Cracked Dreams (24 page)

Spits took a moment to study the look on Red's face once more before he'd entered the room. There was nothing on his facial expression that suggested his words be taken lightly. He was very serious. That in itself meant a lot, due to the crazy shit that Red had seen in his life. If this was a situation to be treated with sensitivity, then Spits would take it to the heart. He took a deep breath, and then turned the doorknob. Red closed the door behind Spits and positioned himself in front of it to make sure they wouldn't be disturbed.

What was on the other side of the door would immediately bring a glossy shimmer to Spits' eyes. He stopped at the doorway and lowered his head into his hands. When he could finally lift his head up he continued toward Rachel. The closer he got, the more upset he became.
Somebody's gonna die behind this shit
, is all he thought. Somebody would have to be held responsible for the bruises and cuts on his sister's face, for the casts that covered her right arm and leg, and for the bandage that wrapped her head.

Spits took her left hand in his and caressed it with his other. He promised her that whoever did this would be seeing their death sooner than later. He kissed her on her forehead and left the room in a rage. Upon exiting, the first person he spotted was Red. He lunged in his direction and held him up against the adjacent wall with his hand at his neck. With the other hand, he pointed between Red's eyes. “Who the fuck did this to my sister?!” he yelled. “The mu'fucka that did this better already be dead, nigga! I swear, he better already be dead before I find him. This was your responsibility, Red! You was supposed to make sure nothing happened to her!”

“Calm down, Spits,” Red said as he attempted to reach Spits through all of the rage. “I don't know who did this shit, dog. I been trying to find that shit out since I been here, blood. All she did was ask to speak to her brother, and then she just lost consciousness,” he said before pausing. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?!” he cried.

Spits let go of Red's neck and backed off until he felt the wall on his back, and then he just sat there on the floor.

“Are you Michael Banner?” asked a doctor that approached them while Spits sat on the floor.

“Yes,” said Spits, now sitting with his head in his lap. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I'm Dr. Timothy Halsey. I've been treating your sister, Rachel.”

He quickly jumped up so that the doctor could have his undivided attention. “Is she going to be all right?” he asked eagerly.

“Well, that's what I'd like to talk to you about, sir,” he responded. “Would you mind it if we spoke privately?”

“Oh, that's cool,” he said.

Dr. Halsey brought Spits down the hall and around the corner so that they could have some privacy and began by stating his deepest concern for his sister's health. He went on to say, “Your sister Rachel was in a very vulnerable state, Mr. Banner. She took a really bad beating, sir, and she's lucky to be alive at this point. She'd already lost a lot of blood by the time she was brought here, but we currently have that under our control. She'd suffered from a massive concussion from repeated blows to the head, and her sixth, seventh and eighth ribs were broken. She has a fractured triquetral and pisiform in her right wrist that could've come from her throwing up her arms in defense. She also sustained injuries to her tibia and fibula bones in her right leg that were caused by some sort of impact with a blunt object.” He paused to let the information that he'd just provided sink in. He then continued, “Actually, Mr. Banner, had your friend not brought her here when he did, she probably wouldn't have made it.”

Spits had nothing to say. He knew that the doctor was telling him this because Spits should know how much he owed to his man, Red. He took a moment to take it all in and then asked, “Will she be okay?”

“Honestly, Mr. Banner, sir,” he began. “That information can't yet be determined, but at this point, I would say that her condition has improved since she arrived. She lost consciousness not too long ago, but that was caused by the hours and hours of surgery. She's been through a lot in the past two days, and all she needs now is rest.”

Spits finally started to settle down. “Well, as long as she's going to be okay.”

“Yes, Mr. Banner, I think as long as she gets the proper rest, I think she'll be fine,” Dr. Halsey said. “Unfortunately, we couldn't do anything about her baby.”

“What?!” Spits said confusingly. “What you mean, ‘her baby?'”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Dr. Halsey said. “I thought you were previously informed. I deeply apologize, Mr. Banner, but your sister was three months' pregnant. The baby was lost. There was nothing that we could do. It was already too late.”

Once Spits heard that, his brain just started going into overdrive. He hadn't
even realized that his sister had been involved with someone, let alone had a baby on the way. There were too many blanks to be filled, like why would anybody have a beef with his sister? Something wasn't right. He wondered, “What could've made her keep something like this from me?” A thousand and one different questions ran through his mind that he'd have to ask her about after she regained consciousness. For now, all he could do was wait. He spent the rest of the night at her bedside waiting for her to wake up. After briefly apologizing to Red, he told him that he could head home if he'd like, but Red would hear nothing of it. He insisted on staying with him, in case he was needed. He made himself comfortable in the hospital lobby for the rest of the night.

After hours of pacing back and forth in Rachel's hospital room, Spits found himself sitting in front of her in a chair. He stared at her face all night and early into the morning. When Spits was finally about to doze off, he realized that her nose had started wiggling. This was the most she'd moved since he'd been there, and now he was wide awake again and giving her his undivided attention. A few seconds went by and her eyelids started twitching. Soon, she was blinking her eyes while she squinted to shield her sight from the bright lights that were now shining through the hospital window, as the sun came peeking out of the dark. Spits just smiled at her, silently cheering on her recovery to himself. He took a deep breath and held her by the hand to acknowledge his presence. It took a second of focusing for Rachel to realize that it was none other than her own little brother sitting in front of her rubbing her hand, and when she did, a smile crept from her facial expression, until the pain it caused brought her back to her distressed reality. All of sudden, she became conscious of her appearance, but was unable to adjust. She attempted to shield her embarrassment by turning away from his proud stares, but Spits simply chuckled it off and got up to kiss her forehead. He sat back down and she smiled at him. She felt much better, now that he was there with her.

“Can you talk?” he quietly asked.

She moved around her jaw for a second, and then uttered the words, “It hurts when I move my mouth.”

“Don't worry about it,” he reassured her. “We have all the time in the world to talk.”

“No!” she said firmly. “We don't have much time. I need to tell you what happened.”

“Listen . . .” He began rubbing her forehead. “You shouldn't be too active right now. The most important thing is that you get better. Everything else will have to come second.”

“But, I can't . . .” she said before the sound of the door opening cut her off.

Spits got up to see who it was and once he got a good look, he said, “What's up, my nigga?”

“What's up, dog?” responded Trigger. He seemed surprised to see him. “When you get here?”

“Last night, dog,” Spits responded. “Where you been at?”

“I just got home and checked my messages,” responded Trigger. “That shit bugged me out when I heard this nigga Red on my voicemail saying that something happened to Rachel, so I came right over. Did she tell you anything yet?”

“Naw,” responded Spits. “Matter of fact, she just woke up a second ago. I don't know if you want to see her like this, dog.”

“Oh, come on now, son,” he responded. “We still family, right?”

“All right, my bad, son,” Spits said. “Just hold on for a second. Let me tell her you're here.”

When Spits returned to Rachel's bedside, she was just lying there looking up at the ceiling with a hopeless look on her face. He sat down in the chair next to her and said, “Trigger is here. You don't mind if he stays while we talk, do you?”

Her eyes opened up wider, and she looked as if she was conflicted about how she should answer. But before she even got a chance to respond, Trigger came from around the curtain. He smiled at her and said, “Are you feeling any better, Rachel?”

She just smiled and nodded.

“Listen . . .” he said with a concerned tone of voice. “You have to tell us who did this shit to you. I swear to God, I won't rest until we find these cowards and fill them full of slugs.”

“Yo, calm down, dog,” Spits said. “The most important thing is that she gets better right now. Family business first, and then we could take it to the streets, feel me?”

“No, he's right,” Rachel said. “The only thing that I'm worried about right now is making the punk that did this to me pay.”

Back in the Bronx, even though the temperature read under freezing, the streets were about to get heated up real fast. With a short call from Cee to Don P., they were ready to make their move. This bitch-ass nigga Fish would see his last day on the streets. He went too far and now he would have to pay. It was reported to Ceelow late last night that Fish had attempted to strong-arm a worker for the Time Bomb organization. It was all Cee needed to wage an all-out war against Fish, and his whole crew—if they wanted it. Once Cee got the news, El Don and Poncho were the next to find out. Everybody on the streets knew that the Time Bombs were just not to be fucked with, and whoever didn't know would get a crash-course. Don P. were ready at all times to drop bombs for the clique so when they got the word from Cee, they were happy to offer their assistance.

El Don would provide backup for Cee, while Poncho would drive the getaway car. When Cee was ready, they met on the 224th Street and Bronx Boulevard, down by the park. If he was stupid enough—and he was—Fish would still be in the liquor store getting drunk, making it even easier for them to roll up without him getting the drop. They planned to drive up 228th Street and come down 224th Street. There, they could just make a right turn and be directly in front of the liquor store. Everything was going as planned. After pulling ski-masks over their faces, Ceelow and El Don hopped out of the hooptie and approached the front of the store.

Through the glass door, Fish spotted a couple of dark figures coming in his direction. Before he knew it, one of the figures was in the store with him while the other stood out front blocking the door. Inside of two seconds, a long black object came from behind the figure standing in front of him dressed from top to bottom in black. He thought he was dreaming, but he wasn't. This wasn't just a dark figure that had just appeared in front of him from out of nowhere, and it wasn't just a black object that was now pointing directly at his chest. Maybe if it was his imagination, he wouldn't have anything to worry about, but it wasn't. This black figure was Ceelow, and the object he had in his hands was a black 12-gauge shotgun. All he heard was the sound of a slug being chambered before he came to his senses, but by then, it was too late.
BOOM!
That was the last sound Fish heard before half of his insides hit the wall behind him. When he fell to the ground lifeless, Cee let him have it again just to make sure.
BOOM . . . BOOM!
He was gone now, and wasn't nothing bringing his ass back.