Ruthless and Rotten (3 page)

O.T. had no thoughts of blessing them with that golden opportunity. That meant the four of them, a skeptical London included, would be on their own in this awful mess. Repeatedly getting her fiancé's voice mail was causing a red-eyed Kenya to have a nervous breakdown from worry as the anxiety built. Trying to remain positive, her heart broke a little bit each passing second he didn't call back.

 

 

“What could have gone wrong? This just ain't right,” O.T. wondered out loud, as he had Kenya collecting every sheet and blanket she could find. “As soon as we get this body up out of here, I'm gonna call that ho-ass nigga Royce and see what he know. He was supposed to be with Deacon and Storm when they left town. I know that old wannabe pimp know something—he gotsta to!”

Taking matters into his own hands, he knew he had to do the majority of the dirty work. As much as fearless street soldiers he knew his woman Paris and Kenya were, a headless body and a chopped-off head of a dude they had just partied with would be too much for the average man to stomach, let alone two females. O.T. drained all the water out the bathtub as well as the aquarium. Deacon's torso was bloated, stiff, and waterlogged, making it feel almost three times its normal body weight. Putting on two pairs of the rubber gloves that Paris had ran and bought from the corner store, he tried lifting Deacon up by himself, but it was no use. O.T. then instructed an extremely reluctant London and an eager-to-please Paris to put on gloves to help him. They both quickly came to his aid, knowing this was no time to argue. He then yelled out for his soon-to-be sister-in-law, but by that time the usually scared-of-nothing Kenya was, understandably, of no fucking good to any of them or herself. The once good girl turned all the way bad, was curled up on the edge of the bed, rocking back and forth with one of her beloved Storm's shirts in her arms.

The newly formed trio moved on with O.T.'s plan, wrapping the body first in a sheet, then in two fluffy comforters. Paris luckily found several old telephone cords out of the utility closet so they could tie Deacon snug. London had located a box of heavy-duty Home Depot garbage bags, which she doubled up. Holding the bags wide open, she turned away as O.T. dropped the slimy, grotesque head inside.

Paris, the Bonnie to his Clyde, opened the garage of the condo, pulling her car all the way in, parking it next to Kenya's. When the door was shut and the coast was clear, London, Paris, and O.T. struggled to drag the freakishly heavy body out. On the count of three, they lifted Deacon, throwing him into the trunk. The weight caused the new car to bounce downwards to the garage pavement before slowly lifting back up. O.T. made the comment they should've driven his truck. Both Paris and London gave him the “as if you knew you were coming to remove a dead body, nigga, tonight” side eye.

“O.T., baby we need to get cleaned up and at least get this blood off of our clothes,” Paris, thinking well ahead, suggested. “We don't want to get pulled over in this neighborhood with these clothes on.”

“I've got nine motherfucking reasons none of these white Rodney King–ass-beating sons of bitches betta not fuck with nan one of us tonight!” O.T. raised his shirt up, revealing his pistol as well as his washboard abs that he spent hours working out to achieve. “But you right, I'm gonna go back upstairs and get some of Storm's gear to throw on. I'll grab one of Kenya's track suits for you.”

“Thanks, boo.” Paris leaned over, giving him a fast kiss on the lips. “Hurry up, okay? I don't want Deacon's blood and the rest of those fluids to leak through that blanket and stain the trunk carpet. You know how much they be charging to detail shit like that out!”

London stood back, amazed at the calm and coolness of the couple. It was as if they encountered this type of bizarre occurrence on a daily basis.
What has Kenya gotten me into? This is pure madness!
She pondered silently, wishing she was anywhere in the world other than where she was, doing what she was doing.
One day I'm at school, working toward my degree; the next, I'm tangled up in covering up not one, but two murders. God, this is so messed up—so wrong!

After washing their faces and hands, getting themselves looking somewhat halfway decent, O.T. and Paris were ready to roll. With Paris behind the wheel, they cautiously drove off, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. This was the one time, if any, that the gangsta love duo didn't need to get pulled over by the cops. The two of them would dispose of the body, while O.T. left his new partner in crime, London, in charge of getting Kenya's panicked, grief-stricken-ass together. Maybe London could get her sister to postpone her sudden hysterical breakdown and relax so that they could figure this strange mystery out.

Now was definitely not the time for any of the three to punk out and fold. If ever there was a night that a person had to think and react with their mind and not their heart, this, hands-down, would be that goddamned night.

Kenya was all cried. Full of emotion, she walked down the stairs to find her sister trying her best to salvage whatever she could from the lower level of the home. “Hey, sis,” Kenya sniffed, pushing the redial button on her phone. “Is O.T. back yet? Have you seen him or Paris?”

“Oh, please, stop it! Don't you think you would have heard that loud, obnoxious Negro you deal with?” London barked, going from room to room, throwing stuff into a garbage bag.

“Girl, he's not that bad, girl!” For the first time since they had returned from the airport, Kenya gave her twin a slight grin, holding the phone to her ear. “You just gotta get used to him. He'll grow on you after a while.”

“Well, I'm sorry. I have no intentions whatsoever of him growing on me. I feel sorry for his girlfriend and anyone else that has the misfortune to spend any more than ten minutes in his presence.” London went on making wise comments pertaining to O.T.'s offbeat character. “He's a real jerk if I ever met one! She's a better woman than me.”

Kenya held up her hand to shush London while she tried to leave another message in Storm's voice mail. However, it already was full, making that task impossible. Kenya was heated all over again, throwing her phone against the still-wet walls. Pounding her fist on the table, worry started once more to consume her thoughts. London, startled, ran from the kitchen to see her sister enraged.

“I swear to God I'm gonna kill a motherfucker if something done happened to him! I swear I am—I swear!”

“Calm down, Kenya!” London urged.

Just as Kenya finished ranting, Paris and O.T. returned. London wasted no time in opening the door to let the pair inside.

“Did you find out something?” Kenya rushed up to O.T., almost knocking him off his feet. “Did he call? Have you heard anything? Tell me he called you!”

“Naw, baby girl,” he regretfully hated to say. “But I did find out that fugazy wannabe playa Royce's new number and shit.”

“Well, was he with them? Do he know something? Where did he say Storm was?”

“Kenya, pump ya brakes, will ya?” O.T. said, moving her to the side so that Paris could get all the way in the condo door. “His phone goes straight to voice mail too. I tried calling that fool at least a good ten times—same thing—voice mail.”

“Damn!” Kenya shook her head, desperate for any information to ease her fears.

“Relax, girl!” Paris spoke up, hugging her friend. “It's gonna be okay. Storm is a soldier—you know that. He's gonna call. Don't worry—you'll see.”

“When I get you and your sister settled, I'm gonna shoot by Royce's peoples and try to find out if they heard from him yet. Just try to chill,” he reasoned, obviously still worried himself. “I'm on it!”

“I'm trying to be calm, but this whole thing don't make no sense to me at all!” Kenya whimpered, not being able to hold back another round of tears. “I need to stay here just in case he come home!”

“Listen up, girl. Me and Paris done handled the Deacon situation for now, may he rest in peace, but I still don't think it's safe in here. Whoever did all this and killed my manz might come back. Y'all should just jet until we hear something.”

“No damn kidding, Sherlock,” London interrupted, ready to be anywhere but there.

The tension in the air and dislike she was feeling for O.T. was transparent and obvious to the entire room. Being a career class-A asshole was second nature to O.T., so he was used to people having an instant hatred of him. Brushing her smart comments off as nothing, he finished his statement without even missing a beat.

“Look, I'll fall through tomorrow myself and really clean up the bathroom and that nasty-ass fish tank with bleach and some of that strong-ass industrial-strength disinfectant that's down at the club. We can't risk letting anybody else inside here until we know what's what.”

Everyone, even Kenya, agreed with O.T. that it would be for the best for the twins to vacate the premises, at least for the time being. Paris, loyal to the end, started to help London gather some of Kenya's things, so she and O.T. could take them to get a hotel room until they could get a handle on the real deal and sometime down the line get some workmen over to survey and repair the damaged condo. Besides, it was no way on God's green earth that the girls were gonna feel comfortable spending one night in a spot where who-knows-what had taken place.

 

 

“Come on, y'all got enough stuff for a few days.”

“All right, O.T., we're coming.” Kenya replied. After close to a hour of being in the house, all four of them emerged out onto the small porch. O.T. carried most of the bags to Kenya's car, while Paris grabbed the rest. London stood over toward the far side of the door as Kenya locked up, trying to secure the rest of her belongings even though crime almost never occurred in their secure community. In the midst of all the commotion that'd taken place since their arrival from Detroit, the overflowing of the flower-design mailbox was overlooked.

“Hey, Kenya, it looks as if you've got a lot of mail piled up in this box. You want me to get it?”

“Yeah, London—grab it out for me. Just throw all that mess in your bag. It ain't probably shit but a bunch of bills and catalogues. I ain't got time to give a damn about that junk now!”

Kenya double-checked the locks on the condo door; the same locks that failed to keep the intruders out. London stuffed all the mail, including a small-sized manila envelope, in her purse without even a second thought. She didn't take notice that a small parcel had nothing written on it front or back; meaning that more than likely, someone had to have left it in the mailbox personally.

 

 

After both taking showers, trying to unpack a few things and relax, Kenya laid across the bed dialing Storm's number once more, while London emptied the items in her purse onto the dresser in search of a comb and a brush.

“Oh snap! What was that?” Startled, she leaped backwards, almost tripping over her own feet.

“What's wrong, London? What is it?”

“Girl, there's something moving in this envelope.”

“What envelope?”

“That one—right there,” London pointed from afar.

“You bugging! Where did you get it from? And what you mean
moving
?”

“Stop playing with me, fool! It's the mail from your house, Kenya! That's where I got it from!”

“Well, who is it addressed to?” Kenya bit her lower lip as they both moved over closer toward the hotel door.

Bzzzzzzzz
. . . The envelope vibrated once again.

“Go over there, London, and see what it is.”

“Excuse me, Miss Kenya, but that's your dang-gone package, not mine! It came from your house—your mail! So you go!”

“Okay, but come with me,” Kenya bargained with her sister.

As they slowly approached the dresser, the mystery mail buzzed once more. Kenya bravely reached over, carefully picking the package up with two fingers. Moving slowly, she walked over to the lamp on the desk. Taking a deep breath, she tried holding it up to the light, but couldn't make out its contents.

“Just open it,” London insisted, knowing if it was a fragile bomb they'd both be dead by now. “It's not explosive, but be careful of poison.”

“Okay, okay, okay!” Kenya tore open the envelope, dumping what was inside onto the bed.

“I'm confused. A silly old cell phone and an old burgundy-velvet ring box?” London casually asked, expecting something more. “Who would send you stuff like that?”

Kenya placed her hand over her mouth to muffle her scream. “That's Storm's cell phone! He's the only one who I know that has a neon-green antenna on his shit and an airbrushed tiger on the back! That's his phone!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, London, I'm certain. This is definitely his!” Kenya snatched the phone off the bed, flipping it open. It said the words
Capacity Full
across the screen.

“What about the ring box, Kenya? Have you seen it before or what? What's in it?” the twin asked her confused sister.

“I'm still bugging out on this phone,” Kenya told her sibling, holding it up in her hand.

“Well, I'm gonna open it.” London leaned over, swooping up the small velvet box, shaking it slightly before peeking inside.

“What's in there?” Kenya waited before starting to go through Storm's phone for any clues to his whereabouts.

“Oh, my God! Ugh!” London dropped the box on the carpet, revealing a small note and what appeared to be a severed piece of an earlobe with a diamond earring still attached. To Kenya's dismay, it was the same earring that Deacon was wearing; the same one that she also owned. It was Storm's. It had to be. Now it was proof positive that Storm was definitely injured badly, in danger or worse than that, dead.

Kenya, exhausted from grief, fell to the carpet, passing out. As her twin sister lay sprawled out on the hotel-room floor, London didn't know what else to do. Without hesitation, she rushed to the telephone, dialing the number that O.T. left for her. There was no need calling the cops for assistance. The way Kenya, Paris, and O.T. made it seem, they couldn't help anyhow.