Slipping Into Darkness Page 5

  “Yes, but I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to try to help my brother.”

  As soon as I stepped into the living room of a home, I inspected the room in a cursory glance. It looked like it was a typical project home: swamp-colored carpet, matching pleather loveseat and sofa, fake leopard-skin and giraffe-print throw pillows, fake wood table and étagère, cheap wall prints of Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, Jr. The only difference in this living room and the many living rooms I’d been in were the two computers on the table pushed over in the corner. A TV blared in the corner.

  “Could you cut the TV off?” Okamato, who was also my trainer, had taught me to shut off all TVs to keep from being ambushed when you stepped into a home. You never knew what danger lurked under the noise of that TV. Urban legend had it that a police had been stabbed from an unknown party in the house while the TV was playing The Price is Right.

  Tank sauntered across the floor and complied by pushing the remote. For a big man, he was light on his feet, like a linebacker. I kept my back to the door, another habit I learned as a policewoman. Meanwhile, I scoped all the corners. We appeared to be alone, except for a blue pit bull sitting in the doorway of what I assumed was a kitchen. He looked poised to attack.

  “Sit, Killer,” Tank ordered. The dog sat back on his haunches, and settled down.

  “Anyone else in the house?”

  “No.”

  My back was ramrod straight, and all my senses stood at attention as I did whenever I felt the need to be on point. I started to ask for Tank to lock up the dog, but changed my mind. The dog seemed docile around his owner.

  I got straight to the point. “Who set my brother up?”

  “I don’t know exactly.”

  “Back to my question. Did you rat him out?”

  I thought about how many times lieutenants betrayed their leader for the enemy’s side.

  “Hell naw. Me and Big Homie go way back. W... www ... we got jumped into the Crips together when we was twelve. He like a brother to me. He my nigga. My dog.”

  Tears glistened in Tank’s eyes, which was kind of touching in such a bear of a man, and I kind of felt like he was telling the truth. But something made me hold back my trust. I needed answers first. “What happened to my brother then?”

  “I swear on everything I love, I didn’t have anything to do with it. Like I said, I was doing a run that day. I believe Big Homie was set up by someone else.”

  “Who ?”

  “As I said, I was gone makin’ a run for Big Homie. The person who was supposed to make the run called in sick.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Playboy.”

  “What happened to him?”

  Tank didn’t answer.

  I pressed the issue. “Where is he at now? I want to talk to him.”

  “We won’t have to worry about him no more.”

  A chill raced through me when he said this, but I had to stay on point about my brother. Now I remembered I was in the jungle. This was one of the laws of the jungle. There were laws you abided by in that jungle. I thought of the word on my crossword puzzle I was working the day before. Quisle: to betray, especially by collaborating with an enemy.

  “Did you find out who took my brother?”

  “It was an ambush. One of our men who got away saw them. I didn’t see who took him, but I think it’s a Mexican cartel. They say they were wearing face masks, too.”

  “What makes you think they were Mexican if they were wearing masks?”

  “They had a Mexican accent.”

  “How about the tattoo?”

  “The Eses wear those. According to J-Rod, the one that got away, they come from a family. From what one of my boys who got away said, one wore this strange tattoo that had a cobra wrapped around a pole.”

  “About what time did this happen?”

  “It happened about two in the morning last night.”

  I knew that was an unusual tattoo. I’d already learned on another case there was a special tattoo parlor in downtown L.A. that specialized in unusual tattoos.

  “Do you think my brother’s a snitch?”

  He shook his head. “H ... h ... hell naw! Who told you that?”

  “I’m trying to rule out something that was told to me.”

  “Look, he did several bids where he could have taken people down and he didn’t.”

  “What did he want me to come to you for? He said you would know what to do.”

  Tank paused, before speaking. “Okay, Z, this is important. You’ve got to get Mayhem’s kids. If you don’t, they may get murked.”

  “Wait. Slow down. This is a lot of information for me to digest. First things first. Where are my nephews?”

  “They’re with my sss ... sister. Them li’l niggas be wilding out, so please hurry and get ’em. Here’s her address.” He handed me a note. “Name’s Rena Holt. She’s in Bellflower. Here’s a note to give ’er from me to let her know you are who you say you are. You’ve got to get them kids out of Cali, though.”

  “Okay.” I felt numb.

  “Something else, though. Mayhem told me to set this up for you. I talked to him last night. Here’s a passport; you’ll just have to put a recent picture in it. And here’s a ticket to Rio de Janeiro. You’re gonna need a tetanus shot, a ten-year vaccine for yellow fever, and a prescription. That’s on that note too, with a doctor’s name and address; he’ll see you right away.”

  I looked down and saw the sister’s address, a doctor’s name and address in Hollywood, and the name of an antimalarial drug, Lariam.

  “What? Slow your roll. Why Brazil?”

  “This thing is big. Big Homie was going to do a deal in Brazil. But somehow Appolonia wound up goin’, I guess ’cause she knew the language. Anyway, now, they holding her hostage. The money that was going to go on the deal can be used to release Big Homie.

  “You’ve got to leave tomorrow afternoon. Make sure you get this prescription and the shots for yellow fever.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll be near the Amazon. A woman named Esmeralda will meet you at the airport. She’ll have a sign. Here’s a picture of Appolonia.”

  I glanced down at the photo of an attractive Brazilian woman. She had thick auburn curly shoulder-length hair, a rich bronze complexion, and full lips, which seemed to sneer out at the world. She had a small beauty mole on her upper lip, and almond-shaped eyes, which gave her a sultry look. She had the sheer dazzle and glamour of the late Elizabeth Taylor–except with that South American beauty factor combined. Yes, she looked like the type of eye-candy woman Mayhem would want as a trophy wifey on his arm. “What’s her last name?”

  “Silva. I don’t mean to rush you, but you really need to get your nephews somewhere safe.”

  “Has there been a direct threat against the kids?”

  “They want all three of ’em. They got a hit out on ’em.”

  “What can I do with them?”

  “Just get them somewhere safe before you leave the country. You’ll find them with my sister. You’ve got to get them out of L.A.”

  By now my heart was beating a maniacal rhythm up against my rib cage, I was so upset.

  “I want to show you something.” He went over to the computer and flipped it on. “I think this where all the damn trouble began. Mayhem had a lot of Web sites that was doing good. He’d even started investing in stocks and bonds on Wall Street. That’s when the Feds and everybody started coming down on him.

  “Then these bloggers started talkin’ shit ’bout him because he was tryin’ to get a rap group out there. The bloggers the ones get beef going with people. Then they go sit on they ass behind their keyboards and laughin’ at niggas. I ... I told Big Homie this Internet ain’t nothin’ but the devil’s playground, but, naw, he said this was the new way of doin’ business.”

  I was surprised how quickly Tank’s sausage fingers could type. I waited while he pulled up accounts, opened them, then closed them and saved the inf
ormation to a flash drive.

  “These are just some of Mayhem’s accounts. This is the one you’ll have to have the money transferred to. It’s also the one you can draw money out of for your trip and your services. I’ll call you if I find out anything else. I got your number in my cell.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “Hey, you’re fam. Family take care of each other.”

  Chapter Seven

  The purplish cast of a breaking aurora gave way to a mauve overcast morning as I drove to Bellflower. I tried to map out what I would do with the boys once I found them. My heart was pounding and I felt myself hyperventilating. The rivaling drug dealers would shoot babies, women, and children. Just as in war time, women and children were collateral damage. The cartels didn’t believe in leaving any witnesses behind, either. In the case of male children, they didn’t want the boys to grow up and seek revenge.

  I picked up my speed and jumped on the 105 freeway. Okay, calm down, I assured myself. The boys will be fine. Then a strange thought hit me: if I got the boys, where would I take them? Should I call Department of Children and Family Services? The Child Abuse hotline who can alert Child Protective Services? If I couldn’t find anyone to take them, what was I going to do with some kids? That’s why I never had any in the first place. As much as I loved Romero, I didn’t even try to do the stepmama thing with his six-year-old daughter, Bianca.

  How old were my nephews anyhow? Were they in diapers? Toddling? Walking? But, no, they must be older if Mayhem had described them as “thuglets” last year. Tank even said they “be wilding out.”

  I put in my earplugs so I wouldn’t get a ticket for driving while talking on a cell phone. I pushed my speed dial and called Shirley. “Oh, this man is running me crazy,” was almost the first thing out of her mouth. No “Hello, Z”; no “Kiss my toe”; no “Kiss my foot.” Just straight rambling. She was stressed out.

  “Since he got back from running away, he’s throwing fits. He wants to wander around the house all night. I had to stay up with him all night. I’m exhausted.”

  “Oh, Shirley. You poor thing. I feel bad I can’t help you. I might have to go out of the country.”

  I could tell Shirley was so upset she didn’t even really register what I’d said. I hung up, feeling defeated. I guessed I wouldn’t be able to bring the children there for respite until she could get them somewhere. Shirley was in need of respite herself.

  The sun was burning off some of the morning fog as soon as I arrived at the Cape Cod–style cottage belonging to Tank’s sister, Rena. She was a thirty-something fair-skinned woman. She wore her hair in locks. She was small boned, quite a contrast to her brother. She looked both exhausted yet relieved to see me. From her uniform I assumed she was a nurse. “I’m glad to see you. I just got in from work. I’m a CNA. I work nights at a nursing home and this is already getting to be too much.”

  I guessed Tank had alerted her that I was on my way to pick up the boys.

  As soon as I set eyes on the three boys, my long-lost nephews, I knew they were my brother’s children. They each looked like various shades of what I remembered of Mayhem when we were children. One had his long slope head, another one had his full lips, and the youngest one had his pudgy nose. They were well-built, muscular children. Although I remember Mayhem saying he had three different baby mamas, the boys all looked like him. The oldest wore his hair shoulder length, the middle one had a Mohawk, and the youngest son wore a shag haircut. They were all well dressed, wearing Sean John’s outfits. They sported what looked like brand new Nikes, too. I didn’t like the earring pierced in the oldest boy’s ear. I couldn’t tell how old they were because of the hardened looks in their eyes. I felt a sense of kinship akin to how slaves had to feel after Emancipation when they reconnected with long-lost relatives. Inside I was elated, but that sense of elation was soured quickly.

  “Who are you?” The oldest demanded with the same brash confidence that Mayhem possessed when he was a child. He was bowlegged and stood with his legs arched back the same way Mayhem used to do.

  “I’m your Auntie Z.”

  “My daddy ain’t never tell us nothin’ about-’chu.” This little defiant man-child even had his mouth twisted up the way my brother used to do, too.

  I suppressed a grin. “Well, he told me about y’all.”

  I recalled my first meeting with Mayhem after fifteen years. He’d referred to his sons as his “little thuglets” and I could see why. The oldest one already had what I presumed was a battle scar on the right side of his face. An inch higher and it would have put out his eye. The two-inch keloid glared against his fair complexion. The way he acted though, this little man wore this scar as a badge of honor.

  That’s when I realized I didn’t know any of their names. “What are your names?”

  “How you s’posed to be somebody auntie and you don’t even know our name,” the oldest bleated in my face.

  “Well, I am your auntie,” I said firmly. “That’s a good question.” I showed Tank’s note to Rena.

  Rena, who had receded into the background after she let me in, spoke up. “Their names are Milan, Koran, and Tehran. Milan is ten, Koran is nine, and Tehran is seven.”

  “Okay, Milan, Koran, and Tehran, I’m your Auntie Z. You’re coming with me.” To break the awkwardness, I gave them each a hurried hug, which none of them responded to, but what did I expect? I was a stranger to them. We were tied by blood, yet, at the same time, we were separated by years and distance.

  A faint sadness swept over me. How many more families had been separated because of this madness–gangs, prison, drugs? As I huddled the still disgruntled boys into my car, with their backpacks, I wondered where I could take them. Then I had a thought: why not at least try Shirley, despite my earlier reservations?

  But almost as soon as I thought it, I realized Shirley really was out of the question. Besides, she had protective custody of all four of Chica’s girls, and having prepubescent, mannish boys in the same age group probably wouldn’t be a good idea. Plus, she had restrictions with her foster care license. Girls and boys couldn’t sleep in the same room and her rooms were all full.

  That’s when I thought of Venita. At first, I thought that was a crazy idea. How could I even consider my biological mother? Hey, she didn’t even finish raising us. But then I thought about it. After all, she was their grandmother. This could be her redemption. Perhaps this would give her a second shot at being a mother. She sure messed up with us.

  And, as much as I hated to admit it since I didn’t want to forgive her yet, she was different now–in a good way. Maybe she could give her grandchildren what she wasn’t able to give us: a suitable, stable home. She was now clean and sober. She had slowly rebuilt her life since her release a year ago. Against all odds of recidivism, prison had rehabilitated her, or so it would seem.

  Why shouldn’t she take her own grandchildren? But would she want to take them now that she was free and living her own life?

  Chapter Eight

  I pulled over to a curb, and stepped out the car so I could call Venita and talk in private. I didn’t want to scare the boys, although they didn’t look like you could frighten them easily. I wondered if they knew their lives were in danger.

  My mother answered on the first ring, as if she was waiting by the phone, expecting a call from me. I could tell she was both happy and surprised to hear my voice. At the same time, I could hear the relief in her voice.

  “Are you going to help?” she asked eagerly.

  “Do I have a choice?” I knew it was a rhetorical question.

  “What can I do to help?”

  “Can you take Mayhem’s kids?”

  “Sure. Bring them babies to me.” There was no hesitation in her voice and I felt a smidgen of jealousy.

  “They’re not babies and they are a handful. They’re just like Mayhem.”

  Shirley chuckled. “I can handle them.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to get them
out of L.A. They’re in danger. Whoever has Mayhem will kill them if they find them. Are you off parole yet?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Do you have any money to get out of the state?”

  “David set up an account for me about six months ago. I still have the money because of my job.” She said the word “job” with pride. That’s right, Venita worked at a floral shop. First time in her life my mother had held down a job, and from what I could see, she’d been a good employee over the past year. Before she went to prison, she’d always been a welfare queen and sugar daddy baby.

  For a moment, I felt a stab of jealousy in my stomach, though, when she called Mayhem by his real name, but then I remembered Venita gave up twenty years of her life for my brother when she took the fall for the murder her ten-year-old child committed. I’d always known he was her favorite, even when we were little. All because he was a boy.

  To mask my feelings of sibling rivalry, I became brusque. “Well, this is the time to use the money. You’ve got to get out of town today and take his boys with you. Can you do that?”

  “I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

  “Do you need a ride to the bus station or train station? Do you have someplace you can go?”

  “I know where I can take them. No, I can catch a cab. You need to get moving to try to help David.”

  I felt a little envy again when I hung up. Help David. That was my birth mother’s first concern. Help her first born.

  In an ideal world, she would have said, “Thanks for sticking out your neck to help my criminal son and his underworld mess,” but I guess that was in a dream world. This was the real world.

  I climbed back into the car.

  “Where we goin’?” Milan demanded.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you,” was all I said. The boys and I drove in silence to Venita’s colonial in View Park. I hadn’t been to her place before, but I knew her address. I was thinking about my mother. She’d come up in the world in a short time. A year ago she was living in a halfway house. Now she was living in what was an old, settled middle-class Black neighborhood in South Los Angeles. I guess the same way the NBA players looked out for their moms, Mayhem had looked out for Venita. But could he buy her back twenty years of her life? Did they ever discuss what went on between them? I wondered.