Slipping Into Darkness Read online

  After the two officers took the report and left, I waited in the living room until Shirley medicated Daddy Chill, so we could talk.

  “Hi, Auntie Z.”

  I glanced up and saw Chica’s oldest daughter, Malibu, wander into the room. She reached up and hugged me. She was rubbing her eyes.

  “Did Papa Chill get back yet?” she asked groggily, her pimpled face wrinkled from a blanket of sleep and from an ongoing anxiety, which made her seem far older than her years. I hadn’t seen her in a couple of weeks, since I’d been crashing at Romero’s lately, and she’d blossomed over night. At thirteen, she could pass for twenty. She had at least blossomed from a B cup to a C cup in the past month, and it was scary—what with all these sexual predators out there. I was glad she was with Shirley, who really kept tight reins on Chica and me when we were teens, but I didn’t know about now. Shirley seemed so drained from taking care of Daddy Chill, I wondered how she could take care of four budding girls, one of whom was already a hottie.

  “Yes, he’s back. The police found him.”

  “What’s wrong with him? He doesn’t act like himself.”

  “He has dementia, baby,” Shirley said, returning to the room.

  “We hope he gets better.” Nine-year-old Soledad had joined her big sister. Her eyes were alert, as if she’d never gone to sleep.

  Shirley shook her head. She was generally the optimist, but I guessed she was being the realist. “His disease is progressive.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s not going to get better.” Hervoice sounded flat and blunt.

  Both girls opened their mouths into round Os and started crying in big gulps. Shirley reached out and hugged them. “Oh, calm down, girls. I’m sorry I said it like that. Everything is going to be all right.”

  “Is Papa Chill going to die like Trayvon did?” Soledad asked between sniffing and huffing.

  “No, I’m just tired, girls. He can live a long time with the disease. Don’t worry. He will be all right.”

  “Shirley, where are Charisma and Brooklyn?” Those were Chica’s younger two daughters who were respectively eight and six.

  “They went to spend the night with Chica while I looked for Chill.” Chica kept the girls every other weekend now that she’d been clean and sober.

  Shirley went to comfort the girls and put them back to bed. I sat in the living room, alone with my doubts and my fears. What should I do? Why did I have to get involved? And, if I did, would I be able to help my brother? Wouldn’t this be dangerous? This case was too big for me.

  I leaned my head back against the wing-back chair and absently looked around the room. I was comforted by the same antique Victorian sofa sitting in the same corner. The familiar fragrance of potpourri sitting in a vase filled my nostrils. I felt comforted when I gazed at my high school cap and gown graduation picture, which was placed next to Chica’s high school graduation picture on the fireplace mantel.

  This made me feel like I had a point of reference. Some shared history. Home. This was home for me–the former foster kid. People didn’t understand how much that meant to me. There were no pictures of my childhood before I stayed with Shirley. I only had one picture of me as a baby with my father that my mother had salvaged while she was on lockdown. To this day, I still often perused Shirley’s many photo albums, which captured pictures of our childhood vacations, the teenaged guerilla theater, or beauty contests Chica and I had participated in, and both junior high and high school graduation.

  Finally Shirley came out of the bedroom. “How are the girls doing?” I asked.

  “They’re in counseling. They still haven’t gotten over Trayvon. I don’t think I’ll ever get over him either.” Shirley shook her head, her face growing drawn and pinched. Her eyes still carried a wounded look, over a year after Trayvon’s murder. He’d been her pet of all the foster grandchildren.

  “Yes, we all miss him.” Chica’s son had really been a good kid. Being the only boy, his four surviving sisters still missed him.

  “How was the Academy Awards? That dress is beautiful. You look stunning!” Shirley said, as if she was just noticing for the first time that I was wearing after-five apparel.

  “It was different. But two Feds pulled me out and I didn’t get to stay for the awards ceremony or the after parties.”

  A look of alarm crossed Shirley’s face and her tone changed. “You left a message that you needed to talk. What’s the matter?”

  I told her my dilemma. I finished spilling out my story, filled with doubts and recriminations that I hadn’t reacted sooner. I waited for her to say something.“Shirley, what should I do?”

  Shirley reached out and took my hand. She held it to my chest. She was silent for what seemed like the longest time, but was probably only seconds. “Do you hear your heartbeat?”

  I nodded.

  “There’s no one else’s in the world like yours. Just listen to it ... In your silent moments you’ll know what to do. Follow your heart, baby.”

  “I want to, but ...” I faltered.

  “But what?”

  “I’m scared.”

  “Scared of what?”

  “I guess I might as well tell you. I’m scared if I stick my neck out, I might get hurt. These people don’t play.”

  “We all have to help people. What kind of world would this be if no one ever helped one another?”

  I thought of all the children Shirley had helped, including me. Where would I be if she hadn’t taken me in as a foster child when I was young? “I’m afraid, though. I don’t know what I might find.”

  “Okay, what would you feel if you don’t at least try to help?”

  I thought about it for a minute. I reluctantly had to admit something. “I guess I’d feel awful. My brother said his sons are not even safe and he wants me to help get them somewhere safe.”

  “Just remain true to yourself. I can’t promise you that it will work out, but it will work better for you if you do what is in you to do.”

  “I wish it were that simple. This thing could be dangerous. We’re talking Crips, cartels, Feds. I don’t know what’s going on.”

  Shirley closed her eyes and prayed out loud a prayer she knew word-for-word by heart.

  In the Lord, put I my trust. How say ye to my soul. Flee as a bird to your mountain? For, lo, the wicked bend their bow, they make ready their arrow upon the string, that they may privily shoot at the upright in heart. If the foundations be destroyed, what can the righteous do? The Lord is in his temple, the Lord’s throne is in heaven; his eyes behold, his eyelids try, the children of men. The Lord trieth the righteous: but the wicked and him that loveth violence his soul hateth.

  Upon the wicked he shall rain snares, fire and brimstone, and a horrible tempest; this shall be the portion of their cup. For the righteous Lord loveth righteousness; his countenance doth behold the upright.

  “That’s beautiful! What prayer is that, Moochie ?”

  “Psalm 11. This will help you triumph over adversity.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, still not certain prayer could help in this case.

  Shirley stood up. “Think of David and Goliath. Go with God.” Shirley hugged me. “I love you, Z.”

  “Love you too, Moochie.”

  I hugged her back and got up to leave. I barreled inside my garage apartment and threw on a pair of black jeans, a black T-shirt, and jacket. I packed my piece on my shoulder strap. I always felt safer on the streets with my pearl-handled Glock. I fed my ferret, Ben, and let him out his cage so he could be free to roam my studio apartment. I didn’t know how long this day was going to be. After our postprandial lovemaking session, I’d taken a long nap the afternoon before at Romero’s so that helped. I called Romero to tell him I wasn’t coming to spend the night at his place after all, and it went to his voice mail. I left a brief message.

  My thoughts turned back to my brother. I didn’t even have any childhood pictures of us together. Now I only had the image
of Mayhem on my phone screen, eyes blackened and swollen. My eyes watered, but I bit my lip to keep from crying. Was I my brother’s keeper? I guessed I was.

  I tried to call the number Venita had given me for Tank, but I didn’t get an answer. There was no voice mail system set up, and I wouldn’t have left a message anyhow. I hung up, clearly shaken, but an invisible hand pushed me forward. It was four in the morning when I headed to Imperial Courts. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter Six

  Crossing the bridge into Imperial Courts in Watts, my hands felt clammy as I gripped the steering wheel and a dull thud stabbed me in my stomach. My intestines growled and felt all twisted up. My gut was saying that this was going to be dangerous. That wasn’t a good sign. My gut never lied.

  At first I felt this dropping sensation from my chest to my stomach, and then my heart went into a full throttle of arrhythmia. I did a series of deep breathing just to slow my heart rate down. My tae kwon do instructor, Mr. Wong, always said to breathe deeply before going into battle. I guessed I was going to have to go to war. Unfortunately, I didn’t know who the enemy was.

  I wanted to back out, but something compelled me forward. I knew my life would change if I even talked to Tank. Then I’d be committed, and once I was in, I’d be all the way in, even if it meant my death. Oh, no! My feelings flip-flopped. Hell naw. I was back to cussing again. I should turn this car around and go back home. I had too much to lose. I was just beginning to get a toehold on life again since I’d lost my police job. The PI jobs were coming in steadily where the good months carried me over the slow months.

  My mind stayed in a battle with the pros and cons of getting involved. Here I was even thinking about the new American Dream of becoming a reality show star. I didn’t need this drama in my life. But then, Mayhem’s blackened eyes would come back and haunt me all over again. No, I had to do whatever I could do within my power to help my brother. He was all I had of my siblings.

  I called Tank several times more to no avail. I started to turn back around, but my mind wouldn’t let me. Now I was curious and I was compelled to go forward. Where was Tank? Did he set my brother up? Wasn’t he supposed to be his lieutenant?

  What was going on? Why did Mayhem want me to go to Brazil? What could Tank tell me? I needed more information and the only way I could get it was to go see Tank.

  As I drove through the outhouse dark streets, I saw the differences from Baldwin Hills, less than twenty miles away. Graffiti marking different gang territories let me know on whose turf I was treading. Bullet holes left their marks on different walls, houses, and cars too.

  I realized that I was entering what was an entire subculture–the other America. I was born into it, but through a twist of fate, somewhat escaped it. After being raised in foster care from age nine, somewhere along the way, I decided I couldn’t live like this. Petty, low-level crime. Gangbanging. The world of get-money chicks. Sheesh.

  My mother was a Crip–a gangbanger–until she went to prison. Now she was still a respected OG. No, I had to break the cycle.

  For years I carried survivor’s guilt, but now I felt like an ambassador. I was like a spy who could slip in and out of corporate America, then go back to the underworld. Although we had a black president, for too many of my people things had not changed. The recession, unemployment, things for many had not gotten better; they’d just had gotten worse. The Black middle class’s grip on its lifestyle was tenuous, to say the least. People seemed to be slipping into darkness.

  I couldn’t even say if it was a good thing or bad, but some men refused to be out of work. Men like my brother. They created work for themselves and others–even if it was on the wrong side of the law.

  Thinking of it, I noticed something. Now that I was in South L.A., a sense of danger quivered in the air. I smelled it and I could taste it. I could feel the tension between the gangs and the police cars, which prowled the streets all night. Yet, at the same time, I personally felt an alliance to my people. I felt like I was entering a colonized state. A police state. With the fading middle class, some of the denizen had slipped into a permanent underclass status, but these are my people and I have to help and defend them where I can. Besides, I could get into cracks the police couldn’t get in.

  Why? Because I spoke the language of the hood. I knew it because I grew up the first nine years of my life in nearby Jordan Downs Projects.

  Ebonics was a language, and like any first language, you had to grow up hearing it to understand all its subtleties and nuances. There was a rhythm and a poetry to the language of the street. It changed and grew every day in an ongoing effort to continue to dupe the law. And it always amazed me how the language lost its punch when I hear it bastardized by mainstream America. Even newscasters tried to speak in hip hop these days.

  My car was old and I didn’t have a navigation system, so I relied on my memory of the Watts streets’ layout. I felt a sense of unease in the people who were out this time of night as I drove up the street. Unless you were in the 5 percent oligarchy, you were like the rest of us, who were living in a time of uncertainty. People who once held six-figure salaries no longer had them. Unemployment benefits had been extended beyond twenty-four months–a benefit that was previously unheard of–and still there were not enough jobs. Middle-class America had taken up in arms and was Occupying Wall Street all over the country. The whole world had changed overnight for us Americans. In a crazy way I understood how the man I’d read about in the paper felt, who, after having been Harvard educated, and a former Wall Street investor, was now robbing banks. He probably felt like the bottom had fallen out and he had nothing to lose. The world, including mortgages, was upside down and people were losing homes to foreclosures like houses under water during a tsunami.

  Regardless of what was going on, everyone was in search of that elusive American Dream. People were desperate, and desperate men would do what they had to do to eat. I had to assume this had been Mayhem’s stance all along–even before the economy crashed.

  I guessed I’d already been through my own peripeteia–the point when everything the heroine thought she knew about life was wrong. The point when my American Dream and my ideal job were snatched out from under me like a double whammy rug, leaving me to fall on my big posterior. Yes, I’d lost my hard-won job as a police officer, and had gone through the shame and degradation of being a drunk who hit bottom. But with my loved ones’ help, I’d worked hard to build my life back. And this time around, it was better than before. So I really had a lot to lose, even looking into this case.

  As early as it was, the crackheads filled the gray streets. People who looked old beyond their years shuffled up and down the streets. Strawberries trying to hook up with tricks stalked the boulevards. Their hips swiveled dangerously as they teetered up and down the stroll in high stilettos. Most of the working girls wore almost nonexistent short skirts, which resembled tube tops and string-like halter tops, although it was forty degrees outside. Some gangbangers, pants hanging low and showing their boxer shorts, leaned on corners, waiting to sell their next bag. The sounds of sirens played in the backdrop like beats to a rap song.

  I finally located the address, deep within the projects. It was a single-story stucco bungalow. I looked around and pulled my Glock out and put it to my side. I approached the door, paused, then knocked.

  “Who is it?” a baritone male voice barked.

  “Z. I met you before. Mayhem sent me. I tried to call you.”

  I saw his light brown iris squint as he looked directly into my eyes from out of the peephole.

  “Ain’t you One time?” One time was the street phrase for the police in L.A.

  “Not anymore.”

  Slowly, the door cracked, sending out just a shard of light onto the porch.

  “So you’re boss man’s baby sis.” He said it more as a statement than a question.

  Finally, he opened up what sounded like a dozen deadbolt locks. He was strapped, and
pointed his gun from side to side on the door. He craned his neck, looked around the corner, and pulled me in.

  I put my Glock back into my sling-shot, which hung under my arm. Once inside, I got my first good look at Tank. I was so afraid the first time I met him at one of Mayhem’s spots, I didn’t really get a good once-over of him. He wore a close fade haircut. He really didn’t look like Michael Clarke Duncan. He was just big like him–like a Mandingo slave who was bred by the former slave owners to be strong enough to build this country on his back.

  This early morning he wore a wife beater, which revealed an old bullet wound on his huge left bicep and what looked like a razor slice across his throat, which had miraculously healed in a large wormy keloid. Just seeing his battle wounds made me unconsciously touch my old bullet wound above my heart and I experienced a sharp stab of pain just from the memory. The irony was I was shot in the line of duty by so-called “friendly fire” from my two officer colleagues trying to cover up their corruption.

  “Yes, I’m Mayhem’s sister.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Mayhem sent me to you. He said you would know what to do.”

  “Okay. C ... cc ... could you show me some I.D. or something?” This was the second time hearing him speak, and I’d never realized he was a stutterer. But maybe he was just nervous.

  “Why? Don’t you remember when I came back and saw Mayhem last year?”

  “I can’t exactly remember what you looked like. You’ve lost weight or something.”

  I pulled out my private eye badge. True; I had trimmed down since taking tae kwon do, and I was wearing my hair longer.

  “Okay, now I remember you. You’ve fallen off some. I remember you being thick.”

  I flexed my muscles, which were still small, but more defined. “Working out. Okay? Am I straight with you?”

  “Yeah, come on in. Things are getting hot around here. Got to get off the street. Are you strapped?” he asked me as one more precaution.