Splattered Asunder

Morning

Damon was seated beneath the window in his cell, enjoying the rays of sunlight that gleamed through the narrow window, when the guard informed him of a visit.  It wasn’t a surprise for him to learn it was Detective Spencer, as the man had started visiting Damon in 2010 and over the years he’d paid several unannounced visits whenever Damon was incarcerated.   He walked out of his cell, glad to be free for the moment and followed the guard to the visiting hall. There he found Detective Spencer, a lot older than he’d remembered, with a head-full of gray hair and deep wrinkles, seated at the table.  His hands were crossed and Damon walked over to the man as he stood to his feet and introduced himself again. 

 “You still don’t remember Roosevelt Pierce?”  Detective Spencer asked when they sat down.  He handed Damon the same picture he’d showed him the first and last times he visited.   A photo of Roosevelt:   a buff prisoner, wearing a tan jumpsuit and timberland boots. 

Damon gazed at the photo for a long time.  He thought about the day his life had changed.  The day he went from a confused teenager to an all-out thug.   It was as if it was yesterday, but twenty years had passed.  He handed the picture back to the detective, “I told you before, I’ve never seen him."

The detective not convinced continued, “He was paroled to Linda Anderson’s apartment in 1999, the same year you dated her daughter, Katherine Anderson, and your first cousin dated Krystal Anderson.  You don’t remember Mr. Pierce at all.”

“Nope,” Damon said.  He didn’t need to implicate himself as he knew the detectives trail ended with Linda Anderson, she was dead, and so was everyone else who knew anything about what happened to Roosevelt Pierce, besides him and Goliath. 

Damon and Goliath King were first cousins, but Lilly King, Damon’s mother always told people, if you wanted Damon, look for Goliath.  The boys only separated to spend alone times with their girlfriends.  The absence was never very long, since they dated sisters.  It was common knowledge back then if the boys weren’t on the block hustling redi-rock and dope, they were probably at Linda Anderson’s apartment with Katherine and Krystal.

Katherine and Krystal were like two peas in a pod themselves.  A year apart, it was hard to tell one from the other.  Despite Linda Anderson being their mother, the girls were blessed with congenial spirits and dark-skinned magic that beamed when they were spoken too.  They had pretty faces, shiny and dark as ripe cherries, curves in all the right places, and they were book smart and street smart, the ride-or-die type Damon and Goliath admired. The girls weren’t afraid to get their hands dirty and it was nothing for them to hold bundles of crack and cash for Damon or Goliath.   Together the quartet formed the type of bond that would take secrets to the grave.

The girl’s mother, Linda Anderson, was a bar hopper hoe.  She worked mid-day at a factory and hung out in bars until after midnight.  She used her pretty face and her voluptuous figure to draw a host of one-night stands and crews of week-to-week boyfriends, some straight out of prison.   There was no shame to her game.   After a few sleep overs, she would allow any man who professed his love, to move in quick.  But, she wasn’t the type to keep a man, most of them stayed rent free and only long enough to collect a paycheck, before they moved along to the next available apartment. 

Roosevelt Pierce, was really no different than the others.  Linda Anderson was introduced to him, via a three-way phone call, by her sister Mona.  Roosevelt was prison mates with Mona's boyfriend and according to Mona, he was looking for a hard-working woman to settle down with once his sentence was over.  Mona further enticed Linda when she talked about his monthly social security checks and confirmed he had a large savings account and as his money was being held in the bank waiting for him when he gets out.  Linda brought in lock, stock and barrel.  After the introduction was made she sat on the phone with Roosevelt for hours and before long she was racking up collect-call bills and spending money to make visits. 

It was nice when Roosevelt first came to live in New Bethill.   He had a lot of money from social security.  He splurged on Linda.  Used a large amount to purchase a new car for her.  With the rest Roosevelt, having become familiar with the dope dealers in New Bethill, made pitstops to get his fix, before joining Linda at the bar.  They spent the first year together riding the Eagle Primer to bars, clubs and restaurants, as if they were wealthy.  They were always together, stayed high and intoxicated.  They laughed and played as lovers did.  Until the money started to dry up; then things changed.

Linda continued to party, but Roosevelt retreated full-time to the living room.  He preferred to sit around all day wearing baggy shorts and a wife beater, while he watched television in the middle of the living room.  He held the couch hostage.  Sipped on cheap beer and pretended not to snort dope.  He carried a Glock.  Kept it tucked inside his boots, daring anyone to cross him, including Linda.  Half-past a year, the love making was over and Linda was asking him to leave. 

~~~~~~

Afternoon

It was the Summer of Sam, 1999, when Roosevelt Pierce disappeared.  Damon and Goliath were seventeen at the time, just boys—

During that summer Damon and Goliath both attended summer school in the mornings.  Kat worked at the laundry-o-mat from 6 o’clock in the morning until noon and Krystal worked at Burger King.  On the day Roosevelt disappeared Linda and Krystal worked afternoon shifts, so when Kat got off at noon she tarried in town.  It was a Friday and she'd gotten her first paycheck for the summer, so she stopped at a few of the downtown shops and splurged a little. She walked to the park, sat outside near the water fall, enjoyed an ice cream cone.  Before long she had no choice, but to wander towards home, it was just too hot to dwell in the streets.  Even the shade was stifled by the sun that beamed without care. 

Kat made it home and glanced at Roosevelt with a pained expression on her face.  He was on the couch, sitting as if he’d worked a hard shift and needed to relax.   His feet were up on the ottoman, his arms were stretched out and he had the fan positioned so that it blew directly on him.  He glanced at Kat with a sinister gaze when she came through the front door. 

Kat  gave a wry smile and headed straight for her bedroom.  He feigned niceness, asked her how her day went, and complimented her work ethic.

Roosevelt said, “You girls are just like your momma, always working."  Then he grinned, "can’t keep a man that way, a man wants a woman to be home sometimes."

Kat didn’t respond.  She despised Roosevelt.  Despised his fake compliments and underhanded sweet nothings.  When she entered her bedroom, she closed the door and sat down on her bed, glad to be out of the heat she leaned back and listened to the kids play outside.  She could have never anticipated what Roosevelt would do next. 

He knocked.    

Her heart gave a leery thump, "Yeah,” Kat said in a cautious tone.

“Damon coming over today?” he asked, through the door. 

Kat didn’t respond at first.  Damon came over every day, so she was a bit suspicious.  She felt queasy like she could hear his pounding heart and feel his rugged breath through the door.  She glanced at the clock, the large red numbers blinked 2:45, Damon was usually at the apartment by 3:15.

“Yeah,” she said, “he'll be here soon.”  It wasn’t the first time Roosevelt asked about. Damon, especially when he wanted to get dope on credit.  It was nothing for him to spend half his social-security check before he got it, to keep control of his habit.  Kat turned on the fan and relaxed.  Roosevelt knocked again.

“Uhhhh…Kat,” he said after a minute.  “I wanted to talk with you about your mother.  Can I come in?”

Baffled and afraid Kat noticed the door was unlocked.  She got up and went for the knob, but before she could reach the door, Roosevelt walked in wearing only his boxers.  His wife-beater was removed and his bare chest was exposed. Anger flashed through Kat’s body.  At a loss for words, she stood in place.  Her window was opened and her shear pink curtains danced about lightly.  She stood there watching him as he stood at the door. To break the awkward silence, Kat went to her dresser and pretended to be searching for something in the drawers.

“What do you want, Roosevelt?” she asked.  Her tone was cold and sharp. 

“Nothing, I just came in to see what’s up with you,” his voice was cool and measured, he lingered twisting the door knob back and forth, salivating at the mouth like an immature beast.

“What’s up with me?  She answered, perturbed, “nothing I’m waiting for Damon to get out of school.”

 “What do you see in that dumb motherfucker.  I think you’re too beautiful for a nigger like that.  He’s going to be in jail pretty soon.”

“You mean like you were?” Kat said, not expecting an answer.

He shrugged his shoulders, shut the door and walked further inside the room,  “you deserve better than, Damon,” he said.  His voice was deep and serious. 

Kat face was frowned, but she laughed, into the flat air, her heart beat heavy.  “Thanks, but I got this.  He’ll be here soon,” she said, again hoping he’d get the message and leave.  Her back still turned, but she glanced at him through the mirror.  “Anything else?” She asked.  She barely squeezed the words out of her dry mouth.

He nodded his head, moved in her direction like a snake, "there's something else," he said with a causal shrug.  “I would like to know how you feel about me, you always seem so quite when I’m around.”

Kat rolled her eyes in disgust, “You make me no difference.  Can you lock the door when you leave,” she said, “Damon’ll be here soon,” she repeated as she glanced at the clock and noticed the time.  Then she became visibly anxious, he had at least another 15 minutes before he even got out of school.  She closed the drawer and nonchalantly tried to walk to the door.

Roosevelt didn’t let her pass.  He moved from side to side and kept talking.  His demeanor shifted into a stiff stance and his language became violent and sexual, “you girls aren’t whores like you mother, are you?”

Kat faced him, gazed for a long while.  Inside she shivered. It had started off as such a nice day.  Now it was as if she was inside of a night mare.  The two of them stood face to face, near the opened window the breeze still blew, only the pink curtain separated them.  For a second she wondered if he would take things that far, she hoped she was wrong about Roosevelt’s intentions.  Her confidence running on a single thought:  no matter how wretched the men her mother dated, none of them dared to touch her, or her sister.  Not even the ones that beat her mother.

He drew closer to her and peered down with wanting eyes.  He was a tall man and had the physic of a body builder, his arms were bulged and his stomach was flat.  He tried to grab here but she avoided his reach and she tried to make another move for the door.

 “Aww come on now, I know you will like it, I can make you scream,” he said in a vile tone.  “I know Damon can’t do that, he ain’t got shit.”

 “you’re crazy, you’re crazy,” she shouted over and over.

Suddenly her room, her sanctuary, became a prison.  She was trapped inside the tiny space.  He came at her again, ripping her shirt and grabbing her breast.  He weighed her down and managed to grab her at the waist and throw her on the bed.  With his knee he spread her legs, pulled her pants down and had his way.  The entire event lasted about 10-minutes. 

Years later, on her death bed, Kat told Damon, how she’d survived; the way she stepped outside of herself, like a spirit leaves a body.  She watched Roosevelt rape her. His was engulfed in evil.  His expression demonic.  His eyes deep red and filled with rage and anger.  His big lips hung open and sweat dripped down over them.  It was 3:08 when Roosevelt finished, 3:08 in the afternoon, the moment she stepped back inside herself, seven minutes before Damon got out of school. 

Before Roosevelt left her bedroom, he removed his gun from his boot and put it into her mouth.  “If you tell a soul,” He said, his voice deep and demonic and dark, “I’ll kill you, your momma. your sister and your punk ass boyfriend.  You understand, you fucking whore—you fucking whore!” he shouted. 

With wild eyes, Kat shook her head.  “I won’t tell,” she said.  Her tone was cold, yet strong.  She was afraid but she didn't let him see her tears.  He kept the gun lodged in her mouth for a moment, sweat poured off his ribbed four-head and spilled onto her face like toilet water.  Then just like that he got up and strolled out as if nothing happened.

Kat didn't cry at first.   When it was all over, she was grateful to be alive.  When he left, she inhaled.  Then she cried.  Tears ran down her face, as the scent of sweat and ejaculated semen drifted out the window.  She wanted to get up, but couldn’t bring herself to move.  She let the warm tears ran down her face and blur her vision.  She hoped she could stamp out the images of the man from her brain.  In silence she stared at the wall, that at one time was a bright, glad- yellow, but now took on a grayish-yellow stained hue. 

It was 3:13 when Kat heard the tinkle from Mr. Softie’s Ice Cream Truck, and not long after she heared Damon footsteps.  He entered her bedroom.

“What the fuck,” Damon yelled when he found Kat.

He walked into the room and stood over her.  He glared at her face, spackled with dried salty tears.  Her eyes were blood shot red.   

 “What happened to you?” Damon asked in disbelief.  He didn’t need an answer, it was clear what had happened.  He stared at her body that was partly naked and bruised like a bruised piece of fruit.  In disbelief he asked, “He raped you?”  His eyes were squinted and his mouth was twisted, as if he tried to comprehend.

Kat nodded her head and pulled herself up, so that she rested on her elbows.  “Roosevelt—” She began, but she couldn’t repeat the crime.  Couldn’t repeat the violence.  She cried like a baby. 

 The entire time, Damon repeated, “I’m going to kill him,” then he headed for the door, but Kat cried with fear in her eyes.

 “Don’t leave me, Damon.  Don’t leave me, Damon,” she repeated the words over and over, even after Damon had turned from the door and draped her with both his arms.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Damon said, as he held her close.

When she had hiccupped, spit up and was over the initial shock, Damon made her get up from the bed to clean herself.   He helped her take a shower, in scorching hot water.  In silence at first.  Then Kat explained what Roosevelt had done.  The way he came into the room and forced himself on her. 

Damon was seventeen and knew the only payment for what Roosevelt had done, was death.  He didn’t want to be a murderer at his young age, but when he looked at Kat after she’d finished dressing, he knew the only retribution was death. 

By the time Kat finished dressing Kris and Goliath were in the living room.  Kat told them the same story, Kris cried.

 “We should call the police,” Kris said after Kat finished. 

 “No police,” Damon said.

 “We’re going to handle this the proper way.  Let’s pop that nigger,” Goliath said. 

Damon agreed, he paced back and forth in anger as the quartet devised a plan.

~~~~~~

Evening

Back in the day everybody had guns in New Bethill.  Shoot to Kill was the motto around the streets.  Damon’s favorite gun was a 38 Special; Goliath held a Tec-9.  They’d never used the weapons before for any reason, but now they were about to commit a crime. 

It was Friday night and the streets were filled with people wearing glad faces.  The air carried the melody of music from the bars and the beat of happy people buzzing with the excitement of a nice summer evening and a paycheck.  It wasn’t going to be difficult to find Roosevelt.  It was only a few days until the 3rd and he had to stick around to get his social security check, so he wasn’t far.  He wasn’t going to leave town until he knew if Kat had remained silent, or sang like a bird.  Damon and Goliath checked every bar in the neighborhood, and finally heard from a friend that he’d been sitting up in Bernie’s most of that evening.  By the time they made it to Bernie’s Bar the sun had descended and a dark, sky was filled with stars and a big round moon. 

“You go in, place nice, while I find a place to dispose of the body” Damon said to Goliath when they arrived at the bar.  “I’ll be back in a few.”

“It’ll be like dangling a carrot before a rabbit’s eyes,” Goliath said when he disappeared into the darkness of Bernie’s bar.

Goliath walked inside the bar.  His tech-9 tucked in the back of his pants and his shirt hung down to cover. According to their plan, he was going to make Roosevelt feel comfortable, pretend to be unaware of what he’d done to Kat and lure him out the bar with the promise of credit for dope.   Goliath played real smooth he sat at the bar and ordered a drink.   He started to sip, like he didn’t have a care in the world.  The music was loud and a few people were dancing.  Roosevelt was seated in a booth facing the door, drinking a beer.  Goliath, gazed at him from his peripheral but made no direct contact.  After a while Roosevelt approached him.

“What’s up G,” Roosevelt said. 

Goliath smiled and gazed at the man he was about to kill as if everything was copacetic, “What’s up Roosevelt?”  Goliath said.

“Nothing much, just hanging, letting off some steam,” Roosevelt returned, “headed back home in a few.”

“I feel you.”

 “You ain’t been to Linda’s?”  His brow was raised, as if he was expecting Goliath to sound an alarm. 

“Earlier, I walked Kris over there.  You want a drink?” Goliath asked.  He was nonchalant and cool, although his stomach churned with animosity.  He kept a close on Roosevelt, watched his every move, all the while he smiled, nodded his head to the music.

Roosevelt smiled back and feeling relieved he slide onto the bar stole next to Goliath like a snake.  He was convinced Kat had kept her mouth shut.  With glee he imagined how the sex would be the next time he took her.  He’d decided he wouldn’t be so rough, she was a beautiful girl and at least deserved that amount of respect.   Sitting there he started to feel a complete sense of euphoria, excited about his victory.  He wanted to celebrate.  He bubbled with an irresistible urge to get high and not just any high, he wanted that shoot’em up high, heroin right in the vein high, a high that could only be obtained with good shit.  If he had the good shit he can go down by the tracks and shoot-up alone. “Linda’s trifling,” he said.  He took a gurgle of beer and leaned back with relief.  “The girls ain’t nothing like her.”

“You right about that.   They’re the opposite of Linda in every way.”  Goliath nodded his head, gazed at him with feigned sincerity.  He wondered if Damon had found a spot to get rid of him.

“How are things on the front lines?” Roosevelt asked.

“Pretty good, pretty good, if I do say so myself,” Goliath said.    He knew where Roosevelt was going and felt a tingle inside of his stomach, they were really going to have to kill.  Secretly, he prayed they’d get away with the crime.

Roosevelt said, “that’s good to know.”  He grabbed his drink and lifted his glass to toast with Goliath. Then he said, “Listen—my check be here day after tomorrow, and I was thinking since business is good for you, you’d let me hold something.  I get it right back to you—double your dough,”  he said with cunning eyes and a crooked smile.  

Goliath had heard Roosevelt like to go down to the tracks to get high and he figured that would be a good spot to get rid of a body, “My shit down by the tracks,” he said to Roosevelt.

“Ah, no problem with that.  No problem at all,” Roosevelt said.  “Linda don’t know so I go down by the tracks to do my thing,” he said and he pointed a finger into the back of his hand.

 “You don’t mind if I walk down with you.”

“Nah, I don’t mind.  You just hang down by the freight trains while I go get my package, but I gotta wait for Damon, he’ll be here any minute.” Goliath said.  He cast a leery eye at Roosevelt, thinking he might realize what they were up too, but Roosevelt was too busy with thoughts of his own.

He’d been thinking about how much money he wanted to spend, and mad at himself for saying he would double the money, and decided he would trap Kat again as payback for the double portion, “no problem, I’ll wait,” he said.

~~~~~~

Midnight

Outside Damon walked around the neighborhood, trying to come up with a spot to kill Roosevelt.  It was stifling hot, even at that hour of the night, a lot of cars were out, but most people were going someplace to party.   Damon passed a few friends and several feigns as he crossed one block and another.  He reached Tabernacle Church and looked around.  He glanced at the lonely structure, gazed at the painted windows, they looked almost enchanted beneath the dark sky, he wandered around the back of the church, approached the building and said a prayer.  Down the street he reached the graveyard, he decided that was the place to kill someone, but changed his mind there were too many people scattered around.  When he came upon the library, a dark and deserted looking building, he walked around it to the back and discovered a large dumpster, he decided that was the perfect place.  He thanked God for leading him there, but before he got back to the front of the building he spotted Buckwheat, a neighborhood feign headed to the back of the library.

Buckwheat said, “Damon, what’s good--what you doing over here--got something I can hold?”  He asked the questions all in one breath and gazed at Damon with ghost white-eyes and extra-large pupils.

“I ain’t got no time for you Buckwheat,” Damon said.  He passed the man with a frown and headed back to Bernie’s Bar.  He put the library on the back burner.  When he reached the bar he went inside and found Goliath seated next to Roosevelt.  He smiled and walked in with an un-phased expression.  We got your ass, he whispered to himself as he headed in their direction.

When Goliath noticed Damon he got up to greet him, “we can do it at the tracks,” he whispered.

“Great idea,” Damon returned.  He greeted Roosevelt, “what’s good Roosevelt?”

 “Nothing much,” Roosevelt said, he pretended as if he’d done nothing wrong.  He was an innocent man, in a bar, sipping a beer with friends.

Goliath said, “I told Roosevelt he can walk with us down to the track, he wants to hold something.”

“For sure,” Damon said, his faced frowned with exaggerated jubilance. “Any man that can put up with Linda, has a special place in my heart.”

“Man, I thought yah loved that chick.”

“Love,” Goliath said, playing along, “that’s a strong word.  I wouldn’t say I hate her, but I dame show don’t love her.  Kris don’t have none of her ways.”

“You keepin Linda in check.  I’ve known her a long time and ain’t never seen a brother accomplish that,” Damon said.  He had ordered a drink and leaned back on the bar right next to Roosevelt. 

They left the bar after Damon drank two shots of vodka.  The streets were dark midnight black, but still busy.  Not one person ever said they saw them leave the bar together; not a soul ever admitted to seeing the three of them walk down towards the track. 

As they walked Damon and Goliath were mostly quit, there heart beat heavy as they thought about how they were going to get away with murder.  Roosevelt was giddy, happy as a lark and was in a talkative mood.  He talked about Linda, bashed her whorish ways and praised Kat and Kris.  Whenever he spoke of Kat he would glorify her in a way that made Damon cringe. 

 “Kat is so polite and neat, that’s why she got that job at the laundry-o-mat.  You’re lucky Damon, if I was yah age, you would have a run for your money,” Roosevelt said.  He taped Damon on the shoulder.

They stopped when they reached the barb-wired fence, put up to deter people from crossing, but had a wide long gash cut right through the metal links, allowing access.  They walked through the gash and over the fence.  They headed to the boxed freight cars, that stretched into the brow of the sky.  In the air was the smell of iron and coal and they felt the sharp crevices of the crushed rocks beneath their feet as they approached the trains.

Damon started to pull his gun out of his pants when they reached the tracks, but was thrown off guard when there came a flutter of black creatures from out of the one of the train cars.  There so many of the black creatures they sound like a  loud gunshot.   

Damon caught off guard instinctively turned around to run and Roosevelt let out a loud belly laugh. 

"Bats," Goliath yelled and he grabbed Damon by the arm.

"Motherfuckers," Damon said.  For a second he watched as the black birds flew across the sky like ink drops. 

Roosevelt was bent over, laughing with no control.  He held his belly and pointed at Damon., "You'sa scary motherfucker," he said.

Damon scuffed and twisted his face, "motherfucker," he repeated the word with offence.  Then he pulled his gun out and cocked it at Roosevelt's temple, “I got your motherfucker and If you mention Kat’s name one more time, I’ll put a hole in your head, right now.” Damon said.

Roosevelt laughed. turned into a cough.  With wild eyes he gazed at the 38.   “I should have known, you were up to something--you pussy ass motherfuckers better kill me.”  He tried to sound tough.  He was afraid.  His voice rattled.

“Put your hands over ya motha-fuckin head,” Damon said, as if he was asking him to sit down at the dinner table.

Roosevelt acquiesced, all the while he grunted, “You dumb motherfuckers ain’t going to get away with this,” he said.

“You think you’re tough," Goliath said with an indignant scowl, "You're not."  With a towel he pulled the Glock out of Roosevelt’s boot. 

 “Yah siding with bitches,” Roosevelt said.

Damon laughed—he was angry—but he laughed.  “We’re not taking your side—we’re disposing of bitch asses.”

“We’re gonna make an example out of you.  You’ll never take what doesn’t belong to you,” Goliath said and he hit Roosevelt in his shoulder with his Tech-9.

Roosevelt screamed.

 “You can call us Robbin Hoods,” Damon said with a snarky tone.  He glanced between Roosevelt and the tracks, he wondered if they should shoot him right their by the train and decided to look around.  Damon pointed his gun at Roosevelt's head and walked on the track.  I

t was so quiet, they heard the echo of their voices in the dark night.  There was a full moon and stars in the sky.  Damon walked onto the ballasts and stood on the tracks. He looked to the east and the west, then the north and the south.  No train came from the south, but to the north in the distance, a shape of a flashlight beamed.  It was then it occurred to him, they didn’t have to shoot Roosevelt.

 “Yo, G,” Damon called, “bring him up here.”

Goliath forced Roosevelt onto his feet, and ushered him towards Damon.  Roosevelt maneuvered himself onto the rocks trying to come up with a way to escape, but whenever he moved he felt the muzzle of the tech-9 and Damon stood on top of the track with a perfect aim at his chest.  He had no choice but to do as instructed.

Damon said, “We don’t have to shoot this dirty piece of shit, get our hands dirty. Let the train do it to this fool,” he said.

Goliath pushed Roosevelt so that all three of them stood together staring into the dark night.  The light from the north train was now the size of a moon, and the sound of the train’s whistle drifted in the silence of the darkness.  He looked back at Damon with wonder in his eyes, “what if he runs?”

“We stand-by, watch.  If he runs, we shoot his ass.”

Goliath wasn’t certain, but he had to be quick about his decision, “let’s knock his ass out first.”

Roosevelt begged, “Come on guys, you’re not going to get away with this.  Please, murder is serious.”

“So is rape,” Damon shouted, “which way you prefer, the train or a bullet in your head.”

They could hear the train. Damon searched around into the blackness, and when he spotted a brick he picked it up and threw it with a heavy force at Roosevelt’s head.  Roosevelt cried out and then dropped over.  His large frame hit the iron rail with a thud. Goliath turned him over so that Roosevelt was on his back.  The train was now so close, they felt the pressed wind.  The boys made haste, hid between the freight trains and watched the execution.

Roosevelt wasn’t just going to die.   By the time Damon and Goliath reached the freight trains, Roosevelt’s eyes were opened.  He had rolled over on his belly and tried to stand.  His large dark frame weaved back and forth as he made every attempt to get on his feet.  He raised up his big back, but fell right back onto the tracks with another bang.  Eventually he was able to raise himself onto his knees and was almost on his feet.  But the train moved too quick.  The sound of the iron wheels, rolling over the iron tracks drew closer and closer.   The whistle blew.  First the usual, unintentional toot:  choo-choo…choo-choo.  Then there came a long shriek: choooooo, chooooo, chooooo, chooooo.   Roosevelt struggled.  The wind from the train pushed him back down.  He tried to get up, get off and he even saw the light.  But it was all too late--the train made impact.  It hit his square torso with a force that sounded like a violent clap of thunder.  Red blood spilled across the dark landscape like raindrops.   Damon and Goliath watched, amazed at the impact.   The iron wheels of the train skidded along, and the breaks screeched, and halted a few miles up ahead on the track.  The boys didn’t stick around, they walked off the track, with the image of the splattered red-blood forever engrained in their minds. 

The body was never identified.  That’s the reason Damon never worried about Detective Roland Spencer’s hunt, he knew, the detective was searching for a body that had been splattered asunder.

~~~~~~

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Shoe Shine

Shining shoes was his thing.  Damon didn't know why during his other years of incarcaration, he'd slept on that idea, but from the day he set foot inside Southern State Prison in New Greatfurd, Damon was determined to make that his hustle.  

It was an early morning in April when Damon walked through the compound amazed that two years had already passed.  He was feeling down that day in April, had loss a close friend inside the walls of the prison. Two years ago guards transported him on a Tuesday from the County Jail in New Bethill to Southern State.   At his request they seated him next to an opened window, with his hands cuffed in front of him and his legs chained together, he glared out the window with pitiful eyes and watched the city transform into a spacious green landscape, as the bus mulled along with patience.  For most of the two-hour ride, Damon considered his bleak future.  His thoughts shifted between fantastic ideas of how he would spend the next three-years of his life, to exactly what he needed to do to monopolize every minute.  He’d get a job in the kitchen, save up his pennies, maybe write a book, his sister Cordelia had given him that idea.  

It was one of the guards that put the idea to shine shoes into Damon's head.  The guard had stepped off the bus and onto the dirt road.  “My shit going to be dusty as hell," he said, he knelled down and dusted off his shoe, "I just got a shine." 

It was then it crossed Damon's mind, as he emerged from from the doors of the bus.  He had contemplated the idea for a long moment, wondered if it would be possible, and if possible, how would he pull that very thing off.  He was certain he wouldn't be allowed to polish shoes.  Yet he decided where there's a will, there's got to be a way, after all it wasn't as if he selling dope or hustling cigarettes.  It was just shining shoes.  That day Damon turned away from the guard and stared at the brick facade of the main building.  And from the moment the bells allowed his entrance into the metal gates, he had set in motion a plan to become Southern State's Shoe Shine Man, never knowing the day would come where he'd be called upon to shine his decease roommates shoes.

It was an easy feat.  After only a month in the prison, he had mustered enough funds from his sisters to purchase supplies:  shoe polish, hard brushes, soft brushes, paint brushes and rags.  He managed to get special permission from his social worker, because shoe shinning was his hobby.  During his first few months he schmoozed the guards, networked around the dorms, played cards, watched sports and played basketball.   By the time his six-month arrived, Damon had his hustle down and a steady flow of clientele.  He was able to keep his commissary stacked and the cash he got from the guards, he stashed in a sock.  Kept the sock in a pair of pants, rolled up and placed together with all his worldly belongings, beneath his bunk.

It surprised him, the number of inmates wanting their shoes shined for Sunday church service in the gym, or their boots shined just to floss around the concrete floors of the prison, or go before the parole board, or step out for court, or attend a funeral.  Many inmates bartered a can of tuna, or pack of soup with pride, just for a shine.  But, the guards were Damon’s most important client.  They kept their black boots coming and the cash flowing.  The female guards weren’t allowed on their wing of the building, but they came through to make deliveries, or send messages from the main hall, or carry out a final request from a deceased inmate and drop off a pair of shoes for Damon to shine. 

That morning one of the female guards dropped LeRoy’s shoes off to Damon.  He found the shoes on his cot, tied in a white plastic bag, when he returned from his shift in the kitchen.   He was told the shoes would be there, so he stopped at the commissary and picked up a head rag—he would use the head rag to make sure the shoes were spit perfect for the grave.  

Damon walked into his cell glanced around.  They'd shared that cell since the day he arrived at Southern State.  He'd had the opened bunk, LeRoy had the top bunk.  Damon hesitated for a moment and stared at the wool blanket on the top bunk, he wondered if he should switch, but decided against that, he  didn’t want to be that close to the ceiling.   Beside's that it didn't feel right taking over LeRoy's space.

Damon sighed, shrugged his shoulders and turned his attention back to the white plastic bag.  A note was taped to the front, it had been written by the nurse.  The last line read, “His final request," signed Nurse Willean.   Damon tossed the note and picked up the bag and removed the shoes.  They were long and wide, brown leather with brown shoe strings.  He got up and walked around his cot and glared at the shoes as if he were making sure of something.  He went to the window and lifted the shoes to the light.  He wanted to make sure he had the right color brown for the shine that no earthly being would ever see.  Satisfied, he put the shoes down and peered out, inhaled the fresh air.  It was a cloudy day in April and the sky was a sheet of gray.   

Damon and LeRoy thought themselves lucky to have been assigned to that cell, even with all the noise that came from being so close to the gym, they felt blessed because of the windows.  No big deal to have windows in your cell, they were blessed because they had two narrow windows, and the block-glasses had been removed, allowing them access to the outside world.  Access to fresh air.

Damon occupied the open bunk, right below the second window.  Sometimes when it rained, he’d stick his head as far outside as the window would allow, and he let the rain fall over him.  Or he would catch the raindrops in his hands and splash the rain over his face, or  when it thundered, he'd sometimes sit in complete silence and listened as the thunder clapped.

LeRoy Whittle  commandeered the top bunk and was often found with his head resting on the edge of the window.  The top window was behind the spot where his head laid.  He was a loner type, a big man that kept to himself.   He wasn't a talker, didn't say too much.  Sure he'd talk about the weather, or about a game, or a song that played on his radio that sat next to him on his bunk.  Mostly he'd kept to himself. But whenever a female guard, or nurse, or social worker darkened the bars of their cell, he would watch her closely and when she departed, he would sit up and give his opinion on the type of woman he presumed the lady to be.    It didn't matter what he noticed, it could be pretty eyes, or a nice smile or a sweet spirit, he would always find something to compare to his beloved, Tabitha.  She’d been dead ten-years.

The night before LeRoy died, the same guard that delivered the shoes had darkened their cell.  With white teeth and bright eyes, she glared between the bars and reached in a pair of boots for Damon to shine.  Damon had flirted with the lady, almost forgot she was a guard when he took the boots and a tin of shoe polish.  She tried to hand him a 10-dollar bill, but he refused to take the money.  It was her first time--he'd get her the next time around.

When the guard disappeared, LeRoy, with his arms resting on his chest, his eyes staring up at the ceiling, turned his head around and peered at Damon with a raised brow, “She’s pretty, enough, but she ain’t got nothing on Tabitha," he said.  His voice slick and firm.  "Tabitha had a nice round figure at that age,” LeRoy said as if he’d known the age of the guard.  “But Damon, if you didn't take the money, you should at least gotten her number.  A young lady with a pretty smile like that, deserves a nice young man like yourself."  LeRoy added. 

  “She’ll be back, when she wants her boots," Damon Said.  "But her number—nah, she’s too young for an old man like me."

“You calling yourself old—” LeRoy let out a loud bale of laughter. 

He had about 20-years on Damon, but it was hard to tell he didn't look much older.  Approaching sixty, he lived in the past, like a reject from the days of Donnie Hathaway and Roberta Flack.  He listened to old-school music on the radio, wore a wave cap, used Vaseline, dyed his hair black and ate chopped, meat with gravy like it was going out of style.  He smoked a little weed he rolled in EZ wider paper and worked in the laundry room.  Most of his time he preferred to be alone to remember the good old days he’d spent with Tabitha, rather than waste a single minute more than he had too on jail-ass niggers.  That was the way he explained things to Damon.

About a month before, LeRoy was in his bunk lying on his stomach and staring out the window.  It rained that day and he let the drops of water hit his face and run down his cheeks, "When I die, Damon," he said, "I want you to shine my shoes, and you can have all my remaining commissary as payment in full."

Damon laughed at LeRoy, with a chuckle that suggested that was something that would never happen, “Won’t be no need for shined shoes in the grave," Damon returned.

“You're right.  I won't need them for the grave," LeRoy said adamantly,  "I need them when I get to heaven, I’m going to find Tabetha and I want me feet to be as sharp as my shave,” LeRoy said. 

He let out one of his belly laughs, that always surprised Damon.  It was the first time Damon had even heard LeRoy speak of Heaven, or hell.   

“Yes sir," he continued, "I can't wait to see Tabitha."  LeRoy added and he rolled over and put his head in his hand—he was in a talkative mood that night.   He glanced down at Damon with a far-away gaze and wondered down  the road to a time before he committed his crime.  It was a long time ago, he’d been in jail almost 30-years for murder.  He killed a man, that’s the most LeRoy said about the actual crime.   Damon, had already learned LeRoy been caught with a large stack of marijuana and a dead body.   He was on the down swing of that 30-year sentence, another year he would’ve been on his way to the half-way house. 

The night before he died, LeRoy didn't talk much after the guard left.  Their cell was on the side of the building that faced the turnpike and cherry-trees lined the path that led to the meadow which separated the compound from the road.  It was spring time and the breeze carried the sweet smell of cherries in it's bosom, it took LeRoy to the place he referred to as heaven.  Always some place where thoughts of Tabitha roamed.

“I remember," LeRoy said, “once we had to stay with her mother and slept in the room on a twin bed.  One night we fought—fought like cat and dogs, about who was going to sleep against the wall, and I remember thinking that night, I would rather be squished against the wall with her, than any place else in the world.  That’s heaven—” LeRoy said decidedly.  Before he shut his eyes, he told Damon he was going to say a special prayer for him, and reminded him of his promise to shine his shoes.  Then LeRoy closed his eyes and rested his head on his pillow.  That’s where the guards discovered him that morning. 

Heaven, Damon thought to himself. 

A tin of polish fell off the bed, it rolled around on the concrete floor before it crashed with a ping.  Damon bent over, picked up the polish, and started to apply it to the shoes.   With slow meticulous strokes he spread the graphite like paste.  He painted inside the tiny crevices around the toe area, covered up the grooves, so LeRoy could look his best when he found Tabitha.

The rights to the content / images on this page are owned by Jacqueline Session Ausby,  and you do not  have the  right to use any of the content / images without her expressed permission.  If you would like to contact Jacqueline Ausby, please email jmbeausby@aol.com.  Thank you.

Rewind Time

Bernie’s Bar was just about to close when Lilly King finally went to the window and called out into the darkness.   It was a clear night, the sky was filled with stars, and the streets were quiet. Not a single person was out  at that late hour,  not a man or woman, not a boy or girl.  Lilly hoped too, hoped to see a person headed in that direction, and prayed it would be Damon.  Nothing or no body came along.  Only a single car was parked in Bernie’s parking lot and from Lilly’s view point the car appeared to be abandoned. 

“Damon, get your ass in this house, right now!” Lilly yelled out into the darkness, fully aware she was yelling at the street.

Damon was outside, but nowhere near Comstock Street.  He had left early that morning with his cousins, and at that very moment they were in a subway station in Brooklyn being held up at gun point.

It’s not a long story, but a real story.  It happened during the time when bell bottoms and afros were still in style.  During a time when Comstock Street in New Bethill was known for selling drugs.  It was run by the Jefferson family.  Damon was a King, but his mother Lilly, was a true born and bred, Jefferson.  A family infamous for the schemes they concocted.  The Jefferson clan were always up to one thing or another, some were thieves, others drug dealers, drug addicts, hustlers and alcoholics.  Only a few were like Lilly, well respected.  Lilly was a worker.  She prayed her children would walk the right line, but feared Damon was on a path to become another Jefferson.

Comstock Street was facing an issue, the Jefferson's had the demand for crack cocaine, but kept running out of product due to the influx of crack heads.  Damon couldn’t articulate the problem, but he understood his supply was insufficient for the demand.  He needed to have a talk with his cousins to come up with a reasonable solution.

 “Ma,” Damon yelled when he peeked inside the refrigerator.  It wasn’t empty like it used to be.  There was milk and eggs and kool-aid.  His mother had just started taking money from him, but he had to always make up lies about where the money came from.

  “Can I make an egg?”

“Boy, I don’t care," Lilly said, "clean up the mess."

She wore her pale-blue uniform dress, it was like an ushers dress, only blue.   Her hair was pushed back off her face and pulled to the front, like Weezy Jefferson's.  She thought she looked conservative and wore it that way on work days.  Other than that, she kept her thick main in a wild afro.  It was Wednesday and she cleaned the doctor’s office on Wednesday mornings.  When she came into the kitchen, she walked over to the cabinet and took down her coffee and a cup. 

Damon grabbed the eggs and put a spoonful of margarine in a pan. 

Lilly wanted to have a talk with Damon, his grades were slipping in school, and she was getting calls from his teachers.  She was about to have the conversation, when she noticed his fresh haircut, “I told you I was going to give you the money for a haircut on Friday,” she said.

With his hand on his hip, Damon waited as the margarine melted in the black cast-iron pan.  His hair was cut in a high-top fade, the front was tall and square and the sides were tapered close to his scalp.   “I know, but now you don’t.  Goliath paid for me to get a cut.”

“Goliath?”  Lilly looked at her son from head to toe, with a suspicious glance as she scooped coffee.   Goliath was her nephew, one of her sister’s sons.  Her sister had six sons, all were close to Damon.  All of them together used to remind Lilly of the little rascals, but now the oldest four and Damon were trying to be gangsters.   Goliath and Damon were the closes, they were like Irish Twins.  They were the same age, born days apart in April and both were starting to act up in school.

 “Where he get money from?" Lilly asked.

"He had a job," Damon said.  He gave a bashful smile, the same look he gave when he tried to cover his lies.  "What time you gettin off today?”

Checking the temperature of her coffee, Lilly blew on the stream of smoke that rose over her cup, and stirred.  All the while she watched Damon.  He was just a boy, with a big mouth, just like his father.  “The same time I get off every day.  You look nice.  I guess Goliath got you the clothes too,” she said.  “He don’t have a job the first but he can afford to shop for both yah, huh?"

“Ma,” Damon said, with a playful look in his eyes that always melted Lilly's heart,  “Goliath don’t got that much money.  Nah Mikel hooked us up, you know he got a job?”

“Yeah, momma told me he was working.”

“He is working.”

“Is…”  Lilly said and she shrugged her shoulders, “he won’t have that job long.”

“Now how you know?”

“Because, he had the job at McDonalds.  He worked 2-weeks, before that he worked at the Pegasus Supermarket, didn’t have that job long and before that he was working at the Recycle Plant.  He doesn’t have a track record of keeping jobs very long.”

Damon and Lilly both laughed, “Not everybody can be one of the Lilly King girls,” Damon said.

Damon was talking about his sisters.  They were known to work.  He had three of them and all three had after school jobs.  Not just jobs flipping burgers, or bagging groceries, they had good jobs.  The oldest Cordelia, worked at the newspaper, writing stories, his middle sister Jersey worked at the bank, and his baby sister Angel worked for social security.  He was the youngest and never had a job.  Not even for CETA.

“I know not everybody is one of my daughters," Lilly said, "But you're my son, you need to get a job and leave them streets alone.  They only bring you heartache and pain.  This is your last year at school, and you're acting up and running the streets ain't going to teach you nothing but trouble."

 “I’m going to look for a job.”

“When?”

“Today,” he said thinking about his plans, “I might be late.”  He sat at the table and began eating his eggs.  They weren’t like Lilly’s but they were good.  He’d learned to cook watching her, she was an excellent cook and had a side hustle cooking for people in the neighborhood.  Damon turned her onto the hustle, around the holidays Damon would buy ingredients so Lilly could make samples.  He would give the samples out to people in the neighborhood, and the orders would flow-in.

“Just be home before 11.” Lilly said after she’d finished her coffee and was headed out the door.

It was a cold October morning and Lilly put on her long, black coat, her black hat and gloves.  She had a way of looking fashionable even though she didn’t own a lot of clothes. 

 “That’s not late.  Delia an’em never come that early.”

Lilly raised her brow and threw him an unsympathetic gaze, “There’re grown.  You, son better be in this house by 11 o’clock.  No exceptions.”

Nearly done eating his eggs, Damon promised he would be home on time.  

~~~~~~

Damon’s six cousins lived around the corner on Edgar Boulevard, with Mama, Lilly’s mother.  They lived in a large Victorian house, with six bedrooms, 4 bathrooms, three kitchens, an attic, a basement, and a cottage at the back.  It was built by Madison Jefferson, Damon’s great-great grandfather and had been in the family since.  It passed down from generation to generation and was old and ragged, but rugged.

Mama Jefferson’s door was always open, even at seven or eight in the morning.  Such was the case that morning when Damon tapped on the door and walked right into the house.  He walked through the living room with the plastic covered sofa and love-seat, and found his two youngest cousins seated at the table eating oatmeal, his grandmother and Uncle Willie, Mama's oldest son, were at the table drinking coffee and talking about her youngest daughter, Thelma.  She’d run off again on a drug binge and left her two daughters.  Damon slapped his cousins in the head, kissed his grandmother, shook hands with his uncle, cracked a few jokes and went upstairs.  He probably should have felt guilty about his aunt being strung out on drugs, but it was his practice to never serve family members.   He had in the past bent the rules for some of his uncles, but he never did for his aunts. 

He knew just where the other boys were.  They always hung in the twins, Sampson and Samuel’s, room.  That room used to belong to their Uncle, Joshua Jefferson, he was the cool uncle, until he came home from Vietnam addicted to heroin.  He overdosed two-years after his discharge from the military, but when he first returned from the military, Joshua had the room painted black and green for Africa,.  He painted a black fist in the center of the longest wall, and album covers hung on the remaining walls--Prince, Michael Jackson, PFunk and Marvin Gaye and others.  They all loved that room, Sampson and Samuel took ownership of it the day after their uncle passed, and they made a vow to never change a thing.   

When Damon walked in he found, Mikel and Goliath were eating cereal on one bed.  Samuel was on the floor with a towel spread out, ironing, and Sampson was watching cartoons.  Sampson just started laughing when he noticed Damon.

“It’s about time,” Sampson said.

“Honestly, D," Samuel replied, "You're making me late.”  He was the second oldest of the Jefferson Five.  Whenever people spoke of the Jefferson brothers they always counted five, because most believed Damon was a brother.  

“I’m supposed to go on an interview,” Sampson said.  He glanced away from the television and went right back to watching when Damon sat next to him.

“Ain’t you too old to be laughing at cartoons?” Damon said.  It was the Flintstones on the television and Sampson had laughed at Barney, he was mad at Fred.

 “D,” Samuel said looking up from the floor, “why we have to meet up this early.  Some of us got real shit going on, bro, I have to go to work today.”

“You don’t even get paid,” Goliath laughed.

“I know,” Samuel said with ease.  “But one day they’re going to hire me full-time--” 

“You hope,” Mikel said.

“In the mean time we got real problems to deal with,” Damon said, returning to the problem with their product.   “We ran out of product again last night.”  He said it as if his cousin's weren't aware.

“Like we don’t know this,” Samuel said. 

“That’s why you and Goliath going today,” Sampson said, agreeing with his brother.

“I was on the block last night and ran out,” Samuel said. “Don’t want that to happen again.  It happened the week before too.”

“Me too,” Mikel said, “only Sampson has shit leftover.  He’s a stingy ass.”

Born two-minutes after Samuel, Sampson was the leader of the Jefferson Five.  That subject never actually discussed, it was automatically presumed.  They did as he instructed.  He was the smartest.  He was smart in school, graduated high-school with honors and was taking classes at Middlesex County College.  

“That’s because I don’t sell to every Tom, Dick and Harry,” Sampson said.

“See, this is a problem.  We can’t keep coming up short.” Damon said.  “But I have the solution.”

Damon glanced at Sampson, who shook his head side to side.  He was already in disagreement, but Damon knew he had to get him on his side, to make things happen.  

“Here me out--hear me out.  We should all go to New York today.  Tthis way we get more product to last us for a longer amount of time.  If we keep up our runs every two-weeks, we’ll never run out again," Damon said it with such assurance, he felt like a sales men. 

"You mean load up today," Samuel said.

"That's right.  We going through more than five-bricks every two weeks," Damon said. 

He glanced into the eyes of each of his cousins and giggled inside.   He knew he had Goliath, they’d talked about it before.  Based on the way Samuel nodded his head, and Mikel sat up, he knew he had them as well.  Sampson was the hold out. 

“Too dangerous for us all to go,” Sampson said.  He still watched the Flintstones.  “Who going to work the block?”

“Big Paulie,” Damon said.

“That dumb motherfucker, can’t watch the block,” Sampson said.

“You just don’t like him,” Golithe said.

“I don’t trust him,” Sampson said.  “If he’d fuck with my girl.”

“He didn’t,” Damon said, annoyed,  “but if we all go, he’s the only one I’d trust holding the block down while we're gone.  Got damn we're only going to be gone a few hours.”

Mikel had leaned back on the wall, his arms were behind his head.  He was the youngest brother, talked wild and crazy at times, but always backed his words up in action.  “I say fuck coming up short every day.  We got the dough, let’s go.  I like that idea, Damon.”

 “It’s dangerous, but makes sense.  Sometimes you gotta roll the dice,” Samuel agreed.

Goliath remained quiet, was always hesitant when Damon proposed things, his brother accused him of always taking Damon's side.  He leaned back on the wall, next to Mikel, above his head was the album cover with Marvin Gaye dressed in a white suite and a black shirt.   Goliath acted as if he was weighing the matter,

"I say let's do it."

 “I think it makes sense for us all to go,” he shrugged his shoulder, “just this one time,” Mikel added.

 “If they don’t get it from us, they’re going across town.  We're losing money, ” Damon said, he stood up and paced back and forth.  

Sampson knew it made sense.  Somehow they always got the best deals  with Damon’s connects, they should load up and keep replenishing, “How many?”

“Five a piece,” Damon said.

For a second there was complete silence.  They all got five before that wasn’t a big deal.  But having 25-bricks at one time was a big deal.  Sampson chuckled, he always laughed or smiled when he was nervous.

“What if we get robbed?”  Sampson said.

“We won’t get robbed,” Damon interjected.

“We got enough in the kitty?” Sampson asked.  He turned away from the cartoons for the first time.  The music to the Flintstone's played. 

“We got it,” Samuel said.  He worked the money house.  Their uncle, Albert had a house set up that he used to fence stolen goods.  Albert let them stash their cash and drugs at his place.  Samuel was the counter.

“Let’s do it,” Sampson said, “But Damon, your idea, your fall.”

Damon shook his head, “The things I gotta do, to keep us on top.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was after eleven when they set out for New York.  Each of them dressed to conceal five bricks and a gun.  Sampson and Samuel always seemed to dress alike, but not on purpose.  They wore heavy leather boomer jackets, Sampson’s was a royal blue with fur around the hood.  Samuel’s was black and had no hood.  Goliath wore a 3-quarter length shearling, it zipped in the front and had plenty of pockets.  Mikel wore a green army jacket, it belonged to his Uncle Joshua, had extra-large pockets on the inside.  Damon, was the thinnest and the shortest of the group, he wore a long leather jacket with big pockets. 

Damon had made all the plans.  Set everything in motion.  They arrived in New York and took the subway right to Brooklyn.  The connect was waiting at the Hazelton Project’s Recreation Center at 1 o’clock, as promised.

Things went wrong that night when they changed the rules.  Didn’t stick to the plan.  Before they arrived in New York, they agreed to leave before dark.  But they liked a good party.  Their connect invited them to an apartment where there were plenty girls, weed and booze.  They lingered, got high, collected a few numbers and lingered some more.  Close to midnight, when they set out for home.

The streets were pitch black and the usual rush-hour crowd was gone.  They walked in the night without saying a word.  Listening to anything that didn’t sound like night owls.

“Told yah, we should have left earlier,” Sampson said in a whisper.  He was nervous and felt like he should have followed his instincts and stayed back home. 

“We’re going to be all right,” Damon said.  “It’s five of us, we’re all strapped.”

 “I ain’t worried about that,” Sampson said.  “I’m worried about the police.  Yah do realize we’re carrying a hell of a lot of shit.”

“Calm down,” Mikel said, “this the fucking hard part, can’t complain now.”

 “Yeah,” too late to worry now.  Let’s get the fuck outta here,” Goliath agreed.

Damon was afraid too, but he walked proudly, as if he had no fear.  His chest stuck out, but he was worried about the five bricks of cocaine inside the lining of his jacket.  One of his girlfriends had opened the jacket and placed a zipper right down the middle.  He easily unzipped the jacket and dropped the bricks.  He'd worn that coat many times.  Had no issues.  But he usually only carried 2 or 3 bricks of coke, now he had 5.  He had a problem with the zipper and hoped it would hold.  So his heart pounded and every time a car approach he wondered if the lining would hold if he had to run.    

They all wanted to run and exhaled a big sigh of relief when the subway lights came into view.  They had only a block left, and there were more people on the street.  Damon was happy things were still going according to plan.

“The station!”  He said.

“Now I understand when people say, So close, yet so far,” Samuel said with a grin.  He glanced around at the street and was relieved to find the nightlife was still happening.   A bar was opened and several cars were stopped at the  light.  No police in sight.

“Stop being so scary,” Mikel said.  He was glad too.

They reached the entrance Damon stepped into the subway station first, Sampson brought up the rear.  Damon had about three steps to go, when out of nowhere there appeared two men with guns drawn at them.   Damon had a pained expression in his eyes, and when he turned and glanced his cousins, he found they wore similar expression,  Behind them three more dudes, with guns pointed at their backs. 

 “A fucking setup,” Sampson said.  He looked right at Damon, angre written all over his face.

“What’s the deal,” Damon said to a big dude holding a gun.  He must have been the leader because he spoke first.

“You know what this is.”

“Give it up,” the smaller man beside him let out.

 “Nah,” Damon said.  He stood tall and rocked from side to side.  “I don’t know what this is, please let us pass.”

“Listen bro,” the big dude said and he drew close to Damon, so close Damon felt his breath.  “This is a fucking stick up.  Everyone of yah going to take off them coats.”

“You want our fucking coats,” Damon asked.

Mikel stood on the steps, in between Damon and his brothers.  He wasn't afraid--he knew the boys and their leader were afraid.  “They not getting shit from us,” Mikel said.    Then he looked into the eyes of the bigger guy, “You heard my brother, let us pass!” He yelled.

“What you say…” the big dude said, and he approached Mikel with his gun pointed at his head.

“Woo…woo…woo,” Damon said and he stretched his arms and moved the barrel of the gun away from Mikel's head. “Let’s talk about this.”

“We not talking, Damon” Mikel said.

The big dude was irritated, “You want to die today, motherfucker," he said.

His  accomplices reinforced their positions.

 “No, Mikel.”   Damon could hear his cousin’s heavy breathing with an acuteness.  “Let's do what they said, before they kill us."  Damon eased  out of his jacket and let it drop to the concrete floor.  Goliath and Samuel were just about to follow, Sampson never moved.  Mikel pulled out his gun and held  it at the big dude.  “Pick up yah coats.”

Goliath and Samuel put their coats back on.  Damon squatted with his hands out and glanced at his gun.  It was in the pocket of his coat, and the handle rested on the concrete platform, barely visible.  Damon didn’t want to die, he hoped they would all just take their coats off, but  Mikel nudged him hard.  Damon picked up his coat and put it back on.  He gripped the gun, figuring he was going to have to make use of it.

 “Let me handle this shit,” Sampson said.  Sampson started down the steps.  He walked right up to the big dude, like an Angel.  He placed his gun on the man’s temple without even a flinch, “You’re scared, my brother.  Do you want to die today?”

Damon hated fights.  Especially gun fights.  He’d never been in a close gun fight, and never shot a single person. When he shot, he would aim, shoot and duck.  People in New Bethill had rules:  only shoot if no one was on the streets and no shooting during daylight hours.   Damon said a quick prayer during a long moment of silence.   It was only a few minutes, but it seemed like an hour, no one stepped onto the staircase to catch a train, no train arrived with people departing.  

Sampson still stood with the gun pointed at the man’s head.  "I don't want no trouble," the big dude finally said, his voice cracked.  

“Man, you’re a fucking punk, Larry,” the little dude next to him, blurted out.  He gave in, put his gun into his pocket.  The other three in the back did the same. 

“Told your fucking dumb asses, we was gonna need bullets,” the last man said when they stepped out the subway.

It was like a miracle.  The five of them watched the gang disappear, as quick as they had appeared.

~~~~~~

Damon, thought about that night when he entered New Bethill police station.   He no longer had his cousins to back him, to stand guard and save him.  Damon was old now.  Old and tired, he even looked ragged.  He’d had enough, running the streets.  The night he turned himself in, he couldn’t explain why that memory popped into his head, but it took away his fear.  Made him feel warm inside, it gave him courage.   If only he could rewind time.

 He walked up to the big desk where the police officer was busy filling out papers, “I am Damon King and I’m here to turn myself in."

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