On the Run with Love (18 page)

Detectives Wilson and Crawford had been in Goldsboro for two days, held up in the Goldsboro Police Department. Little sleep and two-day stubble told the story of the endless cups of coffee and fast food they'd been through. The Goldsboro Police had been extremely helpful, but so far the detectives had been unsuccessful in tracking Freddie down. The only picture they had of him was five years old. At that time he was sixteen with cornrows and no facial hair, so he couldn't be identified by any of the detectives. The closest they came was when the narcotics squad got involved.

“I swear I've seen this guy before,” Jakes, the redneck who had taken Freddie's money, swore. “I just can't place where,” he stressed.

“It's an old picture,” Crawford explained, studying the large white man.

Crawford was no racist, and was a city man head to toe, but like most African Americans, he had Southern roots. He could remember the elders in his family congregating and reminiscing about the days before they had migrated from the South. Looking at the sheriff, Crawford was convinced he was the type of man they'd be talking about when they spoke about being called
boy
.

“He's probably cut his hair, maybe even grown some facial hair.” Wilson joined in. He, too, had picked up on the sheriff's nonchalant attitude toward his partner.

Timmons looked from Crawford to Wilson. He took the picture. “Can we get a copy of this? I'd like to show it around to a few of our informants.”

“Sure.”

“Thanks,” Wilson offered for both him and his partner. He knew Crawford was somewhat in his feeling, and he had every right to be. There was no doubt in his mind Timmons was being a dick because of the color of Crawford's skin.

Within a half hour, Timmons had gotten something back.

Wilson thought they'd hit the jackpot when one of the informants turned out to be one of the crackheads who helped move Freddie's furniture. They rushed the apartment the crackhead had told them about, only to find it empty and abandoned.

Another dead end.

Wilson and Crawford had already been by the Winn-Dixie and surrounding stores showing Freddie's and Simone's pictures, but to no avail. The only hint of a lead they got was from Brian, the Winn-Dixie manager.

“Sorry, Detective. I can't say that I've seen him before,” Brian replied.

“Well, what about her?” Crawford asked, holding up Simone's picture again. “She tried to use her Visa in here about a week ago.”

Brian was rigid, struggling not to let it show. He recognized Simone's face as soon as he saw it, and his heart sank. He hoped she wasn't wanted, just affiliated with a wanted man. He hadn't heard from her, and now he knew her situation. The police wouldn't get anything out of him, or so he thought.

“No offense, Detective . . . Crawford, is it? But this is a huge store and I see a lot of faces. I'm just here to do my job and go home,” Brian said with a slight edge in his voice that Crawford missed, but Wilson didn't.

Wilson knew he knew the girl. It was written all over his face the minute he laid eyes on the picture. But he didn't know Freddie, which meant Freddie didn't know he knew Simone.

“Okay, sir. I understand. But if you see her, I ask that you give us a call at the Goldsboro Police Department,” Crawford instructed.

“Sure,” Brian said. He was turning away when his eyes met Detective Wilson's momentarily. Wilson hadn't said a word the whole time, but Brian didn't like the way he was looking at him. He was happy to get away from his gaze.

“He knows her,” Wilson told Crawford while they walked back to the rental car. “I'll bet my pension on it. I don't know how or why, but he's more than a casual acquaintance.”

“Maybe he's a family member.” Crawford shrugged. He, too, had gotten the same impression, now that Wilson mentioned it.

Wilson shook his head. “No, because he doesn't know Holmes.”

Crawford looked at him. “You think?”

Wilson shrugged. “Who knows. Maybe Miss Simone is into a lot of extracurricular activity. Whatever the case, we need a list of all his calls for the past six months, and hopefully we'll get a tap for any future ones, too.”

The dragnet was slowly tightening around Freddie.

Dante and Cream had reached Goldsboro as well. Their crew arrived in town in two rentals. Dante and Cream were in an Explorer, and two shooters were in a Ford Focus filled with a mini arsenal. Both shooters were Puerto Rican females who were known to get down. They were heroin addicts, but you couldn't tell by looking at them because they were Angie Martinez/Jennifer Lopez–type dimes. But make no mistake, their guns did go off, loudly and often.

They rode around to all the hot spots, dropping Freddie's name, trying to find him.

“Yeah, yo. I told son I was comin' through,” Dante told one cat in a green Range Rover, acting like they were friends, “but I ain't know when I was gettin' out, so I decided to surprise him.”

But no one gave Freddie up. Those who didn't know him couldn't tell, and those who did wouldn't. Eventually, word got back to Slug.

“Two niggas in a Explorer?” Slug asked.

“And two bad-ass Spanish
mamis
,” the Range Rover cat informed Slug.

Slug thought it might be connected to Gina in some way, but with Freddie, you couldn't tell. Maybe they really were looking for him. Slug had no idea because he no longer trusted his cousin. But since he had already made the first move, he felt he had the upper hand. So if Freddie had exported an army, he was ready to go to war, chess move for chess move. Because he already had his queen.

Simone awoke in a darkened apartment with a splitting headache. She found herself lying on a couch while two men with black bandanas tied around their faces watched her. She stiffened with fright, remembering what had transpired.

“Just be cool, li'l mama. If your man act right, this'll all be over in a minute,” one of them said, then turned to the other. “Call your folk.”

The second man grabbed the phone and dialed. After a moment, he spoke into the phone, “It's done.” Then he hung up.

Simone looked from face to face, scared to death. “Please let me go. Whatever Freddie did, I didn't have anything to do with it. Please,” she begged.

“Just like a bitch,” the second cat hissed. “As long as shit is sweet and the money is comin', it's all good. But soon as shit get gangsta, they all fo' self!”

The first man laughed. “Be cool, folk. Just make the call to Freddie.”

* * *

Freddie was on his way back from Wilson when his cell phone rang. He turned down his Sam Scarfo CD and answered it. “What da deal?”

“Yo' girl, nigga.” The voice cackled.

Freddie sat up straight in the seat. “My what?”

“Listen.”

Freddie heard muffled sounds. Then it felt like a hand squeezed the blood out of his heart when he heard, “Freddie!”

“Simone?”

A thud hit his stomach and he had to pull over to keep from wrecking his car, as a sudden dizziness filled his head.

“Freddie, they came to the house! They . . .”

“Simone!” he hollered into the phone, but the only reply was a menacing laugh.

“Damn, dog! This pussy that good, it got you hollerin' like that? Shit, you don't act right, I might just have to see for myself.”

“Muthafucka! You touch her and I'll kill you! I'll kill you!” Freddie screamed and pulled out his gun like they were right in front of him.

The second man laughed again, eying Simone's chocolate thighs. When they kidnapped her, she only had on a T-shirt, a bra, and no shoes. “Damn. Li'l mama got some pretty feet, dog,” he said as he ran his gun up Simone's thigh.

“Please, don't,” Simone begged, seeing the lust build in his eyes.

He pulled her shirt up and saw that she wasn't wearing any panties. “Damn! And no panties!” He cackled.

Freddie was sick to his stomach. “I'ma kill you, nigga! I'ma kill you!” He kept repeating it, tears welling up in his eyes.

“Nigga, you ain't gonna do shit but come off that hundred grand, ya dig?” he demanded.

“I . . . I hear you,” Freddie replied. “Just don't touch my fuckin' girl!”

“Nigga, I already did,” he boasted, and jabbed a finger inside Simone's sex. Then he held the phone to her screaming mouth.

“Freddie, please!”

Freddie opened the car door and vomited.

“You still think it's a game, dog? Huh?” the kidnapper taunted.

“Naw, man.” Freddie broke down. “It ain't a game.”

“A hundred Gs, partner. I'ma call you at the phone booth outside Darnell's in one hour. Have my scrilla and you get yo' bitch back.” Click.

Freddie laid his head against the steering wheel, mind racing, trying to figure out who could have done this. They had kidnapped Simone, and it was killing him. He straightened himself up for the drive. They could have the money even though it was all he had. But he swore on his unborn that these fools would pay for this with their lives, whoever was involved.

Freddie drove straight to the crib, running red lights with complete disregard. He was in kill mode. He would gladly trade his soul in exchange for the people responsible. To have them on their knees, begging for their lives, which he lusted to take.

Inside the apartment, he busted the safe and emptied it. He knew he had a little over a hundred grand by a thousand or two, but he had no time to count it. Besides, he had $2,500 in his pocket, and three Gs stashed in the CLK. He was going to give it all up without hesitation. Simone and his unborn child were worth that and more. Simone alone was worth that. No matter how grimy he was or how bad things had gotten between them, he truly loved Simone with all his heart, and he'd do anything to make sure she was safe. Until she was safe, nothing else mattered to him.

Freddie stuffed the money into a shopping bag, balled it up, jumped back into his car, and jetted out to Darnell's gas station.

When he arrived, he checked his watch nervously. He had ten minutes. He looked around for any shady faces or out-of-place sights, but besides the usual crowd of bums, drunks, and nickel hustlers, Darnell's was normal.

All kinds of things went through his mind about what they had done to Simone. The thought crossed his mind that if he paid them, they might deliver her dead body. In a kidnapping, there were no guarantees, Freddie knew. Maybe she had seen something she shouldn't have seen, or heard something she shouldn't have heard, and they wanted to make sure they weren't going to be identified.

Suppose they had . . . Freddie hated imagining that someone was raping his heart, taking what was his without permission. He envisioned Simone screaming out his name, and him being unable to hear her, help her, or save her.

He knew it was all his fault. The life he had led, the enemies he had made, all of it contributed to the present situation. He vowed that if he got Simone back safe and sound, they would leave Goldsboro. To go where, he didn't know, but as long as they were together . . .

The payphone rang and he answered before it had finished the rattle of the first ring. “Let me speak to my girl,” Freddie demanded.

“Easy, dog. You'll get yo' pussy back in the same shape if, and only if, you got my scrilla,” the voice taunted.

“I got it, muthafucka! Now put her on the phone! I ain't givin' you shit 'til I hear—”

“Freddie,” Simone sobbed, “why is this happening to me?”

“Baby, it's gonna be okay. Did they . . . hurt you?”

“You mean, did we fuck yo' bitch?” the man asked, taking the phone from Simone. “Not yet, nigga. But if you don't put the money inside that green Dumpster on the side of the store and leave, we gonna bust this pussy wide open, and then kill her. Ya smell me?”

“Bitch-ass nigga, why you ain't come at me? Come see me! Come see me, you fuckin' bitch-ass nigga!” Freddie barked uncontrollably, but the kidnapper hung up. Freddie made the drop, then jumped back into his car and skidded off.

Slug was playing pool at William Alston's poolroom when he got the call. “Yeah.”

“We got the scrilla.”

Slug didn't respond.

“What you want us to do wit' li'l mama?”

“Fuck you mean ‘do'?” I told y'all niggas to leave her alone. You got the scrilla, cut her loose,” Slug ordered and hung up.

He felt bad that Simone had gotten caught up in Freddie's bullshit, but he didn't regret it for two reasons, or at least that's what he tried to convince himself of. One, he did it for the money. With his cut of the ransom and what he had already put up, he had enough to kiss the game good-bye and get out the Boro. Second, from the look in Gina's eyes when she propositioned him with her scheme, if he had said no, she still would have gotten it done. And ain't no tellin' what total strangers would've done to Simone at Gina's request.

Slug studied the spread on the table and thought about the irony of life. Everybody wanted to be a shot caller. “Nine in the corner,” he told his opponent before he sank the shot, cross table.

And once a shot was set in motion . . .

“Combination, ten into the twelve, twelve side pocket.”

The only thing that controlled it was finesse, the amount of force behind it.

The twelve ball teetered, then dropped.

Too much force and you could scratch yourself out of the game. Too little, and you could miss the shot that could win the game.

“Eight ball, bank,” Slug announced, a Newport hanging out of his mouth, his eyes squinting against the smoke. The clack of the cue ball hitting the eight rang out across the pool hall. It careened and tumbled off the bank, then rolled as if magnetized into the winning pocket. Slug smiled.

“Bank, nigga.”