Crackhead II: A Novel (6 page)

Cruising through the same neighborhood a week later, Detective Clifton saw his mark, then activated his patrol car lights and siren. The few skeezers and what looked like bums who surrounded him scattered like roaches, but the young man didn’t budge. He just looked at the officer.

With a cocky attitude, Detective Clifton got out of his car with his hands on his department-issued belt, which held his handcuffs, mace, night stick, and gun.

“What’cha doing out here, Marco?” he asked, looking at the young man’s belt buckle, which displayed MARCO in gold letters.

Marco looked down at his belt buckle, then answered with a major irritated and condescending tone in his voice, “Conductin’
Bible study, man, and you just dismissed my flock. What the fuck you think I’m doin’ out here?”

“Watch yo’ smart-ass mouth, boy!” the detective grunted through tightly clenched teeth.

“What da hell you want, man? I got bidness to finish.”

Detective Clifton noticed the attitude. “Get yo’ hands on the hood and spread ’em!”

“For what? I didn’t do nothing,” Marco protested angrily.

Reluctantly, Marco did as he was told, mumbling under his breath while the officer frisked him. Marco was confident that the small package he’d picked up earlier wouldn’t be found.

“Turn around,” the detective ordered when he didn’t feel anything on the initial pat-down.

When Marco did as he was told, the officer did something that caught him off guard. After patting him down again, the detective stuck his hands inside the front of Marco’s pants.

“What the fuck . . . man, get yo’ hands . . . what you try’na do!” He tried to wrestle the cop away, but it was useless.

The detective felt around Marco’s dick and balls and pulled out a small baggie. Taking a deep sniff of the bag, he smiled and spoke in a teasing tone, “I see you got a large,” he pointed toward Marco’s hardening dick, “and small package.” He waved the baggie in the air. “This looks like an ounce or two to me. Do you know how long this will get you?”

“Man . . . please . . .” Marco began to cry like a true bitch. “That’s my boy’s shit, man, I’m just . . .”

“Under arrest for the possession of narcotics and intent to distribute,” Detective Clifton told Marco as he slapped the handcuffs on his wrists and led him to his patrol car.

Instead of sitting him in the back of the squad car, the detective
shoved Marco in the front passenger’s side, then he got in on the driver’s side and began to drive. Not knowing where he was going, Marco tried to explain himself, only to stop moments later when they pulled up in an empty alley. The detective left his car running.

“What the fuck we doin’ here?” Marco asked.

“This a shortcut to the precinct. I gotta book you.”

“Please man, no,” Marco begged.

“Well.” Detective Clifton looked at Marco with a glimmer in his eye. “If you give me a reason not to book you, I may forget about this.”

“Please don’t arrest me. I can’t do no jail time. Please.” The wannabe hustler left Marco with a quickness.

“Aw, now you beggin’. You ain’t flappin’ off at the lips no more like you were before,” the officer teased. “I got something for you to do with those lips, man.”

“Anything, I’ll do anything,” Marco pleaded.

“Anything?”

“Yes, anything.”

The detective smiled at Marco and removed the handcuffs. He then unbuckled his belt, unzipped his pants, and pulled out his scrawny dick. For a black man, he was a disgrace to the race.

“I can forget all about that sack I got from you, but first . . .” He motioned toward his dick.

Marco knew what time it was and he had to do something to save his ass.

For the next two years, Marco’s asshole became a hiding place for the detective’s dick. Sucking and fucking was no big deal to Marco because he was already a down-low faggot. Molested
as a child and raped repeatedly, Marco held his feelings for men at bay until he was able to unleash them.

Detective Rodney Clifton’s sly investigative skills were once again on point. Not only did he find a weak link in the South Bronx’s biggest drug ring who was willing to do anything to keep his hot ass out of jail, but the same person provided him with sexual pleasure. What more could a man want?

DETECTIVE CLIFTON PUSHED
to the side a file that he was reviewing earlier in the day and looked once again at the statements of Tonette Thomas, Shaunna Parker, and Monique Daniels. He noticed that Crystal and Tonette had records but Monique and Shaunna didn’t.

“So these are the so-called infamous South Bronx Bitches,” he said to himself, rocking back and forth in his wobbly desk chair, looking at their pictures.

“Hey, Jones,” Detective Clifton called out. Officer Terrance Jones was a rookie, fresh out of the academy, and was assigned to a veteran for street patrol. He stood about 6 feet 2 inches, with his weight proportionate to his height. Officer Jones had caramel-brown skin and sported a fade. He had sharp features, a strong jawline, thin but shapely lips, dark brown eyes, and long, dark lashes. He wore an earring in his left ear and most of all, looked good in and out of his uniform.

“Yeah, Clifton,” the rookie answered, “what’s up?” He walked over to the detective and sat on the side of his desk.

Detective Clifton looked at him closely, then handed him the report. “Take a look at this and tell me what you think.” He was hoping the rookie could shed a light on what he thought he was missing, because his own mind was elsewhere.

Officer Jones read the statement given by Monique as well as those of the other girls; then he looked at the picture.

“Where’s this girl right here?” He pointed to Laci. “Where’s her statement? She looks out of place.”

“That’s exactly what I thought,” the detective told Officer Jones. He looked at his officer, trying not to be obvious, scanning his body.

Officer Jones handed the picture to the detective to validate his point. “Look at her, then look at the other girls.” The two looked over the picture again. “It’s two different breeds here.” Detective Clifton watched Jones’s masculine finger point to each girl. “The other girls look like they’re from the street.” He shuffled through the mug shots of Crystal and Tonette, then the picture one of their undercover officers took of them on the streets. “Look at the clothes, the jewelry, but this girl right here, she really stands out. Actually, she looks like she got her shit together. Nothing like these girls.”

“Okay . . . yeah, I see what you’re saying, but remember, youngster, just because she doesn’t look like she’d fit in with them doesn’t mean shit. We busted some wannabe hustlers who used a white boy to transport for them a few years back. In the game, all sorts of people are used for opportunity.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” the rookie confirmed with a head nod.

“We need to find out more about this girl, though. It looks like when the other officers questioned Ms. Thomas, she mentioned this girl. Actually, I put a big drug case on hold because of this one, but something is telling me that they both have something to do with the other,” he held up a thick brown file and put it on the corner of his desk, “so I’m not closing this one until I talk to her.”

“Why you think they’re related?” Officer Jones got up from
the corner of the detective’s desk and walked to the chair that sat in front of his own. Detective Clifton watched as he sat down in front of him.

“All of my years in Narcotics,” Detective Clifton spoke to his rookie.

“Wait a minute. How did you get a hold of it when you’re in Narcs?”

“Because these girls are known to dabble in some type of drug activity. That’s why I think both cases have something to do with each other. But the weird thing was the initial call. I have never once heard of a man reporting a woman being crazy without saying why. If a man calls reporting a crazy woman, she’s normally going after him for some shit he did to her. From the report, he was also very descriptive.” The detective looked in Crystal’s file. “He said she was a crazy girl in a red tank top, green Damage jeans, and red Reebok Classics shooting a gun outside. When street patrol got on the scene, the gun was in a brown paper bag, but after it all went down and tests were done, the gun hadn’t been fired from the time the person called in until we apprehended the suspect.”

“What’s so odd about that?” the rookie asked the seasoned veteran. “That shit happens all the time in the hood.”

“You’re right, but a description that clear with no type of follow-up with us means that someone was trying to set that girl up. Remember, in the report, Ms. Daniels stated that Ms. Thomas gave Crystal the gun, but it was a male who called in and reported her being armed and dangerous. Now, Ms. Thomas is telling us that someone else is involved. Something smells shitty in the Bronx, man.” The detective got up from his desk. “A’ight rookie, you ready for a stroll through the hood and see what we can find out?”

After watching Officer Jones, Detective Clifton was was anxious to get back to the hood. He thought back to the last time he had seen Marco—the day he gave him the dossier—but he hadn’t seen him since. Marco was known for playing cat-and-mouse with him, but it was time for some booty, so he had to go get it.

“Why don’t you sit tight and let me handle this,” Officer Jones suggested to his colleague with confidence.

“Handle what?”

“I can go to the South Bronx myself.”

“Naw, fuck that,” the detective said, shaking his head. “You ain’t going down there by yourself, man.”
Cock-blocking bastard,
he thought to himself.

“Why not? You think it’s dangerous or something?” Officer Jones joked.

“For a rookie, it can be.”

“Look, with you having two cases, if you go down there asking questions and shit, ain’t nobody gonna say a damn thing to you.”

“And you think they’re gonna talk to you?” the detective questioned.

“I fit in more than you do,” the officer spoke honestly. The swagger that Terrance had, along with his age and versatile looks, did have their advantages in the hood. “Let me do this.”

Detective Clifton stared at his young trainee and grinned. His enthusiasm and eagerness reminded him of himself when he first joined the force. After thinking over what Officer Jones had just said, Detective Clifton agreed.

“Well,” he said apprehensively, “but just so you know, if you end up with a cap in yo’ ass, you went down there without my knowledge. I don’t know nothing, I don’t see nothing.” The detective
wanted to cover his ass. “And I ain’t going on desk duty because you got a wild hair up your ass.”

“Got it,” Officer Jones winked, then grinned at his cohort and left. He knew exactly where to go.

Detective Clifton was glad that the rookie had left the office. The longer he watched him, the more agitated he became. Detective Clifton grabbed his keys and left the precinct, headed to Westville.

S
MURF WENT ON
a mission after he had seen Dirty, and handpicked three niggas that could hold shit down and lead the army that he had chosen. He had kept an eye on Drake and Chunky when he was the muscle for Dink, and he knew that they could get real gutta with it if need be. Stoney, Dink’s boy, was also a part of the crew. Smurf had lieutenants in every borough and their soldiers were in place. He had everything on lock and was ready to get his grind on.

Little did Smurf know, he was a living legend, and many cats wanted to be like him. He knew he wouldn’t have a problem with his chosen three because under his watch, Smurf wasn’t going to put up with any unnecessary bullshit.

Smurf paged Drake prior to hitting the streets. Waiting for a return call, he decided to go see his mother, whom he hadn’t seen since Dink left. He had a surprise for her. With the stash he had accumulated by being Dink’s right-hand man, along with the money in the safe, Smurf now had the means to help his moms. She could now live the way she’d always wanted. Nothing was too good for her in his eyes. He figured she wouldn’t want to
stay at his place, so he furnished another apartment just for her in his building. He couldn’t wait to tell her and see the expression on her face.

Smurf drove back to his old neighborhood, and the cats on the streets acknowledged him. The same kids who’d taken advantage of young Smurf’s small size as a kid now respected him. He had a commanding sense of power and now truly felt like the man.

When he reached his mother’s apartment building, Smurf contemplated going up the back like he used to, but he looked down at his fly clothes and decided against it. Smurf had on a Fila jogging suit with matching Fila tennis shoes. He didn’t want to scuff his clean shoes by pulling some Spiderman shit climbing up the fire escape. Besides, he was the dope man now and he had a reputation to uphold. He’d heard that his mother stopped tricking months ago, so it was safe to enter through the front door.

Smurf walked into his mother’s apartment and couldn’t close the door all the way before his mother came out from the bedroom and walked toward the bathroom.

“Momma!” Smurf shrieked, quickly putting his hands up to shield his eyes. His mother was butt naked and her hair was sticking out all over her head. Smurf knew what that meant—she had just got through fucking.

For years, Smurf had seen his mother used and abused by men. It was a never-ending cycle. No matter how much he told her how he felt, Gloria always dismissed her son’s feelings and often took his dignity away by forcing him to bow down to the busters she had running through her. When the relationships were over, Gloria always apologized . . . until the next man.

“Wayne! Baby!” Gloria screamed in shock. She covered up
her private areas and dashed back into the bedroom. She returned with a sheet wrapped around her. “What you doing here?”

Instantly, anger rose in his chest. Smurf tried to push his way past her and rush into the bedroom, but his mother stopped him with a fixed hand on his chest.

“No, Wayne, stop it!” she said firmly.

“Momma, you don’t have to do this anymore.” He pointed toward her, then to the bedroom. “Move in with me, Momma. I got a nice apartment for you. Fixed up just the way you like it. I got enough money for the both of us.” He pulled out a wad of money, ten thousand dollars to be exact, and fanned it in front of her face. “Momma, it’s more where this came from.” The hard-core killer that the streets knew was now gone and the child that she’d raised was in front of her.