Out a Order Page 3

Campbell slid off the desk. He couldn’t believe Lombardo had gone there. He had said, “You people.” Any fool of a different race knew better than to use that term.

  He couldn’t believe Lombardo had let his anger get the better of him, although he was known to be a bit touchy, as well as a bit of a hotshot on the streets.

  Campbell’s face was dark with an unnamed emotion. Lombardo had committed an unpardonable offense. Campbell quickly closed the distance between them. “You’re out of line, Officer,” he spat at him through clenched teeth.

  He stared Lombardo down until he had the decency to look away. Realizing his offense, Lombardo clamped his mouth shut. He yanked the chair from under the desk. He paused with his hand on it.

  The tension grew.

  A spot of spittle appeared in the corner of Shannon’s mouth as he gazed at Lombardo in impotent rage. His fist was clenched rock hard at his side. He was so mad a tremor raced through his body. This bastard had balls, and Shannon was just the one to chop them off for him.

  “What’s up?” Shannon said in a nasty gutter tone.

  Lombardo released the chair. “Whatever you want it to be.”

  Campbell saw a flash of impending doom. Whether the two of them realized it or not they were both frustrated by the same statistics. But their being on opposite sides of the race card was making this territory shaky ground.

  He stepped between the two of them. “Enough.”

  “Naw. You ain’t seen enough yet. But you will.” Shannon looked Lombardo up and down. He stormed to the door and threw a last malicious look over his shoulder, before slamming the door shut behind him.

  Campbell threw his pad and pen to the floor. He kicked over one of the chairs in frustration. He’d heard about the shooting of the little girl on the police scanner before she’d arrived at Beth Israel Hospital. Her murder was sheer savagery at its worst. Another grandstand play in the Central Ward.

  Jasmine Davenport had been a beautiful little black girl with red ribbons all tied in her hair.

  Now all that would be seen of her was another hood memorial of balloons, candles, flowers, and ribbons tied on the street corner. The ghetto equivalent for remembering. Another innocent child lost in the jungle.

  It felt like these memorials were all over the Central Ward, and he was tired of seeing them. They were enough to make you want to lie down and weep.

  They represented loss and despair, but primarily they represented hope lost, life reduced to the ashes of a symbol. It was a constant reminder that they weren’t winning the war.

  And a war it was, although nobody took responsibility for declaring it. They were fighting an unseen enemy.

  It was tragic beyond endurance, and all it did was sow hatred in the hearts of more men, creating a disturbance like the one that had just transpired between Shannon Davenport and Lombardo.

  This was a ticking time bomb. Jasmine Davenport’s death would prove to be a catalyst to a pot that was already boiling over.

  Lombardo stared at the closed door that Shannon Davenport had left behind him, with open hatred beaming from his eyes. This man didn’t have any respect for authority, but Lombardo planned to help him learn it before this was all over.

  Shannon Davenport was skirting dangerous ground, very, very dangerous. He was skating on thin ice. And Lombardo knew that this ice couldn’t take another blow before it began to crack.

  Chapter 5

  That night a gang of young men gathered in Rico’s basement. The room had an air of masculinity about it. The furnishings were bare, but the room contained an awesome stereo system. A big sixty-inch screen TV, a huge pool table along with a club-size pinball machine.

  The room was jammed. There was an air of coiled tenseness. All of the young men were strapped. They had the doors covered, as well as the windows. At the slightest movement, they would blow someone away without hesitation.

  Two of them were playing pool. One of them in particular stood out. His name was Eight Ball. He had a bald head, two gold earrings, and glasses. Tattoos were visible on his muscular biceps.

  His voice was a deep baritone. He sounded like a bass instrument whenever he spoke. He was Rico’s right-hand man. They were very close friends.

  T-Bone was also a trusted confidant of Rico’s. He was a likable kind of guy, built like a linebacker. He leaned forward and took a shot, sending a ball into a side pocket.

  In his excitement over the shot, he accidentally kicked over a library bag with books in it. Some of the books spilled onto the floor.

  Eight Ball sighed. “Yo, man, pick up the books.”

  T-Bone laughed while picking them up. “Chill, man. They ain’t gold.”

  Eight Ball gave him a strange look. “What’s considered gold is different for every man, son.”

  “That might be. But I’d prefer to see mine in gold bars.”

  Laughter erupted.

  There was a slight knock on the basement door. It was opened by a crew member to admit a short pretty young woman named Kesha. She was Rico’s lady. She came in carrying a chubby baby girl who was fifteen months old, named Ebony.

  Kesha scanned the room. The vibes made the hair on her arms bristle. She wasn’t big on Rico’s lifestyle. She was actually a nineteen-year-old straight-A student at Rutgers University, majoring in business.

  However, she loved roughneck thugs, and Rico fit the bill hands down. He’d talked his way into her pants and she’d gotten pregnant, so here she was.

  She knew he was a gangster, but she tried to turn a deaf ear and a blind eye while walking a thin line between both worlds. In the process she reaped the benefits of his ability to generate major paper.

  The truth be told, this was part of what had seduced her in the first place.

  She was a bright girl intellectually, but she liked to show off for her girlfriends. Rico kept her pockets stuffed with cash, bought her a Jeep to cruise in, and had her hair freshly styled in the top salons every week. She also received the latest in spa manicures and pedicures. So homegirl was sprung.

  She had it like that, and liked to flaunt it to all her friends. She knew they were jealous because she had snagged this ghetto player, and she liked to keep it like that. She wanted to be top dog and untouchable among them.

  The present atmosphere that was making the hair stand up on her arms was just part of the payment. She figured when she graduated from the university with her degree she’d get out and her real life could begin.

  A nigga couldn’t holla at her because he had paper, then because she’d be generating her own paper, and with her talent for business economics she’d be gracing the front pages of Business Week and Black Enterprise magazines and others like them in about six years.

  She walked up to Rico, managing a smile. “Ebony wanted to say good night to her daddy.”

  Rico chucked the little girl under her chin. He cooed at her.

  “Dadda,” Ebony said. He took the baby girl in his arms. He held her high in the air, which she loved, so she kicked and squealed. Finally, he planted a kiss on one chubby cheek, then handed her back to her mother.

  “I’ll be up soon, Key. Okay?” he said, using his nickname for her. He was the only person who called her Key and he knew it always softened her up. Rico knew she was disturbed by the heavy gang presence in and around the house, as well as the presence covering the street, but it was necessary.

  Kesha nodded and headed back the way she had come. Rico watched her walk away.

  Ebony smiled. She reached out a hand for him. As soon as the door closed behind them Rico dropped the mask and paced the room agitatedly. He watched the pool game, not really seeing it, between Eight Ball and T-Bone.

  Temaine slouched back in a chair with a moody expression on his face. His long legs were stretched out in front of him. He sucked sullenly on his ever-present piece of licorice.

  A telephone rang. Rico reached into his pocket, placing the phone to his ear. “Yeah?” he said.

  Dickie’s voice floated ove
r the wire. He too was a trusted member of Rico’s crew. In their world he was called Eyes and Ears. His job was similar to that of a newscaster. He gathered the facts. He reported, pure and simple.

  His profile was low, and no one knew who Eyes and Ears was accept a chosen few. In the present climate of the Central Ward the only person who knew who Dickie was was Rico.

  The created distance insured his life span. The information insured his cash flow.

  “Word’s in my, man. The little sister’s lights are out. She’s dead.”

  Rico continued pacing. He stopped in front of Eight Ball. Eight Ball stared at Rico intently. His eyes flashed behind his glasses. He leaned his pool stick on the table.

  “And?” Rico said into the phone.

  “Ballistic has decided to draw first blood. Yours, man. He hired an independent. Spence Parkinson. He’s our triggerman. Mr. Rooftop himself.”

  A cold smile crept across Rico’s face. He clicked off. Eight Ball stood ready.

  Rico stared deep into Eight Ball’s eyes. “Spence Parkinson is the hit man. He missed. The accident is going to cost him, man, ’cause we don’t be hitting no kids. It’s a violation of the most sacred street law.”

  Rico picked up a pool stick. He broke it over his knee.

  “For starters I want Spence dead! This is my turf, man. I created the ground these niggas are standing on. I’m getting serious paid. I’m the only bankroller on these streets, dawg. Ballistic can’t have it. All he’s going to get is air shipment in a body bag to his mama’s house in Irvington. Understand?”

  Rico paced the room again. “Damn. I watched that little girl grow up. We’ll be at the funeral at a distance. Leak the word on the street. Spence will take another shot. When he does you’ll take him out. You’re gonna have to get off the streets after the hit.”

  Eight Ball nodded.

  “Spence is just a weak-ass punk. Ballistic will get my message,” Rico continued. “I’ll take care of Ballistic in my own time. You can consider that nigga history walking for now. In a New York minute I’m gonna erase that history, and he’s gonna see death. Word.”

  “Where you want Spence buried?” Eight Ball asked.

  “Right beside the Davenport girl.” Rico looked at Temaine.

  “My nigga.” Temaine smiled.

  Chapter 6

  At Jasmine Davenport’s funeral a grief-stricken neighborhood of family and friends gathered at the girl’s grave site.

  It was such a shame.

  Jasmine had been a precocious, smart, and loving little girl. She was a giver and had shared with all her friends, even those less fortunate than her.

  She’d been like a ray of sunshine in the neighborhood that all of the other children had orbited around. She always hugged and greeted her friends when she came outside to play. She generated warmth and caring that wasn’t always common, even among children.

  The adults loved her. She could read at levels way beyond her years. This fact alone made her a teacher’s favorite. She had excellent manners and she was polite. She’d never been known to be a fresh kid.

  Sometimes she ran errands to the corner store for some of the older residents. She’d even pick up their newspapers from their yards or porches and bring them inside for them.

  Her death was tragic beyond belief.

  Marcus was still frightened at the way she had been killed. He looked shell-shocked. He stood near Shannon and Tawney whom he had practically attached himself to since Jazz’s death.

  He had begged his mom to let him attend the services. He hadn’t wanted Jazz to feel alone as though her friends had abandoned her. It was bad enough she was alone in that big old box. After much drama he had convinced his mother he could handle this, and handle it he would. He stood a little taller trying to rep for his best friend lying silently in her coffin.

  Aisha, who was like the other half of Jasmine’s tag team, held tightly to her mother’s hand. Like Marcus, she had insisted she be in attendance. Under the circumstances they were both displaying remarkable maturity for their ages.

  Marcus and Aisha exchanged looks. That one look between them said it all. They were there for their friend Jazz until the end.

  Marcus looked up at Shannon, who was tense and withdrawn. His look drew Shannon’s attention. Shannon reached for his hand, clasping it warmly in his own.

  Rico and his crew were in attendance.

  The minister’s voice droned on.

  A small coffin sat in a circle draped with flowers. Inside, one tiny child rested alone in darkness. All sound and life had ceased to exist for her.

  The minister was saying, “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust.”

  Dressed down in a sharp-looking black suit, Spence cruised up behind some tombstones. He raised his rifle with the scope once again.

  This time he would take Rico out.

  Spence centered Rico in the hairs of his scope. He had the shot. He took it. Automatic gunfire split the air. Spence tumbled backward. Rico and his crew were armed and ready. Their guns clicked quickly into place. The mourners ran and screamed.

  Tawney fell across the top of her daughter’s coffin. Shannon looked wildly around trying to spot the gunmen. Shots were still being fired. He threw Marcus to the ground and pulled Tawney off the coffin, throwing his body on top of her.

  When the shooting stopped, Shannon looked up to see Eight Ball standing in front of him with the body of Spence, dripping with blood. There was a gaping hole in the middle of his forehead.

  Eight Ball dropped the body into the fresh grave that had been dug for Jasmine. He stood staring at Shannon. Just as quickly as Eight Ball appeared, he was ghost, he disappeared, leaving a stunned Shannon on his knees beside his daughter’s coffin.

  Cars and Jeeps revved up, rolling out of the cemetery. Temaine shouted out of the car at Shannon, “We take care of our own, Mr. Davenport!” The car careened away, spraying dirt and gravel in its wake.

  That night Tawney sat in the corner of her bedroom with her knees pulled up to her chin. The bedroom was decorated with warm muted colors, but she drew no comfort from a room she had once taken great pride in. Her eyes were blank and slightly unfocused.

  Shannon got up from the bed. He wandered to the window. He lit a cigarette. “Tawney, we need to talk.”

  Tawney shot him a cold stare. “About?”

  “About? How can you ask me that? Damn it, Tawney, this is not my fault. Jasmine was my daughter too.”

  Tawney jumped to her feet. “And you think the way to vindicate her death is to resort to your old ways?”

  She snapped her fingers. “Just like that, justice is served.”

  Shannon narrowed his eyes. His voice was dangerously low. “What are you talking about, Tawney?”

  “I’m talking about that disgusting little play of power that was acted out at my daughter’s funeral. It’s not bad enough that I lost my baby, is it, Shannon? Nope. That’s not the hell enough. I also have to be subjected to a bunch of petty-ass street gangsters who think that they are the law.”

  “Let me tell you something. That’s why I work every day, because I want to get out. I thought you did too. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? Tell me I’m not wrong, damn you.”

  Shannon said nothing.

  “Are you listening to me? People are afraid to go out after dark. Old people are scared to go to the store. In downtown Newark you can be shot just for being down there too late.”

  “You think I enjoy driving past corners, when I come home at night, filled with angry young black men who would just as soon hurt me, shoot me, and rob me as look at me? No. I’ll tell you, I don’t enjoy that at all. That’s why I was trying to get out. But you don’t care. Do you? This is your stomping ground. You’ve been lying to me. You don’t care about getting out.”

  Tawney panted. She was in deep.

  She shook her head. “You’re afraid of the real world, Shannon. Why don’t you just admit it? But you know what? You can just stay in this hellhole with them
and think about how they cost you your daughter.”

  Shannon nodded at her logic. “This is my world, Tawney. And nobody is going to run me out of it. As for your world, it’s a fantasy. All in your head.” He pointed to his temple.

  Tawney fumed. “Do you want to know what your world is?”

  “What? Go ahead. I know you’re going to run it down for me anyway, right?”

  “Damn straight I am. Try destruction. It is nothing but pure destruction. Satan can’t cast out Satan, Shannon.”

  “Shove it, Tawney.” The hint of a smile tugged at Shannon’s lips. “You think I miss the streets so much that I would disrespect my dead child’s funeral?”

  “I think you miss whatever power you perceived yourself as having. I know you hate the fact that I make money and you don’t. Maybe you should get a job to keep you busy.”

  Deadly fury spewed from the depths of Shannon’s eyes. Unfortunately, Tawney missed the subtle change.

  “Once a gangster, always a gangster. People warned me but I didn’t listen. Now you have cost me the only good thing that ever came out of you. And you know what? I hate you for that. Yeah. Uh-huh. I hate your damn guts. I can’t stomach the sight of you.”

  “I’m only going to say this once. So listen closely. I don’t know what happened at the cemetery today, but I intend to find out.”

  His eyes found hers. They gripped her in their malice.

  “Yeah. You just do that. You be the law, right?”

  Shannon knocked the television from its stand; it banged into the wall with a loud crash. Tawney flinched.

  “Naw. I ain’t the law. That corporation you work for is the law. It’s your law. That’s why you didn’t have enough time to spend with your daughter. That’s why I took care of her. And that’s why she’s dead now.”

  He grabbed the DVD player, hurling it out the window. The splintering glass fractured Tawney’s nerves.

  “You see, Tawney, you’ve got your priorities backward. You don’t need a man. What you need is a toy, li’l girl. One you can play with when you ain’t up in that sorry-ass bank you work for. You know, the one that you worship on a daily basis. Your god!”