No Home Training (8 page)

“You should've seen that bitch-ass nigga run up out the bathroom when he thought his brother's woman was in danger.” Marco lay back talking smack on the couch of his boy's apartment. “But keeping it boogie, I could've stomped a patch of meat out that female's scalp just like I did that project slut who snitched me out to O.T.”

“Then why didn't you?” Coonee coughed passing the blunt back to his manz. “That bitch had it coming, just like her people. Shit, on the for real, my nigga, that's why we sitting in this motherfucker now on craps eating bologna and cheese sandwiches!”

Marco inhaled deeply. “You know that wannabe bossy chick is pregnant.”

“So what! Is it your kid?”

“Hell naw!”

“Then fuck that bitch, right!”

“Yeah, you right, Coonee, but if you could've seen her face when I ran up on her,” Marco joked passing the blunt back. “I damn near scared the ho into labor! Kenya was shook and acted like she didn't know who in the hell I even was!”

“Yeah, well, Marco, as hot as the police is on ya trail, that might've been ya last chance to get at her.”

“Naw, dude, believe me when I tell you. It ain't never too late. I'm on top of they every move!”

Malloy and Kendrick had been conducting several investigations that were all somehow or other linked into Deacon McKay's and Nicole Daniels's disappearances. Sitting behind their desks the officers sighed annoyed that they were now getting chewed out by an old lady for not doing their jobs properly.

“I've been coming down here to this police station month after month and you two young men haven't told me not one single thing about my missing grandson.” Mrs. McKay's wrinkled fingers clutched her Bible. “I don't understand what this world is coming to. Nobody knows anything! That club he used to be at is burned up and now I can't even find that no-good supposed to be best friend of his Tony or that crazy-talking brother E.T., Q.T., O.T., ABC, or whatever his name is.”

“Well, Mrs. McKay, we've been doing our best to follow any leads that come in.” Kendrick tried comforting the older woman. “But it seems none of them pan out to be creditable.”

Once again Mrs. McKay left the station with no answers to her agonizing plight for closure.

“We've gotta put an end to all this madness in this town once and for all,” Malloy interjected picking up the phone. “I'm gonna put a tail on Tony Christian and his little brother and see where that takes us.”

“Yeah.” Kendrick was in agreement. “And I'm gonna turn up the heat in our search for Marco Meriwether. Maybe that female from the projects he allegedly put in a coma has woken up.”

Storm put his key in the door and stepped inside the condo to find his brother in the kitchen dancing to the sounds of the stereo as he made himself at home cooking. Knowing that O.T. hadn't heard him come in, he crept up behind him. “What up, buster?” He smiled. “What it do, playa?”

O.T. spun around pulling his gun out his waistband thrown off his square. “Damn, nigga! You almost made me put some of this fire to ya ass!” He let his guard back down. “You better announce yourself next time!”

“The day I gotta announce myself in my own fucking house is the day you'll see me in a dress and nine-inch heels!” Storm was amused heading to the refrigerator to get a glass of juice. “And what the fuck is you in here burning anyhow? It smells like old mop water!”

O.T. turned his attention back to the stove adding some seasoning salt to the pot he had simmering. “I was making some soup for me and London. She's upstairs lying down in her old room.”

“Dig that.” Storm scratched his beard then downed the rest of his juice as he fished for information not trying to seem jealous and territorial as O.T. had recently accused him of being. “Did you put your stuff in the basement?”

“Naw, nigga! It's up in London's room.” O.T. chuckled. “Why?”

“What?” Storm coughed almost choking.

“I'm just bullshittin', dawg! Don't kill me!” O.T. threw up his hands enjoying the expression on his brother's face.

“Fuck you, nigga!”

O.T. stirred the pot of soup then dipped a small amount of it out to taste. “Dang, I almost forgot. Where is Queen Kenya?” He blew onto the spoon.

“I left her still sitting out in the car mad as five runaway slaves who just got caught one block away from freedom.”

“Whoa.” O.T. swallowed the hot soup. “How long she gonna play the victim role? No bullshittin', I know she should be pissed the fuck off, but damn! It ain't like her sister want you! London don't even say your name!”

Even though that wasn't his girl, Storm still had a hard time dealing with the realism of the fact the mother of his child couldn't care less if he lived or died. He realized over the past few months before he knew she was pregnant he'd treated her poorly, but he hoped for the baby's sake she had forgiven him. Now, to let his little brother tell it, she didn't even want the child to know he was the biological father. At this point he felt like nothing more than a sperm donor at best. He always wanted to be a father; now not only was his girl bugging behind the bizarre circumstances, so was her twin.

“I don't know why Kenya is still tripping.” Storm moved the blinds just in time to hear the engine start and his girl back the car out the driveway.

“Dang, where she going to now?” O.T. questioned on his way up the stairs with a bowl of soup for London.

“We gotta do something to bring these two back together.”

“Real talk, especially since we gonna be housing with each other, but shit Kenya so crazy right about now I don't know what it could be.”

“Whatever the fuck it is, we better come up with it quick!” O.T. shrugged his shoulders.

Noticing the one bar he had left, Storm sat in his favorite chair by the lamp plugging his cell phone into the electric outlet so it could get fully charged. Picking up the house phone reluctant for another argument, he forced himself to call Kenya. By the time he'd dialed the last digit of her number he'd kicked his shoes off and was making himself comfortable.

“Yes,” Kenya answered with a dry tone.

“Where is you going?”

“Why you care?” She didn't raise her voice. “Don't you have your precious London and y'all son all up in your house?”

“First off, Kenya, this is our house.”

“Nigga, please! I sure can't tell!” She turned the corner jumping down on the freeway. “'Cause if it was any part of my house, her fat ass wouldn't ever step foot inside it again! But since she is in there despite my wishes that just about says it all!”

“Yeah, all right, can you at least tell me when you plan on bringing my damn car back?”

“When the fuck I get ready, that's when!”

“Kenya, stop acting like you ain't got no sense and bring my shit back. I got business to take care of later! Plus it's not safe out in them streets!”

“Boy, bye! You ain't my damn daddy!” she dismissed him as she pressed down on the gas pedal, flipped her cell closed, tossing it onto the passenger seat, and turned the radio volume up.

Hearing one sad-ass love song after the next, a depressed Kenya came up on the exit for Paris apartment. Driving around to the rear entrance, Kenya parked Storm's car on the far side of the lot near the black iron gates that surrounded the swimming pool. Popping the trunk she got her bag out and carried it in. When she got to the door she fumbled through her purse looking for the keys.
Dang, I gotta clean this messy thang up.
Finding the red rabbit foot keychain Kenya unlocked the first of three deadbolts, when she thought she heard someone in the stairwell. “Hello, hello?” she paused. “Is anyone there?”

Not getting a response, Kenya assumed she was just hearing things and opened the remaining locks going inside the empty apartment. Things hadn't changed much since the last time she was there a few months ago. The same now mold-infested filthy dishes, messy living room, and unmade bed were staring her in the face. Grabbing a huge garbage bag from underneath the sink, Kenya gathered all the cups, saucers, bowls, pots, and pans, throwing them inside, tightly tying the bag. After filling two more, smaller bags, she dragged them all to the front door leaving them there to be thrown out in the Dumpster when she left.

Changing the sheets in the guest bedroom and thoroughly scrubbing and disinfecting the bathroom, Kenya opened her small suitcase making herself at home. Running a hot bubble bath, she stripped down and was about to put one foot in the tub when the buzzer rang.

That's probably Storm chasing behind me,
she figured as it rang twice more.
I don't even know why he here.
Kenya wrapped a towel around her nude body making her way down the hall and to the intercom. “Who is it?” No one answered her so she asked once more this time louder. “Yeah, who is it?”

Still standing in the living room she heard something hit one of the windows. Spinning around, she clutched her towel and suspiciously tip-toed in that direction. As she stood on the side of the wall she heard the noise again. Rattled with fear, she hesitantly peeped out the dark beige curtain seeing nothing but a car with a broken taillight and the muffler hanging roar out of the lot.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Startled by the sound of her cell phone Kenya dropped the towel to the carpet. Bending over picking it back up to cover herself, she ran to her purse flipping her Razor open before even seeing who the caller was. “Hello?”

“Where you at? I'm tired of playing all these games with you!”

“Storm, is that you?” Kenya's eyes quickly searched the room from the spot she was standing in as she got a bad migraine. “Was you just pushing the buzzer?”

“Naw, what is you talking about? What buzzer? Where in the fuck is you?”

“Somebody was ringing Paris's doorbell and throwing something at the window.” She started to calm down as she spoke. “Maybe they just had the wrong apartment.”

“Listen, Kenya,” he urged. “Make sure all the doors are locked and just sit tight. I'm about to get your car out the garage and be on my way over there.”

Kenya was paranoid and did exactly as she was told.

Storm, not wasting another moment, put his shoes back on, grabbed his pistol out a shoebox in the front closet, and yelled upstairs to his brother who was still preoccupied with catering to London. “Yo! I'll be back! I think ol' boy was out by your spot just now!” He sounded drastic as he rushed to retrieve Kenya's spare keys out the junk drawer in the kitchen.

“What! That punk Marco?” O.T. ran to the edge of the top stair just as Storm was on his way out. “Wait up, my dude, I'm going with you!”

“Naw, I'm good. Do ya thang!” Storm hissed seeing his brother shirtless revealing his over twenty tattoos. “I holler if I need you.”

I knew sooner or damn later one of them assholes would show up,
Marco vengefully thought as he placed a note on Storm's car that was parked in Paris's lot.

Hitting every side street he could to avoid contact with the police, Marco drove to a secluded part of a bank parking lot and waited for the perfect person to arrive. With no more than ten minutes passing, a car pulled up with what appeared to be several young children along with a middle-aged woman driver. Having committed this ruthless crime before, Marco was always wise enough to pick a bank that had no drive-through accessibility, only a walkup ATM machine, forcing the person to get out the security of their automobile.

Knowing there was a bounty on his head made him more valuable than a new pair of exclusive Jordans two weeks before the release date. Things were most definitely hard, as his homeboy Coonee pointed out time and time again to Marco every day he chose to crash at his spot. This night he wasn't in the mood to hear that speech and decided to bless his boy along with himself with some much-needed cash.

“I'll be right back, so just sit still,” the lady yelled out to her children as she approached the machine with purse in hand.

Marco reached in the rear seat of his raggedy car getting a royal blue hoodie, throwing it on. Checking first to see if the coast was clear, he made his move. Seeing the pudgy-shaped female was preoccupied searching for her card, he put on his hood tucking most of his dreads in and crept up behind her. “Bitch, check that shit in!”

“Oh my God! Please! Please!” she begged as tears instantly started to flow feeling a huge gun pressed in her rib cage. “Don't hurt us!”

“That all depends on you. Now shut the fuck up and put that card in there!” Marco demanded glancing back at the kids who were busy arguing with one another about a movie they'd just come back from.

“Okay, but please don't hurt me and my kids.”

“Didn't I say shut the fuck up? Don't keep playing with me!” He shoved the barrel hard proving that he wasn't messing around with her and meant business. “If ya keep running that fat-ass mouth of yours instead of getting my motherfucking dough, me and you gonna have a serious misunderstanding real quick and your kids gonna be missing they momma! Ya feel me?”

“Yes, yes.” She spoke under her breath as she pushed in her pin number, taking out $300 and handing it to Marco.

“That's it?” He snatched it out her trembling hands counting the amount. “Get me some more!”

“I can't!” The woman began to sob noticing her children were getting restless in the car. “It won't let me. That's my daily limit.”

“You broke bitch!” Marco stuck his gun back in the front pocket of his hoodie to conceal it when another car drove by. As he turned around to head back to his vehicle he saw the woman take a picture of him out the corner of his eye with her cell phone. “What did you just do?”

“Nothing,” she stuttered. “I didn't do anything!”

Marco, callously not giving a shit what the kids were about to witness, snatched the phone from their mother's hands and let two rounds go striking her in the stomach. Running back to his car he drove away quickly leaving her sprawled out in front of the bank with her kids gathered around crying. Coming to a dark street, Marco yanked the hoodie off throwing it out the window and headed over to Coonee's crib where tonight they would eat and smoke like kings.