Hard Candy Saga (8 page)

“You mean Corey Jackson, don't you?”

“Whatever you want to call him, man. Razor went missing unexpectedly. It was out of nowhere. I was with them one day, partying, the usual shit, and then
Boom!
He was gone.” Avon snapped his fingers.

Avon had been working with Brad Brubaker for four years now and knew how to handle him. They'd both been through hell and back together. The men were, after all was said and done, friends.

“I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to be all up your ass, but you know his disappearance has had headquarters asking questions about your operation,” Brad explained.

“You know what? Fuck headquarters! I'm the one undercover every day, risking my life out here. I'm living with these motherfuckers, rubbing elbows with them, wearing a wire against my balls! So don't tell me what headquarters thinks or is gonna say.”

Avon swiped the hoodie off of his head and rubbed his bald head with his free hand, gripping his weapon with the other. Razor was one of his major targets. He knew that Broady was looking to go to war over Razor's disappearance, which had him very distressed. He couldn't afford for that to happen. It would completely fuck up his career.

“Don't shoot the messenger. This shit just stinks. If the local yokels get involved and start getting their own ‘Keystone' narcos into this, it could fuck up all these months of work.”

Avon knew Brad was absolutely right. He was painfully aware that any little bump in the road caused the bigwigs at the Drug Enforcement Administration, his current employer, to get their drawers in a bunch. He'd been there, done that. He knew what it was like working for the government, where the bureaucrats accentuated anything negative and played down the positive. Politics ran most government agencies, and that was just a fact of life Avon had to accept.

“Tell those suits up in the glass offices to calm the fuck down and just give me a chance. I'm this fuckin' close to finding out who the connect is that Junior took over after Easy Hardaway was murdered.” Avon came close to putting the tips of his index finger and thumb together, trying to make his point. “This missing person's case is just a bump in the road. I doubt if anybody else will come up missing.”

Avon was asking for more time, but he wasn't sure if it was so he could do more work or just so he could stay under longer. This undercover persona and lifestyle were all he knew right now. He didn't feel like he'd ever live a normal life again. Junior and his crew had become like his second family. He had days where he totally lost sight of his mission and lived completely as Tuck—his undercover street persona. He hadn't spoken to his wife in a month of Sundays, which he justified by telling himself it was too dangerous to make contact. And so he continued to live the life of Tuck—a single, drug-dealing lieutenant in Junior Carson's illegal army.

“I can buy you some time, but not much. This kind of shit can't happen, Tucker.” Brad prepared to exit the vehicle. They were already over the fifteen minutes alloted to their undercover/case agent meeting.

“A'ight, Brubaker, I got it,” Avon said, exasperated. He was anxious to leave.

“Oh yeah, I saw Elaina and the kids. They're doing well. She says you haven't called. You might want to get in touch your wife.” Brad gave him a serious look.

“Thanks. You go find a woman and invite me to your wedding. Until then, let me handle my situation with my wife and kids. You keep your bosses at bay so I can make this fuckin' case. After our fuckup, we both need this to work out. I think you'd agree with me there.”

Standing up now, Brad stuck his head back into the car door for a quick minute. “By the way, just in case you forgot, your name is Avon Tucker, not just Tuck. You are an undercover DEA agent. You don't really work for Junior Carson. You have a wife and two kids that love you. So those girls you have hanging off your neck every night that you may even be fucking, they're all part of this act. This Lexus, that diamond necklace, and the money in your pocket belong to the federal government.”

Avon squinted his eyes into little dashes and gazed at Brad with contempt. Brad's words stung him like an angry swarm of yellow jackets.

“Just thought I'd remind you.” Brad slammed the door.

* * *

When Avon Tucker was ten years old, the New York City chief of police had handed him a folded American flag amid a flood of flashing camera lights. Avon felt a stomach-sickening mix of emotions, grief and pride among them, of course. He reached his small arms out and accepted the triangular folded material and pressed it up against his small chest. The flag had just come off his father's mahogany casket.

Avon remembered the sun burning his eyes as he tried to look up at his mother's wet face. Her body was shaking with sobs as a chunky older woman belted out a soul-stirring rendition of “Amazing Grace.”

Holding his flag with one arm, Avon reached out and grabbed his mother's hand. A wet, crumpled piece of tissue clutched in her palm prevented the skin-to-skin contact he craved. Nonetheless, he would take what he could get at that moment. He squeezed her hand tightly and closed his eyes, wanting to see his father one more time.

When Avon had received the news of what happened, he couldn't even cry. It didn't seem real to him.

As the gunshots echoed into the air, Avon could still hear the words his mother had spoken to him the night before: “Avon, you're the man of the house now.” It was a role Avon Tucker accepted with pride.

Months after his father's funeral, when all of the media coverage of the “Undercover Narcotics Detective Shot Dead in a Buy-and-Bust” had died down and extended family and friends finally stopped visiting and returned to their normal lives, Avon and his family got less donations and fewer calls from his father's police peers and the public at large. Eventually, the money ran out.

Avon's mother had always been a stay-at-home mom, his father insisting that he be the only breadwinner. After his death, with only ten years of service, his father's pension was barely enough to provide for Avon, his mother, and two sisters.

To keep his family above the poverty line, Avon started working odd jobs at fourteen years old. After many stints in summer school, he finally graduated high school. Avon enrolled at John Jay College of Criminal Justice only to collect from the Children of Fallen Officers College Fund and the surplus tuition assistance from Pell and TAP.

Although he had never done well in high school, college had somehow seemed a lot easier to him. Perhaps the fact that he found his courses interesting was what made the difference. Avon completed his bachelor's degree in criminal justice in three and a half years. Though he chose to study criminal justice, he had been vehemently against entering the law enforcement field. His father's death in the line of duty had vanquished any such aspiration in that area. Yet, a lingering curiosity prevented him from completely dismissing the idea.

As he prepared for graduation, Avon desperately needed to find a job. There would be no more PELL and TAP checks to help pay the mounting bills at home. So it seemed like fate when he just happened to be passing through the large auditorium-style room where a job fair was being held. He had taken the route as a shortcut to his career advisor's office.

As he rushed through the exhibitor tables, he was waylaid by an African American recruiter from the Drug Enforcement Administration. “Hey, young brother, let me talk to you for a minute,” the recruiter called out.

“Nah, not interested,” Avon grumbled and brushed past the man. The name of the agency alone was a big turnoff.

Avon made it to his career advisor's office with seconds to spare. He slung his backpack on the floor and slumped down in the chair in front of Ms. Bender's desk. His advisor was a skinny old white woman who smelled like mothballs and looked like the crypt keeper from
Tales from the Crypt
.

She looked over Avon with her icy blue eyes and unfolded her wrinkled, liver-spotted hands. “Well, Mr. Tucker, I have reviewed your records. There are not many options for a student with barely a two-point-five GPA and a major in criminal justice. The private industry bigwigs recruit from us, but they only want the magna and summa cum laude graduates.”

Avon rolled his eyes in disgust. He'd always believed that college was one big-ass hustle, anyway.

“There is always the military or some police force somewhere.” Ms. Bender laid her hands flat on top of his file like she was offering it its last rites.

Avon rolled his eyes and hoisted his bag up off the floor in a flustered huff, affronted that Ms. Bender would even suggest a police force, especially since his father's picture hung in memoriam in John Jay's main building, along with those of hundreds of other fallen officers. Avon wanted to slap the shit out of the old woman, but instead he stomped out of the office without looking back.

He left with a heavy mind, recounting his mother's words from earlier that morning. “The house is in threat of foreclosure.” Preoccupied with thoughts of his future, he nearly ran headfirst into the same DEA recruiter.

“Hey, my brother, just stop by for a half a minute. Trust me, this career ain't like regular police work. You're not going to be walking a beat and running down crackheads. It's one of the only government careers where you can make six figures in five short years,” the recruiter spouted.

Avon turned his full attention to the eager recruiter. The man had said the magic words.

When Avon returned home that day, he told his mother of his intention to join the DEA as a special agent. She was visibly shaken and upset and pleaded with him to reconsider. And Avon explained to her that it wouldn't be like the narcotics unit where his father worked.

But that wasn't entirely the truth. Avon had omitted to tell his mother that he would be going undercover, conducting buy-and-busts, and rubbing elbows with dangerous drug dealers, to spare her the worry.

Avon completed his training and graduated, for the first time in his life, at the top of his class. His career began rather successfully. He was living the life, cracking drug cases like a pro. Within his first two years as an agent, he had won several prestigious awards and was viewed in his field office as a “golden boy.”

Avon's career took a turn for the worse, however, when, during a drug raid on the home of a well-known drug dealer, he accidentally shot a fifteen-year-old boy. Unfortunately, the DEA's confidential informant had provided the wrong address.

When Avon's unit rammed the door of the home and entered tactically, there was a lot of screaming and running. As they worked to clear the house, he and Brad Brubaker searched the back rooms to make sure everyone was accounted for. In one of the bedrooms, Avon could hear someone breathing hard in the closet.

Brubaker put his fingers to his lips to indicate silence, and the two approached the closet on deft feet. Brubaker pulled back the closet door for Avon to clear, and a young boy jumped out with a black crowbar raised in his hand.

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.

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, “They 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?

* * *

Rock sat at the table with all of his armorer's tools laid out in order of smallest to largest. Sweat caused his reading glasses to slide down the bridge of his nose. He carefully picked up one small steel piece, held it close to his eyes, examined the end of it, and fitted it with another piece of steel that he held like a fragile piece of crystal.

Rock was careful and deliberate, like an artist or sculptor working on his next great piece of work. He had been at the table for several hours already. His back ached, and he had endured at least three coughing attacks. Nothing could interrupt his concentration when he was working like this. Not even his burning insides.

A few more pieces and he'd be done. He picked up a spongy piece of cloth and rubbed the metal until it shined.