The Grind Don't Stop (43 page)

Sparkle stopped about ten yards from the entrance to the main control office and pulled him by the wrist. He stared straight into his eyes. “Yo, peeps, you remember that day when you cracked that fool upside the head? He was set to steal on me about that slum-ass reefer he was trying to gorilla down my throat?”

Skeet lowered his head and started massaging the bridge of his nose, listening intently.

“Well, baby boy, that alone is enough to keep my mind on the struggles you gotta go through in this crazy house. So you can count on me, dog. Word is bond, like it's always been with us.”

“Yeah, I feel you, man.” He continued to look down in shame for doubting his main man.

The captain who ran the control room came out the door. “Say, man, they been hollering for you on the walkie-talkies for about a half-hour now. 'S up, you ain't ready to go home or something?”

“Hell yeah, I'm on my way now, Captain.” He turned away from him and embraced his buddy one more time. “My nig, I gotcha. Have your sister holla at a nigga when she get the paperwork,” Sparkle whispered.

Skeet grinned like a black Cheshire cat. “It's on the way as we speak. Hell, that there's a wrap; make sure you take care of yourself out there.”

“Shit, dog, that's automatic. You stay strong up in this hellhole.”

“No choice, partner; no choice.”

Sparkle rubbed his chin as he squinted at his boy and then looked around the compound for the last time. “Man, I sho' ain't gonna miss this place here.”

“Yeah, man, I feel you on that there.” Skeet nodded, following his gaze.

Sparkle lifted his chin and gave Skeet one more brotherly hug. He headed into the control center, toward freedom.

A couple of hundred miles to the north, an individual was tossing and turning in their sleep, struggling with the constant nightmare that punished and punished, year after year.

The hot balmy breeze did little to stop the sweat from stinging the child's eyes. The heat was unbearable. The countless number of mosquitoes nibbling on little arms, legs and neck couldn't be swatted away, no matter how often and hard they swung. They kept biting and biting, growing bigger and bigger as the child's blood flooded its stinger mouth, like a hypodermic needle pumping a junkie's vein. The child got woozier as its life flow oozed down its arms.

The foggy faces of lust-crazed men poofed into view and leaned closer to the terror-filled eyes, which quickly began fading in and out of focus. Ever so close, yet out of reach. A white one with stubby hairs rubbing harshly against the child's burning skin, followed by a black one that ogled as slobber ran out of the corners of his mouth. His head angled from side to side like a lunatic; a brown one, then a yellow blurring in and out of vision.

The faces continued to swirl madly around as the mosquitoes got bigger, jaws snapping and gnawing on the child's ever swelling arms. Suddenly all the different colored backs appeared altogether in a hideous mass, sweating and stinking as they came into focus, going up and down, followed by a blood-curdling scream.

The individual's eyes shot open, a body consuming fear was causing the air to come in rapid gasps, hands rubbing vigorously all over the body that was drenched in flowing sweat, desperately
trying to wipe away the icky feeling of total despair. He sat up in the unfamiliar surroundings, wondering how he had gotten there, brushing away oily hair that was plastered to the sticky forehead, before burying his head into his hands, scared to death as to why this kept happening. Tears from decades of suffering rolled down swollen cheeks, puffed with pain, wondering if the nightmares would ever stop; nightmares that were constantly increasing in frequency and intensity. Damn, something had to be done to make them stop. There was only one way to make them go away. And it would definitely come to pass. Please come to pass before insanity took over.

T
he noonday sun cast eerie shadows on the freshly painted wall when Beverly Johnson picked up the persistently ringing telephone. Atlanta's newly appointed police chief listened intently to the familiar voice on the other end of the phone.

Only moments earlier her mood had been really upbeat as she had given the city designers the final instructions on remodeling her office. At least now it had a little bit of a woman's touch, with flowers and beautiful paintings to remove all of the masculine overkill.

Subconsciously, she looked at the reflection on the blank screen of her laptop. The image of a proud black woman brought a bright smile to her eyes; the first ever appointed as the head of the department of public safety in a major American city. And why
not, this was the same city where Martin Luther King Jr. had begun knocking down all those racial barriers so many years ago.

She sighed and blew air upward that ruffled the ever-present bangs that rested on her brows. She pinched the bridge of her rather pointy nose and hung up the phone, pondering over the message that had brought a mixture of both joy and disturbance.

“Damn,” she muttered and started punching keys to verify what she had heard. As usual the particular source proved to be reliable. With contrasting emotions buzzing loudly in her mind, she pushed away from her desk and walked to the window overlooking Peachtree Street and the downtown Atlanta skyline. It was the only city that she had ever really known. A city that she loved and had been entrusted to keep safe.

She closed her eyes, wondering whether this was the start of a dream come true or the continuation of a never-ending nightmare. What was she to do? How long could she continue to live a lie? Folding her arms across her ample bosom, she looked to the clouds, thinking of all the people that believed in her. What would they do, especially her political enemies, if the truth about her past ever really came to light?

She sucked on her teeth with the confidence that had gotten her to the status she now enjoyed. After a moment of meditation, she ran her manicured hands across her forehead and knuckled the corners of her eyes, pressing imaginary wrinkles. She spoke much louder than she thought. “We'll just have to make sure that nobody finds out.”

“Never find out what, bossa lady?” a voice stuttering with an oriental accent called from the doorway.

A shiver of fear of being discovered ran down Beverly's spine as she jerked around. Quickly regaining her composure, she spat venom. “Lieutenant Woo, how many times have I told you to knock?”
She paused to place her hands on her hips. “Knock and wait for me to tell you that it's okay to come in.”

The petite Vietnamese officer, the feared leader of the dreaded Black Cat drug enforcement team, squinted her cheeks and smiled. “Bossa lady, you aight? You ain't never told me that.” She hunched her shoulders meekly and eased through the door.

She had only taken a few steps and opened her mouth to speak further, but Beverly cut her off. She advanced aggressively toward her and growled, “Lieutenant Woo, I still did not tell you that it was okay to enter.”

Woo's eyes widened and she raised her hands in a defensive posture as she backed up. “Do you want me to go back out and knock first?”

Beverly rubbed her forehead as she stared down at the floor for a brief moment before she spoke over her shoulder and turned around to walk back to her desk. “Naw, come on in and this had better be good.”

Lieutenant Woo stepped forward timidly toward the chief's large desk and placed papers on it. “Is it okay for me to sit down?” After receiving a curt nod from the chief, she eased into the chair and patted the papers. “I need authorization to hook up with the Red Dogs over in Decatur to straighten up those hotels along the county borders.”

Beverly's eyes squinted in concentration as she placed a hand over her mouth and leaned back in the seat. After watching Woo swallow a lump down her throat, she nodded for her to continue. Woo hunched her narrow shoulders and leaned forward. “That's it, bossa lady; I want to clean up the whole strip on I-20. From Little Vietnam to Lithonia. What else is there to say?”

Beverly pyramided her hands across the bridge of her nose, cocked her head to the side and stood. “Okay, go do your thing.” When she didn't
get an immediate reply from the diminutive lieutenant, she sat back down and started shuffling some of the paperwork that was piled on her desk.

Woo sat puzzled for a few seconds and then pushed the papers further across the desk. “Thanks, but aren't you forgetting to sign the papers?”

Beverly didn't take the time to look up and waved her dismissal.

Woo blinked a couple of times and mumbled, “But…”

“But what?” Beverly said sternly.

“Are you going to authorize these or not?”

“I just did and I'm sure that you're going to do an excellent job.” She paused to lean back in her chair and stared back at her. “Oh yeah, and the next time that you come in my office, I'd really appreciate it if you would knock and then wait until you are welcomed in. Understood?”

Woo gathered up her papers. “Understood.” She slowly got up to leave. When she arrived at the door and started to turn around to speak, the chief's hand was pointing toward the door. The expression told her that it would be useless to say any more, so she sighed heavily and left.

When she closed the door, Beverly stared at it for a minute, wondering why she had come to her office. Especially when she knew that her staff handled that sort of thing. Was she trying to get closer to her since she was now the chief instead of one of her colleagues? Hell, she couldn't really blame her for that. Or maybe she was being a little too paranoid because of the call.
Check yourself, old girl, ain't no need to start getting all unraveled now,
she thought and then dug into her black purse to retrieve her cell phone. She punched in some numbers.

“Might as well make sure that the playing field is all clear,” she hummed to herself as the phone rang. “Hello, you know who this is. There are some things I want you to look into.”

A half-hour after entering the control room, Sparkle rolled down the window to catch the breeze in the old prison van. He watched the rural Georgia countryside en route to the bus station. Old gray-haired Sergeant Jones gave him a bucktoothed smile. “Yo family's going to be waiting on you at the bus station in Atlanta? That's where you're going, ain't it?”

Sparkle was way too deep in his own thoughts to be paying him much attention. Sarge cleared his throat and repeated himself. Sparkle blinked. “Sorry about that, Sarge; my mind was way out there. Ah yeah, they'll be there when the bus shows up. I think my sister said the bus would hit town around noontime.”

“That's good, man, that ya family be sticking wid ya and all.” The van shrieked to an abrupt stop and Sarge took the time to light a cigarette. The sudden stop caught Sparkle by surprise and forced him to brace against the dashboard. He was about to shout a number of obscenities before he looked up and saw an old country convenience store.

Sarge let out a stream of blue smoke in his direction. “Dat dere's da bus depot; you near about there now, home, I mean.” Sparkle shot a frown at him, wondering why he had stopped so far away. Sarge didn't acknowledge the frown as he reached across Sparkle's body to open the glove compartment. Having no idea what this hillbilly was up to, Sparkle leaned back in the seat. Sarge smiled at his reaction. “What's wrong with you, partner?” he snorted in response. He pulled out a flask and took a big gulp of some rot-gut home brew. He aahed and belched loudly, and then to Sparkle's surprise, offered him a taste.

Sparkle gathered himself together. “Thanks, Sarge, but no thanks. I'd rather keep my head on straight now.”

Sarge harrumphed, took another big swig, aaahed again and
wiped his mouth with the back of his knuckled hand. “Just thought I'd offer. You were one of the few guys back yonder that acted like he had some sense.”

Sparkle forced a smile at the so-called compliment. At the same time he was thinking,
This droopy-jawed muthafucka's gotta be out
of his godayum mind if he thinks I'm gonna drink sumthang after his…
uh, uh, damn what's that mutt's name…dam…Uh-huh, the one that
used to slobber all over everything. Oh yeah, that fucking Hooch, Turner
and Hooch, that big nasty drooling mutt with Tom Hanks…Oh hell to the naw.

“Whatcha thinking about, son? I say sumthang funny?” Sarge grimaced, puzzled why Sparkle couldn't appreciate his good-natured gesture.
Hell, how many boys do he think could even get an offer to share a drink wid me,
he thought as he harrumphed and took another big swig.

Sparkle shuddered slightly; struck between insult and common sense, he chose the latter. “Naw, Sarge, I was sorta getting away from any mind-blowing stuff, if you feel me.” He paused to nod at the flask. “And from the smell of dat there and the way you aahing and shit, I really don't think I could handle it.”

As he expected, that drew a smile out of Sarge, so he continued, “Now if you wanna score me one of them root beer sodas out of that machine over yonder, I will gladly touch glasses with ya.”

The wrinkles eased out of Sarge's brow as he chuckled. “Aw, fella, you right, what's wrong with me?” He tapped the side of his head with the flask. “And here I'ma C.O. and offerin' you some rot-gut home brew.”

Sparkle smiled innocently, hunched his shoulders and spread his hands out.

Sarge smiled back. “T'ain't much correcting in that, huh?”

“No offense, but it sho ain't.”

Sarge nodded. “None taken. Come on, let's get you on home.”

Sarge escorted him to the counter where a gray-haired, leather- skinned, chew-tobacco gal cashed his twenty-five-dollar state check. Sarge handed him his bus ticket to Atlanta. “Take care of yourself, son. Don't let me see ya this way again.”