Hard Exit, page 3
Game walked into the room carrying a huge blue-and-gold Oakville High School duffel bag. His downcast eyes told me he’d heard this last exchange.
“You think you got everything?” Rachelle asked. “Underwear? Toothbrush?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you bring a bathing suit?” I asked.
“I’m not a good swimmer.”
“Doesn’t matter. Get a bathing suit, because I’m not letting you sit naked in the Jacuzzi with my girlfriend.”
“Your girlfriend fine?”
“Yes.”
“Very fine,” Mike said.
“Hey!” Rachelle said, elbowing him.
“Ahhight,” Game said. He went into his room and was back in ten seconds, stuffing some blue trunks into his bag.
“Say goodbye to your mama,” Mike said, then motioned for me to follow him. We stepped outside. A police helicopter was flying in slow, giant circles, sweeping the neighborhood with a powerful shaft of light. Concerned Oakville residents would take this aerial surveillance to mean the police had their suspects pinned down, that it was only a matter of time before the shooters would be flushed from their hiding places and would have no choice but to surrender.
But I knew better. The three news-copters hovering on the periphery, edging into restricted airspace to get the best angles, needed visuals for the late newscasts. The police helicopter was giving it to them, while showing the residents of Oakville that its men and women in blue were hard at work. That it is standard operating procedure to employ a chopper only after a suspect has been sighted by officers on the ground—meaning only if they’re almost certain he’s in a defined area—would be lost on the public. This copter was sweeping practically all of Oakville, shredding tax dollars with every revolution of the rotors.
Mike said, “We’re going to stay at my place, in case this thing escalates, and they start targeting the MLKs’ homes.”
“Smart,” I said. “Make sure she has my number. In order to solve this thing, we’ll be around.”
“Good. I’ll keep my eyes open, see what the cops are up to.” He looked into the house. He turned toward me and asked, “How’s Amanda going to take this?”
“Not well. She gets home tonight from Milan. Should be interesting.”
“Yeah, can’t wait to see it all on Entertainment Tonight.”
“Nope, tonight it will be your neighborhood on TV.”
He smiled, then Game joined us on the porch, followed by Rachelle.
“Ready to eat?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Anything I should know, Rachelle? Medications?”
“No, just take care of his shoulder and don’t be afraid to be firm with him. Let him know who’s the boss.”
“Tony Danza, right?”
“Or was it Judith Light?” Mike asked.
“I never could tell,” I said. “That could be the eternal question.”
“Get out of here, you two,” Rachelle said. “Be careful—and have a good time.”
“Yeah, right,” Game said, as he walked toward the car.
As I walked away, I said, “Has Mike told you, Rachelle, he used to be a model?”
“Yes. He’s shown me some of his work.”
“But,” I said, as Game and I reached the car, “has he shown you the campaign he’s most proud of?”
“Jack, it’s time for you to go,” Mike said. “Let’s go inside, babe. The man’s obviously losing his mind.” He gently tried to usher her into the house.
“Oh, come on, Mike, don’t be modest,” I said. “Game, I think you’ll appreciate the artistic merit of this, too. Our friend Mike, that man right there, used to be the Fruit of the Loom purple grapes.”
“Oh my God,” Rachelle said.
“Naaah,” Game said.
“Or was it the apple? I know it wasn’t the currants. Don’t have the range for those. No, you were the purple grapes, right, Mike?”
“Yep, the purple grapes. That apple was a hack. All surface and no depth.”
We all laughed. Mike and I had done the Fruit of the Loom bit before, and I wanted to make sure I kept our parting light. I took Game’s duffel off his shoulder and popped the trunk. As he got in the car, I set his bag in the trunk, unzipped the bag, and rummaged through it quickly, looking for a weapon. To my surprise, I didn’t find one. I zipped the bag, grabbed two of the four aluminum bottles of water I kept there, then closed the trunk. When I got in the car, Game said, “You guys just playing, right? He wasn’t the grapes for real?” I offered him a water and he took it, nodding his thanks.
“No, he was.” I palmed my wallet, then reached under the seat, inserted the small key in the lock there and turned the key. Next to the lock, affixed to the bottom of the seat, was my Beretta. I pulled the wallet out from under the seat and set it on the console between us.
“There a trip switch under the seat, ain’t there?”
I didn’t respond.
“Your wallet was in your jacket with your keys.”
“Okay, you got me. You need to release the lock beneath the seat before you can turn the ignition. But why don’t we try something from here on. Why don’t we be straight with each other, only tell the truth, and see how we do?”
“Why should I? You kidnapping me.”
“I’m saving your life. Because Mike tells me you’re a bright kid, I think in your heart of hearts you know that sooner or later you’ll be gunned down the way your brothers were. And because you’re smart, I’m willing to believe somewhere in that same heart of hearts you don’t want to die. So, what do you say, do we have a deal?”
“Where you get this shit, heart of hearts?”
I wasn’t sure my plan was going to work.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Where’s Popeye’s?” I asked as we pulled away from the curb. In the rearview mirror I saw Mike wrap his arms around Rachelle. Game didn’t look back but instead seemed to study his right shoe.
“Did I bleed on you?”
“Scuffed my kicks.” He pulled a toothbrush from his jeans pocket and rubbed it aggressively against a smudge I couldn’t see on the front of his right sneaker. Then he put the toothbrush back in his pocket.
“Hope you brought another toothbrush.”
“You gonna stick with the funnyman act ’til when … ’til you get a laugh?”
“Why stop then? If people laugh, I’m officially funny.”
“Man, this worse than algebra.”
I liked that he was giving me attitude. After hatching this not-so-foolproof plan I’d worried he’d go silent and concentrate his efforts on how he could get away from this crazy man. I needed him to communicate.
“Left at the corner, right at the light. Popeye’s the next block on the left, across from church.”
“Got it, but I want to swing by the park.”
“Why?”
Instead of taking the right at the light as he’d advised, I went left and took the same turn I’d made a couple hours earlier, heading toward the park. We rolled slowly down the nearly dark block. Groups of people still lingered, but far fewer than earlier. News vans were still parked along the curb, the newscasters probably off having dinner before returning in time to do live feeds for the eleven o’clock news.
He didn’t make a big thing of it, but he slid down lower in his seat as we passed the groups. Everyone looked hard at the car as we drove by, and a few teenaged males turned to follow our progress.
“Pigs still stinking up the joint,” Game said. The comment didn’t warrant a response, but I liked that he was paying attention and wasn’t lost in thought. I swung the car left at the corner, then left again at the next intersection. I parked where I had earlier.
“What we doing?”
I opened the car door and started to step out, then remembered the gun. I could reach under the seat and remove it, but then we could go in all kinds of directions, and I didn’t want to launch into a sermon on the proper use of firearms and who can and should carry them when and where.
“I was going to have you stay in the car, but if we’re going to be a team, then—”
“Team? Shit, you think we playing? This some game to you, Mr. BMW?”
“No, I know we’re not playing.”
I pulled the door closed and turned toward him. I was silent for probably thirty seconds, trying to figure out how to appeal to a sixteen-year-old who was filled with anger, grief, fear, and frustration. I didn’t know him yet, but I guessed that anyone who valued his life so little that he would sacrifice it for a few seconds of glory and a special place in the memories of the fellow gangbangers who outlasted him was really looking for respect, for an acknowledgement that he mattered. It was only a hunch, but I decided to believe it was correct.
I reached under the seat and released the gun from its brace. I lifted the Beretta, reversed its position, and offered it to him, butt first.
He gave me a suspicious look.
“What, I reach for it, you do some quick-ass move and shoot me, claim self-defense? No way.”
“Take the gun, Game.”
“Why you doing this?”
I carefully set the gun down on the console between us, still with the butt toward him.
“It’s loaded, a Beretta 92F, one in the chamber, fifteen in the clip. You can pick it up, shoot me, then disappear into the night. You could set up on a roof and pick off cops. Or you could do what you say you want to do: Hunt down a Posse member, or five, then start firing. Your brothers will high-five you from the grave, your buddies will hoist 40s in your honor, and a shorty or two might see fit to have sex with you.
“Of course, any one of these scenarios will end badly for you. You’ll be killed very soon thereafter, or during your spree. You’ll be a legend for a few months, maybe even get your portrait painted on a wall of honor somewhere. And occasionally your name will come up at get-togethers. But those mentions will quickly fade.”
He picked up the gun slowly, then pointed it at me. He slipped his right index finger through the trigger guard and rested it on the trigger.
“I can’t make any promises, Game. I can’t tell you that if you stay in school you’ll become a doctor, or that if you continue running the point as you do, you’ll sign a multimillion-dollar sneaker deal when you turn nineteen. Hell, I can’t even guarantee we won’t get hit by a bus on our way home. But what I—”
“Why you ain’t scared?” I didn’t respond. Just looked in his eyes.
“Got a damn gun on you for real. Got no reason not to do those things you say.”
“The safety’s on. Push down on the lever on the left of the slide with your thumb, and you’ll be ready to fire.”
“See? I forget the safety, so the gun useless. Then you tell me how to kill you. I don’t understand you.”
I thought for a few seconds, then said, “Are you willing to believe that because you don’t understand what I’m doing, there are other things you may not understand?”
“Yeah.”
“You’ll buy that because I’m willing to die trying to help you that helping you is important to me?” He nodded. He hadn’t taken the safety off.
“You’re almost a stranger. I saw you play ball once, then you tried to steal my car. But I’m entrusting my life to you. Why do you think that is?”
“Don’t know. You crazy?”
The barrel of the gun dipped slightly. The Beretta weighs more than two and a half pounds fully loaded, and his arm was getting tired. He cupped his right elbow in his left hand for support.
“Are you planning to shoot me, Game? I’m not trying to rush you. You can take your time to think about it.”
“Naw, ain’t shooting you. But don’t know why not.”
“Because I believe you have enough sense to do the right thing, to weigh the consequences. It’s not complicated.” He nodded, as much to himself as to me.
He turned the gun around and handed it to me. He turned away and looked at his shoes. Finally, he asked, “Got kids?”
“No.”
“Want ’em?”
“Not anymore.” I put the gun under the seat and secured it.
“Let’s go,” I said. I reached across to the glove compartment, opened it, and grabbed a small flashlight. I got out and started to walk across the street. He got out and moved quickly to catch up.
“Where we going?”
“Nowhere exciting. I just want to check something.”
Game and I reached the spot where the shooters had crossed from the court to their getaway car. I shined the flashlight on the area and saw many fresh shoe prints embedded in the dirt. Someone from Oakville PD had taken casts of the perps’ shoe prints.
“What we looking at?”
“A miracle.”
“You been to Popeye’s?” Game asked.
“Many times. Couldn’t get enough of it in college.”
We sat in the fried-chicken joint, with Game about to dig into his spicy chicken and side of dirty rice. I’d ordered the mild three-piece dinner with dirty rice and beans and an extra biscuit.
“Of course, we had to drive across town to get there,” I said. “Westwood wasn’t considered a prime Popeye’s location back then.”
“Not enough Black folk there, you mean,” he said, with his mouth full of chicken.
I nodded. Only a few customers were in the restaurant, including a table in a corner filled with three teenaged boys. Because I didn’t know who we would encounter in the restaurant, I’d put the gun in a pocket of my jacket, then put the jacket on. The teens in the corner didn’t seem to bother Game, so we devoured our food in silence. I asked, “How’s the shoulder?”
“Okay. You gonna eat that biscuit?”
“Go ahead. I don’t need it.” He picked up the biscuit and took a bite.
“Why did da Uptown Posse shoot you guys at the park?” I asked. “Was there a precipitating incident?”
“Man, you sound like Coach. Like you ate a dictionary together. We jacked a drug deal a few nights ago from them. Payback.”
“Was anyone hurt?”
“One fool. We trying to do it right, just business, keep things professional. We get the drop on ’em, so anyone with sense just do what we say—then get even later. But this fool think he Tony Montana and try to knock the Glock outta C-Dog’s hand, so C-Dog shoot him in the kneecap. The bitch scream louder than the shot.”
I nodded. “What’d you guys get?”
“Their guns. Fools don’t know shit ’bout guns, either. Idiot using a Colt .45, like he a cowboy. Other holding a sissy .22. But we got the green, too.”
“How much?”
“It matter?”
“Not really.”
We finished eating, left the restaurant, got in the car, then headed to Malibu.
When we hit the 110, he asked, “What I call you?”
“Jack.”
“Last name?”
“Drake.”
“Like the so-called rapper.”
“Unfortunately. How’d you know da Posse had a deal going down?” I thought I might be pressing my luck, but he was cooperating, so I figured my ploy with the gun had worked. Of course, he could’ve been lying.
“TD’s sister Tamara hooking up with a Posse fool.”
“TD’s in the MLKs?”
“Yeah. Tamara found out Posse Andy or Alfred or whatever his name is be stepping out, so she’s pissed. He got a big mouth, and he bragging ’bout the deal going down. She figure they done, so she helps her brother and messes this fool up at the same time by letting us know when and where it’s going down.
“We set six guys on the place early. Grab Andy Alfred from behind when he and the other fool show up, take his girl gun. Get the .45 off the other fool, cuz there what, five of us now drawing down on him. That’s when C-Dog have to shoot the bitch in the kneecap when he go all Tom Hardy in Venom.”
The freeways were unusually traffic-free, so we made good time. Near where the 10 becomes PCH, we passed the high school I’d attended, and I reminded myself how lucky I’d been only to have to deal with academic demands and the petty horrors of adolescence, rather than having to worry daily about gangs.
“Go on,” I said.
“With us, we get our blow from a brotha called Arnold. Don’t know where he get it, but he sell it to us, we sell it to anyone with the green. Some of that—maybe twenty percent—go to rich white kids roll up in Beemers looking to get sorority girls high so they can get some. What I’m saying is, only white dudes in our ’hood after dark are pigs or frat boys.”
“Okay.”
“But this skinny, old white dude show up in a piece-a-shit white van with the back all jacked from an accident, and he ain’t buying no Franklin bag for a horny blonde. He selling the blow to Uptown. Or trying to.”
“All right, so this supplier’s the wrong color. If you say that’s odd, fine, but that’s not what I don’t understand. When this skinny dude shows up and doesn’t recognize the contacts, why does he get out of the van?”
“Maybe you ain’t smart as I thought. Guy shows up at the right time and place to make a exchange with bangers. Think he’s keeping close tabs on which gangbanger is which? Nah. He just does what he came there to do. ’Course, he don’t know we gonna jack his stash and send him home with zip. Someone pissed off for real when he got home.”
“Most likely. But I’m confused. Since da Uptown Posse are your enemies, and you’ve sworn to get revenge for your brothers by wiping them all out, why didn’t you kill all of them on the spot?”
“If we kill ’em, Uptown would think the dealer shot ’em and jacked the cash. These some low-level nobodies. Bottom of the set. Otherwise we couldn’t steal candy from babies like we did. And if they dead, they can’t let Uptown know who punked ’em.”
“Could’ve left one messenger alive. He’d have given you full credit for the heist.”
“Yeah, that makes sense now. Didn’t think of it. But kinda more humiliating they all get punked than get dead, right?”
