Hot Flash (25 page)

C
HAPTER
26

D
ulcey swore to whale the twins' behinds if they did not settle down. Her threats fell on their deaf ears and nearly blew my eardrums out before she said hello. The twins' screeches faded as I supposed Dulcey left their presence.

“I should be your backup, girl,” she said.

“You should be right where you are. As long as I know the girls are safe and Travis is safe in the hospital, I can operate. Besides, I got Calvin watching my back.”

“You sound so calm.” Dulcey sighed in approval, then continued, “Can't remember when you've sounded so clear. It's almost scary, girl.”

“I'm clear on what I need to do to get Reecey back.”

“You want to talk to the girls?”

“Enough talking will be going on when this is over.” My body heated up with every word. “Damn these flashes.”

“I told you, embrace them, girl. It'll make the journey a lot smoother.”

“Ain't nothing smooth about the journey I'm on right now.”

After I clicked off from Dulcey, I went outside on Calvin's deck off the kitchen area, which offered a magnificent city view. I lingered rail-side admiring Philly from above before turning my attention to Calvin. He straddled a lounge chair with his head back, stargazing. I sat at the end of the chair and followed his gaze.

“Big Dipper,” he said, pointing skyward. “Bear.” He put his arm down and pulled me back so I rested against his chest. The strain of what lay ahead fell away.

“I told you Jesse always had this rotten fish odor stuck to him. Well, his daddy constantly belittled him, as did everybody else—except Kelvin. Kelvin fought anyone who messed with the boy, 'cept his daddy. Jesse hated Kelvin”—he hesitated—“Laughton . . . because Mr. Boone took Laughton as the favorite. An old story for a different family.”

“But you said you didn't know Laughton before now.”

“I didn't know Laughton was Kelvin Boone, so I didn't know Laughton, I knew Kelvin. Lives splinter, folks go their ways, come back, go another way. Kelvin acted crazier than Jesse. Kelvin always kept his killer expression on. He killed a boy with his fists behind Jesse's mess, Maxwell Perry, the schoolyard bully. One day, Perry was relentlessly picking on Jesse and would not pay attention to Kelvin's threats. Kelvin knocked me out when I tried to stop him from beating Perry to death. Daddy Boone sent him away to boarding school, or so the story went. And, well, Jesse grew up to be Jesse.”

“And you?”

“I had my own demons. I went into the service at seventeen to get away.” His voice became low and hard. “They trained me.”

“Special Forces?”

“Nothing special about being trained to kill.”

“You'd think the past, after so long, wouldn't have such a strong hold on you. Years pass, you'd think it would turn you loose, turn me loose,” I said.

“The past doesn't let you go, baby. You gotta let the past go. Deal with it and move on.”

I sat up and turned to face him. “My dad used to say, ‘Everything comes out in the wash.' It's such a cliché, but spot-on.”

“Your problem is, nobody ever told you the truth, or you shut the truth out.”

“I guess it's more about me shutting it out.” I twisted back around and rested against his chest again. “I figured it'd be worse than lies. All these years, Reecey's been holding everything in and I've called what I've been doing ‘helping her.' We've been so close and so far apart at the same time.”

“You can't blame yourself.”

“I shoulda known about troubles. Instead, I got hung up in my career. I shoulda had Laughton's back. Instead I stopped trusting him. I shoulda stayed on John until he told me what he knew. I shoulda told Travis the truth. I shoulda seen through Cap. I shoulda faced my own demons.”

“Stop.” Calvin squeezed me. “You did what you could. Now you're going to do what you can.” He stood up and swung his leg over my head. “C'mon,” he said, pulling me up.

I followed him into his bedroom and into a walk-in closet about a quarter the size of the bedroom. He tapped four times on the upper corner of the back wall and it slid sideways, exposing another smaller room. A variety of weapons hung on three walls and a large black metal footlocker took up most of the floor space. He twirled the knob of the combination lock on the footlocker back and forth and lifted the top. First, he handled a Glock Model 22 and set it on the floor. Then he pulled out a shoulder holster and slid in a Smith & Wesson Bodyguard .38 and tossed it to me.

“They'll search you, take your gun away. He'd suspect something if you walked in naked.” He smiled.

Other weapons in the footlocker included an AK47 7.62X39MM with a thirty-round magazine, Bushmaster, XM Basic Tactical Turbine, S & W MP, 308 Win gas-operated, twenty-round capacity, Heckler & Koch MP 5 9 mm sub-machine gun that fired in single shots or three-round bursts or full auto at eight hundred rounds per minute. This machine gun was developed especially for the Navy Seals, as it fired from a closed bolt-barrel 8.85 inches long. All “badass” impressive. Weapons on the wall included a collection of antique pistols, some revolvers, and some single shots.

“Impressive.”

“I'm a weapons specialist of a different sort.” He closed the lid and pulled me to him. “I'll show you mine, you show me yours.”

His lips glided over my neck, cheeks, eyes, and nose. He leaned back and let his finger dance over my lips. I reached up and pressed him closer, wanting his lips, his tongue, and fighting the lions of guilt because of it.

“I can't.”

He touched his finger to my lips, then lifted me up and carried me to his bed. I lay nestled in his arms, listening to his heartbeat and absorbing courage.

“Jesse will be waiting with four or five men. He'll try to blindside you, make you powerless so he can brutalize you, then make you beg for your life and your sister's life . . . if she's still alive.”

“She's alive.”

“Baby, you have to be prepared for all of the possibilities.”

“She's alive.”

Three hours later I drove down Broad Street in North Philly pass the Uptown Theater and made a right to West Fifty-first Street. The Uptown Theater was a major venue for the chitlin' circuit from about 1951 to 1978. Comedians such as Redd Foxx and Flip Wilson performed there, as did just about every R&B group of that era, including James Brown, Ray Charles, Stevie Wonder, and The Supremes. I had not been to this side of Philly in years and was shocked at the change. What once had been a center of black culture and music, also frequented by jazz greats like John Coltrane and Stan Getz, was now one of the most dangerous areas in Philadelphia.

The address at American and Susquehanna Street was a five-story abandoned brick factory building. A D
UNGAN
, H
OOD, AND
C
OMPANY
sign, though barely readable, still hung across the top of the building. The names of old industrialists, such as Gratz, Poth, Bouvier, and Schmidt, still adorned many of the signs on other empty buildings in the Kensington Mill District, once the world's largest manufacturer of textiles and the pride of Philadelphia. Now it had the distinction of being the haven of junkies.

A brisk wind whipped street signs around. Dark thunderclouds glided across the sky, and the early hour colored everything gray. In my head, I heard Rod Serling's drone, “You have just entered
The Twilight Zone
.” I parked across the street from the Dungan, Hood Building and waited, trying to detect any movement in the building or outside area. I checked my gun, sucked in a deep breath, and got out. The hum of my breathing and the swoosh of my Nike Air Maxes every time I stepped down on the pavement heightened the eeriness. I carried sneakers in the trunk for special occasions such as this.

I stopped at the door and checked the surroundings to catch sight of Calvin. He was nowhere to be seen. He said he would be watching, ready. I whispered a short prayer before pushing on the heavy metal door. It did not budge. I applied a full-body push on the second go-round. The scraping of metal on metal and the door banging the inside wall from the force of my weight foiled my planned surprise approach.

Inside, my eyes took a few moments to adjust to the dark, but not before my nose caved to the smells of funk, urine, mold, and crap. It made me gag, then forced me forward, giving up Calvin's luscious salmon meal. My Nikes caught much of the splatter.

Though it was earlier than the 2:00 a.m. designated time, I expected one of Jesse's men to be on the lookout. I moved around the lower level until I pushed open a door that led into a large, open area, the main factory floor for textile goods.

A swishing noise made me spin around with my gun drawn—and then blackness.

Jesse's voice poked at me, bringing me to consciousness.

“Some rescuer.” He spat and I felt the wetness on my arm. He pressed his foot into my rib cage, willing me fully awake. “Well, well, here we are again. Where's the money?” He shoved harder with his foot and turned me over.

My head was blazing. Blood coated my fingers when I took them away from where he or one of his men had clobbered me. We were in a large room with no windows. I caught sight of Nareece, lying facedown on a dirty mattress in the far corner of the room. She was half-naked and bloodied, her hands and feet bound. Jesse followed my gaze.

“She's alive. Now, where's the money?”

“She's bleeding. Let me go to her.”

“Go ahead. Take your ass over there and check her out.” He motioned to one of the two men who were in the room with us. The man moved toward me and grabbed me by the hair to pull me up.

I kicked him in the groin on the way up. He released my hair and bent over, grabbing himself. An uppercut to the jaw sent him reeling backward and moaning on the floor.

I heard the trigger cock on the other man's gun.

“Don't shoot,” Jesse yelled. “Not yet.” He laughed and motioned for me to go to Nareece. “Move.” He followed behind me. “She's good for nothing . . . never was . . . but she's alive. I said I wouldn't kill her. Didn't say I wouldn't make her wish she was dead,” he scoffed.

When I turned her over, I saw that Nareece was bruised over her face and body and reeked of Jesse's fish smell. She was barely breathing.

“Now, where's the money?”

“It's in my trunk.”

“Give him the keys.” He motioned toward another man, whom I threw my keys to. “Now, sit,” Jesse said, waving his gun toward me. “Leave her be.”

I ignored him and untied Nareece's hands and feet. I checked her breathing again, then took off my jacket and covered her.

“It didn't have to be like this. She coulda had everything,” he snarled, waving the gun in Nareece's direction. “She just couldn't get over that I ordered your old man hit, simple bastard.”

His words pierced my senses.

“What did my father do to you?”

“He threatened me—told my father to
make
me leave his little girl alone. I hated my father all my life and you're going to tell on me? Like I gave a fuck. And this stupid bitch wants to punish me by stealing junk and cash that belongs to my old man. As much as I loved her, if word got out that I let her get away . . . He stayed on me, and stayed on me, till I couldn't take his bullshit anymore. I enjoyed killing my old man.” Jesse paced, still waving the gun around. “Where the hell is Mumford? Check it out,” he commanded another man.

I got up.

“Sit down!” Jesse yelled.