Riding Dirty on I-95 (23 page)

“I think that's a good idea.” Hyena smiled as he embraced her tightly.

Hyena got his driver to drop Mercy off back at the hotel. Mercy stuck the twenty grand into a secret compartment in her suitcase. Although it was still early in the evening, around eight o'clock, she was tired from all the action of the day. Mercy went into her room and jumped directly in the shower. She thought about the events in her life, thought about her hopes for her script, and was enjoying a nice erotic massage with the water. Over the water and the shower radio, she couldn't hear anything else until suddenly the bathroom door was kicked open. She was so frightened she couldn't even scream.

Just then a guy wearing a black hoodie and a George Bush Halloween mask yelled, “Bitch, you know what's up?” He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the shower butt-ass naked. The coldness of his voice put fear in her heart, especially when he threw her down on the floor and got on top of her. He put his hand around her throat and slowly tightened his grip. “Bitch, where is the fucking yeo at?” He was so close to her she could smell the Hennessy on his breath.

“Give it up, the fucking shit. I need all of it,” he said in a tone that meant business.

Mercy stared at him in shock and fear, but she didn't say a word.

He smacked the cowboy shit out of her and then punched her in the face. “Bitch, don't fucking play with me. Tell me where the shit is at before I kill you.”

“It ain't none.” Mercy gagged. “Nothing is here.”

“Bitch, don't you know I will kill you?” he asked as his spit hit her in the face.

Just then his partner, who was wearing a Richard Nixon Halloween mask, entered the bathroom and said, “Ain't shit out there.” He then focused in on his partner and Mercy. “Be easy, man,” he said. “She ain't gon' be able to tell us shit if you choke
her to death.” He then addressed his words to Mercy. “Hey, hey, look, baby. Listen, get up and put this on.” He handed her the hotel's plush robe that was hanging on the back of the door. His voice was familiar to Mercy, but she couldn't place it. She put the robe on and tied the sash in a knot. The two men then escorted her into the hotel room and sat her down at the head of the bed.

The guy with the Richard Nixon Halloween mask looked at Mercy and said, “Listen, I don't want to kill you. You're too beautiful to die, so just tell us where the shit is.”

For a split second she thought that Hyena had sent some guys to kill her and make it look like a robbery or a drug deal gone bad. However, that last statement was a dead giveaway. Mercy clearly recognized his voice: the guy behind the Richard Nixon mask was the clerk at the hotel.

“Look, baby, I promise you I don't want to hurt you, so just give up the pack and we'll leave quietly,” the clerk said.

“It ain't no pack. I swear on everything I love, it ain't no pack. I ain't got nothing,” Mercy screamed through tears.

The guy in the George Bush mask walked up. “You lying bitch,” he yelled, and smacked Mercy's eye with the butt of his gun, knocking her off the bed so that she fell backwards and hit her head on the night table. He hit her again and again with the gun. From that point on everything else became a huge blur as she went into shock. Barely conscious, Mercy could hear everything that was going on, but she was paralyzed and couldn't move. She wanted to try to fight, but there was no fight in her as the guy in the George Bush mask mercilessly laid a hellacious pistol-whippin' on her. She just lay there and took it.

“I'll stop anytime you want me to. Just let me know where the money is,” he said.

“That bitch ain't lying; it ain't nothing here,” his partner said, dumping the contents of the suitcase on the floor.

The one in the George Bush mask paused a minute from Mercys beat-down and redirected his attention to his partner. “What da fuck you mean, nigga, ‘it ain't shit’? You been watching this, beyatch,” he said, kicking Mercy in the face. “You been watching this bitch for all this time, knowing she been moving all this fucking weight, and now when the shit goes down you say the shit ain't here. I thought you checked the room before she left,” he said, shaking his head.

“I knew she was checking out tomorrow and knew she would be bringing the shit back with her,” he said.

They were a day late and a few dollars short.

“Let's get the fuck out of here,” the guy in the George Bush mask said angrily.

His partner looked down on the floor at Mercy's almost lifeless body bleeding. “Hold tight,” he said, unbuckling his belt buckle. “I'm about to hit this right quick. Nigga gotta get something out of this shit.”

“Nigga, if you pull your dick out, you and this bitch gon die. I'm going to slump you for being stupid and that bitch for seeing it.”

“Go ahead. We boys. You know we better than that. I know you ain't going to front on me 'bout no pussy.”

The guy in the Bush mask stared at his partner straight in the eyes through the mask and said with a cold dry voice, “Try me.”

Nixon changed his whole demeanor and replied, “Man, let's roll the fuck out,” leaving Mercy holding on for dear life as she fell into unconsciousness.

“B
oooommm! Boooommm!
” It only took two hits before the hinges fell off of the door, and the police officers wearing all black with the bulletproof vests on top of their uniforms stormed into Cleezy's apartment like they owned the place.

“Get on the ground!” a few of the police yelled out as they approached Cleezy with their guns pulled.

“Conrad Fargo, we have a warrant for your arrest,” another officer said.

Cleezy didn't utter a word or show one ounce of fear even though this was his first time being arrested. The police put him facedown on the floor of his two-bedroom apartment. The lead detective walked in with a huge rhino's butt, throwing it around, and headed straight to the bedroom where the police had Cleezy. He got all in Cleezy's face. He was so close to him that although he was in Cleezy's ear, Cleezy could smell the tobacco on his breath. “You have the right to remain silent, and anything you say can and will be held against you.”

It didn't take long for Cleezy to realize that the lead detective was none other than Columbo, the same detective that had been on his brother's butt like a wedgie for years. Now the family curse
had been passed on to Cleezy. Columbo was the legal nightmare from hell. He had stalked Lynx for many years, and now he was determined to get Cleezy since he was Lynx's brother. Columbo's total existence revolved around trapping the two brothers, and he wanted them in the worst way.

It was like the detective had been holding a secret for years and was just now able to tell it as he began reading Cleezy his rights. After doing so, he took Cleezy into his living room and sat him down on the cream faux-leather sofa while the other officers searched the apartment.

“So, this is how your kind lives, huh?” Columbo said as he walked around Cleezy's living room inspecting everything, the fifty-inch big-screen television and then the thirty-one-inch television that sat on a black stand right beside it with his video games hooked up to it. “I'm not impressed.”

Cleezy ignored Columbo's comment, which annoyed the detective a great deal. Columbo had been hoping that he could get a rise out of him and possibly get an obstruction charge or resisting arrest out of Cleezy to add to the charges that they already had pending. He was even more bothered that with a major charge like this, murder in the first degree, he couldn't get any sort of a reaction out of Cleezy. Even in handcuffs Cleezy had gotten comfortable on the sofa. Columbo stared at him, searching his face, and could not find an ounce of fear in his eyes, even though he had to know he might go to jail for the rest of his life.

“They say you was theeeee man,” Columbo said with his back to Cleezy. He then took a brief tour of Cleezy's very plain, undecorated apartment. His bedroom was furnished with an average mahogany bedroom set. However, his exquisite, expensive bedding would reveal to a blind man that Cleezy was no slouch. He had no television in his bedroom, but a stereo system with surround-sound speakers. His closet was running over with clothes and
sneakers. The second bedroom had clothes everywhere, including on the Soloflex workout system. His kitchen set was nothing out of the ordinary.

“The man, huh?” Columbo sighed. “But the informants must not be reliable, judging by the way you live. Where is the plush furniture? Where's the safe? Oh, I get it. All you want is to sell dope so you can get the new Air Jordans, because that's the only thing you got in here worthwhile. You dumb motherfuckers kill me—all you want out of the hustle game is a pair of sneakers or a big-screen TV.”

Cleezy didn't let that crap the detective was talking get to him. He knew the real deal as to what his paper was looking like. He was certain that he was irking Columbo by not paying him any attention, so to annoy him even more, he only started singing over Columbo's riff-raff chitter-chat a Biggie Smalls song, word for word. Before he could get to the chorus, one of the police had called Columbo into the back room.

“Columbo,” the officer called. “I think you should see this. We may have won the lottery.”

Cleezy never stopped singing his song; nor was he alarmed. He knew that they were just like a man who thought he had hit the lottery but had played his number for the wrong drawing. They were just that close; so they thought, anyway. Columbo came waltzing back in the living room and said, “So are you going to tell me how to open up that gun cabinet, or am I going to have to blow it off for my evidence?”

“Work to get your evidence, because I damn sure ain't going to help you,” Cleezy spat.

Another officer came in with a drill in his hand, and Cleezy still didn't bust a sweat. He knew that a cabinet full of guns was the closest thing that any street hustler would get to the hand grenade. However, he was a U.S. citizen and could exercise his
constitutional right to bear firearms because he was not a convicted felon. Besides, Cleezy wasn't stupid enough to keep any dirty guns in his possession. None of his shit had bodies on it. Whenever he was done with a gun, he took it straight to James and let James dispose of it at the bottom of the river.

“Package them up and get them over to the lab. I want the results back yesterday,” Columbo said. “Let's get him downtown.” Then he added, “I'll ride in the front of the paddy wagon with this piece of shit.”

Cleezy paid him no never mind and continued quoting Biggie Smalls word for word as they took him out of the apartment to face his neighbors, who by now had gathered around to see what all the commotion was about. The police took Cleezy to the Richmond City lockup, where he was booked on the charge of first-degree murder and was not given a bond.

After he sat out a couple of weeks at the city jail, Cleezy's attorney informed him that his murder trial for the bouncer was flimsy and that they had an informant who had confirmed the events surrounding the bouncer's death. Although the case was weak, he had no bond and would have to sit until the trial was over. Awaiting trial for any person is always hard. Not knowing one's own fate, which is in the hands of twelve strangers, is enough to make any man crazy. However, Cleezy just rolled with the punches and made himself comfortable, since he was going to be there for longer than a hot minute.

Cleezy tried not to ride the phones and attempted not to get too accustomed to Paula's weekly visits. How could he not, though? He received at least two pieces of mail from her every single day. She was always available to take his calls and never complained when the majority of the calls consisted of her making three-way calls. The part that spoiled him the most was that every
single visiting day, if she wasn't the first one through the doors of the Richmond City Jail, then she was one of the first.

“What's wrong with you today, baby? You okay?” Paula asked softly through the bulletproof glass that separated the two of them.

“I'm a'ight,” Cleezy said in an unconvincing tone.

“You know I'm going to be there on the front row on Tuesday when you go to court, right?”

“Ain't no need because they probably going to continue that shit. You know that motherfucker Columbo is going to come up with some kind of shit so I can sit in this cage as long as possible.”

“I know that they are probably going to continue it, but I am still going to be there for you. You know this is until death do us part.”

“You mean until the time do us part,” he said, not believing she meant what she said.

“You know what, Cleezy?” She looked into his eyes, and tears began to form. “It doesn't matter if you get twenty or thirty years, I am going to be here for you. I love you, and I ain't going nowhere.”

“You say that now, but once the days start turning into months, the months turn into years, the years turn into decades, you ain't gon' be singing the same tune.” Cleezy chuckled at his next thought. “And I ain't gon be there to fuck you, either…. Jake will slip into my side of the bed and then the visits will slow up. Then the next thing I know you only taking my calls when Jake is at work or on the block.”