“The courthouse, sir!”
“Any drugs or weapons in the car?”
“Nah, nothing,” God replied dryly.
“And who are these bitches? Your hoes?”
The remark made Bacardi’s face tighten with anger. She wanted to go off on the detective and knock his head off. White-ass honky, she wanted to scream.
“They family,” God said.
The detective continued to be an asshole to everyone and he took delight in doing so. It was a cold day in January and the girls were freezing, but the detective didn’t care. His partner was taking his sweet-ass time searching the car. To embarrass God even more, the detective patted him down and made him unbutton his shirt to see if he was hiding any contraband. He wasn’t. But it was only to put on a show, to harass and humiliate God. They felt that he was connected to the murder of Officer Krokowsi, but they didn’t have any proof. The stairwell didn’t ha
ve any cameras, and well over two dozen people fled the party.
“Anything, partner?” the detective asked the man searching the car.
He retreated from the interior of the vehicle and replied, “It’s clean. Nothing.”
“I guess this is your lucky day.” He tossed God his ID and stared him down. “But you won’t get too many of those, I’ll bet.”
“Can we go?” God asked with a scowl.
“Yeah. You’re free to go—your hoes too.”
God pivoted and got back in the car. Bacardi and her daughters followed suit. God was so mad he wanted to put the car in reverse and run over both detectives several times. And he wasn’t the only one. Bacardi and Charlie gritted their teeth in anger, feeling the two cops had no right to do what they had to them.
“I swear, if I see them two pigs again, I’m gonna fuck ’em up,” God said as he started the ignition and drove off.
The two detectives had gotten what they wanted—the name of the driver and to let them know who was in charge and that they were being closely watched.
***
Fingers finished off the cigarette he smoked and extinguished it in the ashtray next to him. Once again he got up from the chair, walked toward the window, and gazed outside. Nothing. Everything was the same. There was no SWAT team there to kick in his front door and fuck him up. He tried not to be paranoid, but he had just killed a cop and there was no coming back from that. He wasn’t going back to jail either. It was him or the cop.
He paced around the room and picked up his cell phone and attempted to dial God again. But he needed to keep his cool. He looked at the gun on the dresser and he shook his head, knowing it was a mistake to keep the weapon he’d used to shoot three slugs into the cop’s head. It was overkill, but he hated the police. He needed to get rid of the weapon before it came back to haunt him.
Shirtless and slim with curly twists, Fingers didn’t have the look of a killer—but he was one. He was twenty-two years old, and he’d had his nickname since he was a child. His hair looked like small fingers when he was a little boy, so for humor, his friends started to call him Fingers.
Fingers had a scar across his cheek and right lip from a razor that’d opened his face up during a fight in the juvenile detention center. The scar came from a young punk named Crooks. Crooks was a mean muthafucka who picked on those he deemed weaker than him. Fingers defended himself inside, but it came with a cost—his scar.
It took a few years for Fingers to carry out his revenge. He ran into Crooks by chance at a Miami nightclub, and the nigga looked the same after three years. Seeing his opportunity, Fingers followed him to his car and shot Crooks eight times while the man was seated in the front seat. It was his first kill, and it was personal. Once Fingers began killing people, it was rumored that his nickname came from being quick to pull the trigger.
Fingers wiped the gun clean and placed it in a brown bag. He then got into his Accord and jumped onto I-87 northbound. He drove an hour and a half away from the city, near a small town called Middletown, and came across an arched bridge with a river underneath it. With no one around, he tossed the murder weapon into the river and watched the river carry it away. He sighed with relief and then lit a cigarette. He felt that if the cops hadn’t come for him already, they weren’t coming. But for sure, it felt good killing that cop.
Chapter Six
With her mom and sisters locked up for two days, it was up to Chanel to clean up the ransacked apartment and take care of her father. The last task was nearly impossible. Mostly, Butch just drank and stayed in his bedroom either passed out or drinking and watching TV. He barely ate, but Chanel would leave his plate by the door and knock. She figured he would either take it or not. Mostly he didn’t. Butch would rather drink than eat. She still cooked for him when she knew he despised her. Why, though? What had she ever done for her father to hate her so much?
For two days, Chanel had repeatedly tried to call Mecca to see if she was okay, but Mecca didn’t return her calls. She understood that her friend was upset. It was fucked up how they were treated, and Mecca wanted to sue the NYPD for harassment and abuse. Landy had unequivocally told her that they could no longer be friends because her parents were spooked by the cop being shot and wouldn’t allow Landy over at the Browns’.
The only good thing that came from the chaos was that the apartment was somewhat peaceful. There was no Bacardi to abuse her, and no sisters to talk shit to her or call her black and ugly. Her father kept to himself, and she didn’t bother him, except to bring him the meals he didn’t eat.
But that bizarre and beautiful solitude soon came to an end.
Chanel brought Butch a plate of breakfast, gently tapped on the door, and turned to leave as she usually did.
“Stop banging on the gotdamn door, Chanel,” Butch yelled from his bedroom. “You fucking wit’ me too early in the morning.”