The Apostles (5 page)

As usual Tonto spoke first. “Me and Toobie was serving on the block when Wayne came out there. We had been copping some work from this nigga lately, so he be coming out there hollering at us. A clucker pulled up with some dude car she had beat for and she—”

Toobie jumped in, “Was talking about she just hit a lick on a pappy for his Lincoln and some ends. The broad was finta buy twenty dimes from us, but Wayne overheard her and snatched her up. He talked her out of buying the twenty sawbucks. He told her that he would give her two eightballs of yam for the two hundred. Wayne dipped and came back with the shit, then he got in the car with the bitch to serve her. Grove and Bull was pulling down the street and he didn't see them. Me and my brother got little through the gangway. The dicks hopped out on Wayne and the bitch. We ran through the gangway and up into the abandoned building right there on the block. Tell ‘em, Tonto.”

“We was in the building and up on the second floor; we could see the whole shit from the window. The dicks found that quarter onion on Wayne when they put him on the curb and made him take off his shoes. They cuffed this nigga and let the bitch go. When they was finta put him in the back of they car, Wayne was like, wait a minute let me holla at y'all. First they was acting like they didn't
want to hear him, then they walked him into the gangway on the side of the building that we was up in. We couldn't hear everything, but we did hear Wayne telling them that he knew where a lot of weed was and who had the shit.”

Toobie cut in, “Yeah, we even heard the twisters tell this nigga that he bet not be lying. They said that they was gone keep the yayo that they got off of him. And if they ran up in that crib and there wadn't no gang of weed up in there, they was gone be back to get him. We heard some sounds like they was whupping his ass and he was screaming like a bitch. Then the dicks came out the gangway and got in they car and left. This nigga came out a few minutes later and he was all dirty and shit and his jacket was ripped. We didn't know that they was talking about Bing or we would have wired him to the business. The next thing that we know the twisters was hitting his girl's tip.”

Leaving Bing and Wayne in the middle of the hostile circle, the twins stepped back into the ranks.

Head down, with his hand cupping his chin, Vee asked, “So what happened, Wayne?”

“These niggas is lying,” Wayne countered. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a blur of movement, but he wasn't quick enough to avoid Bing's right hand before it crashed into his jaw.

Quickly Bing followed the right to Wayne's jaw with an overhand left that landed on the bridge of his nose. Wayne melted to the concrete floor. Bing pounced on him and began slamming the defenseless man's head against the unyielding floor of the garage. The sickening thuds of skull meeting concrete could be heard distinctly in the garage as the Governors watched Bing beat Wayne unconscious.

Vee allowed Bing to have his way with Wayne for a few moments, then he motioned to Tango to restrain Bing. Tango needed the aid of several Governors to pull Bing off Wayne.

Wayne was in pretty bad shape. When he finally managed to get to his feet he seemed to be having a bitch of a time trying to
stand in one spot. Blood flowed freely from a cut on the bridge of his nose and his right eye was swollen shut. An egg-sized lump could be seen on the back of his head.

Vee was pleased. “Wayne, Wayne, over here,” Vee called, as he snapped his fingers. “Wayne, the case against you is fucked up, man. Do you have anything to say before I cast judgment on the charge of treason?”

Wayne protested, “But I didn't get a chance to say shit.” He held his head back to try to stem the tide of blood from trickling onto his leather Phat Farm jacket.

“That shit is irrelevant. You been found guilty of treason. Does any Governor feel that the decision is wrong?”

Silence followed, which meant that none of the Governors present disputed Vee's decision.

“Wayne, you are now considered an enemy of the state for your treasonous acts. Treason against another Governor carries a maximum penalty of Cold War.”

Wayne shuddered at the verdict.

“You gone pay for Governor Bing to get his lady out the County. Nigga, that new Buick Regal of yours, you can hand over the keys and the title. Any money or product you got, hand that shit over too. If you don't we gone fuck you up and if you try and go to the twisters on us, we gone snuff yo pussy ass.”

Dazed at the quick verdict and still feeling the effects of the ass whupping that Bing gave him, Wayne stumbled backward. Vee nodded to Tango and the short Governor struck out. His blow landed with startling accuracy on Wayne's jaw. Wayne's jaw flapped loosely as he tried to talk, then he slumped to his knees—passed out from the pain.

Vee directed, “Bing, take Tango, Itchy, and the Twins. Grab this nigga and take him to his tip. Take everything. If his bitch home and she get in the way, then whup her ass too.”

This was working out better than he could have ever planned it. If his Governors beat up Sakawa, who would she have to talk to but
him. Sweet. It wouldn't be long now before she came running to him.

Watching his Governors dragging Wayne out of the garage door, he said, “After y'all take his shit, dump this nigga in the dog-shit basement where we be fighting the pits at. Make sure y'all piss on his trick ass, too.”

The intensive care unit at the Cook County hospital was ancient, but clean. The ward had been sectioned off into dual bedrooms so its inhabitants could have a bit of privacy. Dr. Peterson directed his brown, beat-up Rockports to the third cubicle of the ward. He was followed closely by several new nurses and two interning doctors. The interning doctors were a blond-haired golden boy, top-of-his-class type and a young, red-haired, pinch-faced woman hiding her wandering eye behind a pair of almost masculine-looking eyeglasses.

With the nurses in their wake, the trio of doctors stopped outside the third cubicle. Ceremoniously Dr. Peterson pulled a clipboard from the wall outside of the cubicle and flipped through the chart. With an air of arrogance he turned to the interns, seemingly ignoring the nurses.

In clipped tones he said, “This patient was brought in several days ago. A Wayne Maxwell. He was severely beaten. He suffered a badly broken jaw and severe brain trauma. He slipped into a coma, which is a normal finding when we are dealing with brain injuries. It's kind of like the brain shuts itself down for repairs. As of this morning his CAT shows his brain activity seems to have returned to near normal. Any questions so far?”

The redheaded woman doctor spoke up.

“Uh, Dr. Peterson, in your professional opinion what is the percentage of patients who return to normal after these types of brain injuries?”

Dr. Peterson looked up from the chart and ran his eyes over the intern. She was a little homely with her compressed countenance,
but her scarlet mane was definitely an eye-catcher.
I wonder if her pubes are fire red too
, he thought before answering. “You never can tell with injuries of this nature. Sometimes the patient experiences deficiencies in his motor skills, some memory loss, especially centered around the incident in which the trauma occurred. Other times they simply wake up as if from a deep sleep. Then still, we've had some who don't wake up at all. All we can do is hope for the best. There is still a lot that we don't know about the brain and its intricacies. Is everyone ready to have a look at the patient?”

“Yes, sir,” the blond intern chirped. He was mad at himself that he hadn't asked such a question.

“All right then, let's have a look-see,” Dr. Peterson said as he pulled back the curtain to enter the cubicle.

Wayne's bed was empty.

“That's funny,” Dr. Peterson said as he peered at the chart in his hand. “It seems our illustrious friend is out and about. I didn't schedule him for any tests so he should be here. One of you please get the ward nurse.”

The blond intern bolted before the pinch-faced intern could move. In his hurry he bumped into one of the new nurses, who made a kissing sound. The other nurses smothered their giggles as Dr. Peterson rejoined them in the ward hallway. A few seconds later the blond intern returned with a bored-looking, shapely Black nurse a few steps behind him.

The seasoned nurse gave the new nurses a knowing look as she brushed one of her long, brown-tipped dreadlocks from her face. “How can I help you, Doctor?” she asked with a note of impatience in her voice. “I'm shorthanded for the day and I have patients to attend to.”

Dr. Peterson looked down his nose at her. “Nurse, I need to know what happened to my patient.”

“What patient?”

“Wayne Maxwell. His chart doesn't have him listed to be anywhere else, but he isn't in his bed.”

The nurse shoved past the doctor and walked into the cubicle. It was official—Wayne's bed was empty. She turned back to Dr. Peterson. “He was in here when my shift started this morning. I only had a moment to peek in on him, to check his vitals and everything, but he was here. He was awake and mumbling to himself when I checked his drip and took his vitals. He didn't even seem to notice me, just kept on mumbling to himself like I wasn't there. Everything was fine so I left. We don't have a lot of hands around here so I had to keep moving.” She ran her pretty brown hands through her locks again. “Hold on.”

She peeked into the small cupboard that served as a closet for the patient's clothes. “His clothes are gone. Looks like this guy took a walk.” She strode out of the cubicle. “I'll have to alert security just in case he's wandering around the premises, but it looks like he may have DAMA'd himself.”

Shaking his big head, Dr. Peterson wrote Discharged Against Medical Advice on the top sheet of the medical chart in his hand. “Okay, I've got a GSW two rooms down. Now this one won't be getting up and walking away even if he wants to. The bullet crushed several vertebrae causing irreparable damage to the spinal column. This way, ladies and gents …”

“M
AN, THIS MOTHERFUCKA DONE HAD US WAITING ALL DAY!
Fuck this bougie-ass nigga, SS.”

Solemn Shawn leaned over to his longtime friend and second-in-command and spoke calmly. “Stay cool, bruh. It's just a stall tactic. These politician cats like to play this game. It makes them feel important.”

Dante wouldn't allow himself to be pacified that easily. “SS, I don't dig this country-ass shit. Man, we put this motherfucka on. Mr. State Representative wouldn't be shit without us. I knew that we shouldn't'a fucked with this stud when he came crawling to us when he was an alderman. Now that he a big-time state rep, we got to sit out here and twiddle our fucking thumbs while we wait for him to get around to us. What kind of bullshit is this?”

Solemn Shawn removed his Cartier eyeglasses from his face and held them up to the light. From his back pocket he produced a silk kerchief and used it to wipe the lenses of his spectacles. Satisfied that they were free of dust particles and debris, he returned them to his face.

“Look, Tay, this can't be helped. I know that we are responsible for this cat being in office and he knows it too. That's not what's important. What is important is that he honors our friendship. See, when some people get placed in these positions of supposed importance, they develop a case of what I like to call convenient,
selective amnesia. I've seen it many times before. They just need their memories jogged, you know?”

Grumpily Dante grumbled, “Yeah, whatever, Solitaire, I know the fuck that I'm tired of waiting for this nigga.”

Solemn Shawn was in total agreement with that statement. He looked at the overflowing magazine rack in the corner of the room. He walked over to it and chose a
Time
magazine from between copies of
Sports Illustrated
and
People.
Sitting with his legs crossed, he thumbed through the issue while Dante chose to wait in silence and fume.

Another fifteen minutes passed.

Solemn Shawn closed the magazine and calmly got to his feet. He walked over to the receptionist's desk. Leaning over slightly, he spoke quietly to the young man fielding the office's incoming calls.

“Look, man, it's almost three thirty. I've been here since two forty-five for a three-o'clock meeting.”

The man lisped, “I am so sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but you have to realize that State Representative Washington is an extremely busy man. He has been informed that you are waiting, but at this moment he's taking an extremely important conference call from the capital, sir.”

Dante left his seat and joined Solemn Shawn at the reception-ist's desk. He arrived just in time for some spittle from the young man's pronunciation of “sir” to land on the back of his hand. Disgustedly he wiped the back of his hand on his pants.

“Damn, man, we asked for the news, not the weather,” Dante said.

Solemn Shawn continued, “Call Washington again and let him know that Mr. Terson and associate are here to see him. Let him know that we've been very patient so far, but our patience is wearing thin.”

“You got that shit right,” Dante added.

“As a matter of fact, I want you to take that headset off, get up, and go tell him.”