On the Run with Love (20 page)

Cream saw Tina's head bobbing, sucking someone off over at one of the booths. “Damn, these country broads are some freaks!” he mumbled in disbelief, but his attitude changed when he saw who she was going down on. “Oh shit!” he exclaimed, pushing through the crowd looking for Dante.

Dante was in the bathroom taking a piss at the urinal and, right next to him, Slug was taking a piss too. The two men acknowledged each other's presence then went on with their business.

Slug finished first, washed his hands, and headed out. As he was leaving, a guy walking in said, “What up, Slug?”

“What up,” Slug replied.

Dante almost pissed on his shoes trying to get his pants up. He didn't even wash his hands as he rushed out, trying to follow Slug. Cream ran up to him.

“I found Freddie!”

“Where?” Dante asked, forgetting all about Slug.

“In the back wit' some bitch blowin' him!” Cream snarled, imagining that Freddie had had his wife doing the same thing.

“Come on. When he come out, we'll be waiting for him.”

Timmons checked his watch and looked at Wilson. “You ready to call it a night?” Before Wilson could answer, he saw Cream and Dante hurry out of the club and walk over to two women in an SUV.

“I know that ain't . . .” Wilson began, then he looked over at Timmons. “I don't know how he got past us, but Holmes is inside!”

He and Timmons got out of the car and headed for the door.

“What's the matter, boo?” Tina was looking up with a wet mouth. Freddie had gone limp, but he hadn't cum. That's when she saw his tears. “Freddie, what's wrong?”

Freddie brought his head down and shook it. He started to push Tina away, to push it all away, but his eyes froze.

The first bullet whizzed through the air, shattering the bottle of Rémy Martin Grand Cru VS on the table and piercing the soft flesh of Freddie's upper left side, separating two of his ribs. The burning sensation ignited his insides letting his intoxicated mind know he had been shot. But he wasn't surprised. How could he be when he saw it coming, saw them coming, from across the crowded club.

The second shot caught him in the neck. His blood splattered all over a screaming female beside him who was scrambling to get away.

Yes, he saw the bullets coming. He could see them in his eyes before he saw the glint of the cold steel in the shooter's hand. When their eyes first met, his instincts went into survival mode. He saw murder and knew he was the victim. As he reached for his pistol, something happened. Something just made him stop, and he accepted what was taking place. He was tired.

Even the fourth bullet, the last shot he felt, seemed to move in slow motion. From the barrel of the gun, he followed its
Matrix
-like trajectory as it zeroed in on him. He watched it come dangerously close to a woman's ducking head, break a glass in a man's hand, and finally lodge itself deep inside his own flesh. Simultaneously, Freddie's mind was sent to that place where pain can no longer reach.

His last sight was of those eyes and the determination in them. He knew it was coming; no one can run forever. His last thought was,
damn, why did it have to be me?

Simone trekked along the busy thoroughfare of Wayne Memorial Drive, carrying her small suitcase. She was finally free. The things Freddie had said made her feel used and depressed, but she had needed to hear them, had needed to hear him say them to her to let her go.

She had lied to Freddie; she did love him. And she knew in her heart that she always would. Deep down, she wished Freddie would pull up beside her, beg her not to leave, embrace her tightly, and declare his undying love. But it didn't happen.

Simone was in no condition to be walking, so when she reached the corner gas station, she called a cab from the payphone. While waiting for it, she saw Freddie drive by in the BMW he had bought for her. She could hear Jay-Z's
In My Lifetime, Vol. 1
pumping out of the open windows. He didn't look in her direction, just kept his attention straight ahead, bopping his head to the music. He looked like he didn't have a care in the world, like he couldn't care less about her leaving him. She noticed that he had changed clothes. She couldn't tell what he was wearing, but she knew it was different from what she had just seen him in.

Simone guessed at where he might be going: Tina. That made her blood boil. She imagined Tina in her apartment, in her bed, maybe even in her clothes, taking her place. The cab pulled up and Simone got in. Her mind was set to go to the bus station, but she heard herself say, “The Midnight Lounge.” She had to see for herself, confirm what she already knew to be true and see Freddie with her.

Simone arrived at the club, asked the cab driver to wait for her, and then disappeared inside. The club was packed, as usual, and the thump of the music hurt her ears. It made her grab her stomach in a motherly embrace. Recognition flashed across the faces that knew her and, in her condition, they wondered what she was doing there. Simone even started to wonder herself. Freddie had obviously gone on with his life, and it was time to get on with hers.

That was her thought before she saw Freddie in the corner booth, and he wasn't alone. Tina was with him. Seeing her hugged up under Freddie and whispering in his ear brought back all of her anger, frustration, and grief. For six years, she had made Freddie her world, and to see him hugged up not even an hour after she left made her forget everything. All she felt was hate.

That was, until she saw Tina's head lower and begin to bob slowly up and down in Freddie's lap. “I can make another baby. Can you make another Freddie?” he'd said. Simone just snapped.

Quietly and calmly, she began her approach. She only had the gun because of the kidnapping. She saw the small .380 on the dresser and grabbed it out of fear. Now, here in the club, she felt the weight of the steel in her hand.

Simone took aim and it was like Freddie could feel her from across the room, feel her pain. He lowered his head and looked directly at her, and she fired.

She had aimed for Tina's bobbing head, but instead hit Freddie. Tina screamed and scrambled to get up. She fired again and watched the blood from Freddie's neck splatter all over Tina's back. Tina fled for safety and the club erupted into a frenzy. She fired the last two shots in rapid succession, each one tearing away a piece of flesh from the man she loved.

The pushing and shoving of the escaping clubgoers brought Simone back to reality and she knew she had to get out. She made her way toward the door amid the other clubbers, then stepped outside and into the waiting cab.

“What the hell!” Wilson exclaimed, watching people run, screaming, from the lounge.

“They shootin', yo!” somebody shouted.

Wilson and Timmons pulled their pistols and aggressively pushed their way inside. “Police! Out of the way! Move!” They looked around, scanning the place for the shooter and listening for more shots. All they heard was a girl crying over a body slumped in a corner booth.

“Oh, my God! Oh, my God! Freddie, please don't die!” Tina begged hysterically.

Detectives Wilson and Timmons ran up on the scene. Wilson saw the man he had been looking for. “Get an ambulance!” he directed.

Dante and Cream were sitting in the Explorer, hecklers on their laps, eyes glued to the door, when people came bursting out.

“Fuck is goin' on?” Dante asked, getting out of the car, scanning the faces, and making sure Freddie wasn't one of the people running away.

Cream got out and stood beside him, gun in hand. A girl ran by and Cream grabbed her arm. “What the fuck goin' on?”

“Somebody got shot!” she said, then snatched her arm away and continued running.

“Yo, Cream, go see what's good,” Dante said, sending his boy to gather information.

They didn't have long to wait. The ambulance arrived along with several squad cars, and they cordoned off the front of the club. But that didn't stop the curious from huddling around. The EMTs, along with Timmons, Wilson, and Tina, walked out of the club, and then came Freddie on a stretcher, oxygen mask affixed to his face. Tina clung to his side. Cream looked into Freddie's face and felt mixed emotions. He was glad that Freddie was the one who had been hit, but he hated the fact that he hadn't been the one to hit him.

“No, miss, you can't—” The paramedic tried to stop Tina and she flipped.

“No! I'm going! I'm his wife! I'm going, motherfucka!” she ranted and raved as Wilson silently nodded an okay. They all piled into the back of the ambulance and the door shut.

Slug stood outside in shock. He had heard the shots, but didn't know who got hit until now. He looked around the crowd and his eyes found Cream. Slug never forgot a face. He remembered Cream from the shootout in Plainfield, and he knew instantly that these had been the cats asking about Freddie.

His mind told him that these were the dudes who had gunned his cousin down. Regardless of everything that had happened, Slug wasn't about to let this violation go unpunished.

Cream ran back to the SUV and got in. “Son, they fuckin' shot Freddie!” he exclaimed, disgusted.

“Who?”

“Fuck, I don't know. But that was him in the ambulance.” Cream hit the dashboard in frustration.

“He dead?”

“They ain't have a sheet over his face.”

That was all Dante needed to hear. He started the truck up. “Then he ain't dead.” He signaled for the two girls to follow. “Let's go find this fuckin' hospital.” Dante pulled out onto Ash Street with the Ford Focus behind him.

“Yo, Tay, what are we gonna do when we get to the hospital?” Cream asked. He wanted Freddie too, but he wasn't down for no wild cowboy shit.

“Fuck you mean? We ain't leavin' 'til this nigga's dead, fo' sho'. I ain't come all this way for nothing. Word to—”

Dante never got a chance to finish his sentence. As he sat at the light, he didn't see the two CBR 900s that pulled up on both sides of the Explorer. J-dog and Bruno simultaneously raised their guns and let off a barrage of shots into the SUV. Dante and Cream never even had a chance to react. They jerked and twitched violently as the bullets filled their already dead bodies.

But Cream and Dante weren't the only ones caught off guard. J-dog and Bruno didn't know that the two girls in the Focus behind them were with the cats in the Explorer.

“Mira, aqui!”
the J-Lo lookalike yelled and opened fire with a Mac. Her partner in crime was synchronized perfectly with her, twin .40s blazing. Their shots hit metal and flesh, sending sparks and soft tissue flying in all directions. J-dog and Bruno lay tangled in their motorcycles.

The blond Boricua walked up on a half-dead Bruno and stood over him.
“Muerte, punto!”
she sneered, and emptied the rest of her clip. Then she checked on Dante and Cream. They had both met their Maker.

“Mami, vamanos!”
the other Latina yelled, hearing the sirens in the distance. They both jumped into the Focus and disappeared into the shadows.

The first things Freddie saw when he opened his eyes in the hospital were a bright white light, and two blurry faces. As his vision returned and his pupils focused, he saw that the two faces belonged to two smiling men he had never seen before but recognized instantly: cops.

“Welcome back, Mr. Holmes,” Wilson announced triumphantly. “You almost got away from us, for good. But thank God for the miracle of modern medicine. Wouldn't you agree?”

Freddie just looked at Wilson, stone-faced.

“I didn't think you would. But I can't say that I blame you, because where I'm sending you, you're going to wish you were dead,” Wilson taunted, then began with the all-too-familiar words, “You have the right to remain silent . . .”

 

Trenton State Prison was the end of the road for anybody in the New Jersey prison system with twenty-five years or more. Nothing but concrete and steel, it was where dreams died and inmates prayed for miracles. This was where Freddie was expected to serve out his twenty-eight-year sentence. He had been charged with three murders and one attempted murder. Three murders because the gun he killed Mannie with had two previous bodies on it. He easily beat the first two bodies, but copped to one count of second-degree murder and attempted murder for the cop he shot.

He lay back on his bunk, looking at the letter in his hands. The return address simply read: SIMONE JACKSON.

He smiled. He had been down for almost nine months and Simone hadn't written him one letter. She had sent numerous pictures of his daughter, Fredica Simone Jackson, and had sent the beautiful bundle of joy up to see him with his mother, but she had never written him prior to the letter he held in his hand.

Freddie was almost afraid to read the letter, satisfied with the daydream of what he wanted it to say but knew in his heart it didn't. He had written her countless letters, and this was her first reply. There was a scent to it.

* * *

Freddie sat up on the bunk and laid Simone's letter beside him on the pillow. She was right and there was nothing he could say. He had made many promises to her, promises she had bet her life on, and he had let her down. He must have been a fool to think that, after all that, she'd do twenty-eight years with him. Freddie didn't even know how he could do twenty-eight years. One day at a time, he guessed.

Slug hadn't written him once since his incarceration and that angered him. But knowing Slug had hit Simone off with the amount of money he had made him grateful to Slug in his heart. He had no way of knowing it was his own money, the money he had paid Simone's ransom with, nor would he ever.

Freddie thought about what Simone said about the time he got. He didn't feel he deserved it either, but looking back on all the people he had used, abused, or manipulated, he realized that justice had truly been served, and he had to accept it.

His thoughts turned to Gina. He hadn't written her or heard from her at all. He really didn't have anything to say. Until now.

Freddie crossed his small cell to his desk and took out his notepad and pen. His attention was caught by the series of pictures of Tina on his desk. Tina had hopped the fence months ago, after she learned what he had been on the run for. She wrote for a few months, then the letters just stopped. The only reason he kept the pictures was because they were nude and panty shots in all seven of them. He chuckled to himself as he grabbed his pen.

Freddie sat back and tilted the chair until he was looking at the ceiling. Twenty-eight years. He was twenty-two and would be approaching fifty when he got out. He set the chair down on all four legs and looked at the notepad. He felt he had a story to tell, and he definitely had the time to tell it. He took up his pen, and this was how it began:

The first bullet whizzed through the air, shattering the bottle of Grand Cru Rémy Martin on the table, piercing the soft flesh of my upper left side, breaking two ribs. The burning sensation ignited my insides, telling my intoxicated mind that I had been shot.

 

The End