30
“Jawan, I . . . I'm sorry about lying to you. I just didn't know how to tell you the truth. Please believe me, I don't enjoy stripping. It's degrading, it's shameful. It breaks me down every time I do it. But, and as much as I hate admitting this, it's just been . . . necessary for me. I make just enough at the hospital to stay afloat. I've tried finding another full-time administrative position that pays more, but those jobs have been hard to come by, so obviously the next alternative was to find a part-time job. StrippingâGod, I hate even saying that wordâbut stripping was never in my plans, but with the rent, the bills, food, and clothes to buy, taking my clothes off has been the only part-time job that's paid me the supplemental income Brian and I need. It's also been the only thing flexible enough with the hours that I could find.
“Please, Jawan, please. I hate doing it, but I have Brian to take care of, and I would do anything,
anything,
for my son. You don't have a child, so you couldn't possibly understand how it feels to be willing to sacrifice your soul for your child. And please believe, Jawan, that I have done that. I sacrifice a part of me every time I remove my clothing for dollar bills.
“Jawan, I care so much about you. I agonized with deciding whether to lie or to tell you the truth. It is truly one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. The day I lied to you . . . God, I wanted to be honest, and for a second I almost was. But I was scared. Scared of losing you. You've been the best thing that's happened to me in a long time. Since Brian's birth, really. The way you make me feel . . . Jawan, I don't want to lose you. You make me feel so alive, so special. You make me feel like I'm worth something. Please give me a chance to explain. I love you. Call me, OK?”
Jawan hit the stop button on his answering machine. This was the first of Deahnna's messages that he'd actually listened to. For two days he'd avoided hearing her. He didn't want to listen to her explanation. He didn't want to hear the sweet sound of her voice, because that would break down the wall of anger, embarrassment, and disappointment that he'd had up since seeing her at the club. A wall that was unsteady and, more importantly, unwanted. Truthfully, his pride was really the only reason the wall was up in the first place. Pride and stubbornness.
As shocked as he was, he knew that if Deahnna was on that stage, she was on there because she had to be. He knew her. Just as he was sure that she knew him. He knew her spirit, her character. Without even having to listen to her explanation, he knew that stripping was something she just had to do.
But still he avoided her.
It was stupid. Childish. A waste of time. And he knew it. He also knew that, at some point, he was going to return her call, and things would go back to being normal between them. Sure, they'd have to discuss the matter of removing her clothes for other men, but they'd get that matter resolved. Of that Jawan had no doubt, because he and Deahnna were meant to be together. He knew it now, just as he'd known it the first time they'd met. The stars had been aligned that evening at the dance, and the big bang had occurred.
Jawan blew his nose. The head cold he'd caught was kicking his ass. He'd stayed home from school the past two days, but he could have gone in despite the sinus pressure and the runny nose. But going to school meant that he'd have to look at Brian. And looking at Brian would only have made his wall come down sooner.
Brian.
He couldn't help but wonder if the teen knew what his mother did part-time. But even as he did wonder, he was certain that he didn't. Deahnna would never admit her sacrifice to him, and if he did know, as overprotective as he was about her, he wouldn't allow a man to look at his mother that way.
Jawan blew his nose again, and then threw the used tissue into the garbage can beside the computer desk. As he did, Grady, who'd been sitting at his feet, meowed.
He looked down at his furry companion. “Yeah, yeah. I'll call.”
Grady meowed. Sounded as though he said, “Now.”
Jawan shook his head. “No. Not today. I just need one more day to be an idiot. Tomorrow I'll wise up.”
Grady meowed again. Something along the lines of “You better.”
Jawan nodded. “Yeah, Grady-Grade. I promise.”
Accepting his answer, Grady rubbed up against his leg and purred.
Jawan bent down and caressed him behind his ears. “Yeah,” he said, smiling. “I miss her too.”
31
“You niggas ready to do this shit?”
Brian took a deep breath as his heart jack-hammered beneath his chest. The moment he'd wanted to come and go so quickly had finally arrived, and he dreaded it.
He thought about Carla, who he'd promised to go back to later that night. She'd thrown up once and dry heaved in the time that he'd been with her after school. Her morning sickness occurred in the late afternoon, which was actually a good thing, because her mother wasn't around. But soon she would be. And not only that, but soon Carla would begin to show. They had to break the news definitely much sooner than later. They talked about that when he'd been there. That and a few other things.
What they would do before the baby came.
Where they would live.
How they would support raising a child while going to school.
Lastly, when they would get married.
Married.
Brian was as unready for that as he was being a father, but just as Carla didn't believe in having an abortion, she believed just as strongly about being married before the baby arrived.
Brian took another full breath as Tyrel waited for him and Will to answer.
Was he ready?
He exhaled at a snail's pace, his heart thumping, almost making his upper body shake with each beat.
Was he ready?
He flared his nostrils. He wasn't ready for shit.
“Let's do this shit,” Will said, his tone jazzed.
Brian looked at him and thought about their last hit at the Laundromat. Will had been jazzed then, too. That dire feeling came over Brian. The feeling of impending disaster.
Back out
, he thought.
Goddammit, just back out
.
Brian nodded and said, “Yeah.”
Tyrel gave a short nod, and then reached into a small black book bag and pulled out the three .45s they'd used before. He handed one to Will. “Don't be usin' any names, nigga,” he said.
Will nodded. “I'm good, son.”
“Yeah, you better be, nigga,” Tyrel said, his tone laced with warning. He turned to Brian and held out a .45 for him to take.
Brian looked at the gun and then shook his head. “I'm good.”
Tyrel squinted his eyesâthe only thing that could be seen through his ski mask. “What? Nigga, you better take this shit.”
Brian looked at him, his gaze unflinching, and said again, “I'm good.” He'd had a hard enough time dealing with what they were about to do to Old Man Blackwell. The last thing he would do was carry a gun.
Tyrel glared at Brian, while Brian stared back. Tension was as thick between them as the wool ski masks they wore.
Seconds passed before Will said, “Yo, come on, fellas. Chill wit' that shit. Ty, son, if he don't wanna use it, he don't wanna use it. You got yours. I got mine. We good.”
Tyrel's eyes remained on Brian as he asked, “You sure you down for this, son? You sure you ain't gonna bitch out?”
“I'm here,” Brian said, wanting to turn and run away. “I ain't bitchin' out on shit. But I'm not usin' the piece.”
Tyrel looked at him.
Brian looked at Tyrel.
Seconds passed.
Then Tyrel nodded, slid Brian's .45 back in his bag, and said, “Whatever, nigga. Just keep your fuckin' eyes and ears open.”
Brian gave a nod. “I got it,” he said.
“You better, son.”
Brian took a breath again, then lowered his ski mask over his face.
Tyrel looked at his watch, then peeked from the alley across the street they'd been hiding in. “A'ight. That nigga, Rich, is pulling the shades down. Let's do it.”
Without waiting, Tyrel moved and ran across the street. Will and Brian were on his heels seconds later.
Tyrel shouldered the entrance door open just as Rich made a move to lock it, causing the door to barrel into Rich, knocking him down. Before he could think to react, Tyrel pistol-whipped Rich two times in the face, knocking him unconscious, and then grabbed him by his shirt collar and began to drag him behind the counter. “Go and get Blackwell,” he said, looking at Will.
Without hesitation, Will ran behind the counter and disappeared into a back room.
Tyrel looked at Brian. “Hit the lights and watch the door, son!”
Brian took a momentary glance at Rich, who lay bleeding from his nose and mouth, and then did as instructed as Tyrel ran to the back, turned off the lights, and locked the door. From the back he heard Will yell out.
“Get your fuckin' hands up!”
Brian hated this so much. He was glad everything was happening in the back where he couldn't see.
“What the hell?” Old Man Blackwell said.
“Shut the fuck up, nigga!” Will yelled. “Or I will pull this fuckin' trigger.”
“The money, old man!” Tyrel yelled. “Get that shit now!”
Brian heard Blackwell grunt out. He had no doubt he'd been hit. He gritted his teeth and kept watch outside. His heart galloped. His skin was hot and itching beneath the wool.
It was supposed to be as easy as one, two, three.
“The . . . the money's up front,” Blackwell said. “I . . . I haven't removed it yet.”
“Get that shit, nigga!” Tyrel yelled.
Brian looked up and down the street as he hid behind the curtained window. Seconds later, Old Man Blackwell stumbled forward from the back with Tyrel and Will in tow.
Brian looked at Blackwell, at the fear in his eyes. God, he hated this.
“My God,” Blackwell said, looking down at Rich. “Is he . . .”
Tyrel said, “No. But you will be if you don't do what the fuck you're supposed to do. Now, get that fuckin' money.”
He shoved Blackwell in the back, sending him crashing against the counter with the registers.
“Please,” Blackwell pleaded. “Please don't do this.”
“Shut the fuck up!” Tyrel yelled, hitting him in his back. “Now open that shit!”
Will, who'd been standing to the side, laughed.
Brian took a look outside. Blackwell's spot was where a gas station once stood. Luckily for them, no one was close enough to notice anything.
Brian took a look over his shoulder at Old Man Blackwell.
Please
, he thought.
Just do what they say and do it fast
. In that instant, the store's owner locked eyes with him, and, although he had a mask covering his face, Brian was almost positive that Blackwell knew who he was. Brian looked away quickly.
“Hurry up, old man!” Tyrel ordered.
Brian heard Blackwell at the register, hitting buttons. He prayed for everything to be over soon.
Buttons were hit.
The register dinged as the cash drawer opened.
“Shove the money in here, nigga!” Tyrel demanded. A few seconds later, he said, “Now the other one!”
Just as before, buttons were hit and the second register dinged open.
Soon,
Brian thought. It would be over soon.
He looked up and down the block.
Then looked over his shoulder and saw something that made him yell, “No!”
From somewhere beneath the counter, Old Man Blackwell had removed a concealed pistol.
Within a span of seconds, Brian watched in slow motion as Blackwell pointed the weapon at Tyrel's head and pulled the trigger. No sound escaped from Tyrel as he fell back to the ground.
Will screamed out, pointed his .45 at Blackwell, and fired.
Blackwell gasped, fell back against the counter, and as he was falling, managed to raise his arm and fire off one shot at Will.
Brian, yelled “No!” again as Will fell back against the wall, blood pouring from his neck, while his .45 dropped from his hand.
Brian ran around the counter and stopped just short of the blood pooling from his boys and from Old Man Blackwell. “No!” he screamed again.
Will, slumped against the wall, looked up at him with his hand clamped over his neck, doing little to stop the blood flow. Brian shook his head as Will looked at him with terror and fear in his eyes. “B . . . B . . .” he stuttered, trying to speak, but unable to.
Brian shook his head again.
Will tried in vain to utter something else again, and then his hand fell from his neck as his last breath floated away.
“Will! No!” Brian yelled.
He looked over to Tyrel, who lay flat on his back, blood pooling from beneath his head. He looked to Blackwell. He was bleeding from his chest, coughing and spitting blood.
Brian put his hand behind his neck and squeezed as the room spun around him. Tyrel said this was supposed to be easy, simple. This wasn't supposed to happen. Yet, as Brian stood still, staring at blood and death, he'd known all along that this would happen.
His boys were dead. His niggas, his brothers.
He shook his head again, then removed the mask, exposing his face to Blackwell. “I . . . I'm sorry,” he whispered. “Shit, I'm s . . . sorry.”
Brian wiped tears away with his gloved hands as he heard sirens in the distance.
Blackwell coughed, spit blood, coughed again, and in a faint whisper said, “G . . . go.”
Brian closed his eyes a bit, and looked with confusion in his eyes at the man he'd always respected. “What?”
Blackwell coughed again. “Go get . . . tape at de . . . desk.”
Brian shook his head as the wailing from the sirens grew louder. “I can't go,” he said. “I can't.”
Blackwell coughed. “Get out n . . . now!”
Brian shook his head. Gritted his teeth. Tears fell hard, fast. He looked over at Will, then at Tyrel. His boys were gone. It didn't seem real.
Blackwell coughed once more. “B . . . Brian, go now!”
The sirens wail grew louder.
Brian looked at Blackwell. “I'm sorry,” he said. Then, making sure to avoid the blood, he stepped past his boys and Blackwell, and ran through the back room to the exit heading out to the back. But before he did, he made sure to follow Blackwell's instructions, and grabbed the security tape from the VCR in the back.