Hard Candy (9 page)

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Authors: Amaleka McCall

BOOK: Hard Candy
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Avon, in knee-jerk reaction, overreacted and let off a single shot. The boy died later that day at the hospital. There was a huge public fallout. Everyone in the city wanted Avon's head on a platter; firing him wasn't going to be enough. Avon was ultimately vindicated of any wrongdoing because he was able to articulate his perceived threat—the boy could've just as easily had a gun—but his name was forever tarnished by the incident.
To restore his good name, Avon volunteered to go undercover into the dangerous world of Junior Carson's crew. Avon needed to bring Junior and his connect down. He couldn't afford for this case to slip through his fingers or for anything or anyone to get in his way. It wasn't just his reputation on the line; it was his job as well.
Chapter 5
Shana slid into the opposite side of the restaurant's booth where Candice already sat nursing a tall glass of raspberry lemonade.
Candice immediately looked at Shana with a suspicious eye.
Dark shades indoors. Hmm!
“W'sup, girl?” Shana huffed, her breath causing her nose to flare in and out.
“Why you so out of breath?”
“I was rushing here from the car. I didn't want to keep you waiting. I know how people hate to wait.” Shana's breathing slowed down as she began to relax.
“People or Broady?”
“Whoever,” Shana snapped back.
“Anyway, how've you been in the past two weeks?” Candice asked, looking directly at Shana's shades.
“Girl, shit is still fucked up around the way. And at my house, forget it. If you thought Broady was acting up when Razor went missing, try thinking about how this nigga is acting after the detectives went to Razor baby mother's crib and told her they found his mutilated body.” Shana's right leg shook under the table as she brought Candice up to date.
Candice suddenly started coughing. Some of her lemonade had gone down the wrong side of her esophagus and just so happened to be right on cue with Shana's revelation.
“Damn, girl! You a'ight?” Shana asked, leaning forward with concern.
“Yeah, I'm good. Went down the wrong pipe,” Candice gasped, patting her chest.
“Like I was saying,” Shana started again, her eyes round as marbles as she looked around the restaurant, then leaned in closer to whisper, “Yhey found Razor dead off on the New Jersey Turnpike near Exit Seven A, close to Great Adventure. Over there, where they have all those bushes and shit. Someplace nobody woulda never thought to look.” Shana's eyes darted around the restaurant.
Candice wanted so badly to tell Shana that details about bushes and highway exits were unnecessary and to just get the hell on with the story, but she nodded encouragingly, hoping that would do the trick.
“I heard Broady saying that whoever killed Razor had cut off the nigga hands and feet and most of his teeth was pulled the fuck out. It was only by DNA tests that they identified him. Good thing the last time Razor got locked up they had just started that taking DNA samples shit in jail. Can you believe some crazy, deranged bastard would do something like that?” Shana prattled on.
Candice softened her facial expression and feigned sympathy. “That is a gotdamn shame. And he had a kid? These niggas are ruthless over drug territory,” she commented, shaking her head.
“I'm telling you, this shit here has got Broady buggin',” Shana said, relaxing back into the tight leather cushion of the booth.
“That's why you got on those shades, huh?”
Shana's body stiffened, and her leg stopped vibrating underneath the table. She folded her arms across her chest. “Look, Candy, I know you think I'm stupid for sticking around with Broady, but you wouldn't understand. He has a bad temper, yes, and when it's bad, it's bad with us. But, on the same token, when it's good, it's good. A girl like me that comes from nothing, I gotta take what I can get.” Shana lowered her eyes. She could feel the heat of embarrassment rising up her chest and settling on her cheeks.
Candice immediately felt bad for making Shana feel small. The girl had few options in her life, and Candice shouldn't have been so hard on her.
“I may not fully understand everything, Shana, but you should never let a man make you think that a little bit of good can make up for a lot of bad. Nothing he says or does can make up for the black eyes and bruises. If you don't get out of there soon, your life itself may be at risk.”
Shana was struck silent by the reality slap she'd just received. She knew Candice was right. Silence fell between them like a lead anvil dropped in the center of the table.
Shana lifted her shades from the bridge of her nose to swipe at the tears falling from her eyes, and Candice caught a quick glimpse of the part purple, part black-and-blue rimming around the bottom of Shana's eye.
Candice wiggled her toes uncomfortably in her shoes and flexed her jaw. She would make sure that, when she was ready, she would have a special dose of evil for Broady's ass.
“I'm sorry for crying, Candy,” Shana said, breaking the awkward silence. “We're supposed to be here to kick it, not run rehearsal for some
Dr. Phil
episode.” She inhaled deeply and then exhaled. “Okay, I feel better. Enough about my life,” she announced in her usually bubbly, high-pitched baby voice, a half smile on her lips.
“So you were telling me about the Razor situation,” Candice reminded her.
“Oh yeah. So, anyway, whoever killed him wanted him to suffer. The medical examiner people said all that cutting shit was done to him before he was dead. Girl, can you imagine somebody taking your fuckin' teeth outta your mouth one by one while you just sit there alive and screaming? Candy, they woulda had to use a gotdamn pliers and force those teeth out. Can you picture all the blood from them cutting through his wrists to get his hands cut off? He could've bled to death, but the killers ain't give him a chance. The real cause of death was bullets to the back of the head.” Shana placed her hand over her mouth as if she was holding back vomit, just thinking about it.
Candice took a long gulp from her lemonade, feeling nauseous as well.
“The funeral is supposed to be this Friday. Of course, Broady and I will be hosting the after-funeral food and shit at our house. Razor's family is type broke, and his baby mother ain't got shit but whatever Razor was giving her. This shit is going to definitely be off the fuckin' chain.”
“I bet it is,” Candice commented, ideas whizzing through her mind like cars at the Indy 500.
Tuck and Junior sat across from Phil and Dray, their uptown equivalents in the drug game. Phil lifted his glass of Cîroc and Coke and sipped the liquid relief. He'd heard Junior out, but now it was his turn. Slamming his glass down, Phil looked at Junior quizzically.
“Really, bee? Do you hear yourself? Y'all motherfuckers got it fucked up. You think a nigga like me”—Phil placed an open palm on his chest and hit himself gently—“at my level, would actually kidnap your mans and fuck him over like that?”
“I'm sayin', son, we just don't know who else would go in on a nigga like that for no-ass reason at all.”
Phil cocked his huge, misshapen rock head to the side and furrowed his eyebrows, trying to figure out what exactly he was being accused of. He leaned all the way back in his chair, as if he didn't even want to be in the same breathing space as Junior.
Phil's right-hand man intervened before things got out of hand. “C'mon, Junior, man, we ain't on it like that, bee. We ain't got no fuckin' beef over territory. That shit don't even sound right. I'm sayin', your brother damn near slapped Phil's wife in the fuckin' face, and as bad as we wanted to get at that nigga, we let that shit ride off the strength of the peace shit we been on after we split up Easy's pie. We coulda brought that shit to that nigga straight up. You know fuckin' with a nigga's family, especially his woman, hands down, is a sure way to die out here in these streets.” Dray punched the palm of his left hand with his right fist to emphasize his point. “We laid low on it and didn't get on some ol' bullshit. Feel me? This was weeks ago. Why the fuck would we start buggin' out of nowhere now?” Spittle flew from Dray's mouth like sparks of fire while he made his point. “Trust, we definitely ain't no delayed-reaction-type niggas. Feel me?”
Junior's face paled, and his lips curled downwards. He thought his ears were deceiving him. He shifted in his chair and furtively balled his fists under the table. Dray's words felt like a powerful slap in his face. His right eye immediately started twitching, and a huge green vein emerged through his high-yellow skin and throbbed fiercely at his temple.
Tuck interjected when he noticed Junior was at a real loss for words, “Wait. Whatchu mean?” This little nugget of information made Tuck's heart rate speed up just as much as Junior's.
“Oh, what? Y'all niggas gon' try da act like y'all ain't know about that shit?” Dray asked, his eyebrows arched high with surprise.
Junior wanted to just push his chair back from the small card table and storm out of Phil's makeshift office, but he still had to pass through Phil's barbershop to get out of the building, so the embarrassment would've been even more evident if he tried to run from the situation.
Junior had little choice but to be honest now. He cleared the lump that sat at the back of his throat. “I was out of town. I don't think my brother mentioned it to me.”
“Yeah, that nigga Broady and his little posse of fake-ass thugs was up here partying with some knucklehead uptown niggas that we don't even fuck with. Ba'y bro' was way the fuck out of his league up here, kno' mean, bee? My wife told me he tried to holla at her.” Phil's voice rose an octave. “Grabbed up on her and shit.”
“I'm sayin', how she know it was Broady?” Junior interjected in a last-ditch effort to clear his brother's name.
“C'mon, bee. Ain't too many people that don't know Broady. Plus, my lady recognized him from that function of yours we attended last summer in the Hamptons. And she don't never forget a face. I'm sayin', who wouldn't recognize that big, loud, rowdy-ass nigga?” Phil said, making a point to slip his insult in, putting Junior on the defensive. “Like I was sayin', bee. He touched up on her and shit, and when she refused him, he put his hands in her face and mushed her real hard. One of them threw a drink on her and shit too. My peoples around the way told me the hit almost knocked her to the ground. That's how my shawty described it to me too. When she bucked on that nigga, his dude—the one you sayin' is dead now—got all up in her grill. She was outmanned by two faggot-ass niggas in my book. When she told me, I started to buck on a nigga, kno' mean, but out of respect for you, the little peace shit we been on since Easy got murked, I let it ride.” Phil's baritone voice was booming.
Junior knew Phil wasn't lying to him.
“Trust, I wanted to send you that nigga in a body bag, Junior, but I got respect for you and this game. War ain't on my agenda.” Phil was breaking eye contact with Junior, letting him know the meeting was over.
Junior had come there with the intention of shutting Phil down, but Phil put him in his place.
“A'ight, man. Don't take it no way. I'm good with your word that you ain't reach out and touch Razor. I'ma talk to my brother too.” Junior stood up from the table.
As if given a stage cue, all of the men stood up too. Tuck reached out and fist-bumped Dray, then Phil.
Junior reluctantly did the same. He hated to feel powerless in any situation. His insides roiled. He couldn't wait to lay hands on his baby brother.
“Yeah, man. Just talk to your li'l dude Broady and shit.” Phil placed his hand on Junior's shoulder.
Junior felt like Phil was trying to school him in the game, and didn't like it one bit.
As they exited Phil's little office space and started through the barbershop, a tall, lanky boy bounded toward them, interrupting their fast stride.
“Whoa, whoa, little nigga! Slow down,” Phil said, putting his hands in front of him.
The boy stopped but impatiently bounced on the balls of his feet, appearing to be in a feverish rush. “Phil, can I have two hun'ed dollars? I got a hun'ed myself . . . and those new Pradas came out today.”
“Mello, you are twelve. What the hell you need with three-hun'ed-dollar sneakers?” Phil asked, laughing because he knew he was about to dig deep and give his little brother whatever he asked for.
As mad as he was, Junior smiled at the conversation. He could remember when Broady was younger and begging him for money for new Jordans or the latest gaming system. Junior always hooked his brother up because he knew his mother wouldn't do it. He felt a pang of jealousy at Phil's relationship with his little brother. He missed the days when Broady was a teenage boy interested in only girls, basketball, and clothes. He realized he had turned his brother into a monster by allowing him to get involved in the game.
“A'ight, son. Sorry again about the misunderstanding. Handle your business with li'l man right here,” Junior said to Phil, smiling at Phil's little brother.
“Thanks, bee.” Phil chuckled. “You know how it is. These li'l niggas gotta always be stylin'.”
Junior nodded.
Phil said to Junior, “And listen . . . don't even worry about the misunderstanding and shit. I'll even send flowers to that nigga Razor's funeral.”
With that, Junior crossed the threshold of the barbershop and headed toward his whip.
“Stay up,” Tuck commented as he exited the barbershop behind Junior. Tuck's mind whizzed like a motherfucker now. If Phil didn't order Razor's murder, who did?

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