tuesday rode the elevator up in the company of the dead and dying. Fatgirl was done but her neighbor was lying on his back with a bloody hand clutching his chest. His tearing eyes were swirling around as if he was frightfully watching invisible phantoms surround him. All Tuesday could offer was the words “I’m sorry!” before he was claimed by the unearthly forces that stalked him. His head rolled to the side, his eyes fluttered, then closed, and Tuesday looked away, sickened.
Fatgirl was the only one Tuesday busted out, but she felt like she’d murdered him too. He was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. Tuesday knew this was true; yet, guilt still accompanied her for the ride, along with the stench of death.
As terrible as she felt about her neighbor, she was that determined not to join him.
Tuesday got off at nineteen instead of twenty then pressed for all the other floors leading up to the penthouse. Just in case Slim was checking the display board, she was hoping this would throw him off her trail a little.
From nineteen she took the stairs up to the twentieth floor, then sprinted down the hall to the door of her condo.
Tuesday was fumbling with the keys, ready to let herself inside, when she noticed that the door was already partially open. The wood in the jamb was cracked and splintered. There was a big grimy bootprint next to the knob.
Tuesday froze. The sight of that breached door revealed a violation that she wasn’t ready to fully comprehend. Tuesday brought the gun up but it suddenly felt heavy in her hands. The pistol shook.
She nudged the door open with her foot. Even from the hallway Tuesday could see that her condo was a mess. Furniture was tipped, cushions ripped open, her pristine beige carpet covered with debris.
It was much like what she discovered at Tushie’s house—but this was not Tushie’s house. This was her home. Her sanctuary. This was the one place where she had order amidst the chaos. This had been the eye within the perpetual storm that was her life.
Tuesday experienced a panic attack brought on by her OCD. Her heart began knocking against her ribs. Her breathing was short and quick. The lack of oxygen made her feel dizzy.
Tuesday didn’t want to go inside, but not seeing the extent of the damage would be more distressing than seeing it. Her imagination would torture her with pictures far worse than the reality could ever be.
She stepped inside tentatively; her legs so weak and rubbery that she leaned against the wall for support. Struggling with her purse and gun, which suddenly seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each, she collapsed when she reached the end of the short hall that served as her entrance. The carnage was so bad that she couldn’t force herself beyond the living room.
Everything was destroyed. All the items had been pulled from the shelves and her glass tables were smashed into shards. The floor was littered with the soil from her potted plants. The vandals even broke her aquarium, leaving her angelfish to flop around on the soggy carpet until they suffocated.
Tuesday couldn’t reach the kitchen but could glimpse enough from her position to see that it was the same. The refrigerator had been ransacked. The contents of her meticulously stocked cupboards were swept to the floor.
For a while Tuesday just sat there on her hands and knees trying desperately to draw breath. Her hands trembled so violently that she no longer could grasp the Heckler. The heart palpitations grew worse; there was a heavy weight crushing her chest. The room began to spin, then go dark. Tuesday wasn’t sure which awaited her—unconsciousness or death.
Tuesday was ready to surrender to that darkness until she heard her girl’s voice calling to her. Bitch, get cho weak ass up! she said in that Louisiana accent that got stronger when she was mad. Dis shit ain’t shit. Ev’rythang in here can be replaced. Dey just broke yo shit, dey didn’t break you!
Tuesday forced her eyes open then slowly got a handle on her breathing. As her breathing slowed, her heart began to decelerate. Her vision began to swim back into focus.
It was only after she composed herself that her oxygen-starved mind began to process the danger: If Fatgirl and Slim had already been there, then Slim knew exactly where she lived in the building and was most likely on his way.
That thought propelled Tuesday to her feet. She scooped up her bag and gun.
She was worried about her cat. Tuesday feared that Nicholas might be somewhere inside injured or dead, but couldn’t bring herself to search for him. She fought off the panic attack but her sickness still wouldn’t allow her to go deeper into the apartment. She called out to him a few times but when Nicholas didn’t come, Tuesday stumbled back out the door.
She felt better the moment she stepped into the hallway. It was as if the atmosphere in her condo was noxious; the doorway, a portal into a poisonous, inhospitable world that couldn’t spill out past the threshold.
The condo was lost along with everything in it. Not only was residing there permanently out of the question, Tuesday knew that she would never be able to step foot in there again. This was no longer, nor could ever again be considered, home.
She bailed to the elevator opposing the one she rode up and took the stairs. After three floors she got off at seventeen and pressed for it there. Slim and building security weren’t the only ones she was looking to avoid: she didn’t want to ride again with Fatgirl’s and her neighbor’s bodies.
The elevator arrived after a minute’s wait and Tuesday was grateful that it was safe to board. She caught a ride with an elderly white lady, maybe sixty, who was headed down to the garage. Tuesday tucked the Heckler in her bag before she gave the old bitch a heart attack.
Tuesday
thought about taking it all the way down, then decided against the direct route. She pressed for four with plans of exiting there then switching back to the stairs on the west side of the building and taking them to the sub-basement.
Tuesday got off at the fourth floor and was halfway down the hall when Slim inexplicably appeared at the far end. He was coming out of the very same door she was headed to.
Luckily, she saw him first. Tuesday was already backpedaling before he spotted her and gave chase.
The white lady was already gone with the elevator so Tuesday had to take the eastside stairwell. She was down two flights when she heard him burst through the door above her.
Tuesday was taking the stairs as quickly as her tender feet would allow but Slim was taking only two or three then leaping down the rest to the landing. At that rate he was going to overtake her before she got to the second floor. She knew she had to find some way to make him back off.
Tuesday got to the landing between the third and second floor then just waited for him. She drew her gun.
The moment he jumped into view on the landing one flight up, Slim froze because he didn’t expect her to be right below him. Tuesday busted at him three times and he stumbled, jab-stepped, then scrambled back upstairs out of the line of fire.
Tuesday’s aim wasn’t good enough to hit him but it didn’t need to be. Killing him would have been great; however, her intention was only to slow him down. She took off again, knowing that he would have to proceed around those corners more cautiously after that. Slim couldn’t be sure which landing she might be waiting on to ambush him again. This was one of those rare occasions in strategic warfare when having the low ground offered the advantage.
