Lights Out (8 page)

Jake turned on the stereo and Enrique Iglesias started crooning.
Perfecto,
he thought. He dimmed the light to the level of candlelight, then undressed and got into bed.

A few minutes later Jake heard Christina in the hallway, outside the bathroom, say, ‘Jake?’

‘In here, baby,’ Jake called out.

Christina entered the room and saw Jake in bed, then looked away quickly.

‘Get dressed right now,’ she said, turning on the light to its full brightness.

‘Come on,’ Jake said.

Christina shut off the stereo. As she was walking away, Jake said, ‘Whoa, hold up,’ and got out of bed.

Christina stopped near the door with her back to Jake.

‘Look, I know I’ve been an asshole,’ Jake said, ‘and I should’ve called you more. But the past is the past. I grew up - I matured.’

‘Come on, Jake—’

‘I know you don’t want to break up with me. If you did, you wouldn’t’ve kissed me the way you did before.’

‘I was surprised—’

‘You liked it. Besides, if you really wanted to break up with me, you would’ve dumped me years ago. But you didn’t, because you know we were meant to be together.’

Christina didn’t say anything. ‘I mean, come on,’ Jake went on. ‘We were what, eighteen when we got engaged? We were kids. But now things’re different. You know how much money I’m gonna be making after next year? I know you don’t wanna be stuck in Brooklyn forever. After we’re married, we’ll move to LA, into a fuckin’ mansion - you’ll be set up for life, baby. And what about your father? You want him to stay in this house and rot for the rest of his life?’

‘You’d help my father?’ ‘

‘Course I would,’ Jake said, thinking he’d never give that degenerate a cent. ‘I’d help him like I’d help my own father. I’ll buy him some condo somewhere out in Florida or Arizona. Your father play golf?’

‘He used to.’

‘I’ll get him a condo on a golf course in Tucson. He’ll look out his kitchen window and see the fuckin’ eighteenth hole.’

Christina remained with her back to Jake.

‘Come on,’ Jake said, ‘why don’t you dim the lights again and put my man Enrique back on?’

Christina let several seconds pass, then said, ‘You hate Enrique.’

‘What do you mean?’ Jake said. ‘I love his shit, and I hang with the dude all the time.’

Christina turned and faced Jake, forgetting that she’d been trying to avoid looking at his naked body.

‘You know Enrique Iglesias?’

‘Yeah, of course. He stops by the clubhouse sometimes when I’m in LA and we hang and shit. I just saw him last month at the Lounge. Yeah, we had a great time. It was me, Enrique, Leo, Tobey—’

‘You know Leonardo DiCaprio?’

‘ ‘Course I know him - and his whole posse. Yeah, Leo’s got some spread out there in Malibu, right on the water. When you come out to the coast I’ll introduce you to everybody.’

Jake went past Christina, toward the wall, and dimmed the lights again.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Sshh.’ Jake turned on the stereo and ‘Be With You’ started playing. ‘How ‘bout a dance, baby?’

Christina turned back toward the door to avoid looking at him.

‘One dance,’ Jake said. ‘What’s the big deal?’

Jake went up to her and put his arms around her waist from behind. She tried to move away, but Jake held on to her tightly and she stopped resisting. For several seconds he didn’t say anything. Resting his chin on her shoulder, he held her, breathing in that cheap perfume, then said, ‘God, this song is beautiful, isn’t it?’

‘Did you mean that about my father?’ Christina said. ‘You’ll really buy a condo for him?’

‘Of course I will,’ Jake said. ‘I love your dad. He’s a great guy.’

They continued dancing. Christina sniffled, and Jake realized she was crying. He started kissing the back of her neck, then continued around to under her jaw.

‘Stop,’ she said, but didn’t move away. ‘You know, when I saw you out there on the street before, I felt like I was home, back where I belong.’ Jake kissed her neck some more, then said, ‘I missed you so much this season. Sometimes, when I was in the outfield, in the middle of a game, I’d start thinking about you. One game against the Cubs, I missed an easy fly ball, let in two runs, because I was thinking about your beautiful face. . . . Lemme see your face, baby.’

Jake turned Christina around. She was crying harder than he’d thought - her cheeks were wet. Using his thumb, he wiped some of the tears, and then he licked his thumb and said, ‘Mmm, delicious.’

Keeping his hands tightly around her waist, he started dancing with her, rocking slowly from side to side. He tried to kiss her lips, but she turned her head.

Then she pushed him back and said, ‘You better not be bullshitting me about any of this. Because if you are, I swear to God I’ll—’

Jake went to kiss her again, and this time she kissed him back.

He made out with her for a while, telling her how beautiful she was and how he’d love her forever, and then he steered her toward the bed. As he undid her bra he noticed she was still crying, but he didn’t let that stop him.

Saiquan Harrington went up to the information desk at Brookdale Hospital and said to the skinny, light-skinned girl with Venus Williams-style braids, ‘Where Desmond Johnson’s room at?’

Without looking at him, the girl said, ‘I’m on the phone.’ The girl was wearing a headset, but she didn’t seem to be on the phone. She was looking at the copy of the
Post
that was lying open on the desk in front of her.

After about a few seconds of looking down at the paper, chewing on gum, she pushed a button on the phone and said, ‘Brookdale, hold on,’ and then started looking at the paper again, turning to the horoscopes. After several more seconds she looked at the computer monitor and tapped a few keys on the keyboard, then said into the phone, ‘Brookdale, hold on,’ and started reading the newspaper again.

Saiquan said, ‘Can’t you just tell me where Desmond—’

‘Wait,’ the girl said.

She looked up more shit on the computer, read more horoscopes, and said ‘Brookdale, hold on,’ into the phone a few more times. Then, finally, she said to Saiquan, ‘What you want?’

‘I wanna know where Desmond Johnson’s room’s at,’ Saiquan said.

‘He a patient?’ The girl couldn’t give a shit.

‘Yeah.’

‘How you spell the last name?’

‘Johnson. You don’t know how to spell Johnson?’

‘Yeah, I know how to spell Johnson. You didn’t tell me his name was Johnson, did you?’

‘I told you I wanna see Desmond Johnson.’

The girl punched some more keys, then looked over at the monitor and said, ‘Lucy Johnson’s in room seven-oh-two.’

‘I don’t want no Lucy Johnson,’ Saiquan said. ‘I want Desmond Johnson.’

‘There ain’t no Desmond Johnson in the hospital.’

‘Come on, yo, just look it up.’

‘I am lookin’ it up, and there ain’t no Desmond Johnson. All we got’s Lucy Johnson.’ Then, looking back the monitor, she said, ‘Wait. Desmond Johnson - room three fourteen.’

‘See, what the fuck I tell you?’

But the girl, not listening, said into the phone, ‘Brookdale, hold on.’

Saiquan headed toward the elevators, wondering why everybody always had to give him so much bullshit.

A white cop with a mustache sitting in front of room three fourteen said to Saiquan as he was about to go inside, ‘Can I help you?’

‘This Desmond Johnson’s room?’ Saiquan asked.

‘Who are you?’ the cop said in a normal white-cop kind of way, talking down to him and shit.

‘His brother.’

‘You don’t look like his brother.’

‘Just tell him his brother’s here, man.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘Saiquan.’

‘Saigon?’

‘Saiquan.’

The cop went into the room, then came out, frisked Saiquan, and said, ‘Okay.’

Saiquan entered the room, hit by that usual odor of shit that hospital rooms had. A TV up high on the wall was blasting CNN . A nurse was sitting watching TV, and didn’t even look at Saiquan as he passed by.

The bed near the door had the curtains drawn, and Saiquan peeked in and saw an old guy sleeping with his mouth hanging open. He went farther into the room and saw Desmond on the other bed, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. A big tube was coming out of the middle of his neck, and he had one of them metal things screwed into his head with scabbed blood all around the screws. Saiquan had seen other brothers from his neighborhood wind up this same way, paralyzed and shit. Motherfucking sixteen-year-olds got shot in the neck and got sent away to nursing homes like old people.

Saiquan had never believed in God. Even when he was away he didn’t get into it. All that Jesus/Allah bullshit was just for people in lockup to make themselves happy about something and believe their lives were less fucked-up than they were. If God was really around, the Man would’ve made sure that bullet went right into Desmond’s heart or his brain - ended his life quick.

Desmond was looking up toward the ceiling, so Saiquan couldn’t tell if he saw him, or if he even knew he was in the room.

Saiquan went right next to the bed and leaned over Desmond’s face and said, ‘D. D, yo, it’s me, man - Saiquan.’

Desmond used to joke around and shit all the time, but now he looked like he’d never laughed or even smiled, his whole life. His eyes opened slowly, they looked all bloodshot and watery, and he didn’t seem to know where he was.

‘What up, D, man?’ Saiquan said. ‘How you feelin’, yo?’ Desmond didn’t say anything; he just looked at Saiquan without blinking. Seeing his best friend looking so fucked-up made Saiquan sick inside, but he wasn’t going to cry, especially around another man, no matter what.

‘Don’t worry, man, you’re gonna be a’ight,’ Saiquan said. ‘Hear me, man? You’re gonna beat this shit. They gonna do some rehab on you, get you back on your feet walkin’ and shit. You trust me on that shit.’

Of course, Saiquan knew Desmond would probably never walk again. Shit, he’d probably never eat or breathe on his own, but he had to say something to make the dude feel better.

Saiquan stood there, listening to the air going in and out of the tubes of that machine he was hooked up to. Again, he had to try hard not to cry.

‘I told that cop I was your brother,’ Saiquan said. ‘Shit’s funny, right? But, yo, I’m gonna talk to them ‘bout all that shit. You need a real brother outside your door, know what I’m sayin’? That white nigga didn’t even frisk me. I coulda come up here to cap yo’ ass, but he don’t give a shit - just cost him some OT, that’s all, know what I’m sayin’?’

Desmond was trying to cough, his face turning red.

‘What up, man?’ Saiquan said. ‘Yo, want me to get you some water or get the nurse?’

Desmond stopped coughing and mouthed,
No.

‘So what up, man?’ Saiquan said. ‘You can’t talk none at all?’

Again Desmond mouthed,
No.

‘That’s cool, that’s cool, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘I’ll do all the talkin’ then, that’s all. I ain’t got no problem with that.’

Saiquan checked over his shoulder to make sure the nurse wasn’t listening, and then he leaned closer to Desmond and said, ‘Who got you, man?’

Desmond didn’t try to say anything. He just gave Saiquan a look that Saiquan knew meant,
Stay out of it.

‘Naw, naw, this my business now, man, know what I’m sayin’?’ Saiquan was talking low, almost whispering. ‘Just tell me who it was, man, and I’ll take care of all that shit.’

Desmond gave him more of that same look.

‘I don’t care what you say, man, I’m involved now,’ Saiquan said. ‘They cap my boy, niggas better know they gonna get some payback.’

Desmond’s lips said,
Don’t.

‘Naw, fuck that shit, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘I ain’t forgettin’ all them times you got my back, yo. Like that time I got cut in the stomach by that punk Damon up by Seaview Estates - lost all that blood, almost died - what’d you do? You took care of that shit, that’s what you did. So who was it, man? Was it Karl? ‘Cause that’s who I’m figurin’. Nigga loves to shoot people in the back when they ain’t lookin’.’

Desmond mouthed some words.

‘What?’ Saiquan said.

Desmond repeated what he’d tried to say, and Saiquan made out,
It wasn’t Karl.

‘Then who was it, man?’

Desmond’s eyes looked angry, and he didn’t try to say anything.

‘You don’t tell me I’m gonna find out on my own, know what I’m sayin’?’ Saiquan said. ‘So who was it? Was it Tariq? One of ‘em Glenwood Road boys? The DIS crew? Chrome Warriors? Spanish niggas from Queens? Kevin? Eduardo? Or was it Jamaicans - fuckin’ Bloodstains?’

Desmond mouthed something.

‘What?’ Saiquan said.

Desmond’s lips moved again, slower, and Saiquan made out the word
parole.

‘Forget that shit, man,’ Saiquan said. ‘This is about you and me, man - I don’t care ‘bout nothin’ else. ‘Sides, yo, I be careful - you can count on that. So who was it, man? Just say the name, yo.’

Desmond’s eyes shifted away, toward the window. It was cloudy outside and the window was dirty, making it look even darker out there.

After about twenty seconds Desmond’s eyes shifted back toward Saiquan, then he mouthed,
Jermaine.

‘Jermaine?
You mean Jermaine, Jermaine?
Your
boy Jermaine?’

Yeah,
Desmond mouthed.

‘I don’t get that shit, man.
Jermaine.
J’s with y’all in the Crips. Why’d your own boy cap you?’

Desmond stared at Saiquan, tears coming to his eyes, then mouthed something Saiquan couldn’t make out.

‘What?’

Desmond’s lips said it again.

‘Mona?’

Desmond tried again, slower.

‘Oh, Ramona who the fu . . . Wait, you mean that ho he’s always with? The one wears ‘em short leather shits all the time? Always got ‘em big-ass titties showin’?’

Desmond mouthed,
Yeah.

‘So what’s she gotta do with it, man?’

Desmond looked at Saiquan and Saiquan knew.

‘Wait. You was bonin’ her?’

Yeah.

‘So just ‘cause you been hittin’ it with his ho he capped you?’

Yeah.

‘Sick-ass motherfucka. That ho, man, she been bonin’ every nigga in the ‘hood since she was twelve years old. I heard she takin’ it up the ass, she takin’ it everywhere. So what’d he do, just jump out and cap you when you ain’t lookin’?’

Drive-by.

‘Fuck it, man. You and him in the same crew. We used to hang with that motherfucka when we was kids and shit. Yo, you tell the cops it was J?’

Fuck, no.

‘Cool, man - yo, that’s cool. Then you just forget about the whole thing, know what I’m sayin’? It’s gonna be all taken care of, you don’t gotta worry ‘bout nothin’.’

Desmond tried to talk, making some fucked-up gurgling sounds, spit coming out of his mouth. Then he started making some kind of bird noise with his tongue and the nurse came over and said, ‘I gotta suction.’ When the nurse was done she went back to watching CNN , and Desmond’s lips started moving again. Saiquan didn’t know what the fuck he was saying and had to make him repeat it three times. Finally he made out,
Watch yo’ back.

‘I will, man, I will. You don’t gotta worry ‘bout that shit. I always be watchin’ my back.’

Saiquan raised his hand to do a high five, but then he remembered that Desmond couldn’t move.

Resting his hand on Desmond’s arm instead, Saiquan said, ‘You just rest up man, hear? You gonna be walkin’ outta here next month. You gonna see.’

Desmond’s eyes, looking watery again, shifted away toward the dark.

‘Later on, D.’ Saiquan left the room.

Outside, the white cop didn’t even look up as Saiquan headed fast toward the elevator.

As Saiquan drove home along Linden Boulevard, thick smoke started coming out of the hood of his ride - a Pontiac Sunbird with a million miles on it.

‘Damn,’ Saiquan said.

He waited for the smoke to go down and then he went outside and opened the hood. He didn’t know why he was bothering to look under there because he didn’t know shit about fixing cars. After a few more seconds of looking, he closed the hood and got back into the car. He turned the key but the shit wouldn’t start. He knew it wasn’t the battery this time, not with all that fucking smoke. It was something worse - the engine, carburetor, whatever. He knew if he got somebody to tow the car home they’d charge him a hundred dollars, and he didn’t have no hundred dollars to tow no broken-down car. He’d bought the car for three hundred and fifty bucks at a lot on Utica Avenue, and he could probably buy another one for how much they’d charge to fix this one.

Fuck it, man,
Saiquan decided.

After checking the glove compartment and the backseat - there was no personal shit, just a lot of garbage - he ditched the car and started walking toward Rockaway Avenue with his hands deep inside the pockets of his old, black, ripped-up North Face winter jacket.

Waiting for the bus, feeling like a chump, Saiquan started thinking about capping Jermaine, wondering if he could go through with it. He’d killed three people before - two from the Bloods, one from another gang - and he saw their ghosts all the time, especially at night; the last thing he needed was the ghost of Jermaine following him around too. He knew he had to do it, for Desmond, but he didn’t like killing people like some other brothers he knew did. It didn’t do nothing for him - it didn’t give him no high. He didn’t like seeing the blood and fucking up people’s lives just for the hell of it.

But Saiquan told himself that Jermaine was different -Jermaine was a punk, a sick-ass motherfucker who deserved to die anyway, so there was no use feeling bad about it. He thought about all the people Jermaine had killed - some who didn’t do nothing. Like those dudes who were playing basketball that time and Jermaine went up to them and said, ‘Lemme play.’ The dudes said no, so Jermaine popped both of them and walked away. Jermaine was like that - he didn’t give a shit.

Saiquan wanted to pop Jermaine right now, get the shit over with while he was all pumped up to do it - problem was, he didn’t have a piece. It was no real problem, though, because he knew his boy Marcus would hook him up with that shit.

After about twenty minutes a bus pulled up. Saiquan got on and put all the change he had, a dollar twenty-five, into the change slot and continued onto the bus.

‘Where you goin’?’ the driver asked. He was a big, fat, hard-assed brother with a beard - reminded Saiquan of a
harder-assed
brother, Lawrence, a guard upstate who always gave him shit.

‘What?’ Saiquan asked.

‘You need seventy-five more cent,’ the driver said.

‘My car broke down, man.’

‘You still seventy-five cent short.’

‘I ain’t lyin’, man. I just left my car out the street. Shit broke and I gotta get home to my kids.’

‘Put in seventy-five more cent or get off my damn bus.’

‘Yo, anybody got change for a dollar?’ Saiquan said to the passengers.

Nobody even bothered to check.

‘You don’t got the money you gotta get off my bus,’ the driver said.

‘Come on, man. Gimme a break one time. What the fuck you care anyway?’