The Product Line (Book 1): Product Page 10

  The NHP is suspicious after the disappearance of Gullah that he has turned on them, gone to the police or done some other “pussy shit,” but after there are no more arrests than usual and no one sniffing around the Chapel, they figure it is more likely that he was just killed by the other dealers they went to rip off with Treece.

  The rumors of Gullah flipping have died down over the last year, but even so the Organization is hurting. All the gangs are experiencing a lack of new talent. So much so that the NHP have recently worked a deal to absorb members from the Lobos. Since there is strength in numbers it makes sense. They are a crew in Morris Heights that will allow the NHP to start establishing a presence inside of the Bronx. The beat-ins are harsher on the ones changing colors, but that is to be expected.

  Gullah’s shoes are quite big to fill and even between the two of them Dit-Low and Endo are not equipped to run things properly. Where Gullah might have taken time to evaluate a situation, or thought before acting, they are far more inclined to simply use force. They have gotten sloppier in the last few months. More comfortable than they should be considering the profession they are in.

  As they gather together to once again discuss how they are going to expand the NHP, Tronix yells to them from the back door to the Chapel.

  --Yo, Tayvon is here. He’s all fucked up.

  --Well, tell that nigga to go away.

  Tayvon pulls the door back and pushes through Tronix. He sidles past the mess to the Chapel.

  --We got hit… by… something.

  Dit-Low and Endo see that he is covered in blood and bruises.

  --What, someone hit the stash house? They best not have left with our money or product.

  --What? Man. Nah… It killed them all. Some fucking… White… Nah, it wasn’t even a person, it was… some… some kinda fucking monster.

  --Man what the fuck you talking about? You supposed to sell your product, not use it. ’Sides, you may have changed colors but that don’t give you free access to the Chapel.

  --I’m telling you. They all dead. The whole crew. We shot him… Musta shot him twenty times, man… Muthafuckas was dead… and then… and then they just wasn’t.

  Tayvon walks around, pacing, losing his grip on his own thoughts. How he has made it from the Bronx to the NHP Chapel in Harlem, covered in blood, in obvious hysterics, will be a longstanding mystery for all those in the NHP, but the people in the Lobos would have known right away. Tayvon grew up in Morris Heights and spent a lot of his childhood living on the streets. His mother was a known addict and paid for most her needs with sex. Folks used to call her the “Morris Heights bicycle, cause everyone done rode that.” Before Tayvon found his way into the Lobos and started into a life of crime, he was known to be one of the Ants, the half-crazy, half-suicidal people in the city foolish enough to traverse the city by walking the tracks of the subway system. It is his way of finding solace. It doesn’t make sense to anybody else, and it doesn’t need to. It makes sense to Tayvon.

  --So like, what the fuck we gonna do?

  --OK, Tayvon. Back up, take a breath. Let’s wipe all that shit off you. Hey yo, get the man a towel or something.

  Dit-Low nods to Tronix, who steps into the backroom. The sounds of odds and ends toppling on to the floor echo into the Chapel as he rummages through a room already picked over for its contents.

  --All right, so let’s slow your roll. Gimmie the bit by bit. What happened?

  Tronix stumbles back into the room. He has what appears to be a bright blue scarf, or wintery hat, or something. Tayvon starts using it to wipe off some of the caked-on blood and dirt, noting the blackish-purple bruise in his arm where that thing stuck him and drained him of his blood. Next to that are dried scabs where its nails must have dug into his skin. He takes a deep breath and starts to explain the unbelievable events of the night.

  ***

  When Tayvon is finished, his story is met with the questioning faces of the NHP. Without any need for confirmation he knows that both Endo and Dit-Low are unwilling to believe his story. Maybe at the beginning they were willing to accept his tale, perhaps even believed wholeheartedly that two white boys rolled into the hood asking for help, that they got mouthy and were taught a lesson, but from the moment he started talking about being followed by some sort of monster they were not able to suspend their disbelief. Unwilling to accept that there is not a simpler explanation. Tayvon does not receive the enthusiastic support or encouraging shoulder pats he was hoping for. Instead he receives the puzzled and judging eyes of a group that believe that he is high on something, or that his crew decided to flip on the NHP.

  --Man, I know this shit sounds crazy. Fuck, I’d think I was lying if I didn’t know I wasn’t.

  --All right, Tay, I feel ya. What say we roll up and take a look? See what we see?

  --Man, I don’t want to go back up there. Them fucking things is up there, man!

  Dit-Low throws an arm around Tayvon’s shoulder, pulls him to his feet.

  --Something tells me a couple white fellas all shot up travelling around is gonna stand out. Seems like something we could avoid, ya feel?

  Chapter 14

  Marie hasn’t been looking for her father in over five months. The final stage of grieving has passed over her like a cool calming wave—acceptance of the obvious. Ernie is dead. There has been no evidence of the cantankerous old pickle anywhere in almost a year, and there are fewer and fewer of his compatriots around to rely on for Ernie spottings.

  Even with the obvious truth staring back at her, she forged ahead for several months, looking everywhere she could possibly think of to find him. That is until five months back when she received correspondence on official-looking government letterhead stating that Ernie was found dead. A John Doe had been discovered near the docks and after comparing VA dental records it was their regretful duty to inform her that Ernie was deceased. Because of the state of decomposition and the absence of any identification, statutory health and safety guidelines required that his remains be cremated and disposed of.

  Two weeks after the first letter Marie received a secondary letter from some insurance agency she’d never heard of in upstate New York stating that the life insurance policy Ernie had purchased some thirty years ago would begin to pay off. She would have been immediately suspicious of the whole thing, except that the correspondence included a check for five thousand dollars. The letter itself stated that in accordance with the insurance policy she will be receiving quarterly disbursements for the same amount for the next ten years.

  Marie cannot be more conflicted, but she feels a growing seed of pride in her father. Even though he has failed her in many ways, he apparently did manage to do one truly good and fatherly thing for her.

  It is a bittersweet pill to swallow. She never expected him to reach a ripe old age but still hates the idea that he is gone. He was her father and didn’t deserve to pass on as just some intoxicated vagrant in the dark recesses of an anonymous back alley. His was a hard end for what had always been a hard life.

  But in her acceptance, and due largely to Ernie’s insurance policy, she is able to spend more time concerned with her own affairs, something that she has never allowed herself the luxury to do in the past. Initially she is so guilty about having time to spare and money to spend on frills like painting her nails and going to the gym and starting to take classes at community college that she volunteers at a neighborhood soup kitchen as much as she can. Maybe it’s a way to thank her father or just some compounded personal guilt. No matter the reason though, she always feels better sharing her time with the less fortunate.

  She considers going to Transitions, but the trek and the atmosphere there would be just too unsettling, so instead she opts to spend her time at the local soup kitchen. She knows a lot of the downtrodden who visit, and it’s good to give back to her own community.

  It’s at this outreach that she meets Hector. He’s the one who helps her get familiar with the operation and shows her all the ro
pes on how meals are served, how they handle intake of visitors. Marie can tell right away that Hector is a kind person, magnetic in his charm. He has a way about him that makes her think he is hiding some sort of deep hurt, putting out a bigger personality or making people laugh to keep them from looking deeper at him.

  He doesn’t have the body of an Adonis, but he is quite handsome: fit, dark hair, olive skin, soft brown eyes. Hector always wears a warm and welcoming smile and is always happy to share laughter and a story with workers and patrons alike.

  In one of their many conversations on the plight of the unfortunate, Hector mentions that he spent a great deal of his childhood without stability. His mother, often too sick to find work, would quite frequently lose access to consistent housing, and if it weren’t for the kindness of people at the many missions and shelters he and his older brother would have had to sleep on the streets for long stretches of time growing up.

  Perhaps it is the anachronistic combination of honest vulnerability and innate strength that first truly catches her eye. Like her, he has struggled but found strength in the struggle. Or perhaps he has always had the strength inside him to weather the struggle. Regardless, Marie finds herself drawn to him right away and feels that his feelings mirror hers. She often catches him stealing glances at her when she is doing the same with him. Coy excited glimpses that lift her heart into her throat, forcing her to swallow down her smiles.

  The playfulness between them goes on for nearly a month before Hector works up to asking her on a date, which, despite his nerves when asking her out, goes surprisingly well. Hector takes her to a local Spanish diner which serves food far too spicy for most women, but which is perfect for Marie’s palate. Then they talk and laugh together while walking down Riverside Drive, sharing more about their lives with one another than either has ever done with another living soul. Marie speaks on the topic of her father, and how he spiraled down and out of control to meet his end, how even in his darkest times she could still see the love inside him, still tell that there was a decent man in the burnt-out shell. Likewise Hector talked about his childhood more, how his older brother had gotten mixed up with the wrong crowd, made the wrong choices and wound up getting himself killed. How that was such a formative moment for Hector, knowing his brother and how he had changed and knowing that his brother would be looking down on him from above making sure that the same mistakes weren’t going to be made.

  --I don’t want to sound like a religious freak, but truly I think he is up there, my guardian angel, looking down and looking out for me every day.

  The evening could stretch on into the morning, but instead they part with a simple kiss—nothing more, but that kiss is one that neither will ever forget.

  Over the next month Marie starts to fall for Hector. He is a good man, an old soul, as many of the people in the kitchen say about him. She daydreams about his laugh and his soft lips pressed against hers. She smells the lingering hints of his cologne on her bedsheets. Even on her treks across town on the Metro, she often finds herself smiling as she remembers an interaction between the two of them. Yes, it’s true—in the wake of all the sadness and difficulty, Marie has found a man that she can love.

  Her newfound relationship couldn’t have come at a better time too, as she often feels as if she is being watched. A sense deep down in her core that eyes are following her—call it street savvy, call it heightened awareness, call it whatever you want. Only when Hector is around does she truly feel safe, his arms wrapped around her in a blanket of security.

  Marie can handle herself though. She isn’t just some helpless girl lost in the big city; she grew up on these streets and knows how to take care of herself. She’s been in plenty of childhood fights, trying to stick up for her alcoholic father or defending other less fortunates from the cruel tongues of schoolyard bullies. Inasmuch as a child can be, she is quite battle-hardened. Personal resolve and self-reliance still being factored into the equation, there is still the specter of something ominous biting at the back of her mind.

  ***

  Tonight is a special night. Tonight, Hector is taking Marie out for a night on the town. He isn’t a well-to-do man, and she knows how difficult it is for everyone in the neighborhood to make ends meet, so the effort of taking her out for more than just a walk and a slice means the world to Marie. It means that he has made significant personal sacrifices: walked when he could take the metro, brought lunches to work, avoided any frills.

  Hector makes good on his promise: dinner and drinks. The meal is especially delicious, an upscale restaurant on the north-west end of Midtown. Hector orders some sort of seafood ravioli and sauterne wine to start the meal—an effort to look cultured, no doubt. But his manners and way with her lack any pomp, so perhaps he does know good food. Marie is running a quick tally of the cost of the meal and decides to order a salad, but Hector insists that she get the lobster. After a brief and adorable debate she concedes and settles on a salad and the lobster bisque.

  They talk and laugh throughout the meal and at the end decide to walk back towards Rush at Lincoln Center. Rush is a nightclub that touts its well-known old-world libations and jazz licks from the early Twenties. The nightclub is renowned in the hipster community for serving drinks out of old mason jars. Considering its location and theming, it’s obvious that Hector is taking Marie to a place that he has never been to himself. Most likely he has seen an advertisement in the Village Voice or found someone online giving it a positive review.

  As they walk down Broadway, awash in the flickering glow of neon advertisements, she slides her hand into his and pulls herself into his chest. The city is alive with sounds and the air crisp with a mixture of smells: candied nuts, designer colognes and perfumes. People mill about around the couple, avoiding them as they stroll past their bubble of love, entranced by the electric commerce around them.

  It’s hard for her to believe that they have only known each other for a few months. Their bond feels so deep, so real, and the genuine affection between the two of them so unlike anything she has ever known before in a romantic relationship. This is true happiness.

  As the couple starts walking toward Columbus Circle, something catches Marie’s eyes and pulls her out of the bubble. Her heart stops for a moment as she hears herself calling out the impossible.

  --Dad?

  Chapter 15

  --Right there. Muthafucker. Right there! That’s where we shot them fuckers. Look at the ground, man. Look at it. It’s fucking caked in blood and full of holes.

  Tayvon is wound up and nervously looking around as he points to the spot on the street where they shot Ernie and Claude. Dit-Low and Endo are both trying hard to process the information, as it does truly appear as if some shit went down recently. Beads of sweat start to roll down Tayvon’s brow, as Endo counters his affirmations.

  --Coulda happened a while ago?

  Tayvon shakes his head.

  --You know that is fresh blood, man. Rain and shit would wash it away if it’s old. Look, I’m telling you. These weren’t people. They was something else. They was some kinda monsters.

  Tayvon shrugs. Starts to walk away.

  --Look, ya’ll can think what you want, but I ain’t lying… and I am getting the fuck out of here.

  Endo steps up.

  --Whoa, whoa. Slow down, young blood. I don’t give a fuck what you think you doin’. You wearing our colors now, which means you ain’t leaving shit till we know what’s going on here.

  --I already told you what’s going on, they’s some kinda fucking monster in this city.

  Endo chuckles, and pulls Dit-Low away from the rest of the group to talk privately. They shuffle toward their vehicle and angle up around it so that they can see what is going on with Tayvon and the rest of the hoppers watching him. They both lower their voices and throw their hands up over their mouths as they speak so that no one else can hear their words.

  --Looks pretty convincing to me.

  --This could be some kinda
trick. Shit could be food coloring on the ground or something. He could just be helping his crew get out, or I don’t know what.

  Tayvon shouts out from fifty feet away.

  --Man, I ain’t helping nobody do shit, and that ain’t food coloring. Look at it. That is fucking blood. I can smell from here.

  Endo shouts back.

  --Nigga, how the fuck you hear what I’m sayin?

  --Well, ya’ll fucking shouting over there.

  Endo turns to the others in the crew near Tayvon.

  --Could you hear what we said?

  They all shake their heads that they could not hear what was being discussed.

  --Then I ask you again, how the fuck you hear what we was sayin’?

  Endo starts walking over toward Tayvon, who slowly starts inching away.

  --You got some kinda bug on me? Somebody listening to us?

  Endo gets a few paces away from Tayvon and pulls out his gun, cracks the butt of it against Tayvon’s temple, sending him flopping to the ground. A stream of thick dark blood pumps from a cut over his eye.

  --You two, grab this fool.

  Dit-Low stands back, his gaze shifting from the street back over to Tayvon.

  --Something ain’t right about any of this shit. How the fuck he hear us?

  The others in the crew gather up Tayvon and start to carry him to their ride.

  --Damn, D, this nigga’s on fire, for real. He like a million degrees or something.

  --The fuck do I care?

  Dit-Low signals with his hands to just throw him in the back. Tayvon slumps onto the back seat, limp and unconscious.