Brooklyn Bombshells: Part 1

Bacardi didn’t want to spend two days in jail, but she didn’t have a choice. She knew that this was serious shit and they were going to be constantly harassed because of the cop shooting. She was already on thin ice with her job—now this. Fuck me! she thought.

The holding cell was growing packed with female inmates, but the Brown girls sat on the bench against the wall and kept to themselves. They weren’t worried about any trouble coming their way, but they would have each other’s back if it did come. Bacardi felt if some stupid bitch started trouble, she would be in for a rude awakening. She felt ready to kill someone.

The judge set their bail at twenty thousand dollars each—sixty thousand in total. Their arraignment wasn’t pretty. They were charged with assault and battery, and resisting arrest. They were also hit with a restraining order to stay at least 100 feet away from Keisha. The authorities couldn’t pin the cop’s murder on them, which was disappointing for the NYPD. The judge brought the gavel down, displeased that he couldn’t do more for the fallen officer. The girls were escorted back to the bullpen under the courts to wait for their bail to be paid.

***

God lit a cigarette and took a few drags. He sat alone in the idling Ford Taurus parked across the street from the Kings County Criminal Court in Downtown Brooklyn. The area was bustling with people and police—too much police for his comfort. His girl was finally being released after two days. He had paid the girls’ bail via a bondsman and had to come up with six thousand dollars total. It was a small setback, but he couldn’t leave his baby in lockup.

“What the fuck is taking them so long?” he griped to himself.

His head was on a constant swivel. He was vulnerable not to just the police, but to anyone that didn’t like him. He had enemies. He didn’t have a pistol or weed on him, and the Ford was legit. The last thing he needed was police fucking with him.

Two days after it happened, the shooting was still major headlines. The slain officer Krokowsi had three young daughters, and his distraught widow seemed inconsolable. His colleagues, friends, and family repeatedly proclaimed to the media that he was a wonderful officer and an excellent human being who cared about everyone. But God didn’t care. To him, the only good cop was a dead cop.

He sighed heavily and continued to wait. His cigarette was dwindling with every drag. He eyed civilians and cops coming and going from the building. He hated to sit in one spot for too long. His cell phone rang and it was Fingers calling him.

“Yo, what’s good?”

“They out yet?” Fingers asked.

“Nah, I’m still parked in this bitch and waiting.”

“A’ight, then. Holla at me when they get out. We need to talk.”

“A’ight, my nigga. One!”

“One.”

Their call ended. After a few more pulls from the cigarette, God turned to his left and saw Charlie and her family coming out looking a hot mess—their hair was in disarray and their clothes disheveled. God climbed out of the car and approached Charlie with concern.

The minute Charlie saw him she beamed and ran toward him. “Baby!” she cried out. Her arms wrapped around him tight, and they kissed passionately in public. “Thank you for getting us out.”

“You know I got your back,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get the fuck outta here. You know I don’t like police.”

“Fo’ real,” Charlie agreed.

Everyone piled into the car, and God couldn’t leave the area fast enough. He didn’t look back.

“I just want to go home and wash up. Ohmygod, I never stank so badly,” griped Charlie.

“You got another cigarette?” Bacardi asked him.

God handed her the Newports, and each girl removed a cigarette from the pack and lit up, needing a smoke after their tiresome ordeal in lockup. The smoke was flavorsome and the one good thing they had to enjoy in the last 48 hours.

Bacardi exhaled. She had questions. She stared at God and asked, “What the fuck happened at my apartment?”

God was silent, driving and looking ahead. His expression was deadpan. The traffic in downtown Brooklyn was gruesome in the early morning, and he wanted to get far away from the area.

“You know who shot that cop?” asked Bacardi.

“It was Fingers,” said God.

“Fingers!” Charlie voiced with worry.

“Yo, he ain’t had no choice. That cop was on us and he was going after Fingers for some reason. Fuckin’ Fingers spun around and put a bullet in his chest. He was vested up and fell back—tried to reach for his gun. But Fingers went up to him and shot him three times in the head,” God said.

“Good for that muthafucka!” Charlie beamed. “Break up our party by bringing that dumb bitch to the apartment.”