Tick, Tick, Boom! Page 16
“Yeah, you see I got those groceries in the back seat. Let me bounce; a bitch gotta get back to the new crib and tend to my new man,” Jordan bragged as she exaggerated her new status in Storm’s life.
Making one last tour of the hood showing off, Jordan was unaware Marco, brazenly out on the prowl, had spotted her. Caught up in her own self-indulgent world, she turned up the music heading back to the suburban condo as Marco, cracking his knuckles, then rubbing the still painful scratches on his face trailed five cars behind.
* * *
MARCO
“Oh, this ho think she fancy, huh?” Marco shrugged his shoulders, spotting Jordan driving one of Storm’s cars through the neighborhood. “Good. She out acting like a nigga can’t reach out and touch that hot ass. As soon as she slips, she good as dead!”
Marco, not worried about getting recaptured, followed her every move. Realizing the direction Jordan was now heading, he knew her time flossing must have been just about up. Easing his hand over to the passenger seat, he picked up his gun. “When this ho slow down, I’ma light that motherfucker up!” Several cars turned off, leaving only one vehicle in between him and Jordan. Seconds before he was gonna make his move, Jordan turned into a 7-Eleven. Damn, ain’t this some shit! Marco thought as he frowned, staring dead at two police cruisers.
Luckily for Jordan, both cops were preoccupied trying to sort out what seemed like a small group of teens who’d been caught shoplifting; otherwise, Marco would’ve had one more body added to his ever-growing list and Jordan would’ve been laid out in the funeral home right next to O.T. In the midst of the 7-Eleven chaotic confusion, Jordan pranced out with a huge cherry Big Gulp Slurpee in her hands not paying attention to the cops, the teens, or the store manager who was going ham. Backing out of the small parking lot hitting the road again, Jordan didn’t even notice the minivan Marco was driving pull off from the side of the road. As four cars separated them, Marco grew inpatient watching Jordan finally turn off on Storm’s block.
* * *
JORDAN
Slowly trailing behind a silver older-model Ford, Jordan, extra careful not wanting to spill any, placed her Slurpee in the cup holder. Laying on her car horn, she tried repeatedly to go around the extremely slow driver, but she was having no luck. Turning the tree-lined corner, Jordan was relieved she was almost back to the condo. Why in the fuck do they still let these old people have licenses? she wondered when the slow-moving Ford pulled into the driveway directly next to Storm’s and an elderly white woman got out.
“Didn’t you hear me blowing my horn?” Jordan disrespectfully yelled across the small patch of grass. “I was even flashing my lights! That means get over!”
“Excuse me, dear, but what’s the big rush?” Mrs. Farrow questioned barely making it on her cane. After a long morning of running errands, including also going to the market and pharmacy to pick up her heart medicine, she was quick to pass judgment on Jordan and all younger people in general. “You young generation are always moving so fast.”
Jordan started taking the bags of groceries out of the rear seat of Storm’s expensive sports car mumbling insults at the older woman under her breath the entire time. “Just shut up already, okay? Damn!” were Jordan’s final words to Mrs. Farrow who struggled to get even the first of her five bags of groceries out of her trunk while holding on to her handbag and cane.
No sooner than Storm unlocked the front door for Jordan, she disappeared behind the walls of the condo out of the eyesight of both Mrs. Farrow as well as an infuriated Marco, who was hell-bent on killing the bitch.
* * *
MARCO
Parking the stolen minivan at the very end of the block, Marco had all intentions of rushing up on Jordan and gunning her down in broad daylight. At this point, in between her smart-ass mouth and attitude thinking she was bigger than the game, he didn’t give a shit who saw him. As long as Jordan was dead, also Storm, he’d be content living the rest of his days locked behind bars if he was caught.
Not making it down the block in enough time to catch Jordan before she went in the house, Marco’s sudden presence startled old Mrs. Farrow.
“Oh, young man, where did you come from?” she asked with a bag containing bread and eggs dangling from her shaky arm. “I don’t think I know you.”
“Umm, naw, you don’t.” Marco pulled his shirt down making sure he hid the handle of his pistol. “But I saw you needed help with these bags,” he quickly responded taking the rest of her bags out of her car’s trunk.
Mrs. Farrow was happy to see at least one of the younger folk would help the elderly out. “Well, thank you. You must be friends of Mr. Christian and that other nice girl, Kenya. Where has she been anyway?” she pryingly quizzed going toward her front door then unlocking it. “Do you know anything about that brother of his funeral? Are you a relative?” she assumed because Marco was black. “You know it was in my driveway, don’t you? This section of town used to be so quiet. You people are . . .”
Nonchalantly muttering her racist backhanded comments about her neighbors, Marco got his next big idea formulating in his mind. This old white KKK bitch think I’m cool with Storm’s punk ass just because I’m a nigger. Stankin’ Bengay-smelling ass! Without a second thought, Marco shoved the elderly woman through her doorway and onto the floor of her living room. Her pale white skin turned instantly beet red as she grabbed her chest. Marco calmly shut the door of Mrs. Farrow’s condo behind him and idly stood by as she suffered a major heart attack from being frightened. Oh, hell naw, I done scared this lady to death.
Chapter Eighteen
BROTHER RASUL/KENYA
Having driven what seemed like nonstop, Brother Rasul, Kenya, and the baby finally arrived in Dallas. Still apprehensive about what was gonna happen when she and Storm came face to face, Kenya agreed with Brother Rasul when he suggested getting a room so they could all three get cleaned up. With mixed emotions, especially considering the various messages Storm had left for her and her sister, Kenya’s heart raced. Kenya found out from one message in particular that her best friend Paris, who she’d even killed Chocolate Bunny for, was out of her trance and asking for friends and family members. Kenya wished she could call her or go out to the facility so they could figure out what she should do next about Storm and her sister’s death, but that was out of the question.
Making sure London would receive a proper burial and Storm could see his son were the only things on her and Brother Rasul’s short list to accomplish while they were in town. After that, it was back home to Detroit. That was unless she and Storm could work things out. However, that option was not included in Brother Rasul’s overall game plan, but Kenya was strangely still open for whatever, despite all the bullshit that’d jumped off, especially now that London was out of the way.
* * *
Two hours later, Brother Rasul turned into the funeral home where he’d found out from his people that O.T.’s body was lying in rest. Going around to the passenger seat, like a gentleman, he opened the door for Kenya before taking the infant car seat out the rear. Entering the often tearful establishment, Brother Rasul kept Li’l Stone with him as Kenya slowly approached the small chapel viewing room off to the side. In tears, she stood beside the brass, polished casket looking down at the man who was her brother-in-law for the past year.
Reaching for some tissue, Kenya wiped her eyes, sad his life had ended so soon. She knew Tangy, and he had a violent history with one another, but not to the point of murder. Reliving the good times in her mind, she also grieved for London. She was lost in her thoughts, and soon another female joined her in the chapel. Not saying a word to her, Kenya quietly signed her name to the guest book, leaving the girl, who was probably one of O.T.’s many “special friends,” to mourn in privacy.
“Are you good?” Brother Rasul asked coming out of the funeral director’s office. “Is everything okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” Kenya wiped her eyes once more. “I just hate seeing O.T. like
that.”
The funeral director responded to Kenya like he did to everyone grieving. “It’s always a sad time when we lose a loved one. But just know we are here for you in your time of need.” Shaking Brother Rasul’s hand reassuring him he would definitely be able to handle the business they’d just discussed, he was overjoyed when his next appointment, an older well-dressed woman, came inside the lobby, meaning even more revenue for his pockets.
Heading out the door, Brother Rasul went out first with the baby, while Kenya got a free calendar off the table. Wiping her eyes once more, she bumped into the lady. “I’m so sorry.” Kenya held the calendar close to her breast looking the woman in her eyes. “I wasn’t paying attention. I’m sorry.”
The older woman, obviously upset in her own right, didn’t say a word. She just stared, glassy-eyed at Kenya as she walked to the truck.
When Kenya got inside the truck, Brother Rasul informed her that the shady-dealing mortician would be able to ship London’s body back to Detroit. Also, he would be able to get them a fraudulent death certificate. Giving the man a couple of thousand for his trouble on top of the general undertaker fee easily made one of their huge problems go away. Now the only thing was to go by Storm’s and transport the body back to the funeral home themselves. Of course, while they were there Kenya and Storm could make peace and figure out what to do next about his son, her nephew.
* * *
STORM
After a solid week of suffering through one of the worst times of his life, Storm awoke with a hangover big enough for three men to split. Squinting his eyes, he snatched at the sheet and was speechless when Jordan pulled back.
“What in the fuck?” Storm jumped up. Forgetting about his pounding headache and the urge to throw up the dinner Jordan half-ass cooked for him the night prior, he yelled. “Yo, Jordan, yo, wake up. What you think you doing?”
Truthfully Jordan had been wide awake at least a good hour or so. After years of wanting to open her eyes to see Storm sleeping next to her, she wanted to make the time stretch out and last forever. “Hmm, what’s going on, babe?” she cooed trying to sound sexy.
Storm, completely naked, had no shame as he stood there, dick hard as a rock saluting. “Jordan, why you up here? Didn’t I tell you that you could crash on the couch downstairs or the guestroom if you wanted to stay?”
Getting on her knees, Jordan seductively crawled across the king-sized bed. Face to face with Storm’s manhood, she stared up into his eyes. “Why you tripping? You told me to come sleep with you. You told me you wanted this pussy.” She reached back touching herself. “I only did what you asked me to do. Remember, right after Ponytail dropped off that money and that bottle of Rémy?”
Storm was confused about what he’d said, let alone done the night before. Despite what he and Kenya were going through, banging Jordan was the last thing he wanted to do. Sure, she’d been helpful as a motherfucker, but as soon as the ticket money was paid, he was gonna look out. Feeling the heat of Jordan’s hot morning breath on his dick’s head, Storm was moments from giving into temptation when his cell phone rang. “Yeah, hello?” He backed away from the bedside going into the bathroom.
“Yes, Mr. Christian. This is the funeral director. I just wanted you to know we worked extra hard and long all night.” He smooth-talked him, hoping for another tip from his assumed drug dealer client.
“And?”
“And your brother’s body is ready for viewing. Matter of fact, since we’ve been open, there’s already been a few mourners here.”
“Oh, yeah.” Storm used his shoulder to hold the cell to his ear as he pissed. “Who were they this damn early?”
The funeral director looked at the clock on his wall. Although it was regular business hours for most, he forgot that folks in the drug game often set their own hours. “They signed the family book we complimentary provided. We’ll speak later when you get here about any other things you might need. Now you must excuse me, a grieving widow needs my attention.”
Before putting on some clothes, Storm looked at his phone’s screen noticing that the number 1 had been sent via text almost an hour ago with a location and a time for the payment drop off. Damn, I must’ve been knocked the hell out for real. I usually hear this motherfucker. Glad Jordan was out of his bed when he came from the bathroom, Storm decided after the funeral service was over the next day, he’d tell her she had to leave. There was no real point in making Jordan think that she could ever be his wifey. Even if he never heard from Kenya again in life, Storm knew Jordan was nothing but a trick and a whore, definitely not wifey material.
Going downstairs, Storm was met by Ponytail, worn out and exhausted coming through the front door, and Jordan in the kitchen calling herself trying to cook brunch.
“Hey, dude, what it do?”
“Hey, Storm, what’s up, guy?” He reached in both his pockets pulling out knots. “This is from the last four hours from the three spots that’s still pumping.”
“Whoa, good looking, Ponytail. I appreciate it. Today is that day. Plus that greedy old dude at the funeral home said they got my brother all proper looking, you feel me?”
“That’s what’s up.” Ponytail wanted to feed Reckless before going to his house to try to patch things up with his girl, but he wasn’t in the mood for Jordan to be in there tripping. “I’ma swing by there later to pay my respects. I need to kick it with my kids first, then get some rest.”
When Ponytail left, Storm went back upstairs deliberately ignoring Jordan and staying focusing on counting his money. After the week-long grind, Storm was still a little over $5,000 short. He’d collected debts from everyone, Ponytail stayed in the streets hustling, he’d slashed his regular weight prices, and he’d even pawned a few items Kenya hadn’t taken. But he was still a little light on the ticket. If it weren’t for her stealing his money or Marco robbing his spots or worst of all having to cash out for O.T.’s funeral service, Storm would’ve had it all.
Five Gs short outta a $40,000 ticket ain’t all that bad. I’ll get it to them in a few days and they’ll be straight. Shit, a thirty-five G run in a week after all the bullshit I’ve been through? Where the fuck they do that at? Storm, telling Jordan he’d be back later in the evening, left to make the drop at the texted location, then get his hair cut before going to the funeral home.
Within eighteen minutes of leaving the house, the drop was made and he felt somewhat relieved. Trying to call Anika’s cell and inform her he was a little bit short and would make it up, Storm was sent to voicemail. Leaving a message for her to get back at him, he drove to the barber shop, which was a few blocks over from the funeral home. After a fresh cut and lineup, Storm solemnly sat in the parking lot of the funeral home trying to get the courage to go inside the building. The thought of seeing his brother cold, stiff, and lifeless was more than he could stand. Storm didn’t care who was walking by or who would be in there. Really, for the first time since he’d broken down at the hospital, Storm openly sobbed, struggling to come to terms that his brother and best friend was truly gone, never coming back.
* * *
JORDAN
“It don’t matter he was too drunk to fuck last night; he still gonna be my man and one day my baby daddy,” Jordan said out loud over the dog’s constant barking. “He can be in denial all he want to, but I know he want all of this.” She stirred a pot of ghetto chili she called herself making for their dinner.
Leaving it to simmer, as soon as Ponytail and finally Storm had both left the condo, she turned on the radio and went upstairs. Despite his reaction to waking up finding her in his bed, Jordan knew Storm would be a fool not to be with her. Straightening up the mess that Kenya obviously had made days ago before leaving, Jordan unpacked her bag, hanging up her clothes in Kenya’s closet. In between each item she hung up, Marco kept calling her cell talking cash shit, like he’d been doing all the evening before and half the night.
At one point during her and Storm getting buzzed, he joked
all those harassing calls must be Big Doc B trying to get at her. Stunned he knew about her and Doc’s arrangement, Jordan wanted to reveal the scandalous shit she knew about Doc and Kenya and see how funny Storm thought that conversation was.
Ready to just take a steaming hot shower and relax in her new surroundings, Jordan answered Marco’s call one last time before vowing to get her number changed by Sprint.
“What!”
“Bitch, I’ma get your ass real, real soon. Trust. Be patient. I’ma kill you first then Storm!”
“Stop calling me, loser. You need to be getting the fuck out of town before they catch your dumb ass and lock you up in a cage like the animal you are.”
“You think because you up in that faggot’s crib you some sort of boss!” Marco hissed searching through old Mrs. Farrow’s belongings. “Well, I saw his punk ass leave and when you go visit your sister—”
“My sister,” she taunted. “Boy, bye, fuck her and you. I’m over that! And so what Storm left? He’ll be back crying about his dead brother and all up in this pussy! You can kick rocks and do what you gotta do! I’m out!” Stripping down Jordan stepped into the shower. I ain’t bullshitting. I gotta call Sprint!
Chapter Nineteen
BROTHER RASUL/ KENYA
A nervous wreck, Kenya’s palms sweated and her hands shook as she instructed Brother Rasul to turn the corner of the block she and Storm had been living on for the past year. When he reached the driveway she pointed out, he pulled in.
“Okay, this is it. I don’t know whose car that is,” Kenya motioned to the candy apple red Toyota belonging to Jordan sitting in front of the condo. “Maybe it’s one of nosey Mrs. Farrow’s kids who hardly come to visit her.”
Brother Rasul looked up toward each end of the street trying to figure out how he could get London’s body loaded into the rear of his truck without the neighbors suspecting anything. “Hey, Kenya, I was wondering—”