The Apostles (25 page)

O
DELL WAS TIRED AND WET
. H
E SAT ON THE STEPS OF THE
first open yard he came across. He took a seat on the porch steps and was about to pull out his little pouch with his crack-smoking utensils when he heard an unmistakably hostile voice.

“Motherfucker, you better get yo hype ass off my gotdamn porch before I put a bullet in yo ass!” the voice shouted.

Heavy steps on the wooden porch above him reached his ears and Odell got up and fled. He cut through a couple of gangways until he found another suitable-looking porch. This time he took care to make sure the doors to the apartments above and below were closed. Again he took a soggy seat and pulled out his tools.

Since early that morning he had been washing cars at the car-detailing shop on 43rd Street. It was a known fact the car wash was owned by the Apostles, but Odell didn't care. The pay was reasonable and you got to keep your own tips—none of that splitting your loot with the other lazy bums. At the A+ Car Wash you had to hustle to get money.

Odell selected a fresh pipe—really a five-inch length of antenna—and sprinkled a little crack from his secret stash onto the steel wool in the business end of the straight shooter. He flicked his lighter to melt the crack down a bit, then he held the minitorch up to the end while he took a nice hit. The sound of the crack sizzling was music to his ears. He let the smoke wrap around his brain before exhaling. There were only a few crumbs left in the miniature
Ziploc bag, so he dumped those on the pipe, too, and smoked them. He sat for a few minutes to allow his racing heart to calm down a little, then he packed up his good-times kit and made his way to the street.

He was soaked to the bone, but it was well worth it. Today he had received a twenty-dollar tip from Solemn Shawn himself for washing the gang leader's pickup truck. He'd made the chrome rims on that boy shine like they were fresh out the store. The twenty bucks from Solemn Shawn, plus another forty-three he'd made from other customers, had made it hard for him to stay the entire eight hours. Somehow he'd made it to quitting time; now it was party time.

All he had to do was make it over to the projects on 39th Street. A friend of his had taken him down there to cop a few bags last weekend, and Odell had been stupefied by the product in the projects. The crack cocaine was average, but the bags were so damn big it didn't make no sense. He and his friend had went half on a dub and when his buddy hopped back in the car with the swollen twenty-dollar bag, Odell would have sworn that it was garbage. His friend had explained that in the projects the dealers had to make their bags big because there was so much competition. When he tasted the crack for the first time, Odell had to admit that it wasn't the best he'd ever had, but it was nowhere near the worst either— it was about a seven or eight on a scale of one to ten.

Though he wasn't in a particularly sharing mood, Odell hated to go to the jets by himself. That would mean he would have to walk or use public transportation, and he wasn't particularly fond of either. On the other hand maybe he could get Pharrell to make this run with him and only hit him with about a nickel bag or so. That wouldn't be so bad. Pharrell lived only about two short blocks away, so Odell turned his feet in that direction. As was his custom, Odell's eyes roamed the ground as he walked to his friend's house.

A block before, when Odell had walked out of the backyard, Bull and Grove had spotted him and swung around the block to
park and get out. As Odell turned the corner in front of them, the two detectives bolted to catch up with him. They hit the corner a few steps after Odell. Bull reached out and grabbed his collar and slammed Odell against the wall of the building behind him.

Looking over Bull's shoulder, Grove smiled. “If it ain't our old buddy Odell. Thought we had forgot about you, didn't you?”

Odell had almost pissed his already wet pants when he was grabbed from behind. He knew it was the police though. “I haven't done anything, sir. I was just going to visit my friend.”

“That's the problem,” Grove said. “You haven't done nothing. What did we tell yo hype ass the last time we saw you? Thought we wasn't gone bump into yo dumb ass again?”

“It's not that, sir,” Odell replied innocently. “It's just that I've been working and trying to get my life in order, sir.”

“Stop lying, you crackhead motherfucka,” Bull growled as he punched Odell hard in the kidneys. His solid punch caused Odell to crumple to his knees and grip his aching side.

“I ain't even done nothing,” Odell whimpered as the pain coursed through his side.

Grove moved past Bull. With his hand on the butt of his gun, he stooped until he was eye level with Odell. “I'm not mad at the fact that we haven't heard from you. My partner is, but I'm not. I'm willing to forgive you. In church Sunday the pastor was talking about forgiving past transgressors. See, we need your help right now, and that will clean up your debt with us.”

A ray of sun began to shine through the clouds on Odell's horizon. Maybe, just maybe, if he could bullshit the detectives again, he could get free. There was no question he would shit on them again if they let him go. “I'll do whatever y'all want, sir.”

Grove laughed. “I already know that. This time, though, we gone hold on to yo hype ass. Cuff this bitch, Bull.”

The ray of sunshine disappeared as the burly detective slapped the iron bracelets on Odell's wrists. “We need a transport, Grove,” Bull grunted. “This motherfucka is wet as hell.”

The sound of Grove's knee bones cracking could be heard as he stood and pulled out his walkie-talkie. The detectives were assured of a ride for their captive in a few minutes as Bull deposited Odell on the curb.

Grove leaned down in Odell's face. “We just need a little bit of info,” he told Odell. “If you give me what we need, you can be back on the street in a matter of minutes. If you bullshit me, best believe I've got a fresh bundle of dope for yo ass. I've had it for a few days, so it done probably fell off, but I can get you three years on look-alike substance, easily.”

Odell started to protest, but Bull silenced him by slapping him in the back of his head with one of his humongous hands. “Shut the fuck up, motherfucka. This is real. If you don't tell us what we need to know you going to jail. Now don't talk, just sit there and let this shit marinate.”

With his head down, Odell sat there on the curb and pondered his fate. He definitely was not looking forward to a stay in the county jail, and after that on to prison—no way. It was rather easy for him to determine that he would tell these two dicks whatever they wanted to know; he would even make up some shit if he had to in order to buy himself some time.

A paddy wagon turned the corner and pulled up in front of the two detectives and their captive. In the cabin of the paddy wagon were two officers. Looking extremely disinterested, the overweight driver said, “Put him in the back.”

As the detectives pulled him to his feet, Odell whined, “Look, man, I'll tell y'all anything that y'all want to know. Just give me a chance.”

Without answering, Bull and Grove walked him to the rear of the paddy wagon. Grove opened the door while Bull prepared to hoist Odell up into it.

“Wait, wait!” Odell pleaded. “Tell me what y'all want and I'll do it. I ain't no good to y'all if I'm locked up! Please!”

The detectives stopped; Grove looked over at his partner. “What
you think, Bull? Should we give this asshole a chance or do you think he still feel like playing us like we some vics?”

Bull grabbed Odell roughly and began to shove him in the paddy wagon. “Fuck him,” Bull grunted. “This motherfucka don't know nothing about Solemn Shawn—he a motherfuckin' crackhead.”

“Hold on!” Odell protested. “I do know Solemn Shawn! I just seen him today! I know where he at right now!”

Again Bull stopped. This was too easy—they had been playing this game for so long, they always knew the outcome. Even some of the so-called hardest thugs would start spilling their guts when threatened with jail.

“Where is that?” Grove asked.

Odell gulped. He knew that he was too far gone to turn back now. “He up at the A+ Car Wash up on Fifty-first Street. I just left there and he was there.”

“This bet' not be no bullshit,” Grove stated.

Odell said a silent prayer to himself. “That's the real, man,” Odell assured him. “He should still be there. He got his truck washed and he was fucking around wit a few of his boys and shit. I'm serious, man.”

“You believe this shithead, Bull?”

Bull shrugged. “Maybe.”

“All right, Bull. Bring this asshole and we gone go check out his story. If he telling the truth he on the way to wherever he was headed. If not, he on his way to the station.” Grove slammed the wagon's door and walked to the officer in the driver's seat. “You guys can take off, it's cool.”

The officer behind the wheel didn't ask for any explanations as he rolled his eyes and pulled away from the curb.

In the alley a block away from the car wash, Grove turned in his seat to look at Odell. “Motherfucker, it's simple. Just walk to the fucking car wash and see if he still there. Don't do shit stupid ‘cause
we gone be real close on yo ass. If he there and you see him don't make no eye contact with him. Just play the shit off and leave. You got that?”

Odell nodded.

“And don't try no bullshit. We got yo ID and yo money, Odell. Now get the fuck out and do yo job, snitch!”

Odell vacated the backseat of the Gang Crimes Unit and half ran, half walked to the car wash. He sighed in relief when he saw that Solemn Shawn's pickup truck was still parked on the street in front of the car wash. He even took a short second to admire the sparkle he had brought out of the paint job. It almost looked like he had buffed the beautiful eggshell-colored pickup truck—he could really see himself in the polished chrome of the twenty-four-inch rims. Sighing, he kept walking because there was no sign of Solemn Shawn in the front of A+. He walked around the back to the alley. Inside the unlocked fence behind the large garage that housed the car wash, Odell could see a group of ten or so men in a circle.

Some of the men were down on their knees and haunches, so Odell knew they had to be gambling. As he walked past the fence, Odell cut his eyes to make sure it was Solemn Shawn—it was. Right beside the gamblers, Solemn Shawn was eating out of a Styrofoam tray. Odell was all smiles as he jogged the block back to the Crown Victoria and slipped into the backseat.

“He still there,” Odell announced. “Just like I said. They in the back of the joint inside the fence gambling. All y'all got to do is come up the alley and walk right inside the gate. He right there watching them other rich-ass niggas gambling. Can I go now?”

Grove looked Odell in his eyes with a menacing glare. “You bet' not be lying.”

“I'm not,” Odell insisted. “Can I have my stuff ?”

“I'm gone give you yo money, but I'm gone keep yo ID. Just in case I have to get hold of yo ass again.”

“Damn,” Odell mumbled. “Y'all be on some straight-up bullshit.”

“What was that?” Grove challenged.

“Nothing, sir.” Odell acquiesced as he collected his money. “Nothing at all, sir.”

Grove laughed—an evil sound. “I didn't think so. Hit the bricks, bitch.”

Mumbling and grumbling like an empty stomach, Odell left the detectives' car.

The dice game was rowdy—good rowdy. The gamblers were talking cash money shit as they took their chances with the dice.

Mumps was sitting on a overturned milk crate in the ring of gamblers. He had a handful of money and even more cash on the ground bet against the current shooter. Big Ant stood to Mumps's left. His hand held a sheaf of bills in large denominations and he was craftily placing side bets.

On the fringes of the game, Solemn Shawn stood watching the game and eating an order of freshly fried chicken wings drenched in hot sauce. He was obviously enjoying the fat-mouthing of the gamblers, Mumps in particular.

Mumps was animated. “You motherfuckers going home broke tonight! I told y'all I do this shit for my bread and meat! If I don't break motherfuckers then I don't eat! Don't get scared now! If you scared, go to church or the police station! You niggas is gone realize before I'm done that I'm bad for your economy like George Bush and his son!”

One of the gamblers, a prematurely balding twentysomething by the name of Snake, was shooting the dice. He hadn't had anything but bad luck on the dice the entire afternoon.

“Mumps, you be talking big shit,” Snake stated as he shook the dice extra hard. “I'm tired of hearing yo damn mouth.”

Mumps smiled. “Snake, what's the problem, A. This is America. I got the right to talk as much as I want to. The constitution says that it's my inalienable right to talk shit and trim pigeons like you.”

Snake shook the dice furiously. “You talking that shit now, but when I pass, A, let's see if you still talking shit.” He spun the dice
out of his hand and snapped his fingers. “Dough, dice!” he yelled at the white-and-black blurs as they hit the concrete.

The dice whirled and twirled across the pavement. One stopped on four, the other kept spinning until it hit a small pebble, then skipped and landed on the number three—seven out; Snake lost.

“Oh yeah!” Mumps exalted, as he began to scoop up a large pile of money. “Like Kool-Aid, baby! You niggas is sweet!”

Snake was livid. He hopped to his feet. “Hold the fuck up, A! The dice hit that motherfucking rock right there!”

Mumps looked up at him like Snake had lost his mind. “What you gone do, shoot ‘em and catch ‘em too? I catch what I don't like, A. And I liked that so I didn't catch it.”

“That's some bullshit!” Snake shouted as he kicked the dice. “Fuck that!”

“You better calm yo ass down, A,” Big Ant rumbled. “Nigga, you know that everything in the circle is good.”

Big Ant's voice was all that was needed to bring Snake back down to earth. He left the game and jumped into his sparkling-clean, maroon Chevy Tahoe. All the men could hear was the muffled roar of the throaty exhaust pipes as Snake gunned out of the car wash lot.