A dark place, p.8
A Dark Place, page 8
“I’m still having those dreams. Have you read anything in the paper about anyone being arrested for killing Marcus?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Was there even anything in there about him being dead?”
Amani shook her head again.
“So it’s like he never existed.”
Amani walked over to the table and sat back down. She placed an arm around Jamillah. “He was a good friend to you, huh?”
“He was,” Jamillah said as the tears began to fall. “He was a real nice guy. People didn’t know it, but he was only twenty-one years old. Just a baby,” she added, her voice cracking. “Life dealt him a bad hand, and he was dealing with it the best way he knew how.”
Amani nodded and rubbed Jamillah’s leg.
“I made an anonymous call to the police and told them I saw somebody dump a body in that dumpster behind that house I was staying in, so I know they know,” Jamillah revealed. “They don’t care about us. We’re all throwaways to them.”
“Who are the ‘them’ that you are speaking of?”
“Them,” Jamillah said, pointing at a white man who was walking by. “The folks in control. The ones who make it hard on the have-nots.”
“Is that what you believe, Jamillah?”
Jamillah gave Amani a look that said she didn’t understand. “It’s not what I believe. It’s what I know. They probably celebrate when one of us dies. Just a bunch of niggers killing other niggers, even if it was a white nigger that killed a black one. What do they call that? I can’t think of it, but it’s when the wicked kill the wicked. Divine law or something like that.”
Amani shook her head. “Listen, girlfriend,” she said, “nobody owes you anything. In this world we live in, you must earn your own way. So the minute you decide that you are going to take your respect, I promise you, people will give it to you freely.”
Jamillah dropped her head.
“You are not a nigger, and neither was your friend Marcus. Don’t let his death be in vain. He died so you could live. And you won’t let him down, because you’re special. You are somebody. You are a beautiful rose just waiting to blossom. You’ll see. Right now, you’re in the dirt, but out of the dirt come some of this world’s loveliest things. Now I can sit here and tell you that all day, but it won’t matter until you believe it.”
“There you go with your extra-positive ass trying to make me believe I’m somebody when you know I’m just a crackhead looking for my next high.”
“If that’s what you believe you are, then that’s what you are. If your days of using drugs are gone, then they are gone. Whether you believe you can or you believe you can’t, you are absolutely right. Think about it. You are what you believe you are.”
Jamillah nodded her head at the realness of what she had just heard.
“Are you done getting high, or are you wasting everyone’s time?” Amani asked.
Jamillah thought about the question. She was tired of lying, tired of hustling, and tired of being an addict.
“I’m done,” she said, nodding her head. “I’m done.”
“Good,” Amani said as she stood. “Now let me get back to work.”
“Bye,” Jamillah said with a chuckle. “I got things to do myself.”
PART II
Chapter 13
Lucinda Rawlings stared up at the ceiling with blurred vision. There was a pounding between her temples that made her head feel as if it might explode into a million little pieces.
The room was spinning, and she couldn’t figure out where she was. Lucinda tried to gather herself and make out what had happened to her. She sat up on her elbows and looked around the room. The living room’s paneled walls were dark and splattered with blood. But whose blood was it? She rolled over and heard the cracking of glass. It was her framed picture of Barack Obama and Joe Biden. She looked around the room and noticed that all her pictures were scattered on the floor. Her home looked like a complete disaster area.
“What the . . . ?” she began, but her mouth hurt too much to speak.
Everything was in total disarray. The dresser was turned on its side, the dresser drawers had been emptied throughout the room, and the bed had been flipped over. She looked around once more and realized that she was on the floor. Her clothes were torn, as if she had been attacked by a chain saw. Something was wrong with her eye. She felt it with her fingers, and she could tell it was swollen. More importantly, she couldn’t see anything out of it.
“What the hell!” she cried, but again, she stopped speaking. She was in excruciating pain. Maybe her jaw was broken. She touched her mouth and felt the jagged flesh and immediately drew her hand back in an effort to alleviate the pain somehow.
She tried to say something else, but her mouth wasn’t cooperating at all now.
She rolled over onto her knees and pulled herself up to her feet.
Who in the hell would do this? But what had happened? she wondered.
Lucinda staggered down the hallway of the single-wide mobile home. She balanced herself by touching the walls as she made her way into the bathroom. She pulled the string to the swinging light in the middle of the water-stained ceiling and turned to the mirror. What she saw in the glass almost scared the life out of her. Her coal-black face was covered with bruises and cuts. And that eye! Her left eye looked like something foreign had been plastered to her face. The reflection in the mirror looked like it belonged to an alien from another world.
She turned and ran as fast as she could down the hallway toward her daughter’s room. She pushed open the door and looked around the tiny, immaculate room.
Empty.
“Keisha,” she called, ignoring the pain in her mouth.
No answer.
Keisha’s closet was open, and Lucinda walked into the room and took a closer look. The closet was empty.
“Keisha,” she repeated and once again ignored the pain. “Keisha!”
Lucinda hurried from the room, tripping over a pile of stuffed animals on the floor at the end of the bed. She found her balance and ran down the hallway and straight out the front door.
“Help!” she screamed as she ran down the orange clay road toward the main road.
The people who lived on her road in Elkton, Georgia, came out onto their porches to see what all the commotion was about. It wasn’t unusual for screams to be heard in Elkton, but that kind of behavior was normally reserved for the weekends, when the locals got drunk on moonshine and settled their issues with guns and knives. This was different; it was two o’clock in the afternoon. The residents who worked were at work, and most of the school-age kids who hadn’t quit were at school.
“Help me, please!” Lucinda screamed, now oblivious to the pain in her lips and mouth as she ran throughout the trailer park. “Somebody help me!”
Maceo, the town’s mechanic, walked out of his shop, wiping his grease-stained hand on a dirty cloth.
Maceo was a character, but he was one of the most solid guys in the black community of Elkton. His word was good, his work was good, and if you were in his good graces, you were good too. His appearance . . . Well, that wasn’t so good. His head was bald but for the fringe of gray hair on the sides, which he kept it in a processed curl. And to make himself even sexier, he gathered the fringe into a long ponytail. He had always been sweet on Lucinda, but her wicked ways had kept him at a distance.
“Lucy,” he called out when he saw her running down the road, screaming. “Come here, girl.”
“That girl is crazier than a bedbug,” said Lawrence, Maceo’s assistant.
“No, she ain’t,” Maceo replied. “Just a little misunderstood is all. Besides, who died and made you a psychologist?”
“Don’t take no schoolin’ to know a fool when I see one,” Lawrence spat back.
Lucinda turned toward Maceo and ran up to him, as if he were the last savior on earth.
“Good Lord,” Maceo said, frowning as he took in the sight of the battered and bruised woman before him. “What happened to you?”
“Somebody attacked me!” she screamed through large and deep breaths.
“Somebody like who?” Maceo asked. He reached into his pocket for the two-shot derringer pistol he kept there.
Lucinda shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? Well, what kind of company you keeping, Lucy? You been drinking again?”
“No,” Lucinda said, holding the side of her face. “Get me over to see Dr. Smith. I can’t breathe too good, and my mouth feels like it’s broke.”
Maceo hesitated a second, then nodded toward Lawrence. “Get my truck, man.”
Lawrence looked at Lucinda and shook his head. “Probably tried to beat somebody outta they money and got what she had coming,” he said, taking his time.
“Didn’t ask for yo’ opinion, Lawrence,” Maceo chastised. “Now get my truck.”
Under normal circumstances, Lucinda would’ve used her sharp tongue to tear Lawrence a new rear end, but she didn’t have the energy to go there today.
“Lucinda, girl, you gonna have to watch the company you keep,” Maceo advised as they waited on the truck.
“Somebody broke in.”
“And took what?” Lawrence asked over his shoulder. “Some rotgut liquor? Lord knows, that’s all you got up in that raggedy-ass trailer.”
“That’s ’bout enough outta you, Lawrence,” Maceo barked. “And I ain’t asking you no more to get that truck. If you got a problem with that, then keep on walking. You can find you a new job.”
Lawrence grunted his displeasure, then slowly walked into the shop to retrieve the truck.
“Lucy, what would somebody break in yo’ house fo’?” Maceo asked.
Lucinda looked at Maceo for what seemed like forever before answering. “Keisha.”
“Keisha? What do you mean? They took Keisha?” Maceo said as the frown on his face turned into a snarl.
“She gone,” Lucinda told him as she fought back the tears.
“Lucy,” Maceo said, rubbing his gray beard, “Keisha’s eighteen years old now, and she’s been running around here telling anybody who wanted to hear it that she was moving to Lanna.”
“But why?” Lucinda couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. “Why she gone up and leave me? Ain’t I been good to her?”
“Sho’ you been good to her, but she’s young and full of ideas,” Maceo said. “Lord knows, ain’t nuttin’ round henh for a young girl with a good head on her shoulders.”
“Moved to Atlanta with who?” Lucinda asked. Her mouth was killing her, but she loved her daughter too much for any kind of pain to interfere in this discussion.
“I don’t know. Maybe with Harris. You know they running round here talking about getting married, since they already acting like husband and wife. Being that they got the baby and all.”
“I’ll kill his li’l ass if he takes my baby.”
“It wasn’t Harris that broke in, was it?” Maceo asked.
“No.” Lucinda shook her head. “This was a big man.”
Lawrence pulled the truck up, and Maceo walked around and opened the front passenger door to the old Fred Sanford–like beater. He helped Lucinda in and closed the door once she was buckled up.
He walked around and jumped behind the wheel. “Lawrence, watch the shop for me,” he called through the open window.
Lawrence nodded at Maceo and gave Lucinda a nasty look.
Maceo and Lucinda rode in silence the two and a half miles it took to get to the small clinic that served as the town’s hospital.
Elkton, Georgia, was a small town where 80 percent of the population operated below the poverty level. And it was very much a town divided by race. The blacks lived on the east side of the tracks, and the whites lived on the west side. The only thing that was integrated was the trailer park. Even there, the whites felt they were better because the majority of them had double-wide trailers and most of the blacks could afford only single-wides.
Maceo parked in the emergency spot in the clinic’s parking lot and helped Lucinda out of the truck. He walked her through the front door of the single-story redbrick building and called out to a nurse for help.
An elderly white woman wearing a white jacket and a stethoscope rushed over. She took one look at the pair and said, “Lucinda, honey, what happened to you?”
“Somebody attacked me, Dr. Smith,” Lucinda moaned.
“Who would do such a thing?” Dr. Smith asked. She was a small white woman who seemed to be genuinely caring.
“I don’t know,” Lucinda said, shaking her head.
“You don’t know?” Dr. Smith examined Lucinda’s bruises as she led her patient to a room off the main hallway. “Have you been drinking?”
“No,” Lucinda snapped, already frustrated with the questioning. “And nobody else bet ask me that no damn mo’.”
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” Dr. Smith said, trying to calm her down. “Have you called the police?”
“I ain’t got no phone.”
“I’m going to have to call them and report that you were assaulted.”
Lucinda heard the front door open and jerked her head around so that she could see what was going on. A tall man was walking out of the building. He was wearing a white coat with fur around the hood.
“Who is that man?” Lucinda asked.
Dr. Smith turned around just before the man stepped off the curb. “Don’t rightfully know who he is. I didn’t treat him.”
“That’s him,” Lucinda said. “That’s the fool who attacked me.”
Chapter 14
The morning’s dew was beginning to form on the grass. The streetlights were still on, but the people of the night were starting to head in to make way for the working folks.
Urban drove through a dilapidated neighborhood near downtown Atlanta known as Vine City. Crackhead hookers walked up and down Simpson Road, hoping to catch a quick “date” before daylight arrived and took away their natural cover. Teenage drug dealers tossed their heads up in a nod, hoping to find a matching sign from the people behind the wheels of the cars. Urban watched as driver after driver pulled over, made the quick drug transaction, and went on about their way. Urban sighed and kept his eyes straight ahead. He was trying to find a particular street. He looked in the rearview mirror and noticed an unmarked police cruiser had started tailing him.
A stray dog with patches of her hair missing and sagging breasts took her time crossing the street, practically begging Urban to run her over and take her out of her misery. When Urban slowed down to allow her to pass, she showed her teeth, giving him the canine version of the middle finger.
The cruiser’s blue lights came on at that moment, and Urban pulled over. He turned on his car’s interior lights and reached for his license and registration. Every time a police car got behind him, he couldn’t help but think about his parents and the tragedy that had enfolded on that fateful day.
A tall officer strolled up to his car door. “Urban Brown, you ugly son of a bitch,” Agent Priest Dupree said.
“You must not have any mirrors in your house, Priest,” Urban replied with a smile as he stepped out of the car. He gave his old friend a hug.
Priest Dupree was an imposing figure. Standing six feet four inches tall and weighing about 240 pounds, he wasn’t to be taken lightly. He was a man of the people and a complete terror to those who crossed him. Two years ago, when police officers in Atlanta were robbing drug dealers, Priest single-handedly put a stop to it. He killed one of the officers involved in the scheme and beat another one so badly that the man resigned from the force and started working at a Walmart. The move didn’t make him very popular in the police department’s locker room, but that was how he was—always standing up for what he felt was right.
Priest was also a legend. He’d gone undercover as a drug dealer for three years, infiltrating and bringing down the largest drug cartel in the United States. His personal life was a little sketchy. Only a select few knew that he had a wife and a daughter. He went to great lengths to keep his family out of harm’s way. Urban happened to be one of those select few who knew the real Priest.
“Since when did you start driving police cars? Did you get a demotion?”
“Nah, man. I’m working on a little pet project, and gas is too damn high to be using my own car.”
“I see you’re still cheap.”
“Not cheap, baby boy. Smart. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to get back with you right away. I was on vacation.”
“No problem, man. Thanks for recommending Ms. Patty. I would’ve never thought of her.”
“Her.” Priest smiled and shook his head. “It’s amazing what time will do.”
“Yeah.” Urban smiled in return as he thought about the peculiar man/woman who had served as the neighborhood’s day-care provider.
“How’s Mama Winnie doing these days?” Priest asked.
“She’s fine. Still fussing and trying to save the world.”
“Good. Well, tell her I asked about her.”
“Will do.”
“I know you couldn’t go into too much detail on the phone, but what’s going on with ya?”
“Jamillah,” Urban said, shaking his head. “That girl is trying her best to get herself killed.”
“What’s going on? Talk to me.”
“Lots of drama, man. To make a long story short, Jamillah is on the run. I hear some white guys beat her up because she reneged on a deal she had with them to sell my nephew,” Urban explained, nodding toward the back seat, where his nephew was sleeping peacefully.
Priest stuck his head in the truck and took a glimpse of the little guy. “Good-looking fella. Ms. Patty will keep the goons off him.”
“I hope so. Jamillah brought those goons to my house, and I don’t know if I’m being paranoid or not, but I could’ve sworn I saw those guys creeping through my neighborhood.”
Priest nodded.
“Then I hear that the police want to question Jamillah about a murder,” Urban went on, sighing away his frustrations. “This is crazy.”
Priest kept his poker face. “Murder? Jamillah! That girl couldn’t kill a roach.”
