Slipping Read online

  In his wake Carlos hopped in his Seville and whipped out his cellular. “Dre, this is 'Los. Don was just up here at the game room. Yeah, he look crazy than a motherfucka. Smoked out and shit. Hell, yeah. He ain't on no bullshit, though. Yeah, he heard about Rhonda. He ready to hurt something. He ain't say where he was going, but he driving a little gold Toyota. Alright, Imma call you back later.”

  21

  DETECTIVES WINTERS AND CARSON SAT IN THEIR UNmarked police vehicle sipping coffee from a Thermos. They were parked half a block away from the Haskill residence and trying to be as inconspicious as possible. So far the night had proved uneventful. Bad vibes after the grisly murder of Rhonda Haskill had the block's residents barricading themselves in their homes before the streetlights flickered on.

  Around ten p.m., a dark blue Buick Century with tinted windows drove down the block. It pulled into a parking space across the street from the Haskill house. Ten minutes passed and the passengers still remained in the car.

  Winters sat forward and squinted at the Buick. “Winters, that Century. Nobody got out. I can't make out how many passengers through that fucking tint.”

  Using field binoculars, Carson took a look at the mid-sized sedan. He gave the Buick, and the street, a good look. He placed the binoculars back on the seat and reached for his cup of coffee.

  “Looks normal, Winters. I can't see any movement. Probably just some horny kids out for a quickie in mom's car.”

  Winters kept her eyes on the Buick as she reached for the radio. “I don't know, Carson. It may be nothing, but I think I'll have a blue and white roll through. If that doesn't clear them up, then we need to do an ‘approach and interview.’ ”

  Carson put his hand over Winters’ hand on the radio. He let it remain there for a few seconds longer than he should have.

  “Don't do that, Winters. I'm telling you, it's nothing. Just a couple of kids. It would be just our luck that Donald shows and sees a squad car. That'll scare him off for certain. Don-Don is coming. I know he's heard about his sister's death by now. We can't blow a stakeout in a major homicide case because a couple of kids were smoking dope or playing touchy-feely. We're already getting dragged over a cheese grater because we haven't produced this kid. C'mon now, Winters, stay focused.”

  Winters released the radio and sat back. Maybe he's right, she thought. I'm probably just antsy from sitting so long.

  In the blue Buick Century, Juanita's brothers waited to ambush Don-Don. Tyrone sat at the steering wheel and Michael filled the passenger seat; Johnny and Leroy occupied the backseat. They had returned every night since they'd murdered Rhonda. In between snorts of raw cocaine and puffs of wicked stick, they watched the house and the street.

  “Stop hogging all the motherfucking coke, Lee!” Johnny said. “Ty, tell that nigga to stop trying to toot the whole motherfucking shit!”

  Leroy looked up with white powder on the tip of his broad, brown nose. “Nigga, quit crying to Ty. Ty ain't my damn daddy. You always trying to coordinate the high and shit. Shit, I put up just as much as you on this shit. Ty, tell this nigga to shut the fuck up.”

  With the embalming-fluid-dipped joint hanging out of the corner of his mouth, Tyrone said, “Both of you niggas need to shut the fuck up. Why don't you niggas stop acting like some bitches over that coke shit. That's why I don't even like snorting that white girl. Motherfuckas be ready to kill each other over some funky-ass powder. Shit taste like aspirin anyway. Lee, pass the motherfucking shit, before I have to whup one of y'all ass.”

  Leroy took one more quick toot and then handed the sandwich bag to his brother. Like his brother, Michael preferred to smoke wicked sticks instead of snorting cocaine. He liked the crazy courage the formaldehyde gave him.

  Half an hour after the brothers had parked their car, a gold Cressida zoomed up and whipped into the parking space in front of the Haskill house. Without turning the car off the driver peered around for a few seconds and got out of the car.

  “It's him, that got to be him,” Johnny hissed excitedly. “I told y'all the nigga would come!”

  Leroy reached down to the shoe box at his feet and pulled out four pistols. He gave one to each of his brothers, keeping one for himself. Leroy and Johnny were prepared to exit the vehicle blasting, but Tyrone stopped them.

  Tyrone craned his neck to peer through the passenger window. “Hold fast, y'all. What the fuck is this nigga doing? Can you see, Johnny?”

  Johnny didn't have to answer.

  After parking the Cressida, Don looked up and down the block. The set seemed clear so he got out of the car, sat on the hood, and whipped out his pipe. He dropped a few small rocks into the pipe and used his lighter to get rid of them.

  Down the street the detectives watched in disbelief as Don smoked the crack. All the time they had been after him they thought he was a heavyweight drug dealer, not a crackhead.

  “Look at this jerk, Winters. This son-of-a-bitch has got balls. He's smoking dope right in front of his mother's house.” Carson's face was red as he handed his partner the field glasses. “Are you ready to get this asshole?”

  Don was tapping his quickly cooling pipe on his leg to remove any loose residue. The gold Cressida gleamed in the night as Don left the hood and headed for the steps of his house. When Don's back was to the street the four doors of the Buick Century opened and Juanita's brothers oozed out of the car.

  Detective Carson had removed his .38 from the holster and was prepared to exit the vehicle when Winters placed her hand on his arm.

  “Hold on, Carson,” Winters said, the binoculars to her eyes. “There's some extra players on the field and they don't look like they play fair. Take a look.”

  Carson accepted the binoculars. “Who the hell are these punks? Looks like they're after our guy, too. Goddammit, these street punks could take over a small country with all that hardware! Winters, call for backup. No sirens, no lights. Undercovers already on the scene. Hold on, they're saying something to Donald.” Carson stealthily crept from the car.

  “Don-Don, what's up, baby boy!” Tyrone shouted.

  Don turned to see who was hailing him. Instinctively his hand went to his pistol butt in his waistband. He could just make out four shadows across the street.

  “Who dat?” Don asked, shading his eyes from the porch light. “Come out so I can see you.”

  One of the figures stepped off of the opposite curb and walked to the middle of the street. Don looked the man up and down; he didn't recognize him.

  “I don't know you, homie. You got the wrong man.” Don turned to continue about his business when he sensed rather than saw the man in the street up a pistol.

  “But you know my little sister, Juanita!” Tyrone yelled, a split second before he began blasting.

  Don had begun to move as soon as he felt the man pull the pistol. He dived behind the concrete railing of the front porch with his .357 barking. As he lay behind the railing he could hear the sound of different guns firing as the other men joined the gun battle. Slugs from his attackers dug into the wall behind him and shattered windowpanes, showering Don with brick chips and shards of glass.

  When they finally gave him a breather, Don shouted, “A, homie, I didn't even touch yo sister! She got hit by a damn truck trying to run across the street!”

  Don couldn't tell if he got his point across because he heard a voice yell, “Freeze!” There weren't any bullets flying so he peeked from behind his hiding spot. There was a white man in the middle of the street, obviously a detective, pointing a gun at the four men who had just tried to kill him.

  “Drop the fucking guns and get facedown!” Detective Carson ordered.

  The four men were on the verge of complying when a car careened around the corner, practically on two wheels, distracting the detective. The Park Avenue rocketed up the block and screeched to a stop behind the stolen Cressida.

  Tyrone saw the detective was off balance. Instead of laying his gun on the ground, Tyrone shot from the hip. The fir
st shot missed completely, but the second smashed into Carson's jaw. A volley from Johnny's gun hit Carson in his chest, breaking two of his ribs. Dre leaped from the Park Avenue with a pistol in each hand and began spitting leaden balls of death at Juanita's brothers. His entry came as such a surprise, he had shot Michael and grazed Johnny before they recovered and ducked for cover, firing all the while.

  Dre's interference gave Don the diversion he needed to make his getaway. Not that he wanted to run from the gun-fight—he just didn't want to be around when the police made the scene and found one of their comrades shot. Don knew from the way the detective fell he had to be dead or hurt real bad. He knew they would find some way to blame it on him just like everything else. With self-preservation foremost in his mind, Don crawled off the porch, across the lawn, and through the passenger door of the quietly purring Cressida. As he was sliding over into the driver's seat he peeked to see what was going on.

  Winters knelt on one knee, swept her hair out of her eyes, and shot Dre in the back. Dre pitched forward onto his face in the middle of the street. Shots rang out from behind the cars on the opposite side of the street and Winters had to scamper for cover. She returned the bushfire, but Juanita's brothers kept her pinned down.

  Then the cavalry began to arrive. The first police vehicle swerved onto the block as Don was putting the Cressida into gear. Don saw the police car in his rearview mirror and mashed on the gas.

  The police car gave chase to the gold car.

  Don whipped around the corner and sped up the next block going the wrong way. In the rearview mirror he saw that two more police cars had joined the chase. Now their lights were flashing and their sirens were blaring. As he sped up one street and down another, the Toyota he was driving held its own, but he knew it couldn't outrun their Motorola walkie-talkies. Surrendering was the furthest thing from his mind, but he knew a long car chase wouldn't be beneficial either—he was already on the lookout for a place to bail.

  Trying to get enough distance between him and the police cars so he could jump out, Don deftly maneuvered the sedan like a stunt driver down sidewalks, through vacant lots, on side streets, mostly in the wrong direction. It took all of his skill to avoid wiping out on several occasions. Throwing caution to the wind he flew east on 63rd Street and busted a tight donut in the busy intersection. He swerved to avoid hitting a lady crossing the street with her child, and shot off in the opposite direction.

  Don's sudden 360-degree turn started a chain-reaction accident. The blue and white police car directly behind him tried to make the U-turn on the dime, but the heavier Chevy skidded and slid into the oncoming traffic. The second police car crashed into an iron El train support beam. The third car rear-ended the second car and pushed it into a storefront on the corner. Not even taking time to watch the police cars crash and burn, Don sped west on 63rd Street, making a sharp right. He pulled into the alley and bailed from the car. Quick as a jackrabbit he scampered through a gangway and across the street. Police sirens wailed as he made his way into another gangway. He fled through a vacant lot.

  This is my turf, he thought. There's no way I'm gonna let some slow, donut-munching motherfucka catch me in my own jungle.

  He ran across King Drive and into another vacant lot. He ran through a gangway. At the end of the gangway a large, vacant building loomed in the darkness like an ancient temple. Don slipped through the fence surrounding the building, ignoring a Keep Out Demolition in Progress sign. He went past a large, waste-hauling container to the building's boarded entryway. With a mighty heave, he ripped the board off the yawning entrance.

  Dank, musty air slapped him in the face. Don stepped out of the night and into the hallway. He pulled the board back across the mouth of the doorway. Using his cigarette lighter to illuminate the way, Don ran up the creaking, protesting staircase to the third floor. Randomly he picked an apartment and kicked the door open. He went from room to room of the large apartment until he found one with the least amount of garbage strewn on the floor.

  The adrenaline rush from his close brush with death and the law had subsided. Exhausted from his adventures, Don slumped on the wall and slid to a sitting position on the floor. Now that he was alone he took a hit of crack and tried to sort out the night's events.

  Things were happening fast. Since the news of his sister's death, he had been evicted from his motel room, carjacked someone, been shot at by Juanita's brothers, watched his best friend be gunned down, and been the prey in a high-speed car chase. Now he was holed up in an abandoned building. That was what you called sliding down a razor blade into an alcohol river, he thought.

  Things were so fucked up that he seriously considered eating a bullet. It sounded like an easy way out, but Don knew deep down inside that was a punk's way out. A real nigga could go through twice the shit he was going through and never once consider snuffing his own candle. Suicide wasn't the answer. If he was right, he had just found his sis-ter's killers, or they had found him. For now they would have to wait. He would just have to chill for a few days and then try to make it out of town and come back at a later date to try and avenge his sister's death.

  22

  DON KNEW IT WAS TIME TO MOVE ON AFTER HIS THIRD night of hiding. He was so hungry it felt as if his stomach was touching his spine. Disheveled, musty, and thirsty, he felt like death warmed over.

  At first he planned to stop at his house only long enough to see his mother one last time and let her know he was leaving town. Now he had altered that plan to include a hot shower, change of clothes, and a meal. He didn't really need any money, but maybe he could hit his mother up for a few bucks.

  Don walked to the window and looked out for the umpteenth time. The streets were quiet. As he gathered his meager belongings, something reminded him that he would have to miss his sister's funeral. Rhonda … He was absolutely sure that anyone and everyone looking for him would be there. One last time he needed to see her. Rhonda …

  Over the three nights of solitude he had managed to piece together the puzzle his life had become. Juanita's brothers had to be the ones who raped and killed Rhonda; a senseless murder in retaliation for their sister's death. It made him angry every time he thought about it. Juanita. Thieving, crackhead bitch. Her life was nothing to exchange for Rhonda's. If he thought for a moment that anyone would have gone after his sister, he would have killed them first. He knew he couldn't get Juanita's brothers now. Any of them who had survived the shoot-out were more than likely in police custody or on the run.

  With tears in his eyes, Don took a blast before leaving the security of his stronghold. As the crack burned in the pipe bowl, he watched the smoke swirl through the glass bowl to his lips. Smoking crack made him think. A lifetime ago he would have been smoking blunts, hooping, and sharing a cold beer with his buddies. How he transformed from an easygoing youth into a killer crackhead was beyond him.

  Don was tempted to smash his pipe against the tenement wall. He wanted to dump the rest of his crack out the window, but the hype inside him wouldn't allow it. The reality of what he had become was too much to deal with. The tears were coming hard and fast now. Rhonda and Dre … Juanita and Rena …

  Almost blinded by the salty fluid, Don crashed out of the apartment and half-ran, half-jumped down the three flights of stairs. He kicked the board and ran out of the building. Across the street, he hopped a gate and ran through the yard.

  A snarling Rottweiler loomed from the darkness, barking and growling. Reflex brought Don's pistol to his hand. He pumped a nickel-sized slug into the dog's broad chest as it leapt at him. Mercilessly, Don shot the retreating canine in its haunches and then climbed out of the yard. Driven by grim determination, Don ran and ran until he collapsed on the back stairs of his own house. As his ragged breathing slowed, he whipped out his pipe, packed the bowl, and revitalized his ebbing strength with a mega-blast.

  When his head stopped swimming enough for him to stand without collapsing, Don staggered up the stairs and rang the doorbell.
There was no answer to his incessant ringing so he stuck his hand through the broken windowpane and turned the dead bolt lock. The door opened.

  His mother was sitting at the kitchen table with her eyes closed. Obviously the half-empty liter of Seagram's in front of her had been keeping her company. Don had never known his mother to take a drink, but it looked like she'd had half a liter of gin. Her hair was unkempt and a foul odor, even worse than his own smell, wafted up from her. Her white shirt was covered with dried blood and filth. She was so intoxicated he didn't even think she was aware of his presence until she spoke.

  “Come on in, Donald,” Hazel Haskill slurred. “I been waiting on you.”

  Don took a step closer. He was scared of his mother for the first time in his life. He didn't like the sound of her voice. Nevertheless, Don made his way around the table and kissed her on her unwashed cheek. Up close, the smell of alcohol and blood threatened to overpower him. Don took a seat across from her and tried to feel her out.

  “Hey, Momma. How you doing? Taking a little time off from work, huh? It's about time. You need the rest.”

  Hazel Haskill never answered her son's patronizing questions. Soon a stony silence blanketed the room.

  Don went over to the fridge. Before he opened it he read a piece of paper in some stranger's handwriting that gave the date and time for his sister's funeral. The funeral was tomorrow, but the body could be viewed tonight. Making a mental note of that, Don opened the refrigerator. There were some cold cuts so he made himself a huge sandwich. A cold Pepsi and plain potato chips made his sandwich into a meal. His mother never said a word as he sat at the table to devour his meal.

  While eating, he looked up once or twice because he could feel his mother's eyes boring holes in his skull. As he polished off the food, she never opened her mouth except to pour more gin down her throat. When he was through eating, Don sat back in his chair and fired up a cigarette. His mother didn't even say anything about him riding back in her chair. Don finished his cigarette and dropped the butt into the Pepsi can. He was tired of sitting there feeling stupid so he got up.