Torn by the Code

by Eureka

  “Yeah, who wants to kn—Flex? My nigga, is that you?”

  “Yeah, buddy, it’s me. What it do, money?”

  “Nothing, man, everything still everything ’round these parts. I see you living well. Nice ride.”

  “Yeah, I’ma maintain. My nigga, Banks! Man, I ain’t seen you since the county, nigga! How did you end up out here? I mean, no disrespect to you, but damn! You was the man. How the hell you get here at this point?”

  “Flex, man, life happened. This shit ain’t like it used to be. I was all good until I got popped off by the Feds and went down for a seven year bid. Me and my boy Chilo—you remember him, don’t you? From over on Lockwood?”

  “Yeah, I remember that square-ass nigga. I always said there was something about him I didn’t trust. Why, what up? What about him?”

  “Well, you were right not to trust him. That nigga set me up to take the fall. Homie came to me with some new shit from these Jamaicans from up on the North Side. I told him I didn’t really wanna fuck with buddy, because something about that nigga didn’t sit right with me. But he convinced me all the shit was legit. I saw dollar signs instead of using my head. Yeah, but that’s water under the bridge. Anyway, when I got to the meeting to cop that work, these muthafuckas got live on us. I did what I had to get out of there: I busted back at them.”

  I listened to his every word. Banks sounded as if he was filled with regret for making a foolish mistake.

  “But in the process, I wasn’t wearing any gloves, so my fingerprints and DNA was all over the place. So when these fools got away with all the money and drugs, this dude cut a deal with the prosecutor and named me. He got two years, and I got hit with seven. When I got out, I seen this muthafucka and he was living well. He was in on setting me up. He took that little time so that them Jamaican muthafuckas could rob me and take over my set, and they paid his snitch ass in work and part of my shit.”

  “Man, that shit is fucked up! I swear you can’t trust a muthafucka for shit. So where dude at these days?”

  “Man, them muthafuckas killed his ass about a year ago. He thought shit was sweet, and them same muthafuckas let him run shit for a little while; then they popped his ass. I guess Karma is a bitch.” He laughed, then diverted his attention to some other hustlers across the street. He never took his eyes off of them. “Man, shit real out here! This shit reminds me of prison. You have to stay alert and never turn your back on these thirsty bitches. Hey, what you doing down here?”

  I looked around, taking in the surroundings. The days I used to spend on the streets hustling were far behind me. “Yeah, man, I’m out here to find this nigga who done took something real important to me. Man, and it’s ironic, this nigga Jamaican too. I wanted to put my ear to the ground and see if the streets was talking. I need to touch this fool in the worst way.” I was seething with anger.

  “Man, I swear, I just seen some new niggas up here the other day. They were over there shopping in Tops and Bottoms when I walked up to them to sell some of my movies and CDs. I remember them having that Jamaican accent. I could barely understand them. Hold on, let me ask this nigga right here something. Hey, Weasel! Slide on me right quick.”

  I stood to the side while Banks was conversing, and my cell phone rang again. I sent Dutch straight to voicemail. When I saw Banks dapping the dude up, I walked back to him.

  “Hey, Flex, my dude just gave me some info on them Jamaican niggas you might be looking for. Look here, my guy just told me them niggas had a spot on the South Side, working for some nigga named Rasta, and this dude supposed to be big shit. But word is he crossed some bad people, and they gunning for his head. They done placed a reward on his head, and a lot of muthafuckas looking for him.” Banks started coughing and spitting out thick, disgusting mucus.

  “Man, you good?”

  “Yeah, man, ain’t nothing some good medicine won’t cure. Anyway, they say dude holed up in this loft up on Clark Street. He got security and everything. They say this bitch almost took his ass out a little while ago, but he got away, though. I guess the nigga got nine lives.” He started laughing and coughing again.

  “Banks, you sure you a’ight? Man, you been coughing and shit like you about to lose a lung. Dude, you ain’t looking too good.”

  “Aw, man, Joe, I’m straight. I got a checkup the other day, and they saying I got cancer, but I’ma be a’ight. I got this bad-ass cold with it right now, but I’ma be good.”

  I looked at his red, sunken eyes. I could see he was well beyond being okay, but I wasn’t about to argue with him. “Okay, man, look here, thank you for the info. This might be the guy I’m looking for. Here, man, take this and my number. Hit me up if you need anything. Get you some place to lay your head, man. Fuck this street shit! It ain’t where it’s at no more.”

  I gave him some dap and slipped a wad of cash in his hand. Banks was the type of nigga that when he had it, he would give you the shirt off his back. To see him like this did something to me. I remembered when my mother put me out on the street. Banks let me come to his crib for a little while and lay my head there. He even put me up on the game. There was no way that I wasn’t going to return the help.

  “Aw, thanks, youngblood, you a’ight with me.” Banks smiled, showing his rotting teeth. “Come back and holla at me, dude. I’m up here er’day. It was good seeing you. Thanks again.” Banks rushed off, no doubt on his way to get some drugs.

  I wasn’t about to stop him. It was his life and his call.

  I got back in my truck and drove off. When I hit the corner, I spotted a car that looked familiar. Thinking back, it looked like the same car I had seen around Naheri’s office awhile back. I looked closely at the driver, but he didn’t seem familiar, although I remembered that car.

  I went with my gut and slowly followed the car, maintaining a two-car distance. I followed the car all the way to the expressway as it got off on the exit ramp toward the airport. Then I watched the car pull into the car lot. A few seconds later, the driver got out and opened the back door. I noticed two older-looking people, male and female. The female was holding something that looked like a small child or a baby tightly wrapped, rushing toward the gated area where the private planes were. The way they were moving, I assumed they were late for a flight.

  I swear I have seen them before, but I can’t put my finger on it. Then suddenly, it hit me. “Oh shit! What the hell is going on?” I said out loud as I looked on from across the parking lot.

  I watched Naheri’s mother and father moving onward in a hurry.

  Chapter 17

  Ya Really Don’t Want to Test Me

  I pulled up in front of Naheri’s parents’ house. Their cars were parked in the driveway. I got out and took a deep breath. His mother and I were not the best of friends, and we might never see eye to eye when it came to her son, but right now, I needed to talk to Naheri. I looked around, and again, something did not feel right. Usually, their big, old-ass dog would come barking on the porch. There was no sign of him, and that was odd. Sometimes, their nosy neighbor Mrs. Burton would be on the porch looking to see who was pulling up, and she wasn’t out either. Ever since the night of Junior’s kidnapping, I had been out of my element. My emotions had been all over the place. I was ready to murder any and everything that I could think of.

  When I got closer to the front door, I stood there for a moment to listen. The neighborhood was a quiet one, so anything popping off could be heard. I looked out at the street. There were no cars parked on the street. There was, however, a huge truck parked in the driveway across the street which made me wonder who the hell owned that ’cause the people who lived there were an old couple. My gut was telling me shit ain’t right. I knocked on the front door. No answer and I didn’t hear anyone in the house. The dog didn’t even start barking. No dog? Oh hell! I banged on the door even louder. Still, no movement inside, and no one answered. I stepped back and walked to the side of the house. I opened the gate and went around the back. I pulled my Glock o
ut like I was on an episode of a detective show. They had sliding glass doors in the back. At first glance, you would think someone had robbed them. I got closer and saw that everything was all over the place. Furniture was flipped over, and papers were sprawled everywhere. I tried to open the glass door, but it was locked. I took the butt of my gun and hit the glass by the lock. I knocked the pointy glass out so that I could stick my hand in to unlock the door without getting cut in the process. Then slowly, I opened the door and entered the house.

  “Naheri! Nafesa! Mr. Dolvan!” I cautiously walked through the house with my gun ready. I didn’t see any of them. I continued to call out to them as I took two steps at a time up the stairs to the second level of the house. I was looking in every room and still received no answer.

  Just as I made it back down to the bottom of the stairs, a loud crash came from the front of the house and bullets started flying everywhere. I managed to dive over the couch and get off a shot or two myself. Then I lifted my head to see Rasta standing there with a Desert Eagle, airing the house out.

  I shot back, then heard sirens coming toward the house. In this quiet, middle-class neighborhood, gunfire and illegal activities don’t go down. If you so much as walk on the side of the street the wrong way, the police are down your neck. It’s called walking or living out here while being black. I thought to myself, How in the hell did he know where Naheri’s parents stayed, and why would he come out here for them when his beef is with me?

  “Muthafucka! I know you got the boi! I want ’im back!” I heard him yell out. “Everybody dead!” he yelled again, then continued firing into the house.

  There was no way I was going out like a punk. I stood up and fired two shots toward him, hitting him in the leg. The sirens sounded as if they were getting closer.

  “Babylon close! Let we go,” I heard one of his guys yell as he dragged Rasta to their truck.

  “Dis not ova till dem all dead! Dem blood clot dead!” I heard Rasta yelling through his agony.

  I rushed outside behind them and busted off two more shots at their tires as they sped off in the same truck I saw parked in the driveway across the street. My bullets hit nothing. I ran straight to my car and exited the scene quickly. I didn’t want any part of the police, although I could have easily fed them the bullshit to seem like an unlikely suspect. I didn’t have the time for games. Why the fuck hadn’t Flex answered his fucking phone? I decided to try him again, and for his sake, he better answer his phone!

  “Meet me at Naheri’s office now!” I said through gritted teeth into my phone as Flex finally picked up my call.

  * * *

  By the time I pulled up in front of Naheri’s office, Flex was already there leaning against the grill of his truck with a look of pure evil on his face.

  “Oh, so now you come when I call? Humph,” I said as I walked up toward his car with a slight attitude.

  “Whateva, Dutch! Listen, shit ain’t looking right to me. I went up on Madison Street and ran into Banks, and he gave me some intel. It’s a damn shame how people in the street can get shit solved faster than these so-called highly trained niggas with college degrees and shit. When I was leaving, I spotted this car that looked real familiar. I remember seeing it at this office when I was here once. I decided to follow the car, and it went to the airport. I watched his people get out of the car in a hurry, carrying something. I couldn’t make out what it was, but it looked like a baby or a small bundle of something. They were hauling ass too.”

  “Interesting. I just came from their house out in the ’burbs, and Rasta showed up. This fool stood in the front of their house and dumped at the house. I’ve been calling Naheri’s phone, and he’s not answering. I went by his parents’ house because when you dropped me off at my house, mostly all of his shit was gone and Junior’s clothes was all over the floor like somebody was looking for something. I found the shirt he was wearing the night he got kidnapped.”

  “Are you sure? It could have been some clothes that the maid forgot to put away, no? I—”

  “Trust me, it was his, and since he was kidnapped, no one’s been in his room. The room was cleaned to the max,” I said while cutting him off. “Look, let’s go in his office and see if Naheri’s there, or if there’s anything that can tell me what the hell is going on with him.”

  Flex just looked at me with his lips curled up on one side. “His car ain’t even here. So, he ain’t here. You got keys? ’Cause, it looks like the building is locked up tight.”

  He gave me pure attitude, and I couldn’t deal with that shit right now. “Come on, Flex, now is not the time to be in your feelings. Something is off about this whole thing, and I need to get to the bottom of this fast. My son’s life depends on it.”

  “You can’t even say the words, can you?”

  “What? What words are you talking about? I don’t have time for this,” I said, agitated.

  He walked up closer to me, his six-foot-one frame towering over me. The smell of Kenneth Cole Black invaded my nostrils. His caramel mixed with a hint of mocha skin tone with the angle of the sunlight made it kind of glisten. I knew at that moment that it was not the time or the place to be fantasying about him like that, but he had that effect on me. He was the only man who could take me from zero to sixty in one conversation, and the next minute, have me ready to let him bang my back out.

  “Flex, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I nervously said, trying to take my mind off my buckling knees.

  I moved to walk toward the door, but Flex placed his arms out so that he could pin me against the car. “Say it! I want to hear you say it just one time out loud. I already know the answer, but I want to hear the words come from your lips. I want to hear you tell me he is my son—our son. We created him out of love, Dutch. I know he is; I just want to hear you say it.”

  I looked him right in his eyes, those pleading eyes—the same eyes as my son bears. My son always had a way of making me give in with those bright, beautiful, light gray eyes and a contagious smile. I intently held my gaze to Flex’s, never blinking or looking away.

  I felt my tears start to well up in the corner of my eyes. The fact that I missed my son was getting to me more and more. On the outside, I was a fighting, hard-core, sexy-ass diva who looked like she had it all together, but inside, I was in a million broken pieces. I lowered my eyes toward the ground like a shy schoolgirl. “Okay, Flex—Kajaun—you are his father. There, I said it! Yes, you are his father,” I said in a defeated tone.

  A huge smile flashed across his lips, and suddenly his facial expression changed. Sadness and desperation were written all over. “Elana, all I wanted was to hear you say it. I love you, and I have always loved Junior because he was—I mean, is—a part of you. I knew in the back of my mind and heart he was mine. I just wanted to hear you say it. Come on, let’s go find our son.”

  It was crazy, but I felt better. I guess I really had to hear those words just as much as he had to hear them. Tears fell from my eyes, and he embraced me tightly. I didn’t care anymore who saw us or if Naheri would see. I kissed his lips, letting him know our secret was no longer hidden, and we would finally be a family.

  Chapter 18

  No Stone Unturned

  I opened the front door and walked straight to Naheri’s office. Everything looked like it was still in its rightful place. I went over to his desk while Flex looked around the rest of the office. I turned the computer on and typed in his password. The words “password incorrect” flashed across the screen.

  “Damn, he changed the password?” I said aloud. I tried one more password I could think of, and it still denied me access. I reared back in the chair with my finger on my chin in deep thought. I had to think: If I were him, what would I use? I thought about our wedding day, time, date, and location. I found a small flash drive in the drawer as I searched for a password.

  I wonder what this is. What could he have changed it to? He wasn’t the type of man that liked to change passwords on the
regular because he would forget them easily. His usual password was his birth date. My mind was at a loss, but then I tried my son’s birth date. “Yes! Okay, now let’s see what the hell is going on,” I said aloud.

  I put the flash drive in the computer. The only things I noticed were all the regular things, like appointments and schedules. Nothing looked out of the ordinary . . . until I saw a folder labeled “deceit.” As soon as I opened it, I saw photos of me at different locations, doing different things. I spotted one with Flex and me in an embrace. Has this muthafucka had somebody following me this whole time? Searching through more photos, I came across one of me holding Rasta’s brother’s head in one hand and my bloody machete in the other. I knew then that he knew all about my secret life. But how much more has he been keeping from me? I wondered.

  I opened up more photos. In the same file was a footnote, kind of like a journal. He kept dates and times of my meetings and even Junior’s sonogram. That made me smile a little bit . . . until I looked right underneath that and saw a folder named Test Results. Test results? What kind of test results? I opened the file, and it showed DNA results. This motherfucker tested my son, and I didn’t know about it? When did he do this? I searched for the date. I wiped my eyes as if I was clearing something out of them. No matter how I tried to change what I was looking at, I couldn’t. There it was: Undeniable proof that he had a DNA test done for him and Junior. I had no idea he did that when he was a baby. This muthafucka has known the whole time.

  I was shocked, and more than anything, confused. It was as if I were in a bad movie and the starring role had my name on it. I knew the secrets I had kept would one day catch up with me. To find out he was on the same page as I was more than I was prepared to handle.