Murder in Germantown (7 page)

“
You fucked up, man. Bad. Naturally, you’re more than nothing because you are everything to me. And, you’re not a disgrace. Sorry about them crazy comments.”

“
You’re out saving the asses of criminals and grinding hard to own your profession. You don’t bother me with my tours, so I need to grow up on that note. You always tell me that I am the best thing that has happened to you, but sometimes your mouth can be nasty as hell. You’re such a contradiction. Only the understanding can understand the confusing. Telling me that Aramis was mad at me meant nothing, only your words did, and only to a certain degree. I have been through a lot. I have a heart built of Kevlar, which means it’s hard to get in, and not much that I care about.”

“
See that is the problem. You called me a contradiction, but you never fully open up to me, Dajuan. You tell me what you want me to know and keep the rest bottled up like I am a mind reader. Keep things real and we can avoid a lot of things. It’s been four and a half years now, man. I can be trusted, you know? I hate that you be on this psychopathic avoidance kick. You have to trust me. I have earned it. You often elude that something happened to you when you were a kid, but you never tell me, and I never push you too tell me. When you’re ready to tell me, you will.”

“
Look, going back and forth is for girls. Even though I am a Taurus and we’re hard as hell, but I give in. I’m the best lover you have ever had and, the truest, by the way. At least, I was straight up and down and told you that I cheated. I mean, I commend you ‘cause you will destroy a person’s feelings and try to rebuild what you have destroyed. You inevitably crush them, but at the same time you cater to them. If I get any deeper, I’ll begin to sound like a psycho and if I do that, you’ll think I’m trying to challenge your intelligence, and besides getting deeper will only permit me to unearth more of myself, which I certainly cannot do. As a loner, I keep everything to thine own self.”

He gave me a conspiratorial smirk, which I wanted to slap off his face.

“
See that is the shit I’m talking about. How are you in love with me and be alone? You really need to get that straight if...”

“
Anyway.”

“
See, there’s the avoidance.”

“
Hopefully, you accept my apology and we can move on. Just dwell deep into the words and understand what’s mixed in this soup. You showed me a lot of things I had never seen and took me places that I had never been. A lot of your friends never show you gratitude, but I do. If you have my old letters and poems at your grand mom’s, I bet you could read any one of them and still smile,” he said and totally ignored my comment. “Can you please forgive me?”

That was the typical fashion that he avoided the real problem. Like a lamebrain, I always gave in despite not wanting to. I have an avoidance problem too. I avoided conflicts with family and friends. Sometimes I pampered them just to keep the peace. And when I spoke my mind, I was called mean, cold-hearted, and shiftless. My harsh words were usually just very honest, blunt and direct. They were to encourage better behavior and to build the receiver. Sometimes the ones I really loved felt that I was always talking down on them, but I would never intentionally do that.

“
I’mma let this go,” I said to him. “And...”

He pressed his lips to mine to silence me. “No, ands. I can handle this. And don’t ever act like you want to fight me again. I am still a canon.”

Nothing else needed to be said.

But, wait there was more. The inevitable make-up sex. I shall refrain from narrating the delicious details of that encounter, considering I am sure you’re not interested in all that. In fact, I will keep that policy until, THE END.

CHAPTER 15

Dave and Busters shut the games down at precisely midnight. The family entertainment complex crashed loudly onto the Delaware Avenue waterfront nearly ten years earlier. In January 2007, Dave and Busters had two restaurants, pool table area, poker tables, sports bar, and over 200 arcade games that remained active. No dollar amount was spared to attract hamburger- and FF-crazed kids who adored gaming. The same was true for the relaxing porterhouse type.

Outside of Dave and Buster’s, a short stroll to the north, adults partied at nightclubs featuring crowds that ranged from techno, house, hip-hop, and country. On every night of the week, Delaware Avenue and Spring Garden Street were choked with inebriated club hoppers creating an adorable atmosphere for a robbery diversion.

Ordinarily, Dave and Buster’s financial auditors were notorious for counting the receivables, verifying that all employees’ time cards were calculated, updating inventory and securing cash in the cash room on the main level of the compound, all by two a.m. Too bad that that night was anything but ordinary.

Before the cash room door buzzed, the building lights faded to black, and emergency back-up lights flickered to life. They were immediately murdered.

“
Power failure. Everyone respond accordingly,” an off duty FBI agent said into a walkie-talkie.

Thirty-one-year-old Quadir Gibson, a four-year hard-nosed gumshoe, was privately hired by Dave and Buster’s for protection. He was never without the Burberry trench, sneer, ethics stamped on his yellowish forehead, or adroit police impracticalities glued to his aura. He had deep eyes that were slanted. Not Asian slanted, but African American slanted. In the Germantown neighborhood where he had grown up, he had been given the street moniker, China. He even continued to play basketball at the Happy Hollow Playground.

In addition to orchestrating Dave and Buster’s shut-down program twice a week for the extra cash, he had a serious case of helping free-spirited women with their nightly shut down programs, as well. They couldn’t resist his six-feet-four-inches of stone.

Agent Gibson hopped up from his chair and told security, “I need these cameras up now!”

He violently slammed a paw on the table and caused it to collapse. Everything was all over the floor. He did not want that problem, but it was solely his problem.

Dave and Buster’s security could have rivaled the Secret Service duties at the White House. They were heavily armed and patrolled the outside perimeter in uniform, but inside they donned suits and ear pieces. All of the men had confirmed that their areas were secure. That was a bold-faced lie. An impressively dressed hoodlum was in stairwell two using an unconscious sentry’s walkie-talkie to radio in the clear signal. The goon carried a SIG Sauer P226 semi and was prepared to put it to carefully trained use.

Agent Gibson barked into the walkie talkie for the accountants that delivered the cash intake to the cash room to, “Get that cash secured, now.”

It would be secured, but not by any Dave and Buster employees, though.

CHAPTER 16

It was hard for Aramis to go back to sleep. After his bladder needed emptying, he could not get back to dream land. He turned on the TV and entertained himself with a debate about which teams would reach the Superbowl on ESPN. Certainly, that would bore him to sleep and render him paralyzed. He snuggled in his bed to get back asleep.

Not!

He flipped the channel to BET and became immediately aroused. Uncut was on and the females in the video being shown had on risqué bikinis, which were artfully two sizes too small. One girl just had two pasties over her nipples. Another was bent over and forced her ass cheeks to applaud the rapper who was spitting lyrics behind her.
Wow
, Aramis thought. A caramel-colored vixen was on the hood of a 1958 Cadillac with her legs wrapped around her neck; her hairy bush packed neatly into a red thong, which would prompt any man to do what Aramis did next.

He slipped his boxers and tank top off and began to grope himself. He became swollen and was about to pleasure himself and the video ended, like a five minute lap dance. To add to that damage, BET aired a commercial and not another video.

Times like that forced Aramis to call up memories that he wished to blow into oblivion. Her name was, Marisa Davenport. Her occupation, hair stylist. Her last boyfriend, Aramis Reed. Had she been there still investing in their relationship, he would not need heat from Philadelphia Gas Works, nor long johns from JC Penney. She would be right there to keep his body warm and she had a special hideaway to cool his erection.

Aramis looked around his bedroom. The bedside clock read: 12:12. He was engrossed in his career so much so that all he had time for was casual dating of the one night stand variety. He wanted to prostrate himself at the feet of the pioneers who gave the world the Internet. It was those times that he could log onto a plethora of Internet sites to engage in exhaustive, animal, love-making with someone’s wife--the best kind because they were very discreet with no strings attached. Just the way that he wanted it--very casual and non-committal.

He reached for his laptop, which was on the side of the bed where Marisa used to sleep. His laptop was his life. He pushed a key on the key board, and looked to see who of his buddies were online. His Buddy List was broken down into the following groups in descending order: Family, Close Friends, Internet Homies, Philly Booty, NJ Booty, DE Booty, ATL Booty, Miami, Booty, Detroit Booty, Chi-town Booty, and LA Booty. He had booty calls in all of those cities, ready in the event that he visited there. The Internet Homies were all males and a token female that he had met online and shared photos of Internet harlots. No longer did he have to scour clubs, bars, grocery stores, or even church to find a woman. All he needed was the world wide web, and at that time of night, it was choc full with co-ed prowlers who desired to misbehave, and he was ready to join them.

Aramis had 26 photos of himself on his computer to send to any chick who wanted to play. In 24 of them, he was nude. He was a lanky, well-built, 31-year-old man. He had soft, black, curly hair, a thin mustache and was otherwise clean shaven. His beard was optional. A sinister physique was clad under smooth caramel skin, with a penis that was porn-industry worthy. If asked, he would confess that he perceived himself as: A journalist, free-lancer, greenhorn, specializing in investigative reporting and desiring to crack a case that he could write a novel about.

He was a club hopper, who knew all of the popular hang outs in all major cities. His unconditional best friend was Ravonne Lemmelle, the up and coming ruler of criminal defense. A transplant from Newark, Delaware after his adoption at age 14, he was an aggressive person, blessed with the drive to excel.

All of that would be true. But none of the women he met on the Internet would learn any of that. To his Internet family and all of the women that he had met, he was: Handsome_Caramel1. If first names were required, he was Antonio, Ant for short. No last name was required. Antonio claimed to be 23, a Temple student, a drinker, not drug user, always used protection even with oral sex, and never kissed and told.

It only took 23-minutes for him to become bored with typing, so he went to Operation Mr. Telephone Man and called a phone chat line.

CHAPTER 17

The bookkeepers inside of the cash room heard a single knock at the door. One of them looped the table full of currency counters in pitch darkness, and knocked three times in response. That was the protocol for a power failure situation. After a precise three-second pause, there was the same three knocks with the same melody as the bookkeeper's. Only in that situation were keys used to open the door.

As the steel door pushed open, all of the Dave and Busters employees in the room were in a dead-like sleep before they hit the floor.

The three robbers were dressed in dark Kevlar armor that covered their entire bodies. They wore night vision goggles and masks. The masks protected them from the gas distributed through the room by the fourth robber who posed as a bookkeeper. All of the Dave and Busters employees were useless. The gas effects would wear off, but by then the knaves would be gone with the cash. All of it.

Cowered in the corner of the room was Destiny Fernandez, a half-black half Puerto Rican, recently employed by the gaming establishment. She too wore a mask provided by the man who hired her to betray her employer. The thieves began to stow the cash in water-proof backpacks.

When all of the cash was safely packed, the robbers slithered out of the complex to the parking garage, which partially hung over the Delaware River. The river separated New Jersey from Pennsylvania. An idling boat awaited them. They reached the end of the garage and in synchronized fashion, they leaped over the four foot barrier and dropped six feet into the boat. They all landed feline-like on all fours. They were all women.

SATURDAY, JANUARY 6, 2007

CHAPTER 18

At 11a.m., the three of us looked like three buddies--the kind of baby boomers accepted as members of a fancy, exclusive men’s-only club. At the kitchen table, beneath the exquisite cookware-chandelier, we wore comfortable pajamas and enjoyed breakfast prepared by Daddy D. We were the kind of pals who worked on Wall Street and shared insider secrets habitually. We had a bond that was unbreakable.