Part Two

+++++It was rush hour when Stasher took the first hit.

+++++“I should’ve waited. Only dumb-ass niggas don’t wait.” He folded up the foil and placed it in the ashtray with his pen tube. He sucked on his teeth, wiped the oil sheen from his forehead. He smiled and thumped his chest. “I’m a dumb-ass nigga today, I ain’t gonna lie.”

+++++Four lanes bursting with morning traffic grew in intensity, a hollow rush that streamed right through him. His eyelids disappeared, bright red vessels branching toward irises projecting from a face warped with the onset of the powerful hit of meth.

+++++Tense, legs swelling, in the cramped interior of the compact sedan he heard his shoe creak against the brake and laughed, his wide nose and tall afro thrown back. He forced himself to relax his leg. His hand drummed fast on the gear shifter, a Wu-Tang Clan keyring swinging underneath it.

+++++“I,” he drummed, “sh sh should have / stupid-ass nigga should have / motherfuckin’ wait wait wait-ed!” His drumming turned to freestyle beatboxing.

+++++The car next to him moved forward. Looking up he released the brake, rolled several feet and stopped. Judged he still had room and rolled up a little more. Then a little more. He stared into the car in front, at the woman watching him in her rearview mirror. “Bitch looking at?” Hand on top of the wheel, he flicked his fingers at her and leaned on the console, dropping out of view. He eased his eyes above the dashboard. “Fuck you looking at? Hoe.” Chest tightening, the euphoric love quickly became unbearable irritation. He growled, “Got this nigga fucked up.”

+++++The foil started to tear when he pulled it from the ashtray. Carefully, he unwrapped it. Eyeing the cars next to him he took a lighter from his pocket and put the pen tube in his mouth, growling around it. The dark brown residue caked in the foil was enough to boost him back into the zone, he knew. “Get me off my square… So You Think You Can Dance looking bitch. Give a fuck. I’ll get mines back.” He dropped his face below the steering wheel and flicked the lighter.

+++++His phone vibrated and he jumped. Waved smoke out of his face and stuffed the paraphernalia back in the ashtray. He slid a hand into the driver’s door pocket and snatched open the console with the other. Slammed it and opened the glove box, dividing his attention between the documents crammed in there and running fingers over the dashboard.

+++++“Hang on, nigga. Hang on. Where your bitch-ass at?”

+++++Leaned over, face on the side of the steering wheel, his amphetamine fired eyes were enormous reflections in the stereo. He felt under the seat. Sat up and patted his pockets, pushed both hands underneath him.

+++++“Fuck you at, nigga?”

+++++He glanced at the passenger seat. Picked up his phone and checked the Über app. “Nigga, you the smartphone. Need to ring a country-ass shout at my stupid ass, or something.” His shaking fingers finally opened the app. A regular was requesting immediate cab service.

+++++“Today is not the day, my nigga,” he said and messaged the lady. He set the phone down. Looked at it. Snatched it up and hurried to stop the text, knowing it sent. Checked the Sent folder. He shook his head, tossed the phone on the seat. “Fuck!”

+++++Looking ahead to the nearest intersection he turned on the blinker and merged right. Shirt sleeve vibrating with his pulse, he navigated a floating-in-place sensation that was far more difficult than barging in between soccer moms eager to lay on the horn and curse a black man from the safety of their SUVs. He cut off an old couple in a Lincoln, raced up an overpass and looked over the side, at the highway below, at the restaurant he sometimes ate at while waiting on his connect to load his car. The parking lot was nearly empty.

+++++“The fuck? Niggas quit eating waffles, or something?”

+++++He drummed on the wheel. Mouth too dry for a beat, he hummed. Turned onto the stretch of highway in front of the waffle joint. He saw the bumper-to-bumper jam, saw people standing next to their cars, and started rapping.

+++++“Waffle eating, niggas don’t / they meet / in they cars? / they won’t / next to they rides like they at bars / in the middle the fucking street.”

+++++The vibration rippling into him from the gear shifter lessened as he shifted into Park. Pulling at his goatee, gaze darting, he turned the AC on High and started to mumble about black folks knowing better than to get out in the heat, then saw a huge, loud black woman with a long blue wig. Standing in front of a silver Lexus, she pointed at the waffle joint. Stasher watched her heavy breasts and wide backside sway with her fast movements and dropped a hand to his crotch.

+++++“Nigga ain’t hungry but could still eat. Shit baby girl fine.”

+++++The sun flashed from the restaurant door. A woman stepped out; hands pressed tight against her server uniform. Stasher grinned. It was Candice! I wonder if my girl Candi still get down… The tip of his finger played with the foil and pen tube in the ashtray. He always sat in her section so he could rap to her about old times, back in the day when he was serving Candi and her girls at the park. Damn, he loved white girls in skirts.

+++++And that new server… I’ll grab that bitch’s blonde ponytail and bam sizzle her waffle… shortie young, but she in the game. He pulled at his crotch. Gonna put my bid in next time.

+++++Someone walked past, and he turned to see the old couple he cut off earlier staring down at him, the woman leaning over the man with a scowl. He threw up a hand. “I know a nigga talking to hisself. Mind your fucking own, though, before I make you mine.” He pulled at himself again. “I’m a stupid-ass nigga today.”

+++++The old woman sank back with an open mouth.

+++++“Old bitch.” Irritated, Stasher grabbed the foil and pen tube.

+++++Through acidic meth vapor he watched Candice as she walked into the stalled traffic, the restaurant and sidewalk blinding white behind her. He blinked some moisture into his eyes, leaned closer to the window. He saw she was headed right for him and his ears and afro shifted back on his head, lips parted.

+++++“Fuck she doing?”

+++++Sirens lanced into the traffic, several police cars cutting through the intersection ahead. Grabbing at his pants, he pulled them up on his ass and tightened his belt. Grabbed the small pack of dope out of his sock, the foil, and tube, and readied to open the door. He held his breath, straining to see where the cops were going, his heart the kind of bass drum he didn’t like rapping to.

+++++Unable to see beyond the cars directly in front he became lost in his mind’s eye, felt himself floating above the street, his galloping pulse the only thing he could sense, looking down on his car with x-ray vision. He could see the kilos of crystal meth inside the bumpers, stashed in the front wheel wells and rear quarter panels. He started shaking. He wasn’t sure how much it was.

+++++He looked at Candice and wasn’t sure why she was there, almost to his car, or how she knew he would be there.

+++++He looked up and saw red and blue flashes on men in uniforms… the black ones they wear to fuck niggas up. He wasn’t sure how much the cops knew. He was only sure of one thing.

+++++“Them niggas coming for me.”

+++++Candice saw the armed police and made a dash for the car, striking her thigh hard on the front. Limping around she yanked the door open and dumped herself into the seat. She breathed, “Go!” and slammed the door.

+++++Stasher looked from her heaving, blood coated breasts to the scary dose of crazy firmly set on her face. He saw the knife in her fist and opened his door. “I’m going.”

+++++The drug distorted his vision. Objects in the distance were luminous blurs that burned to watch even when squinting. The black shapes coming at him began to yell, and he turned and ran right into the side of a truck. The dope flew from his fingers. Grabbing his face he said, “I’m a stupid-ass nigga today,” and grunted when a huge white cop tackled him to the street.

+++++“Put it down!”

+++++“Show me your hands!”

+++++“Get out of the car, hands up!”

+++++“Put the fucking knife down!”

+++++Stasher kept his eyes shut tight and managed to ignore the rocks digging into his face, the knee pressed into his ear; it took everything he had to keep breathing with the huge fuck riding his back.

+++++Car doors slammed, and from near the underbelly of the hot running car he was laying next to, Stasher heard a child crying and the shoes of the parents hurrying it away. More cops ran up, shouting for people to stay in their vehicles. The other cops continued yelling at Candi to drop the knife.

+++++She screamed, “Today, today, today is the fucking day!” and was shot.

***

+++++He had a good idea what they were thinking when they died.

+++++The Big One. The Career Maker. The squad room would buzz with this one for years. Maybe forever. Their wives would sexually adore them. Their kids would worship them and brag about Super Cop Pop around school…

+++++Wouldn’t that be just fucking lovely? Jim smiled.

+++++He watched the scene play out, cursing, incredulous, as Stasher escaped his car to run smack into a truck and get cuffed. Watched as the waitress jumped from the car and was shot, dead on her feet and still trying to knife a cop. He watched people standing around their cars run in every direction.

+++++When the cops started to search the car, the remote detonator – a little key fob with an emoji sticker on it that Jim hated – seemed to buzz in his hand like a phone sounding the most important call of his life. Stasher tried to warn them, some shit about a flamethrower alarm system, but they knew he was high and full of shit – and black – so was probably hiding something.

+++++A flamethrower alarm! Jim’s bulbous nose turned red with his laugh. You were warned, kid. He shook his head as Stasher attempted to get under a car, still yelling about a flamethrower. He knew what was coming, and Jim felt respect for the kid for not folding and ratting on the package. So he waited until they dragged Stasher off and put him in a patrol car.

+++++A block away, his truck parked on the service drive out of traffic, Jim saw the first pack of dope pulled from the front bumper and gritted his teeth. This was bad for his boss. Really fucking bad for the business. But it was the best thing that could have happened for Jim.

+++++I get to do my fucking job today!

+++++Holding up the fob, he stuck a hand in his jeans and squeezed his phone. His hand was dry and calm when he took it out. “Burn the load and anyone near it that isn’t supposed to be”, the boss said.

+++++It’s my fucking call. I don’t need permission.

+++++He thought it would be gang bangers, maybe Stasher’s old ‘hood associates out to hit a lick. But this? He had no idea what the fuck just happened or how their guy was caught up in it. But when those uniforms pulled the bricks out and laughed, started shaking hands and slapping backs, Jim thought, My fucking pleasure, and pushed the button.

+++++The incendiary device gave a shriek-pop and the cop holding the bricks of meth vanished under an umbrella of flame that spread across several cars and licked the buildings. The crowd milling at the intersection ahead took flight, screaming, shoving, hurting one another to avoid being hurt.

+++++The wreckage burned in Jim’s sunglasses. He pushed them on with a savage grin and walked to his truck. Jumped in and dialed his boss, trying not to drop his phone or gun the engine, jaw and limbs tense with the thrill.

+++++“Kid got popped.”

+++++“Cops get anything?”

+++++“I burned the package. A few cops, too.”

+++++“Good. You did good. This shit happens. It’s why I hired you. I’ll throw you something extra. Take your lady and kid on a vacation. Lay low for a few weeks, understand?”

+++++“Sure. I can do that.”

+++++“The black driver…”

+++++“Stasher.”

+++++“Was he high?”

+++++“Way out there. But he handled himself.”

+++++“He told me he was clean. Now he has to be cleaned. You understand how this works?”

+++++“Yes, sir. And don’t worry – I told you I’m clean and I am.” Jim flicked a fingernail over the lump of scar tissue in the crook of his arm, thinking about the needle hidden in the cushion of his chair at home.

+++++“I’m not worried. Come by the shop in an hour and pick up your vacation package.”

+++++“Okay, thanks.”

+++++He ended the call, shouted a laugh and nearly threw the phone at a sign he should have stopped at. He glanced out the window but didn’t see the expanse of dank marshland his old Dodge was rattling alongside of. His wife was firmly embedded in his thoughts.

+++++Malerie. That stupid bitch! Thinks I’m working a demo’ spot with a construction giant.

+++++His hands moved from the top of the steering wheel to the bottom, back to the top. Tongue tracing his thick mustache. “‘Don’t come traipsing your lying dog ass back in until you have some bread to slap on the table, hear?’“ he growled to imitate Malerie’s cigarette voice. He patted the bulge in his front pocket and envisioned the envelope his new boss would hand to him in an hour.

+++++Slap some bread on the table? After I knock it across your face, cunt!

+++++He grinned. God, I love that sorry bitch!

+++++They would finally get ahead. Get a house that wasn’t on wheels. She would quit drinking and smoking all her money and they would live a quiet life, get healthy and watch their grandkids grow old. Wyatt would follow their example…

+++++And I nearly fucking killed myself! He scratched at his old track marks, shook his head. What a fucking day.

+++++He hadn’t been this eager since he was a kid with a crush on a cheerleader, waiting to get a glimpse of those blue shorts and big eyes. And those freckles. Shit! If I could do it again…

+++++Wyatt. Now, I’ll –

+++++The intention of mentoring his son lost its form when he saw his home. The corner of the trailer sagged over warped siding and scattered bricks. He recognized the rutts in the gravel leading away from the catastrophe and added his on top of them. He slammed the Dodge in Park and jumped out.

+++++“Malerie, you dumb fucking cunt!”

+++++Jim stomped over the gravel and up on the wooden porch, and a dog raced out of the open front door, filthy brown coat brushing his leg, leaping down the steps. He turned and kicked out. “Motherfucker!”

+++++Stepping inside he had to hold onto the doorframe, shoes sliding on the wet linoleum. “Christ, I hope that’s beer.” He muttered an oath to murder that mangy mutt next time he caught it in his yard and staggered into the living room. Looked at the TV, a monstrosity that took up an entire wall and lit up half the trailer. He looked at his watch and wondered why the news was on. He found the remote control and turned up the volume.

+++++“…several dead at a local restaurant after a waitress went on a killing spree earlier today. The bodies have been identified as Malerie Parsons, Wyatt Parsons and Angel Cummings…”

+++++Jim watched the footage with his face in his hands. Police and emergency services wheeled out bodies from his favorite diner. His son’s favorite place to eat!

+++++He saw her. The waitress that went at the cops with a blade. He liked her.

+++++That’s who killed Wyatt, and my ol’ lady.

+++++Jim slumped onto the couch. At least I burned that bitch! But it was the police that did her in. The unadulterated joy that puckered his mouth and curled his toes just minutes ago did a reversal, draining him. He tried to recapture that feeling, the new house and new life, a big ol’ happy family, and drew a blank.

+++++Jim looked around the room, at the framed portraits of his young wife and baby boy. He looked down at the wad of cash bulging from his pants and his fingers swiped at the lump of scar tissue in the crook of his arm. He walked over to his chair and lifted the cushion.

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