Eastside (9 page)

“Ooooh, Tre,” Tamika moaned.

Travon slowly slid in and out of her. Their rhythm built, their moans increased, until finally they both reached a back-arching, climactic release that soothed them both. Exhausted, the two of them lay basking in the soft glow of the moonlight creeping through the blinds, blissfully unaware that they now had become three.

Weeks Later

“Yeah, just drop us off at the park; we can get a ride home,” said Marcus.

Darius nodded. “All right, y'all lil niggaz get in.”

Travon and Marcus quickly climbed into the backseat of Darius' 1990, candy-apple-red Cadillac Fleetwood.

“Boy, D, you got this motherfucka looking lovely,” Lil Fade told him. “Red candy paint, red flakes, white crushed guts, gold and chrome Caddy discs, vogues, gold cc grill, white rag, gold buttons, and a gold fifth! Shit, all you need is some juice now!”

“Fuck juice!” Darius told him. “All that shit does is fuck up your ride. You know what I'm saying, Blood?”

“Yo mothafuckin' ass done came up, Blood!” Lil Fade told him. “This shit is lovely. Lovely!”

Darius turned the volume up on his car's stereo system, and the trunk began to rattle from the heavy bass notes.

“You need to get that shit checked,” Marcus shouted.

“Say, y'all niggaz is gonna have to show me y'all spot!” Lil Fade told them. “Shit, I wanna come up too!”

Darius turned toward Lil Fade and smiled. “Yeah, whatever, man.”

“Say, put in some mothafuckin' Scarface, man. Get that mothafuckin' whack-ass shit outta here.” Lil Fade ejected Darius' CD from the stereo, rolled down his window, and tossed the CD out onto the road. “Put in some mothafuckin' Texas shit. Some Scarface, UGK, Big Mike, Ghetto Boys, PSK, Terrorist, or some 4 Deep. Don't be playing no bullshit when I'm rolling with you!”

“Nigga, fuck you!” Darius shouted. “If you don't like my mothafuckin' music, you can get your ass out and walk!”

“Say, Blood, who did your shit?” Marcus asked Lil Fade.

“I had that little hood rat Tawanna braid it for me last night,” said Lil Fade.

“That shit is cleaner than a motherfucka,” Marcus told him.

Lil Fade lowered the side sun visor and examined himself in the mirror. His hair had been sectioned off into lots of neat, orderly squares, with red rubber bands at the roots of each section. The hair itself spiraled down into long, silky, sandy-colored Shirley Temple curls.

Suddenly a police siren sounded behind them.

Darius peered into his rear view mirror, and spied the red-and-blue lights of a police car, signaling for him to pull over.

“Fuck!” Darius banged on his steering wheel, and then turned down the stereo. He turned to Lil Fade. “You dirty?”

Lil Fade shook his head. “No, for the first time in my life. I ain't never got pulled over before and not have to bail. This shit ought to be fun.”

Darius threw his head back in laughter, and carefully pulled his car to the side of the road. The patrol car pulled up just behind them.

The officer seated on the passenger side walked to the rear passenger side of the Caddy, where he stood with his gloved hand resting on his service automatic. The driver approached Darius.

“I noticed that your music was kinda loud back there, that's why I pulled you over,” the officer told Darius. “Can I see your driver's license, and proof of insurance?”

Darius pulled out his wallet and gave the Bexar County Sheriff's Deputy what he wanted. The deputy walked back to his patrol car, climbed inside, and began running a check on Darius.

“Shit, is that all they be wanting?” Lil Fade asked.

The boys shared a laugh.

“Say, D,” Marcus called out. “Where in the hell did you get that fake-ass insurance from?”

Darius peered over his shoulder at Marcus. “Fuck you, nigga! My shit is real!”

An additional Bexar County Sheriff's Department patrol car arrived, and two more deputies climbed out and approached. The officer standing just behind the Cadillac held up four fingers. The new deputies nodded. One of them returned to their patrol car and immediately began to use the radio. The second continued on to Darius' car.

“Hi, how are you fellows today?” the deputy asked. “I'm Deputy Gomez, that gentleman behind the vehicle is Deputy Martinez, and his partner is Deputy Sergeant Fisk. My partner over there is Deputy Sergeant White. When Deputy Fisk stopped you, he kind of noticed that you guys were all wearing the same colors, and that your car stands out just a little. We've been having a lot of problems with gangs lately.” Deputy Gomez held up his hands. “Now, I'm not saying that you guys are gang members, but we would like to identify you for future reference. That way, we can make sure that you are not mistaken for gang members by other deputies. It won't take long; we're just going to ask you some questions and have you do a few things for us. It's for your safety and ours, and it will make things go a whole lot faster for us.”

Gomez looked up; White exited his patrol car and nodded. Gomez stepped back, and pulled open Darius' car door.

“I need for you to exit the vehicle for me, please,” he told Darius and Marcus.

White walked to the passenger side of the vehicle, asking Lil Fade and Travon to exit the vehicle, one by one.

Gomez pointed to a spot in the grass next to the road. “Could you lie down here for me?” he asked Darius. Gomez turned to Marcus. “I need for you to get out and lie down over here in the grass next to your buddy.”

Fisk exited his patrol car and briskly walked over to the others.

Gomez turned to his partner. “Could you bring those two over here for me, Sarge?”

White led Travon and Lil Fade to where Darius and Marcus were lying in the grass and motioned for them to join their buddies. Then each deputy searched one of the boys.

“Clear,” White announced.

“Clear,” Martinez followed.

“He's clear,” Fisk told the others.

“Clear over here,” Gomez declared. He clapped his hands together, to get the boys' attention. “Okay, good. Listen up, guys. The hard part is all over with, so you can sit up now. That way you don't have to be lying in all that itchy grass.”

White patted Gomez on his back. “Good work, Gomez.”

Fisk cleared his throat. “You boys have been cooperating nicely, and everything is going along smoothly. We need to ask you a favor now. Which one of you is Darius?”

“I am.” Darius lifted his hand into the air.

“Can we have your permission to search your vehicle?” Fisk asked.

Darius shrugged. “I don't care.”

“Just hurry the fuck up!” Lil Fade told them.

Fisk lifted a finger toward Lil Fade. “Don't start.”

“Are we under arrest?” Lil Fade.

“Look, man, just be cool,” Gomez told Lil Fade. “We've been cool with you, so just be cool with us. We haven't handcuffed you, stuck you in the back of a squad car, or anything.”

Lil Fade smacked his lips and turned away.

Two Bexar County Sheriff's Department Ford Explorers and two all-white unmarked Crown Victorias with tinted windows pulled up. Out came a dog, a dog handler, two men in suits, and ten more deputies.

“Shit!” Lil Fade looked down and began shaking his head. “I knew I should have bailed.”

“Who bagged?” one of the suited gentlemen asked Fisk.

“Me and Martinez, but Gomez got the lead, because he's got the rap.”

The suited gentleman turned toward the other suit, and they began whispering. After several moments, they turned and approached a deputy with numerous stripes on his uniform. The three of them conversed in private for several moments, before turning and heading toward the boys.

The handler began running his dog through Darius' vehicle, and three of the uniformed deputies began to search the inside of the vehicle as well.

“I'm Special Agent Riley, and this is Special Agent Danforth, and we're part of the local Federal Gang Task Force,” the suited agent informed Darius. “We're here to ask you boys some questions and get some general information from you. We'll need your name, date of birth, nicknames, street name, place of residency, the name of your gang, and we'll be checking for scars, birthmarks, tattoos, and things of that nature. We'll also need to know what that body art means, when you guys joined the gang, where the gang is located, and we'll also be taking your fingerprints as well.”

“G.T.F. One, what is your location and status?” the dispatcher inquired over the crackling radio.

Special Agent Riley lifted his radio to his mouth. “Houston and Coliseum, over.”

“G.T.F. One, PC Fifty-two has five possible pulled over at the Diamond Shamrock on W.W. White Road, just north of Interstate Thirty-five, what's your ETA, over?”

“Ahhh, negative on that ETA, Dispatch,” Agent Riley replied. “We'll be about another thirty minutes on this one, over.”

“Roger, G.T.F. One,” Dispatch replied. “Will dispatch G.T.F. Four, out.”

“We'll head over and assist Fifty-two until Four arrives,” Fisk told the other deputies.

Deputy Dominguez, the one with all the stripes, nodded and patted Fisk on his shoulder. “Roger that, and good bag, guys. We got us two knowns here. I know Darius and Lil Fade already, so it's just a matter of adding the other two to the file. Good work.”

Fisk and Martinez climbed inside of their patrol car, and slowly pulled away, quickly followed by White and Gomez. Deputy Dominguez turned toward the Federal Agents and waved for them to approach.

“Riley, could you and Danforth come over here for a minute,” Dominguez said. The Federal Agents walked around the Cadillac and approached the waiting senior deputy. Dominguez gathered them close, wrapping his arms around them and enveloping them into a whispering huddle.

“I know two of the boys,” he informed them. “They are definite BSV's, which is a well-known faction of the Bloods. The other two boys, we'll just have to tag and release, and then we're outta here. Judging by the dress, they are in all probability also affiliated with the Bloods, so this one looks like it'll be pretty easy.”

“Good.” Danforth nodded.

“Do we have complete files on the two knowns?” Riley asked.

“Yep. They've been banging for a long time. They should be in the high-level, active files.”

Danforth shifted his gaze toward the boys. “Shit, we got us a couple of One Alphas here!”

“This ought to be exciting,” Riley added.

Dominguez wanted to call them idiots, but professional courtesy prevented him from doing so.

“So, what's the plan?” Danforth asked. “Are we going to go with the good cop-bad cop routine?”

Dominguez squinted as he examined the agent. “So, did you attend Boston College on a scholarship?

Danforth shook his head. “No, my parents paid for it. Why?”

Dominguez shook his head. “No reason. Just wondering if my tax dollars paid for it. No need for any routine.”

Deputy Dominguez was a plump, rough-and-tough, dark-skinned Hispanic who had worked the streets of San Antonio for more than twenty years. He knew the streets and the players like he knew the back of his hand. He was a veteran, and a professional.

“Lil Fade, stand up for me, and take your shirt off!” Dominguez barked. He waved his hand around like a conductor at a symphony as he gave his orders. “You too, Darius. And hurry it up; I don't wanna be here all day.”

Dominguez shifted his eyes toward Travon and Marcus. “You two youngsters do the same.”

Danforth and Riley stood just behind Dominguez, hanging on the veteran's every word.

“Turn around!” Dominguez told the boys. He approached Lil Fade.

“Shit!” Lil Fade smacked his lips, and reluctantly turned around.

Dominguez began to point at Lil Fade's heavily tattooed torso, as if he were a professor at a medical school. “See the red eyeball, with these red tattooed tears coming out of it? These stand for their fallen comrades.”

The words tattooed above the red eyeball read:
Tattooed tears, for the homies that ain't here.

Dominguez smiled pointing to an adjacent tattoo on Lil Fade's albino torso. “This blue eye, with these blue tattooed teardrops, stand for the murders that this kid has committed.”

Danforth's and Riley's eyes walked down Lil Fade's back, as they counted teardrops. When finally they reached the bottom of the tattoo murder scorecard, they could do nothing more than gasp.

“Shit!” Danforth exclaimed. He'd counted nineteen blue ones, and thirteen red ones. “Why in the hell is this kid
not
behind bars?”

Dominguez smiled again. “There are a lot of reasons, one of which you just named. Our juvenile system sucks, and it is overwhelmed. We have no direct evidence on any of them, or almost no evidence. The witnesses won't testify, and the ones that do never show back up. They either get killed, their houses get shot up, or someone in their family gets killed, and they suddenly lose their memories. Some of the murders were done in Houston, Dallas, Austin, and other places. Some are still open murder cases. Besides, I'm Gang Unit, not Homicide, so you'll have to ask those guys.”