Graveyard Love

by T. C. Littles

  Taking his lead, I flipped the glove compartment over and pulled my piece from inside. Aiming it out the window behind me, I let off my own round of shots until the clip was empty. Our efforts didn’t stop them from ripping holes through my car, though. I felt the impact of each bullet tearing through the metal every time. It was easy to see Spade and I were coming up short in an area we were usually aces in.

  The crowds of people who were once just living the vicarious life were now running for their cars, trucks, or some form of cover. With bullets flying in both directions, anyone could’ve been struck as an innocent bystander.

  Pop! Pop!

  Two simultaneous bullets shattered what was left of the rear windshield.

  “Oh, shit.” Spade ducked right before both girls rang the car deaf with their horrifying screams.

  If I would’ve had bullets left, I would’ve blasted their trick asses and collected my money back. Nothing irked my soul more than a chick with no street intuition or mentality. As gutter as they got for a few dollars, they should’ve been more accustomed to hood tactics. And a shoot-out surely qualified.

  I’d temporarily lost control of the car, almost swerving into a tree. It only took a split second to get right and gain our distance back on them. The police were nowhere to be found as I felt the car floating in the air from us going so fast. In all our years of doing crime, I was feeling strange on the opposing end this time.

  “Cuz? You good? Don’t tell me you caught a hot one,” I shouted out into the car once my bearings were together.

  “I’m straight, chief, but get us out of here quick. I’m out of shells!”

  Without hesitation, I leaped the curb, hoping not to burst the tires, and then burned the grass up speeding toward the nearest main street. If these cats wanted me dead, they were gonna have to drag me up out of this car and send me to glory. I wasn’t getting buried from a bullet to the head, neck, or back.

  Spade

  One minute I was getting the nut rode out of me—the next minute I was ducking and dodging bullets. Detroit was sending me off with a blast—if not in a body bag. My clip was empty, and the bullets I usually kept in my pocket had been replaced by my sniffing stash. On any other day, I would’ve brought the heat to the mark busters chasing us, but today, I’d fallen short.

  Slouched down in the backseat, I held the door handle as Rocko manhandled the car in what had become a high-speed chase. Whoever was coming after us seemed to be the mob, ’cause they were coming extra hard.

  “Hold on,” Rocko warned, then turned on to Plymouth on two wheels.

  When the car rested back on all four, he took off with the best effort he could make to get up out of Dodge. We were halfway to the freeway when we noticed the shooting stopped. All four of us rapidly looked around checking to see if the coast was clear. Like ghosts, what seemed to be an entire carload of shooters had vanished. Even the area seemed cool, calm, and peaceful.

  “Did you ID them niggas, Rock? I wanna get back at ’em, dog.” I sat up with a chip on my shoulder. There was no way I should’ve been caught without at least another round.

  “He was a little Mexican cat,” the random rat I was banging spoke up. “And they were driving a raggedy pickup truck that looked to be spray painted.”

  “Bitch, what? You saw him creeping and didn’t say shit?” Before I could catch myself, I’d slapped her across the face.

  “Damn, nigga, I was only riding you facing the back right before it all popped off.” She grabbed her face with an unrelieved look in her eyes. “I didn’t get a chance to say anything because it happened too fast.”

  “Well, what else did you see? And you better get to talking quick, fast, and in a hurry,” I warned.

  “Like I said, a short Mexican cat in a spray-painted pickup truck,” she shot back. “It ain’t nothing more I can say because it was nothing more that I saw. Matter of fact, you can pull over and let my girl and me out. I ain’t with all this extra drama, especially since I’ve made enough money for the night.”

  “Not a problem.” Rocko slowed down the Impala. “Hop y’all thirsty THOT asses out.”

  I took my place in the passenger seat; then Rocko skidded off into the wind. “Hey, nigga, what Mexican cats have we hit up? I know I been blazing that shit lately, but I didn’t think it was iggin’ with my memory that bad.”

  “We haven’t; that’s why I’m racking my brain. Don’t get me wrong, I know we cut it thick with a lot of brothers east and west, but never into Southwest territory. This hit don’t seem right to me if ole girl saw correctly. The way them cats was chasing us, it was most definitely on some retaliation type shit. But for what—I don’t know.” The wrinkles in Rocko’s face were all the explanation I needed to show he was really at a loss for what just went down.

  “I think it’s time we make our way up out of the D sooner than later. The streets have died out on showing love and being fools.” I wasn’t trying to punk out, but getting popped definitely wasn’t a feasible option.

  “I swear I want blood shed over what just happened.” Rocko slammed his hand against the steering wheel. “If I catch them fuckos before Jakia gets out of the hospital, it’s not gonna be a body spared.”

  “She won’t be there long—” I was cut off.

  “Trust, they’ll be back.” Rocko sounded sure of himself and his words—all the while checking over his left shoulder.

  I dropped the subject because all things that should be, will be. In other words, I was gonna let things play out and be prepared if my gangster was tested again. On the way back to my crib, we tried coming up with a plan and a city we could touch down in. Atlanta and Baltimore were the cities to choose from since they had room for our reckless behavior. Cutting up was a must wherever Rocko and I went ’cause that’s the only life we knew how to live.

  18

  Jakia

  I could hear the monitors distinctly beeping in the background as my body began waking up. Since I stayed, I was hyping up my pain level, even though the aches were starting to subside, and requesting stronger narcotics so I could stay all the way doped up. Anything was better than being coherent in this cruel world. I’d gone through a boatload of tests and bloodwork and was awaiting the unfavorable results. Dr. Wang had already told me she was on the concerned side because my white blood count cell was high, which meant there was an infection in my body, and coupled with some of the symptoms I reported like constant sore throats and sore joints, the infection could be serious. I always thought I was in pain because Spade was beating my ass, and that I always had sore throats because he stayed choking me out. I couldn’t help but hope those were the reasons for me being sick.

  From head to toe, I felt slightly better, but my mind and spirit still felt flushed. What I was experiencing wasn’t anything an emergency room doctor could fix. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t about to hit her up for a few scripts of anxiety and depression medication. The fresh abortion was a perfect excuse to cop enough pills for when we hit the road.

  “I’m glad to see you’re up, Mrs. Johnson,” the same male voice I heard earlier returned. “How do you feel?”

  “Much better,” I said through squinted eyes. I was caught off guard yet happy seeing the same man in my room from earlier. He deserved a proper thanks for his pity toward me hours ago. Not having the distraction of Spade, I looked him dead in his face, then couldn’t help but automatically feel self-conscious. I would’ve never felt less than gorgeous around a man so attractive if I was dressed to impress. However, I was laid up with a napped ponytail and no gloss . . . probably a basic bitch in his eyes.

  “And about earlier—I’m sorry I came off like that. I truly appreciated your help.” My discomfort in my beauty didn’t prevent me from being nice. Blood gushed out of me as I repositioned myself trying to get comfortable. The nasty feeling made it seem like I was soaking through the sheets, so I jerked still for the remaining conversation.

  “That’s good to hear. You were in pretty
bad shape, so they must be taking exceptional care of you.” His statement was more like a question, but I nodded because either way, it was true. “Is there anything you need or is anyone coming to visit you that may need the schedule?”

  His sudden burst of questions reminded me of how he introduced himself earlier, which wasn’t by name or affiliation. I might’ve been in bad shape, but a fool I wasn’t. “Okay, this is a bit much. Why are you being so nice? Who are you? What’s your name?” Instead of focusing on his sexiness, it was my time to overwhelm him with questions.

  “I’m Mr. Peterson, one of the social workers on staff here at the hospital.” He walked over placing a card on my temporary nightstand, then extended his hand for me to shake.

  “Oh, wow, you’re the sneaky type.” I barely touched hands with him, and then rolled over to secure myself within the thin blanket. I needed a barricade for the bullshit of “good” advice he was getting ready to give me. Social workers were the worst type of people. It’s like they felt their degree gave them the right to judge you. I felt stupid for initially being engrossed by him.

  “Sneaky? What do you mean by that?” He appeared to be caught off guard as he smiled widely, seeming innocent.

  “Nothing.” Spade’s strict orders were not to fraternize with any hospital employee more than necessary, only be treated by a female physician, and by no means do anything he wouldn’t approve of that would find me in trouble. Talking to Mr. Peterson meant I wanted to feel Spade’s wrath—and please, believe me, that was never the case.

  “Aw, come on now. You can’t leave a brother hanging after calling me out like that.” He tried being down to earth. Fooling me wasn’t an option. I knew being relatable was part of the job.

  “And you should’ve started the conversation off earlier with you being a social worker.”

  He laughed, knowing I was right but continued to play me for more conversation anyhow. “What’s wrong with social workers?”

  I was played and opened up. “They’re pushy as hell.” I might’ve been talking, but each word I gave him was either harsh or straight to the point. I didn’t want him to feel like I was welcoming of this conversation for real.

  “That’s because we do care, Mrs. Johnson. We wouldn’t be in this line of work making pennies and dealing with horrible attitudes if we didn’t have big, genuine hearts.” The thick speech he was pouring on wasn’t working.

  I’ve had my share of shit bag state social workers when my mom was scamming the system for stamps and cash. They didn’t care that catching her up in her fraudulent schemes meant I would go hungry. The same type of happy-face social worker came into our home for a routine evaluation, cited my mother unfit, and had Phoebe placed on probation until she cleaned up her act. Everyone knows a head can’t drop their habits cold turkey, so she dropped the state aid, making Juan pick up the slack on his own.

  “I’m not trying to be rude but can you let me get some rest, please? I’m feeling my body start to cramp again.”

  “People that start their sentences off with—‘I’m not trying to be rude’ usually are,” he laughed, taking a seat in the guest chair across from me. “Either way, I have to do my job, Mrs. Johnson. I will be out of your hair as soon as you complete this questionnaire.”

  “Are you serious? I’m not about to do a questionnaire or be bothered with any of this.” I copped an attitude again.

  “I apologize but the doctor requested a social worker be assigned to your case, and you won’t be discharged without being cooperative with me.”

  “Won’t be discharged? You can’t keep me here if I don’t want to be kept.” I bit my lip, hoping what I was saying was true.

  When he saw the look on my face, he abruptly went across the room to shut the door. “I will be honest with you right now, so you don’t blame me later for being sneaky. They are concerned about your mental health and safety. How you answer these questions will determine your eligibility for counseling through the psychiatric ward of the hospital, in addition to many helpful services. Now, you don’t strike me as a woman who has a mental health issue. However, you do strike me as a woman that needs a little support. No woman, especially one as beautiful as you are, should be sitting in the hospital alone. But that’s just my opinion.”

  I blushed at his compliment but swallowed hard at the rest of information he’d just laid on me thick. “What’s your first name, Mr. Peterson? If I’m going to tell you my deepest and darkest secrets, we must be on a first-name basis.” I started to work him like Spade taught me to—a mark buster in the game.

  “Xavier.”

  “Nice meeting you, Xavier.” His name rolled off my tongue. “Let’s start.” I didn’t have a choice, plus I felt slightly wooed.

  “Not a problem. The first concern the doctor noted was that you didn’t mention the handprint welted across your face.”

  Oh, shit, I’d forgotten all about that. Damn. Panicked, a lie couldn’t come out of my mouth quick enough. Mr. Xavier Peterson’s sneaky social working ass kept calling me beautiful even though I was sporting another one of Spade’s bruises. If I didn’t feel insecure, scammed, and uncomfortable, I surely did now. All of my emotions became overwhelming at once, signaling a rush of tears from my eyes. No matter how hard I tried, I cried my eyes out—draining a year’s worth of hurt.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Johnson. Crying is the first step you must take to heal. I promise you a safe zone in here if you open up—just take your time. I’m here to help.” He spoke with sincerity in his eyes.

  For once, I needed a man to be telling me the truth wholeheartedly. There was something about his words that made me truly feel safe, relaxed, and ready to open up. I hadn’t felt this at ease since before Juan went to jail. Before I knew it, I had diarrhea of the mouth and was telling him everything about my brother and almost everything about my marriage with Spade, making sure not to incriminate myself. I sugarcoated the story when it came to me helping Spade set suckers up.

  I led Mr. Peterson to think I was nothing more than my husband’s bottom trick—not the slithering snake I’d grown to be from getting in bed with him. By the time I finished running down my life story, he was gripping my hand, apologizing for Spade’s behavior. The expression on his face wasn’t one of judgment, but one of pure shock and surprise. He was soft with me—something I wasn’t accustomed to feeling.

  “Wow, Mrs. Johnson, you’ve been pretty strong to have endured all that you have.”

  I looked up at him, staring into his deep brown eyes, and wished he could read further into my soul. “Are you sure? In my opinion, I’m actually weak as shit.”

  “Trust me, Jakia, a weak woman would’ve crumbled by now. Unfortunately, you’ve been built to fight. The hard part will be getting you to understand that you don’t have to.”

  Juan

  Since coming in from the yard, I’d been looking for clues in Jakia’s inked stories. She always wrote to me three to five pages at a time but never once did she paint such grave tales until the last few. I couldn’t wait until I got to see my family again. I tried emailing Jakia today at the last known address I had for her, but it returned as no Web address with that name was available. If they’re back in Detroit residing at the same house, I couldn’t understand why she hasn’t reached out. Even in jail, Jakia and I were close, so I couldn’t fathom a rational reason about why she’d break ties with me.

  “My men went head-hunting today.” Gonzalo walked up into our bunk disturbing me with good news—or so I thought. “They came close to taking care of your problem for good. Let’s just say it won’t be long before your problems are handled on the outside, my friend.”

  “Wow, they move quickly.” I shouldn’t have been surprised. “But what do you mean by ‘came close’? What happened out on the streets, Ramos?”

  “The charges are in the details. Let’s say this—my men moved too quickly and sloppily and didn’t execute. From where I come from, failed missions aren’t acceptable. Rest assured,
there won’t be another fuckup from this way.”

  Jakia

  “You haven’t been talking to them cocksuckers, have you? It’s crazy out here in the streets, babe.” Spade sounded paranoid. “Me and Rock are tripping out here like who to trust.”

  Reclining the hospital bed back with a smile on my face, I was at peace with not having to deal with their drama. Both Rocko and Spade had Karma coming that was gonna be dealt honest, whenever it came. I was glad they’d dropped me off.

  “Not more than I have to. They had a lot of questions, though, since the abortion was botched, and my face was red.”

  “What the fuck you mean botched?”

  “Don’t worry; they’ve taken care of it. I had an emergency dilation and curettage, which removed all of the dead baby from my uterus. Problem solved.” I kept it gritty ’cause he always gave it to me raw.

  “Hell yeah, that’s a problem solved. So what time do you want me to pick you up?”

  “Um, I haven’t gotten my release papers yet because my bloodwork showed some abnormalities. Besides that, I’m still in a lot of pain and can’t hold down food. I need this rest, Spade.” I tried pleading with him.

  “Fuck all that, Kia! I ain’t got time for my wife to be laid up in the hospital with the streets retaliating. Did you not hear me when I said I got shot at last night? Me and Rocko are trying to get up out of here faster than planned. Tell that doc to fall back, and yo’ ass better quit being a crybaby. You cramp every month, so this shit right here should be a cakewalk.”

  I fell quiet because I knew my wants and needs were of no real concern to him. When I heard taps on the door and it cracking open, signaling someone was entering the room, my voice came back as I tried to rush Spade off the phone. “I’ve gotta go; here comes the nurse.”