After our coffee, I left Viva Java Café feeling like John F. Kennedy the day after the Cuban Missile Crisis ended, relieved from the unfathomable thought of Castro and Khrushchev doing the unbelievable, all desperate men about to destroy the world.
With Natalie’s input and simplistic analysis that the ‘Black Cat In The Hat’ was probably passing through town on a Greyhound bus to his real destination. His goal was to intimidate me. That conclusion soothed what was left of my fragile self-assurance of safety. I actually strolled down the street like a child strolling home from the candy store, nibbling on his Charleston Chew, stopping here and there trying to finish it before reaching home so none of his other siblings would beg for a bite.
Once inside of my condo building, I milled around the reception desk and struck up a conversation with Mr. Jamieson. I even assisted him at the door, making sure Mrs. McMurdy, one of our most difficult condo dwellers needs were met. Mrs. Charmane McMurdy was a tired old troublesome woman who not only gave Mr. Jamaison a hard time doing odds and ends, but at condo meetings would take up to a half an hour over the smallest issues. It never failed. Just last month, she pestered John Petrovic, the condo president into contemplating resignation. Chuck Perry, the former condo president retired last year, tired of not only running the day to day business of the association, but Mrs. McMurdy had also contributed greatly to his decision by accusing him of skimming assessments, hiring his relatives for repair work and receiving kickbacks, a Chicago business tradition. Chuck swore up and down that he never would sway from his duty as custodian of the condo operations. He quit in a huff and blamed everyone on the condo board who had questioned his integrity. Mrs. McMurdy would only state,”…well he didn’t have to quit if he wasn’t guilty.”
It was as if a new life had blessed me, and I was going to make the best out of it. Right now, nothing seemed to bother me, even when Mrs. McMurdy gave orders to take her garbage to the disposal after voluntarily helping Mr. Jamaison with her groceries. Boy, she had some nerve. Never said thank you, offered any lemonade or anything. But my spirit was flying high above the pettiness.
The next weeks flew by faster than ever. I went at my job with a new enthusiasm. My focus, which had been waning in recently, had been restored. Any frustrations were washed away. The thrill of life’s wind beneath my wings was carrying me to new heights. My manager, Dan Kravitz noticed my new attitude within a couple of days. I was handling problems on company projects better than ever, which made his life much easier and that pleased him.
It was Saturday morning in the City. Spring time was such an awakening and rebirthing season in Chicago. Rain waters tree roots and plants only to have them bud and sprout toward month’s end. The sun burst through the dewy mist on Lake Michigan, its glare created beautiful rainbows and shadows reflecting against the city’s landscape.
“Good morning,” I said to Zoe.
“Hi,” she sluggishly replied. Her response was so typical from a high school teenager’s late nightlife. The night before, was over Jackie Brown’s house fooling around doing nothing I’m sure into the wee hours of the morning. Jackie was, let us say one of her more high-spirited classmates. She was so captivated about the movie ‘Jackie Brown’ that she actually tried to imitate Pam Grier’s character. As a young girl, Jackie must have seen the movie ten times at the theatre, and when it came out in video every time Zoe visited, Jackie would watch certain scenes of the movie imitating and learning each part. Zoe said she must have watched that movie twenty times with her. One time out of my own paranoia, I searched her purse for a gun. I often tried to persuade Zoe from visiting Jackie but somehow she’d point out all the positive things Jackie was involved in these days and that I was tripping on her because of Jackie’s charismatic personality.
“What did yawl do last night?” I asked.
“Nothin’, just played cards. Darryl, Mary, Lavelle and her cousin Uber came over.”
“Uber?” I said peering over at her in confusion.
“Yeah…Uber.”
“What’s a Uber?”
Zoe giggled and said, “He’s a silly somethin’, I know that.” “How so?” I asked.
“He’s just young acting for a twenty year old,” she said.
“Twenty! Does he attend college?”
Zoe rolled her eyes and cried, “That fool. College of hard knocks. He’s lucky he ain’t doing’ time or somethin’.”
I turned a serious eye at her and said, “Hump…he’s not a banger is he?”
Zoe hunched her shoulders and said, “Mom…I don’t know what he is. But I know he’s gameless.”
“Gameless?”
“Yeah…he ain’t got no game,” she said with a laugh.
I laughed and said, “Alright then. Make sure you stay your distance from those types.”
“We played Bid Whist. Darryl, Mary and Lavelle were good.”
“They finally teach you how to play?”
Zoe smiled, “Yeah…it wasn’t as bad as I thought.”
“See, I told you.”
“Yeah, but they were nice. Some people can be rude and ignorant. But there wasn’t any rough stuff or signifying and slammin’ cards on the table.” She waved her hand. “Cause I ain’t havin’ that.”
“I told you everybody wasn’t like Uncle Brad and your Grandmother,” I said.
“Phew, thank God. Cause when it comes to Bid Whist, Grandma and Uncle Brad are just too serious for me,” Zoe explained.
“Me too honey. You want some orange juice?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I angled over to the Kenmore refrigerator and opened the door and shook the Tropicana orange juice carton, it appeared three-quarters full.
Nonchalantly she said, “So, when you going to introduce me to your new man?”
I almost bumped my head against the refrigerator door.
“Young lady, I told you there’s nobody new in my life like that.”
She looked me straight in the eye and said, “Then why you actin’ all giddy and stuff. Like you been born again or somethin’.”
There was no way that I could fool my daughter. “What are you talking about?”
Zoe leaned back in her chair towards me to get a little closer to my answer. “I mean, it’s just something about you. The way you’ve been acting,” she said.
I pointed to the lake and into the clear sky. “Oh, you mean like I’m on cloud nine, soaring above the earth like the Challenger space shuttle?”
“Naw, naw, like you’re a sixties space cadet, floatin’ around the house with nothin’ on your mind,” she giggled.
I had to smile at her as she stared at me with her round cow eyes, “Life is wonderful. You just have to grab it, seize it with all your positive spirit. Make every good time better, every better time best and every sad time a space for reflection and understanding.
Reach and keep reaching for the stars Zoe. Don’t ever limit yourself and enjoy every moment-”
“Mom thanks. I love you. But…I already know that,” she said jokingly. “But thanks anyway.”
“That’s enough smartie pants.” It was one of those sayings I’d call her since the age of three. “Are you ready to go?”
“Mom, I can stay home,” she said.
“I know but I’d rather you stay at Grandma’s tonight.
Would you do that for me?”
She sighed, “Okay. But Mom I’m old enough to stay home by myself. I’ve done it many times before.”
“I know, honey but your grandparents want to see you. So, do this for me.” Zoe’s been old enough to stay home, but I feel so much better when she’s not alone and with responsible people. With times as crazy as they are, it’s the choices made by kids but more importantly the decisions made by parents that can make the difference. So, when it comes to Zoe, I err on the side of caution. Again she sighed but as the trooper and super daughter that she is, Zoe did what I asked.
I was back and better than ever. My spirit was perfect like a newborn baby and soared
with eagles flying over the pestilence of life’s five o’clock news stories. The confidence I located from the hinterland of lost dreams was growing every day. Later that evening, Natalie and I attended one of the last Bulls games of the season. Plain and simple, they stunk up the joint that year. But we saw some promise in the young rookies. At one time, this year’s team had barely scratched the win column, and they weren’t just losing, they were losing big. By twenty points or more, whew, it was tough to watch those boys sometimes. But we hung in there and at times, they played well enough to be engaged in the game. But, even basketball junkies thought it a waste of time to go to the United Center.
After the game, we decided to see who was playing at Legend’s Blues Club. If we got real lucky, maybe Buddy Guy himself would be performing. There have been discussions around town that the city was buying the property in order to expand Columbia College, so we figured that this may be one of the last times to see him at this most magnificent blues club venue. It’s hard to duplicate a legend.
We arrived to a full house. “Girl, I hope he’s playin’ tonight,” quipped Natalie.
“Yeah, like that would happen.” I peered around the club to get a lay of the land. “I don’t see that cowboy hat on stage.”
“Me either,” Natalie replied.
“Oh…there’s a seat over there,” I yelled over the sound system playing Albert King’s cut ‘When You Walk out The Door’.
Natalie visually explored the seating area and said, “Where?”
I grabbed her by the arm. “Follow me.”
I rushed for my destination with Natalie close in tow. The table was up front, we sat down quickly and twirled around to see if someone else would come over to unseat us.
I leaned over to Natalie, “Hey now. What great seats.”
She rubbed her hands together like she was about to dive into a slice of double chocolate cake. “Ooo wee, I hope Buddy’s here tonight. Wouldn’t that be the bomb?” Her excitement was contagious as I too held hope that Buddy was here.
“May I help you?” I looked up at the pretty young girl holding a serving tray in a manner that reminded me of a schoolgirl carrying her books to class. Her face was chocolate brown, topped off with a short blond afro and Coke bottle shaped hips that I would die for.
“I’ll have White Zinfandel please,” I requested.
“Make that two,” Natalie chimed in.
“Two White Zinfandel’s,” she screeched. Evidently, I didn’t hear her tone when she first arrived. Her voice sounded like fingernails sliding down a chalkboard. “Anything else?” Chocolate Brown squealed.
“No, thank you,” I said holding my amusement to myself.
Chocolate Brown began to walk off when Natalie went to ask a question, “Excuse me.”
Chocolate Brown whirled around, “Yes.”
“Ha…” Natalie giggled from under her breath. I felt her amusement turning to laughter. “Is Buddy playing tonight?” she squeaked out just enough to let me know that her hilarity was being held back.
“I don’t know. But there’s some good talent here tonight.
You’ll see,” Chocolate Brown said and disappeared into the darkness of the atmosphere.
The crowd was older but younger at the same time. Plenty White folks abound. Matter of fact it was filled primarily with White folks. They were mainly out of Towner’s. Local Whites hip to the blues and, for all practical purposes the main supporters of the blues genre visited blues joints regularly.
Throughout the years, African Americans just didn’t support blues artists. I’m not sure why, maybe because of its origins which was a little too slow for today’s youth. Or maybe Black folks hear the blues in everyday life and didn’t need to keep repeating the story every time through another genre of music.
Baby boomers that were raised on Motown and today’s generation raised on Hip-Hop just didn’t get a chance to understand the vibe of the blues. Maybe the stigmatism of the word “blues” or the lack of proper marketing was part of the reason. The implication of down trodden, broke down, done wrong, and hood winked wasn’t what today’s blacks wanted to hear. Whatever the reason, the blues really hadn’t caught on to current day main stream AfricanAmerican culture enough to support the industry.
But to many others, listening to the blues was joyous, earthy, real conversational, fun foot stomping’ entertainment. Swinging’ Blues artist like Z.Z. Hill, Leadbelly, Barbeque Bob, Blind Willie Johnson, Peetie Wheatstraw and Big Mama Thornton were unlike any others in music. Local Chicago blues artist like Peaches Staten, Ramblin’ Rose and Tracee Adams with feline intensity kept the beat alive by performing at Northside venues like Legends, B.L.U.E.S. Etc., Blue Chicago, and Kingston Mines. In the spirit of Koko, Etta and Tina, their feisty persona appeared personal and home spun, like your grandfather sitting you on his knee and schooling you to the ways of the world.
“These seats are the best, huh?” Natalie smiled at me with that grin I’ve seen when she finally believes she got the best out of life.
“Yes lawd,” I said.
“What you lookin’ at?” Natalie noticed that I was searching from one end of the club to the other.
“Just trying’ to see if any brothers in the house,” I said.
Natalie waved her hand like she was shoeing away gnats from in front of her face. “Shit. You know ain’t no real brothers kickin’ it down here tonight.”
“Sometimes I don’t know why I bother to go here.” I laughed, “Maybe we should have stayed on the West Side and went to the Rose. At least that was near the United Center.”
“To the Rose?” she questioned.
“Yeah girl. At least there’s some brothers always in the house.”
“And you know that. Maybe they don’t have a car,” she said.
“Or a job,” I said.
“They might be an ex-con,” Natalie laughed.
“Or out on parole.”
“But at least they’re in the house,” Natalie said holding up her hand for a high five. And I gave it to her too.
“True.”
She continued, “And maybe they have ten kids with seven babies’ mommas…”
“True.”
“And maybe they a fugitive from the law…”
“True,” I said laughing.
“And maybe they don’t have a driver’s license because they can’t pay their child support and because they don’t have a driver’s license they can’t get a job to pay for the child support…” Natalie laughed so hard she nearly fell out of the chair.
A salty appetizer was sitting on the table, so while sticking mixed nuts into my mouth I asked Natalie, ”How’s Walter?”
She gave me the lowbrow, “Oh, he’s fine. He wanted to come with me to the game.”
“Oh yeah?”
“But…that’s my time,” she gave me a Johnny Cochran-like concluding argument in court.
“True.”
“I love him and all but-,” she hesitated.
“But! But what?” I was anxious to know.
Natalie appeared confused. “I’ont know. Am I just getting too old?”
“Too old?”
“Yeah...you know what I mean.”
Emphatically I said, “No, I don’t.”
“I’m set in my ways and doing things the way that I’ve always wanted. My privacy and freedom to come and go as I please have been hindered. I think I love him and he might even love me. But I need my space.” Natalie spread out her arms waving them around expressing her space.
“That’s not unusual, everybody needs their space.”
“Yeah…I guess,” but her response was unsure.
Continuing to press her, “So, hey what’s up? There’s something else isn’t it?”
Natalie paused and didn’t answer, and by then Chocolate Brown returned with our drinks. “Two White Zinfandels,” her steel cutting high pitched voice pierced through our conversation with ease.
“Thank you,” I smiled at her.
/> She placed the drinks on the club style round table. “That’ll be eight dollars,” she screeched.
“I got it.” Natalie hurriedly reached into her purse and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Chocolate Brown.
“Need change?” Chocolate Brown scraped through my ears like a fingernail against a chalkboard.
“No, thank you very much,” Natalie bellowed through the music.
“If you need anything else, just holla.” Chocolate Brown whirled around and disappeared into the bluesy aura of Legend’s.
“Thanks...” I grabbed my wine glass and lifted it up towards Natalie. “Here’s to us. Two friends enjoying the moment.”
Natalie held up her wine glass. “To us.”
We tapped glasses and sipped the sweetest tasting vino in Chicago. By then a local band named Blues Hawks had snuck on stage and began playing. The club was rocking, the band played blues standards like, I’m Home Baby and Big Daddy’s Nest. The crowd response was lively almost celebratory.
Three glasses of White Zinfandel later, I couldn’t believe my eyes who was on stage. I thought I had died and went to Blues heaven. There standing no more than twenty feet away laughing like two young whipper snappers appeared Buddy Guy and B.B. King.
“This is our night girl!” I screamed. “Pinch me, pinch me. I must be dreaming.”
Natalie nudged me with her elbow over and over, “Shut yo’ mouth. Girl, you think they really gonna play?”
It happened so quickly. Before we knew it, Buddy Guy had his guitar strapped and B.B. had Lucille slapped over his shoulder and began a music festival of duets, “Everyday I Have the Blues” and “Sweet Little Angel.” We were paralyzed in amazement at what was happening. It felt like me, Natalie, B.B. and Buddy at a jam session and with the twang of their guitars, blues heaven was on. After playing “When Love Comes To Town”, their next cut was “Three O’clock Blues”. Then all of a sudden, Bobby Blue Bland, the man with the chicken bone caught in his throat, appeared out of nowhere. Bobby Blue Bland was a favorite of blues people all over the world. By that time, everyone in the club tried to slide their tables and seats closer to the stage, attempting to feel the emotion emanating from the blues masters. The trio started with Bobby’s “Farther Up the Road” and “It’s My Life Baby”
Then B.B.’s “The Thrill Is Gone” and Buddy’s “Damn Right I’ve Got The Blues”, Oooh wee, what a frightfully gigantic good time. And we thought that there were no black men in the house, they showed up in force.
It was a fantastic night. All of our frustrations and anxieties were washed away by the masters of the blues. Natalie and I continued to pinch each other to make sure that it wasn’t a dream, and that we weren’t caught up in some worm hole of music fantasy, where your dreams come true only through illusions.
“I told yawl that there was some good talent playin’ tonight,” Chocolate Brown said as she wiped down tables.
I said beaming until my face hurt. “Oooh wee, honey you have never been so right.”
“See yawl next time,” Chocolate Brown bid us goodbye. I never did learn her name, but Chocolate Brown would never leave my memory.
“Oooh wee, honey you ain’t never been wrong,” I jibber jabbered still basking in the glow left by some sho’ nuff blues legends.
We closed Buddy Guy’s Legends Blues Club that night. It was close to three in the morning but our adrenaline was still streaming as if we had awakened to a million dollars in cash spread out all over the bed. B.B. King, Bobby Blue Bland and Buddy Guy jammed the entire night away. We were some of the last patrons to leave.
“What a night?” I laughed out loud.
Natalie couldn’t get this permanent smile off of her face. “Oooh wee, nobody’ll believe us. Nobody.”
I giggled all night still unbelieving of the events myself. My emotions were still streaming wildly. I couldn’t get the smile off of my face either. “If nobody else in this world will believe us, you and I will know.”
“Wow, I’m tellin’ you girl. Nobody will believe us.
Nobody, nobody, nobody,” Natalie repeated it all night as we floated towards the door.
“Carla?”
“Oooh wee,” I said.
Natalie laughed, “You’re stuck on oooh wee.”
“What?”
Natalie repeated, “Oooh wee. You’re stuck on oooh wee.”
“What are you talking about?”
She continued, “All night long you’ve been saying oooh wee.”
“No I haven’t.”
Natalie placed her hands on my shoulder. “Yes you have girl. Oooh wee this and oooh wee that.”
“No I haven’t.”
“Yep.”
“Oooh wee?” I gave it thought. We glanced at each other, “Oooh wee,” we both yelled for good measure like some old goat ropin’ cowboy.
We left Buddy Guy’s Legend, and meandered down Wabash Avenue then south toward Harrison walking past Columbia College, The Burger King and the transient hotel down the street to our special parking lot which we always use when parking in this area of the south Loop. The night was still and black, very little traffic crossed our path and even fewer people roamed the sidewalks. Natalie’s 2001 Mercury Cougar was the only car left in the lot. We trekked our way across the lot’s gravel dodging pot holes in the unkempt lot toward the car when I spotted someone coming towards us from behind. He came out of nowhere and was within a little more than a car length or so before we could take any evasive action. Both Natalie and I looked at each other at the same time; her eyes were large as silver dollars. The buzz we had gotten from Legends quickly vanished. My heart started racing and I felt my right eye twitch. At that split second, we both knew something was going to happen.
The silhouette moved quickly, too swift to evade. I can’t figure out if it was my unbelieving or my fear causing me to stiffen.
“Natalie?” I finally murmured.
But she couldn’t get a word out. We did manage to pick up the pace but he was literally on our heels.
“Hey!” the imp dressed in a silhouette commanded. “Go away, go away,” I heard Natalie yell. We were in constant motion trying to reach the car.
“Stop bitch or I’ll shoot yo’ ass,” the nightmare commanded.
Those were the magic words. Head bowed and shoulders slumped, I bit the bottom of my lip and slowed. Natalie stopped in her tracks. I took a deep breath as my thoughts turned to flashing memories of childhood and my dearest Zoe. I felt dizzy and isolated. Should I faint? Should I run? Fight, that’s what I’ll do.
No, no, that’ll be stupid.
Natalie whispered awakening into this dark reality, “Oh God, oh God.”
“Turn around,” his raspy voice echoed through my soul.
My feet were cemented to the parking lot gravel. “Here sir, take my purse, here, here.” I extended my purse around so my eyes wouldn’t meet his. Natalie peered over at me nervously and mimicked the same thing and clumsily extended her purse as well.
“We don’t want no trouble mista,” Natalie sounded more and more like the little girl I grew up with on the South side when she would plead for a piece of her brothers Bit O’ Honey candy bar.
“Shut the fuck up,” the goblin decreed. “Walk towards the car and put your hands on the hood,” he continued.
Natalie pleaded again, “We don’t want no trouble mista.”
I felt evil’s hand push me between my shoulder blades inching me forward trying to hurry me along. What can I do? Why didn’t he take my purse? This man’s disturbed. Rape? Not both of us. No, no, I peered over at Natalie and saw tears running down her check.
“Sir, sir here take my purse, please…there’s eighty or more dollars in my wallet,” I pleaded. I dropped my purse on the ground in back of me but all he did was push me from my back again, this time it felt like heavy metal that must have been a gun.
We reached Natalie’s car which was parked under the Chicago Transit Authority ‘L’ tracks. How stupid c
ould we have been to park so far in the rear of the parking lot. Now look at us.
You’d need binoculars to see us from the street.
“I’m sorry Ms. King,” the Nigga said.
He knows me? “Who is this? Do I know you?”
“No, not really. But then again…”
“Ok, who is this?” I tried to smile but my nervous jitters would only allow my face to twitch. “Is this some joke or something?”
“Hell no, this is the real deal honey, sorry.” His voice was a smoker’s from way back, hard and raspy with a hint of whiskey staining the air.
“But what do you want. You can have all the money,”
Natalie pleaded. “MasterCard, Visa, American Exp—.”
“Sorry, I’m just a soldier. I just do what I’m told.” The raspaholic voice explained.
“But, but...” Natalie tried to say more. But her speech came out stuttering and weak, so she just shook her head and cried.
“Have I talked to you? Did—.”
The evil fiends voice cut in, “I ain’t got time fo’ no conversation,”
“Ju...just answer me. Please... j, just answer me. Did I talk to you?” I prodded.
Then, he was arrogant with his response, “What do you think?”
“It was a few weeks ago. You called my house.” There was silence. He didn’t answer me. It was so quiet, I could hear the earth rotate. I nudged him on. “Right? Right?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” he said.
Right now at this second, a last breath confidence came over me. “Come on. What you got to lose,” I coaxed him.
He was so close, that I heard the wind whistle from his nose.
Natalie cried, her face bent over the car’s hood, face down motionless. “I ain’t done nothin’ to you mista,” she whaled.
I sensed my deepest fear that the man was here for me only.
“If you come here for’ me, fine. But let her go.”
“You in the way,” he calmly explained.
“In the way of what?”
“You talk too much,” he said.
I slowly turned around with my hands still raised.
“Lower your hands,” he ordered. “Lower your fuckin’ hands.”
Slowly turning and bringing my hands down I turned to meet him. He was tall, and ascended towards the deep black sky like one of Chicago’s skyscrapers covering our every view. But his face was not the face of a killer but the face of a stock boy. Young looking with crystal white eyes and a clean shaven face. He wore a sport coat with a pull over sweater. I noticed his pants were pleated with a large western style buckle that reflected what little light there was. But mainly, I saw the hand gun. Although he stood about four feet away, the barrel seemed to extend to the tip of my nose.
“It’s just too bad,” he croaked. His harsh voice sounded almost regretful. “He said that you were fine.”
“What do you mean?”
“He said not to be persuaded by your looks and for me to just do my job.”
I glowered at him now full frontal. Fearless to the point where things started to slow down, where I could almost see the next step that he was about to make. My knees and hands stopped shaking and my heart rate ceased from pounding uncontrollably through my blouse. That feeling when you feel that you are in control and directing the theatre. “He said?”
“Yep.”
I tipped and curled my lip ready to play his game. “So who is he?”
“Hmm, right,” he seemed to almost laugh. “You know.” “No I don’t. Why don’t you tell me?” I practically directed him to give me the answer. My sudden strength and bravery seemed to catch him by surprise. I was no longer a runaway deer but a defiant soldier combating the menacing demons of the underworld.
He paused then stuttered, “It, uh, umm, Cu-ti-no-.”
And there it was. Cutino? “You mean Cutino Grigsby?”
My fear switched to anger. “You mean he’s involved with you?” Then I thought, come on Carla, you knew it was him. Fess up and come to grips with it, he played you like a two dollar whore. He never cared for me, I was only a toy for him to play and plan his next move in his cruel and illegal conglomerate. What a spineless pig meat.
I could hear the humor in his voice when he said, “You don’t know nothing, do you?” He was digging deep inside me and he liked it.
I was belligerent and hoity when I spoke, which was a far cry from where I had come just sixty seconds ago. “Well, since you know everything why don’t you enlighten me?”
“He used you just like he did to some other woman like you in Dallas. That’s where I met him.” “So you met him,” I asked.
“Well not really met him but it was over the phone.
Anyway, he cracks me up the way he does women. Buys ‘em this and that, using this ol’ country boy routine and shit.”
I wanted more, not because I wanted to gather more information to put Cutino away, but at this point for my personal benefit. I wanted to know the whole story that put me in this situation. “Ah huh…and-”
“They were all in on it.”
“All who?”
“All the people on that uh, um Internet thing. You know…what’s dem silly ass niggas childish names? Oh yeah, Twis, Twisletoe, Shaft and oh yeah, one of my favorites Slamdunk.
I love that one, Slamdunk23,” he chuckled. “Yep...they was all part of Cutino’s gun runnin’ hustle. They used the Internet. The boy’s really got some skills. He used his military knowledge on secret codes and how to use them to transmit messages. I guess he worked in communications or somethin’,” he said smirking.
“Damn,” he was playing with me like a cat would a mouse.
He gave me that same sick chuckle, “Yeah, I know. Ya feel kinda stupid huh?”
He seemed to get off on my confusion and misfortune.
“Anybody can get tricked. If I had known, I would have dumped his ass. So I don’t feel stupid at all,” I felt bold in my response.
He pushed against my spine with the cold steel of the gun and said, “Yeah well, enough fa dis-”
“So, you killed them all?” I sensed that his small talk had ceased.
His voice was low and painfully deliberate. “That’s what I get paid fo’.”
“So, so why me?” I asked.
“I ‘ont know, maybe you just got too close. Plus you caused one of his soldiers to die.”
“Who?”
“Koltrane,” he said.
“Koltrane?” I searched my mind for the connection.
“That’s a lie!” I could barely get his name out of my mouth.
“Koltrane? He knew Cutino? This is crazy. Uh, uh, no, no, no I didn’t cause anybody’s murder,” I defended. What the hell is going on? Koltrane was in on it? Is there no character and truth in this world? “All the times we chatted online and shared personal information just couldn’t have been all a lie.”
The chatty hitman continued to tell the story. “Koltrane was West Coast. He was supposed to be one of his best distributors in the network. Koltrane supplied all of the Mexican cartels and gangsters on the west coast,” like molasses running down tree bark in a Maryland forest, the goblin murderer spoke like he had all night to say his piece.
So I asked him while planning some type of getaway, “Koltrane was in on it from the beginning?”
“Shit, I don’t know nothin’ bout that.
I heard the “L” train clacking its way toward us. When it raced directly overhead, it would be the opportunity for the black beast to shoot. I looked back at him again and for the first time, met him eye to eye. His black eyes penetrated through the air with a quiet determination, and as the “L” train rolled over our head, he seemed to look up. I kicked at the gun as he fired, the noise from the train made all other noises muffle. But I felt the extension of its power as the heat from the gun’s explosion radiated off of my face.
The dark night was interrupted by bright red and yellow flashes of fire exploding from the gun?
??s barrel, then another explosion. I kicked wildly again, striking his gun as it flew out of his hand toward the alley about ten feet away. His eyes never left the pathway of the flying gun as I slapped him with my open hand. The train passed overhead quickly and the sound of grunts started to sink back into the air.
I spun around as the black villain leaped for the gun and screamed, “Come on Natalie! Let’s go!” But she was down. Her eyes closed like Dorothy from the Wizard of OZ in the poppy fields and I didn’t know if she fell, passed out or just gave up. “Natalie!” I bent over her and yelled again “Natalie!” and in that split instant from looking at her sprawled body and closed eyes lying limp on the parking lot gravel, I just stood up and ran. I must run. Run and run…I stumbled to secure my footing and floundered past the alley just under the train tracks. I could hear Lucifer’s henchman fumbling in the lot trying to recover his heat.
“Help! Help!” I yelled to anyone that would hear my cry.
I heard the explosion and hot steel pass by and bounce off of a nearby building. But I continued to dart around trash cans and dumpsters searching for a way to the main thoroughfare. My eyes watered as the cool morning wind blasted into my frightened eyes. My breath was short, but the little time that I spent on the treadmill was paying off. I kept galloping onto 11th street then onto South State Street where a car’s headlight headed in my direction. It was a Yellow Cab.
I waved hysterically, hailing it, “Taxi, taxi,” I squealed while peering down the alley. Fear struck me in my gut again when I noticed the black killer’s silhouette standing there about fifty feet away. The taxi slowed, I saw the bearded Middle Eastern looking man wearing a turban stare at me and then passed as if I wasn’t there. The tanned colored driver eyed me with contempt like I had an affliction with a capital ‘A’ written on my forehead.
“Taxi, stop, taxi!” I yelled again as it sped by.
I peeked back to see the Black Death closing fast towards me. I took off in the direction of the taxi chasing it for my life. “Taxi, taxi!” I kept yelling and it kept rolling, tail light getting further and further away from me. The yellow taxi cab seemed to represent the remainder of my life and the further the yellow cab sped away, was the closer death neared me.
Where was everybody? The streets in the south loop were vacuous. I felt my stomach churn then it happened just like that. I threw up, heaving the night’s diversions partially onto the street and my clothes. I bent over aching, unable to move. I craned my neck and rolled my eyeballs up the dimly lit street where he was still pursuing, although cautiously closer towards me.
I forged past the pain to stand up; he was closer with every rancid thought passing through my mind. My mouth was dry and wet at the same time. I straightened up and continued to run down South State Street praying that somebody would come to my rescue.
Every building was closed, their lights out and doors dead. The buildings stood there like tombstones and I was running through the cemetery-like streets hoping they would let me in. Only paper trash blew from office building to sleepy office building. I felt like a chased animal in the urban jungle, running from the beast that preyed on the weak and crippled. I spotted a person appearing from the corner of a building. He was running too, crossing Roosevelt Road about a block away.
“Hey, hey,” I yelled to the top of my voice. He was a jogger or at least he was thin like one. But at this time of night, who knows. He could have been a burglar or just some freak running from an ill-gotten crime. But right now, I had to take a chance. “Help me, help me,” I barked. He was a thin white man who peered over at me and slowed. I saw him take a step towards me. Yes, I thought. But then he turned back around and took off running again, only this time faster. He was running away from me. “Hey, hey,” I screamed with all I had. I twisted around to see the nightmare was closing in for the kill. The jogger must have seen him close behind and wanted no part of our mad theater. Still I tried to enlist him to join in, “Stop, stop, help meeee,” I cried. My voice was weakening and trembling with fear. The Dark Horror still was even closer than before. By now, the slender figure was long gone. His school boy physique was flying down the gloomy side street probably never to jog down this path again.
I was running out of steam, my side began to ache, I felt like vomiting again. “Cutino! ” My mind just threw his name in anger. I couldn’t believe he’d do this to me, and who was I that needed to be killed?
I angled around the corner following the would-be jogger’s trail. My lungs burned while my kidney cut me like tumbling thumb tacks trying to be digested. I took a quick examination of myself and noticed that I had only one shoe. The other lost somewhere between the parking lot and here.
“Help, help,” I continued to scream out still hoping that somebody would rescue me. Continuing down South State Street, I kept pacing myself just enough to not give out. Like one of those bobblehead toy dog dolls that sat in the back seat of some Mexican’s car. My head swiveled behind me in order to keep a vigilant eye of the Black goblin.
Once again, the shots rang out from the killer’s gat and again slugs bounced off of the walls around me. I could hear the bullets whisk past my head but neither one of them had my name on it. Nothing had changed; he was still resolute on shooting me.
I had given my all but, truth be told, I was out of steam and was about to give up and take a stand. Now limping on one shoe more than ever, I whirled my head back to see him not running too. He was just power walking towards me, evidently he was just as tired.
I spotted a possible hiding place. It was tucked away in the restaurant’s entrance corridor, a six-foot sidewalk ‘A’ framed sign used for advertising valet parking for Tommy Gun’s Hideout Dinner restaurant. I ducked over into the corridor and hid between the ‘A’ framed wooden sign. I was breathing hard and now actually sweating in the chill of the early morning air.
Why me Lord? Why me? After all these years of neglect, unbelief and lack of confidence in God, he was probably looking down at me thinking, oh yeah so now you want to come to me. I should have kept my mouth shut and none of this would have happened. I was shaking and scared, real scared. His feet slid against the concrete. The heel of his shoe seemed to creep down the sidewalk pavement, gradually penetrating my frightened soul. My eyes tried to poke through the signage. My ears stretched around the corner of the corridor’s entrance way and searched for a hint of his presence.
With each passing second, I heard his shoes attacking the dewy cement and the steps of death approaching. Was I ready for death? Had I done everything that I’d planned in life? Had I traveled to far off places? No Africa or Paris, Hawaii...England. No, Beijing, China. Had my life been documented for Zoe to read to her children? I won’t see my baby’s children? My Grandchild! I won’t see my son-in-law or Zoe’s wedding. I never biked from Bryn Mawr Avenue to Rainbow Beach like I had always planned. I never skinny-dipped at Hedonism in Jamaica. Never went to Mardi gras in Trinidad. Shit, there are still things to do and I am not going to let this fool deprive me of my life! No, no, no…I got to fight for what I want. I gotta fight for my life. Get mean and nasty right now. So, I balled my fist tight and gritted my teeth ready to fight.
Koltrane tried to tell me to get away from Cutino. But in the end, they all used me. Cutino, Shaft, Twisletoe, Slamdunk23, they were all just liars and criminals using the anonymity of the internet to scheme and plot. I was just a pawn, a puppet. They were laughing at me, using me for Cutino’s benefit and I thought his illiterate ass couldn’t spell enough to use the computer. Damn, how could I have been so naïve?
I heard him slide past me, then stop. His breathing was heavy and labored. I sensed his eyes probing, searching for me to blunder and give him the opening he needed to end it all. But I wouldn’t let him. Not that easily, I wanted to live and climb the hills of Brazil and walk down the beaches of Trinidad. I wanted to bounce Zoe’s kids on my knee.
It was eerily quiet on the near Southside, like we were standing in the middle of a Southe
rn Illinois cornfield. I heard his feet scrape the pavement a little quicker. But now, I believed my anxiety had transferred to him. I could sense his anxiousness becoming restless, his breathing was short and heavy, laboring as if ready to give birth to fatigue, which can make cowards out of every man. This could be my best chance.
I glanced through a space between the sign and the corridor wall and finally his face reflected from the street light. He glistened with sweat against his blackness. Not the blackness of African King’s but that of hideous subterranean beetles. A big black bug, that needed to be squashed, that’s what he had become to me. His nose was huge and nostrils flaring, reminding me of the space monsters from those Sigourney Weaver Alien movies. And like that monster, this beast came from another underworld and carried death with him as well.
As fate would have it, he also appeared to give up and searched for a place to rest. He started to bend over, his free hand; the one without the gun grabbed his knee. The black maggot craned his neck towards me peering down at the corridor steps. Damn, if I had only kept running, I’d be out of this. He backed up almost stumbling towards the dark corridor and dropped to the second step where he came to a rest. He slumped over exhausted. I could still see him as he placed the gun to his side.
“Get the gun,” I screamed inside. “Get the gun!”
With life and death hanging with me in between, somehow my mind started to calm itself. It all began to seem amusing or was I going crazy. Only in the movies were there actual images of hitmen. Actors in the Godfather, Bruce Willis in The Jackal, John Travolta and Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction. This man actually appeared physically normal, with kinky hair, pliable skin, two arms and two legs. Hell, he even got tired. But, his emotions were definitely that of an unhuman. He’d probably shoot his mother for pay. When our eyes met in the parking lot they were cold and without emotion and I’m sure, when he shot or sliced someone’s throat, he didn’t even blink, feeling no pain for his prey while smiling and examining deep inside the wound, and proud of his work.
I was already at a squat position and now that he had sat on the stoop, I was actually staring at the back of his head. The gun lay by his side, his head slumped down and breathing labored. I guess killing people is tiring work too.
I slipped my hand through the small opening between the a framed sign and corridor wall. My index finger had just about reached the gun when I froze leaving my hand exposed, inches from the guns handle. The real Pulp Fiction killer lifted his head from the palms of his hand. He craned his neck to the left; I guess still looking for me or maybe the local authorities. That’s when I completed my journey for the gun. I grabbed its steel barrel, the power of it flowing from my hand up my arm into my body.
I deftly pulled my arm back, but rubbed my arm against the sign. That’s when he swung to the right and grabbed for his gat. I glanced at the gun’s shape and felt its weight. The power of life and death, pain and suffering held heavy in my hands.
I’d only handled a gun once when as a teenager Mr. Ellis, a friend of my Dad’s was showing off his new .45 Smith & Wesson in our home. I don’t know why I remember the caliber and make, maybe it was the shine of the chrome or Dad’s excitement over the gun that made such an unforgettable imprint on my mind. Moe Ellis and my Dad were bragging about guns and showing each other the types of weapons they each owned. Mr. Ellis believed that everybody should know how to handle a gun. Everybody should have been taught about weapons in a school curriculum just to have a healthy respect and understanding about guns.
All of his kids knew about weaponry, and Mr. Ellis would take them to some old’ boy rifle range and hunting facility to hunt coon, deer, rabbit and I guess whatever else had a mother. Little Moe, Mr. Ellis’s youngest son especially knew guns. He grew up owning and carrying a gun before Junior high school. But none of his knowledge and respect of guns detoured Little Moe, Jr. from shooting Russell Bledsoe during an argument, gambling in the back of Marshall’s Barbershop. Little Moe is still doing time in Joliet State Penitentiary on a thirty-five year murder conviction. Like so many other Black men, they threw the book at him. Gun possession and misuse of guns by the public has always been a problem, right now in my situation, Moe Ellis may have a point.
Everybody should know how to handle a weapon. After all, a right to bear arms is the Second Amendment of the constitution.
Mr. Ellis was never the same after Little Moe’s conviction. His bravado and cavalier attitude concerning guns altered. He was sullen and heartbroken blaming himself for Little Moe’s trouble which amounted to a life with little more than a cot and three meals a day.
But now I held what could be my survival in the palm of my hands. The large handgun was cold and precise. The angles were exact and fitted my hand like it was custom made for me.
The black demon whirled around and darted over behind the a-framed sign. I saw the red of his eyes bulge, the shock of his face cringed as he halted in his footsteps witnessing me holding both hands on the pistol pointing it no more than three feet from his chest. I was tired and shaking but it had all come down to this moment.
All of my God fearing teaching from my parents to church to the fear of prison and the law rose up inside me. “Turn the other cheek” Pastor Frye would preach. “Just walk away from trouble” I recalled Mrs. Whitmore, my third grade teacher would bellow. It didn’t matter what I had been taught or who had taught me, I held the gun at the Black Maggot’s chest. All I had to do was pull this trigger and it would all be over.
He stared at me frozen, then peered back into the street, twisting his neck scoping down the block. What was he looking for? He calmly turned back around at me. “What chu doin’ there litt’l lady?” he whispered to me like my conscience would nudge when that large piece of double chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream would come calling after a five course meal, which I knew was wrong.
“I mo’ shoot yo’ black ass nigga,” I yelled back at him with as much venom as I could muster.
“Ha…ain’t that a bitch,” he slid a big toothy grin into the mix trying to emotionally disarm me. Then with an eternity at hand and much bravado he whispered, “You ain’t gonna do shit.”
I felt myself weakening, flowing back and forth, and doubting my determination, wavering on the basic moral foundations that I grew up on. I found myself almost speechless and unable to communicate my intentions to shoot the Black snake. I commanded like a Captain to a private, “Just move over!” But he didn’t. “Move!” I directed at the top of my voice. But he just remained there like a wall of fire that I’d have to pass through for freedom.
“You ain’t no killa’. You cain’t stomach the sight of a human screamin’ fo’ his life, and bleedin’ all over the place,” he conned in a flexible voice.
“Just get away from me. Get, get,” I said jabbing the gun back and forth like it was a knife, inching me closer to the street. He flinched backwards towards the street out of the corridor opening. I kept jabbing the pistol towards his chest.
He stopped at the sidewalk with one foot placed on the bottom step and leaned towards me. I sensed him gathering up his nerve for one last strike. I felt that he wouldn’t leave without trying to accomplish his goal of killing me. It was his M.O. He was out to kill me and the only thing that I could do right now would be to protect myself and shoot this gun. No matter how difficult, I must pull the trigger.
His anxiousness showed by his antsy arm movements when he kept rubbing the side of his face while swiveling his head in every direction. Then he lunged at me and I reared back, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. “Boom,” the gun sounded, a flash of fire blew through the barrel of the life taker. The explosion had the effect of a flash camera, its light blinded me for an instant. The power of it threw my entire body backwards. The sound practically shattered my eardrums as the noise bounced off of the tiny corridor walls. I opened my eyes to see Black Death crunched over against the wall but he was still standing, his hand held over his head. He frenetically began f
eeling himself all over like he had an army of ants biting him. I stood there motionless trying to gather myself in the craziness.
“You missed,” he smirked, leaped on me and grabbed my arm that held the gun. I fired the gun again, but he held my arm away from his body. The sound resonated against the wall as we fell. My head hit the ground as I heard my skull crash against the hardened cement. The Black Reaper placed his free hand against my face. He kept pounding my other hand against the brick wall. I felt a sharp pain rise up my back and elbow.
I screeched out in pain with the little breath left in my lungs, and felt my hand weakening as the gun fell out. All my energy toppled along with it as the gun tumbled to the ground.
“Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh…you thought you was gonna get away, ain’t that right?” he whispered breathing hard against my ear, eyes cold and black as the ten o’clock news. He grabbed the gun as the life seeped out of me, even before he pulled the trigger.
He brought the gun to my face for one last taunt, “Bitch.”
I closed my eyes as death was at my doorstep. I was too weak and I was beaten.
“Time fo’ yo’ ass to die,” I heard him from far away but close at the same time.
Then, I felt him rise up from my body.
A familiar voice rang out, “If you shiver, I’ll kill you where you stand. Place the gun down to your’ side ever so slowly.”
I opened my eyes to see Agent Hicks pointing a gun at the killer’s head.
“Aw’ight, aw’ight man,” said the Black maggot complying with Agent Hicks’s command.
The Black Demon began to ease the gun very deliberately down to his side. Then he stopped. I saw him thinking, plotting his escape.
“She was tryin’ to kill me man. I… I had to take the gun from her man,” he lied quickly, almost convincingly.
“He’s lying, he’s lying,” I cried.
“Just put the gun down,” Agent Hicks commanded. His pistol pointing strong and deadly at the hit man’s head.
“Aw’ight…aw’ight man…Listen,” the Black liar pleaded. “Put the gun down now!” Agent Hicks demanded even more forcefully.
“Listen, just listen man,” the Black serpent kept on. “I- I got two thousand dollars cash in my right pocket. Take it, take it, it’s yours man, it’s yours. We just walk away, we just walk away.”
My eyes widened and hopes dimmed. Agent Hicks didn’t say a word. Then he yelled, “It ain’t happening. Just drop your weapon!”
“Just let me go. Nobody gets hurt. I walk away. She walks away. You walk away two grand richer. She ain’t gotta tell nobody.” His plea vacillated from cool and calm to frantic.
“Just place the gun on the ground and we all get out of here safely,” Agent Hicks commanded while placing the gun flush against the killer’s head.
“Two thousand man, three thousand man, I got three thousand. Just let me go, let me go, let me go man,” he urged.
“Put the fuckin’ gun down or I’ll pull the trigger right now and won’t nobody give a damn,” Agent Hicks’ ‘Cool Hand Luke’ calmly commanded again holding the gun with both hands, his arms stretched out and eyes focused entirely on the begging killer.
The Black agony gradually lowered the gun on the ground. Agent Hicks slammed the begging man with the back of his hand. The man fell off of me into the wall, then Agent Hicks kicked the gun away from him.
“Lay face down on the ground,” Agent Hicks demanded. Agent Hicks captured the fiend’s arm and helped him roll over while bringing out handcuffs, then locked both wrists with harsh movements.
I rolled the opposite way of the wickedness. Agent Hicks smiled at me and turned back over to the unnamed killer, “You OK Ms. King?” Agent Hicks asked while glaring at my assailant.
I climbed up the wall to stand, “Man, this is one time that I’m glad you came along.”
Agent Hicks said, “I was watching you all night Ms. King.”
“For the first time, you are a sight for sore eyes,” I graciously said, wiping the blood from the cuts and scrapes from my head, hand and elbow.
Agent Hicks nodded in the direction of my terrorist. “Over there, laying on his stomach is Elroy “Jelly Roll” McPherson,” Agent Hicks said.
“Jelly Roll?” I repeated the name in surprise. “You know him?”
“We know him and some of the things he’s done. But up until now, we haven’t had enough evidence to do anything.” “Jelly Roll,” I repeated.
“Yep, Jelly Roll is known fo’ killin’ people. He’s a hard one to catch, that much is for sure.”
Dusting myself off from the street dirt and grim, I said, “He ain’t nothin’ like the jelly rolls I’m used to.”
He peered down at my nightmare and said, “This animal is called Jelly Roll because he squeezes people and they appear to burst like jelly spurting out of a sweat roll. You were about to be jelly rolled.” Agent Hicks pulled out his radio, “I need a car at 899 South State Street.”
I slid down the wall towards the street and stepped down the stairs.
“My blue Chevy is just down the block, why don’t you go take a seat and rest a while,” Agent Hicks suggested.
“Thanks,” I didn’t say another word as I took a deep breath and staggered in the direction of the only car with its parking lights staring at me about a block away. I walked clumsily because of the missing shoe lost back at the parking lot area and my other heel knocked off by my marathon getaway.
My cloudy thoughts were both of relief and fear. The joy of life and the fear of not having life harnessed my soul. The people I love, should be told that repeatedly, because our physical will not inherit this world but for a short time. We’re just passing through only to be here for a short time. The senselessness of complicated scenarios circling our lives is eager to change the way we survive in life. The truth of the matter is doing the right thing has its cost.
Then like a bolt of lightning flashing and with a sudden burst of despair, was the thought of Natalie. I had forgotten about her. I was so exhausted from the battle that I had forgotten to ask Agent Hicks about Natalie. Throughout all of the confusion, Agent Hicks never mentioned her. My legs got a little weaker, my head a little foggier and my heart a lot heavier. A picture flashed of Natalie shot and laying in the dirt bleeding was just unimaginable. I fell against the nearest car parked against the curb in pain, and cringing with anguish.
My lifelong friend shot trying to run from a mad man that was after me. Everything started from an incident stemming from circumstances she had nothing to do with. My last memory of her lying lifeless, bleeding and sprawled out in the gravel filled grime of a vacant parking lot was not fair. If only I had kept my thoughts to myself none of this would have happened. Natalie would still be alive tonight rambling on about how the three blues kings turned an otherwise average night into an evening that we’d never forget. The blues were played with great sadness but enjoyed with such enthusiasm and verve, the same way Natalie lived her life. But she might still be alive, and begging for help.
Exhausted and ready to pass out, I gathered myself against the morning’s dewy wet car and stumbled in the direction of the parking lot. I could barely stand on my own, so I summoned up strength from deep in my soul, a “superhuman” strength that my Dad used to tell me about. I again remembered my Dad’s story. When he and my Mom were newlyweds and I was a newborn baby. Mama Jess, my Dad’s mother became ill with cancer. Dad being an only child and fatherless was the one solely responsible for the care of his mother. He told me that life was extremely difficult back then struggling to earn a living with his new family. He explained that he and my Mom were having all types of difficulties, financial, shelter, food, and transportation all adding up to a marriage that wasn’t such a smooth ride. Living in a home not big enough for his fledgling family, he and my Mom picked up and moved back to his mom’s old house on the Westside of Chicago where he grew up. He despised moving back to an area he so desperately wanted to leave, but they did so out of th
e love and devotion to his mother.
After a month or two of convalescing my grandmother, Mama Jess’s sister, Lucille stopped by to visit and was unnerved at how the house was so unkempt. She scolded my dad up one side and down the other for not taking care of Mama Jess properly. At the time, my dad couldn’t understand it, he thought he was taking on a king’s job and had done everything he could to bring Mama Jess’s home under control. She asked him did he believe that he was doing something special just because he had moved back. Again, my dad thought he was doing a royal job, that he was coming to the rescue and seizing the reins of responsibility while driving the wild untamed horses through a dark tunnel of despair and uncertainty.
She pointed to a kitchen partially cleaned, the living and dining room in the house that were out of place and not up to Mama Jess’s antiseptic standards. He cried to Lucille that he was doing the best he could, and that he had a lot on his plate. He pleaded that the days were too long and not long enough at the same time. But Lucille wasn’t having any of his excuses and wasn’t sympathetic with him at all. She knew that he had a new job that consumed all of his time, a new child, a new wife and a new life and that he was the only one to shoot that needle full of prescribed poison into his mother’s dying body twice a day. Lucille explained to him that he couldn’t be an ordinary human acting like everyday people, and that he’d have to be a phenomenal man because this is a responsibility most ordinary men aren’t made to travel. Instead, she conveyed to him that it took a superhuman effort to make things right. Ordinary men will not make it through this experience but a superhuman event of care and concern will make this experience whole for both Mama Jess and my Dad.
Dad explained to me that he was hurt when she scolded him and upset that she had the nerve to rant and rave about him not doing the job for his mother. But after some agonizing introspection and thought, he decided that she might in fact be right, and some type of extraordinary effort was needed in order for the job to be done properly. So, from that point on, my Dad took Lucille’s advice and called upon that heroic effort throughout the rest of my grandmother’s life. He imparted wisdom to me that when you think you can’t go on, just summon up uncommon strength deep within your soul and you’ll find it. He made it clear that there will be times when you must find that type of uncommon strength in your life and if you live long enough you need to use it.
Right now, I needed to sit. My breathing was labored, my body torn with cuts and bruises. I felt that I couldn’t go on. So, I called upon the superhuman strength that my Dad always preached about when times got hard. I called on the kind of force that made slaves survive when death was the easiest way out. The kind of strength that my Great –great Uncle Fred had before a group of white men threw him into a South Carolina Chattahoochee river with iron chains wrapped around his legs just for kicks.
My mouth smacked with dryness and the pain and blood from a busted body pummeled with my battle with Jelly Roll consumed every concern. But I stumbled towards the parking lot, barely able to focus. A few steps further, my head began pounding with pain and again, I felt like passing out. At that point, I knew that medical assistance was needed, but Natalie’s needs were life or death.
Wobbly-legged, I worked my way past the building landmarks of my escape; I came to the alley leading to the parking lot under the ‘L’ tracks. I stopped and stared at the path, which appeared to narrow into a black cavern twisting and turning like a scene from the Twilight Zone. The parking lot reminded me of a deserted city, there was no movement or human sound and the only care in the lot was mine. I felt a gust of the Chicago wind swirl around and it sucked a tiny bit of my breath as I lumbered toward the car worried out of my wits of what I might see.
As I approached the car I saw her hand. It didn’t look like the hand of my best friend. These hands were covered with the filth and grunge of back alley Chicago. Natalie’s well-manicured nails were always shaped, polished and cleaned every Saturday morning by Sue at Ms. Suzy’s Nails, a Korean nail shop just off the corner of Broadway and Granville.
But to my dismay, it was her soiled hand. As I inched closer to view more and more of her body, she still lay there motionless. Oh God, oh God...no, no, no, please Lord, don’t let it be. “Natalie,” I spoke as if to wake her from a Sunday nap. “Natalie, Natalie,” again I spoke louder each time, but she didn’t move.
Laying there on her side, one arm stretched out, and her head lying peacefully on top like so many times in which I’d seen her sleeping on my couch. The car stood there like it was waiting for us to get in and drive home. Just turn the key, switch the radio to V103 and drive off, laughing and joking all the way home. But the car didn’t move, it just sat there like her tombstone.
Again I whispered, still not able to yell it out, “Natalie...Natalie.” I circled around her now a little quicker to see her face. Her eyes were closed, not open wide shut like I anticipated. What will I tell Ms. Palmer, that her daughter died by the hand of Jelly Roll in a senseless murder. Or what will I tell Malcolm, that his mom died in an alley. I dropped to my knees and touched her face. It was still warm. “Oh Natalie… would you please forgive me?” I took a deep breath, “I should’ve just shut up and left it alone. But I just couldn’t and now look at us, our lives torn apart and for what?”
“Oh girl shut up…” a faint voice rang out.
Startled, I jumped back, “What..?”
“I ain’t goin’ nowhere,” her weak voice wheezed.
“Natalie? Natalie, Natalie!” I said louder with each calling of her name. “You’re alive?” I cried out.
“What…hell yes I’m alive,” she said, grinning.
“I thought you were- Ok, ok...just lay there, and don’t move. I’ll call an ambulance.”
“An ambulance? For what?” Natalie started to sit up.
Stroking the limestone dust out her hair I told her, “No, no, don’t move.”
She gazed at me and said, “I’m ok. Are we in heaven?”
I could only smile and gave a nervous laugh, “No honey, you’ve been laying here for a few minutes.”
“I saw angels Carla. I swear I saw angels.” She was groggy and shaken as she continued to rise up. “What happened?”
“Yeah, I thought Jelly Roll had shot you.”
“Jelly roll? Let’s go have one,” she said and cackled.
Again I snickered, “Yeah girl, right away.”
She frowned then purred, “Oh yeah, I don’t feel any pain except my head.”
“Let me see.” I helped her sit up and turned her head to the side. I felt around to find a bump and a slight cut that was still bleeding. “You must have hit your head against the ground.”
“I guess I fainted or somethin’. I remember us against the car and ...What happened?”
“It’s a long story from there. I’ll tell you everything later.” I sat back against the car’s bumper next to her, a half-moon staring at us in an early morning black sky. Jelly Roll’s bullet had missed Natalie as she fainted and crashed her head against the ground. She never knew what happened afterwards.
With my arm around her I said, “Natalie?”
She leaned her head on my shoulder and said, “Yeah.”
“Who’s your favorite poet?”
She cut her eyes to me and giggled, “You.”
I held out my pinky and she hooked it with hers. “Friends forever?” We glanced at each other and grinned.
“Always.” Natalie’s smile was weak but sincerely grateful.
“Speaking of truth. You think finding the truth was worth it?”
She raised her head and we stared at each other, the quiet of early morning still surrounded us while we were licking our wounds.
“Cutino? Hell no!” Natalie said with a painful grin.
“I heard that.”
An ambulance arrived and drove us to Michael Reece Hospital for care. Agent Hicks stopped by our hospital room to get our statements on Jelly Roll. He was gracious and actually a li
ttle charming, far from the ass that followed and harassed me throughout my place of employment.
He explained to us that we’d have to testify against both Cutino, once he was captured and Jelly Roll. Whenever they catch Cutino, I’d try to bury him under the jail for hiring a killer like Jelly Roll on me. Surprisingly, Jelly Roll had absolutely no record.
Consequently, he’d never had his fingerprints recorded. But once they were taken along with his DNA and traced, Jelly Roll found himself under investigation for numerous murders around the country including Koltrane, Shaft and more. When he caught all of those cases, he started singing like a choir of birds. Jelly Roll squealed about everything and on everybody. He knew about all sorts of criminal cases and people, including Cutino.
And as for Cutino, eventually he was going to do big time.
Frankly, I don’t believe Cutino really knew the ramifications of his actions. He seemed to treat it as some type of game like cat and mouse or cops and robbers. But the fact of the matter was that it was for real and that his doings caused people pain and death. And while he had his season of profit, the payback he’ll have to withstand will be painfully long and grueling.
A couple of bandages and a few stitches later, both Natalie and I busted out of the hospital with the quickness of an Olympic track star. Neither one of us could stand being clammed up in a hospital unless absolutely necessary. I called my parents to let them know that I was alright and would be there to pick-up Zoe later in the day. When I arrived at their home and told them the story, they were completely exasperated. My mother was upset at me and my dad was just relieved. She told me to always tell her about any situation whenever I needed help. My Dad agreed but was just grateful that God had taken care of his little girl.
The following week, me and Natalie packed our suitcases and kid’s belongings, and vowed never to take life lightly again.
We then drove directly to O’Hare International Airport with a first class ticket bound for Montego Bay, Jamaica.
Life, what a beautiful thing.
Yeah Mon.
About The Author
Michael Paul Fuller was raised in Evanston, Illinois. He is a graduate of Evanston Township High School and Southern Illinois University. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and kids. He has also written Chronicles of a Nappi Head, and can be found in Proverbs for the People. He’s just a hardworking, everyday man that among other things enjoys writing. Peace.
www.fultimebooks.com
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