5 Minutes and 42 Seconds (15 page)

I can't go to jail.

Then Smokey remembers a bigger problem: the money. Fashad's going to go home, and he is going to find out the trumpet was blown. He's going to check on the money,
and there won't be any. He'll talk to Cameisha and find out Smokey gave the signal without permission. It won't take long for him to put two and two together—and then demand Smokey's head on a platter.

I gotta get that money back where it belongs,
thinks Smokey, knowing that's next to impossible. He knows the drill—he choreographed it. The wall has been boarded up. He could say it was a false alarm, that he had a bad lead, but he and everyone else involved know he's not supposed to do anything until Fashad gives him the go-ahead.

I'm dead.
Smokey knows Fashad might kill him when the money turns up missing, but what's worse is Fashad will fire him. Bill has already told Smokey that somebody is going to jail after this whole thing is over, and if Smokey can't snitch, he knows that somebody will be him.

Smokey begins to pant like an asthmatic. He sees his lyrics on the floor and realizes they'll never be laid down in a studio. His options are jail or death, and neither is acceptable.

He looks up at Fashad for the first time since he came and begins to take shallower breaths.

“Smokey, what the hell is wrong with you?” asks Fashad.

Smokey sneers at Fashad and thinks.
It's all this nigga's fault. If Fashad hadn't had me dealin', I wouldn't been on the block that day, and would have never gotten squeezed. I was only sixteen, man!
He dwells on the drug dealing, not able to wrap his mind around what he's really upset about—the fact that he can still feel Fashad inside of him.

Fuming, he exhales in choppy breaths as he fumbles
around underneath his mattress, muttering to himself like a lunatic: “Where is it?…”

“What you lookin' for? What's wrong, Smokey?” says Fashad, putting his hand on Smokey's shoulder.

“Don't touch me!” yells Smokey.

Fashad backs away and Smokey continues to fumble, forcing himself to breathe.

Finally he finds it.

Smokey pulls out the gun and points it at Fashad.

“What the fuck, Smokey!”

“I was only sixteen fucking years old!” yells Smokey.

“Smokey, don't do this. Smokey, we can talk about—”

Bang.
Smokey pulls the trigger before Fashad can finish.

He pulls the trigger again, as he screams in anger and frustration—
bang,
and again,
bang,
and again,
bang,
and again,
bang.
And again—
click, click, click, click.

He reaches for the rap lyrics smudged in blood beside Fashad's bloody corpse. He moans as he wipes the paper with his ex-lover's shirt. He begins to cry, but he doesn't know if he's crying because he just killed Fashad or if it's because he can still feel Fashad inside of him. He remembers Bill and pushes all the regret and mourning from his mind.

He blasts the radio as loud as it goes, to drown out the echo of the scream he hadn't realized he heard.
He deserved it,
Smokey thinks as he pulls out of his own driveway in Fashad's Mercedes.

Did he?
he rethinks.
He wasn't that bad. He did a lot for me. He took care of me. Gave me a job. Did he deserve it?

Smokey runs a red light.
Shit, man, I was only sixteen.
Besides, anything to make a buck. I'm a gladiator, and Fashad was a gladiator too. One of us had to go. A gladiator has to choose himself every time.

Smokey hears a siren and pushes his foot on the gas. He lets up when he sees it's only an ambulance, then lets out a sigh of relief. Realizing he has to pull it together if he wants to stay out of jail, he resolves not to think about Fashad, or his blood, or his cries for help, until he's scot-free. Later, there will be time to ask “why” and “what if,” now is the time to accept and think.

“I got to run. I got to run, and never come back. I'll go to Mexico before they can find the body.”

Smokey smiles. “Yeah, I'll go to Mexico and find me a hot little Mexican chick and have little
hijos.
” He begins to cry again.

It seems to take an eternity to pull Fashad's car into the gas station where he agreed to meet Dream. He parks it on the side opposite of Dream's car. There's a .357 Magnum in the glove compartment. Smokey decides to take it, just in case he gets caught up and has to go out like a gladiator.

He walks toward Dream's car, making sure to keep his head out of the view of the security cameras. Then he remembers the feds are going to put him away for life anyway; even if they never know he killed Fashad, they still have him for dealing. He throws caution to the wind and begins to run toward Dream's passenger seat.

“Hey, baby,” says Dream, throwing her arms around him, sounding surprised to see him.

“Drive,” he demands.

She quickly obeys.

“Faster,” he yells. “Faster!”

She speeds up, and soon she's way over the limit.

“Not that fast, baby! You gonna get us pulled over!” he chastises.

“Okay. I'm sorry, Smokey, but calm down. We got it. Fashad ain't gonna be home until tomorrow, and Momma ain't gonna take the money out until she get his call from jail somewhere. By the time they find out the money gone, we'll be halfway to Cali.”

Her words strike him like a fist.
Fashad ain't gonna be home.
As much as he wants to, he can't shake the reality of what he's done. Fashad will never ever be home again, and it was his fault. He had ended a life. Not just any life. Fashad's. Smokey began to pant again.

“Smokey, what's wrong with you? You got the asthma or something?”

Later,
thinks Smokey, still trying to calm himself down. “You said you got the money, right?” he asks, not bothering to answer her.

“Yes, it's in the trunk. I switched it just like you said.”

“Who know you left?”

“Nobody.”

“What you tell Cameisha?”

“Nothin'.”

“What you mean, nothin'? You mean to tell me you just left without tellin' your momma nothin'?” he asks skeptically.

“Yeah,” she affirms, as if he's crazy for thinking she'd ever lie to him. Smokey believes her, and decides at that point her part in his plan has been fulfilled and her services are no longer needed.

“Pull over right here at this Starvin' Marvin,” he demands, trying to sound as sweet and innocent as he possibly can.

“Why?” she asks, a little suspicious of the sweetness in his voice.

“'Cause I'm starving. Why don't you go get me one of those hoagies they got.”

“Of course, baby,” says Dream, and she pats him on the leg as she puts the car in park. She leans her head to the left as if she's double-jointed, trying to keep from knocking her beehive against the roof of the car as she exits.

Smokey rolls down the passenger window. “Hey, baby.”

“Yeah?”

“You sure the money's in there?”

“Yeah, I'm positive,” she says, almost giddy.

Smokey gets out of the car and walks toward her. “Let me see the keys.”

“Why?” she asks skeptically.

“I just need to see for myself,” he says, trying to sound sweet again.

“All right,” she says, handing them over. “Baby, are you sure you're all right?” asks Dream. “You don't seem like it.”

“Yeah, baby, I'm fine,” says Smokey as he heads toward the trunk.

“Baby, I'm going to go get you your hoagie. You can go check on the money, but after you do—you need to relax. Everything's gonna be okay as long as we're together.” She leans in to kiss him and he backs away, at first feeling unworthy of any affection after what just happened to Fashad. Eventually, he gives in and kisses her. He owes her at least that much.

Smokey opens his mouth and shows his teeth. Dream's smile is wide and unabashed as she walks gaily inside the restaurant. As Smokey walks to the driver's side, he looks back at Dream and sees her staring at him. He can't figure whether she's looking at him because she's so enamored, or if she suspects something, and he smiles back uneasily. She goes inside.

She's in there for what seems like an eternity but what must be only a minute. He gets in the car, trying not to look up, but can't help himself. He sees her holding his hoagie by the door as he puts the key in the ignition. He puts it in reverse as she gazes at him with detached eyes—eyes that are recording what the heart and mind will never forget. Smokey wonders if Fashad ever saw him recording, and if he did then why didn't he ever stop? Smokey reasons it's because gladiators have to choose themselves every time.

He looks down at the steering wheel, then up at her. She's standing outside now, her blue beehive blending into the Starvin' Marvin sign so evenly he can only see her round face, and the adoration in her eyes. Smokey can see she doesn't get it that he's not taking her with him. He has her, and she still believes.

He finishes backing out and puts the car in drive. Immediately her mouth widens and she trembles, dropping his hoagie to the ground. Smokey looks back at her through the rolled-down window. He smiles at her with his eyes because his mouth is too ashamed. He hopes she knows he didn't mean to do this. He hopes she knows it had to be this way. He hopes she knows she's better off without him.

As he drives away he can see her in the rearview mirror,
holding his sandwich and running toward him, her face hot with tears.
Anything to make a buck.

He adjusts his mirror and drives away.

As he heads onto the highway, he wonders what's going to happen when Cameisha finds out the money's gone.
Will she know it was Dream? Will she know it was me? Will Dream tell her? Anything to make a buck. I'm a gladiator. Damn, I'm hungry—I wish I had that hoagie.

Smokey drives for an hour straight, as calm as a person can be in the given circumstances. Suddenly the other phone rings, and Smokey panics. Too afraid to answer, he lets it ring. There's a silence before it begins to ring once more. Smokey doesn't answer it. It rings again, and again, and again, until he finally picks up. It's the detective. Not
his
detective—the nigga.

“Smokey, Smokey, Smokey,” Jamal taunts. “Where are you?”

Smokey is struck silent for at least a minute.

“Fine, don't tell us. We'll find you. We always do.”

Smokey hangs up the phone, and pulls Dream's pink Mercedes over to the side of the road. Jolting himself forward after coming to an abrupt stop, he flings the door open then throws the phone on the ground. He stomps on the phone over and over again and screams, taking out all the frustration of the day's events on the phone. He gets in the car and runs over the phone two times before speeding down the highway, hoping he has done enough to kill whatever tracking signal that may or may not have been inside the phone.

Smokey doesn't want to take any chances. He's been
driving for an hour now and knows he should be in Toledo soon. Ten minutes later the sign for the Toledo train station appears and Smokey sighs in relief.

Smokey parks the car in a handicapped space, then runs to the trunk. He hopes Dream won't get in too much trouble when they find the car and put the pieces together.
Anything to make—ah, fuck it!
Smokey gets back in the car and parks it in a regular parking space in the hope it will be far less conspicuous there. Since it is a pink Mercedes he knows it's likely to be noticed anywhere and doesn't want to hurt Dream more than he already has.

He gets the suitcase from the trunk and begins racing for the ticket window. He sees a black woman behind the counter and is sure he'll be able to work his magic.

“I need to ride,” says Smokey, still trying to catch his breath.

“Most people that come here do,” says the woman smugly. Slowly she sets her nail file down on the counter in front of her and glides to her computer like a video vixen, batting her eyes at him.

“Y'all go to Canada?” he asks, confident he has her the way he had Dream.

“Yes, but you seem like you in a hurry and the next train isn't until tomorrow.”

Smokey sucks his teeth. “That's all right, 'cause I ain't got no passport no way.”

She laughs. “You don't need no passport for Canada,” she says. She looks up from her computer and notices something about Smokey that makes suspicion grow in her eyes. Smokey wipes the sweat from his brow, but one look at her
interrogative stare and he's sweating again. “You on the run or something?” asks the woman, sounding excited.

“Nope,” he answers, trying to sound calm and collected.

“Yeah, whatever. Why you trying to leave the country, then?” she taunts.

“To visit my family.”

“Well, why you say it was okay not to go to Canada if that's where you need to go?”

Smokey doesn't have an answer. He wonders why they all can't be as stupid as Dream.

“If you need to leave right away, I can put you on a train to New York, and you can get to Canada from there,” says the woman.

Smokey smiles, more from the pleasure in his ability to charm a female than out of gratitude. As he begins to pull out his wallet, he sees two policemen entering the station. He ducks his head downward, and places his hand over his face as if something has blown into his eyes.

“Calm down,” says the woman with a laugh, obviously finding his dire predicament amusing. “They ain't thinking about you,” she assures.

Smokey remembers the cell phone and the signal. The police could have found his exact location when he answered the phone. They could be right on his tale.

“Fuck New York. When's the next train to anywhere?”