

## THE BAD POET

### MICHAEL PAUL FULLER

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2014 Michael Paul Fuller

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13: 978-1499754353

In Memory of Janann Woods Ransom

### ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Thanks to my wife Sheila, for continued support and a swift kick in the butt when needed. My daughters Mishelle Rose Braithwaite and Jessica C.T. Fuller.

Thanks to Penny Turner, Brian King, Rick Marsh, Gwen Dubose, LaVerne Tannehill, Tracy Gray, Kim Ferguson and Hazel Fuller Jenkins. Cover by Mike Hudson.

Thanks to my readers, family and friends for encouragement.

### CHAPTER 1

It's a cold moment

Loves joy wanes from past cries

Friendly lovers now enemies from emotions gone astray

So should I trust again in order to satisfy my learned needs?

Or walk around without any link – alone but free

Carla King

'09

I yelled at the top of my voice to the jogger, or at least he was thin like one. But at this time of night, who knew. He could have been a burglar or an addict running from some ill-conceived crime, then fleeing to his freedom. But at this point, I had to take a chance. So I pleaded to him, "Help me! Help me!"

He slowed for an instant, turned and peered over at me, taking a step in my direction. But as if stuck in cement, he stopped in his tracks, recoiled back around and took off running again, only this time faster. Damn, I thought, he's running away from me.

Despair welled up inside of me. Once again I called for his help, then twisted around to see the nightmare closing in for the kill. The jogger must have seen him and wanted no part of our mad theater. Even so, I tried to enlist him to join in, petitioning him to be my hero. Again, I yelled for him to show compassion and rescue me. "Stop! Stop! Help meeee!"

I turned to see the shadowy horror gaining on me with each second. I spun around in hopes that the jogger was coming back. But the slim exercise freak was long gone, his schoolboy physique flying down the gloomy side street, probably never to jog at that time of night or down that path again.

I angled around the corner dashing past closed retail stores and barren alleys hoping to bump into the jogger's path again. Seconds later my stomach churned with a sour sensation and while running, I vomited. My lungs burned and my kidneys cut into me like my insides were trying to digest thumbtacks. Suddenly, a pain shot through my foot as if it was hit by a hammer. That's when I realized one of my favorite black Juicy Couture sling-back pumps was missing. The cost of three hundred and seventy-five dollars flashed into my mind, the most expensive shoes that I had ever purchased. At first I overcame the initial shock of pain and just kept running, but soon it became a throbbing ache which slowed me down, but still I continued to drag the bashed foot along.

My breathing was short and rapid, while the throbbing pain from my shoeless foot challenged my will to the point that I was about to give up and take a stand. Truth be told, I was at the end of my physical ability to continue. However, as quickly as the thought of giving up had crossed my mind, it disappeared. I refused to let this happen to me and become a victim, so I dug deep into my soul and with every ounce of strength left, commissioned my body to continue the escape for survival.

I whirled my head back around and saw that my pursuer had stopped running, too. He was power-walking towards me, evidently tired as well, but nonetheless determined to finish what he'd planned.

The crackling sound like exploding Wildcat firecrackers rang out again. The slugs bounced off the brick walls of the closed stores and sleepy condominiums and whizzed past my head, so close that I felt the hot metal singe the hair from my ear. Nothing had changed; he was still resolute on disposing of me.

Hobbling down South State Street, struggling to keep from giving up, I squealed out again for help, still hoping that somebody would rescue me. Like one of those bobble head dolls that sat on the dashboard of some young Mexican kid's leisure van, I kept a vigilant eye on the killer imp, constantly rotating my head back and forth, looking for some kind of escape.

There it was, a sidewalk sign that stood a little taller than my five foot seven-inches, used for advertising Tommy Gun's Diner and Theater valet was tucked away in the restaurant's entrance. I ducked into the corridor, folded myself into a ball and hid between the wooden A-frame sign.

The sorrow of the moment consumed all of my thoughts and emotions. Why me? If I had just stayed home that innocent evening, all of these tribulations could have been avoided. As I thought back, it all began that trouble-free night not so long ago...

### CHAPTER 2

A journey alone

Just one pair of tracks I travel

Into the unknown with a pint size of need

It is I who decides

Move left, shift right, stay, pause but remembering, there's no replay

And the consequences are because of my freedom

CK

09'

I knew that evening was going to be a waste of my time. I glanced at Natalie and her man all booed-up together like two cute Labrador Retriever puppies on a Valentine's Day greeting card. I politely smiled at them and took the first sip of the vodka martini made by a bartender who didn't care.

"How do you like it?" Natalie asked with a rhetorical inflection in her voice. "Isn't it nice?" She was barely audible, her voice being drowned out by Luther Vandross's "Always and Forever."

I raised my voice over the thumping bass guitar, "Oh, it's nice," I responded, but I wasn't really sincere.

"So, you ever been here before'?" Walter McKay asked in his baritone voice.

"No, it's my first time," I said.

"Me and Walter have been coming here ever since we met." Natalie gushed, her eyes never leaving his. "It's definitely our flavor of the month."

Walter smiled and smoothly brought the cognac snifter up to his mouth in agreement with Natalie. "Yep, Windprints Supper Club. Man, this is my new favorite place to chill. Eat a little.... sneak in a slow dance or two." He stared over at Natalie like she was a rib tip he was about to devour and pick clean. "I like the easy nostalgic vibe. Ya know? The music is ol' school R & B, but then they'll slip in some slammin' back-in-the-day hip hop, too. You know, just to get your juices flowing' so you can party like it's 1999." Walter laughed and gave this wide gleaming smile. His earthy attitude appeared genuine and fun loving.

I nodded in appreciation of his description of the club. "How's the food?"

Walter quickly responded, "We about to find out. What do you say, honey? You want somethin' to eat?"

Asking Natalie if she wanted food was like asking a shark if it was hungry. There's only one thing that would take her away from feasting and that's another eatery with free food. But the girl could hold it down. I don't care how much food and what type of nutrients she consumed, it never added up to pounds. Her figure was still flawless, even while edging closer to forty than thirty-five she still made the young men look twice, once from the front where they would acknowledge her beauty and the other checking the badonkadonk. Then you'd hear, "Damnnn!"

Natalie's demure response was well rehearsed. "I'll have something if you want something baby."

Walter searched around the club, raised his hand, and then snapped his fingers a couple of times with a loud thud. "Waitress, waitress," he called in the darkness of the room. Walter had a hard blue-collar savoir faire mannerism about him. He was masculine without having to show it off. I pictured him as a doer, always on the go, not one who pondered about life's shortcomings, sitting on the sidelines waiting for goings-on to come his way. His hair was cut short with sharp lines edged around his trim. He sported a goatee, which was full and matured to perfection. His dark African features displayed a family lineage barely touched by white blood. Natalie said she put the Hoodoo on him. Of course, Natalie is always talking about the spirit of the unknown affecting what she does, no matter what the circumstances.

As he snapped his finger for the waitress's attention, I thought to myself, "Oh that's just great...now they want to eat, which means I'm probably going to have to pay for my meal." Oh no, this can't be happening. I should've gone with my first impulse and stayed home. I fought her all afternoon about going out, but Natalie kept up the pressure until I finally caved in. She persisted, "Girl, get out of the house. You gonna be an ol' maid if you don't get out. You think a man going to just drop out of the sky and land in your lap?"

Damn, it hasn't been that long since I've dated. There was Vincent Agnew. Boy, was that a mistake. Just because he had a high paying job, he thought he could run right over me. That egomaniacal fool almost made me move into a monastery and become a sister-monk. Then there was Felix Trinidad. Thought I had a Latin lover, but he was more of a Latin loser. What a flimflam man. Felix told me he was an ex-professional baseball player from the Dominican Republic who was coaching the Los Angeles Dodgers, and he was just visiting Chicago looking for property. He had a sexy Spanish accent and jet-black wavy hair with a Georgia pecan complexion. Felix always considered himself of African heritage. He practiced sounding, moving, walking and talking like a brother off the block. He was always rocking hip-hop baggy pants, oversized basketball jerseys, Timberland boots and baseball hats cocked to the side ace-deuce. He was sort of immature in that way, but I figured it to be a way of him trying to fit into the American way of life. One day I was trailing a landscaping truck through traffic, with a crew of landscapers riding in the trailer of the dump truck. I don't know what they did to make me peer into the trailer, but when I did, there was Felix, who as it turned out, happened to be a landscaper. He was sitting there wearing an oversized straw hat, riding with the rest of his Mexican landscaping crew, with the back of the truck full of grass clippings. I rode up to the truck at a stoplight, honked the horn and waved. "Felix!" I shouted. When he looked down at me from his mound of grass he almost choked. That was the end of that.

We were scanning Fandango's menu when Walter raised his arm and called out, "Cutino, Cutino, yo' Cutino come here, man."

I took a sideways look over the menu card to see this handsome man stroll over to our table.

"Walt? Long time, man. What's happening?" Mr. Bad-ass said.

Walter said, "I can't call it."

Hopefully, I wasn't staring, but I examined this man from top to bottom. He reminded me of 'The Rock'. He was tall, strong looking with chiseled facial features. He had smooth, clean shaven tapioca-colored skin, coal black hair faded back, a diamond pinky ring, an earring set with a single ruby, sporting brown alligator shoes, bone-colored linen pants and matching linen jacket over a dark blue silk shirt. This guy was a hunk.

"Who you here wit'?" Walter asked.

"Well..."

Natalie urged him on to join us and pushed my chair over, then pulled out a seat next to me. "Come on, there's an extra seat."

Her boldness made me uneasy and I felt my shoulders twitch, a sure sign of tension. _"Okay girl, calm down, calm down,"_ I told myself.

"Yeah, sit down for a spell," Walter said.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. I figured Walter would chime in. Ain't this a flip? They haven't known each other as long as it takes a stoplight to turn from red to green, and now they're agreeing all the time like they know each other so well, I thought.

I felt he was hesitant as he surveyed the table. "Okay, okay," the Rock look-alike agreed and took a seat.

"Cutino... Cutino, what's your last name?" Walter asked.

"Grigsby."

"Well Cutino Grigsby, meet Carla, Carla King." Walter introduced us and said for him to take a seat next to me.

"Hi," he politely said to me and held out his right hand.

I clumsily reached out and took his large hand, which was actually a little soft for a man's. "Hi."

"Chilly evening out tonight," Cutino said. His Darth Vader bass voice seemed to make my wine glass vibrate as well as my loins.

"Yep, feels like winter's in the air," Walter said.

"Oh no, I don't even want to think about winter," I said.

Natalie lifted her wine glass half-full of bar stock Chardonnay and took a sip. "Oh girl, uh uh, not the hawk! It'll be here soon enough."

I felt goose bumps appear on my arm just from the thought of winter in Chicago. "Brrrr, the winter is when the Caribbean starts to look like the place to be."

"Oh yeah, the warm breezes of the islands, mon." Walter imitated a Jamaican accent that actually sounded more Latin. But it was cute.

Cutino turned to me and asked, "You come here much?" "I'm a newbie," I said.

"A first-timer, huh?"

"Yep."

"I've been trying to get her here for weeks," Natalie butted in.

Cutino smiled and asked me, "What are your thoughts about Fandango?"

"It seems like a great place and Natalie bragged about it like it was the best thing since Lincoln freed Kunta Kente's kin. She said the music was slammin' and the atmosphere was great, so today she wouldn't take no for an answer."

Cutino laughed, "Kunta Kente's kin, I like that." Cutino's smile was this sexy thing he did with his lips, kind of like LL Cool J, the way he licks his lips for the ladies, only Cutino did it with a twist. I don't believe he even recognized that he did it. "This is one of the best places for a meet and greet. I think it's the way they set it up. See over there." Cutino pointed to the entrance.

"Yes."

"You enter through a hallway with just the right spot lighting. That hallway sets the mood, like you're a celebrity walking into a fan filled room. When you exit the hallway, boom! You enter the club area and all eyes are on you."

I noticed the areas that Cutino described. "Yes, yes I see." "It's large enough to hold the people, but small enough to look like it's packed all the time," he said.

"You come here much?" I asked.

"When I go to a bar, I come here."

"Oh yeah?"

"It's comfortable. Plus, it's not far from the house. So- if I drink a little too much, I can crawl home if I have to."

"Have you crawled home before?" I chuckled.

"Ha, ha, I've been known to throw down a few," he said. "But I haven't crawled home yet."

"I bet."

Cutino wagged his finger and said. "No, I'm not a drunk or anything. But I can hold my own."

"I can hold my own, too."

"You can hold your own, too, huh? So what's your favorite drink?" Cutino asked.

"A protein strawberry and blueberry smoothie."

He gave me a toothy smile and said, "Oh, you got jokes. No, no not a drink out of Women's Health Magazine."

I replied, "What kind of drink are you talking about?"

"Entertainment drink. You know, like when you go out," he said.

"Wine is my taste of choice," I answered. But truth be told it was Stoli Elit Vodka Martini, but I couldn't let him know that yet.

"Do you have a favorite?" he asked.

"Mondavi, Moscato d'oro."

"Moscato who?"

"Moscato d'oro. It's a sweet wine. I like sweet wine. Sometimes I'll take a Riesling which is semi-sweet or maybe a Zinfandel," I said.

"I'm just playin', I know what Moscato is, but I'm not much on the wine thing."

"No?"

"I mean it's alright, but give me a hit," Cutino said.

I leaned back and gave him my low brow. "A hit? What kind of hit are you talking about?"

"A shot. A snort. You know, some eighteen-year-old scotch or VSOP cognac." He searched the room. "Where's that waitress?"

He waved his arm for some attention, then continued, "...and a fat Cohiba or Monte Cristo Cuban cigar lightin' up the sky. Now that's a drink with a little extra," said Cutino.

The waitress arrived and barged into our conversation. "May I take your drink order?" She was a very courteous young sister with a walnut colored complexion and long dreadlocks. It was so cute how she so graciously swung her hair from out of her face, like a white girl with long blond hair would do.

"I'll have another Chardonnay please," Natalie said.

"Vodka Martini for me. Shaken, not stirred," Walter tried his ersatz English James Bond accent.

I thought he was kind of funny with his mock double-O-seven accent, but Natalie laughed like he was Dave Chappelle or somebody. "Honey, you so crazy," she continued and laughed like she was about to pee on herself.

Cutino gave me a pleasant smile. "Yours is on me."

"Oh really?" Natalie overheard him give me the offer. Then she gave me the go ahead nod like it was my very first date. "That's right," Cutino said. "Tonight everything is on me."

"Hmph." I cut my eyes at him and thought to myself, who does he think he is? Better yet, who does he think I am? I am not that desperate. It ain't that easy, buddy. The sweet and honey box is closed tonight, so if you're anticipating getting some quick coochy, you are sadly mistaken and will be thoroughly disappointed.

"No strings attached." He held his hands up in surrender.

I guess he got my vibe. "No strings attached?"

"That's right, no strings attached. Enjoy the evening."

I nodded, "Okay then." "Okay," he confirmed.

"Do you have Moscato?" I asked.

"I'm not sure. I'll have to check," the courteous locked-haired waitress said.

"If you don't have Moscato, I'll have Riesling," I continued.

The waitress nodded and said, "Very good, I know we have White Zinfandel."

"Great. Thank you," I said.

"And I'll have Scotch on the rocks," Cutino ordered with confidence.

The waitress slung her thick nappy locked hair back again.

"Do you have a certain kind in mind?"

"Glenlivet," Cutino said.

She scribbled on a pad. "Will there be anything else?"

Cutino was certain when he spoke, "I think that'll be all for the moment."

The kind waitress smiled back at us, "I'll be back with your drinks."

Walter's eyes followed the waitress as she left our table. "Now that's the way you serve a table."

"No doubt. She's workin' on a big tip, Walt. That's what I see," Cutino said.

Walter smiled, "I ain't got no problem with that. If you work for it, you earn it."

I nodded in agreement, "If more of our people understood that, we as a race would be better off."

Cutino started snapping his fingers to the beat of R. Kelly's, "Step in The Name Of Love." "You step?" he asked.

"Is water wet?"

"Let's do this." Cutino stood up and offered his hand.

I took his hand and off we went to join in the stepper's anthem. I can tell when a guy can step right at the very beginning, by the way he grabs my hand, holds me by the waist and guides me onto the dance floor, stepping with the correct timing, and then you know he can step. Cutino could step. When we started dancing, Cutino was stepping hard. He was agile on his feet for such a large man. He was even taller up close than he appeared when seated.

We stepped to three or four other stepper's cuts, then slow and sexy when "House Is Not a Home" by Luther began playing. Without any verbal communication, we just melded into a slow mellow dance. The smooth sound soothed me as we held each other close. It was a sensual dance; not too close but, just enough to know that I was comfortable. His back muscles were firm and taut. Lawd, Lawd, Lawd, what is going on? I placed my head on his chest, closed my eyes and drifted into a dance dream; not thinking about tomorrow or the next day, not worrying about my personal or work situations, but floating into a special space of relaxation and club ecstasy. I let myself go into his hands, placing my previous relationship apprehensions behind me. We never spoke a word while dancing, we just vibed with each other's body movements and rhythms. In a situation like this, there really wasn't any need for idle chit chat or a session of questions and answers. Our bodies spoke the universal language of longing. The first slow song ended, but the DJ mixed another right on top of it so we continued our silent erotic courtship. Then it was over and the hard bass guitar licks of Digital Underground's "The Humpty Dumpty Dance" took over and we stopped. "Thank you," Cutino said.

I fanned my face. "My pleasure."

He kept holding my hand while we left the dance floor and headed back to our table.

When we returned, Natalie and Walter were cuddled up and feeding each other shrimp appetizers. "Aw'ight now. Yawl sho' was on the dance floor a long time. We thought we had lost you two," Walter said.

"Naw, man. Carla's so light on her feet; it was just a pleasure being her partner."

"You're not too bad yourself. Who taught you how to step?" I asked.

"You couldn't hang with my crew unless you could step. Or as we used to call it before it became commercial, we used to "bop" until our Converse Allstars started talking."

Walter laughed so hard he spilled his vodka martini on his freshly creased raspberry colored pants. But it didn't matter to him; he kept right on laughing and talking, "Sho' you right. Downstairs in the basement sweatin', steppin' and slidin' on the concrete floor to some ol' school sounds. Wasn't nothin' like it."

"I may not dance for a year, but after twenty seconds on the floor it all comes back to me. After a while, not only do my old moves return, but even some fresh new moves come my way," Cutino said.

"I experienced a couple of those moves tonight," I said. "You spun me around one time, and I thought we were on an out of control merry-go-round."

"Was I that bad?" Cutino asked.

"Oh no, no, I just had to keep up. That's all."

Cutino stared at me, and then leaned closer into my ear. "You have the prettiest eyes."

"Thank you." His whisper tickled my ear. Then it hit me that he's trying to move to second base.

He gazed into my eyes. "What color are they?"

I shrugged. "Light brown, I guess."

"Really, they look heavenly."

"Heavenly?" Boy, he was laying it on real thick, and up to this point he'd been doing so well. Don't blow it now brother.

He cracked a wry smile and said, "Well, maybe not heavenly, but mesmerizing for sure."

Now, we're talking. I might be able to agree with mesmerizing. "They do the job," I said.

"Do you think before the night is over that I could get your number?" Cutino was gracious and unassuming with his request.

Shaking my head and peering down at the table, I noticed stains on the table cloth. "I don't know, Cutino."

"Come on, Carla." Cutino had eyes that penetrated through me. They were narrow, not squinty or anything, but when he zeroed in on me, they seemed to be reading my mail. His appetizing physical presence was hard to resist. _But hell, I can't trust a man this fine. He could have almost any single woman in the lounge. So why me? I'm not desperate or needy, but at the same time, a little excitement in my life wouldn't be out of place. But I'm not going to be hurt either. Uh, uh, not this time. He ain't going to sing me no love song and have me falling all over myself for him, finding myself out of control and losing my mind while caught up in a web of emotions that creates mayhem and confusion in my life. I'd rather be by myself._

I finally responded, "I don't know, Cutino. My phone number?"

He smiled, "Carla, I think you're a very beautiful person.

You're bright, intelligent, and I feel a connection. Not to mention you're great to look at. I'd just like to know you better. That's all."

Frowning, "Thought there were no strings attached."

He gave a boyish grin. "What? You mean tonight?" "That's right. I appreciate everything; I mean the drinks, the food and company, but I don't know you well enough to give you my number."

With his index finger and thumb, he lifted his glass of scotch and finished it off. "So you don't give out your number easily, huh?"

"That's right."

With a sly grin and twinkle in his eyes he said, "I respect that."

"Thank you."

Cutino tilted his head to the side. "How about this? How about I give you my number?"

Okay, I played it just right. "Sure, you can give me your number."

"Cool," he said and gave me that big toothy Rock smile.

It was getting late, so I thought that I should call my mom and check on Zoe before she fell asleep. "Excuse me, Cutino, I'm going to powder my nose. Natalie I'm going to the ladies room."

"Oh girl, that's right on time. Excuse me, honey." She kissed Walter on his earlobe and I noticed him shiver.

I smiled at Cutino and thought; this was going to be an interesting night after all.

### CHAPTER 3

Caribbean Breeze

Warm wind flowing from point to point

Earth, Wind and Fire in this joint

Lovers lock hands without a care

Enjoying each moment taking a dare

Palmettos bending every which way

Fine sand blending into our toes

Clear water clear eyes clear mind

Seeking peace on earth

Until the last of never

We are one

Carla King

'09

I gazed at the roses that were full of life, sunning over the kitchen windowsill that overlooked the beaches of Lake Michigan. They hung just above my kitchen sink which was jam-packed with freshly cut turnip greens that I had just purchased from the market.

"Mom," I hesitated while cleaning the turnip greens to gather my thoughts. "I'm not letting her go out alone and date these silly boys."

"Carla, she's fifteen years ol' now and interested in boys just like you were at that age. Or did you forget? Besides, I grew up with that boy's granddaddy. He comes from good stock." Mama's voice was as confident over the phone as when she stared at you from across the kitchen table.

"But Mom, times have changed. Things aren't like they were in the 60's and 70's. Heck, we didn't really date back then. We just met at a house party, a football game or something. Then maybe afterward we'd get together, but it wasn't an official date." As my frustration mounted, I scrubbed the greens harder with each passing minute.

"That's the problem right there. You didn't have official courtin' time," she protested in her unhurried Georgian drawl.

"Ah-huh, right. So when I was fifteen years old you would've agreed for me to officially date?"

"No honey, not date, but courtin' time. Some good 'ol fashion courtin' time woulda made a substantial difference."

"How so? What, I don't know men?"

"You know I ain't sayin' that. But just maybe you wouldn't have married that no good so and so if there was official courtin' time earlier in yo' life." I was taken aback by Mom's comment, but held onto my careening emotions.

She continued. "You mighta married that doctor boy. He had a crush on you for so long. You just couldn't stand his wheezin' and snifflin' all the time. I knew he'd grow out of it. He just had a little allergy."

I could sense my mother thinking over the phone line. I just waited until she was finished making her point. It wouldn't do me any good to disrupt her train of thought. "Uh...uh, what was his name? Umm... Danny Frye. Yeah, that's it Dr. Dan Frye. I wonder what he's doin' now? I heard he was married with three little kids...lives up north in those big fancy homes in the suburbs.

Somewhere like Wilmette or something. A black man livin' in Wilmette. Humph probably sends his kids to that Montes... Montesumou... Montesoursious—"

"Montessori, Mama!"

"Yeah that's it, Montessori school or something. Yep, Dr. Dan Frye."

By this time, I was scrubbing the green off of the turnips and tearing them into tiny pieces that would only be fit for soup, and I've never had turnip green soup. "He's married with four kids of his own, Mother. You the one who always complained about him coughing over your food every time he dropped by."

My mother sighed as a silent pause fell over the phone. "I ain't mean nothin' by it. That boy just hacked and coughed all the time. Then he'd wipe his nose with the back of his hand. Yuck."

I smiled a victorious grin as I cocked my head over towards my daughter, just in time to see her first frown during my conversation with my mother. Her grandmother was putting up a terrific defense for her so she had been smiling like Sylvester the cat when he'd finally caught and swallowed Tweety bird. The entire time her grandmother was pleading a case for Zoe to date Tyrone Bradley, a nineteen-year-old college freshman who I thought was too old and experienced for my callow-acting daughter.

"Well Ma, I gotta go."

She continued, "That Obama gonna win the Health Care Bill you know."

"Yes he is."

"Yes, Lawd. Tomorrow, dem folks in Washington better vote for that bill," she prayed. "Would you have ever thought when we voted for him for the Senate that he'd ever win the Presidency? And would you have ever thought of a Black man as the President of the United States of America? Mm, mm, mm."

She loved President Obama and I couldn't blame her. But I heard it every time we spoke. "Mama?"

"Yes, dear."

"You coming' by this Sunday?"

"If you promise not to have those same shredded turnip greens floatin' in yo' sink."

"Damn." I murmured glancing down into the sink at the shredded turnip greens that I had torn into itty-bitty pieces. How did she know that?

I heard her giggling, then she said, "All right, honey, I'll see you Sunday. I love you, bye."

"I love you, too, Mama." I hung up the phone and turned around to see that Zoe's grin had just faded into yesterday.

I turned the volume of the radio back up so that DJ Super Duper Charlie Cooper and his sidekicks could make me laugh. The harmonic sounds of the Temptations', "Just My Imagination" serenaded me with their early morning rhythms.

Then whipping back around to my lovely daughter, who was staring at me like I was-a-two-day old pizza, I said, "He's just too old. I should have his butt arrested."

"Mom stop trippin'," Zoe said, while making all those teenage hip-hop hand gestures she thinks express her point even more. But to me she appeared to have epilepsy, or at the very least she looked like a confused crossing guard giving hand signals to oncoming traffic.

"Trippin? I'll show you trippin'. I'll tell Tyrone myself if I have to. Now _that's_ trippin' "No, no, Mom. Please don't throw me under the bus!

That's embarrassing," she pleaded. "I guess fifteen years old don't mean nothing, huh?"

"You and Hazel get with your girlfriends and just hang out together. Go to the bowling alley as a group or something as a group. Stop trying to be so grown so fast."

"The bowling alley?"

"Boys are everywhere. Enjoy life and all the things it has to offer...all the good things, that is."

I saw Zoe shake her head and peer over at Hazel Price, her best friend since grade school. Hazel respectfully smiled and then giggled underneath her hand looking sideways at Zoe.

Understanding their sophomoric behavior, I suggested, "Or even go to the mall."

"The mall? That's dope." Zoe had all of a sudden forgotten about any previous conversations and had visions of clothes. "Give up the cheese, then," she held out her hand.

Paying no attention to her dangling hand, I quickly changed the subject, "or get involved in something at school. Radio and TV club or the Bid Whist Club or something."

"The Bid Whist Club?" Zoe and Hazel said together, exploding in laughter.

"What, is that funny or something?" I chuckled.

"There's no Bid Whist Club, Mom."

"I...I think I've heard about a Bid Whist Club at school," Hazel chimed in.

"Girl, please. Tennis keeps me plenty busy." Zoe gave a frowning laugh at Hazel.

"Okay, Mom. No date with Tyrone, but I am fifteen and in two months, I'll be sixteen and you know what that means."

"No. What does that mean?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. Driver's license, eyeliner, waxed eyebrows, designer fingernails..." Zoe hopped out of her chair then began to hum some hip-hop melody whose title I can't recall and seductively began shaking her butt, sashaying out of the kitchen. She smiled at me teasingly, while pretending to be the fast little girl I never raised her to become. "Yep, that's right, my driver's license! Come on, Hazel, let's go peep out some videos. That new High Life video is the truth, girl."

"And stop looking at so many videos," I lashed out. "I wish your daddy would talk to you," I said under my breath. With that last unintended comment, I vacated the kitchen, not meaning to bring up old wounds and dirty laundry. Zoe was going through her teenage years and rapidly trading her little girl candy for womanly ways. From my standpoint, I had been handling Zoe well, but help from her father would have been gladly accepted. And it would have been particularly very special to Zoe. Although Sidney and I did not get along, I understood that a father's point of view was extremely important in guiding a girl through the doors of womanhood.

So that day was the big day...the day that Sidney was taking Zoe for the weekend. She really adored him and cherished every moment that they spent together. I mean, he wasn't a bad guy, just confused. At first when he asked for Zoe to stay with him for the weekend, I fought it, but as time went on, combined with Zoe's consistent charm, I gave in.

Sidney Elias King snatched the carpet of love so quickly from under my feet that I fell and bumped my head on the floor of romance years ago. I was always in a daze of emotions when it came to Sidney. We had a whirlwind love affair, traveling first class around the country and to the Caribbean; we saw Buster Douglas knock out Mike Tyson in Tokyo, Japan in the upset of the century; we watched the 49ers beat the Cincinnati Bengals in Super Bowl XXIII in Miami; but most of all, he introduced me to basketball via the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan. Bulls tickets were a hot commodity. Tickets sold for astronomical prices on the market. Michael Jordan brought all sorts of people into the tent of the Chicago Bulls sell out after sell out. The Bulls were on the ride of a lifetime. At all cost, Sidney conned and finagled to obtain the priceless tickets for games. During the basketball season, the Bulls consumed us. We were in awe of their talents and were sucked into the fever of Michael Jordan and that thing he did so well. Hell, I hated baldheaded men until MJ decided to shave his withering hairline into a shiny chocolate dome. As far as basketball was concerned, my brother never played the game and my daddy loved baseball, but could take or leave basketball, so it was never big in my home. But Sidney loved hoops, so he schooled me on the game, and I fell in love with the Bulls. Then while enjoying professional basketball, we started following various sporting and entertainment events. New York, Las Vegas, Los Angeles... anywhere a sporting event was happening that we really wanted to see, we'd spare no expense and dash for the weekend. Sidney had landed a sucker punch of love and I didn't know what hit me.

Sidney was a professor of psychology at the University of Chicago and took the summers off to write and travel. Therefore, when we met that hot spring day back in 1988, he was on a mission of fun and adventure. I grabbed his coattail and off we went.

We were married twelve months later in a small ceremony at Ebenezer AME Church in Evanston, Illinois. Eleven months, ten days later, Zoe was born, and when our relationship started to change I couldn't put my finger on the problem. He just seemed to lose interest in the baby and me. I mean every relationship has its highs and lows, good times and troubling moments when you can't figure out whether to put the cream in first or the coffee. But when I really got down to it, no matter if I dribbled cream in it, shipped it in from Jamaica or Africa, dropped a cube of sugar in it or took it black, the coffee for the most part just wasn't good for me.

Then one day he just disappeared. For almost a year I didn't hear from him. He cleared out our bank accounts and split town. He quit the University of Chicago with a one-day notice, stating to the university that he had serious personal and health problems, at least that's what they finally told me after much prying and arm-twisting. He left us practically broke and deserted me, with James Brown's cut, "The Payback" on my mind. " _I don't know karate but I know karazor."_ That was the kind of payback I desired. After a while I didn't want him back, but I wanted him to feel my pain deep down in his soul. I wanted him to have those lifelong scars left to linger and hurt. The kind of hurt that would make him shy away from people and hide out at home eating unhealthy food, drinking toxic fluids while bit-by-bit, losing all of his self-esteem.

We had a nice home on a maple tree-lined street in Evanston. But with that nice home came a huge mortgage payment, and after a year and half, I was six months in arrears and had to sell it. I called the police, hired a private investigator and scoured Google-type search engines like Radaris and Peoplefind trying to find him, and still nothing. It was like he had vanished into the land of the forgotten or had fallen off the face of the earth. I thought he was dead, maybe lost his memory like in the soaps or something. I heard all types of folklore about where he was and why he was there from my in-laws. His Aunt Miranda, who disliked me anyway, got in my face and stated that I treated him like a second-class citizen. She said that I smothered him with demands and a quick family so he had no room to grow, and that he suffocated from my overbearing personality and ran away. I thought his family and I were all cool-Miranda, Juanita, Betty, Uncle Chip and Claude. We spent Christmases, birthdays and July 4th holidays together and everything. But when it all went down, his family put the blame directly onto my shoulders. Like they say, blood is much thicker than water.

Hearing the Carla blame game for Sidney's problems on a regular basis from his family filled my heart with despair. For me to bear the cross for his disappearance was unfair and it overwhelmed me. Over time I started second guessing myself. _Was it me? Did I chase him away? Could I have done better?_ I started to sleep away the days and hide from everyone. I didn't want to be bothered by anybody, including Natalie and even my immediate family. I got sick and caught pneumonia. Then they went so far as to accuse me of murdering him, cutting up his body and feeding it to the carp in Lake Michigan. The police even started questioning me, like I actually knew where he was.

That was it. I couldn't take it lying down anymore. No more Ms. Nice Gal. I got angry, aggravated and bitchy. I'd had enough of that bullshit. If they were going to come at me like that, I had to take off my gloves, discard my earrings, grease up my face and go bare knuckles with them. So, it was on. I called them all over to my home and read them the riot act according to Carla. If they didn't like it, they could come get some. Now mind you, Sidney's relatives are the "biggums." Those big-boned girthy sisters would have put a serious hurt on me, but I was sick and tired of their ramblings and innuendos. So gathering up all of my mettle, I womened up and told them, let's do this. Once I lit into their high and mighty, sanctified-when-it-felt-right asses, they left me alone. They turned around and waddled away like beat down baby hippos. Haa! They never called me again.

All along, this selfish man was on some introspective excursion, trekking through South America, Europe and Asia. Old Sidney was dipping and dodging around the globe, living the life of a wandering gypsy, trying to find himself and living off the fat of somebody else's land. After more than a year he called from Beijing, China. _Damn! Beijing, China?_ He explained that it all began after 9-11. He said that the September eleventh terrorist attack had altered his way of thinking and had raised his spiritual consciousness. He couldn't understand the senseless loss of life and the desperation and carelessness of people so compelled for their cause that they would crash passenger jets into a building full of innocent people.

Sidney's desire was to live every day like it was his last day of life, and that was just too self-centered for me. He conjured up the idea that the planes smashing into the World Trade Center were a sign from God directed specifically at him, like when those spiritually gifted fools tell you that God told them to act like this or do that. Those that tell you God shouted at them while they were taking a shower right before work to quit their job and tag along with the band. I hate that because it's that same frame of mind that told Osama's crew to fly jet planes into the World Trade Center and kill thousands of innocent people. Hell, Sidney barely visited a church. He wasn't a spiritual man; Sidney was a carnal man who lived on logic, math and history for decision-making. As I got to know him, he planned everything down to the tee and nothing he did was taken for granted.

About four seasons after his initial phone call, we eventually spoke again over the phone. He said that he loved me, but came to the conclusion that we should have spent more time in developing the relationship. He said he hadn't finished his travels and urges to seek new friendships and educational journeys. I asked him about our daughter, and he said he'd send for her to visit. That he'd send money and save for her education. Well I thought, _damn. Ain't that a bitch and a Merry Christmas to me too, I thought to myself_. Hell, 9-11 affected me too, but I hadn't traveled to Brazil, Madrid or Barcelona, waded in the Dead Sea or seen Oprah's new home in Cali for that matter. Shit, what was I, chopped liver? I wasn't finished making new friends and learning about the world we live in either, but I hadn't jumped up and abandoned my family and responsibilities. I hadn't disappeared into the vastness of a new world, hitchhiking around the globe and seeking the greener grasses of grander pastures. But what I learned through that whole experience, was that I saw life and handled things differently.

Sidney returned to the States about two years later and lived with the Hare Krishna's in Manhattan, New York. I don't know why he hung out with them, but that was what I was told. I began to feel sorry for Sidney; he must have really been searching or going through serious spiritual and psychological turmoil. Then he eventually came back to Chicago and landed employment at the Post Office carrying mail. From a professor at an internationally acclaimed university, to walking mile after mile bare foot in Asia, to trekking in other continents was in preparation for his new job, which was hiking the mail from door to door.

He slid back into my life when he visited the condominium Zoe and I had moved into. He immediately began squawking about the neighborhood, which was a perfectly great area of town. Then he questioned Zoe's public school education, he then complained about her hair, my choice for transportation, and her friends. It wasn't malicious or anything; as a matter of fact, it was sly and cunning, a smooth passive aggressive delivery. I found myself answering him in self-defense while not delving into his disappearance at all.

At first when he returned to Chicago, he would send money, but rarely visited Zoe. She loved it when her dad came around with gifts. He always bought her odd things from some out of the way variety store. He never purchased anything from a Macy's, China Town or some commercial retail store. It was always something personal between those two, such as a book on love or personal growth, like _The Road Less Traveled_ or pottery handmade by Native Americans. He'd take her to a five-star restaurant like it was a date and treat her to lunch and a movie. But as time moved on, the money decreased to a trickle and visits were virtually nonexistent. I lost track of him as he wandered from place to place and job to job searching for God only knows what. He'd pop up every so often when I least expected it, like a quick sneeze. Now, I understood he had problems finding work and holding on to a job, at least that's what he told me, but how could a scholarly man with higher education of ten years not find work? I'll never understand that.

Later that evening I ended up in my office, a sanctuary of space even more so than my bedroom. It was a neatly kept space containing an oak desk and a magnificent leather office chair that I picked up from an estate sale in Winnetka. Those white folks sure could throw away some good stuff. Pictures of my mom and dad sat neatly to the left of the computer screen. Some West African passport masks I brought back from Ghana, my favorite African country and family pictures were hung on Miami blue pastel walls. The color was kind of bright, but it made for special thoughts and creative moods when peering outside my window onto Lake Michigan. A two-foot hand carved wooden giraffe was stuck in the northwest corner, and miniature brass African musician pieces were placed on an end table next to a small couch, along with other African art I purchased from Sun City, South Africa and Cote d' ivoire. I loved Africa. In my opinion, blacks here in the States don't understand the significance and power of that continent. If we did, Africa wouldn't be in the dire situation it's in and African-Americans wouldn't be in the piss poor position we're faced with.

Everyone who has entered my office has made it known that I am wildly crazy and maybe I am, because I've designated one entire wall for a collage of Michael Jordan and the Chicago Bulls. Like a star struck little boy or a grown man with an out of control inner child, I had stapled, nailed and taped championship banners, pendants and photos of me and every Chicago Bull player to that wall for more than a decade. My best girlfriend, Natalie and I had been season ticket holders for years, and never missed a Bulls home game. If there was ever conversation about the Bulls, I knew all there was to know.

As I sat at my desk, flipping the Motorola digital radio knob to the Power where DJ Chuck Cooper, he was already in full motion cramming the airwaves with verbose street colloquialisms. "...Nancy," he chimed in with his happy-go-lucky voice. "How long would you stay with your man if he lost his job?" Nancy Dubose was his female sidekick who hailed from Killeen, Texas and carried with her a well-rounded education from the University of Chicago with a major in Psychology. She held her own by countering the bodacious comedy and frank, but hilarious introspections of DJ Chuck Cooper and Coco Lee, the male comedian of the bunch. Although Nancy was not from the streets, she would meld her female intuition with book knowledge from an honor student's perspective.

"What?" Nancy sounded shocked. "Why you put me on blast, Chuck?"

DJ Chuck was quick to answer, "Why I put you on blast!?

Coco, what was Nancy talkin' 'bout yesterday?"

"She said an unemployed man would last about a week in her little black book. You know she be hatin' on the brothas," Coco chuckled.

"Oh! _I'm_ the one hatin', huh!? Coco, you're the one always talking about sisters not doin' this right and settin' up the black man to take all of his money, while she's not able to boil an egg or take care of the home."

"I'm only talkin' from my experience," Coco said in a southern slang spun in a country beat that could only be picked up from the years toiling his comedic vibe and surviving on the sizzling hot roads of South Carolina.

"That's why you on all that vanilla pudding," Nancy said, cutting Coco to the bone.

"Aw'ight, Nancy don't play that," DJ Cooper snapped.

"Well, me and my man have an understanding of trust, and that trust leads to freedom and positive choices," Nancy said. "And what's that?" Coco Lee asked.

"If you don't work, you got to cook and clean, baby. Cook and clean."

DJ Cooper laughed and said, "You mean bring out the Pledge and dust mop?"

"Nancy has that man with an apron and house shoes on," Coco sniped.

They just made me forget about the have to's and do that's of the world, if only for a short time. I have been listening to DJ Cooper's evening show for over fifteen years. He started in Chicago, then moved on to Miami, Florida, Detroit and Memphis, but eventually landed in Atlanta with a syndicated radio show played in more than sixty markets around the country. I even heard him in Ghana, Africa back in the mid-nineties. He not only parties with the best of them, but his involvement in the Black Movement was immensely important in advancing African American culture. His contribution in furthering the stability of HBCUs and informing the everyday working man, students of all ages and Black organizations assisting them towards achieving their goals was the thing that kept me as a listener. He's more than a DJ for a syndicated radio station; DJ Cooper was an optimistic spirit that propelled Black listeners towards their dream. In the new millennium, DJ Cooper developed a news website called www.Africabeats.com to which I was a frequent visitor. The website was an electronic link to black culture riding on the coat tails of newspapers before his, like the Chicago Defender, LA Sentinel or Washington Afro American with everything directed toward the African American experience. It also had a chat room coined "Drumbeats" which I visited and got my chat on with various people from around the country, if not the world.

I turned to eye the Stairmaster that I'd purchased from a garage sale in Kenilworth last summer, sitting ominously in the corner daring me to get on for a ride. I stared at it for just a moment, took a deep breath, and ambled slowly towards it. I mounted the metal, plastic man-made beast, turned it on and began climbing.

It was only two minutes later when I was rescued by the sound coming from the speakers of the computer's mechanical "R2D2" voice that broke into my lackadaisical workout... "You have mail."

"Yes." I joyously yelled inside of myself. I rushed off of the strange and rarely used contraption and hopped over to the desk and sat down in my garage sale-bought burgundy leather chair and swirled around to face my used computer purchased from EBay. I dragged my mouse to "READ MAIL".

"Now...I wonder who this is." The mail opened and I read:

To: Queen B From: Koltrane

Subject: What's up?

"Uh huh, well, well, well, it's Koltrane. What are you up to today?"

I continued reading the instant mail.

" _Wassup Q? How was your day? Hopefully better than my day because my day was whack. Remember when I told you about my friend, Desiree? Well, she wants us to be able to see other people. I know, you told me long ago about her, but she just does me so gooood. You know what I'm sayin'? But I'm not going for it this time. I'm gonna kick her to the curb in the rain with no umbrella. It's gonna be lightning and thundering on her ass, too. And then she gonna tell me about chatting on line with my friends. I just think she's jealous about you and me, that's all. Later._

HAGD, Koltrane

I leaned back and smiled. Although we had never met in person, it was always good to hear from Koltrane. We instant messenged just about three or four times a week, sometimes we would just chat for hours at a time like we had known each other since childhood. For whatever reason, it felt safe and I knew that he'd keep everything hush-hush. He wouldn't use it against me and stomp on my frailties when my weaknesses were exposed. He seemed sincere and shared what he thought about how to improve any life situation. I love my best friend, Natalie, she's tons of fun and excitement, but at times our relationship was relatively lighthearted and shallow. Sometimes lightheartedness is also how you keep friends, too, but Koltrane had always thought that Natalie was part of my problem. Natalie can party hard and at times act out, so he surmised that my troubles, especially with the opposite sex, stemmed from our nights out on the town and the men I met while with her. I understood where he was coming from, but honestly, she was my oldest and truest friend.

Since meeting Natalie in grade school when she made me cry by calling me "kinky head Carla", we were best buddies. Natalie nursed me when I caught scarlet fever in the sixth grade. After school she'd come to my home and run down the day's homework and inchoate gossip from our classmates. From that point on we were joined at the hip. We were high school locker partners throughout our four years of running the halls during a maturation period that would define us in our old neighborhood forever. We must have consoled each other thousands of times from hurt feelings by others as well as our own guilty mistakes. She was there when I miscarried my first child, and I was there for her when she gave birth to Joshua, her first child. She was there when Zoe was born, and I was there when she found out that she was pregnant again by a man that physically abused her. She wanted an abortion, but after fighting with me right in the doctor's office, she decided to have the child of God. She gave birth to Koreen, my goddaughter, the smartest and most beautiful little girl in the world. Through all of the births and deaths of family and friends, the break-ups and laughs and arguments, Natalie and I have stood the test of time.

I settled under my desk top computer with a shot of Grey Goose vodka and a sniff of Vermouth, mixed then poured over four olives and posted against a chilled oversized martini glass. _Let's see what's up in the international chocolate room of gossip and conversation,_ I thought to myself.

I double clicked my mouse, keyed in my password and depressed the return key. Once on the web, I checked into one of the eight wonders of the world.

_Who's in the chat room tonight?_ I peered over at the screen salivating with anticipation as a conversation was always in progress.

_Online Host:_ _QueenB has entered the room._

_Prettypink1:_ _"It's true, it's true. Damn I just saw it on the news!!!_

Ohh, Miss Pretty was in the house. She was fun, I couldn't help but smile when I saw her name in the room.

_Honeysuckle:_ _"He's dead? You sure?"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Are you sure it was Michael Jackson, the singer?"_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"No shit?"_

_Pigeon4_ _: "He was taken to the hospital."_

I thought, what? Wait a minute...Michael Jackson is dead? This can't be true. I have to read more.

_Honeysuckle:_ _"Rumors, rumors. Promos...you know that Hollywood shit."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Drugs I bet."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Drugs? What kind of drugs?"_

_Magicman_ _: "Ain't no telling with MJ. All types of stories surround him. Probably a publicity stunt."_

_Williamtell:_ _"That strange ass Negro always doin' something crazy. So I'm with you. You never know." Williamtell, don't you have a job? Does he ever leave his house?_

I thought. Every time I entered the chat-room, he was in it. I pictured him as a single man, forty-five years old, on physical disability and fat. I mean real fat, lying in a king sized bed, sucking on sixty-ounce Slurpee's with Jay's Potato Chip bags, Diet Coke cans, Snickers and candy wrappers slung all over his home.

_BigBen:_ _"Damn, I grew up on The Jackson 5. I'll miss him."_

I was surprised that BigBen hadn't already sent me an instant message trying to hit on me. He's so full of it.

_Williamtell:_ _"I grew up with MJ, too. One of a kind that's for damn sure."_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"true that."_

_UhuraP:_ _"What's your fav Michael Jackson song?"_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"ABC."_

_Mzjazzy1_ _: "Human Nature."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Smooth Criminal."_

_BigBen:_ _"I'll Be There. A J5 standard."_

Oh yeah, let me get mine in.

_Queenb:_ _"Remember The Time." I typed._

_Twisletoe:_ _"Man In The Mirror."_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"Dirty Diana."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"The original Thriller."_

_Poncho_ _: "Slamming beat Dangerous."_

_UhuruP_ _: "It's just unbelievable. June 25, 2009 will always stay with me as a day of remembrance. He's been such a large part of my culture, of life's rhythm and rhymes, parties and loves. I just can't believe it."_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"Everything MJ put out was provocative and the beats were hitting."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Saw him perform in New_

_York_ _. I think it was '85 or '86. The ultimate show and energy. "_

_Williamtell:_ _"Chicago at Comiskey Park when he got back with his brothers. I'm looking at the Jackson's t-shirt right now."_

_Twisletoe:_ _"Put it on, dog, and wear it with pride."_

_Williamtell:_ _"It's for sizes too small."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Another fav of mine. You Rock my World."_

_Williamtell:_ _"You rock mine, baby."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Ni-gga, please!"_

I wondered where Twisletoe had been hiding. Last time I heard from him, they were signifying on his mother. Then he got pissed off, cursed everybody out, left the Chat Room and I hadn't heard from him since then. Some people took the chatting too seriously.

_Bigben:_ _"Hold up yawl. Did you see this on Twitter or some other gossip net?"_

_Twisletoe:_ _"TMZ reported it."_

_Bigben:_ _"TMZ!? You gonna believe them? They're a gossip celebrity station."_

_Masonite4_ _: "True that. They the blabbermouth magazine of the airwaves."_

_Bigben:_ _"You gotta have a better source."_

_Twisletoe:_ _"It's all over the net and even some news stations are reporting it. But no details as to what or how."_

_Online Host:_ _"Afrodity has entered the room."_

I loved that name.

_Online host_ _: "Koltrane has entered the room."_

My good friend Koltrane's in the house. Let me respond, I thought to myself.

_Koltrane_ _: "Hey QueenB. You get my IM?"_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"Ok, ok you two can hug later. We got some shit happening in here."_

_Afrodity_ _: "Did you know that Slamdunk2323 was murdered?"_

_Koltrane_ _: "Oh!"_

_Afrodity_ _: "Slamdunk2323 is my cousin. His real name is Aaron Palmer from Little Rock, Arkansas, a real country boy that loved chatting with you all. A big computer nut that loved to tinker with electronics. He was only 28 years old. Had 3 kids, 2 boys and 1 girl; it is sad for our family. He loved to travel the world. He was always going somewhere. Just within the last year or so, he started traveling to South America. He loved going there. We are all trusting in the Lord because he knows what is best. If anyone lives in the Little Rock area, the funeral will be on this upcoming Thursday at 2nd Baptist Missionary Church in Little Rock. All are welcome."_

Occasionally, we would learn more than we want from one another in the chat room and not just entertain each other day after day with celebrity gossip, political satire, dirty dribble and sexual innuendo. We carried on for hours on end, just chatting, prognosticating, analyzing and lying to one another about everything.

Afrodity let us view through a keyhole snippets of her real life. I would instant message her from time to time, and I still didn't know her Christian name, but from her wit and writings and the character of Afrodity, I've learned a lot about her life's twisting journey.

So very quickly, the martini had relaxed my nerves and calmed the jittery doubter in me. I was never much of a drinker, but every now and then I'd indulge in a taste or two. My eyes started to tire, so I reached over and pointed the mouse to the sleep command and the screen transformed from a living electronic marvel into a dead hunk of dull plastic molding. In a mellow slide, I reached over and handled the martini glass with my index finger and thumb like I was peering over the Le Port Alexander III Bridge in Paris, France, relishing my last sip of the most fabulous martini ever made. The olives, soaked in Grey Goose for about a half an hour and under the vodka's sweet bitterness, had turned just so. I slid them slowly into my mouth and gave a wide grin as the fresh, yet tart vodka taste and olive combination burst my taste buds into excitement. As I sauntered to my bedroom, I couldn't help but to think of the chat room discussions.

The doorbell chime snatched me out of my dream state and caught me by surprise. I dragged over to the intercom in a late evening slide, "Who is it?" I asked in a polite but firm way.

"It's me, baby," a scratchy voice rang through the intercom.

### CHAPTER 4

Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn

Crash and Burn

Burn and Crash

Grace

CK

'09

It was Cutino. My heart skipped a beat and my body sang with instant wet emotions. We had been dating since we met at Fandango Supper Club and the relationship was sizzling.

Subsequent to that night, Cutino pumped Walter and Natalie for more information on my comings and goings. That next week, twenty-four roses were delivered to my office and the card read, "Roses are red, violets are blue, I will never be the same again until I see you." I was embarrassed and overwhelmed with joy at the same time. Moments after the roses were delivered and I read the card, I received a phone call.

I picked up my office phone. "This is Carla."

"Hello Carla," a deep voice seeped through the phone.

"Yes, who is this?"

"Cutino."

I grinned and with all the angry pretending that I could muster said, "How did you get my work number?"

"Determination."

"Determination didn't give you my number, now did it?"

Cutino countered my objection and said, "No, but it's amazing what a little arm twisting will do."

"Arm twisting?"

"Well, not arm twisting but definitely mind twisting."

"I hope the person whose mind you twisted didn't lose their mind altogether," I said.

"Naw, I left 'em enough to feed themselves."

"Hm...Well, what can I do for you, Cutino?"

"I was wondering what's up for the weekend?"

I shuffled the fresh flowers around on my desk, trying to find out who could have sent them. "Ah, ah, I've got some plans." "Oh! That's too bad," he said.

"Why is that?"

"I've got tickets to see Janet Jackson at the Horizon."

"Janet Jackson!?" There was a time that I would have jumped on that without hesitation, because I've been a fan and I've always heard that she puts on a great show.

"Cutino, I appreciate the offer, but I don't think that I can do that. Besides, I'm really a jazz fan."

Cutino countered, "DJ Hot Buttered Soul said it was the best show he'd ever seen."

"Ha! Hot Buttered Soul, huh, it sounds like some movie popcorn to me."

"Word... That's what he said, though and besides, these seats are in the third row, center aisle."

"Third row? Hmm." It sounded extremely tempting but I really wasn't so sure that I wanted to go out with Cutino. I wouldn't call it insecure, but why would I go out with him? Where would it get me? I bent over the flowers to smell their fresh natural fragrance, still trying to find out who sent them.

"Ms. Gregory said that you should take the offer or that she'd take your place."

I rose up out of my chair. "Ms. Gregory? How do you know Kathy?"

"Oh, I'm staring right into her deep blue eyes."

I stretched my neck and tried to see whatever I could see. "Her...What? Are you in the office?"

"You mean the auburn-colored office with plush tan leather sofas and chairs. Brushed and polished steel table tops on cement footing. You mean that office?"

"Yes. I mean that office."

"Then yes, I'm in your office."

"I'll be right there." I ended the call, slamming the phone down so hard that the receiver cracked. Thinking to myself... I cannot believe this man! And who gave him the location of my place of business? I'm going to hurt Natalie, because I know it was her. The nerve of this man to come to my place of business! I darted out of my office and power walked down the hallway greeting my colleagues in a rush. I had to tell myself to grab hold of my emotions and take a deep breath to make sure I didn't lose my composure in the office and make a scene. I skidded my warlike New York power walk and started an easy countryside stride and made a right turn into the break room where I sauntered to the water cooler, snatched a cup from the dispenser and poured a cup of cool water. "That's it, calm down and chillax." I told myself. "Don't turn this into something that it's not. After all, although very unconventional this guy did all of this for you. I would have preferred a phone call from a neutral location and not from my place of business, but maybe that's just me." I finished my cup of calming water with a clear head. "Good morning, Jeff," I said to Jeff Sandburg who was sitting at a table eating a bagel and drinking coffee.

"Good morning, Carla," Jeff Sandburg said. "How's your system running?" Jeff is our main IT guy. Every accounting department has to have one.

"Fantastic. I haven't had a problem since you fixed it," I said and continued my easy pace towards the reception area. "Hi, Carla." Trent Hogan, a Commercial Account Executive greeted.

"Morning," I hailed and kept my easy pace down the hallway.

My inner being smiled with the joy of self-assurance until I arrived at the reception area, where I met a scene from Rock. Not Rock, the movie star, but the retro sitcom "Rock" the Garbage Man. There was Cutino dressed in a one-piece green overall outfit and outdoor work boots with a City of Chicago baseball cap. But he wasn't alone, oh no, he couldn't do that. He had to have his other fellow one-piece green overall crew with him. Were they dressed for some trash man convention or something? Was the garbage truck parked out front on LaSalle Street with blinkers flashing and horns blasting from yellow cabs and passenger cars trying to get around the behemoth stinking truck? But it got worse, Ms. Gregory, a young twenty-something sister with greenish-blue eyes had a couple of her young friends up front flirting with the macho men from the garbage garage.

"There she is," Cutino said. He displayed those bright white teeth and a disarming smile that made me blush.

I smiled back and continued my stroll up to the raucous group of mid-morning partygoers. "Cutino, what a surprise. You should've let me know you were coming."

"I wanted to surprise you," his voice was confident. "Well, you accomplished that," I said with an accent of sarcasm.

"Hi, Ms. King," Ms. Gregory respectfully said.

"Good morning, Ms. King," the other young girls greeted. "Good morning, ladies." I peered at the group that included Margaret Osborne, Rochelle Peyton and Jamila Murray.

"Ladies, y'all behave," and gave them the don't-doanything-stupid glance.

"Carla, let me introduce a couple of my friends." Cutino pointed to a slim man about his height, but much lighter in the waist. His skin was the color of Georgia red dirt, his face was weathered with deep facial lines. "This is Freddie."

Freddie tipped his Detroit Tigers baseball cap. "Good morning, ma'am," he said with a deep bass voice.

Cutino pointed toward the wall. "And the guy over there who is still in conversation is Goodie."

_Goodie?! What kind of name is that?_ He was engrossed in conversation with Sharrise "Tight Skirt" Hopkins. Sharrise was a dark skinned sister blessed with an apple bottom butt that she flaunted with a skintight hip-hugging skirt that I'm sure she had to grease up in order to slide into. Even old crusty white men would take a second look. Goodie, a shorter man sporting a pair of Gucci Aviator style sunglasses peered down over the rims and greeted me with a nod, then went back to talking to and undressing Sharrise with his eyes.

Cutino turned and walked closer to me and asked, "So Carla, did you think about going to see Ms. Jackson?"

"I have a previous engagement."

"Oh," Cutino tilted his head to the side to study me.

"Another date, huh?"

The man had no shame. He just came out with his request and didn't care who listened. I hope that I didn't display a blush in front of my co-workers. "No."

"Then what? Come on, it'll be fun. I've seen Janet two other times and she never misses. The girl can throw down."

"Go on, Ms. King," Kathy the meddlesome receptionist said. Her giving me advice meant that my business would be all over the office by noon.

"Yeah, Ms. King, I heard that she puts it down," Ms. Tightskirt gave her best in-the-know voice.

I had to act, and quickly, because this was getting way too personal. "Okay. We'll go." I blurted and firmly grabbed Cutino by the arm and escorted him to the elevator. "Yes. Now I have to get back to work and so do you."

Cutino peered down at me and whispered, "I'll pick you up at six."

"Okay, whatever," I hurriedly depressed the elevator button and the door rapidly opened like it was part of my team. "Call me before you arrive," I said. "Now I gotta go back to work."

Cutino and his friends crowded into the elevator where there were two well-dressed white men in business attire. Together they looked like the United Auto Workers versus Bank of America Management.

"I will. By the way..." he said.

"Yes."

"Did you enjoy the roses?" Cutino gave a sly grin.

All the passengers in the elevator grinned, including the executives. "The roses... was that? "

Cutino smirked and blew a kiss as the elevator door closed, and I was left there stunned and flattered.

That following Saturday night, after Janet Jackson's concert had blown my mind, I had to ask the question, "How old is she? Wow, I never knew she was that good."

Cutino reached into the inside pocket of his dark blue silk blazer and brought a crumpled piece of paper detailing some biographical information on Ms. Jackson. "Let's see. Janet was born in Gary, Indiana."

"She was in the Good Times sit-com. That means that she's at least forty-something. Man, the lady is hot."

"Ha, she throws it down and the lady's got mad stamina," Cutino said.

Wiping my forehead, "I'm drained from jammin' with her."

Cutino wagged his strong shoulders to his internal beat, "Yeah, I saw you gettin' busy."

Laughing, I said, "I couldn't help it. Every time I sat down to rest, she would throw another platinum hit at us."

"So, who's the best?" Cutino asked.

"What do you mean?"

Cutino stared at me. "Michael or Janet?"

Frowning I said, "Come on. Are you kidding?"

"What?"

"It all started with Michael. You just expect so much from him. He's the original, an urban legend for real. There will be folklore for two more generations on Michael."

"Aw'ight, so there's no comparison between the two?"

"No way. There wouldn't even be a Janet without Michael," I said.

Cutino chuckled, "You sayin' that without Michael, Janet would still be in Gary, Indiana?"

"She'd be a clerk at US Steel."

He laughed and said, "Two or three kids?"

"Three kids and three grandbabies to boot."

He touched my shoulder and with a soft undertone said, "Ooo Carla, you bad."

I shivered from his touch but stayed to my pace, "I'm just sayin'... shoot, you asked," I said.

We ended up at Blues Etc. It's an unpretentious place, drab décor with a down home atmosphere. A local band named Six Pack a Blues was playing an array of B.B. King and other blues covers.

A genuine smile cracked on his face, "This is my favorite blues club."

A cornucopia of people came into view as I surveyed the

intimate saloon. There were old white folks sprinkled at the bar and tables. I saw a table of four filled with Asians. Young white college students dotted here and there and a smattering of black folks here and there. We noticed a spot in the corner with two empty seats and darted through the diminutive hometown culture club to claim them.

When we reached the table Cutino said, "Lady, you are fast on yo' feet."

I grabbed the wooden chair by the back and took a seat. "I don't know about that, but I'm crafty."

A young white lady dressed in jeans and an Obama for President t-shirt walked up to us with a menu and tray in hand. Chicago was definitely Obama land. You could see Obama promotions of all kinds at any event. "Good evening," she said.

We ordered some Buffalo wings and George Killian's lager, an Irish beer that I'd never had, but Cutino recommended.

He turned to me and out of the blue asked, "Hey, I'm going to the

Dominican next weekend. Would you like to go?"

"The Dominican? As in Dominican Republic?" I felt goose bumps, not the good kind, but the goose bumps of apprehension. "I don't know you."

"I'm a nice guy," he said.

"Yeah, you're a nice guy in the United States. I don't know if you're a nice guy thousands of miles from home."

"Hey, no strings attached. Separate rooms, but the same flight."

"Where again, the Dominican you say?"

"Punta Cana."

"Punta who?" I said.

"Punta Cana. You'll love it. Palm trees, beaches, all inclusive food and drinks and warm water." Cutino made it sound so inviting.

I couldn't deny that I could use a getaway and I'd never been to the Dominican, so that in itself made it intriguing. However, I wasn't familiar with this man. He's just too fine and could handle himself out among all kinds of people. In this world, a brother has got to handle himself in public as well as behind closed doors. He seemed harmless enough. "Separate rooms?"

"Yep. Separate rooms."

I looked him square in the eye. "That means, you have your room and I've got mine?"

"That's exactly what it means," he replied without hesitation, because if he would have paused for just one millisecond, I would have declined and not given it another thought.

"If one room is better than the other, I get the best room?" Again I looked him square in the eye. One stutter and it would have been over.

"Yes, you'll get the best room or your choice." He answered without a pause.

"And when is this trip?"

"Next weekend," he said.

I ran through the scenarios of a weekend with Cutino.

Breakfast with him. Check... Lunch and Dinner at his side. Check... Lying on the beach. Check...I felt a smile crack on my face as the thought of sand on my feet and coconut drinks flashed through my mind. Check... I noticed a wider smile appear. I had never done this before with any man and I kept thinking, _"It's not a week, it's only a weekend. Ah, what the hell."_ So I told him, "Okay, but I need more details and I've got to hold my own ticket in my hand."

Cutino gave the biggest smile yet. "Cool, we'll have a grand time." He held his glass of lager up to the air. "Let's have a toast...to a fabulous time in the Dominican."

I held up my glass and tapped it against Cutino's. "To a great time in the Dominican."

"Cutino! Hola!"

I turned to see a short stocky Spanish looking man. He wore a maroon suit coat and blue jean pants with blue hush puppy shoes and a cobalt open collar shirt displaying a thin gold chain.

"Como esta, Caesar," Cutino replied.

"Long time no see, amigo." The little Latino spoke as if he had all the time in the world.

"Si, I've been a little busy, but I'm here tonight with a wonderful and beautiful lady. Caesar, this is Carla. Carla this is Caesar, the man who actually introduced me to the blues," Cutino said.

"Buenos noches, senorita," Caesar took my hand and gently kissed the back of it.

"Oh my, well. Buenos noches, senor," I said.

The waitress reappeared and asked, "How's everything?" "Cecile, they pay for nothing," Caesar said.

"Yes sir," the Obama for President t-shirt wearing waitress replied.

"Muchas gracias, Caesar," Cutino said. Again, I was impressed with his cultural skills. I thought him to be a narrow minded, around-the-way kind of guy, but instead he was knowledgeable and wide-ranging.

Caesar nodded and said "Cutino, come see me before you go."

"Fo' sure," Cutino nodded and turned to me. "You okay?"

"Everything's fine, just fine," I said as the twanging guitars of Six Pack a Blues played earthy Tin Can Alley blues while we reveled late into the night.

We dated from February when we first met until June twenty-fifth, the day Michael Jackson died. We traveled to many exciting and exotic places and met many interesting people, while he loaded me with gifts. Cutino never ceased to surprise me. He would call on any Thursday and say, "Let's fly to the Bahamas, (or Vegas or Aruba) for the weekend." He'd play Blackjack and I'd amuse myself on the nickel slots. The first few excursions I maintained my sexual distance, but eventually my wall of celibacy collapsed. It was more than sex. It was wild as the jungles on the islands that we were inhabiting. It was twenty-four-seven sunning, swimming, eating and hot sweaty love making in restaurant nooks, faraway caves, underwater quickies and hip nightclubs. The thing about the glorious sex was no matter what we did or where we sexed it up, it never embarrassed me. I was truly enjoying dating Cutino. He was so sweet. Almost every date he'd come bearing gifts. He would present me with beautiful gifts such as the Tiffany necklace and bracelet set he surprised me with for no reason at all; and the diamond earrings he gave me when we were in the airport to fly to one of our many excursions. When we traveled to an island, he'd buy me so much that we could barely carry it all back with us. The list of gifts went on and on. Cutino spoiled me and was really doing a number on my emotions. After a while I couldn't figure if I had fallen for Cutino, or all of the material possessions he had to offer. All of it happened so fast. But I never felt trapped or committed because we were just kicking it and having a great time. The days, weeks and months passed as if time were meant for somebody else. We were unaffected by the standards of everyday life, which were the labors of a full day on the job, then going home and preparing dinner, watching the news, maybe calling Mom, freshening up and putting on my nighties, sleeping and doing it all over again. No, no, no, uh, uh, that just wasn't going to do. After I'd finish my duties as a mother with Zoe, Cutino and I took on life full steam ahead. We enjoyed hanging at the theatres, doing movies, dinner, travel, checking the many blues joints in Chicago, jazz clubs, reggae at the Wild Hare and sporting events. Cutino was tons of fun, and would spare no expense, and although I offered to pay, he'd flat out reject my monetary advances each time, until eventually I stopped asking to pay at all. I was truly enjoying our time spent together.

Zoe enjoyed Cutino's humor and thoughtfulness which made things all the more easier for our relationship. Whenever we travelled, he would personally buy her gifts. When we were in Rio De Janeiro, Brazil, it was a painting of the Brazilian Pantanal landscape that caught his eye. He caringly lugged it all the way home, and then had it superbly framed. At the NBA All-Star game in Phoenix, he chased down Allen Iverson to sign a Philadelphia 76ers jersey and brought it back as a gift for Zoe. A wooden sculpture of a parrot from Kingston, he never missed bringing her a gift. It made Zoe feel wanted and it made me hot.

It was a warm Wednesday evening, as I lay on my sofa watching the five o'clock blood and guts news when the doorbell rang. It was Cutino. I pressed the button to let him in my condominium and sixty-seconds or so later a frantic knock was at my door. When I opened it, I was shocked to see Cutino in total confusion. His clothes were soiled, like he had been sleeping in the alleys with the homeless. Sweat streamed down his maple colored face, the smell of garlic and faded deodorant caused me to cover my nose. He was huffing and puffing like he had just run a marathon through the Amazon bush.

He could barely speak, "Hey baby, I need a place to lay for a little while," he wheezed at me. He bogarted his way through the door, brushed past me, spilling a few drops of the best martini in the world from the glass I was daintily holding and staggered into the room. I was confused by his actions. He had never presented himself to me like this before. Although I should have known better, I let him slide through the door. My heart was heavy for him. I knew there was something out of place by his slovenly appearance and atypical demeanor. But I remained wary.

"What do you mean for a little while?" I squeaked out, still stunned by his awkward demeanor. I didn't know what to think. We had been having such a great time and all, but never talked about shacking up, even for a few days. I was more like, you go your way, and I'll go mine. There were no discussions of marriage, any living together vibes or common law this or that. _Damn, and it was going so good._ "What's going on with your house?" I asked.

He spun around to me like Count Dracula being threatened by Blade, the Wesley Snipes vampire slayer who was wielding his silver sword; his wild eyes were bloodshot and crazy with bad intentions.

Out of fear, I took a step back.

"Listen, don't ask me no bunch of questions right now. I need to lay low for a while. That's all," he insisted.

Fright had swelled up in me, because his normally sleepy brown eyes were monstrously red and scary. All I wanted were some quick answers and if the answers didn't fit right with me, Cutino's ass was out of there _post haste_. I poked my head out of my door and into the hallway to see if any of my nosy neighbors had seen what was going on, and then I shut the door and turned back to Cutino. With my fight or flight emotion up and running I asked him, "Lay low? From who?"

He rubbed his head with rapid strokes until I thought it would catch fire. "Ain't nothin' serious. I just need a little time."

My scandal radar bleeped wildly, _RED ALERT, RED_

_ALERT_. _"Get him out! Get him out!"_ I kept hearing my mother's voice shouting in my head; but it seemed a little too late. The missile had already detonated and my fighter jet was going down in flames. "I don't need any trouble, Cutino," I blurted trying to muster some strength in my words.

"Whatchu mean you don't need no trouble? I thought we

were one."

My jaw dropped. You could have fit a jar of Ma Parker's blueberry jelly in my mouth. I was confounded, and had never seen Cutino in this way. I mean, I'll stick by my so-called man, and I'm not one to run and hide from a little trouble every time it presents itself, as long as it doesn't include the law and you don't threaten me with bodily harm. If you threaten me with physical injuries or put any organization affiliated with the government into the equation, I'm out of there. To me, Cutino always had this Billy Dee Williams, savoir faire demeanor. Billy Dee would pop the top on a bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor, and every time a beautiful woman would ring his doorbell, he'd say something in a slow and easy rhythm, "Colt 45 malt liquor, it happens every time." You know the kind of cool that always got him the greatest outcome, which would make you say, "Wow he is the smoothest brother in my life." In every situation, Cutino was under control and he always ended up with the best results. But right now, it was simultaneous fear and hostility that poured out of Cutino and some of it was towards me. "Okay, okay, honey. Let's calm down and tell me, what's going on?" Then with all the calm I could muster, I took a seat on the couch.

He paused for a second still staring at me, then almost stumbling over to the couch Cutino plopped down next to me exhausted, like a beaten boxer. I don't know why, but it flashed through my mind that I should have brought a drop cloth and told him to get his funky butt up off my new couch and out of my home.

"I don't know. I don't know," he cried out, and dropped his head against the back of the couch and stared up at the ceiling.

"Things have just gotten out of control."

"Tell me, baby. It's alright." I thought at that moment that something drastic had happened. Maybe a family member had died and that he was really hurting. I slid over to him and wrapped my arms around his neck and pulled him close, "It's going to be okay, honey. Just give it time." He hugged me back hard. Cutino was a large man, about six-foot-three and probably two hundred-twenty pounds or so. He kept in great shape and ate healthy. He said in high school that he was the star football and basketball player. I figured that he was tough in that physical way. I was never afraid when I was out with him on the town, I always felt protected and safe. This insecurity and fear from him was out of character. But that was all right for now. I squeezed him back, rocked him to sleep, and decided we could start over when he awakened.

We didn't talk for a while as I let him regroup. His smooth, clean-shaven head rested gently on my breast. His eyes closed, as he seemed to relax and drift into a smooth rest. There were these high-pitched wheezing sounds seeping from his sinuses that reminded me of an infant child. The baby breaths were like Cutino hadn't passed puberty. His large size and small childlike sounds made for an amazing contrast in the man. I thought he was cute. Cutino had this unique edge. I couldn't really understand what it was, but he really had his own modus vivendi. I realized at that very moment that I was beginning to fall for him, despite how much I tried to fight it.

A few hours or so later after Cutino had calmed down and fallen asleep, there was an authoritative knocking on the door.

Cutino woke up and with swift fear said, "Who is that?"

All of a sudden the front door sounded like it was being attacked by sledgehammers.

"Open up," a man's voice from the other side of the door demanded.

Cutino jumped from the couch and stood motionless. He surveyed around the room like he was assessing alternatives.

"Who is it?" I questioned the combative demands on the other side of my door.

"Ma'am, open the door." The Barry White sounding voice ordered.

"Don't let 'em in. Carla. Please don't! Don't!" Cutino was steady and firm with his direction and he remained relatively calm, but I could see the angst crawling within him. He kept searching my small condominium and then assessed my beautiful view overlooking Lake Michigan eight stories up.

_Oh my goodness! I can't believe this!_ I thought to myself.

"Why? Why not?" I questioned him. "Why shouldn't I open the door?"

"'Cause."

I placed my hands on my hip. "'Cause what?"

He was silent for a few seconds, "Something has gone wrong. They're trying to ruin me, to get me."

"Who is trying to get you? For what?"

"I 'ont know. I've been dedicated and smart about mine.

The government... You know how they are." Cutino eased around the condo appearing to search for something.

I turned to see what he was looking for. "No I don't, how

are they?"

He poked his head out from behind my kitchen door.

"Every time you try to get something, they try to take it away."

If it wasn't so serious, I'd have been laughing uncontrollably the way he poked his head out from my kitchen.

"What do you have that they need to take away?"

"You know."

"What? No I don't."

"Yes you do," he moved into the living room and disappeared into the window treatment that cost me almost three thousand dollars. God, did I overpay for that job.

"Why do they need to take something from you?"

He stopped searching the room and gave a cold stare at me. "You actin' all innocent and shit."

"What? What the hell are you talking about?" "You heard me." Cutino's personality zigzagged like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Just that quick he turned from a Billy Dee impersonator into a full grown imp.

I stared back at him in disbelief of what I was hearing.

"You actin' like some fool."

He spoke from behind the curtains. "Don't believe them!

They're liars."

I stomped my foot, frustrated at what I was hearing from him and the knocking at my front door. "Why are you talking like this? What did they do to you?"

"Were you in on it?" He points his finger at me from the curtains but never showed his face. "Were you in on it?"

"Nigga, please. In on what?" Forget this, Cutino had lost his mind. I turned around and made my way to the door.

"Uh huh. Answer me Carla. Were you in on it? Everybody was in on it. Gettin' paid, livin' large, tryin' to be somethin' big," he threatened.

God, I am so grateful that Zoe was at a tennis tournament in Saint Louis and not there to experience this foolishness. I had to get him out of my house. "You talking crazy, Cutino. I'm going to get the door."

"No!" he yelled as if we were in an outdoor field.

The knock came again, "Ms. King? Ms. King, open up. It's the police."

"The police!?" My heart fluttered and hands trembled.

Damn, they know my name? What was this all about?

"Okay. Okay. Alright, I'm coming." I threw an angry glare back at Cutino. "What you do, Cutino? What have you done?" My mind raced around trying to figure out something, anything that might make sense. _What did he do? Who is this man? I mean really, who is this man? I know he's sweet and giving. But we have not even had an argument. He's thoughtful, kind and generous to me. But generosity and kindness also ran with people like Al Capone to his family, Charles Manson and Hitler to those that they care for. So, those characteristics have nothing to do with it. Carla, think! Think!_ He came to my home like a frantic child that had been run off by the bullies around the corner. Then he laid in my lap like a motherless child, whimpering as if he had lost something dear to him. Could that lost something be his freedom? Now the police are barking at my door, ordering me to open up and Cutino is directing me not to let them in. I began to stare at him with a different frame of reference. _Was he a thief, murderer or worse?_ _Damn, black men!_

He pointed his finger at me with conviction. "I haven't done anything wrong, so don't believe them."

"Cutino, nobody is accusing you of anything." A multitude of negative thoughts ran through my mind, piling on like Republicans on Obama. _Aww, no! Hell no! I don't know what is going on. Plus, I'm not volunteering to take the fall for this man and he's not going to blame me for something that he's done and I end up as one of these sisters sitting in State Prison taking the fall for some man's crime. I don't know what it is, but I'm going to get to the bottom of this._ So, I turned and started toward the door, but then Cutino jumped out from behind the curtains and rushed me.

"Carla, please don't open the door. Let's go. When this is all over, we're going to Aruba. What a beautiful place. Okay? Promise me that when this is over, we can live together for a long time." He held my hand and placed his cheek against it. "You know that I love you."

Again and again, the police pounded my door with growing determination.

"I know, honey and I love you, too. But, Cutino I don't know what's happening, and that's the police out there, and I haven't done anything wrong." My head and heart were going in different directions. The first time Cutino said those words was in Ocho Rios, Jamaica. We were sitting under the Mahoe water falls at Coyaba Gardens, just letting time rest under the warm wind and sun of the Caribbean. I was definitely feeling him as we floated on wings of joy and happiness, but I had been through that before when Sidney banged my head against the wings of joy. Still, my response was 'I love you, too.'

Then he attempted to grab at me hard, but I leaped back out of his grasp. He sprung to his feet and vaulted towards me. "You can't open the door," his voice deepened with a tone of seriousness like a doctor explaining to a patient that she has less than a summer to live.

"Ms. King! Ms. King, I know you and Mr. Moore are in there! I'm gonna give you to the count of three," the voice from the other side of the door demanded.

"Mr. Moore? Honey, that's not even your name! He said Moore not Grisby. Not Cutino Grigsby." My spirits rose with the sound of another name besides Cutino's and certainly a name other than mine.

He grabbed my wrist again. "You can't open the door, Carla," Cutino tightened his grip harder on my wrist.

"Cutino, stop, you're hurting me," I searched into his hardened eyes. His brow curled with determination as his hands which were large enough to palm a basketball and baseball together kept a strong lock on my wrist.

"You can't answer the door," he said.

"But if I don't open the door, they'll bust through."

Cutino searched around the room seeking a place to escape.

"Cutino, you know there's only one way in and one way out." There were only the lakeside windows eight floors up. Down below was a twenty-foot wide cement patio that extended the length of the building which sat on top of the underground parking garage. A stretch of beach began just past the end of the patio, which ran into the fresh waters of Lake Michigan. He was going nowhere.

Cutino bit his lip still searching, "Why you get a place with only one damn door?"

I yanked my arm from his grip and tried running to the door. He was like Elastic Man as his arms just extended out to stop my progress. Tightening his grip with twice the pressure, he shook me. "Carla, you must not believe them. No matter what, you must not believe them about me," he pleaded. Still seeking a way to get out of my condo again, he pleaded, "I can't believe there's no back door in this place! What kind of place is this? Why is there no back door?"

I attempted to fight him off, swinging with my free hand trying to slap him in the face, poke him in the eye, and smash him in the nose... anything to make him stop this madness. But his arms were just too long and my punches came up just brushing his shoulder. "Let me go, Cutino. Stop! Stop it!"

He pulled me into the bedroom, "I gotta get outta here...out the window," he mumbled to himself.

I tried to repel his attack, but I found myself on the floor with Cutino dragging me by my wrist to the bedroom.

"I'm sorry, honey, but you have to stay with me for a little while longer," he said.

I grabbed the cocktail table knocking down the lamp and my one-of-a-kind Asante Nok statue from Ghana. Then I heard the police knocking harder on the door.

"Ms. King, are you all right?"

"Help, help," I hollered.

"Carla, stop; shut up I'm gettin' out of here." Cutino yanked me into the room like you would imagine OJ Simpson dragging his wife, Nicole down the steps of her home before slashing her throat. But I had acquiesced to Cutino's will, his strength and might overpowered me. We were headed toward the window of death and there was no telling what this man might do. He could toss me into eternal reincarnation, or would I end up in the hell Pastor Simmons, my mother's minister would talk about; the place where eternal damnation of the soul would be tormented forever with burning of flesh and screaming and gnashing of teeth, bones breaking, skin rotting over and over again and there would stand Hitler, Bull Connors, Jim Jones and a host of Presidents and Kings holding a cup of Kool-Aid. I imagined a host of African tyrants, Chinese and Japanese warlords and Mexican drug dealers suffering over and over again with the Muslim men who rammed the planes into the World Trade Center along with all the deviants and psychopaths from societies all over the world singing the praises of Satan.

"Cutino, please don't! Stop," I begged. "You don't have to do this!" I bit into his hand but it wasn't enough. He just shrugged it off like an ant biting the thick skin of an elephant.

We reached the window and he twisted the lock.

"Carla, please be quiet," he urged.

I glanced ninety feet down to a cement bottom. "Cutino!

Where are we going, honey? We can't go anywhere."

He stared eight stories below. "Down onto the roof."

In a millisecond, a non-descript action movie flew through my mind. What the hell was he talking about? _There's no hidden escape route in here, only a ninety foot sheer drop to death. So he couldn't get away and stay in one piece_. "There's nothin' to climb onto, Cutino. There are no steps or ladder. There's just a fall straight down."

Paying no attention to me, Cutino unhinged the latch and lifted open the window, then with one punch he knocked out the screen and it tumbled down eight stories to the patio cement deck smashing into pieces. He let my arm go and I fell to the floor and scrambled out of his way. Cutino stuck his neck out of the window and surveyed the building for an escape, then reached down around his waist fumbling with some black nylon pouch that was attached to his belt. Cutino opened the black wallet size bag and brought out a round metal object that reminded me of a tape measure cover then unlatched some type of locking device and pulled out about an arm's length of line. He extended his arm, tied the line to the window frame where he had punched out the screen.

"What are you doing, Cutino?" I flung my arms out for him to grab hold. "No, no! Cutino, no!" I stood up and tried to pull him away from the window. But he tossed me with his granite-like forearm like a red ant riding an elephant's ass, then climbed through the window and dropped out of view.

I rushed to the window and poked my head out to see if he had crashed to his death. But he was hanging there on his make shift line, close enough to lash his arm out at me and dig his fingers into my hand, "Don't believe what they say!" A strange look came over his red eyes from outside of the building where he seemed to hesitate in midair and defy gravity eight stories up. Then he shimmied down the condominium brick wall like a Ninja Spiderman. He nimbly descended from the eighth floor of the building and when he reached the patio, he unleashed from the Spiderman web gizmo and dashed to the patio opening that surrounded the deck, and vaulted over the security gate onto the sand like a world class athlete and continued running down the beach to become a fugitive.

I watched him sprint down the beach after sliding down the wall ninety feet in the air on a piece of thin wire, Cutino's escape had me mesmerized and in total disbelief at what he had done. _Who is this guy?_ The wonderful man that I'd traveled with and enjoyed this past year or some maniac pathological fugitive, stealing, lying and cheating his way through life? When I finally took my eyes away from this wild man loping down the lakeside, I turned back into my home to see a baseball team of cops storming towards me.

"Ms. King," a uniformed policeman spoke in a calm voice. The young cop clutched my shoulder and brought me away from the window in a secure hold. "It's alright. It's okay," "Damn, look at that guy," a chunky patrolman said, amazed at Cutino's death defying feat. His pasty puffy hands fiddled with the thin black rope that hung from my window. Like me, he could only stare down at Cutino's escape from their grasp.

He took his dark blue patrolman's hat off and scratched a thin layer of hair left on his round head. "Who is this dude?" was his rhetorical question. The chunky cop examined the gadget which was still tied to my window frame and pulled it back into my condo.

"Let that thing go, and call for support," a commanding voice reprimanded. The cop with higher rank was a black man, just a hair taller than me with a dark oval face full of dark pock marks.

"Yes, sir," the young flabby flat foot acknowledged his commander and waddled off to hunt down Cutino.

In a flash, I lost my focus and felt nauseous. I sensed myself slipping into a weightless wonderland and began reaching for a seat. "Ms. King. Carla..." a man's voice was calling in the distance.

"Yes," I heard myself say, but it felt like it was out of body; like falling and then soaring through an infinite time and space, an array of vibrant colors and designs with pieces of puzzles from my life appearing out of nowhere. The colors of the imagery passing through my subconscious; the places, people and things of my life shifted about in rapid flurries of good times and bad.

"Ms. King?" the first man called my name with an authoritative tone.

Feeling faint I answered, "Yes." When I staggered to my senses, I was actually lying flat on my back. But once I regained my focus, I wanted to dive back down into the stupor from which I had come. You name it, the Chicago Police, Cook County Sheriff, ATF, FBI, CIA, they were all there staring me in the face. White men in outfits of control were peering down at me with determination and frowns. My heart almost leapt out of my chest.

With blurry eyes, I saw a dark figure moving about. "Ms. King?" the shadowy voice called out. When I opened my eyes, I saw a black man maybe in his forties with a thick, but neatly trimmed mustache and the name of Robinson displayed on his badge. There seemed to be a football team of white men with various suits and uniforms standing in back of him, jostling for position to get closer to me.

"Yes?"

"I'm goin' to read you your rights," The Robinson badge said.

_Say what?_ I couldn't believe what I had just heard. I thought that he wanted to help me to my feet. _This man didn't just say "read my rights", did he?_ It was beyond my imagination. _Here I am, minding my business, sipping on a martini, relaxing in my home, then a man tries to throw me out of my window and this cop wants to arrest me?_ "Read me my rights? For what?" I asked.

"Harboring a fugitive. International terrorism, gun running, stuff like that..." he said in a matter of fact way.

Pleading, "You must be mistaken! Terrorism? I'm not harboring any fugitive or nothing of the sort." _Mommy, Daddy, where are you? I need you right now to save me from this torment placed upon me with impunity._ They'd always come to my rescue if needed. When I fell from the porch in Uncle Lester's backyard and broke my ankle, they were there to soothe me. When a high school teacher cheated me on a grade they were there to defend me. When my ex left me, they were there to comfort me. But out of all the times that I needed them the most, it would be now.

The law enforcers were short with comments and questions, treating me as if I were a career criminal. They finally pulled me to my feet, steadied me, turned me around, placed my hands behind my back and handcuffed me. "You have the right to remain silent," I heard the chocolate copper say. "You have the right to an attorney."

"Wait, wait, wait," I said.

"Then tell me what I need to know," the cop said, who reminded me of the Saddam Hussein tribe of big mustaches.

_Okay, Carla wake up. WAKE UP!_ "Sir, I haven't done anything. Why are you arresting me?" I struggled for him to release me, but he was too experienced for somebody like me to squirm away from. These men were trained in the art of handling people and knew how to physically control common everyday souls like myself and make them give up their will to fight back.

"What... tell you about what?"

He pulled me by the forearm over to a chair next to my coffee table overlooking Lake Michigan to the east. It was my favorite place to listen to music and think. I don't remember another thing the man said as he rattled off my rights. It was no use; they had made up their minds to do what they wanted. They took me by the handcuff and walked me down my eighth floor hallway where I noticed Mrs. Burns peering out of her door staring at me like an ashamed adult would stare at a bad child. I then laid my eyes on Jamal McCord wearing a red satin robe and Ashanti Lester dressed in shorts and a tank top, and a gay couple who were the unofficial lookouts on our floor.

"Everything alright, girl?" Jamal asked with a feminine twist.

I shrugged.

Jamal continued, "Don't let them big bad boys hurt you, girl. If you need anything honey, just call. Okay?"

The police ushered me into the elevator, down to the lobby past Elmore Jamaison, the doorman and into the squad car, straight to the 14th Precinct. They gave me no benevolence.

### CHAPTER 5

We are God's special handiwork

The muddy road does not detour my path

My will shall overcome those that betray me and obstacles blocking my way

The dauntless life awaits me

Victory is for the lionhearted believer

The end of fear is now

CK

'09

Two sloppily dressed male officers clutched both of my arms, like I was a lamb being led to slaughter, and escorted me through a maze of dreary hallways into the women's lock-up where a "Two Tons of Fun" female waited for me with a scowl that would have put Mike Tyson to shame.

"Hey Mary," the policeman holding my right elbow greeted the snow colored Amazonian guard.

She was as wide as she was tall, with a chest that practically poked me in my eyes.

"Chuck, how's it hangin'?" the burly hostess of the 14th precinct female lock-up smirked.

"More like how's it bangin'," the chubby guard with the name Redman on his name plate responded with a chuckle, pretending he was riding a galloping horse. "...and the bangin' is hard. Giddy up, yee haw," he yelped.

"Who you got there?" Mary, the macho female asked. She had a deep voice with a raspy scrape as if she had smoked since before she was a teenager.

"Mary Graham," he called her full name. "There's a line of people who want to talk to this one," he said and cut his eyes at me and smirked.

"Humpf, impo'tant crook, huh?" the female guard said.

"Suh'im like that," he pulled me to her.

She clawed me with hands that were rougher than her male counterpart's; her palms were tacky like dried Elmer's glue. She jerked my arms making the handcuffs scrape against my wrist and digging deep into my muscle and bone causing sharp pain. I couldn't believe that I was handcuffed. The female guard from hell just rolled her eyes and gave a "who cares" turn of her mouth.

_What the hell is going on? Why do they have me here?_ I just kept telling myself that this was all a mix up and it would be all over in a minute or two. Whatever Cutino had done didn't affect me in the least. So I had nothing to fear.

"Come on, sista and have a squat." She slurred like a "whister", which is a white girl that's a fake wannabe-around-theway sister. I've always disliked white people that mock you with your distinctive culture's attitude and language accent. They try to use it against you to disarm you like they know how you think and feel. Then when you approach them about their actions, they deny it, claiming that "our people" are always looking for some type of excuse to start a conflict. "I got a nice place fo' you to hang yo' hat. Come on. Come wit me," she directed in a firm voice.

We took four steps and were met by another female officer who escorted us to a gray door.

"Here we go," another female guard said. She was a black lady, maybe in her early twenties. She appeared out of place down there in the dull dungeon. Her face was cut sharp with high cheekbones. Her short hair with wire rim glasses made her appearance studious and nerdy. She opened the heavy metal door and led me into the room where I was met by three suited men.

While the two guards guided me into the tiny room, the three men stared and said nothing. "Sit there," said the nerdy female guard, whose name plate read Jennings. She pointed to one of the three metal chairs sitting next to a small wooden table. The room was tiny like one in a cheap flop house, only without a toilet. The walls were dark and begrimed, but because of the poor lighting, I really couldn't be certain of its murky color.

"Okay." I sat down on the chair, feeling awkward and uncomfortable. At that point, she uncuffed me and I immediately rubbed my wrists trying to soothe my chaffed skin where the cuffs had been tightened.

"Carla." One of the men began. He hesitated and stared at me with Paul Newman blue eyes, seeming to glare into my spirit searching for a weakness to break into. "My name is Frederick Clausen, Agent Frederick Clausen. I'm with the FBI. To my right, is Detective Thomas Wharton from the Chicago Police Department and next to him is Agent Sam Hicks from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. We need some answers from you. Is that okay?" Agent Clausen spoke with a calm tone, but those ice cold blue eyes said. Don't fuck with me or I'll kick your ass.

"Yes, I'll tell you anything. I have nothing to hide." With my heart pulsating and head throbbing, I tried to appear composed, but I felt rushed and on the edge losing composure. I knew I was a good person and I didn't deserve that treatment. During my school years and even after I graduated, I attempted to display the positive attitudes of a black woman. My virtues were sincere, my character intact and I could count on two hands things that I felt ashamed of. As for being involved in crime, I'd never done anything criminal. So why this? Then it hit me. That's when I wanted to disappear and bust out of that place, because I realized that there are plenty of innocent people in jail! Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time is a tale that's been told over and over. I didn't want to end up being one of the many who had maintained their innocence and were still found guilty.

"Good." Agent Clausen said. He was a middle aged white man, slender and tall. His suit hung on him like his body was a thin metal coat hanger holding an oversized cashmere winter coat. His eyes sat far back into his head leading to a menacing stare. I hadn't noticed this metal table stuck in a corner, until he strolled over to it and gathered a notebook. He strolled a few paces and leaned against the wall in back of me. "Ms. King, I know you must be extremely uncomfortable, right?"

"Yes, I'm very uncomfortable," I said, but I didn't turn around to face him.

He was still talking to me out of my sight. "Well, we'll make this as painless as possible. All you have to do is tell the truth, and you can get home before breakfast," Agent Clausen would have made a great radio announcer with his crystal clear tenor voice.

I closed my eyes and said, "Why sure, I'm transparent.

Ask me anything."

"Ok, we'll be recording this for our records. Do you give us that permission?"

Unsure I stuttered, "Ye- yeah, okay."

"State your name, please."

"Carla King."

"Ms. King, you are waiving your rights to an attorney?"

"Yes, I told you that upstairs. If I ask for an attorney, I'd have to wait in the cell until one is brought here, or would I have to call my attorney and wait for her to get here, right?"

"That's right; you'd have to wait in the holding cell until the attorney arrives."

Deep down inside, I knew I should call my attorney, but at the same time I hadn't done anything that warranted an attorney. I could answer their questions and go home. I made my one phone call to Natalie so she could come down, we could go home and they could continue doing their job and catch Cutino's ass. As a matter of fact, I'd help them in any manner towards putting his no good lying ass under the jail. I didn't care if they sent him below the bowels of Joliet State Pen or the mattress detail at Marion Federal Correctional as long as they put that no good so and so away.

"I just want to get out of here," I said to Agent Clausen, eager to get the whole ordeal over with.

Sounding like John Wayne in a cowboy movie, Agent Clausen said, "What is your relationship with Archer Moore?" "Who?"

"Archer Moore," he repeated in a Texas drawl.

"I- I don't know an Archer Moore."

"Who was the man in your condo?"

"Cutino."

"So he called himself Cutino?"

"Yes, Cutino Grigsby."

There was a pause in the conversation. "Okay, what is your relationship with Cutino Grigsby?"

"We're good friends. We date."

"How long have you dated him?"

"Oh, I guess a little less than a year or so."

I heard him shuffling his feet and moving about behind me. "Do you know him well?" he asked.

At that point, I turned toward him and said, "Hell, no. You just busted my door down and he jumped out an eighth floor window to escape. So, hell no, I don't know the man."

"Right, right." Agent Clausen stopped talking for nearly a minute. The air was thick and sour like a room full of day old dried puke after a frat party. I was going to speak, but I would have only fumbled and stepped over words that may or may not have been pertinent. So, I just sat there. Then he continued, "But before that, did you think you knew him?"

I spun back around and faced the bare wall. "I don't know.

Sometimes I felt like I knew him in a dating way." "Were you intimate with him?"

I turned and stared hard at him. "What?"

"Were you intimate with him?"

I raised my voice, "That's none of your business."

Agent Clausen remained calm and said, "So, you weren't intimate with him?"

"That's still none of your business!" I felt my neck swirl as I told him. I noticed that my neck moved in that sister girl way. I didn't practice it and don't recall ever using the swirl but there I was swirling my neck just like the rest.

"Why do you call him Cutino?"

His Texas drawl annoyed me. He kept asking me these dumb ass questions? "That's his name. That's the name that he gave me!"

"He gave you that name when?"

"When I first met him at the Fandango Supper Club." "What's a Fandango Supper Club?" he repeated.

"Yes, sort of a restaurant, club, bar. You know..."

"How long ago was that?"

"I told you. Almost a year, I guess."

"Uh huh." Agent Clausen stalked around me until he met me face to face. "How did you meet him?"

My head hung down so my eyes met the floor. "I was introduced to him."

"By whom?" he asked.

"My friend, Natalie. Well, actually it was Walter McKay, Natalie's boyfriend."

"What's Natalie's last name?" "White," I said.

He repeated, "Natalie White."

Damn, I didn't want Natalie tied up in this. She had nothing to do with my situation. But I said, "Yes."

He scribbled something on his pad of paper. It was probably Natalie's name.

"So, Natalie and Walter introduced you to Cutino. Is that right?" Agent Clausen asked, only this time his speech pattern was slower appearing to study each word.

"Walter introduced me to Cutino," I said.

"How did Walter know Cutino?"

"I don't know. The Fandango Supper Club seemed to be the only reference that I recall."

Agent Clausen then asked, "So you and Cutino started dating?"

"Yes."

Detective Clausen slid over to a black briefcase sitting on the gray tile flooring. He flipped the lock, opened it and extracted a manila folder and flipped through the pages. "Ms. King, did you and Cutino travel to Toronto?"

I thought for a second back to the time when Cutino and I stayed in a fabulous suite at the Toronto SkyDome Hotel overlooking the indoor baseball field of the Toronto Blue Jays and riding to the top of the CN Tower, then visiting Royal Ontario Museum. "Yes. We visited Toronto."

"Did you travel to the Bahamas with Cutino?"

"Yes." We actually stayed at the Atlantis Royal Towers on Paradise Island and played craps and twenty-one all night long. I left the casino a winner with a four hundred dollar profit.

Detective Clausen continued in a monotone voice, "Then did you fly to Brazil and places in South America with Cutino?"

Now he was getting under my skin. "Yeah, why?" My tone cut through my fears and pleasantries. "Is there something illegal about that?"

He didn't answer, but instead replied, "The last place you traveled with him was to Punta Cana, Dominican Republic. Is that right?"

"Yes, we traveled to Punta Cana."

He was deliberate with his question. "You stayed in a well-armed and protected villa with a Mister Policap."

I thought back to Punta Cana. "I don't know about wellarmed."

"Well then, it was a villa and his name was Policap?"

I pondered his question for a moment then answered, "I don't know, maybe...Yes, that could have been his...I believe that was his name."

Detective Clausen continued, "Who was there with you?"

"I don't know." I wasn't sure what he wanted. "I mean, I'm not sure what you're asking me."

Agent Clausen paced around, circling me like a shark on chub. He must have thought I was hiding something. He pulled one of the chairs from under the table, crashed it to the floor in front of me and sat down so close that I thought he was going to mount me right then and there. "It had guards protecting the home, right?"

"Guards? I don't know anything about guards."

"Who was there, Ms. King!" he yelled.

"In Punta Cana?"

"Damn it! Yes, in Punta Cana."

I reflected back to the trip not too long ago, maybe five or six weeks in the past. Punta Cana was a beautiful island with friendly people, full of warm breezy air, exotic deep green foliage, beautiful palm trees and delicious cuisine. I was flying high, not only from sitting in first class on Delta, but the good life I was experiencing since meeting Cutino. The trip was typical of all the getaways that we shared together. The best of everything in travel including shopping sprees and adventure into the forest and cultures of the places and people we met along the way. After a while, I thought nothing about the money it cost or how he got it. At the beginning of our relationship, I did ponder about finances and felt a little guilty about all the money he spent, but when I asked him if he wanted me to pay half, he just pooh poohed it. I'd offer to pay for dinner or tickets to events, but he'd just push it off to the side and the next thing I knew, he had already taken care of it. I couldn't have afforded to travel to all the countries or cities we'd visited, but I could pay my way to dinners and local entertainment events and would gladly offer. Then, not too long after I asked him more than a few times about paying, he emotionally explained to me that his parents had been killed in an accident and that he inherited a substantial amount of money from his parents' life insurance, along with other family assets. He then invested the inheritance in the stock market and made out big with some tech stocks. Not to mention other entrepreneurial activities like real estate investments and his import and export business.

But out of all our escapes, that particular one had a twist and raised a little curiosity. When Cutino planned the getaway, he said that we were going to stay in a villa or hotel which was not unique in itself. But when we arrived, it was more like a compound. The property was exquisitely manicured hosting a variety of palm trees, exotic plants and flowers landscaped to perfection. There was the main house, adorned with marble flooring throughout the entrance and chandeliers placed in assorted areas, sometimes two or three in a room. I don't know how many bedrooms, but at last count, I stopped at twelve. There were 2 swimming pools, multiple saunas, steam rooms, a tennis court and guest houses larger than most homes in Chicago. But even in these ginormous living spaces, it didn't take long before I felt trapped and confined, living behind seven foot brick walls with surveillance cameras stationed over every inch of the property, probing our every move left me wanting for the other side of the wall where freedom reigned. Heck, I couldn't leave the estate without notifying Cutino and he would then ask the guest host. The opulence was astounding, but nonetheless weird. I never felt threatened and was treated with the utmost respect and even adoration from the host and his staff. But I definitely felt confined.

"Who was there?" I heard him ask.

I snapped out from underneath my subconscious and uttered, "I said I don't know. What's that got to do with anything, anyway?" I stared down at my trembling hands and tried to remember the names of some of the people. "Everything was moving so fast. As you already know, Cutino took me everywhere. He'd just show up or call and say, 'Come on we're going to such and such tomorrow. He'd say, don't worry about clothes and stuff, we'll buy them there. First class flights and four- and five-star hotels. He'd even rent luxury cars like a Jaguar, Mercedes or something like that."

"And you never asked him any questions about where he got the money to do all of this?" Agent Clausen asked.

"Of course. I already told you that he told me he inherited it from his parents. Plus he owned some real estate and dabbled in other businesses."

"His parents? How so?" Agent Clausen said.

"He said his father was an avid flyer and owned a small plane and that they were flying from New York to Tampa and never made it. Heck people inherit money all the time. Maybe it was his season to have some money. I mean I wondered about his money after the first couple of trips, but after he explained to me about the accident and inheritance, I didn't think too much of it."

"So, did you ask him?"

"Ask him what?"

"How much money inheritance did he have?"

"It was none of my business. I wasn't after him for money.

Most of the men I've dated didn't have a lot of money. They're hard working people with dreams and aspirations who toil day after day trying to make a living."

"But Cutino didn't work. Did he?"

"Yes, he was an entrepreneur."

Agent Clausen said with sarcasm, "Oh, is that what he told you?"

"Exactly."

"So, did you ever see him?"

"Did I ever see him where?"

He rubbed his clean shaven chin. "Yes, did you ever see him in his office?"

"No. Well, maybe one time I thought I saw him," I said.

"But you weren't sure?"

He was frustrating me. "Right, I wasn't sure if it was him or not."

"So, he made all this money through his real estate, stock market and his import and export?"

I raised my voice. "All what money? Listen, I took the man at his word. Why shouldn't I take his word?"

"What you're telling me is that you never asked him about his money?"

My voice rose for the first time. "I told you about his inheritance and the businesses! Now stop asking me about it!"

"Let's go back to Punta Cana. Who were the people at the house?" Agent Clausen insisted.

I was too upset and nervous to think. I noticed my hands were shaking out of control so I held them tight in my lap. "I don't know."

The three men said nothing for what seemed like half an hour, as I searched my memory about Punta Cana. I remembered when we ascended up to the inconspicuous location sitting atop a hill. It was a simple Spanish ranch style, but with a magnificent palm tree-laden landscape. There were a few luxury Hummers and a Volvo SUV that, for the most part, looked out of place sitting in a graveled parking area large enough to fit a hundred more like them. Then a name came to me.

"Somebody named, Cecile," I blurted. "Yeah, Cecile. She was a Haitian lady. Real classy, almost snooty, ya know. She wore this thick black eyeliner, with too much foundation on her face. It almost made her appear to look like a breathing black mannequin. Then there was...um... Moby, or something like that. He was Cecile's man or husband or something. Moby was quiet, didn't say much at all. It seemed like Cecile did enough talking for both of them. I think the owner of the home was named Richard. It was pronounced Ri'-chard, like the French would say it. Cutino seemed to be very close to him. I can't remember his last name, if I ever knew it at all. He wasn't a tall man, almost short, with dark skin and a wide smile like the jazz trumpeter, Louis Armstrong. Yes, he reminded me of Louis Armstrong. He spoke with a tenor's voice in broken English, but when I listened closely I could understand him. He took us snorkeling off the coast of Punta Cana in this magnificent cruiser named "One For All." And the name was perfect because that had to be the only boat of its kind in all of Punta Cana. Its length was that of a tractor-trailer with a crew of five, not including the cooks and waiters. The galley was state of the art with stainless steel refrigerators, stoves and other appliances. We walked on plush carpet, sat on leather couches and chairs and played dominoes on marble tables. It was outfitted with high tech satellite TV, video/telecommunications, night vision telescopes and other technologies too many to recall. "That island was one of the strangest places I'd ever been. You know, while the Dominican is more or less thriving, at the other end of the island those living in Haiti were poverty stricken, destitute and starving."

Agent Clausen stopped in his tracks, paused and stared at me like I was guilty of murder. He turned to his colleagues who remained motionless and silent. Then revolved his hating eyes back to me, curled his brow and asked, "What do you mean Haiti? Did you go there?"

I couldn't forget the trip to Haiti. It was right before the earthquake when my vacation trip turned into an adventure into a dark past of deprivation, poverty, ignorance and violence so vast that it brought me to view the horrors of my nightmares; starving, laying prostate on a busy street corner while the well-to-do free citizens stepped over me and continued their apathy from the world. With beautiful landscapes and foliage as green and lush as lush can get in the Dominican, while Haiti was dirt barren and muddy. Dusty was the earth with little vegetation and it seemed that if you were placed on that corner of the earth that you were being punished by God. It was an island where the two sides dividing the Dominican Republic and Haiti were as different as fire and water.

"Yes. We boated there. Around the island."

This seemed to perk Agent Clausen's clandestine genes up a notch. "What did you do once you got there?"

"They made it all so cool. After arriving at a private dock, an SUV met us where we had deboated and drove through some tiny villages and towns, if you can call them that. I mean if these towns were a person, they'd be on life support. I still can't fathom why, in this day and age the majority of people in a country were living like nobody can do anything about their situation. Hell, I know plenty Haitians in the States and they're outstanding people, smart, strong family, studious, I just can't understand it...and we're here in the United States filled with blacks not lifting a hand to help. It's unbelievable!"

He wanted to transcend my feelings and get right to our activity. "Okay, then what?" Agent Clausen said in a way that brought me back from the island.

"What?"

"Then what happened?" he asked again.

Reaching back to that time, I drifted back to the island trying to remember the salient points of it all. "It was a short lived trip. I didn't know where we were, but I told Cutino that I wanted to return to the boat and head back to Punta Cana as fast as possible. He just smiled back at me and said we will, we're going to pick up one guy. Then not so much further down this dirt road, we picked up a man and drove him back to the boat. I'm not sure what they saw or who saw them but all of a sudden we turned around like we had stolen something and returned to the boat in a third of the time that it took us to get to the location."

"Was that all the things you did in Haiti?"

"I hate to say it, but I didn't want to see Haiti like that. But that was enough."

"Then what?"

"We returned back to the house in Punta Cuna. I never saw the guy we picked up once we got on the boat. I sat down in the lounge area, had a glass of wine and tried to wash the experience from my mind."

"We'll get back to that at another time," Agent Clausen said.

I yelled, "Another time? That was it. That's all there was!"

Agent Clausen scooted a little closer to me and swallowed my space. "Did he say anything while you drove back to the boat?"

"Who?"

He continued, "The man that you picked up."

"No, none that I heard." My mouth was dry. "May I have a glass of water?"

Agent Clausen nodded towards the other men. Then with a tranquil tone, he asked, "This guy Ri'chard, what did you talk to him about?"

"When we returned to Punta Cuna, we had dinner and that's where I met Moby and Cecile. There was a policeman or an army man there, too."

He raised an eyebrow, "An army man?"

"Yes, he was a captain or general or something. He was a large man who rarely spoke."

"His name, you remember his name?"

I searched my mind for the answer then stuttered, "Ah, Captain. No, no General...humph, I can't remember."

Clausen pointed his knobby index finger at me and raised his voice. "Come on, Ms. King, you can remember anything you want. Now I know you can remember his name."

I didn't know at the time, but I was running on fumes and I began to feel faint. "When I do remember, I'll call you as soon as I recall it."

His question was more in line with a demand. "Call me from where?"

"Home," I said.

"Home?" He gave a sly smirk and laughed which made me lift a slight grin, and then he soured stone cold again. "Who said you'd be going home?" His voice rose higher.

"What? I have to go home. I've got a daughter that I have to take care of."

He pressed right past my needs. "Ms. King, we need some answers!"

Pleading I said, "I'm giving you answers."

"Those were not the right answers and you know that. Now give me the fucking answers," he bellowed.

I was weak, my strength to remember and recall was just about finished. "I...I don't know the right answers."

He bull rushed towards me and met me eyeball to eyeball. He had a one day old cabbage smell emanating from his body. Up that close, I saw some odd brown pigmentation on one eye and burnt red blood vessels careening recklessly throughout his other eyeball. "Now, Ms. King, now!" His voice was violent, and his breath smelled of garlic, which reminded me of my favorite Italian restaurant, Luigi's on Belmont Avenue.

"I don't know, I don't know," I shouted back and squeezed my eyes shut hoping to open them and find myself tossing in bed. But when I cracked them open, he was still there staring at me with anger crawling all over vicious eyes. He really had me frightened, and I didn't want this battle. "What are you looking for?" I barked back.

"I need some answers. Who was the other man at the table?" he commanded.

I stared back hard and said, "Why don't you ask Cutino?"

"Because I'm asking you," he barked.

"Well, I don't know."

He scolded back at me, "Tell me the truth!"

"I am telling you the truth!" Right at that point, I thought the whole situation was crazy. What was it like being a cop? There he was yelling and causing constant conflict and fear to an innocent person. I looked at the man, who was about to pop an artery trying to get me to speak on things that I have no idea about. He considered me a guilty criminal of some sort, trying to make me feel as if I'd done something horrendously wrong.

Would he hit me? How about water boarding or shock treatment? I wondered how Agent Clausen treated his loved ones at home. Did he feel that his wife cheated on him when he was away from home? Does he interrogate her every time he returned, searching for evidence in her cell phone or emails?

Agent Clausen pounded his fist on the table, "I'm giving you one last time to tell—."

"Okay, okay," a calm voice rang through Agent Clausen's hostility.

"That's enough." It was Detective Hicks' deep timbre that broke the craziness. A handsome black man with freckles and brown-reddish hair. If he had on black horn rimmed glasses, he would have resembled Malcolm X.

Agent Clausen was agitated and called him out like a father would a son on a dare. "Hicks!"

But Hicks paid him no attention and eased towards me.

"Ms. King, can you remember anything else. It's really—."

Clausen threw up his arm and flashed the palm of his hands and said, "Hicks, I got this."

"I know you do," Hicks confirmed. His calmness soothed me and reassured me that sanity was still in place. "It's really important that you remember these things. Anything you can remember would be great. Now, in Haiti, there was you and Cutino, Moby, and..."

"Cecile," Agent SoandSo blurted out from a dark corner of the room. He was reading from what I would assume were notes that somebody had taken.

"The Captain and Ri'chard. Right?" Hicks said.

I nodded, "Yes."

"Okay, the Captain's name. Did he have a name plate on or anything?"

"Mmmm, maybe. It wasn't the best uniform; it was kind of wrinkled and worn. But—"

"But?" Agent Hicks mocked.

"But there was another man."

Hicks folded his long arms to his chest and leaned back.

"Another man? Who?"

"Nick Sherman," I said.

"Nick Sherman?" Hicks repeated.

"Yes, I almost forgot to mention Nick, because it seemed like everyplace we went, Nick was there getting his party on."

Hicks turned and glanced at Agent Clausen who turned his back and walked away. "So Nick Sherman was hangin' in Haiti and Punta Cana?" asked Hicks.

"Yep, Nick and Cutino were like Mutt and Jeff. They'd scuba dive, ride those little water Ski Doos or whatever and hike the mountains. A few of the trips, Nick would be there before or arrived after."

Hicks pulled up the vacant seat under the table and sat next to me. "Really? Tell me more." He stretched his lengthy Daddy Long-legs out and clasped his hands behind his head like he was resting on Chicago's North Avenue beach on a July 4th evening, waiting on the fireworks show.

"Uh huh, I think Nick had some real money. Cutino said he'd known him since just after high school or something. It seemed like Nick was always paying for things. I don't know, everything's so confusing now. But all I know is that Nick was there, too."

Hicks asked me, "You say Nick was there at other places with you and Cutino. Like where?"

"Brazil, California, Toronto... heck, everywhere."

"What did you discuss?" asked Hicks.

I felt a calm rain over me. "Just everyday life. Cutino and Nick talked sports, the best cigars, or the best whiskey, the worst whiskey, sex talk, you know everyday things."

"No business," Hicks asked.

"No, not really."

"You all were always together."

"No. At times at least once or twice every trip they'd disappear and do their own thing. You know men things. But I wasn't disappointed. I was glad that they left. I could cool out around the pool or shop in town with one of Nick's dates of the moment," I said.

"Did you and Nick have any other type of relationship?" Agent Hicks asked.

"What?" I didn't understand what Hicks was trying to say to me?

Then he stood up and began to pace in front of me, back and forth and back and forth. "Did you have a relationship with Nick?"

"Hell, no. What the hell kind of question is that?" "Did you see any type of guns?" he continued.

"Guns? Why no, not at all. We were vacationing," I said.

"Did they send you anywhere to deliver something?"

Emphatically I said, "No!"

He continued pacing back and forth, back and forth. "How about to pick up a package or something?"

"No."

Hicks did not hesitate. "Did you see any cash?" "Nothing but transfers of U.S. money into the necessary foreign currency. You know, transfer cash into the currency of whatever country we were in."

"Uh huh," Hicks stared at me wanting more information and remained silent for what seemed like a day. Then he ambled back over to Clausen and whispered something I couldn't hear.

Clausen stormed back over to me. His face was beet red, his forehead splashed with sweat and sagging eyes flashed with the kind of anger that only a crazed egomaniacal maniac could possess. "Okay, Ms. King," he bawled and slammed his fist on the table so hard that I thought he had broken his hand. "Enough's enough of this shit. Out with it. You know you were part of it all! We're going to lock your ass up if I don't get some answers and I mean soon! Fuck this shit. Bring that big dike bitch in here and have her take this black bitch into solitary confinement until she decides to come up with some answers."

What the hell!? Solitary confinement!? When he spoke those words I felt the spirit of hate that had slowly formed for my captures, dissolve into a yellow streak flowing down the middle of my back. I felt my bowels loosen to the point of almost letting lose a number two. Just the thought of confinement brought the nightmare of a musty room filled with rats the size of Siamese cats and fresh rat feces on the floor. It was enough to make me vomit.

What would my daughter do without me? How could I keep her safe? Lord, Lord, Lord save me please save me, please save me. I began feeling woozy and about to lose consciousness.

My heart started racing in a manner unlike any I'd ever experienced while sitting down. I reached out and held the table to right myself. Carla relax, just relax. I just kept telling myself to push back and take control of my emotions. Then suddenly it stopped just as quickly as it had started. In retrospect, I regretted the travel with Cutino. Duhh. Now I say that, but I was all in his face, traveling any place alongside of him as long as he paid the load. They say that hind sight is twenty-twenty, but I think hind sight is a swift kick in the butt. "I haven't done anything wrong, so why are you doing this?" I implored, confused at the law enforcer's attitude. "I'm not the bad guy here, Cutino is the one that should be sitting here. I've tried to do everything right in my life by being a good mother, lover, friend, daughter, and law abiding citizen. This just isn't right!"

"Ms. King," Clausen stood directly in front of me with his arms folded.

"Yes?" I peered down examining my spine lying on the grimy tile flooring.

Clausen's face was pale and then started to turn strawberry red again and I knew something explosive was going to happen.

"Why the hell were you traveling with Cutino?" He exploded. "Just for the fuck?" he yelled out the word fuck for emphasis.

That was enough. "I want my lawyer. Get me the phone!"

"You waived your Miranda rights. Don't you remember, or did you forget that like you forgot all the wrong you've done?" Agent Clausen said. Hicks slung the paper that I signed down on the table.

I couldn't believe I did that. I didn't even look at it because I knew that I did. My God, you take advice from friends, family and professionals, sit down and stare at the TV screen shaking your head at simple people making stupid legal mistakes and then you're put in a situation that requires some judgment and you blow it just like every numbskull that you've seen on TV, read or gossiped about with you girlfriends. "The only wrong I've done is waiving my rights to an attorney. There's nothing wrong with traveling, and you know it," I said.

Agent Clausen chiseled at his chin with his index finger and thumb, "Only if you're conspiring to sell weapons."

Immediately, my heart dropped into deep despair. "What? Weapons!? What weapons?"

"Aw get off it, you've been with Archer Moore, aka Cutino Grigsby, also known as Abid X, aka Black Dragon, Jim Alexander, Michael Bell, Jamal Bryant, all over the northern and southern hemisphere runnin' guns and you've forgotten everything?" Agent Hicks' rhetorical question had said it all.

They thought I was in on whatever Cutino had done.

"What? I don't know any Archer or X. Who are you talking about?"

"Why, sure you do. You know everything, Ms. King," Agent Hicks said.

My patience had expired and I wasn't going to take it anymore. Finally, they had pushed me into a corner and I was going to fight back. My angry glare met Agent Clausen's probing eyes to show that I was ready for a fight. "I don't know anything.

I work hard for a living and I'm no criminal and you know that. There's nobody named Archer what's his name, or X, or anybody like that. I've tried to be cooperative, but you guys are wrong. I know my rights and I'm not answering anything else. I want my lawyer now!"

Clausen paused for a moment, his eyes crawled around the room peering at his colleagues seeking some response for his next chess move. "Is that it, Ms. King?" His voice again was firm. But I refused to answer. Agent Clausen threw up his hands, then I heard him mutter, "Fuck it." Daddy Long Legged Hicks stepped in to pick up the slack. Again, Agent Hicks slid over to my chair and sat his butt on the table, then folded his arms. "Alright, Ms. King, we'll let you call your attorney." Agent Hicks stood and left the room followed by Clausen and the other man who remained silent.

After hours of interrogation, badgering and lies by the "Serve and Protect" crew, I was left alone in the room. I didn't deserve this, I really didn't. Why me? I told myself not to hate them; it's nothing but a mistake by the police. The only wrong that I'd done was had a relationship with a common everyday jerk like Cutino. My neck and back muscles were extremely taut and aching from the stress and strain of my captives' interrogation that seemed to last for days. So I stood up to stretch my legs and started a few limbering exercises by doing jumping jacks, touching my toes, then twisting my back and neck, turning them until it pained. During my brief ad hoc work out, I found a couple of bruises and scrapes on my arms and legs from my tussle with Cutino. I couldn't believe it all happened. Cutino, my friend and lover and a man that I admired for his kindness and down to earth sense of humor, had portrayed himself as a hard working guy, taking care of business and treating people with love and respect. My desire for him both emotionally and physically was a giving relationship, but now everything had turned topsy-turvy with pretense, trickery and crimes that were labeled terrorist by the authorities. Cutino was a terrorist of sorts, committing crimes worldwide with me by his side. A terrorist in my midst, in my bed, on my couch and in my spirit? But still I pondered, was he actually a man with a perverse mind and wicked soul? If what the cops said was true about Cutino being "most wanted", then I had to be the biggest fool ever. He must have seen some emotional weakness in me. In my search for Mr. Right, subconsciously I might have given some kind of loneliness vibe. But I didn't think I was desperate and lonely. Or was I? I mean everybody wants companionship and love. I wasn't running up to men with my legs flung open begging to be sexed up. God, I am a complete idiot.

After what seemed like ages, Agent Hicks finally returned, and slammed shut my experience of negative introspection for the time being. "Ms. King." He fastened the door behind him, and carried a chair up to the table and sat down next to me. "Cutino's real name is Archer Moore. But he has many aliases, Charles Grey, John Chaplin, Benjamin Grigsby, Crawford Richmond and more. However, his legal name is Archer Shakespeare Moore, from Washington D.C."

"Shakespeare?" I repeated.

Agent Hicks chuckled. "Yep. Archer is a chameleon and a real threat to our country. One of his most notorious monikers is Blagon. Did you ever hear anyone call him Blagon?"

"You said Blagon? No, I never heard anyone call him that," I said.

Agent Hicks took a deep breath and scrubbed his head, then said, "Blagon is short for Black Dragon and he has evaded us time and time again. I mean just like tonight, there he was on the eighth floor with no way out. But he pulled that Mount Everest escape, and we haven't caught him yet. I'd say he's Houdini, Evel Knievel, Capone and Scarface all wrapped up into one."

"Unbelievable...so you're telling me that Cutino Grigsby is really Archer Moore?"

Agent Hicks nodded. "That's right."

I shook my head in despair. "Humph. And that Cuti... or Archer doesn't work for the city?"

Agent Hicks gave me a handsome smile, with teeth so straight and movie star white that they had to be held by braces when he was a child. "Ha, no, Archer certainly doesn't work for the city."

Although he was coming at me graciously, his perfect teeth made me feel uncomfortable again. "So what did Archer do to make the Federal government come after him?" I asked.

"Like I said, Archer is a terrorist."

Again, I shivered at the sound of the 'T' word. "A terrorist?"

I'm not sure how he could become more serious, but he did. Agent Hicks hunkered down closer to me and whispered in confidence. "He's the worst kind of terrorist."

I tilted my head back, and tried to make more space.

"What do you mean? A terrorist is a terrorist. Right?"

"Not exactly, Archer's an American terrorist and in our mind, that makes him the worst kind of terrorist. I consider him a traitor, one that circulates in our own backyard. He doesn't blow up buildings or anything like that, but Archer sells weapons to terrorist groups, international drug cartels in Mexico, Latin America, warlords in Africa, Asian terrorist in the Philippians and other nefarious groups around the world and they commit the crimes," Agent Hicks said. "And let's not forget the gangs in the states. He'll sell to the Crips and Bloods for jokes, just to see if the guns he sold were in today's murders on the six o'clock news."

"What? That's sick. Cutino would do that? That's just hard to believe. I mean he didn't act like he hated anybody in any part of the world. Why would he cause suffering and chaos around the world? He never spoke ill of any religion or culture. As a matter of fact, it appeared as if he enjoyed cultural diversity.

He never referred to the word nigger or demeaned white folks or Latinos, East Indians or any race that I can recall. That was just a few of the reasons I enjoyed his company. He maneuvered around people of all races and ethnicities with ease and confidence," I said out loud to Hicks.

"That's right, Archer is quite the character. He's been hard for us to catch. We've been tracking him for just over a year and you've been with him since he's been on our radar. We know he's been to South America, Russia, the Caribbean, Mexico, Africa, the Philippians, dealing in weapons with some of the planet's most notorious underworld criminals."

"That couldn't be!"

"It's true. When you traveled with him to Punta Cuna, Dominican Republic, he met with Omar Simon. Omar's been on the international underworld scene for years. Weapons, drugs, sex slaves..." Hicks said.

"Nooo...not that nice old man. He was peeling apples and feeding them to me and singing such happy folk songs at dinner. His grandchildren were all around him."

"Yeah, well he's found his way into a world of trouble," Hicks said.

I closed my eyes and wished for Christmas. "Wow. This is unbelievable."

"Then when you vacationed in Brazil, that's when you first met Nick Youski, a Croat from a warring tribe in Eastern Europe. Nick's a real bad man. He started out in the Croatian army in the early nineties where he helped Croatian's gain independence from Yugoslavia. He served in the Croatian military, rising to Captain, fought many battles and helped to maintain Croatia's independence. Then he clashed against the Republic of Serbian Krajina in major offenses like Operation Storm and Operation Flash."

"You are talking about Nick?" I asked.

He pulled a picture from one of the files that he brought with him, "Is this him?"

I examined the black and white, eight and a half by eleven photograph of Nick in a military uniform, and smoking cigars, standing next to two BMW's with palm trees in the background.

I nodded, "Yes, that's him alright."

"I'm surprised he gave you his real name. He must have been very comfortable around you. Then Nick started following the wrong people for some reason." He flipped photos of Nick from the folder. "Beginning in 1995, he fought in the war with Herzegovina and Bosnia. Led some major field battles, from my understanding. Nick's a real bad dude. Then for some reason he followed the fugitive General Ante Gotovina. That's when we believe he started involvement in mercenary activities in Africa, South America and even the Middle East. He may have had knowledge of the weapons black market before then, but we think that's when he started learning the international weapons trade and making the big money that lured him into the business fulltime."

"Wow... Slick Nick," I murmured.

"So you see why you're being questioned?"

"Of course, and I've got nothing to hide. They pulled the wool over my eyes. I'm not even sure why they kept me around," I said.

"Maybe for the look."

"The look?"

"Sure, traveling with a female companion around the world gives a better appearance of a tourist or vacationer. Do you recall that ol' man Cutino and Nick met in the Dominican?"

"Who? Omar?"

"Right. For starters, Omar first had been connected to Arafat and the Hamas for years, shuffling arms to the Palestinians for terrorism in Israel."

"Damn." _This is just unbelievable_.

"Not only that, Agent Clausen and the U.S. Government think both Nick and Omar have ties to Osama bin Laden and al-Qaeda."

"Ohh no, no, no, no, no that's bullshit! Y'all ain't tying me up with no Osama. I'll never get outta here. No! That ain't happening. I swear I didn't know anything. Please. They are incarcerating people for years without a trial at just the suspicion of being tied into al-Qaeda and Bin Laden," I said as my stomach quivered behind that statement. I understood that our rights were far less than they were before 9/11 and the Patriot Act. God, they could lock me up and throw away the key for just the possibility of being involved with some terrorist organization. _Damn, what have I gotten myself involved in?_

Hicks ceased giving a history lesson and deadpanned, "Don't worry, Ms. King. Nobody is going to put you into a hole and throw away the key. But we do need some answers."

I opened my arms with palms out, flailing towards Agent Hicks for grace. "So, what do you want from me? You want me to be a spy?" I pleaded.

He tapped out with his index finger on the crudely constructed table every word, "No, Ms. King we don't want you to be a spy. But—".

"What? But what?" I asked.

Hick's obstinance continued, "We feel that you know something that you're not telling us about."

I shook my head in futility. "I told you and your people from the beginning that I don't know anything. They fooled me, too!"

Hicks didn't respond to my plea. He just scrutinized me by being pensive, trying to read me, searching my eyes for a fact that he could believe. So, I just glared back at him, showing him that I wasn't hiding anything and if he could actually read truth in eyes, then he knew I had told the truth by not speaking a word.

"Alright, Ms. King. You're free to go." Hicks said.

Holy, holy! "Right now?"

He shuffled his papers in order and placed them back in the folder. "That's right. You're free to go."

I pushed the chair away from the table and stood. "Thank you, sir."

Agent Hicks just nodded, walked towards the exit and grabbed the metal knob on the door to my freedom. "Stay out of trouble, Ms. King."

"Nig-", I caught myself in mid-word, trying my best not to curse that sucker out. The gall of these people, who would try to pin something like gun running and terrorism on me. But I knew that silence would be more than golden, it was freedom. I made my humble exit and followed him into the administrative offices to complete the paperwork for my release.

### CHAPTER 6

It cost everyday

Sometimes with money

And other times with lives

Some use it as a crutch when others disagree

King walked the streets to obtain it

Wars to take it

The current times have changed it

With more restrictions we live to protect it

But from the poorest to the richest we are still owed it

CK

'09

"Girl, they interrogated me for what seemed like days," I huffed.

Natalie's eyes were glued to my every word, "What?" She picked up a handful of Jay's Potato Chips, slid a few in the salsa, then into her mouth.

"It was scary and embarrassing; strangers asking me questions about my family and friends, where I had traveled, my love life, what color panties I wore, my bra size and even my love life with Cutino."

"Stop it," she said through a mouth of chips and salsa.

"I had to include your name, too," cringing after I said it.

"Uh huh...no...what?" was Natalie's quick response until she had a second to think about it. "No you didn't." The line of her mouth tightened.

I shook my head in shame, "I had to, girl."

The pitch in Natalie's voice changed from amusement to severe concern, "You had to? Why?"

"They made me go through my history with Cutino, and I met Cutino through Walter, and you were dating him."

She hunched her shoulders. "So?" was Natalie's perturbed response.

"You and I were together at that club. Remember?" It was the beginning of this eventual turmoil.

She flung her arms upward and repeated, "Where, where?

What club? What club?"

"You know, the one with all the blood red décor and big hat men laying against the bar."

Irritated, her memory kicked in. "You mean Fandango?"

Snapping my fingers then pointed at her, "Right. That's where Walter introduced Cutino to me."

She snapped her fingers and said, "Damn. Yeah, that's right."

I reached over the kitchen table and touched her shoulder and met her eyes, "Don't worry, they didn't ask me much about you."

I heard Natalie's voice tremble. "Oh no." She stood up and circled the kitchen table, then stopped at the window positioned above the sink and stared east onto Lake Michigan. "Oh my Jesus, I'm under investigation?" She raised her hands in the air like she was giving God the glory. "You know they tryin' to take my house and everything."

I walked over to her, "Natalie! Who's your favorite poet?" "You," she said with some hesitation.

I massaged her shoulder for comfort and said, "No you're not under any investigation."

She started to whimper, "I know, girl. It's just my financial situation that's got me all messed up. And now this."

I hugged her and said, "It's gonna be alright."

She squeezed me tight. "Ain't no jobs around. And you know I'm getting old."

"You are not old. So stop that."

"Damn bank ain't working with me. You know them white folks be working against you. It seems like they want to take my home," she said.

"I know, President Obama will straighten this mess out." I said.

"But they tryin' to take my house and I've been working way too hard at trying to keep it for them to just take it." "Something will turn up, I know it will," I protested. But deep inside of me, I had real doubts about her situation. Not because of Natalie's personal dilemma, but because of the nation's circumstances. The election of a new President, and if that new President happened to be the first Black man in that office at one of the worst economic times ever, times would be most difficult. With everything that comes with being the President, the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, along with an economy that's as bad as any, even during my mother's lifetime, he would have his work cut out for him. What a mess.

"Anyway, when I was waiting for my paperwork to be processed, Hicks broke down the history of the "Black Dragon".

"Who?"

"The Black Dragon. He told me that when China was developing around 300 or 500 BC or something like that, there was this man named Black Dragon or Master Sun. He is known in Chinese history as the best military expert of his time. There's a real popular book called _Black Dragon: The Art of Warfare_ which came to be associated with his name and is still being studied today by military professionals all over the world."

Natalie continued to gaze out of the window. "Yeah. I've heard of that book."

"It describes things like the yin and yang, strategies of war, rise and fall of dynasties, honor and dishonor and stuff like that."

"And he explained all this to you?" Natalie said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Yes."

Natalie spun around from the window and said, "And this is Cutino, our Cutino? Cutino, who works for the City of Chicago in the Forestry Department?"

I laughed, "Honey that man didn't work at the Forestry Department. He sold guns."

"No he didn't," she insisted.

"Natalie, yes he did."

Natalie folded her arms, leaned back and said, "So, where did he work?"

"I guess...just like the FBI said, he made money selling guns and other things that hurt people."

Natalie cracked a smile, "Shit, he could've just got a job at Guns R Us here on 43rd Street or something and made plenty of money."

"Yeah, well the way they told me, Cutino sold serious guns to serious people."

"I knew he was up to something." I gave her the low brow, "Oh yeah, right."

"I did," she assuredly said.

"How so? Hell, he conned all of us. Me, you, Walter, everybody."

Natalie rolled her neck. "I always wondered how y'all would travel to all those high class fancy places, staying at fivestar hotels, eatin' lobster and filet, and you didn't have to pay for nothing. Shoot, ain't no city employee taking trips and buying jewelry and stereos then giving it to his part-time lady and not have a side hustle."

It appeared that Natalie had more than a little resentment in her heart. But she did have a point. "I guess that's why the government looked at me crazy when they didn't get the answers they were looking for," I said.

"Shoot, I'd be lookin' at you with crazy eyes, too. Heck, I'm lookin' slanty-eyed at you now," she curled one eyebrow and peered at me with that silly scrunched up face, and then took another sip of her Folgers coffee.

"Hey, I'm not sure about myself either," I said.

"He was a smooth brother, that's fo' sho'. He snookered all of us. Even Walter didn't have a clue, and he claims to know everything," Natalie said.

"The cops alleged that Cutino or Archer or Charles or whatever he called himself, sold stolen rockets, automatic rifles, hand grenades, and explosives like he was an extension of the Army. He sold guns to everybody from Southside street gangs to Mexican and Colombian drug lords, Philippine Guerillas, Libyans, and even Palestinian freedom fighters and Muslim extremist groups. They had connected him to shootings in Turkey and Israel."

Natalie frowned, "Say what?"

"Honey, the list continues. He messed around in Africa in places like Liberia, Somalia, Congo, Kenya, and South America as well as murders in America."

"No shit," Natalie folded her face in a twisted mash that displayed confusion and suspicion. "Damn, we were in the company of a real criminal mastermind."

"Just like Lex Luther."

"Lex Luther?" Natalie questioned with wanting eyes.

"You know, Superman's nemesis."

"Oh yeah, right."

"And all along, I thought that he worked for the Forestry Department. Damn, was I fooled or what? From his attire to the car he drove, his demeanor was inconspicuous and unassuming. The police had been taping his cell and home phone conversations, and I was one of the people he contacted with regularity. They thought I was his partner!"

Natalie wobbled her head, "His partner!?"

"Yeah girl, but I guess when they checked my financial state and work routine; they probably figured that my lifestyle didn't match their formula for that type of criminal activity."

Natalie stared at me, listening to every word, "Damn." "Then Cutino became interested in the Chat Room," I said.

She wagged her finger at me. "I told you 'bout that Chat Room shit."

"When I first introduced him to the Chat Room, he was computer illiterate. At least I thought he was. But he was quick and his grasp of the computer was phenomenal. We'd spend hours chatting to various people from who knows where. Cutino got to be really good in chat room etiquette and actually became a chat room regular. After a while, I thought they had their own language. He practically put me out of the room whenever he'd go to chatting with some of his new friends."

"Too smart for his own britches," Natalie said.

"Right."

"Look at that," Natalie pointed to the television where CNN was broadcasting a special on the tragedy of Katrina and the aftermath.

"Terrible, just terrible." It was around the fourth year after Hurricane Katrina had hit the Gulf Coast and the pain and frustration of it all still festered like a nagging lower back. For the rest of the evening, we watched CNN's documentary of the devastation. Even now, you think your life is out of control until you see people surviving in the wickedest conditions imaginable, black folks put out by the storm and swept out by the government. The most powerful nation in the world wouldn't help its own people, but continued to finance and meddle in the affairs of independent nations with the nerve to direct their lives. What astonished me most and at its most critical hours during Katrina was black people's lack of economic and political power, our inability to effectively control our destiny and make it happen for ourselves. As a whole, we are so economically destitute that in some situations it's comparable to third world countries."

"I still feel for them Carla. I really do. But..." Natalie hesitated.

"What?"

"Look at all the overweight sisters carrying arm loads of babies. Our diet is atrocious. And where are the men?"

"Jail," I deadpanned.

"Yeah, prison, but even more than that is we have no power. Skip being poor. Heck they're mo' white folks on government aid then Blacks and Hispanics put together."

"But they're poor, Natalie."

"So, I live right next door to poor. Hell, I have so many bills, I now call them Mr. Williams."

"I heard that sister."

"Look at that," she said pointing to the screen. "Finally, we're getting out of Iraq. Thank you, President Obama!"

"Amen," I said.

Natalie shook her head in disgust then said, "President Bush sure messed things up. Like Hurricane Katrina. All I saw was a multitude of single black women with babies and black men without means wading through polluted and toxic waters unable to take control of their situation, trapped like animals on an island that's about to sink. Then the President flies over New Orleans and never steps foot in to take charge of the mess. Then when he finally pays attention to the matter, he chooses Senator Trent Lott whom he gives sympathy to by talking about rebuilding that racist honky's house. Trent Lott! Out of all the people who had been affected by Katrina, President Bush in all his wisdom is seen with Lott as a symbol of re-birth to thousands and thousands of homeless po' people. We as black people need to take control of our lives and responsibilities. Whatever you want to call it, we're losing in this thing called life."

I could see tears well up in her eyes. The usually tough as nails flame thrower was genuinely touched. "We will stay strong," I said.

"Yeah, well it's a mess; that's all I'm sayin'." Then she wiped her eyes. "Have you written anything new?"

I couldn't help but to smile. "Actually I do. You want to read it?"

"You know I do."

I hopped into my bedroom and brought out a piece of crumpled paper. "Here."

She gave me her favorite cheesy smile. Then tugged the paper from the clutches of my hand then straightened out the edges.

"You still haven't told anybody about me writing poetry have you?" I said.

"Mums the word," she said without looking up. "Anyway what's the big deal? When are you going to start showing people your poetry?"

"I don't know. It's just something I do for me. It gives me pleasure just to create and not worry about what others think.

Anyway, I'm not a writer."

Natalie began reading out loud.

"Sit down to stand up.

Stand up to be put down

Move to the rear

Says the man as he puts it in gear

Get up says another like he owned you

Sit down to stand up

But she sat

Alone, stubborn and righteous, she sat

Fearless in the valley

Faithful in God to break every chain

Sit down to stand up

Stand up to sit down

The sound of a small pebble that precedes a wave of movement

There will be an army rising up

Sit down to stand up

Stand up to sit down."

After reading, Natalie peered up at me and gave me that same cheesy smile and said, "Damn girl that's pretty good. You know that you're my favorite poet!"

### CHAPTER 7

Pain, so much pain

Pain you've missed 'cause you ran away

Hurt so deep that you refused to understand

Then you said I didn't mean to wound you

And you apologized for the thousandth time

Heartbroken and discouraged I go out into the world with a smile on my face

a smashed soul directing my body to do wrong

Oprah telling me to keep loving myself and to find my worth

But it's harder than a one way conversation on a flat screen

So, I have sex, then a baby to give me worth

Pain, so much pain

CK

'09

"Ms. King! Ms. King!"

I turned around to see Sarah Halvorson dashing toward me. "Hi, Sarah. What's up?"

"Would you get me some help on the executive profile project?" Sarah's cobalt eyes gazed on me while she tucked a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. She was raised on a dairy farm just outside Kohler, Wisconsin and was of Swedish descent, for sure.

"Didn't we bring in some help last week?"

She turned back toward one of the last newsstands in Chicago. Little John's Newsstand was located in the main lobby of our building right across the street from city hall. Reaching into her Dolce and Gabbana purse, "Hi, Andy. A pack of Salem Lights, please," Sarah said, almost like she was ashamed.

"Sure." Andy coughed out an elderly smoker's hack. He sold everything from cigarettes to cigarette papers, Skittles to Snickers and _Ebony_ to _Newsweek_ magazines. He was an older black man who had worked this stand even before "The Boss" the original Richard J. Daley became Mayor. "That'll be five seventyfive."

"Sarah, you need to give those things up," I said.

She handed Andy six dollars in ones. "Yeah, I know," she said with a hint of frustration. "Thanks, Andy." Then walked away.

"You're welcome," he grumbled.

"So what's the problem?" I asked Sarah.

She bit the bottom of her skinny dry smoker's lip and said, "It's just too much work and there's not enough time."

I gently held Sarah's arm. "Didn't Jack give you another person?"

"Yes, but she's new and doesn't know a damn thing. I have to train her on just about everything." Sarah tore open the pack, lit a cigarette and took a long drag. "I just need some help," she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

"Well, I'll have to talk with Jack."

She petitioned, "Please, talk to him. Make Jack understand I can't do all of this."

"I'll speak with him, but I can't guarantee anyt..." "What? What's wrong?" she asked.

I stretched my neck around Sarah's blond tresses to get a better view. "Is that..." I stuttered.

Sarah turned around to search who it was that grabbed my attention. "Is that who?"

With the insincerity of a politician thirty points behind in the polls. "...Yes....Everything's fine," I said.

"Well, I better smoke outside before security boots me out of the building. Then run back into the office, you know how Jack is when he can't find people," Sarah said.

"Yeah, okay." I don't think I ever looked at her. "I'll see you later."

"You going back in?" she asked.

"I've got something to do first." While I stood there staring through the revolving glass door, I noticed that Sarah had finished her cigarette, doused it into the smoker's ash tray standing next to the outside door, and entered into the building.

Extending my neck to view the person I thought I'd seen before, I joined the morning crowd merging into the Jackson Coleman National Bank and Trust building. In an effort not to appear obvious, I peeked from behind one of the giant granite pillars and checked the spot just beyond Little John's Newsstand. I couldn't believe who I saw, it was Agent Hicks. Why couldn't he leave me alone?

Since the day the police had invaded my home, I awoke each morning thankful I hadn't been charged with a crime. Anytime you're caught up in the criminal justice system, it can be a long uphill climb out of the abyss. On the surface, it appeared that authorities believed everything that I told them, all except for Agent Hicks; that chocolate Kojak seemed to have it in for me. He was a constant nuisance, harassing and questioning me like a common criminal. Hicks would drop by my office following a full day of work to ask me questions or he'd just walk by and wave or nod, trying to intimidate me. One time he even showed up at a R. Kelly concert at the Arie Crown Theater and sat across the aisle from me. I'm not sure how he pulled that one off. But this time, I decided to pre-empt his plan. "Agent Hicks!" I bellowed out to him so everyone in the lobby could hear.

He spun around, surprised that I'd snuck up on him and blew his little sneaky cover. "Why, Carla. How are you?" he stuttered.

I could tell he wasn't ready for my aggressive attack. "I'm fine. But what are you doing here again?"

"I'm thinking about opening an account at Jackson Coleman National Bank," he said with a grin.

"Really?"

"That's right. I don't think the bank I use now is giving me the best service," he said.

Naturally, I didn't believe a word he said, but I continued to play his game. "Well, Jackson Coleman National Bank is an excellent choice," I said. "Would you like for me to introduce you to one of our vice presidents in Personal Banking?"

Hicks shied away, "Well...uh, uh... no... no. I don't think that will be necessary."

"It's no problem," I said, speaking even louder. I could tell Mr. Simmons to set you up."

He started to turn away. "No thank you, I'm just getting some information."

I noticed my good friend and colleague Ed Kiefer easing around one of the dark green granite pillars in the atrium. He was probably on his break, but Ed never turned down the chance to add a new customer. "Hold on, Mr. Hicks, I see one of our Senior Vice Presidents. Mr. Kiefer!" I flagged him down by waving my arms. "Ed, over here!"

Ed noticed me and waved back then strolled over to us, looking like the hefty actor, John Candy.

"Ed, I'd like to introduce you to someone," I spoke loud enough so that he could hear me through the crowd.

"Hello," Ed said in his effervescent manner. I've known Ed Kiefer for more than fourteen years and had never seen him in a negative mood, which is highly uncommon in the banking business. His portly couch potato stomach poked out like a proud pregnant mothers and his graying comb-over was on its last loose strand.

"Ed, I'd like you to meet Mr. Hicks."

Kiefer stuck out his chubby pale hand. "Hello, Mr. Hicks."

Agent Hicks hesitated. "Oh, hi."

I continued the charade and said, "Mr. Hicks is interested in an account with Jackson Coleman Bank. Isn't that right, Mr. Hicks?"

Agent Hicks shuffled in place. I saw the anxiety building in his chest. "Well, all I really wanted was some information." "And some information you shall have," Kiefer said.

I smiled at Ed, then turned to Agent Hicks and said, "I told him Ed Kiefer was the man with the answers."

Ed returned my smile and said, "Yes, sir. Right away. Come with me."

"Well..." Hicks started.

Kiefer beamed with that banker's "give me your money" smile, "Now don't worry about a thing. I've done this thousands of times."

"Well, I don't have a lot of time," Hicks said, trying to ease his way out.

"This won't take but a minute." Kiefer always had an ABC attitude, Always Be Closing. He was a bulldog not soon to let Agent Hicks from his grip, until he made him the next Jackson Coleman National Bank customer.

"Thanks, Ed," I said, satisfied for thinking fast on my feet and thwarting Hicks's troublesome ways.

"No problem, Carla."

"I'll see you soon, Ms. King," Hicks said. He tried to fake a smile, but I was familiar with those determined eyes that struggled to make me confess things about myself that were not true and it was those eyes that anger rolled from. He hesitantly followed Kiefer to his office like a Christian to the lion's den. He was done for. Kiefer and the other sharks in the Personal Banking department would have all of Hicks's money by the time he left the floor.

Laughing under my breath and smiling like the curious cat that just swallowed the laughing bird, it was sweet revenge. Finally, I had flipped the script on him, but harassing me had to stop. Even though it was persecution at its lowest level, I thought harassing was still illegal. He didn't have a chance to question me this time, but who knew where he'd show up next or what he'd do. I just kept telling myself that when they caught Cutino, it would all be over. But he was still a fugitive, and from my understanding, the authorities couldn't locate him and didn't know what he was up to. That sneaky low life could have been anywhere. He was like Bin Laden on the run, only without the Al Qaeda organization hiding him. Even to the police, Cutino was a ghost who had disappeared into the mist without a trace.

Koltrane continued to e-mail and warn me to watch my step with Natalie and not to let her lead me into something harmful. But, I understood my girl's personality faults. She was mischievous with energy to spare. Her mind often spun webs of confusion and gossip. But I suppose that's what I liked most about her. We came from the same neighborhood and lived through the ebb and flow of life's mysteries while surviving day to day as single mothers in the midst of Chicago's big shoulders. When Sidney left me and times were the hardest, Natalie took us in and dropped cash in my hand to help me survive.

Back in the day when we were freshman in high school, roly-poly Donna Williams and her football sized squad of bullies finally felt it was my time to get picked on, and it was Natalie who rose up and backed them off of me. When Michael Hudson dumped me and crushed my heart into a million pieces in my senior year, it was Natalie's humor and strength that brought me back to life. She'd been a bell-weather through many storms in my life and continued to buoy my spirits when waves seemed to drown me like a tsunami rushing my tiny island of life.

### CHAPTER 8

G d D mn, Moth rf*ck%in' sh t

Love, peace, grace, blessings, hell you can tell me anything and get away with it

But it's what you demonstrate to me

If you're telling me love then being malicious

If you're promoting peace then going to war

If you're showing me war then detestation is in your heart

If you're building jails at the expense of schools

If you're telling me that God or Allah or Murta or Buddha is love but cannot tolerate the other's right to believe or not to believe then love is not in your heart

If you're telling me to work, but jobs are sent overseas and calling me lazy then you have no vision

9mm in every home, liquor stores on every corner, hope lost by our young Give me peace in my neighborhood, sh*t it's more like fostering genocide

Strength when life failed promises come calling

CK

'09

"Morning, Doris," I greeted my favorite co-worker and administrative assistant.

"Yeah, right," Doris grumbled holding a cup of black coffee in one hand and a smoldering cigarette butt in the other. She was slouched over the outdoor steel ashtray grabbing the last of the morning air before heading into work. She turned and stepped through the mechanical doors into the building.

We reached the second floor and Doris's dark movie star Bvlgari sunglasses remained pressed firmly against her face and concealed something that I had to ask her about. "Ooh, honey, what did you do this weekend?" I searched those black-lensed shades for her spherical mooneyes. Doris Simmons was a chocolate five foot, one inch fireball who had been my administrative assistant for six years. She was very loyal to me and would fight a bear if it got in my way. I knew my back was covered as long as Doris was around.

"Pollen," she sniffled.

"What pollen?"

"It's the fall season. You know pollen's all over the place."

"Pollen? In the fall?"

Doris protested and leaned back in the desk chair with her mouth held wide open as if she was sucking up all the air in the room. "Yeah, pollen's in the fall." She held a used hanky in her hand which she dabbed against her running nose. "I know, it looks like Mike Tyson jacked me up in an alley, doesn't it?" She sounded miserable like nose plugs were stuck in each nostril.

"Is there anything you need? I'll go to Walgreens and pick something up for you."

Sounding like a muted trumpet, Doris continued, "I bought Sine aid and some pills my doctor prescribes for me." She raised the Sine aid and prescribed pills and then flipped them on the desk. "I don't even know why I take the stuff, it don't do no good." She reached over and sipped her coffee.

"How's your son?" I asked.

She smiled. "Mfume?"

"Ah huh."

"Oh, he's doin' real good. They won their basketball game Saturday."

I nodded and could see the pride rise up in her voice when I mentioned her son.

"The mighty Panthers," she proudly said. "Mfume scored 25 points. Ooh wee, that boy's good! They might do something this year."

"It was storming Saturday something terrible, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, honey, pourin' down somethin' fierce. So, I almost didn't go. But Harold pleaded with that strong voice of his, 'Come on baby, we gotta see our little boy do his thang.' My husband is so proud of Mfume. Talks about him all the time."

"You and Harold have done a great job with Mfume. I remember the year he was in eighth grade when you didn't know what to do with him."

"Oh honey, he was a mess. Hormones jumping all over the place, and he didn't know if he was a baby, a boy or a man. But one thing was fo' sure, if he kept mouthin' off at his daddy and me he was gonna be slammed to the turf. Oh, it don't matter if he a old boy or a young man, you know Harold don't play that shigatty."

We both laughed, as Doris seemed to be coming out of her Monday morning funk. "I'll be in my office," I said.

"Okay, boss lady," she tooted.

Doris's phone rang. "Ms. King's office. Yes, sir." Then she hung up. "That was Mr. Kravitz. He wants you to call him when you get settled in."

"Thanks." I can honestly say that I love my job. I've been working for Jackson Coleman National Bank almost fifteen years. The company was doing great, until the recession. But while other banks ran wild, Mr. Benjamin Clausen, the founder and CEO kept things close to the vest. As a relatively small community bank of four branches spread throughout metropolitan Chicago, we made our share of loans during the deregulation years, but we stayed away from the high risk investments and all the quick real estate, second mortgages and shady money circulating around. I was one of the people who questioned why we weren't more aggressive and jump on the band wagon of interest only, six month adjustable, high risk loans. But Clausen National maintained its standards and remained conventional, with old fashion lending practices, which in the end paid off for everybody involved. I had risen from bookkeeping to Staff Accounting Manager. Doris had worked with me for the last six years as my administrative assistant. She and her husband, Harold, had also played Cupid more than once, trying to hook me up with various male friends and family members.

I remember they introduced me to Rohan "Big Butter" Miller, a second cousin of Harold's. No need to discuss why they nicknamed him Big Butter. Big Butter should have just been given the moniker, "Big Butt". Rohan stood about six foot six and more than three hundred pounds. When we climbed into his souped-up Chevy Tahoe pickup truck, Big Butter reached into the ashtray and pulled out this enormous joint and lit it like I wasn't even sitting there. He thought of himself as this Caribbean Rastamon about town, but not only was he not from the Caribbean, but was born somewhere in Iowa and had never been southeast of Louisville, Kentucky. Plus, the brother had the nerve to speak with a Geoffrey Holder Jamaican accent. However, with all that faking, Big Butter was a whole lot of fun with non-stop dancing and singing the night away and he had the soul and spirit of Harry Belafonte. It would only last that first and only evening, and he knew it. So Big Butter took me home, kissed me on the cheek and moved on to his next adventure.

After the date, I asked Doris why she thought Big Butter would attract me to him. She just shrugged and said, "I just figured he'd be good entertainment for you."

But throughout this time period we hung tough in this bank, and as we've seen employee after employee get fired, laid off, or quit, Doris and I have worked hard and stayed clean. My office phone rang before I could hang up the Romanian-made suit coat that I bought from The "Price Is Right" second hand store located on north Clark Street.

"Hello, Carla speaking."

"Hey girl, what's happening?" It was Natalie's cheerful voice, checking in at 8:40a.m.

sharp. She was always on time with her morning phone call. Natalie had worked at Washington Title Company in the escrow department, but was laid off three months ago. Even if an attorney were sitting right in front of her complaining about the chain of title or some encroachment left on the title policy or her closing skills, she'd call me for some meaningless chitchat. Even being unemployed, she still continued her morning coffee calls.

"Mornin', lady. What's on your mind this Monday morning?" I pressed the handsfree button on the phone and placed her on the squawk box.

"I'm just checking on you. You know me, Carla." "That's right, I know you like a fish know water," I said, cracking a wide smile.

"Guess what?" she said in an excited whisper.

I knew that sound in her voice, the sound of dirty laundry and it was gossip, the eighth deadly sin. "What?" I asked while scanning my desk to answer some of my boss's questions. But as usual she swooped me into the rumor mill with only a few words.

"I saw that ol' Fisher King," she said.

How come the people that keep hearsay, rumors and innuendoes going are the ones that always see the people for whom gossip is told? "God, where'd you see Sidney?"

"This morning, driving a new banana yellow BMW."

"BMW!! What a piss-ant. That fool can't help his daughter go to homecoming or help pay for her dentist bill, but he can buy a new car?"

Natalie snapped, "Aw'ight, girl, handle yo' biz'ness."

"We'll see about this. Thanks, Natalie. That's why I love you. I'll talk to you later."

"Ain't nothin', girl. Bye."

And just like that, with the speed of lightening, she had struck and was gone. My ex was a low life weasel that hadn't given us a dime in years. I took pity on Sidney after he'd lost his job at the Arlington Park Racetrack. That definitely was not the job for him. It was like sticking the fox in the hen house. You just know that fox is going to get after those chickens sure as the sun is going to rise in the east. He's had a few jobs since then, so I never bothered him again. I pulled my cell phone out of my purse when the office phone rang again. Without hesitation, I picked up the receiver, "Carla speaking."

"Hey, Carla," it was the energetic voice of my boss, Dan Kravitz.

"Good morning, Dan. How was your weekend?"

"Great, but it was way too long," he said and laughed.

"And yours?" he shimmered with confidence, even over the phone.

"The same, I couldn't wait to get back to my desk," and we both laughed again.

"We need to meet right away on the Boston reports. Mr. Grey wants to push up the final date."

"He hasn't given us five days, and he wants it already?"

"Well, Carla, we get this done, and I'll give you some comp time," he said.

"Ha, you promise?"

"You know me."

With sarcasm, "Yes, I know you. That's why I want it in writing and signed with your blood."

"You got it. Come into my office as soon as you can," he said.

Dan was a good boss and a man of his word. Cool as a cucumber unless his wife was involved. Marla knew how to strike the right nerve with that man and it seemed like she enjoyed pulling his string. "Give me ten minutes."

"See you then," he said and hung up.

I scrolled through my cell phone contact list, M, N, O, to P, and fingered down. Posten-Attorney Claudette Posten, I dialed the number.

A brassy female business cadence greeted me. "Claudette Posten's office."

"Hi, is Ms. Posten in?"

"Who may I say is calling?" she said in a very varsity voice.

"Carla King."

The professional sounding lady said, "Please hold."

An instrumental version of James Brown's, "I Feel Good" was playing on the office phone system's hold program. As soon as I started humming to JB, Claudette answered the phone.

"Good morning Carla. You finally decided to file a claim against Sidney, huh?" Claudette Posten had that low-pitched silky voice that sounded like some of those female DJs, the kind of tenor you wish you had and men loved to hear.

"How did you know?"

She paused, the caring sensitivity of her voice changed.

"Oh, Carla, I'm sorry, I was just kidding around."

Claudette and I attended DePaul University together and remained good friends after graduation. She cut her teeth at Heltzer and Steinman Law firm, a mid-size downtown law office, and became a brilliant esquire who represented me for every legal challenge from real estate to divorce. Then after seven years with Heltzer and Steinman, she opened her own practice in a small storefront location in Evanston. Since then she'd hired three fulltime attorneys, two paralegals and three administrative assistants.

"Well, its time," I declared. I'm sure Claudette felt my frustration over the phone.

"I didn't ever think you'd ever do this," she said.

My mind flashed to Sidney riding in a brand new yellow BMW. "Well, things change."

"That's the truth," Claudette said.

"So when can we get together?"

"How about at my office next Monday around three?" she said without hesitation.

"Three it is, then. Oh, and Claudette I might have another issue coming up, but I hope not."

"Remember, I'm just a phone call away," she said.

When she mentioned that, the jailhouse experience flashed through my mind. Why I didn't mention it to her baffled me. I was just embarrassed that I had given up my rights just so that I could believe that justice would prevail.

She continued, "Tell your mom and dad that I said hi. Love you."

"Love you more." I hung up the phone with nostrils flaring and fingers tapping rapidly on the desk, with enough heat emanating from my anger to warm the North Pole. That man had given no assistance in raising Zoe, and he went out and bought himself a new car. If only he'd shown a little support. She loves him so much, but he just traverses along with his selfish ways.

Back when we had a little marital trouble, Claudette suggested that I file brutality charges against him. But Sidney was going through a lot at the time, and I didn't think it would do Zoe or me any good. He had never hit me before then and although he'd lost control that night, I, too, said some very disrespectful things at the wrong time. No man should have to go through what I put him through that night. His dad was ill, and Sidney and I weren't exactly best friends. Some people think that I didn't support him, but we had been distant for some time. His indiscretions with Myra Jordan, an old co-worker of his weren't the only thing that caused us to split. We probably could've gotten over that. I knew he had no real feelings for that woman and was just having a little job fling. Lord knows, I'd been thinking about creeping with Jeremiah Tyndale, a man in our Racine office.

Sidney was self-serving, inconsiderate and thought only of himself. Heck, I might have been able to get over that, but it was how he treated Zoe that broke the relationship down to a nub. He used to demean her for not getting straight A's, or scold her for learning the latest dances, or for just not being what he had determined to be the perfect little girl. He couldn't and wouldn't forgive her, or people in general, for not living up to his expectations. For the past ten years, Sidney hadn't given Zoe nearly enough money, but mainly she needed more love. His visits were too few and too far between. She didn't always say it, but I know she missed his tired ass.

As it sat, Sidney had to do better and the sooner Claudette shuffled him to the whipping post and let the courts take control of the situation, the better.

The tone of the phone intercom interrupted my thoughts, so I depressed the handsfree button. "Mr. Kravitz wants to know if you're ready," Doris said.

"Tell him I'm on the way."

Unexpected circumstances kept coming the entire workday. Problems and people invaded my office by e-mail, phone, or in person. It felt like I was the only one who could put out fires at this bank. Was Dan testing me? Or did I really know everything and the rest of them were just idiots? Either way, I needed a raise.

### CHAPTER 9

Live, die and cry we must

No Rescue

No Understanding

Young tragedy

Just Grief

And Pain

No escape

Your baby's gone

CK

09'

Zoe bounced into the living room like she didn't have a care in the world. Watching her enthusiasm for life, I yearned for the follies of my youth. "Hey, mom, what's happenin'?"

"Honey, it's been one of those days. I need a hot bath."

She plopped down on the slumber chair next to the living room window. "You're not going to the game tonight?"

"Believe it or not, I actually gave my ticket to Natalie."

Zoe's jaw dropped and her mouth was held wide open.

"What? Mom, you must be tired."

"She's going to take her squeeze."

"Her squeeze?"

"Yep, Walter."

"Walter?" She shrugged and peered out the window into the chilling waters of Lake Michigan. "Well anyway, that's nice of you to let her have the ticket." Zoe turned back to me. "You feelin' ok?"

I sat down on the oversized couch next to the chair. "Just a little tired, that's all. So, you've got homework?"

"Me and Jessica goin' to the tennis courts in a minute. I just came home to grab a sandwich or som'in."

I gave her my usual adage, "Watch, look and listen, okay!"

She smiled and said, "I always do."

I dragged into the bathroom, ran a tub of hot water, and zoned out in front of my miniature Sony TV sitting on a wall mount in the corner opposite of the bathroom door. "Let's see who's on tonight." I rested in the warm bubble bath and flipped the remote between Martin and Seinfeld re-runs.

After a few episodes of soaking, a burst of energy surged through my body, and I leaped out of the tub, toweled off and tiptoed into the office. I keyed into the Internet, then to the chat room.

_Online Host:_ _"QueenB has entered the Room."_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"Yeah, well we all got to watch our backs."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Sho you right. You always need an extra pair of eyes."_ _Bigben:_ _"I always pack my shit."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"I'm goin down to the local redneck pistol shop and buy me a new gatt." Koltrane: "I'm staying close to home."_

_Suddensam:_ _"Why you goin' to go and do that?"_

_Koltrane_ _: "Because I don't wanna die, and don't wanna kill nobody."_

_Queenb:_ _"What's all this talk about death?"_

_Koltrane_ _: "You don't know?"_

_Queenb:_ _"Know about what?"_

_Honeysuckle:_ _"We just got a message in the chat room that Shaft67 was murdered."_

_Queenb:_ _How did you find out?"_

_Suddensam:_ _"Blackrose."_

_Queenb:_ _"When did it happen?"_

_Koltrane_ _: "A couple of days ago."_

_Queenb:_ _"Does anyone know what part of the country Shaft67 was from?"_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"He lived close to me. New Jersey, around South Orange."_

_Twisletoe:_ _"East Coast. No wonder he always bragged about the Yankees."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"He was a nice man. We started instant messaging about six months ago. He started sending me pictures of himself, and I would send him pictures. Then we found out we stayed about thirty minutes from each other and decided to meet. Shaft67's real name was Frank Bowles. He was a Mason and a Kappa. He worked at Chemical Bank. Frank was 35, single with two boys from a prior marriage. He was a handsome and strong Black man that wouldn't hurt a fly. I'll miss him."_

_SidneyX_ _: "Another good brother lost to the system."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"What system? We don't know how he was killed."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Are you sure you wanna know?"_

_Twisletoe:_ _"Hell, yeah."_

_Blackrose:_ _"Not me."_

_Koltrane_ _: "Me, either."_

_Bigben:_ _"I want to know."_

_Crowsnest_ _: "Me, too."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"What I heard is that there was a home invasion, and the intruder strangled him with the phone cord. He dialed 911 and the emergency operator heard him being murdered. It was caught and recorded. He tried to fight off the attacker, but it was too late. They played it on all the TV stations, in New Jersey and New York. They edited a lot of it out but the report was that it was about two minutes before the sounds stopped. It was terrible."_

_Twisletoe:_ _"Damnnnnn!"_

_Queenb:_ _"Did they catch him?"_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Not yet."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"I hope they cut his nuts off."_

_Suddensam:_ _"You always thinkin' bout getting' buzy."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"And..."_

_Bigben:_ _"I heard you, Prettypink. Ain't nothin' wrong with a little bump and grind."_

Here we go again. Even in the middle of meaningful conversation, it always reverts back to bullshit and sex. Well, what should I expect? I guess people come into the chat room to get away from their real lives in the first place.

Zoe broke into the conversation and bellowed from the hallway, "What's up, Mom?"

"You back already?" I asked.

She continued yelling from the hallway, "It's been three hours. That's enough time at the tennis courts."

"Come in the office, honey."

Zoe bounced into the room and stood at the door. "What's up, Mom?"

"When's the last time I told you that I love you?" I asked.

"Mommmm...you tell me all the time," Zoe smiled.

"Well, I'm going to say it again. I love you."

"I love you, too, Mom."

"Come give me a hug."

"Awww, Mom."

"Girl, you better get ova' here. You know you're not too old to get a hug." I squeezed Zoe hard. "Now you can go on your merry way."

I turned back to my computer, saw the instant message icon flashing and double clicked it.

" _What's Up QB?: Some raw stuff tonight. I better get busy living cause you know dying on the chat room maybe waiting around every corner. But then there's this thing that happened and we then find out that Shaft67 and Honeydutoo got to meet. I was glad to learn that someone in the chat room actually got a chance to hook up. One day I'd like to meet YOU. What do you think?_

Koltrane"

I stared at the screen in conjecture about Koltrane's message which had hypnotized me. The chat room was a casual getaway because there was nobody of consequence to hold me accountable for things I'd said or the guilty pleasures of reading the nonsense spewing from the screen. I could let my feelings flow or just dive into the feelings of others without the fear of an incorrect response, if I responded at all. I could cut the conversation on or off at my whim.

Like most Internet chatters, I've always wondered what it would be like to meet somebody, drop a line, kick it around the local bar or see Earth, Wind and Fire in concert together. Most of the time, it was just my imagination trying to conjure up somebody's appearance by the way their voice trembled. Like most people, Facebook and those types of social networks weren't my cup of tea, because I didn't want people that I knew to judge my conversations. In the chat room, I questioned if their hair was long with dark skin or short with bad complexion, were they fat or skinny, tall or diminutive.

When it came to envisioning people in the chat room, my imagination was always on the negative side. As opposed to body builders and rugged construction workers and movie star physical attributes, my thoughts of them were seen as obese with balding hairlines or wire-rimmed glasses, holding a two-pound cheeseburger in one hand and a super-sized chocolate milkshake in the other. In my mind the keyboard was covered with grease stains from the food wrappers littered on the desk, and the one in question did telemarketing for a vacation home company from the comfort of his home. Consequently, I'd never entertained the idea of meeting anybody from the chat room. I thought of these people as faceless entities to converse with through a special timeless fold in the universe, like aliens communicating to earth from another galaxy that could only transmit through computer chips in our own private world.

Koltrane had been my closest chat room buddy, but to actually meet him was a different situation. He probably lived in South Dakota or in the Kentucky mountains somewhere, and I wasn't goin' there.

" _Hi Koltrane:_

Thanks for the invite. My job is so demanding that it rarely gives me leisure time. But let me give it some thought and I'll get back to you on it.

See ya, Your friend Queenb"

### CHAPTER 10

Sit down to stand up.

Stand up to be put down

Move to the rear

Says the man as he puts it in gear

Get up says another like he owned you

Sit down to stand up

But she sat

Alone, stubborn and righteous, she sat

Fearless in the valley

Faithful in God to break every chain

Sit down to stand up

Stand up to sit down

The sound of a small pebble that precedes a wave of movement

There will be an army rising up Sit down to stand up Stand up to sit down.

CK

09'

A couple of months later, Natalie and I were getting jiggy at the United Center celebrating with our pride and joy, the Chicago Bulls. But really, we made plans to rejoice with both the

Bulls and the top man in the country, President-elect Barack Obama. It had been approximately one year since we elected him and we still couldn't believe that there was a _Black Man_ in the White House.

"Get LeBron, stop him, stop him!" I wailed at the top of my lungs. But the Bulls were outmatched. This was a young Bulls team on the uptick, with a number one pick in rookie point guard Derrick Rose who had not proved anything in the NBA yet, but once again I was going along for another basketball ride. Nobody was going to refer to me as a fair weather fan. Natalie and I wouldn't sit down during the game because the energy in the United Center reminded me of the old Chicago Stadium, but nothing could match the ear pounding jeers and cheers from that old girl.

A voice called from somewhere close. "Great game, huh, Carla?"

I scanned the seats filled from another sold out house, searching for the squirrelly voice shouting somewhere behind me. The hunt came to an abrupt halt when Emil "Cowboy" Jones, hovering just above me caught my eye. He rubbed his belly like he had just swallowed a baby cow and gave me this Fat Albert pose. He winked at me with those bug eyes, and a mouth packed with hot dogs and a hand full of cotton candy. There wasn't one time when I didn't see Cowboy with his jowls full and smacking with some type of cured, smoked, fried or grilled piece of meat jammed into his mouth.

"Girl, Cowboy sho' like him some Carla," Natalie joked, then waved at Cowboy in a teasing manner.

"Oh, so you got jokes, huh?" I said.

Natalie snapped her fingers for emphasis. "He ain't jokin' about that Carla thang."

"Yeah, well ain't nothin' happenin' but the rent. You know what I'm sayin'? Hey, I might want a man, but a woman's got to keep her self-respect and I'm not stooping to the lowest common denominator."

"Well you know girl, he got the rent money and mo'," Natalie said.

"There ain't that much yen in China."

Cowboy's thunderous voice was raised so that everybody in the heavens could hear, "Hey, hey, Carla. What you doin' after the game?"

Embarrassed, but cool as a Chicago autumn evening. "Me and a few Native Americans goin' out to shoot some Cowboys," I cracked.

"Why you treat me so bad? All I wanna be is yo' friend," his flirty insincere grin spoke a thousand negative words.

"Because, Cowboy, you messing with me while the game is going on," I snapped at him over a couple of aisles. Mike Heltzer, Joe Reitler and Andy Benniss, some of the season ticket holders that had been sitting in this same section for the past few years with me found it joyously amusing.

"Go on, Carla, give it a shot," Mike Heltzer prodded with a wry grin.

"See now, yawl need to stop," I said.

The oversized lover, goat-ropin' man pleaded through the stadium noise, "Come on, Carla. Go to the rodeo with ol' Cowboy."

I just needed to shut him up so he wouldn't continue to humiliate me. "Ok, ok, after the game we'll talk. Alright?" "Yahoo!" Cowboy Jones whaled.

Natalie turned to me and whispered, "Dayum, Carla, you really gonna talk to him later?"

I gave Cowboy a polite wave of my hand and turned around to the game. "Uh, no girl. We are getting out of here before the game ends."

"Well one thing's for sure, you can get a new Ford Taurus anytime you want." Natalie held her hand over her lips and snickered through the side of her mouth.

Cowboy's mother named him Howard Jones, a local legend who starred in track and football while fighting his way out of Chicago's Westinghouse High School. Howard now owned three car dealerships called the Wild Wild West Auto Stores. He advertised around the Chicagoland area as "Cowboy the Dealer" the wheelingest, dealingest car man in the land. "So come on down to my Auto Ranch, and pick up one of my new stallions." I don't know who created his ads, but the Wild Wild West Auto Store commercials and his "Auto Ranch", were great attention getters. Midget clowns, the tallest man in the world dunking a basketball while standing flat footed, the shortest man in the world fitting into the shoe of the tallest man in the world, camels, elephants, meat grinders grinding cash into dust to show no money down deals, Cowboy's commercials were cheap and loathsome, but effective.

He was loaded, I mean not "nigga-rich" but a wealthy man and single to boot. But the man was a pig. Not only because of his size, I mean the man stood five foot five if he was an inch but, weighed at least three hundred pounds. Hot dogs, buttered popcorn, pretzels, nachos, colas, Cracker Jacks, Snickers ice cream along with any and everything you could smell in the stadium emanated from this man. Howard would wear those chintzy suits and ties he probably bought from Smokey Joe's Clothing. You know, those 1971 shiny polyester suits with wide lapels and fat ties that reminded you of a summer beach towel. Having money's great, but you have to take care of your health, and anyway, I didn't need money that bad.

After the Bulls defeat at the hands of LeBron James and the Cavaliers, we hopped a cab over to the Green Dolphin Restaurant for a late night dinner. I had a huge urge for their blackened catfish dish. The Green Dolphin would have me leap out of a car, racing at ninety miles per hour on the Dan Ryan Expressway for some of that delicacy. Also, that night my favorite local jazz artist, trumpeter Orbert Davis was jamming with his quartet.

I don't know how it happened, did this man have extrasensory perception or was it just fate? No matter what the happenstance, there he was, Howard "Cowboy" Jones sitting in the front row with a mouth full of fried chicken wings, a bucket of tater skins and a large soda. Cowboy was sucking down wings and pulling chicken bones like out of his mouth like he was exhaling them. I was sure that this was going to ruin my night. But on the other hand, Natalie was ecstatic to see Cowboy. She figured that he would fulfill all of our eatable and spirit needs, then she would schmooze with him the entire night between meals and drinks, trying to set herself up for a great car deal on the side. But to my surprise, we had a great evening, and after Cowboy had his fill of the menu, he ended up being an enjoyable person. He was actually charming, witty and smart. I understood why he became so successful as a businessman.

I got home at about twelve thirty that morning, took care of my hygiene, ate a couple of crackers draped with honey and drank a couple glasses of water. Then I had the urge to visit the chat room for a minute just before hitting the sheets. Recently the chat room had some great and interesting political conversations. One thing about the chat room, it didn't matter what time of the day or night, someone was always on the chat room floor.

_Online Host:_ _"Queenb has entered the room."_

_Blackrose:_ _"Queenb's in the house."_

_Queenb:_ _"What's up, yawl?"_

_Bigben:_ _"Queenb, what's up? You up awful late, ain't you."_

_Queenb:_ _"Didn't feel like sleeping so just thought I'd check in."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Twisletoe was found murdered last night."_

_Queenb:_ _"What?"_

_Bigben:_ _"Word."_

_Williamtell:_ _"That's the latest and it ain't no joke."_ _Queenb:_ _"Damn. When did this happen?"_

_Suddensam:_ _"Last night."_

_Queenb:_ _"How did it happen?"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"He was strangled."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Just like Shaft67."_

_Masonide:_ _"Ain't that a coincidence."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Yeah, it's getting dangerous to be online nowadays."_

_Queenb:_ _"Explain."_

_Williamtell:_ _"You know with all the deaths and everything."_

_Masonide:_ _"You better watch out, Williamtell, you could be next."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"That shit ain't funny."_

_Williamtell:_ _"They better bring in the marines if those fools come after me. Cause I got something waiting for their asses."_

_Bigben:_ _"I heard that shit. Lol."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"You can't trust nobody."_

_Spawnslove:_ _"You can trust me, Honeydutoo."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Trust you... how's that?"_

_Spawnslove:_ _"Trust me to rock yo' world."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Just like a regular nigga. All you want is a quick sniff."_

_Spawnslove:_ _"Ah huh, then what you talkin' bout then?"_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Trusting people, that's what I'm talking about."_

_Bigben:_ _"And..."_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"Most people are killed by somebody they know."_

_Queenb:_ _"So you think that whoever killed Twisletoe and Shaft67 knew them?"_

_Honeydutoo:_ _"That's what I'm saying."_

_Masonide:_ _"There ain't no way to prove that most people know their killer."_

_Bigben:_ _"That's where you're wrong. The courts and criminal research can actually come up with empirical_ _evidence on who's killing who."_

My eyelids became heavy and closed for I don't know how long. But it was late and I didn't know what they did for a living but my job began early. I started to check out of the chat room, when an Instant Message chimed in like a bell tone; the sound was like the one at the theatre letting the audience know that intermission was over and the play was about to resume. I wondered who it could be.

Hi Queenie!

Here's my address:

5815 Cochran Dr.

Los Angeles, CA

313-333-6575

Wouldn't it be cool if you were in the Los Angeles area? Well it's wishful thinking anyway. Call me sometime.

Koltrane."

Wow... hook up with somebody from the internet? _You don't want a date with any of those people. Who are they?_ It's a chat room fantasy. Some people's thing is to sit at home and watch a reality show, sitcom or sports; but for me, spending time in the chat room was the thing that was done. No big thing, just fun and games. A spot where I could sit, chillax, laugh and on occasion get a little insight. Was Koltrane for real, or was he just a figment of the chat room's imagination? I'm just not that much of a risk taker. What if he was a bone-eating dog? Or for that matter, what if he was fine as hell, then what? I didn't think I'd ever be ready for a computer love gone real. With all types of worst case scenarios streaming through my mind, it sounded like the town of warlocks to me. _But then again, I thought, it might be a good opportunity to meet a person who has been a real pleasure communicating with online for the past eight months or so._ The way Koltrane and me had shared laughs, our thoughts and even some feelings with each other, would not lead me to the conclusion that he's a homicidal maniac or sadistic rapist. _But one never knows, does one?_ I quickly dismissed the thought of a meet and greet with Koltrane, _Poof be gone_.

Again, my thoughts digressed to the murders. Wouldn't it be unprecedented if it was somebody from our chat room that committed those crimes? There was something awfully strange about those murders and it was eating at my craw. I mean, two murders of people directly out of the chat room and a chat member's family being run off the road and killed. Then there were already chat room regulars who knew each other. Shaft67 and Honeydutoo had met and from all indications were hooking up on a regular basis. Then there was Twisletoe, somebody knew a great deal about him and how he met his demise. Then Shaft67 and Twisletoe were both strangled to death. Now that's mighty coincidental. Why couldn't it be somebody from the chat room?

_Girl stop, you are tripping on yourself!_ The people on the chat room were from all over the country. I mean it was supposed to be an _African American_ chat room but we had other races from all over the world giving their take on situations as well. We'd usually weed them out through conversations. Like the time a White racist entered the room; his comments were completely off the wall. He was belligerent and xenophobic and was called out immediately for his comments. I remember the conversation moving fast that night. We went from Africa to the Caribbean, flew to America, then back to Africa, three hundred and sixty degrees. The categories hit on business, sex, sports, politics and religion. This White guy kept getting Elijah Muhammad confused with Muhammad Ali. When we kept admiring Elijah Muhammad for his controversial, yet timely accomplishments in societal religion and politics, this guy constantly brought up the time Elijah Muhammad knocked out Sonny Liston. Then he brought up the positives in turn of the century segregation and how the Voting Rights Act was a mistake. That's one thing about the chat room, if you desired, you could be anything but yourself.

I pondered about the deaths of Twisletoe and Shaft67 and if there was any connection. It sounded crazy to me. I mean these people lived who knows where. Their backgrounds could've been as different as Mother Theresa and Adolf Hitler. But it consumed my thoughts for the remainder of the night. I picked up the phone and dialed Natalie's number. "Hey, girl."

"Who this?" she mumbled.

"It's me."

"Carla?" she whispered.

"Yeah."

"Oh, I thought you were my pestering sister. What time is it?" her voice was weak and hesitant.

"One thirty."

Natalie was agitated. "Girl! What the-."

"I have to run somethin' past you."

"Yeah, yeah, can't it wait til tomorrow?" she slurred.

"Natalie," I gave her that now or never sigh.

She pleaded in a relaxed tone, "OK, ok, but hurry up girl."

"You know...I been participating in this chat room for a while."

"Tell me somethin' I don't know, please," she grumbled.

"Well, some people that are always in the chat room have been getting murdered."

"No shit?" From five miles away, I felt her energy pick up. "Yeah... I've been thinking that somebody from the chat room has been doing all the killing. I can't seem to get it out of my mind."

"How so?"

"I don't know. I have this hunch. I mean three people within the last month or so have come up murdered. All three were strangled," I said.

"Say what?" Her voice perked up even more.

"Right."

"I could see one and maybe two as a coincidence, but that third one... What's up with that?" I hesitated and the phone remained silent. "I can't put my finger on it," I finally said.

I pictured Natalie sitting up in her bed. "I told you 'bout that damn chat room stuff. That shit ain't no good. All them lonely ass niggas fakin' 'bout who they are and what they're about. Facebook is the only thing I mo' be on. At least I know who talkin' smack."

"Do you think it's possible, though?"

"Humph, I 'ont know, girl. But I know it ain't good." "I have this hunch that I'm chattin' with the killer," I said.

I could sense that Natalie had sat up in her bed. "What!? Do you know who they are? I mean do you really know who did it?"

"Nope. Not a one," I confessed.

"Well..."

I knew that sound; it was the I-told-you-so tenor in Natalie's voice. "Well, what?"

Natalie dismissed it. "Nothin'."

"No, no. Come on. What were you about to say?"

"Girl, just leave those people alone. Like I been tellin' you befo', they some sick sinners hiding behind a veil of secrecy called the chat room. Let it go, Carla."

"I hear what you're saying, but-."

"Leave it alone. And furthermore, don't lose any sleep over it," she said.

I muttered, "Okay, okay."

"You're better than that," she said.

"Thanks, deary. Love you, girl."

"Love you, too."

"Have a good night," I said.

"Later alligator."

I hung up the phone with a sense of calm. No matter if she agreed with me or not, I could always count on Natalie to give me real insight instead of some concocted mumbo jumbo. Natalie never would trust some blind e-mail chitchat. She told me more than a year ago to let the chat room alone. In the mode of everyday life with all of the crazy sociopaths and criminals, you knew that whackos would live on the internet as well. Supposedly, the protection through concealed names and security measures placed a wall between you and those strangers. Still, my gut feeling was that the killer was on the net in our chat room with the possibility that I had chatted with him that night.

### CHAPTER 11

I dreamed dreams of love too extreme to believe

But I did until the next days end

Then I dreamed about a close friend

But the extreme dream was an illusion again

When love's reality brought me to tears

I still hadn't learned in all these years

CK

'09

Dad had smoked the largest turkey of all time on the grill, cooked to perfection. Mom had Zoe in the kitchen teaching her the finer points of preparing the finest of holiday meals and mentored her on relationship building with the opposite sex. Uncle Harold, with a shot of Stoli placed neatly on top of a folded napkin, and Aunt Sis were in town from Lawrence, Kansas, shuffling a new deck of cards waiting for the first pair of Bid-Whist challengers. Natalie was giving me a hand setting up the silverware on the dining room table, while her man, Walter was planted on the couch taking in the Thanksgiving holiday football games with my father. Muhammad, my favorite cousin, was glued in front of the TV, cuddled with his feisty wife, Mimi. Whenever I saw him, I wanted to crisscross both ring and middle fingers and bellow, _West Side_ in my deepest voice, every time I saw him.

I love Muhammad. He was born James Sanders, Jr. after his dad who taught him everything he knew about cars. But as time went on, James, Jr. had other plans that didn't include automobiles at all, but just the streets that they rolled on. On those streets, he was nick-named "Slam" and they didn't call him Slam because he could dunk a basketball, either. Slam was a cold blooded Gangster Disciple known for slamming heads against the wall and taking a nigga's lunch money. Slam was into violence, cocaine, crime and buffoonery. Consequently, if you played around with Slam, you brought a gun, a lawyer and roses. He was headed straight to the joint or a quick death and the thing about it was, he didn't care about either one.

Then one cold winter day while Slam was manning the block slinging his goods, a young twenty-two year old Black Muslim named Sharif Akbar approached the notorious street-tough Slam and challenged him to listen and ponder about another way of life and belief. Slam's only religion was money and to get that "cheddar" by any means necessary. His theory was that Christianity was a scam invented by the White man that held Black men in check with faceless gods, hypocrites carrying racist agendas that harbored manifest destiny philosophies driven by greed to dominate the world. The black church, which was an extension or division of the White man's plans, if you will, was weak as it hid behind the skirts of the chirping females that ran the house of worship and catered to the hollering and guilt-preaching pastor's needs. His disdain for the church came from the common thought around black neighborhoods that women controlled the church operations and preachers were their pimps.

But this young Muslim man had somehow gained Slam's respect and introduced a hard-core, inner circle gangster to Temple #1 on the South Side of Chicago where he heard the magnificent orator and leader, Louis Farrakhan. During his visit, Minister Farrakhan hit an emotional and psychological button, and right there on the spot, Slam's life changed forever as he quickly evolved into Muhammad Brown, a proud devout Muslim brother. Yeah, that was Muhammad Brown over there on the couch, a strong, God-conscious, clean shaven, and clean living family man.

But I still wouldn't cross him.

My cell phone rang to the tune of the Gap Band's "Party Train".

"Hello," I greeted, while bopping my head to the beat.

"Hey, big Sis." It was my baby sister, Christine who was in Harlem, New York with her husband, Ralph and his family celebrating the Thanksgiving holiday.

"Happy Thanksgiving," I said.

"Same to you. I miss you all," she whined.

"Well, you should."

"I know, but Ralph wanted to see his family. You know I can't stand New York with all this uppity shit. Give me a break," she complained.

Christine didn't hurt for confidence and if you got in her way, she'd blow smoke rings from her Kool Mild's directly into your face and shovel her dog Kujo's dung on your new shoes. Christine took no prisoners. The only person I saw that could tame her was Christine's husband, high strung cussin' and fussin', Ralph Green. Yep, and he was from New York, too. In reality, Christine probably hated New York because Ralph had enraptured her so completely that she remained speechless every time they disagreed. I'd never seen her like that with anybody, because Christine King was a fire breathing, death defying, five-foot-twoinch sister girl. But like I said, Ralph put the shamma lamma ding dong on her.

"How's the Green family doing?" I asked.

"Shit, dem' niggas fine. The way that they're prancing around this ranch house, you'd think that we're rolling up into the Governor's mansion or something," Christine said with a bit of resentment.

"Think nothing about it. You know how some of those New Yorkers are, like the world revolves around their every move."

"Yeah well, they need more space around here, cause it's too damn crowded," she complained.

"You'll be home soon, so just enjoy yourself and I'll see you later."

"OK, tell Mama and Pops that I love them," she said.

"I sure will. Love you, too. Bye."

"Love you."

The doorbell sounded. I walked to the intercom and asked, "Who is it?"

"It's me," a slow raspy voice answered.

"Me who?"

"Le Bradster," the croaking sound came through the intercom. I pushed the buzzer to let him in, and then turned to see my mom staring at the intercom. I unlocked the front door and walked away. "It's your son," I spewed like I had indigestion. She lit up the room with excitement.

My younger and only brother, Brad was supposed to have been there already, helping Dad out with whatever he needed. That boy was always late. But when you least wanted to be around him, there he'd be, hunkered down in your favorite chair drinking your top shelf booze.

Mama spoiled that boy from day one. Mom and Dad fought constantly over disciplining Brad. But if Dad wanted peace in the house, putting the rod on Brad's ass would fight against everything that Mom believed about raising a child. Then finally Daddy just threw up his hands in defeat and refrained from instructing Brad at all. Eventually, Daddy enabled him, too, by saving Brad from himself time and time again. Brad never wanted for anything or became responsible as an adult. But, that's just my opinion.

Brad could run the streets at will, quit school and all recreational activities as he chose. But for Christine or me to quit anything, was out of the question. "You've got to persevere and never give an inch," Dad would tell us. To this day, Mom and Dad are paying for Brad's wayward lifestyle and their soft castigation for his behavior. Brad never graduated from high school and at the same time, never learned the streets. Drugs and an undisciplined lifestyle eventually became the real demons in his life. My folks mailed Brad to three drug and alcohol rehab clinics costing more than fifteen thousand dollars each and every time. But it would take Brad less than three weeks to hook up with old friends and bad habits, then revert to a life of slack and drugs.

My Mom's frustrations had come to a boiling point, and she threatened to financially cut him off. But she still had a tough time understanding why Brad couldn't hang on and turn his life around. Just last year, she vowed to support him until he could get his feet on the ground. But recently, Mom has done a 180-degree flip, from spoiling him rotten and giving him anything he needed, to becoming a take-no-prisoners, General Patton attitude of "it's my way or the highway." I guess with enough money spent on rehab to send Brad to Harvard, she'd just about had it up to her checkbook with her only son.

While my mom is an Oprah disciple with cuddling acts of restriction and time outs, Dad is old school who believes in hard knock lessons, so if Brad couldn't get the rod, then he needed to be set free and become a man. Dad knew that everybody needed a little push as well as a little help, but Brad had to find out that he was strong enough to survive in the real world. In the process, maybe he'd find God or discover his life's working passion or unearth his gift, possibly stumble upon a good woman who could straighten him out or maybe with trials and tribulations, he'd just find himself. But certainly, the direction they've taken with Brad has led them all down a difficult road.

Brad boogied into the door with the enthusiasm of a wellendowed billionaire. "Hello, hello, hello everybody!" he greeted with carefree bravado.

There were a plethora of things that I didn't like about Brad, but his upbeat personality was infectious and I loved him.

"Hi Brad," I said.

"Sis," he said with a bit of sarcasm as he pimped through my corridor like a broke ass Iceburg Slim. He sounded like the cartoon character Foghorn Leghorn and even had this fake southern twang like the Looney Tune character. "I say, I say there, who is that young beautiful lady standing over there?" Brad's bloodshot eyes lay directly on Mom.

"Oh, sweetie. How's my favorite son?" Mom gushed.

"Mom, I'm your only son," was his retort.

Mom continued smiling, "No honey, Christine's husband is also my son."

"Shit, that bourgeois nigga don't count." Brad stretched his long spider-like arms over to Mom and hugged her hard. Mom's tiny frame was swallowed up by Brad even though he was skinny as an under-nourished Somalian pirate. His hair needed a cut, its ends were wild like a Rasta man's twist, but without the care.

Brad's eyes were set back into his forehead and when he peered at you with scorn, you knew it. When you think of Brad, just imagine the character Gator in the movie "Jungle Fever". Beady off white eyes, wild hair, scruffy beard and a jive attitude, shuckin' and jivin' around like a high school kid. God, every time I see that movie I can't bear to finish it to the end.

Mom stepped back and examined Brad from head to toe.

"Boy, we gotta put some meat on them bones."

He twisted one of his dropping locks and bragged, "Shoot, the ladies think I'm a slim goodie."

"Mo' like a bean pole," Dad popped off.

Hearing Dad's voice, Brad came to attention. "Oh hey, Dad." Brad reached his scrawny hand out and stumbled clumsily over to Dad.

"Son, how ya been?" Dad asked.

For an instant, Brad hesitated. I could see a lie coming from around the corner. "I'm about to start this job over in Addison."

"Addison? Illinois?" Dad quipped.

"Yep, yep, Addison, Illinois."

"Boy, that's a long way from where you stay." Dad's heavy tone of voice stemmed from twenty years of smoking Newport cigarettes which he quit a decade ago, but when he spoke, his voice seemed to make the floor tremble.

Brad tipped his head to the side, stared down at the floor and tapped his foot in rapid motion, just like he would as a child. If it were fifteen years ago, Brad's next sound would be a whimper, then a full blown cry. "Dad, it ain't that far," he pleaded.

"What kind of a company is it?" There was a sharp edge to Dad's questioning.

"Walter Solutions."

Dad raised his head to peer down at Brad. "Ah huh, sounds more like a math question more than a company. What you gonna do fo' them?"

"Warehouse," Brad muffled.

"Warehouse?" Dad huffed.

"Yeah, driving forklifts and stuff," Brad defended while continuing to twist his hair.

Dad grunted and turned around, "Forklifts, humph."

Before Brad could fall into that place of despair, Mom rescued him. "Come on, honey, let's eat." Mom slid her arm around his like a mother would to a baby bird with a broken wing and escorted him into the Thanksgiving celebration, rubbing his arm in comfort. They walked over toward Muhammad.

"What up, Brad?" Brother Muhammad Brown greeted.

"I can't call it," Brad boasted at calling Muhammad by his old street name. "My man, Slam."

Muhammad jumped up from the chair and they embraced. "You remember my wife?" Muhammad asked.

"Absolutely. Like I told you befo', Slam, you been rockin' the cradle." He reached out and shook Muhammad's wife, Cynthia's hand. "Happy Thanksgiving," he chimed.

Cynthia, a beautiful mocha colored lady, stayed in her seat while shaking Brad's hand, "It's a wonderful day and a happy Thanksgiving to you as well."

"You keepin' Muhammad in check?" Brad asked. "Oh no, Muhammad knows exactly what he's doing," Cynthia proudly said.

Muhammad smiled at his wife and turned back to Brad, "Man, stop trying to get a brother hung up."

"Aw man, you know I'm just kiddin'." Brad snickered, "So you still workin' at the same place?"

"I ain't going nowhere. Shoot, they'd have to throw me out of the place 'cause I'm retiring at the hospital."

Brad probed delicately, "You think they might need some help?"

"I don't know. You lookin' for work?"

Brad hunched his shoulders and stammered, "Well, I have this job that I'm about to start, but I always got my ear to the ground and searching for the next opportunity to do better. You know what I'm sayin'?"

Forty-eight hours after Slam had transformed himself into Muhammad, he corralled a job at Northwestern Hospital, and worked his way up to the purchasing manager for the Operations Department. "Yeah, yeah, I feel ya. What do you want to do?"

"Shoot, you know... anything. Pharmacy..."

Muhammad paused and peered at Brad, his eyebrows furrowed. "Pharmacy, huh?"

Brad gave a sly smile and joked, "Naw, man you know, I'll take almost anything."

Muhammad cocked his head and said, "Tell you what, I'll ask around. OK?"

"Yeah, yeah, that's cool and the max, that's cool and the max," Brad hyped.

"Hey, Brad!" Natalie burst into the room and gave Brad a big hug. "I ain't see you pop in. What's crackin'?"

"Well, if it ain't the finest lady in Chicago. Girl, what's happening," Brad opened his thin arms and returned her embrace.

Natalie pulled away from him and commented in a down home way, "Damn, boy, I can almost wrap my arms around you twice."

Brad snickered, "Shoot, you know, watchin' what I eat and just stayin' fit, that's all."

"Come on, I want you to meet somebody." Natalie took Brad by the arm and pulled him over to the dining room. "Brad, this is Walter."

Walter stood up and extended his muscular arm, "Good to meet you."

"Likewise," Brad grabbed his hand with as much macho as he could muster.

Natalie hugged Brad's scrawny arm. "This is Carla's baby brother," she bragged.

Brad curled his lip and said, "Why you got to come with that baby brother stuff, Natalie?"

Natalie shoved him playfully, "Aw man, I ain't mean nothin' by it. You know you my baby brother, too."

Walter patted Brad on the back and said, "Hey, Brad, think nothin' of it. You know how pushy women can be."

Natalie threw back her head and laughed, then jokingly said, "Huh, you ain't seen pushy yet."

"Where did you two meet?" Brad asked.

"It was the funniest thing," Walter said. "But she kind of just appeared from nowhere. I really don't understand it, but one second she's not there and just like that, the next second she's in my life."

"So, what happened in between those two seconds?" Brad asked.

Walter leaned back in thought and took another long drink from the margarita Natalie had concocted. "I was at the club...no me and my friends were playing basketball...no, no..." Walter stopped and peered over at Natalie. "Honey, where did we meet?"

Brad laughed and said, "Shit, Natalie done put the hoodoo on you?"

Walter took a sip from his margarita. "Shit, I don't believe in no hoodoo, voodoo or woodoo. That stuff's a figment of somebody's imagination."

Brad bent over in laughter. "You know, Natalie been doin' that hoodoo shit fo' a long time."

"Shut up, Brad," Natalie scorned.

"Man, I don't believe in no hoodoo," Walter scratched his head in thought. "But I still can't remember where we met. Damn!"

"Why don't you remember?" Natalie asked.

"I don't know," was Walter's response.

Natalie folded her arms in defense and spouted, "Well, I remember, so why don't you?"

"Aww baby, I remember. Yeah, yeah, I remember," Walter said with a bit of discomfort.

"Maybe that hoodoo stuff really works," Brad whispered in my ear. We giggled under our breath at Walter's missing memory dilemma, then eased through my modest three bedroom lakefront condominium into the living room.

Thanksgiving was fabulous. It turned out to be a great afternoon and evening of comical, whimsical conversations in the company of my family and friends. Brad and Dad kept everyone in stitches doing knockoffs of friends and cousins in our old neighborhood on the south side. Zoe continued to ask question after question which led to exaggerated tales of exploits and conquests from both Brad and Dad. Natalie was ever so attentive to her new "sway easy" and he seemed to enjoy every moment of fuss that she made over him. Mom and Dad were in ecstasy with two of their grown kids together in the same room. It happened less and less often as a lack of time and space seemed to influence our decisions.

After devouring most of the dinner, sipping on Champagne and wine, laughing until the backs of our necks ached, everyone departed for home. My mom begged to help clean, but I was determined to make her relax for once and let me serve her, while Natalie and Walter stayed around and helped me and Zoe wash the dishes and clean up. In love and laughter, it was finished in no time flat.

At around ten thirty, Natalie and Walter bid me good night. She was all smiles as they left my space wrapped up in each other and I was happy for her. Zoe had already gone into her bedroom and started gossiping on the phone to her friends.

I felt content and fulfilled with a blessed family event but my long day had gotten the best of me. So I prepared to retire for the night, but almost out of habit, I wanted to see who was chatting. So I wandered into the office and hit the on button to start my hardware.

_Online Host:_ _Queenb has entered the room._

Wow, it's a full house tonight. Didn't anybody feel like sleeping on a full stomach?

_Spawnslove_ _: "Hey Queenb."_

_Queenb_ _: "Happy Thanksgiving."_

_Honeydutoo_ _: "Was your Thanksgiving a good one?"_

_Queenb_ _: "Excellent. Mom, Dad, aunt, uncle, brother, friends and daughter were together for a fabulous dinner. Q'd turkey, mashed taters and sweets, cranberry sauce, jerked chicken made by Mortimor, one of the finest Jamaican chefs in the world. Seven layer salad, green beans. Quick, call Weight Watchers!"_

_Spawnslove_ _: "Oooh weee...I think the fridge is callin' me, y'all."_

_Bigben_ _: "Looks like you had everything but a man."_

Ummm, I hadn't thought of that one. I must be getting use to that.

_Blackrose:_ _"Well I had me a man tonight. And turkey wasn't the only thing he was feasting on. LOL"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"I heard that. LOL"_

_Williamtell:_ _"Well jolly for you, Blackhose, I mean Blackrose."_

_Blackrose:_ _"Don't be hatin."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Why be jealous of you for having some homeless man come over for leftovers."_

_Koltrane_ _: "I was sitting at the edge of the beach watching the water roll up to my ankles and daydreaming into a beautiful sunset."_

Now that's what I'm talking about.

_Queenb:_ _"That sounds fantastic."_

I think it's time to send Koltrane an instant message. Quick before I change my mind.

To: Koltrane

From: Queenb

Subj: Need a sunset

Hi Koltrane, That sunset sounds pretty good to me. Maybe I'll head out to the Wild West in the near future. It's been a long time since I've been to the West Coast.

Queenb

_What the hell, if he wanted to hook up then I say, let's go for it._ If nothing else, the warm rays of the West Coast sun appealed to me. Not waiting for a response or reading another line, I shut the computer down post haste and went straight to bed.

I slept with warm thoughts and a giddiness that made me feel newborn.

The musical jingle from the Chuck Cooper Morning Show awakened me from my deep sleep. My spirits were flying at the new prospect of meeting Koltrane and deep thoughts wandered endlessly as I tried to figure out what he was like. How tall was he? Was his nose big and wide or thin and long? Fat lips? Thin body? Deep voice or whispery and smooth? Nappy hair or wavy and curly? Black tar or caramel cream skin like mine? The images tingled my dark side for unknown adventure, the dilemma and apprehension combined with excitement filled me. I knew deep down that he would be a special person for me no matter how he appeared in the physical.

I meandered into the bathroom to do my daily business then into the kitchen to cook breakfast, when Zoe entered.

"Good morning, Mom," Zoe's youthful voice rang.

"Morning, honey."

"Those grits? Mmmm, is that real bacon? And real eggs, too? Dang, Ma. You feeling awful risky this morning. Where's that synthetic turkey bacon and those counterfeit eggs we've been eating?"

"It's the holiday. I thought a good old fashioned cholesterol-filled breakfast would be good today." "Kickin'," Zoe hopped to the kitchen table like she was a starving sub-Saharan desert child.

We sat down to a hardy down-home breakfast. None of that turkey bacon, shredded wheat, tofu this and low fat that, a-ladyhas-to-watch-her-weight stuff. Just old fashioned comfort food like my mother used to feed me.

"You going shopping today?" I asked.

"You know it. Black Friday and Magnificent Mile, here I come," she said, crumbling her bacon bits into the hot hominy grits.

"Don't spend all your little money."

She smiled and said, "No promises to that. I'm gonna be window shopping and stuff, but if the feeling hits me..."

"Zoe."

"Ah huh," she mumbled with a mouth full.

"I'd like to ask you a hypothetical question."

She looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Ah huh."

"Do you think it's possible to find out whose email address is tied into somebody's real name and address?"

She swallowed and said, "You mean without any clues?"

"That's right."

Zoe paused for a couple of seconds, "Hecky, yeah."

"How so?"

"Maybe if the other person is one of those geeky hackers or somethin'."

"You mean one of those computer genius types?" I asked.

"Yeah, you know, those whatchamacallits. Trolls, yeah, that's it. Trolls."

"Uh huh. I've read about them. But from what I understand, Trolls aren't smart enough. They're just a nuisance," I said.

Zoe lifted the glass of orange juice to her lips and said, "Maybe a Phisher then?"

"Now we're talking."

"Yeah, they try to get passwords and credit card numbers and stuff. Yeah, one of those misfits might be able to." "What's that other type I read about?" I asked.

"A hacker?" Zoe suggested.

"Naw. Somebody that's unbalanced, you know."

"Uh, uh Mom, I don't have a clue."

"So you think somebody could find enough info to locate an address or your phone number, credit card stuff like that? Right?"

"Yes, Mom, but only those that are really computer freaks.

Now what's goin' on? You tryin' to find somebody?"

"No."

"Somebody trying to find you?"

"Snert!" I startled Zoe just as a fork full of grits and bacon left her mouth full.

"What?" she said, continuing to chew on the grits and bacon. She was hard to understand.

"A Snert. I read it in some computer magazine. That's the kind of person that will assault your privacy."

"Okay, Mom," Zoe sighed. "A Snert, sounds hinky to me." "Yeah, sounds hinky to me, too." But one could be prowling around in my life.

### CHAPTER 12

The workaday world continued to flow

Rocky days and hours wait

But we march forward to our work a day fate

Time and time again as life scoots by to our final chapter and untimely date

Ck

'09

It was about ten after eight when I stepped off of the elevator into the office, five floors in the air. My dreams of an L.A. adventure drifted to Venice Beach, Hollywood, white sands and movie stars. Thoughts of the warm sun of the west coast filled my body with a feeling of freedom, the kind of freedom where the sun always shines and nothing but exciting escapades await you.

"Good morning, Carla," Doris chirped. She was a tiny lady with wide hips and a glowing personality.

"Morning, Doris."

"How was Thanksgiving?"

"Fantastic. My parents were over. And how was yours?"

"Girl, I gained a hundred pounds. My cousin, Alice, she loves cookin' chitlins during the holidays. Braggin' on them chitlins like they lobster, filet mignon and baby back ribs all combined into one. I call it the surf, turf and girth combo. She just fussin' and cussin' over them ugly thangs." Doris laughed a laugh where you knew it was some good old school fun, the kind you used to have as a kid.

"Girl, I can't get into chitlins'." My dad's mother, born in Valdosta, Georgia used to cook chitlin's on a regular basis, but from the start I just couldn't stomach them. Especially, once I found out what they were. Just the thought of them sucked the hunger right out of my stomach.

Doris raised her eyebrows and threw up her hands, "Uh, my family eats 'em like they some type of delicacy. Hot sauce and vinegar. My little sister, Rose be shakin' oregano and parsley on 'em."

"Italian style chittlin's. Hey, that might be a little catchy," I said.

"Ay, how ya doin'? Ay, how bout soma dem chittlin's?" Doris mocked in her best New York Italian accent.

We both chuckled.

With a Southside of Chicago pitch, Doris continued, "Anyway, once those thangs cooled down, within ten minutes the grease started cakin' up and holdin' them chittlin's together like cement. Hell, we could have patched holes in the sidewalk with it."

We laughed again. While Doris and I weren't partying buddies, she was an excellent assistant, cheerful and someone I could count on when the big boys came knocking on my gate threatening to rip out my throat.

"Hey, Doris, you mind if I ask you something?"

"No, not at all," Doris said. I must have approached her like it was a secret, because she eased in and moved closer to me.

"What would you do if you had the feeling someone you didn't really know, but maybe had some indication that they might've ..."

Doris spurred me on. "Come on, outwit it, girl."

I stumbled all over the place, attempting to maintain that protective shield at work by guarding my private life, even with Doris. If a black person didn't want to move up in corporate life, just tell all of your personal business and you'll stay just where you are with two and a half percent annual raises and basic health insurance. I understood there was a thin line between my private life and my livelihood. Nobody knew that I was such a chat room junkie, and I wanted to keep it that way. Not that I was ashamed or anything, but I could never trust people in this environment. Not even Doris. And although Jackson Coleman National Bank had diversity in its social behavior, and my boss's cultural learning curve was still climbing, I still held my cards close to the vest.

"A friend of mine stays in a chat room. You know what a chat room is, right?"

Doris twisted her finely coifed head to the side, and placed her small hands upon her well-proportioned hips. She answered with the confidence of Einstein if you had questioned him on a basic arithmetic problem, "Yes."

I pointed my index finger at my head like I was holding a gun and squeezed a make-believe trigger. "Anyway, he told me some of the regular chat friends were being murdered."

"No shit?" she responded with a whisper. Doris's interest had perked up.

I whispered, "Ah huh... He thinks it's a chat room person doing all the killing."

Doris peered at me with her head slanted to the side like a child trying to understand a new sound. "Honey, I don't play around with that damn internet shit. It's dangerous enough talkin' to folks you know. But talkin' smack to folks you don't know from a hole in the wall is crazy." Doris covered her mouth. "Ooops, sorry, boss. But you know what I'm sayin'."

"But do you know about chat rooms?"

"Just enough not to be down with it. You don't know them fools."

Doris sounded like Natalie, and her sister girl began to show. I could tell she was about to give me the hood philosophy on internet do's and don'ts.

She stated, "Them ol' lonely ass geeks talkin' jive behind the screen like they Don Juan or Donald Trump. But if you peep 'em in person, you'd know they was straight up fake. Instead of Don Juan, you'd have a mahogany Elmer Fudd. Th...th...that's all folks..."

I drifted off listening to Doris until she mentioned meeting somebody out of the chat room in person. Then it hit me like a Mike Tyson upper cut.

"...you never know 'bout them people. When's the last time anyone sent a picture of how he or she look and it wasn't somebody drop dead gorgeous?" she continued.

Doris was right. I can't remember an unattractive person's picture on screen and anyone that I've heard bragging about how handsome they were or pretty she was, always sent a picture that was almost perfect.

My imagination wandered. Koltrane never sent a picture into the chat room that I knew about. How did he look? All of a sudden a man lying on a bed with his drawers on appeared. He was not bald but balding with that yarmulke hair thing going on, you know the bald spot surrounded by sparse speckled stands of hair. His legs were scaly and the size of elephants with baby size feet that were puffy with Lilliputian stubby fat toes with teeny tiny toe nails all gray and yellow with fungus. His stomach slid over the bed like the Star Wars character Jabba the Hutt, and his chest had huge sagging tits like an old female gorilla. His nickel-shaped face was the color of a penny, its size that of a twenty five pound watermelon. The Thousand Pound Man was the title nailed above his bed. He was hideous. Was Koltrane this man, unable to squeeze through a threshold? I had visions of Koltrane's body features as hog-like fat, bloated and sweaty, a soft face, unchiseled and fleshy, the kind of face where the jowls bounced when he walked down the street. Yuck!! "Anyway, would you think it possible to commit a murder in the chat room with one of the members?"

Doris gave me the highbrow, squeezing her eyelid while raising the other like she was Inspector Clouseau. "Hell, yeah. No tellin' what kind of info those fools can get on you if you let 'em."

"Hmmm," I grumbled.

"Why? Did somebody do somethin' to you?" she asked with a touch of suspicion.

She caught me day tripping. "Ah no, not to me." With a guarded look, Doris studied me "If I was you, I'd tell that dude to watch his back and leave that chat room stuff to the lonely." She turned back to her desk and began fidgeting with some paperwork just like she had said nothing at all.

"Thanks, Doris. You know I'm going out of town next weekend. I'll be leaving on Thursday night, so we'll have to plan ahead."

"Okay. Where you goin' this time?"

I postured and smiled, "To L.A., girl."

"Take me. Please, take me." She held out her hands in prayer.

"Maybe next time, honey child."

She tossed her head back and raised her thinly shaped eyebrows and said, "Ohhh, sounds like you got plans."

"Maybe... just maybe," I said, blushing from the thought of meeting Koltrane.

Doris moved a little closer to me and whispered, "Carla, don't be playin' in that chat room. It's chaotic and lifeless. It just ain't natural, girl."

I gazed at her and churned my lip to bite it, one of my bad habits whenever somebody gave me something personal to think about. "I know, I know. Thanks for your help, Doris."

The remainder of the week went by too fast and I hadn't been in the chat room since chatting with Koltrane that Thanksgiving evening. Cold turkey with no chaser, that's how I handled it. All of the conversations with Zoe, Natalie and Doris had turned me off to the whole notion of chatting. I hadn't even checked my personal e-mail for messages. I figured that I'd just chill from the whole thing. Hell, they were right, I didn't even know those people.

It was on that following Wednesday evening around seventhirty or so when I glanced out of my window, the same window Cutino had climbed out of not that long ago, facing east over Lake Michigan. The late fall sky was so clean and clear that I could just about see across Lake Michigan into Benton Harbor, Michigan. I moved to the computer with the vodka martini I had just made to knock the edge off of an intense few weeks. The report that corporate and Mr. Kravitz had been pestering me about was complete. I hesitated for an instant, took another sip and sucked down one of the three alcohol-soaked cream cheese filled olives.

After a week or so of not reading my personal emails, I thought that it was about time to just scan through the list. I clicked into the mailroom. God, Koltrane had e-mailed me four times. I clicked into his first letter:

Hi Queenb, Glad you decided to visit. I can't wait, we'll have a great time. I'll have some very interesting plans for us. If that's what you want. Anyway, it will be a marvelous time.

Again, here is my address and don't you dare lose it!!

5815 Cochran Dr.

Los Angeles, CA

313-333-5453

Your Friend, Koltrane

_That's sweet. Don't worry, I won't lose this number._ I wrote it down again and placed it to the side. I saved that letter and moved on to the next one.

Hi Queenb, I haven't heard from you, and you haven't been in the chat room.

What's up? You still coming? You haven't changed your mind, have you? Need money? I can help!! Write me. OK...I need to know the time and date of your arrival. Write me.

The One and Only, Koltrane

I clicked over to his next e-mail:

Dear Queenb, What's up?

Koltrane

The next letter read.

_Dear Queenb_ _:_

I hope everything's all right and your health is well.

I'm worried, so please write or call me.

Sincerely, A Concerned Koltrane

_I better write this man right now before I blow it._ I brought the martini glass up to my mouth with my left hand then clicked the mouse to return to the last e-mail from Koltrane.

To: Koltrane

From: Queenb

Subj: We're still friends!! See you next week.

Dear Koltrane:

Sorry for not responding to you sooner. I've been very busy and decided to take a break from the chat room specifically and online in general.

Don't fret, I'm still coming to L.A. next Thursday on United Airlines, Flight #368, to arrive at LAX at 5:05 PM. Hopefully, you can pick me up. See you then!!

I'll be wearing red! Hottt!!

Sincerely, Queenb

P.S. Any exciting or mellow plans you have are fine by me.

I clicked _Send_ to transmit the e-mail, hoping it would alleviate any fears Koltrane might have that I would be a no show in Los Angeles. Then took another sip from my glass. Koltrane's concern had enhanced my desire to meet him. I was now looking forward to the trip more than ever. _Let's take a chance and roll the dice._ My urge for adventure and something new had all but taken over any concerns over my insecure feelings regarding the unknown. As a matter of fact, it was the unknown that spurred my interest in exploring the volcano of life and joy in meeting new people and visiting other places.

I sat there staring at the computer screen, dreaming of the visions of me and some faceless imaginary Koltrane making love on the beaches of southern California. He had no hair or skin tone, just a clear body of passion and emotions. God, if only I knew what he looked like. _Could he be the one? Could he be the love of my life? Is this what they call computer love? Shit, girl get a grip._

_You don't even know this guy. But at the same_ _time, his last emails did seem sweet and if I want to fantasize about him right now, so be it. If I'm let down after meeting him, I'll deal with it by and by. But right now, today, I am happy with my dream and it feels good._

After a few minutes of Koltrane fantasy, I decided to take a walk along the lake. So, I wrapped myself up in my Hillary Paige jacket, some DKNY jeans, a Dior turtle neck sweater and Timberland boots. The lake is a spiritual escape and a retreat for me. It travels for miles along Lake Shore Drive. You can bike or hike through the Northside, past Lincoln Park Zoo, jump off at Michigan Avenue, window shop and eat at some of the best bistros on earth. But if you want, you can continue down the trail past the Shedd Aquarium, Field Museum, Soldier Field, to the Museum of Science and Industry, Hyde Park, Rainbow Beach and South Shore Golf Course. Chicago had taken great pride in the landscape and parks along the Lake Michigan waterway.

Being raised along Lake Michigan had been a blessing. The water was always chilly, so even splashing around wasn't the thing to do until late July or even August. It took that long before the summer heat could warm the waters into the low seventies. But still, the walks and activities along the lake were great for relaxation and exercise. In the autumn, the air was crisp and clean. That evening, seagulls dived for carp and coho while dog owners trained and played with man's best friend. There were two lovers pressed against a tree trying to remain out of sight, but at the same time not really caring who saw them making out. Joggers ran rampant along the paths, with bike lovers still taking in the remainder of the biking season before the bitter cold and snow set in.

I came to my favorite spot, a group of sharp edged limestone blocks the size of Volkswagen Beatles piled next to each other for stretches of miles along the lakeshore. My special place was hidden just below the bike path surface and above the cold water line of the lake. Climbing down the slippery stones, I measured each step and jumped for safety until I reached my favorite set of rocks. During the summer, I'd bring a snack of grapes and papaya fruit and cranberry juice with me and lay it across a boulder that was almost as level as a carpenter's table top. There I'd eat and meditate along the shore as the waters lashed against the earth and rocks with an ancient rhythm. But that day, I just relaxed and listened to the earth move.

"Good evening, Carla."

The voice was somehow shocking, but very familiar. I spun around and saw the monster from my real life nightmares.

"Cutino!"

"Surprised?" he said with a haunting laugh that brought tears of fear to my eyes.

I froze from the shock of viewing the devil himself standing on a boulder just above me. Surprised was not the word to describe my dread over Cutino's presence. He was dressed in a black Air Jordan jogger's outfit, complete with Jordan crosstrainers and a black knit skullcap pulled over his ears. On that evening, he was either a jogger or armed robber hunting for prey and I chose the latter.

"Cat gotcha tongue?" he teased.

"No," I said with insecurity.

He leaped down upon my space like a cat pouncing on a ball of string. "Then what's been happening?" His face was hairless, except for his jet black eyebrows. His athletic features appeared even stronger than before. Like he had been working out with body builders.

He was way too close, so I stepped back to the edge on our small island of stone. "I was just getting ready to leave."

"You goin' back to your condo?" he asked.

I tried to think of a way to bring more people into our confrontation. "No, a friend is meeting me on the corner."

"Oh really?" he said with a bit of dubiousness in his voice.

I could tell that he didn't believe me. "Yes."

"Natalie?" he asked.

"...No, not Natalie... A friend..."

"You've got another boyfriend?" he asked and curled his forehead, his angry eyes squinted and searched for my answer.

_God, what is this bamboozler about to do? Think Carla, think!_ "Ha, another boyfriend? No, no, no. No boyfriend."

He persisted and shuffled closer. "So who's this friend of yours?"

"Celeste... you've met Celeste Barbaux," I said. It was a make-believe name that just popped up in my head.

"Celeste? I don't remember Celeste."

"I thought for sure you met her."

He searched his mind for a second without his eyes leaving sight of me. "No. No, I don't recall Celeste Barbaux."

"Let's see." I pretended to search my mind for the time and place that I had introduced this imaginary person to him. "At the movies. Ah, at the Chicago Theatre. You remember?"

Cutino thought for a moment, trying to recall the makebelieve day. "No, I...Oh yeah, I remember. A short girl..." "Yes, that's right."

"Dark complexion..." he smiled.

Quickly I said, "That's right, I gotta meet her in five minutes." And tried to slide past him.

"Humph," he snorted. "Ain't no girl you introduce me to like that."

I tried to take a step up from my rock. "Listen, I have to go." I took one step to the side.

He sidestepped over to block me. "Let's just talk fo' a moment. Okay?"

"I told you, I'm late and have to go now." I leaped up to another nearby boulder.

Again, Cutino vaulted over to block my path. "Carla, we've gotta talk."

"Talk about what?"

He held out his hand to me. "You know, everything that's happened."

"Cutino, I don't know what you're talking about. You said that same thing in my home, and I don't know anything."

Then he turned to a dead serious tone. "What did the police talk to you about?"

"You and my relationship with you."

"What you tell 'em? Baby, you can't believe them," then switched to a pleading mannerism in his next breath.

I pleaded, "What could I tell them? I didn't know anything about you."

"Uh huh." Cutino's responding sound of mistrust vibrated down my spine.

"I thought I knew you. You told me you worked for the city. When I asked you about getting money for the trips, you told me that you inherited it from your parents. Or don't you remember?"

Cutino said nothing. He stood there, a tower of strength, intimidating me with his size. I peeked back at the waters of Lake Michigan that had just a few seconds ago soothed me with its rhythm, now it appeared to threaten me with its danger.

"I cared for you and all you did was lie to me," I said.

He tried to grab my hand. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you. But you don't understand everything."

I pulled away and glared back at him, only this time with more contempt than fright. At that point, I decided to put my cards on the table and permit the truth to fly and let the water settle and dry where it landed. "You told me your name was Cutino. But it isn't Cutino, it's Archer. You told me that you worked for the city. You said that you inherited the money from your parents, but you didn't. Those policemen had me pinned up in some sub-basement digging up my past and harassing me with charges I knew nothing about. I had FBI agents showing up at my job, following me to the game- just about everywhere. I'm paranoid and I think somebody's watching my every move. And for what? Because you lied to me, that's why. Now you come here asking me questions about my boyfriend? You... Nigga- and all along you was some type of gunrunning criminal. I—"

He made a quick move to grab my arm, but I dodged his attempt to my left, and jumped to another rock. "Carla, please. It's not like that. It's not like that...Please." Cutino reached for me again, but he moved too sharply and lost his balance, slipping on the damp boulder he was standing on and crashing between the stones which enabled me to escape his grasp.

His face displayed heavy lines of stress as he continued with reasons for his actions. "Come on, Carla! Please, everything is not what it seems!"

I darted up the rocks to level ground. I saw Cutino out of my peripheral vision, struggling to gather himself. "Help! Help!" I screeched.

"Carla! Stop, I'm not going to hurt you," Cutino yelled from the rocks below.

He was a psycho not to be trusted anymore. Hell, I didn't know this man and now what I'd found out about him was downright scary. Cutino was self-absorbed and without conscience and when I figured that out, I knew there was no need to carry on any logical conversation. If his intentions were virtuous at all, he would have first told me that he was sorry. But after one minute with him and those words were not said, I knew that I'd have to save myself. "Help! Help!" I ran in the direction of the kissing couple against the tree, but they had vanished. Then I searched out someone else, somebody, anybody but to my surprise, there was nobody in sight, and he had caught up to me as if he flew over the boulders with wings.

"Carla, stop!" This time his voice was breathing down my back and before I finished hearing his last command, he had me by the arm.

I tried wrestling away from him, but he crushed my effort with his strength. "Let go of me! Stop it! Stop it!" Then before I knew it, I found myself lying face down on the ground with Cutino on top of me. Twisting over onto my back, I swung in a wild attempt to hit any part of his body. But I was like a gnat bouncing off a rhino's horn.

Without much effort, he blocked one swing after another.

"Carla! I told you that I wasn't goin' to hurt you."

"Then why am I on the ground with you on top of me?" He held both my arms pinned to the ground.

"Okay. I hear ya. I'm going to let you up." He seemed to cool down and relax. "I didn't mean for this to happen." "Would you get off of me then?" I demanded.

"Yeah. I'm sorry. I mean I'm just under a lot of pressure.

Ya know?" He slumped over and gradually shook his head.

"Look, I understand your circumstance, but you gotta let me up. This is not making your situation any better."

With that said, his body seemed to get lighter and his demeanor shifted from an aggressive hunter to a calm accountant. "Yeah, my bad. I didn't mean you no harm." He lifted one leg and then the other and lifted from my exhausted body. The second Cutino rose off of me, he was tackled from behind by two men. They wrestled him to the ground so fast that I couldn't figure out who they were or where they came from, but they were right on time. As I gathered myself and refocused my eyes, I could see Cutino trying to battle them off and escape, but the two men were too strong and wrestled him down like a cowboy on a calf. At last, that no good evil so and so was getting his comeuppance. As fast as possible, I crawled away from the fray, then stood up and trotted as far from the tussle as I could.

I gazed down at Cutino, locked down on the ground by two men who were still tussling to tie his hands together. I could see that Cutino wouldn't go down easy, but at this point in the encounter he still appeared helpless as a two year old. The anger I now felt was unlike the emotion I had when he held me over my condominium window where I was downright petrified. Now, it was more revenge and a fury raging up in my belly that detested the very sight of him. "Get him! Get him," I implored my two heroes.

But Cutino wouldn't give up, he continued battling my new heroes and the more I egged them on to bully him, the more he seemed to retaliate.

"Don't let him go! Tie him up! Keep him down!" I kept yelling when I should have been running away.

"Don't resist! Don't resist!" I heard one of the men continuously command. Finally, Cutino's energy was depleted; they had sapped his will to fight. Out of gas and out of time, he was detained by the two men, one skinny white man with a teenager's face, and the other cop a fat older white man with a heavy mustache who pulled out handcuffs. I watched them struggle to get the cuffs around his wrists, but I kept at a safe distance as I continued to chastise the man who had changed my life.

I couldn't help myself as an emotional outburst in hateful remarks came flowing out in expletives. "You bastard, serves you right!" I charged. "You shouldn't have ever done this to me. I'll be there to put your ass away, front row and center of the courtroom to testify against you for assaulting me. I never did anything to you! You sonava bitch! I always treated you with respect!"

In an instant, Cutino freed one hand from the Skinny Man and smashed his face so hard that you could hear the explosion downtown. The Skinny Man ceased fighting and crumbled to the ground in pain. Then with the free hand he turned and head-locked the Fat Man who was stout but not cut out of granite like Cutino. The Fat Man, who was fatigued as well, held on to Cutino's cuffed hand and tried to reach for his holstered gun under his jacket. But Cutino performed some type of MMA karate move straight out of a Wesley Snipes movie that brought the man helplessly to the turf. Tattered and torn, Cutino turned his attention to me. He was bloody, but not beaten. _Who is this man?_

I tried to hide behind the elm tree where I had been cursing his life. "Damn." It seemed there was no escape from him. Before today, I figured Cutino would have been hiding from the police another lifetime away from Chicago. He was a fugitive, for God's sake, a man of means on the lam running for his life. He wasn't just an everyday criminal with no way out, hanging around the very area where he had escaped. But there he was, standing tall like he had stopped time and held it in his hands. I wished that I could reverse time, back to the Fandango Supper Club where we first met. I would have given him the cold shoulder and never given it another thought. If I'd never taken that second step with him, none of this would ever have happened to me.

"Carla!" he yelled. "Stay there, I just want to explain."

I turned to flee his capture. "No, Cutino. Just go." I had a ten-car-length head start on him when he started after me. Then reaching the beach, I stumbled on the soft unstable sand. "Help!" I hollered to the top of my lungs. With the sand sliding under my feet, it seemed like I was running in slow motion, tripping and falling I continued my improbable escape. _Go, go._ I kept telling myself. _Don't give up_. Then I made a promise to myself that if I escaped from this man, I'd work out on my old treadmill like my life depended on it. I was gassed as my fast sprint soon turned into a gallop, then a slow trot, but no sound from Cutino came from behind. I hadn't heard from Cutino since I hit the dead fishy smell of the beach, so I craned my neck to view how close he was to me. But to my surprise, he was fleeing in the opposite direction, followed by a horde of police. I skidded to a stop to watch the chase. Squad cars raced along the lake's bike path, pursuing Cutino for what I hoped would be the last and final chapter of his freedom. Just like a nosy neighbor, I had to see the end, so I started walking toward the chase of the Black Dragon. As I moved closer the pursuit came to an end, when I noticed heavily armed police had Cutino trapped against the massive limestone rocks along the lake's shore with their artillery trained on him. I couldn't understand what was being said, but Cutino was yelling at the cops like he was trying to intimidate them. He swung his arms and punched his chest like he was Detective Alonzo Harris in Training Day, facing off with the local gangbangers. "Shoe detail, Nigga." I imagined him saying. The officers had him hemmed in, but they'd had him cornered before and he escaped. So when Cutino jumped back over the rocks and deftly skipped from boulder to boulder like they were on fire, I wasn't surprised. The Black Dragon tried one last jail break. The cops did not fire, but followed Cutino down the rocks toward the waters of Lake Michigan. Not hesitating for a moment, he dived into the cold waters and swam toward his freedom. I had to ask myself again, _who is this guy_?

None of the police were going to jump into the lifethreatening waters of the lake. They just hopped along the rocks, trying to keep up with Cutino's strong swimming strokes.

"Don't shoot, don't shoot!" One of the portly policemen commanded while gathering his flashlight/nightstick.

"He'll either wear himself out or drown!" another said.

_Don't let him go_ , I thought to myself. This man has got to be captured. But Cutino wasn't feeling any of my reflections. I continued following the chase down the lakefront where Cutino wasn't swimming further out; he was a mere fifty yards or so off the shore. More and more officers joined in the chase. The darkness of the evening made the waters of the lake just about pitch black. The police pointed spotlights from their squad cars and handheld flashlights at Cutino, marking his advances towards an unknown distant destination. I'm sure even Cutino hadn't anticipated this kind of escape.

After five minutes, Cutino was still stroking strong. I just shook my head in disgust at this fugitive. This strong, intelligent, handsome man that I had fallen for was swimming with the carp, attempting to outrun justice. He could have become anything- a doctor, attorney, engineer or better. I wondered what had gone wrong. Why were so many of our black men taking the wrong track? Something was amiss in our African-American culture. As a whole, we have more land, and ownership than our parents, grandparents and great-great grandparents combined. But still we complain about things while being slothful in the mis-education of our children. Are we training our young boys and girls to avoid the pitfalls in becoming a responsible adult? Some people say money is the root of evil, but the bible tells us that the _love_ of money is the root of evil. Could that love of money be problematic in our behavior? Are we marketing our souls for the lure of big money, while losing the values and character that got our forefathers' rewards? The values our forefathers had for a day of hard work and gaining a trade to be used for a lifetime seem to be disappearing. I'm not sure, but seeing Cutino splashing through the swirling current waters of Lake Michigan just made me wonder.

At this point a throng of curious people milled around, checking out all of the commotion. From a distance, I heard a faint noise bouncing off of the water's tide. As seconds proceeded, the noise got louder and louder, then very quickly it became a thunderous, guttural roaring engine hum resonating from the lake. I prayed it was a police boat coming to scoop Cutino into the arms of the law and end all the excitement.

Over a loud speaker an officer shouted, "Stop swimming and come to shore! You are surrounded, there's no escape! Stop swimming and come to shore!" But Cutino continued on. I noticed him slowing down, struggling to stay afloat and gain distance. If he didn't come to shore soon, he'd drown trying to flee. The engine sound vibrating off of the water made the noise deafening as it got closer. The chattering crowd grew from a buzz to a roar in anticipation of tragedy. Cutino's determination was unending, but his physical body seemed to sputter out of gas. The boat would have to hurry in order to grab Cutino and bring him to safety or else the end would come dramatically.

As the boat came toward Cutino, I noticed it didn't appear to have the markings of a police boat. There weren't any words signifying police authorities or flashing lights posted on top of the cabin spinning to warn oncoming traffic. I strained my eyes to focus better on the oncoming vessel and upon close inspection it appeared to be one of those racing boats, the kind with large automobile engines and high tech features added for speed. It reminded me of a boat used by drug runners in Miami or someplace like that. The policeman's squad car spotlights honed in on the single person on the boat. The driver of the boat didn't appear to be the police, either. The boat pulled up to Cutino and the driver pulled him in. The police were going bananas along the shore, but there was no police boat in sight. "Stop! You are aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law!" The policeman shouted through their squad car speaker.

But the rescue continued as Cutino collapsed into the boat. I wondered if this person was just some passerby assisting a man in distress or was he helping Cutino with his escape?

The racing boat turned east towards Benton Harbor, Michigan and the driver seemed to floor the high powered racing boat, sending earsplitting noise bouncing off the turbulent Lake Michigan waters. The boat rose up and took off like it had been shot out of a canon and in seconds, it was out of sight into the blackness of the Great Lakes. The police ran for their squad cars, but none of them could do anything but call for a helicopter or another boat to chase after the fugitives. But by then, the boat was lost in the blackness of the lake.

_Damn, who is this man_?

After being questioned by the authorities and having the minor cuts and bruises to my arm nursed by paramedics, the police drove me home. Again, Cutino had made buffoons of the police and every one of them were baffled by his escape artistry. He'd planned his getaway like an outmanned General, diagramming a battle against an overwhelming enemy. The police said that they finally sent a helicopter after him, but with the combination of a head start, backed by a sleek racing boat and darkness of night over Lake Michigan, it was like searching for the one ant that bit you from an army of ants on the ant hill. He could have gone many directions on the vast lake.

That night, the police posted a squad car near my condo building for my safety, but for some odd reason, I wasn't afraid of the future. So, I went to bed and fell fast asleep.

The next day, Koltrane returned my e-mail:

To: Queenb, From: Koltrane

My year has finally been made. I'll meet you at the airport. I feel so special to have you visit.

Thinking of you, Koltrane

So, with much consideration and pain, I confirmed my date with Koltrane via the chat room and e-mail. My first computerized cross-country blind date was set. I was to meet Koltrane at LAX the following week. But still my mind wandered. What was it? Am I that desperate to meet a man? Are there no available black men in Chicago? The city was teaming with all types of men that I could reach out and touch, make an analytical and emotional decision and either kick them out in the cold or meet them for breakfast in my kitchen the next morning. My body was still physically ripe-a brick house, if I must say so myself. I stroked my hair. It was well kept and full, and on occasion, Julian, my stylist put a finishing touch on my do that made me blush with excitement.

I hadn't visited the chat room for what seemed like weeks. At last, I felt I'd been weaned from its clutches. I'd given considerable thought concerning the possible improprieties some freaked out idiot stranger could do in that space. The internet had so many irresponsible fools displaying ill-witted charm and deceit that made socializing in it something that could cost you your life. So, that was that. No more chatting and surfing chat rooms for new conversations and make-believe friends. I'd only search the net for genuine community organizations, meet real people face to face, have authentic conversations and accomplish actual goals and honorable deeds.

But the short-term vision was in preparation towards next week. If Koltrane was anything worth time spent, I was gonna knock his socks off. I'd visit Plush for my hair, Susan's French Spa for a facial, body wax and nails. I wanted to look and feel like a Hollywood star. However, no matter what happened with Koltrane, my goal was to enjoy myself and keep a positive attitude. The mission was fun and relaxation, even if he was a hideous goblin. Just make a new friend and enjoy the vibes and sites in the City of Angels.

### CHAPTER 13

Land, Air and Sea

I'll go to the ends of the Earth for thee

Crawling, Walking, Running to quench my thirst Your warmth and touch of my sailing Dreams

Past storms and hurricanes enter into my Destiny

CK

'10

I arrived at LAX on time, around 5:05 PM, on a flight of exquisite savoir faire. I had never traveled in a Boeing 747, and the ride was as smooth as rolling down a newly paved street in Uncle Eddie's Cadillac D'Elegence.

I stepped into the airport gate area with my flaming red _Ann Taylor_ dress, which blinded any man's or beast's eye that came my way, while blinging a matching platinum bracelet and earrings that Cutino purchased for me in Brazil. The pearl necklace reached around my neck like the oysters at the bottom of the sea that had created them with me in mind. My do was whipped so tight that I thought someone might mistake it for dark chocolate mousse and try to take a spoonful and attempt to eat it. Oh yeah, my stuff was tight.

I hunted for another pair of eyes canvassing the arrival area with meticulous care. I craned my neck to the left and saw a handsome black man standing alone against a pillar. He was tall and slender with Serengeti designer sunglasses hung on top of a perfectly wide African inherited nose. He wore a colorful Hawaiian style shirt painted with a floral design and light bone colored linen Armani pants. His hair was cut short and styled in waves. Damn, he was fine. Mmm...Koltrane, I'm comin' at cha. I started easing toward him not knowing if he was my dream come true or just a dream. Every step on my stilettos made my knees tremble. I felt like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, stumbling and tripping my way towards the unknown. I eased on down the yellow brick road and noticed him beam as he posed next to the row of newspaper stands. He seemed to grin at me and I smiled back. Damn, could this be him? He glided a smooth stride towards me, kind of like Denzel's strut in the movie Training Day. You know how he'd slide through a scene, and you'd say _"Ohh yeah, that brother's bucking for some goodies."_ One-step then another silky stride, teeth gleaming, a razor thin cut mustache, not a hair out of place. I staggered towards him feeling faint at the possibilities. What will I say? Hi...No, no...that's not it.

" _Koltrane? Is that you?"_ I had a temporary brown out, but when I returned, the fine man held in his arms a tall, brunette, blue-eyed white girl. Well I'll be damned. My heart dropped, my adrenaline came to a halt. With a bit of luck, I didn't act like an idiot flirting with somebody that wasn't paying me any attention.

I swung around to the right, staring at anything similar to a man, white or black, stumpy or long, but none caught my eye as I stumbled into the walkway towards the baggage claim area. My eyes sought out what was in my mind the vision I had of Koltrane, again _"-the changing faces of Koltrane"_ popped out from beneath my subconscious. This vision had his facial features changing with each second of thought. Damn it, I should have asked for his real name, but the surprise of the unknown brought about excitement and I was so sure that I'd recognize him. Fifteen minutes passed by, and then a half an hour. My eyes sought for this man while my luggage circled past me on the baggage claim conveyer belt at least fifty times if it was once.

Annoyed, I waited at the baggage claim until I was the lone one remaining from the Chicago flight. I hung around at the conveyer belt until luggage from Denver, then New York and Atlanta had come and gone. _Another one bites the dust,_ I thought. My adventurous relationship had turned into the hamster running on the treadmill of love. It was going nowhere fast. I should have gotten his phone number, but I just refused because I wanted to keep it adventurous to the end.

Well, all was not lost. I fell into plan B. You know, everyone's got to have a back-up plan B because people aren't to be counted on all the time. My Daddy got me on the plan B theory. "Baby girl," he'd say, "No situation is perfect and almost every circumstance changes. Action and reaction, the scenarios from ebb and flow and back again are bound to rise up and bite cha. The result if you're not ready for these fluctuations are frustration and failure. So, at the very least the best thing to do is have a back-up plan B. Because people can't be counted on. That goes for business and," he paused a moment. Then in his sneaky way he whispered as if somebody else was around, "for relationships, too. But if yo' motha asks me did I tell you that, I'm mo' deny it to the end." That plan B piece of advice stayed with me for the rest of my life.

I purchased one of those airport pushcarts from the pushcart dispenser for a dollar-fifty and threw my luggage on the cart. Then, I found a Hertz Rent-a-Car desk and rented me a luxury Lincoln Continental-the big one, white on white in white, with a sunroof. To hell with it; I might as well enjoy Hollywood.

After leaving the airport and driving down Century Boulevard, I wondered about my situation. I thought Koltrane was different than the rest. I thought of him as being fresh and consistent. Instead he was the weakest kind of man of all, one that hid and ran away from obligations and promises made. It hurt me.

If I were a different kind of woman, I'd screw the first man I met, just for spite. That's right, I said it, the punk ass nigga! If that creep had of brought his black ass around me right then, I'd tear his head off and stick it in my purse.

I drove through the side streets of LA, sightseeing the various neighborhoods from Watts through Florence down Rodeo, viewing the mountains and palm trees until the Hertz Rent-A-Car's GPS unit directed me to the front steps of the Biltmore Hotel. I just adored this hotel where my former employer, Bank of America first sent me on a training seminar. They've shot plenty of movies there, even celebrities and would-be celebrities would sneak through on occasion.

The rest of the evening, I chilled by the pool, relaxed in the Jacuzzi, dined on lobster and sipped apple martinis while trying to keep my mind off of the cold feelings I held in my heart. How could Koltrane do it? Why play with me like that? We didn't have anything going so serious as to make him run and hide from me. If he was busy, all he had to do was tell me and I would have grudgingly understood. Maybe we could have hooked up later.

Men...

I dozed off in the king-sized bed that seemed to stretch from the Pacific Ocean to the John Hancock building in Chicago and next thing I knew it was morning. I didn't move an inch as my eyes opened one eye lash at a time. At my leisure I rose up, dragged myself over to the curtains and peered out of the hotel window at the smoggy haze of light waking the city of dreams. It's truly a peculiar looking city with the adobe styled buildings painted bright pastel pinks and blues, burnt oranges and lavenders. The foliage of palm trees and cacti made for an awkward scene when compared to my Midwestern point of view.

Thoughts careened through my mind about yesterday's travels. Was I being selfish? Did I consider all of the possibilities? The thing I really felt was hurt, then anger. Then tons of self-pity and doubts about myself and who I was reigned supreme in my mind throughout the evening and into the night. But what about Koltrane? Was he safe? Was he all right? Did something happen to him on the way to the airport? Why hadn't I considered that?

With much consternation, I decided to at least check him out to satisfy my unfulfilled questions. It would have haunted me to no end if I didn't at least attempt to see him. Luckily and with great restraint, I didn't completely lose my cool and discard his address. I was so stubborn and wounded, all of the chat over email talking about how he was going to entertain me, take me to Hollywood and Santa Monica Pier had raised my expectations to something out of a romance novel and all common sense was lost. You know what they say, common sense isn't that common.

The Los Angeles morning smog cleared by eleven o'clock and turned into a gorgeous sunny day. I proceeded down the Santa Monica Freeway, to LaBrea then down Rodeo and a right turn down Cochran Avenue.

It was a cute little neighborhood with small adobe style bungalow homes and manicured lawns. The architecture of the homes could have passed for the same street where the movies Boyz in the Hood and Friday were filmed. The street was neatly maintained and lined with palm trees, and small driveways ran down the side of each home into a one car garage. Even the garbage cans sitting on the front lawns were in place and in conscientious condition.

At about walking speed, my white, on white, in white Lincoln Continental crept up to 3533 Cochran Avenue where I parked at the front curb. On my left sat a nice little bungalow painted a Miami Vice blue over stucco with a desert landscape of cacti, palms and other desert plant life. The small stones and large boulders placed just in the proper space set the small desert-themed landscape off just right. On the side of the driveway was a lemon tree bearing enormous lemons, a few lemons lay under the tree, too heavy to hang on. Peering up at the full-grown lemons still on the tree, I thought that no matter what happened between Koltrane and me, I had to snatch a couple of those fresh lemons for the road.

I crept up the short walkway and approached the front door. It was one of those heavy steel fortified screen doors made so popular in L.A. during the 80's and 90's as protection against gangs who ran the streets, devouring human beings like wild hyenas attacking antelopes in the open plains of sub-Sahara Africa.

The inside door was open, only the metal screened door blocked anyone from entering into the house. I rang the doorbell. It sounded like a buzzing fly whizzing past my ear. Still, nobody came to answer. I pushed the weather beaten doorbell again, the same buzzing sound rang. I heard shuffling around from the back of the house, and then the sound of footsteps pounded towards me on what sounded like hardwood floors. My heart fluttered, I straightened my Ann Klein silk blouse and licked my lips to moisten them.

"Who is it?" A rather light toned male voice rang out. I didn't answer right away because I didn't exactly know how to answer. Should I answer Queenb or Carla King?

Again, the soft sounding male voice rang out. "Yess?"

Still, I didn't answer. Out of all of the introductions that I imagined, a response to "Who is it?" wasn't one of them.

The man wore sandals for sure as I heard the sliding and clopping sound against the hardwood floor from each foot. When he arrived at the door, my mouth dropped wide open. I couldn't believe it. Could this be Koltrane? No, no, no!

He was tall, about six foot two. But after that, the story changed. His hair was banana yellow and long like a 70's Bohemian rock stars. His deep blue eyes peered at me like a Husky dog's wandering gaze and his skin was four shades lighter than a General Electric white refrigerator.

"Hello?" he said with curiosity. It was more like asking me hello than greeting me.

"Hi." I replied shyly.

The pale rider was motionless and without a smile. "May I help you?" he said, still standing behind the black prison-type gate.

"I...I...I was looking for...well..."

"Spit it out, girl," he said, cutting me off.

Did this white boy call me girl? He was agitated and nervous, so I didn't want to prolong my visit. Let's get this whole thing over with..."Queenb," I blurted out.

"Who!?" He squinted his eyes, and tried to focus on me through the steel mesh of the black iron door.

"Queenb," I said this time more softly looking up at the man's insipid face.

"Who's Queenb?" He sounded supercilious and haughty.

Ah great! That was a good response, so he must not be Koltrane. "How about Koltrane? Do you know who that is?"

He tilted his head to the side and appeared to give it more thought. "Who are you here to see?"

"Koltrane," I answered. "I was supposed to meet him at the airport yesterday but he didn't show up."

He paused for a moment which made me even more uneasy. My nerves were already jumpy, so I squeezed my purse for the can of keychain pepper spray mace that I always carry then started to turn around without a thank you.

"Are you the lady out of Chicago?"

I stopped in my tracks. "Why yes, yes that's me." He smiled, unlocked the screen and opened it. "Come in," he offered and held the door open.

Caution was my first response. Staring at the man's new smile didn't give me a sense of threat, but still watchfulness remained in my uppermost thoughts. Okay, Carla, what are you going to do?

"Koltrane told me about your conversations many times," he said with a smile. "Come on in."

Again, I felt for my mace and placed my handbag in a position so that I could grab it in an instant. I crept through the security gate into a tidy living room. A spotless small fireplace to the left and home entertainment center consisting of Onkyo surround sound system and a Pioneer CD and DVD player along with an IPod control station sat to the right of the fireplace. A beautiful painting hung over the fireplace, exhibiting a number of nude women and men made of various hues curled together; I was unable to determine which body part belonged to which man or women. There was an African sculpture of a giraffe carved out of ebony sitting on a small round granite and stainless steel end table. A bowl of apples, bananas, grapes and pears sat on an exquisitely polished oak coffee table.

"Have a seat." He pointed me to a dark brown couch made of a combination soft suede and tanned leather. "Would you like anything to drink?" offered the blond haired host. He was now soft spoken, genteel and surprisingly, had an air of serenity. He gave me a slight smile, but I could sense that something else was on his mind. My internal warning light began blinking. It hadn't been working for a while, but since Cutino, I've had to be more aware of situations, so again I felt for the mace and glanced at the screen door just in case a fast escape was needed. This was a screen door with no doorknob but only a dead bolt lock in which the key still hung from the cylinder.

"My name is Allen, Allen Knight," he said in a placid west coast hippie modulation somewhat easing my insecurities.

"Hi." I squeaked out almost hyperventilating. "My name is Carla, umm, Carla King," I eased back into the pillowy couch and tried to relax my nerves.

Allen's eyes were a piercing metallic blue. He stared into me like he was reading the actual letters of words flashing through my mind even before I could speak them. "So, you're Queenb?" he said with a detectives grin.

"Yep, that's what I'm called in the internet world. But Carla's my real name."

"Carla. You don't look like a Carla." He pushed back strands of his long blond hair from his face. I figured it to be a nervous habit or maybe his wild flowing hair just felt like flies flashing over his nose.

I was offended, "Yeah? And you don't look much like an Allen either."

"Ha, ha, I know. They should have named me Sven or Luther. Don't you think?" he asked, showing me his profile. "I hate Allen," he continued. "It's such a boring American name. It reminds me of Wally or Jeff," he said smiling.

"So, where's Koltrane?" I abruptly changed the subject.

"What do you mean?"

"Huh? What do you mean, what do I mean?"

"What do you mean? Where's Koltrane?" Allen's blond eyebrow curled. "Do you mean Jamal?"

My heart fluttered. Is that his name, Jamal? The inside of my thighs sang. I observed a photograph sitting on top of the fireplace just to the right of where I was sitting. From what I could tell, the man was tall and slim. Not skinny but well proportioned, a 'slim goody.' The photograph displayed a dark skin man, in the shade of the football player Jim Brown. A wide African nose stood proudly on a well-rounded face that was clean shaven, except for his thick eyebrows covering light brown eyes. He wore blue jeans, black cowboy boots with one of those red Roy Rogers scarf's around his neck that slung to the side. But out here on the west coast, it could have been construed as a Blood gang color. Standing next to him was this little girl that couldn't have been more than six or seven years old. She too, wore a bright red and white cowboy style dress and red cowboy boots adorned with a white cowboy hat over her full head of braids that extended down past her shoulder. The little girl's eyes gazed with true love towards the black Rough Rider.

What should I do when he arrives? Should I be a slut or demure? An innocent lady or should I be mad as hell at him for standing me up? Hell, was that even Jamal in the photograph?

"Jamal, is that Koltrane's real name?" I inquired.

Allen's pasty white face dropped as he slid back into a large burgundy leather chair. He started shaking his head like a waterlogged dog that had just gotten out of the sea, then cocked it and leaned it to the side facing towards the front picture window. I couldn't believe what I thought I saw next. It looked as if Allen's eyes started to water which made our time quiet and uneasy.

"Is there anything wrong?" I asked.

But he didn't answer.

I posted my hand against the couch's arm and began to rise. "Maybe I should come back at another time?"

Allen's head hung, his eyes shut. When he raised his head he gazed out of the front picture window with watery eyes. Here was a man that I had just met and he's crying and I couldn't understand why.

I stood up and gathered my purse. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Allen. When you get a chance, tell Koltrane...umm Jamal that I was here. Okay?"

"He's dead." Allen blurted out like a crying six year old.

"What?"

"He's dead," he repeated.

"Who's dead?"

"Jamal is dead!" Allen repeated as his high pitched voice got louder with each repeat of Jamal's name. "Jamal is dead," he continued. "The funeral was yesterday. I don't know what to do. Nothing's ever happened like this to me," he sobbed even more.

"Oh no." Koltrane dead? My heart slowed than sped up again then slowed as his words sunk deep within my consciousness. Although I had never heard Jamal speak and never saw the man in person, my feelings for him as an internet friend were more than I once thought after Allen's frightening words were spoken.

I had, after all, traveled two thousand miles to see this Koltrane person. In part just to get away, but the other reason was to cure this curiosity regarding my Koltrane fantasy. Was he gay?

It didn't matter, I considered him a friend. Maybe I wanted a little more than just a friendly association, I wasn't sure. Was I horny? Oh, heck yes. There was just so much to know. I felt suspended in motion with no solid ground beneath me, a thousand questions to be answered, but no reasons why they should be told to a stranger like me. Maybe I'm in the wrong house and this really isn't Koltrane's home after all. Allen might be describing the wrong person. My mind raced wildly with questions and more questions with no answers. OK, girl, gather yourself and let's find out what's going on. Still standing near the door I said, "This is really shocking, Allen. Tell me again, will you please?"

Allen lifted his head up from the chair and said in dry tones, "Jamal's dead. Last weekend, Saturday night. He was beaten and strangled in his bedroom." Allen twisted his head and stared down a small hallway towards the back of the house.

I could feel my adrenalin increase and blood pressure rise.

"You mean in this house?"

"Yes."

"In his bedroom? In this house!?" I questioned again with a quiver of cowardice in my voice as my eyes penetrated down the small corridor. Its hardwood floors bright and polished displayed a virgin appearance of cleanliness and sanity.

"Yes," he said without looking at me.

"Allen, I am so sorry."

Then he turned to me and said, "What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I...I... I don't know..." I paused in mid-sentence, unsure of what to say or do. "I'm really confused."

"Confused about what?"

I tossed my hands in the air and then they dropped to my thighs with a flop. It was out of my control. The whole thing was a mess, nothing was as it seemed, including me. "About everything.

I just talked to him last week."

In a concerned tone, Allen asked, "On the phone?"

"No, through e-mail. I had never spoken with him other than online. But when I arrived here last night, he wasn't at the airport to pick me up."

"Yeah," Allen continued to swipe strands of hair from his watery eyes. "Jamal was really a chat room junkie. He would spend hour upon hour in front of that fuckin' monitor. Sometimes I'd wake up thirsty or to take care of nature's call in the middle of the night and he'd be typing away, answering some stupid ass question from God knows who."

I plopped back down on the couch and slumped into its soft suede pillow. "Is that Jamal?" I pointed over toward the photo hanging on the wall. "The man standing there with the little girl in that photo?"

Allen raised his head from his pale palms and smiled, "Yep...that's Jamal with his daughter, Coretta." "She's very pretty," I said.

"It was taken about ten years ago in Savannah."

"Savannah?"

"Savannah, Georgia is his hometown. That's where they buried him. Jamal was married almost fifteen years. Then after the divorce, he moved to LA where he lived for about nine years.

Coretta would visit all the time, she's about nineteen now and attending Clark Atlanta University. She cried the entire time I was down there. I couldn't take it anymore, so I left and wandered around town. Savannah's a beautiful city, the old homes and lush southern landscape and architecture was historically delightful. I wish my visit had been for another reason, but I had to get out of there in a hurry. It just felt uncomfortable. Coretta and Jamal, they were so close and loved to ride horses. Both Jamal and Coretta took lessons for years. She could ride Western or English saddle and was as comfortable on horseback as me and you are behind the wheel of the car. Jamal's death has really torn her apart." He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes.

Then Allen reached over into the tiny drawer of a naked pine wood end table that sat next to his chair. He wiggled the delicate drawer out and dug deep into the back and pulled out a thinly rolled joint. God damn joint, I haven't been around that for years.

"You mind?" he asked.

I hesitated, "Uh, not really," I eked out. He reached back into the drawer and brought out one of those micro Bic lighters. He flicked the Bic and sucked on the skinny spliff, making a sucking noise that I could have mistaken for a struggling Kirby vacuum cleaner. The fire enlarged with each inhale as the pungent smelling smoke pervaded the room. His main concentration had shifted from Jamal to tripping with his weed. I guess it'd soothe whatever anguish and anxiety was within him.

"Yeah, Jamal," he choked out between inhales, exhales and snorts.

"Did Jamal get high?" I questioned waving the second hand smoke from my face.

"Who? Jamal? Heck, naw. You could barely get him to have a beer."

"Oh?"

Allen continued, "Jamal was drunk on life. Live and let live was his favorite citation. If something wrong happened to him or if somebody did him bad, Jamal would move on to the next thing, never missin' a beat. That's what I liked about him. He never held a grudge or held back from loving."

Allen's speech started to drag as the mood-altering weed danced in his mind. "Want some chips and dip?"

I waved my head side to side, "No, thanks."

Allen stuck the crudely rolled joint between his skinny lips, lifted up from the chair and started to the back of the house towards the killing field, the hardwood floor creaked under his feet with every stumbling step. Why was I still there? I didn't know Allen or Koltrane. He seemed harmless enough and if that hemp was as potent as it smelled, it certainly should chill-lax him. The thing that really bothered me was Jamal's murder. So as I added it all up, first it was Slamdunk23 killed by a car accident in Africa. Then it was Shaft67, strangled just a month or so later. Then Twisletoe and now Jamal, both choked to death. After all, I don't care what people say, but things do tie in. All that stuff about it's just a coincidence and the Lord gives and takes away... The way they were killed by strangulation, I mean, there's really something to go on. And then they all belonged to the chat room. And if they weren't in the chat room, they were missed. Then you'd ask yourself, where were they? They were regulars, for God's sake. Like your best employees going to work, or some Wayans family member producing a terrible TV sitcom. Some things just go together.

The sound of crunching corn chips preempted him back into the living room. Allen returned with a bag of Spicy Doritos. His mouth was stuffed with corn chips and spots of salsa dripped from his lips. His red glossy eyes had a sorrowful appearance.

I couldn't help it but I giggled. "Allen?" "Ah huh," he was slow to mumble.

"Is Jamal's computer still here?" I continued to chuckle at his disheveled appearance.

"Ah huh," he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laid the bag of chips and salsa dip on the modest coffee table.

"Could I use it for a few minutes? I'd like to check my email."

"OK, come on," Allen sputtered. He about faced and tripped towards the rear of the small bungalow, munching corn chips, then smearing his oily hands on his blue denim pants. Caution was the optimum thought with every step, as I tagged along behind him. As we travelled through the tight hallway, I gazed at whatever time would permit. We passed one room which appeared cluttered and un-kempt. I peered through the door and viewed pictures hanging from the wall and sitting on the chest of drawers of Allen with an array of people. There was a photo of Allen standing on some mountain range with his arms around two older white people, one man and one woman. Their facial expressions appeared loving and caring. There was another picture with a younger kid that appeared to be Allen with four young male and female kids at the beach, all with childish grins and carefree laughter. Those were happier days for sure. There's an acoustic guitar lying lonely against the chest of drawers, a flat screen TV hanging on the wall in front of an un-made queen size bed. A photo of a beautiful lady sat on an end table next to his bed. She's blond with brown eyes, red lipstick and a thin nose. Her pose is comfortably seductive and alluring, like she had taken pictures similar to this one many times before. You could travel their modest home in ten seconds, with a living room that led into a 4 chair dining room, which funneled to a kitchen not large enough for a table, no matter what size. Then there were three bedrooms set next to each other in a triangle.

We stopped at the front door of the room next to Allen's. Allen hesitated at the door and pointed for me to go in. He was apprehensive, like he didn't want to enter past the doorstop, which made me hesitate, too. I peeked in the room just short of stepping into the space. The walls were painted light beige. A vibrant print of Trumpet by the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat hung on one wall just so, with another print by the late Elmer Connor dangling next to it. Then there were photographs of friends and family displayed in a sort of montage on another wall. His daughter, Coretta was pictured in various stages of her life everywhere. A Dell desktop computer sat in the corner near an open window. Another lemon tree full of fruit stood just outside his window within an arm distance away. I wondered if he ever reached through the window and grabbed a lemon or two, peeled it and sucked the bitter juice right there on his bed. I ventured further into Jamal's room, determined to dig deeper into his life.

I pointed to the bed. "Did it happen here?" Allen nodded his head yes.

The bed stared right back at me with dead loudness. I expected it to jump up and levitate, then spin around in midair. "It's so clean," I finally said.

"I just cleaned it yesterday. Me and Cheryl."

"Cheryl?" I wondered who this lady was that would take the time to clean a dead man's room.

"Cheryl was a special friend of his." Allen said between crunching the corn chips.

"His woman?" I asked.

"I don't know. Maybe, Jamal was a very private person.

Even from me and I was his best friend."

I scanned Jamal's room. "It's so clean."

"You should have seen it before. It was horrifying."

"Who found him?" Allen cut his eyes upward. "Me, I didn't know what to do. It was a nightmare. His eyes were wide open but closed at the same time. I called out his name, Jamal, Jamal, first softly, because I couldn't get my breath, then louder and louder, Jamal, Jamal, hey man, Jamal!" Allen was reliving the ordeal all over. He continued as his bloodshot eyes widened with every moment, "My heart was palpitating and his room was torn apart. The demon that did this must have been strong, real strong. The computer screen was lying on the floor. I was shocked that it was still working. The chair and nightstand were kicked over. The lamp that sat on the nightstand was shattered, pieces scattered about the floor. Black shoe marks on the walls were everywhere. Jamal really fought for his life." Allen leaned against the hallway wall, his back towards Jamal's bedroom. "I wish that I was around to help him, that's all."

"I'm sorry."

Allen pulled out the joint from God knows where, put it in his mouth and lit it. "Yeah, me, too. The police have been interrogating me almost every day. I thought it was them when you stood at the door."

The memory of my most recent jailhouse ordeal angered me. "Yeah, I know about being interrogated."

"I used to like the police, but they're askin' me questions like I killed him. Why don't they go find the mothafuckers that did this shit and stop fuckin' wit me," Allen's hipster dufus white boy demeanor changed in the time of a heartbeat. He pounded the back of his fist against the hallway wall. It was right, at that point, that I decided to try and get information out of that computer and get out of there. He was scared and I didn't blame him. As I've experienced, being caught up in the judicial system is no joke.

I slid the swiveling wheels of the gray office style chair around towards me, sat down and twirled back to face the computer screen. Allen stood outside the room and was still mumbling something, but I kept my single mindedness on getting into Jamal's computer address. Jamal had a Compaq PC, nothing fancy, a standard computer for a computer literate person, but definitely not a geek's computer with all the thousands of dollars spent on bells and whistles.

I reached over and depressed the "On" button on the tower of the hard drive lying on the floor. I then clicked on the Hewlett Packard flat screen monitor. Soon thereafter, I snapped into his list of documents and programs "Ahh, there it is," I whispered to myself. I double clicked the Internet Explorer icon and it worked my way through the program.

"Hey Allen, would you happen to know Jamal's password?"

He answered, still standing in the hallway. "I...I don't think so. Why you want his password?"

"I got a hunch I want to play."

"What kind of hunch?" His tone slurred through the hemp induced haze. He turned into my sight and held tightly the acoustic guitar that was in his bedroom.

I spun the chair around and faced Allen standing in the doorway, inches from entering into Jamal's room. "It's weird, you know. I had my dreams of how he'd look and what his voice would sound like, his personality, laugh and smile and even fantasies of love. Well, in our chat room, three other people have been recently murdered. I didn't know the real identity of any of the first three. But after the third person was killed, I had this epiphany that it was somebody in the chat room doing all the killing. With Jamal making it four, I thought that maybe if I could get into Jamal's email that it might give a clue. Nobody believes me. Not my friends or relatives. They just think that I should stay out of the chat room. That's why I didn't chat with Jamal before I came here."

Allen twisted and twiddled his blond hair in thought and then said in a dry tone, "I...I don't know, Carla. It just doesn't seem right."

"What doesn't seem right?" I questioned.

"You going into his email. There might be some personal stuff in there."

"Maybe, but we might find a clue. And if so, the police won't be knocking on your door every day."

Allen's eyes widened; even through the hemp, you could see his fear of the cops, "Okay, let's do it," he said. He pulled up a chair. "Try Savannah," he continued and joined me in the hunt.

I typed it in, but it read, Invalid Password, Please re-enter.

"Uh, no, that's not it." I said.

"Try Cheryl."

I keyed Cheryl in. "Nope."

"Try Coretta." He spelled it out for me.

Again I typed Coretta. "Uh."

"Try Susan, try lemons," he continued.

We attempted a plethora of names and things that Allen thought might relate to Jamal. Favorite athletes, hobbies, investments, dreams, women, family, everything that came to mind we typed, on and on hour after hour, but still no results.

"Let's try your name," I said.

Allen's eyes were closed and he was slouched in Jamal's lazy boy chair. "Cool."

"Bingo...I'm in," I shouted.

"What, what is it?"

"A-L-L-E-N," I spelled out while waiting on the computer to place all the pieces together.

"A-L-L-E-N", he said slowly. "That's Allen, that's my name."

I moved to click the mailbox icon to enter into Koltrane's e-mail. The screen switched to the email folder.

"He's got a lot of new mail here," I said.

"Yeah," a more interested Allen parked on the bed next to me, intent on searching through Jamal's information.

In his mailbox, the nonsensical names read like a list of who's not;

Indheavylbs, Orglove44, Belltell99, Annmeet, Abrieparn2, recentlspot, Portriit6. The list ran on and on.

"I don't recognize any of these names," I said.

"Let's go through the letters," urged Allen, leaning closer in towards the screen.

"Alright, but let's check first to see if he kept any old mail."

I clicked over to the Old Mail folder. "Banone, Queenb, that's me, Allen," I said.

"Queenb? Yeah, right," he cracked jokingly. "Yep," I continued to read, "Evansoncom, Authorite, forealtoo, Masonite, Masonite4...Masonite4, I recognize that name!" I shrieked.

Allen smiled and gave a sly grin my way. "Good thing you played Concentration back in the day."

I swirled the mouse and directed the pointer to Masonite4 in the file and clicked it. It read...

What's up, man?

Just checking' on you for this week's hookup. Get back to me.

Masonite4

I leaned back into the chair, silent and pensive. _Could this be the link? Masonite? Does he live in LA? When was this dated?_ I thought out loud.

We checked the date of the email. January eighteenth it read.

"That's last week, right before Jamal was killed!" Allen said.

"What day did it happen?"

For an instant, his eyes brightened. "Thursday before last."

"What was the date?"

"Ah, ah...January twenty-seventh," I could see him reading the dates backwards in his head.

We stared at each other in disbelief.

"It's thin, real thin," he said.

"Maybe, maybe not. But it's a start." I turned back around to the computer, "Let's read the other emails. Maybe we can find something else."

The rest of the afternoon raced by as we read each unopened and previously opened email. There was one from a friend that must have heard about his death. The person decided to write a letter to Jamal through his email even though he was dead.

The writing sounded regretful because they hadn't spoken in months. The writer apologized that they hadn't repaired the damage in the relationship and now there was no way to make up that last time they were together and there was so much to talk about. The person wrote that some of the best times of their life were walking along the coast of the Gulf of Guinea with Jamal during the Christmas of 97' in Cote D' Ivoire West Africa. And it was signed Francine. Another email thanked him for his volunteering at a Senior Citizen Home someplace in Compton.

Allen cried while drinking shots of Senor Frog's Blue Agave Tequila and strumming on an acoustic guitar various songs written by Bob Dylan like "Blowin' In the Wind" and "Only a Pawn In Their Game" and "Oh Freedom" made popular by Joan Baez. As it turned out, Allen was an accomplished musician and played guitar as a livelihood, gigging with various bands and studio sessions. We ordered pizza from a nearby restaurant and reminisced about Jamal and life's trials, confessing our sins and shortcomings like we were old friends.

It was about ten o'clock when Allen drifted off. I felt fatigued as well and powered down the computer and gathered my belongings. It had been silently staring at us for the past couple of hours anyway.

"Well."

Allen stammered an almost unintelligible answer, "Well what...?"

I studied the piece of scrap paper where the name was crudely scratched. "It appears that the only piece of evidence was this Masonite person."

"Yeah, whatever," he no more cared about this small clue than Hitler did the Jews.

I eased out of the comfortable leather chair and said, "You stay right there Allen, I'll let myself out."

Allen didn't move, he was sprawled across the bed, the tequila bottle held tight to his chest like a long lost love. I didn't bother him anymore, under the circumstance; he had been a great host.

The drive back to the hotel filled my mind with many thoughts. I found Koltrane's/Jamal's life to have meaning and fullness. He had loved and lost love. He had friends and family that loved him and will miss him and he served the community while expanding his horizons by travelling abroad.

Who would do this to him? Could it have been Allen? Would he have murdered Jamal in his own home? Were they lovers? No, that doesn't appear to be Allen's M.O. Everything displayed to me during the hours we were together, showed Allen as a man with character and virtue and I didn't catch the homosexual aura with my gay-dar, and it's never wrong. I got the impression that both Allen and Jamal were just trying to make it in this world while enjoying a slice of that celebrity-driven Los Angeles lifestyle.

### CHAPTER 14

Gazing at the beautiful ocean blue

Tan and tight from site to site

Lovers lying on sand from dawn to night

Slip and slide, water glide

Surf and turf throughout the day

Cell phone, social media out of the way

Only fun in the sun until the day is done

CK

'10

I called Alice Warren, an old girlfriend of mine the next morning. Alice's family moved to LA about fifteen years ago and I hadn't seen her in five years when she came to Chicago for Tiko Johnson's funeral. Alice was always in love with Tiko, and their love affair was legendary in my old neighborhood.

Tiko and Alice started dating in junior high school. They were inseparable displaying their adoration with each other for all to see. All Alice would talk about was Tiko this and Tiko that, like her whole world revolved around the Tiko solar system and she was Venus. Tiko was the high school star football player, so all through high school he was the big man on campus. His football prowess rewarded him with scholarship offers from the Big Ten, SEC, ACC conferences and even the academic based Ivy League schools of Dartmouth and Yale. Consequently, there were many young ladies trying to catch his fancy, but Tiko rebuffed all the advances because he adored and respected Alice. After graduation, Tiko decided to attend the University of Miami and left the Windy City and Alice in dust. She was heartbroken for months after Tiko's departure. We didn't hear much about him again, not even on the football field. He never returned any of Alice's phone calls or other means of contact. It was a strange ending and until the day he died, Tiko never called her again or returned to the Chicago area until the funeral. For Tiko, I guess it was Miami, not Alice to be his never ending love.

The Magellan GPS unit guided me directly to Alice's home. Alice opened the dark blue solid oak door and let out an emotional greeting, "Carla you're beautiful!"

When I arrived at her home early Sunday morning, she was getting dressed for church. "Oh girl, look at you!" I said. We hugged tightly. My arms practically wrapped around her twice, she was so thin. Then I stepped back to view this California sun Goddess. She wore a pastel green sun dress over a size six frame while standing in lime green sandals. It was like being thrown back into time because it was as if she hadn't aged at all. Alice's hair was long, almost past her shoulders and wrapped in a yellow velvet scrunchie. Where were her wrinkles? Those deep lines of age that gather on our face showing our wisdom but more than anything, just end up displaying our physical hideousness from just simply living life on earth.

"Please come in," she held my hand and guided me into her home. It was adorned with pastel blues, yellows and adobe reds, colors that would look out of place on Sheridan Road in Chicago but match well on the west coast. It sat in a stylish area of Altadena, a wonderful neighborhood of well-kept Spanish style homes, growing California Honeysuckle, Coyote Mint, Golden Current and the San Gabriel Mountains looming only a couple of hundred yards from her home. The architecture of the home was similar to Jamal's with that adobe exterior look and arched entry ways but the setting was entirely different. Jamal's home was set in urban Los Angeles, homes built next to each other only 20 feet apart. Alice's home sat in a rural district on almost a half-acre of land. Palm trees, yucca plants, bright flowers, orange and lemon fruit trees with desert wildflowers placed in meticulous locations around the landscape.

She seemed to examine my eyes and said, "Carla how have you been?"

"I've been doing well."

"Praise God." She pulled me into her living room and we sat on an antique birch wood framed couch that was at least a century old. The feather and down blend cushion and pillows with floral patterned upholstery felt majestic and regal. The couch's backrest was at least a foot higher than my head, with hand designed wood trimming surrounding the entire piece.

I ran my hand across the smooth material. "Where did you get this couch? It's lovely."

"I know, I just couldn't pass it up. Some place in Orange County where this lady was having an estate sale. Shoot, I had to fight those buzzards off for this thing."

"I bet you did."

She grinned. "But I got it. Then before I could have it hauled to my house, this lady tries to buy it from me!"

"What?"

Alice smiled and peered at the couch. "Shoot, 'bout five hundred dollars more than I bought it for."

"Say what?" We laughed. "And you didn't sell it to her?"

"Oh no. If she offered that much more for it right there on the spot, I figured that I might want to keep it for a while and see what time might bring me later." Alice let out another freewheeling laugh. "But I gave her my email address."

Her laugh was contagious as I too joined her in the humor.

"Alice, you are something else."

"Girl I've been doin' this for too long. I know that game," she said and reached over to the end table nearest to her. "I have this freshly squeezed juice. Would you like a glass?"

"Sure."

Alice handed me the glass of the odd looking reddish greenish-orange tinted concoction. Its appearance didn't have that appetizing mouthwatering eye candy one seeks when thinking of something tasty. I took a sip. "Wow what a burst of flavor, what's in it?"

"Carrots, turnips, celery, an apple or two, stuff like that."

I took another sip. "This is refreshing."

Alice smiled and said, "You better watch yourself, 'cause this stuff will have you flying back to Chicago without a plane."

"I wish. Flying's not one of my passions." I took another sip of the refreshing tasty treat. "You know back in the day, you got me going to garage sales and litter diving."

"Wow. Sister that was some time ago wasn't it?"

I drifted back in thought. "I bought an end table that I still have today."

"What?"

"Yep, the first time we went out. You had some idea about searching garages for hidden treasures, but I didn't have a clue. That little piece turned out to be a Mid-18th century Parisian Louis XV over two-hundred years old!"

"Wow, you're kidding me," Alice said.

"Ever since then, I've been 'tiqueing' every time I get a chance."

"There are some real treasures out there. How's Zoe?" she asked.

I could feel myself smile. "Oh my little girl is trying to become a lady."

"She should be around a senior in high school?"

"Yep, and trying to be international."

"Oh really. That's a good thing isn't it?" "Not that kind of international. I'm talking about Indian hair, Korean nails, China town Gucci purses..."

Alice laughed so hard she almost spit out her juice.

"Ronex watches and Blackcherry telephones," I cracked.

"Blackcherry cell phones?"

"That's right, Blackcherry, not Blackberry but Blackcherry."

"Oh God stop, stop." Alice's cutesy laugh turned into an uncontrollable snort.

I continued while careening out of control myself. "And let's not talk about boys. Calling' all times a night. Telling Facebook fairytales and text message lies..."

Right in the middle of her laugh Alice blurted, "Come on to church with me." She had this sun baked California girl look about her and displayed healthy gingerbread colored skin. Her hair was stylishly sassy, with a workout body made famous in southern Cali.

"CHURCH!!!??" Not 'G.O.D!

Alice said with a nun's voice. "Oh girl, it'll be fun. No pressure, just some good ol' fashion preachin' and singin'."

Even before Zoe was born, church had not been on my Sunday agenda. I believe in the spirit and mercy of God, but religion has been misused by clergy and governments time and time again. Christianity, Islam, Buddism, Judaism and the like have had this world colliding and people dying for their religious beliefs for millenniums. I had lost my religion when searching for it as a living useful metaphysical entity. Practically every damn black person that I know has affiliation with the church profession and almost ninety percent of them have some doubt about the validity of religion. To me, the Old Testament is nothing more than a history book. If they used books from that Testament as a living word, then all women are cursed and slavery reins as the norm. Even the New Testament has a scripture promoting slavery and treating the master with deference. If it's not about the Pastor, then it's about stealing and thieving deacons or homosexual sins, or hoochie dress ware in the church and let's not even get into the money or should we tithe or not tithe. Just read 2 Corinthians 9: 610. How pastors and church boards were spending their congregation's hard earned money is something that needs investigating. Preachers would make statements that God won't hear your prayers if you don't tithe, or that you're stealing from God when you don't tithe. Pastors and Ministers earning millions of dollars and living a life fit for kings while their congregations struggle to keep the lights on. It became something of a game of religion that I just got tired of playing. So, I have my Bible, read scripture and pray, give to organizations that assist the needy in the name of the Lord and then let the chips fall where they may. "I flew west to have some fun, so church wasn't really on my program."

Alice shrugged and said, "It's no big deal. It's already started so we'll get there late and hey if it's really uncomfortable for you, we'll sit in the back and leave whenever you're ready."

"I don't want to be in there all day," I said.

Alice placed one hand on her hip and said with sassiness, "Shoot. I ain't the kind that sit up in church all day."

I suspiciously peered at her. "How long?"

"How long?"

"Yeah, how long we are we going to be in there?"

She laughed, and then glanced at her watch. "About sixty minutes."

"One hour?"

Alice enthusiastically said, "Then we'll ride out to Roscoe's."

"Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles?"

"The one and only."

"Oh yes, that sounds good. You gotta deal."

We ended up at St. Andrews Episcopal Church. An integrated small family oriented church with wooden benches, antiquated statues of a white Mary and Jesus Christ hanging from the cross. We kneeled on a padded knee bench and prayed when it was time. We sang a hymn or two and then his sermon began. Father Ted Wright had a paper bag complexion with wavy hair, parted and combed to the side. His sermon was on completion. Out of all the many things Father Wright taught that Sunday, the words that hit me the most were completing the task. Completion of whatever goal you set by believing that the Lord's power will provide all of your needs and to wash away all your fears and give them over to the Lord. Again, I can't say that I'm a big believer and I don't visit church enough, but every time I go and if I let it, something good always comes from the experience. It was at that point that I had made up my mind to follow through on Koltrane's murder. I felt deep down in my soul that it was somebody from the chat room that killed Koltrane and the rest. At Alice's church, I prayed for courage, revelation and solution.

After services, we visited Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles for brunch and talked about old times and new. It was a blessing visiting Alice and her parents, who we picked up on the way, and were just as spry as ever. Good people whose values resembled those of my youth. Although Alice was divorced and hadn't remarried, she was blessed with two beautiful children, Kadesha, a gorgeous thirteen-year-old girl and Omar who was now 18. He was dabbling in acting with a couple of film roles in a few independent movies. Heck, Alice even had a couple of stand in roles and we laughed about that a lot. Especially when Zoe and I had to rewind the video to find the scene and search the screen to locate her in the picture. But there she was, all dressed up pretending to act. LA; what a peculiar place.

### CHAPTER 15

Home is where it all begins

Simple times and easy talks, walks around the block

Restful sleeps, good eats and constant repeats

Tender hugs and hug me again brings an unforgettable comfort

'Cause you pass it along to everybody that you meet

Longtime friends, short cuts, picnics and ice skates

Hot totties, and warm apple cider rum

Freezing cold air and 98.6 squared kisses held so tightly it melts the snow

CK

'10

"Good morning' mom." Zoe pounced into the kitchen and sat at the kitchen table.

"Hi baby. Want some pancakes?"

"And you know this," she cheered.

I placed a small glass of orange juice in front of her and went back to the stove.

She immediately took a sip. "Hey mom?"

"Yes."

"Things goin' OK?"

Turning to her I said, "Why yes honey. Why do you ask?"

"I don't know. It seems that you're just distant. Off someplace else since you've been back."

She was right. Since returning home from LA, no matter how much I tried to laugh and divert my thoughts into other everyday events, Koltrane kept flashing through my mind. I figured that the Los Angeles experience would just slip out of my life as time went on and things would return back to normal. Time and time again, Koltrane and the other murders persisted throughout my daily routines. One day, two days, five days then a week and my reflections boomeranged back to LA, Koltrane and Allen Knight. Did Allen do it? Was I actually in the room with the killer? Allen just didn't seem to have the hate and anger within him to kill his friend. Was it somebody from the Chat Room? Was it Masonite? Was it just a random killing of another Black Man? Or did Koltrane get caught up into something evil? There were an infinite number of possibilities. "Everything's just fine honey. I just have a few little things on my mind," I finally said.

"Like what Mom?" Zoe asked.

I lied and said, "Like having to crack the whip on a few employees."

"Hey, I'd tell somebody off in a second." Zoe snapped her fingers and swirled her neck.

"Yeah, well let's just crack the whip on those school books."

She smiled and said, "I always do."

We sat down to breakfast and an early morning conversation. Zoe's such a bright girl. I'm truly thankful for having her support throughout the years. I'm not sure how or what life would be for me if she hadn't been around. Although I tend to show it less to her, I lean on her presence probably just as much as she leans on me. I hesitated to tell her about the things that happened in LA. She doesn't need to know about everything in Los Angeles. But we did talk about Alice and had a good laugh about her acting debut. Zoe had never been to LA and was so anxious to visit. All she ever imagines are movie stars, fancy cars, palm trees and that entire Hollywood glamour experience. But as we all know, there's more to LA than just Hollywood. Maybe next time I'll send her to visit Alice. What will I do when she's gone to college?

After our breakfast, she went off to a sewing class in downtown Evanston. Zoe had always been into fashion and clothes ever since a young girl. For years I had always discouraged fancy and expensive clothing. The tricks advertisers use to entice young black kids into buying expensive Hip Hop fashions made by white folks who didn't give a damn about them or what they thought. From my perspective, clothes and the whole hair dilemma for black youth were problematic.

I remember buying a gift for Zoe at the Evergreen Plaza Mall and walking into the Bum Rush clothing store, one of those Hip-Hop retail outlets. The Bum Rush had overpriced, named brand styles like Nautica, Tommy Hilfiger, Abercrombie and Fitch to name a few. I overheard one young brother state that he was going to purchase six hundred dollars' worth of some named brand clothes for the weekend. The entire outfit was a pair of pants, a top and jacket. Six Hundred dollars!! All of the designs displayed bold lettering promoting the brand that the particular person wore. Tags on pants, socks, boxers, T-shirts, watches, everything. It was just presumptuous, conspicuous and gaudy. But Zoe, she picked up on fashion all on her own. Her meticulousness about appearance grew out of her own being. She was good at it too. Somehow she would save allowances and gift money to buy fabrics, and then sew creative self-designed fashions for her own personal use. Ever since she was eight years old, her girlfriends would ask for her tips and opinions about hair and clothes. Now, I ask her for fashion tips.

I drifted into my office, a space that I had barely entered since returning from LA. I sat down at my desk and stared at the cold lifeless monitor. It stared back at me through dull plastic eyes of ruin. It didn't speak or curse me, it didn't have too. The omnipresent power that was beneath the man-made peace of lust just sat there motionless waiting for me to act. A surging power that was new and strange to the world. The infancy of the computer revolution during the end of the century and beginning of the new millennium was astounding. It was a driving unforgiving revolution of throw away people and foreign products. Hurry up, because you'll miss the IT train and get left behind. Fast, fast superfast, around the world in a millisecond, instantaneous communication to China, Africa as fast as next door. Online, email, cyber space, information superhighway, multi-million dollar computer geeks, web sites, YAK, chips, gigs, bites, bits, computer billionaires that rule the air space, where are we going from here. The little plastic box spoke loudly without carrying a stick at all. Who would have believed it? Now we're all caught up in the matrix of muddle and denigrations.

With great apprehension, I reached down and pushed the computers 'On' button. I knew where I was headed. Somewhere that I shouldn't go, but reluctantly I continued. I knew that travelling down the dark path toward death and destruction was somewhere that I had hidden from throughout my life. From growing up in the heart of Chicago's Southside, I learned daily about the cruelties of death while darting away from its constant chase. The mysterious darkness of death and darkness that kids drifted towards and tried to cheat through youthful ignorance. But for me, cheating death existed only in movies, cartoons and books. When it came to the dark side, I always ran to the light.

The screen flashed Lilliputian explosions of electrical charges and the computer started like a rolling snowball picking up speed down a mountainside careening out of control touching off an avalanche thundering toward a small village. I felt that tingle of excitement as it went through an array of checks and diagnostics as the hard drive churned quickly and efficiently. I could hear it come alive as it sang a quite aggressive sound heard millions of times each day around the world.

I typed in 'Queenb', my screen name and 'Fosterhood23', my password. After a few seconds, I heard the little chime that signaled that I had entered.

I pointed the mouse to my favorites and clicked Africanbeats. Once in, I clicked the Drumroom. Well, I see that it's still popular as ever. There were eighteen mysterious people dressed in off-track names. Some just listening, others sitting in the room were gaping and laughing at the silliness of silent conversations. Let's see who's in there. Prettypink1, Babybear16, Chinagirl888, Bigben, Suddensam, Blackrose...

_Prettypink1:_ _"What's up Queenb?"_

_Queenb:_ _"How's everybody?"_

_Queenb:_ _"Did anybody know that Koltrane was murdered?"_

_Blackrose:_ _"Murdered?"_

_Queenb:_ _"Last week. Koltrane was murdered in Los Angeles."_

_Williamtell:_ _"Damn..."_

_Blackrose:_ _"Give me the 411."_

_Queenb:_ _"He was killed in his home. That's all I know."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Wow, what next."_

_Queenb:_ _"I think the killer is somebody from the Chat Room."_

Oh no, did I just do that?

_Secretsquirrel_ _: "You buggin'. Ain't nobody done that."_

_Queenb:_ _"How do you know? Are you familiar with everybody in the Chat Room? Do you know where we live? How we make a living? What our backgrounds are? No, you probably know nothing about anyone here but you're willing to defend everybody."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"If I thought somebody was a killer in this room, I couldn't be in it."_

_Babybear_ _: "I agree. We have to trust or at least feel that we're safe."_

_Suddensam:_ _"The veil of secrecy lies in email names."_

_Queenb:_ _"That's precisely the point. We really don't know each other."_

_Babybear_ _: "I can't believe that. Matter of fact I refuse to believe that."_

_Queenb:_ _"But check the past few months or so. First it was Slamdunk23, then Shaft67 and now Koltrane, all from the Chat Room. I just think there's a connection."_

_Williamtell:_ _"You're a fool."_

_Bigben:_ _"Paranoid is more like it."_

_Queenb:_ _"Well, it was just a thought that I had to get out. Pay no attention to it. It was just me blowing off steam. Queenb out."_

OK, it's finished. A sense of accomplishment and at the same time fear covered over me. What had I done? Did I start something that wasn't even happening? Was I gossiping and starting trouble for somebody I didn't even know? Was I really paranoid?

### CHAPTER 16

Another day of fear colored black

Make sure curly kinky hair is correct; hidden and straightened that is Made in Korea

Proper clothes for black culture designed by European designers - made in Asia

Sold in Korean, Pakistani, Arab and Chinese owned stores in your local strip malls Eau de Parfum fragrances right or you might smell the earth's righteousness

Colt 45, the kind that kills fast not slow and BillyD will not show up at your doo' Made in America

Body tight from a surgeon's hand but still eating pork and spam

Money right from the matrix in the midst of poverty and you struttin'

'round like you all that

One black man in power, while all others suffer the white man wants it back

America the fearful

CK

'10

The next day I woke up fresh. Like a thousand pound gorilla had been lifted off my shoulders. I couldn't figure out what it was. Bouncing out of bed like a school kid, practically running in the kitchen I felt energized and alive.

"Good morning," Zoe said while simultaneously yawning.

"Good morning," I sang.

"What's up with you?" Zoe asked in her most curious tone.

"Nothing girlfriend."

She curled her eyebrow in love and said, "Girlfriend?

Mom, you've never called me girlfriend."

"Well, first times always feel a little different."

She snapped her fingers, "Well all righty then."

"Well all righty what?"

"You know what."

"No, no I don't. Why don't you enlighten me?"

"You must have found a new man. Yep, yep, that must be it." Zoe's voice inflection was humorous and playful.

Hand on hips, I flung around and pointed at her with the spoon. "Alright young lady that's enough."

"Now that's the mom I know."

"You think you're so smart, don't you?" I said as we both laughed.

"You can't pass nothing by me Mom."

"It isn't any new man in my life. That's for sure," I said talking to my daughter like she was one of my old classmates.

Zoe rolled her eyes and sipped her juice. "Yeah right,"

We continued eating a breakfast consisting of Shredded Wheat, wheat toast and cantaloupe seasoned with a sprinkle of cilantro, and a dash of cayenne pepper. I loved the sweat and hot mixture.

"Mom?"

"Yes."

Zoe raised her head and stared at me with those big light brown eyes. "I think I've decided where I'll be goin' to college next year."

I stopped in mid bite. "Oh really. Where?"

"I'm leaning toward Spelman."

"That's a great choice. Big tennis city, and I'd love to visit Atlanta."

She stared deeply into my eyes, then with a soft spoken tone said, "But what about you?"

"What about me?"

"I mean" she hesitated and gazed down at the table top.

"You'll be alone."

"So..." I moved over and caressed her back. Zoe is such a thoughtful and caring person.

"It'll be lonely."

"Have no fear honey. I find solitude, not loneliness."

"But they'll be nobody to talk to and you'll get depressed and start eating a bunch of candy and donuts and get real fat and sickly."

"Hold on there girl. Ain't none of that going to happen. I'm not one of those people that need somebody around all the time. And I don't need a man neither."

"I know mom but—"

I placed my spoon in the bowl of cereal and scooted closer to Zoe. I took her hand with both of mine. "But what honey. Listen, before anything, you have to love and know yourself. Can't nobody do that for you. I could have a man and be totally miserable and he could be miserable too." I saw her smile which brought joy to my heart. "I'm happy with myself. I get to go and do as I please. I make good money and my bills ain't in half bad shape. And Zoe, I raised you to be independent and strong."

"So when I leave, you won't be lonely?" Her big brown eyes searched for a comforting answer.

"Baby girl - you know I mo' miss you. Oh...sometimes I'll feel a little misplaced. But I can call you or go by Mama's house or Natalie will come by or I'll go to a Bull's game. Honey you don't have to worry about me. You just find your own passion."

Zoe smiled, "OK Mom. You know what's best." She finished her breakfast, slid her chair out and stood up to leave. She had grown up to be such a beautiful lady. She reached over and hugged me around my head, "I'll always love you mom."

"I know honey. And with knowing that, I'll never be alone," I looked up at her just proud to be her mother.

The work day progressed as usual. Same old office grind made me want for much more. I wasn't sure if I was bored or people were sneaking around me aiming for my office. Natalie called and wanted to have dinner tonight at Morton's Steakhouse. Mortons! That girl must have hit the Lottery or something.

I arrived home and sauntered over to the computer even before changing out of my work clothes. I went directly into the chat room. The gang was already there instigating and gossiping.

_Queenb_ _: "Queenb has entered the room."_

_Babybear_ _: "Oh what' up Queenb?"_

_Queenb_ _: "Everything's OK."_

_Prettypink1_ _: "Did you know that your blockbuster synopsis of the past has gotten everyone on edge?"_

_Williamtell_ _: "Ahhh pipe down heffa."_

_Prettypink1_ _: "Pipe down yo' self William smells."_

_Chinagirl_ _: "LOL"_

_Prettypink1_ _: "Hey it was just a thought."_

_Bigben_ _: "Honey it was more than a thought."_

_Queenb:_ _"How so?"_

_Suddensam:_ _"There's a couple of peeps that thinking' the same way you do."_

_Queenb:_ _"Tell me more."_

_Babybear_ _: "Tell Queenb what you told us Prettypink1."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Uh uh...the room might not be right, if you know what I mean."_

_Bigben:_ _"So, you scared?"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Yeah, that's right and why not?"_

_Babybear_ _: "Listen, Poochie said that the person you mentioned the other day, did the same thing to Shaft67 before he got it."_

_Queenb:_ _"Whatttt?"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Ah uh."_

_Queenb:_ _"Damn"_

_Bigben:_ _"But you can't prove nothing."_

_Queenb:_ _"How did you find this out?"_

_Prettypink1:_ _"Remember when we found out Twisletoe was killed. His sister went into the chat room and told everybody that he was murdered and that his funeral was taking place in Boston at 1st Temple of God. Well, Lunchmeat went to the funeral and met his sister and family and exchanged phone numbers. So then after your revelation, he got curious and called Twisletoe's sister and she remembered going through his personal things and she recalled his name."_

_Blackrose:_ _"What?"_

_Bigben:_ _"So what does that prove?"_

_Babybear_ _: "It don't prove nothing."_

_Prettypink1:_ _"But it's more than I had before."_

_Blackrose:_ _"so what's next?"_

_Suddensam:_ _"I don't know but the shit is getting downright scary."_

_Blackrose:_ _"I'm not into it. Whoever is doing this could be in the room right now."_

_Suddensam:_ _"Word."_

There's a pause in the conversation. Wow, that's never happened before. I could feel the fear through the phone lines extending from who knows where. Maybe it was me giving out the fear vibe.

_Babybear_ _: "Queenb, you started this, where do you go from here?"_

_Queenb_ _: "Don't know."_

_Lunchmeat_ _: "Well, you better watch your' back."_

_Blackrose_ _: "We all better watch our backs."_

_Prettypink1_ _: "How about the police?"_

_Bigben_ _: "And what are you going tell them? That somebody from somewhere around the country or world killed some nigga in South Central?"_

_Queenb_ _: "He's not from South Central."_

_Bigben_ _: "Well, he ain't from Beverly Hills neither."_

_Queenb_ _: "Listen, this isn't getting us anywhere. If yawl find anything, please e-mail me. Thanks, I'm outa here."_

I took a long and deep breath. All I had to do was to stop signing into the chat room and I wouldn't have to listen to them. Whoever they were. It's funny, but some of the conversation actually made sense. Someone said, where do I go from here? If I had any sense, I'd just forget about it. I couldn't bring Koltrane back to life. I couldn't bring Slamdunk23 or Twisletoe back either. But deep down in my soul, somebody in that chat room was just waiting for his next victim.

"Mom...mom...mom," Zoe finally yelled from the front door.

Finally Zoe had knocked me out of my chat room trance.

"Yes."

"Can't you hear me?" she said.

"I'm sorry dear. What is it honey?"

"I'm going' to the tennis courts. Everything OK?"

I took a deep breath and sighed, "Yes dear. You have enough money?"

"Yes Mom."

"Be careful baby!"

She grabbed her gear and opened the door. "Okay. Bye."

Hearing the door open and shut, I flashed back to the Chat Room. I should just forget about this madness. It wasn't worth tangling with the law or hanging out on a limb searching for an imaginative crazed killer. I'm not that brave, so let somebody else deal with those people. I gasped as my thoughts were startled by the phone.

" _Probably Natalie_ ," I whispered to myself. "Hello."

There was silence. So again I repeated, "Hello."

"Stay out of my life," a cracked voice whispered. "You betta watch yo'self bitch," the scratchy voice warned.

I asked with much bravado. "What? Who is this?"

The terrorizing voice responded with well-meant intentions. "Stay in yo' place bitch. Don't keep meddlin' into thangs you don't understand." And just like that the phone hungup.

"Hello," I urged louder trying to reach out and touch the crazy man. "Hello, hello!" My heart began racing, my mind bellowing a foggy fragmented mist of phrases. Who was that? Did he have the right number? Was the threat really meant for me? I could feel the seriousness behind his intent. I knew it wasn't a prank. A killer at my doorstep was stalking me? Damn...what had I done? I'm calling the police. But I've already told them. The caller ID displayed an Unknown Caller name. I decided to try Star Six-Nine on my phone. The phone rang after I dialed star six-nine.

"Hello," a small little female's voice answered.

"Hello," insecurity swelling in my voice. There were muffled echoing sounds in the background like people milling around in a tunnel.

"Hi," the childlike voice squeaked out.

Was this a child? It caught me by surprise. "Uh, um, uh." "Who dis?" she chirped.

"Who is this?" I responded in an adult voice of authority.

"Dis Charlicka. Yeah, yeah, Charlicka Witherspoon," the small voice innocently answered making sure each syllable was pronounced.

I grappled with my emotions. "Hi Charlicka Witherspoon.

How long have you been at this phone?" I scrambled for a pen and paper, then scribbled her name as best as possible. Charlicka Withersoon, I wrote.

"I on't know. Me and my mommy been here a long time." She held her r's long and hard, sounding southern.

"How old are you Charlicka?" the timbre of my voice changed to a younger more MTV style you'd use when trying to make friends with a younger person.

"I six and a half yearrrs old."

"You gettin' to be a big girl."

She stumbled, "Uh huh. But my mommy still think I ma little girrrl."

"That's OK. My daughter is sixteen and she's still my little girl."

"Well she needs to grow up," she said innocently. "I mo' be a big girrrl when I hit twelve."

With that remark, I thought it time to get down to my question. I had determined that Charlicka was a smart little girl.

"Charlicka?"

"Yes."

"Where are you?"

There was a pause but I could hear her breathing in the phone. "I'm standing at this herrre phone."

"Is it a cell phone?" I asked.

"Uh uh. It's another kinda phone."

"What kind of phone?"

Charlicka answered, "It's on the wall."

"Ohhh...and where is the phone?"

"I'ont know."

"Are you at a store?"

Charlicka's voice faded. I imagined that she was looking around her surroundings gazing at her landscape. "No...there's a lot a peoples herrre though."

"Are you outside?"

"No...I'm in this big building. Me and Mommy goin' to Texas."

"Ohhh...you're at the airport. Are you flying?"

"Nooo...We takin' the bus. Mommy don't like flyin'."

"Sooo...you're at a bus station."

She giggled, "Yeah, we at Greyhound. You know, with the doggie."

Judging by the 312 area code, I knew exactly where she

was. "Yes, yes the grey dog."

"Did you see a man standing there talking on the phone right before you?"

"Uh huh..," she uttered softly seeming to lose concentration.

I tried to keep her on point and grab her attention. "Charlicka, Charlicka—"

"Yes maam?"

I pressed her and asked, "What did he look like?"

"Huh—"

"Sugar, I was looking for my Uncle. I haven't seen him in a while and I think he called me from that phone."

"Ohhhh."

"So...I need you to try and remember what the man looked like. OK?" There was a pause, I was afraid that her mother had come around and pulled her from the phone.

"Well, he was big. He was wearin' a funny hat."

I was relieved to hear her voice, "What kind of a hat?"

"Like a Cat in the Hat, hat."

"It was a tall hat?"

"Yeah, a tallll hat," she said.

I still couldn't picture what kind of a hat it was. "Was he dark or light skinned?"

"I on't know?"

"Was he old or young?"

Charlicka smartly spouted, "He was old." "Fat or skinny?" I quickly asked.

"I 'ont know."

"Honey are you calling from Chicago?"

"I think so. Yes, mommy said we in Chi-ca-go." Charlicka's innocent shrilly voice confidently said.

"Would you know what bus station?"

"Down—"

By now I was standing up trying to squeeze through the phone line all the way to that Greyhound Station. "Charlicka? Charlicka?" I pleaded.

But an aggressive woman's voice raised up. "Who the hell is this?"

"This is—"

There was a click, and the phone hung up.

"Hello, hello...hello," I yelled through the speakerphone.

Damn...he's in Chicago? That can't be. Who is this fool anyway? I'm going to call the police. No, yeah, no, yeah...my mind was spiraling out of control. All types of malicious and painful ideas ran around in my head. An attack in my underground parking lot, this was always a constant fear anyway. Maybe an attack on the beach. A beat down in my bedroom with the end result of strangulation and me sprawled across my bed peering up at a Cat in The Hat wearing, caramel colored fat ass black pig with his hands wrapped around my neck choking my last breath from my lungs. I'm no heroine! What was I thinking? I shouldn't have gotten involved with this. I should've let sleeping dogs lie. I shouldn't have tried to introduce myself to Koltrane and none of this shit would have happened. I couldn't hold it anymore - "Damn!" I screamed to the top of my voice.

I snatched the phone again and dialed 911. The phone rang four, five, six, ten times before somebody picked up.

"911," a lady pronounced.

"What took you so long?"

"May I help you? This is 911," she calmly answered.

"Ah, umm. I was just threatened," I blurted out.

"Is the person still there?"

I paced around the living room peering out into Lake Michigan. "No."

The calm 911 lady asked, "Where is the person?"

"I, I don't know."

"Do you know the person?"

My frustration was on the rise blurting, "No, no I don't know the person."

"Where did it happen?"

"On the phone."

"The person called you on the phone?" she continued.

"Yes."

She asked, "Do you know who it was?"

"No...no I don't."

"You don't know the person who threatened you?"

I slammed my fist against the window seal. "No damn it...no I don't." But then I felt the pain in my hand and when I glanced at it there was a red mark.

In a calm and professional manner she said, "I can't help you. This is for emergencies only."

Exasperated I said, "What, what do you mean? You...you-" "Miss, you can call our main numba' and report the threat directly to the police. The number is 312—"

I couldn't stand listening to her another moment, so I hung up the phone before she could finish. I was flustered and frazzled; the call struck a nervous cord with me. Evidently, the fool knew me but I hadn't a clue about him. Who can I call? Think Carla, think. Don't panic, keep your composure.

I fell upon the couch; arms outstretched and staring at the off white colored ceiling. I closed my eyes and started taking deep breaths while practicing an old college self-taught meditation method that worked for me when classes tore deep into my psyche.

I would take a deep breath, then exhale "A...Aaaa". Then take another deep breath and again I'd murmur, "Aaaaa". Back in the day, I tried to meditate with the thoughts of 'A' when my academic efforts seemed to move in the negative direction. That direction was toward grades of C's and D's. My peace and perspective would alter to a more relaxed state of mind where I could gather my improved thoughts and positive energy. After college and throughout the years, when things got out of sorts, I'd use this self-taught meditation method for all types of problems.

I laid there light headed and stressed and knew some type of emotional disorder had crept into my mind as I tried to use my old college method of meditation, when the answer flashed through my mind. Agent uh...uh...I couldn't think of his name. Agent...uh...um... I rose up and sat on the side of the bed. _Agent Hicks_ and how could I forget his name? The most irritating man I'd ever met. This man had the most vivid imagination. One time he even brought the idea that I was the brains behind Cutino's underground arms deals.

I cantered into my bedroom and began throwing knickknacks out of the top shelf of my chest of drawers next to my bed. Like just about everybody else, I gathered up all the loose cards and miscellaneous good for nothings one squirrels away in one of those top bedroom drawers. There it is, Agent Sam Hicks, Federal Bureau of Investigation, Chicago Division. I reached over to the phone and dialed his number.

"Agent Hicks," his voice was starchy but crystal clear.

I stuttered, "Hi, uh, Mr. Hicks?"

"Yes."

"This is Carla King. Do you remember me?"

His phone demeanor changed into a charming, almost disarming rhythm. "Of course, Ms. King. How are you?" "Fine. Well...actually not so fine," I said.

"Ah huh...Is there something else to...?"

"No...I don't know anything else about that man." I didn't have time for his interrogations this time.

His response was delayed. "Hump, oh really?" he eventually grumbled.

"Yes...really." He was still on this crazy Tzu Sun, Art of War stuff. He just couldn't let it go.

"How about the time you and Cutino went on a trip together to the—"

"Agent Hicks!!" I squealed, letting go of all of my torn and frazzled emotions. "Do you want to hear why I've called you or not?"

Agent Hicks backed up. "Of course I do Ms. King. I must apologize for interrupting you. Yes, what can I do for you?"

I thought he'd yell back but he responded with true professionalism. He was calm and concise. "I've been harassed."

"How so?" he asked.

"This man...over the phone he, he threatened me."

In his pleasant tone he asked, "What'd he say?"

"Um, he...ahh, he said something about bitch to me."

"Okay," he said suspiciously. "What else?"

I tried to say it in a deep street swaying rhythm, the way the terrorizing voice said it, "Stay away bitch."

Agent Hicks asked, "Did he threaten bodily harm?"

"Well, yes, yes. He implied it."

"How so?"

"By the way he said it."

"Do you know him?" he asked.

I stammered for a while then said, "Umm...Kind of. In a way. I think."

"Where do you know him from?"

Hesitating, then finally coming out with it, "On-line."

"Explain," he bluntly said.

"On-line, the internet."

"You mean from the computer?" Agent Hicks asked.

"Yes..."

"Let me get this straight, the man that threatened you was somebody you met on-line?"

"...Kind of...Yes."

"OK...so you've never met him in person?"

"That's right."

Then he asked, "So...how do you know it was him?"

"I just do. Just call it intuition."

"Did he give you his name?"

Measured I said, "No. I don't really know his name."

Agent Hicks asked, "Do you know his phone number?"

"No...but he called me from the Greyhound Station in

Chicago."

"You mean the Greyhound Station downtown on Randolph St.?" he asked.

"Yes, that's the one, I'm guessing."

"How do you know that he called you from there?"

"Star six-nine. I punched star six-nine and it connected to the phone at the station. A little girl answered and told me where the phone was located. She told me it was at the Greyhound Station."

"The one downtown?" he asked.

"I think so. Is there another one?" I replied.

"Did she get a look at him?"

"I asked her and she described to me a Black man, brown complexion, kind of fat with a tall hat," I said.

Agent Hicks paused. "A tall hat?"

"That's what she said, a tall hat."

"Like the Cat in the Hat?"

"That's what I envisioned when she described it," I said.

"So, he's in Chicago?"

I got a hot flash of adrenaline and said, "For the tenth time, yes! Chicago!"

"That's not much to go on Ms. King. Do you have anything else to tell me?"

I shook my head in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? Are you going to help me or not?" My anxiety of the spooky call was turning into frightened anger.

"Please, relax Ms. King. Of course I want to help you. But I need more than somebody phoning you and calling you names, and then you say it's somebody off the Internet. And the person that called, you've never met or heard in person before this and now you want me to put him under the jail. It just doesn't work like that," Agent Hicks calmly explained.

My mouth began to quiver as the feeling of helplessness started to overwhelm me. My chickenhearted soul crept in whispering death and destruction into my spirit. I felt stuck, hung up and strung out, like a butterfly caught in a tarantula's web. I couldn't hold it any longer; I just broke down and wept.

I knew the beast was serious and I could feel in my heart that he was coming in for the kill. His kind was the sick stuff that turned me away from watching the evening news. Even though I'd never met the man, you knew of his kind. The kind that hurt beautiful objects and despised flowers, sunsets, and all good things. When peering at himself in the mirror he saw a despised and lonely reflection. A distorted reality of flashing eyes passing by him that were made just for his destruction, like it was everyone else that thwarted the efforts of this murderer's failures in life. I knew he was sick and needed help. And I'd help him if possible. But I knew he wouldn't listen. That he'd want me because of what I did. I was the one that knew and told everybody else on-line that it was him. I was the one that exposed his sickly crimes.

"Ms. King...Ms. King?" Agent Hicks softly broke into my pity party.

I squeaked, "Yes."

"Everything's gonna be alright. Listen, is there anything else that you can tell me?"

I wept, "I don't know."

"Why do you think this man is after you?"

"He killed somebody."

"OK, ok...who did he kill?"

I named them rapidly like they had been seared into my mind. "Koltrane, Twisletoe, Shaft, Slamdunk23, and Jam—"

He cut in, "Who, what, wait a minute did I hear you right?"

"Ah huh. That's right."

"Where did he do this?"

"He strangled them all, except Slamdunk23. He was killed in Africa. But I know he did it. I just know it I-."

"Wait, wait a minute," Agent Hicks interrupted me again.

"Why are you referring to these people as Slamdunk23 and Shaft. Is that some kind of code or nick name?"

"That's their e-mail address."

"So again, all of these people are online."

"That's right, I met them all in the Chat Room."

Sounding suspicious he said, "The Chat room?"

"Right, they're from all over."

"So, the murders were people from out of the Chat Room?"

"Yes. All within months of each other."

"These murders, where did they take place?"

"Well, Jamal in L.A. and Twisletoe in Boston and..."

"Okay, okay...and you know these people?" His tone was condescending. "Did you know their real names?" he repeated.

"Well, I never met any of them. But I traveled to meet Koltrane in LA, but when I got there, he had been killed earlier that week."

"Why do you think it's somebody off of the chat room?"

"Think about it. First it's Slamdunk23, then Shaft the next month, then Twisletoe and Koltrane. I mean just follow the dots."

Agent Hicks never answered my last statement but continued to his next question, "But do they have anything in common?"

"I don't know."

"Alright Ms. King. I'll look into it for you. In the meantime, keep your doors locked."

I took a deep breath and exhaled in frustration. "Okay." "I'll call you later when I have something," he said.

I cautioned to let him off the phone, because even over the phone his voice was securing. "Thanks Agent Hicks."

"Goodbye," he said and hung up.

I held the phone a few inches from my ear, suspended in thought and fearful to move. Finally, I hung up the phone and ran over to the front door and made sure the dead bolt lock was fastened. Even though the Condo had some security, I still thought about calling a security company for a burglar alarm. I shook the newly replaced solid oak door making sure it was tightly secured. I know, I'll tell management and security to be vigilante when it comes to letting strangers into the building.

I stretched my neck towards the upgraded door that was destroyed by the cops and eyeballed through the peephole. Vigilantly my eyes crawled around the fisheye lens into the hallway and searched for my terrorist. I felt my eyelid widened to its extreme, almost pressing my eyeball against the tiny glass peephole as I tried to assess every nook and cranny of the passageway.

I cracked the door and quietly stepped out into a different world. A world now more than ever filled with a new terror, a terrorist to my world so to speak. I reached the elevator and pushed 'L' on the elevator's display keypad. The ancient elevator door which was installed in the sixties took forever to close and once shut, moved slower than Congress. I peered up and read the floor numbers, 7, the elevator rattled and squeaked onto the 6th floor, and rumbled to 5, then 4 until thumped on the third floor. Anticipation mounted to whom would stand outside of the antiquated elevator door.

"Good day," the elderly pale white gentleman said and stepped into the elevator. He walked with a bamboo cane, a bone colored suit coat hung loosely off of his shoulders, blue handkerchief dangled from the front suit coat pocket and sported one of those futuristic hearing aids barely noticeable when matched against his pale skin tone. I didn't respond but instead kept both eyes upon his every move, I didn't trust anyone, even an elderly white man walking with a cane. The doors closed and the elevator budged slower than ever before towards the lobby ground until finally it settled. We reached the floor and I marched out swiftly towards the Security Guard.

Elmore graciously greeted me. "Good afternoon Ms. King," Elmore Jamieson was an old codger of a Black man; stately tall with a slim build, his skin was a file cabinet black with the patience of a monk. Some of us Condo types could be pretty demanding at times but with the composure of a seasoned pilot, if necessary Elmore could land a plane on Sheridan Road during a winter blizzard.

During the Christmas holidays, it was rumored that he would receive over fifteen thousand dollars in cash and gifts at Surfside Condo. After returning from Vietnam, Elmore was hired as the doorman and has said to me more than once that he has secured this building before Johnson was President. He never took anything lightly, while scrutinizing everybody and everything that came through the door. Mr. Elmore Jamieson was the kind of man that was proud of being just what he was, an honest man.

I tried to stay calm when I approached him. "Hi Mr. Jamieson."

"Good afternoon Ms. King" He always called people by their sir name. "Is somethin' wrong Ms. King?" he said in his Chicago elocution.

I guess it didn't work, he sensed my anxiety immediately. "No, no not really," I said.

"Very good Ms. King," he said calmly. "Is there anythin' you need?" his Chicago drawl was smooth as Granddad YUMF. He was the smoothest man I'd ever known. But he had to be.

YUMF stood for You Ugly Motha Fucka. Everybody just called him YUMF.

"Well, umm...well could you just keep an extra watch for a brother with a tall hat?"

"A tall hat?" he asked with a curious expression of doubt.

"Ah huh." I murmured. I searched the wall of picture windows onto the street probing for a black man with a Cat in the Hat cap.

Elmore continued, "Sho nuff Ms. King...you mean one a those tall Stetson hats?"

I shook my head, "No, no not a Stetson hat."

"Okay then, a cowboy hat wit a high brim?" he said making an imaginary hat shape with his hands above his head.

I didn't really hear him and never really studied Elmore but I continued to search out onto the street. "No, no, like The Cat In The Hat, The Cat In The Hat."

He folded his arms shaping what was to be the terrorist's sou'wester. "Yeah, yeah I knows dat hat. A clown hat...red, bent ova wit that skinny cat wearin' it ace deuce, cocked to the side and sittin' on the very top of his head," and Elmore gushed with a smile and laugh.

Without even looking at him I murmured, "Ah huh."

He gave a genuine grin said as he giggled, "Sho Ms. King, I'll spot that a mile away."

I felt myself speeding out of control. Was it Monday, Wednesday, Sunday, December, June or July? The time and space smashed into one. Last night was last year, the other second was the other year, the earth stopped and became flat. "Thanks Mr. Jamieson."

"Is there somthin' else I can do fo' ya?" he asked.

"Ahh...ahh," I lost my train of thought, my mind drifted.

I heard his faint voice call out, "Ms. King?"

"No, there's nothing else," I caught myself say right behind Mr. Jamieson's Chicago drawl and turned around from the window's hypnotic spell towards him. "Thank you," I said and trotted to the elevator. Once inside my condo, I locked everything, and what didn't have a lock, I planned on getting one installed as soon as possible.

The phone rang and standing silent my mind raced, stomach churning but most of all my heart palpitated to the point of near fright. The phone rang again, only this time louder. It might be Zoe. I raced to the phone sitting next to the sofa and picked it up, held it far away from my ear like it was a burning hot spatula. I just stared at it.

"Hel-," I vaguely heard a voice say from a distance.

"Hellooo..." again I heard it, only the phone was held even further away. I turned away from it like it would jump up to my ear and suck the air right out of my lungs. Finally, I slammed the phone back down and hung up. I plopped down on the sofa, my head sagged over my shoulder, my emotions were frazzled and I was shaking uncontrollably. It rang again until the message recorder picked up.

I heard my message respond, "Hello, nobody's here to answer your call. Please leave a message and I'll call you as soon as possible."

"Hello, Carla, Carla are you there?" It was my mother.

I rushed to pick up the phone, "Mom, Mom."

She sounded aggravated. "Yes, why did you hang the phone up?"

I lied, "I don't know...ahh, ah I didn't hear anybody on the other end. It must have been a bad connection."

"Is everything OK?" She turned right back to love.

"Yes. Why?" I fibbed like I was seven years old and had been caught wearing my mother's lipstick. "I'm fine."

"I have some tickets for the play. You want to go?" she asked.

"Maybe...yeah. What play?"

"Red Death."

"Red Death?"

"Red Death, from the book by Walter Mosely. Hellooo."

My mind was light years away. "Oh yeah, right, right."

"It's for next Thursday evening at ETA Theater," she said. ETA Theater is a local Chicago neighborhood theater located on the Southside.

I hesitated to tell her my sorrow. I didn't want to involve my Mom in this mess. But then again, shouldn't I warn her about the possibilities of this fool? "It should be fun," I said with dry air. "Awww shuga we gonna have so much fun. Zoe, you and me. Okay. We'll have dinner at some fine restaurant that night," Mom said with great fanfare.

"Oh...ain't you somethin'."

"Ya only go around once!"

The joy in her voice reminded me of my earlier years when she would tell me and my siblings that we were going to Savannah for our annual summer vacation. Savannah, Georgia was her hometown and family there welcomed us with great anticipation every summer. We'd hang around the ocean front and ride to Hilton Head Island and play on the beach with my cousins.

"But you don't want to go around broke," we said in chorus laughing to where we barely got it out. If my Mom wasn't giving me orders, she was making me laugh.

"Ok honey, I gotta go. Talk to you later. Bye," she said.

"Bye Mom."

It soothed my soul to hear from mom but my mind was frozen, still caught up in those fearful anxiety-ridden imaginations of the black man in the Cat in The Hat. Call Dr. Seuss please.

Natalie, I'll call Natalie, maybe she'll help me sort things out.

"What's up girl!" I heard her rally.

"Hey."

"Well if it ain't Carla King." Natalie was hyped up.

"What's up sista," I said. "What'you up too?"

"Nothin', just takin' care of a little home stuff. Me and Walter gonna get to—"

"I need to talk to you," I said.

She snapped, "It's yo' dime, what's up?"

"I need to get out of this place," I paced the floor unable to sit still. "You wanna meet at Viva Java?"

"Okay. I could stand a latte," she said.

"Meet me there in forty-five minutes," I said.

"Holla." Just like that, she hung up.

"Bye." Anxiously, I hung up the phone. The walls were closing in, stifling the Lake Michigan breeze flowing through the open window in the living room. My throat was tightening and cotton dry, only tiny bits of air pushed from my lungs. My eyes started to strain while my hands felt clammy, I needed fresh air and the big outdoors quick before I lose it.

Gathering whichever jeans were within eyesight I slipped them on. A black blouse hung on the closet doorknob and ASICS tennis shoes right below. How about protection? I don't have a gun. Maybe Pops will let me have his? How about a knife? I reminiscenced back in high school when my brother always carried this black handled knife with two gold leopards stretched out on both sides of the handle. He could bring it out of his pocket in one motion and the blade would snap out ready for action. He would perform tricks, showing off to me how many ways he could flash out the blade. But I didn't have anything like that in the house.

I floated with a brain fog into the kitchen and searched my silverware drawer for a knife. There were some steak knives, case knives and other cutlery that I picked through and examined quickly. Pricking the knives point and sliding the blades along my thumb nail testing it for sharpness. But what I really felt was the sharpness of my fear. Would I really be able to stab somebody? Slice them a new face. Shove the blade into somebody's bowels. I shook my head in doubt. I felt pain from biting the bottom of my lip, envisioning my right hand cutting the face of a faceless person. The person that pervaded my mind at every other second. He was big as Shaq and black as hot tar. His dirt and grim-filled hands were the size of a catcher's mitt, his thighs wide and powerful, with a barreled chest and teeth yellowed and gapped, with wild dreadlocked hair. I could envision the imprint of his giant dick through his tattered jeans. He stalked me and thrives within my scared soul. A fright so real that my thought of pain made my head throb, my teeth ache and heart sicken and weak.

Out of frustration I grabbed one of the steak knives with sharp pointy edges and stuck it into my purse, almost stabbing it through the bottom. I didn't care which one, just so I'd have something to protect myself. I power walked to the closet and grabbed one of my baseball caps and pulled it down over my eyes for deep cover.

I began my journey to Viva Java Café' almost cantering down the street. Everybody I came across appeared haunting, and they were all after me. It seemed as though I was marked with a big red flag waving over my head that said shoot me, stab me and rape me.

The first black man I came across was on Ardmore Street, about a half block away from my building. I was so scared that I leaped over a front yard of evergreen bushes and sprawled face down on the front lawn of a three flat. The man wore a tan cashmere coat with matching hat and leather gloves. This man was no more interested in killing me than Jesse Helms was for uplifting black folks. I felt like a fool but I also felt safe by hiding. As he passed, I slid through the branches back onto the sidewalk and continued my short trip to the coffeehouse.

I arrived at Viva Java Café with my survival senses still tingling and alert. I scanned the small corner coffee shop looking for the Cat in the Hat man and Natalie. Neither one was in the restaurant.

"Good afternoon," I heard the waitress's gladsome voice from the corner of my mind.

I must have responded some time later as I continued to study the restaurant. A place that I've been to hundreds of times before. "Hi," I finally blurted out feeling my equilibrium awkwardly shift, almost forcing me to the floor. I wobbled down the aisle, then grabbed a seat at the booth furthest from the door and sat down facing the entrance.

"You Okay girl?" The waitress's pasty white complexion and makeup, combined with jet black hair gave her a Betty Davis appearance like one of those old Mommy Dearest movies.

"Miss..." I heard her question again.

I blurted out the answer. "Yes, yes."

I didn't recognize the coffee shop waitress but she was patient for such a young lady. She didn't appear offended but more concerned. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked softly.

"Sure," I responded uncertain of any decisions. "A Mocha please."

"OK...I'll be right back," she smiled and turned to address my request.

Before she was out of my reach, I touched her on the shoulder. "Excuse me."

"Yes ma'am."

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Gretchen," she said continuing a bright disposition.

"Thank you Gretchen."

"You're welcome," said the Betty Davis lookalike.

She left smiling and I was released from my psychological hell. I was about to drive myself crazy but Gretchen's kindness had assured me that the human spirit of kindness still prevailed. A surprising act of compassion from people that you don't even know or wouldn't expect to respond with that special action of walking to the edge of the cliff and reaching to give you that helping hand that pulls you from the depths of darkness and despair.

"Hey girl. What's up with that hat?" Natalie appeared out of nowhere just in time to exit me from my self-pity state of mind. "Hi." I stood to meet her, but found myself hugging her.

"You been here long?" She asked in my ear.

"I just got here," I said clinging to her. Right now Natalie was my pastor, mother, father, husband and teacher. She was my confidant', who was always there to listen first and say what I needed to hear later. Most of the time, it may not be the right advice but it would be the consultation that I needed to hear. I would figure everything else out later.

"Cold out," she rubbed her hands together then cupped them while blowing into her palms. "I bumped into Sly yesterday."

Out of habit I responded, "Yeah...what's he up to?" "Same ol' stuff. Workin' at the City with the Mayor.

Kissin' his ring and genuflecting every time he crosses the hall on the 5th floor."

"He's really proud of his job," I commented.

"Psst...he's a boot lickin' nigga and you know it."

"Well—"

"Come on Carla...he's a dog. He's doggin' women and catchin' bones from them white boys at City Hall. He heels around with the Mayor's entourage like the pet dog that he is."

"Well I—"

"Shit girl, I'm surprised at you. He did you wrong and you know it."

"Yeah, but I've been over that-"

"After the nigga ran his game to get the panties. Then after you finally give in, he air mails you a dear Carla text," she sniped.

"Every man will do that Natalie. It's up to the woman not to panic. We always think that we'll lose the man if we give in to his-." Natalie cut in.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah but Sylvester waited and you stalled him and he still dumped you."

I pounded on the table. "God damn it Natalie," I yelled out at her. "I didn't come out here for' this shit," I said in a whispered rage made strictly for her ears.

Her eyes exploded with shock. Her dark face filled with blood as she turned darker in bewilderment. Natalie's eyebrows slowly folded down over her light brown eyes into disappointment. The three people sitting in the booth next to us spun around quickly just to make sure it wasn't some fighticuffs going on. Other customers sitting in various booths and seated at the counter turned towards us to see what was happening. Even Gretchen, the waitress had to crane her neck over the cash register to make sure the peace wasn't broken any further.

My friend was still stunned, her mouth was stuck wide open like a Lake Michigan carp hooked and reeled onto the docks of Belmont Harbor. I don't think I'd ever raised my voice at her in anger. Oh, we've disagreed plenty and debated all the time but I've never had the reason to swear and curse at her in anger. She wasn't that type of person or friend.

"I'm sorry," I said softly in retreat. I was talking to her but my head was half way between my legs. I felt doubly awful. Now I had the burden of guilt protruding betwixt my fears.

She reached over and gently raised my head with her fingertip, "No Carla, I'm sorry. I was just going on and on about nothing'. What's goin' on?" she said tenderly.

We smiled at each other with genuine love.

Shaking my head in frustration I said, "Remember I told you about Jamal in LA being murdered?"

"Of course," she answered.

From the little jar sitting against the wall on the table, I picked out a bag of Stevia sugar and began to fidget with it. "And about those other murders on the Internet?"

She leaned in closer. "Yes."

I stretched my neck towards the window to see the corner full of traffic and people milling about their daily routines.

"Somebody called me today. He implied that I should shut my mouth about the Chat Room killings or else."

"What!?" Natalie's eyes just about popped out of their sockets.

I continued to stare out of the window. "I star six-nine them back and it was a call from the Greyhound station right here in

Chicago."

Natalie peered out of the window as well, scoping out "In Chicago? You mean right here?"

"Yes."

Like a giraffe trying to grab the highest piece of fruit from the tallest tree, Natalie stretched her neck closer, "Did he answer?" She whispered and twisted around to survey the tables around.

"No, it was a little girl. She described the person that was talking on the phone." "Who was it?"

"I don't know. But he was a Black man."

Natalie stopped in midair and dropped back onto the restaurant bench. She gazed at me saying nothing and appeared not to breath.

I snapped my fingers, "Natalie, Natalie."

"Damn." She finally blurted.

"I'm staying out of this stuff, I not messing with none of this chat room crap anymore."

"He's in Chicago?" she asked.

Rattling the sack of fake sugar I said, "Outta all the places in the world, this fool's right here."

She reached over the table and held my hand. "Hopefully he was just passing through."

"Yeah, yeah that's it. He was just passing through," I said with the first smile since the phone call. "That's why I have you as a friend girl. Cause I can't have any dumb friends."

Natalie laid a huge grin on me that spelled everything's gonna be all right. "Well you know, what can I say?"

"He was just stopping on his way to who knows where. I just hope he hops his crazy ass on the bus and they drive that devil right into one of the oceans," I joyously agreed and thought why not? He was just passing through town and thought he'd put a scare into me and in doing so, accomplished that and more.

"Which one of your Chat Room buddies do you think it was?" Natalie questioned.

Hesitating, I found myself again in that daze of fear.

"Masonite."

"Why Ma-so-nite?" Natalie pronounced in cracked tones.

"He was the one name on Jamal's e-mail that I recognized from the Chat Room. They were supposed to meet the same week that he was murdered. I just put two and two together."

"Did you call the police?"

"I called Agent Hicks."

Natalie swirled her neck. "Agent Hicks!?" She shook her head that signified discuss. "You mean the cop that's been harassing you?"

I nodded. "Yeah, the very same one."

"I thought you hated him. Shit, I would and of a matter of fact, I do."

Throwing my hands up I explained, "Yes, yes, I know I hate him, but he was the first one that came to my mind after getting no satisfaction from calling 911."

"Damn girl...you must have been trippin'," Natalie said.

"At first, Hicks was being a real twit. He kept prying and poking me about Sun Rise, Cutino or Black Dragon or whatever the hell his name is."

"How so?"

"You know, like that TV crime stuff. Did I have something else to say about Cutino and information on his operation, things like that? I told him I didn't have any more information nor did I know anything else about Cutino."

Natalie shook her head, "That means you almost ran into the killer in LA?"

My mind went blank when she said it. I stared into nothing, then in an instant turned back into Koltrane's bedroom where the killing took place. A shiver quivered through my stomach at the thought of meeting up with the evil person who would murder.

"Here's your coffee," Gretchen said as she approached our table. She placed the cup of latte in front of Natalie and a black coffee on my side. "Is everything OK?" she asked.

"Yeah girl. It's nothin' but girl talk," I said easing Gretchen's concern.

She turned to Natalie. "Would you like somethin' to eat, a menu or somethin'?" Gretchen asked.

"Yes please, I'll take a bagel and lox," Natalie requested.

"Comin' right up," Gretchen said.

Natalie reached over for the jar of raw sugar, the kind wrapped in small brown paper packets and emptied two into her dark latte coffee. She stirred it slowly, then placed the spoon into the saucer and brought the cup up to her mouth. She sipped the coffee and placed it back onto the saucer. "So where do we go from here?"

I frowned at my girl and questioned, "We?"

"Yeah, girl that's right." Natalie glared at me hard.

In a final determination based on everything that has transpired so far I said, "Listen, I don't want anybody involved in this but the authorities."

"Well, you can count on me." Natalie reached over with a clinched fist where I gave her some pound.

After touching fist and doing our Fresh Prince and Jazzy

Jeff imitation I said, "I'm finished being a novice private eye." "I heard that."

I gazed onto the street, "I just hope that psycho jumped back on that Greyhound and rode out of town. That's all."

### CHAPTER 17

This is the end of the beginning my friend

Plenty of smiles and good times are past

But this is the end

Our good times will be missed

We have only limited days and nights before our soul's flight

We love it when it comes and hate time when it leaves

My heart aches when we can no longer speak

Memories we keep, pictures we seek, a touch, a smile, a kiss on the cheek

But there's no repeat

We all become ghost in someone's memory

If we're lucky

The fables and tales will expand

It'll be history throughout our small piece of land

There'll be tears of sorrow and tears of joy Some will celebrate while others not

Our walk on this earth is full of regrets But there are no playbacks on life's turf

It's full steam ahead for the walking dead

CK

'10

After our coffee, I left Viva Java Café feeling like John F. Kennedy the day after the Cuban Missile Crisis ended, relieved from the unfathomable thought of Castro and Khrushchev doing the unbelievable, all desperate men about to destroy the world.

With Natalie's input and simplistic analysis that the 'Black Cat In The Hat' was probably passing through town on a Greyhound bus to his real destination. His goal was to intimidate me. That conclusion soothed what was left of my fragile self-assurance of safety. I actually strolled down the street like a child strolling home from the candy store, nibbling on his Charleston Chew, stopping here and there trying to finish it before reaching home so none of his other siblings would beg for a bite.

Once inside of my condo building, I milled around the reception desk and struck up a conversation with Mr. Jamieson. I even assisted him at the door, making sure Mrs. McMurdy, one of our most difficult condo dwellers needs were met. Mrs. Charmane McMurdy was a tired old troublesome woman who not only gave Mr. Jamaison a hard time doing odds and ends, but at condo meetings would take up to a half an hour over the smallest issues. It never failed. Just last month, she pestered John Petrovic, the condo president into contemplating resignation. Chuck Perry, the former condo president retired last year, tired of not only running the day to day business of the association, but Mrs. McMurdy had also contributed greatly to his decision by accusing him of skimming assessments, hiring his relatives for repair work and receiving kickbacks, a Chicago business tradition. Chuck swore up and down that he never would sway from his duty as custodian of the condo operations. He quit in a huff and blamed everyone on the condo board who had questioned his integrity. Mrs. McMurdy would only state,"...well he didn't have to quit if he wasn't guilty."

It was as if a new life had blessed me, and I was going to make the best out of it. Right now, nothing seemed to bother me, even when Mrs. McMurdy gave orders to take her garbage to the disposal after voluntarily helping Mr. Jamaison with her groceries. Boy, she had some nerve. Never said thank you, offered any lemonade or anything. But my spirit was flying high above the pettiness.

The next weeks flew by faster than ever. I went at my job with a new enthusiasm. My focus, which had been waning in recently, had been restored. Any frustrations were washed away. The thrill of life's wind beneath my wings was carrying me to new heights. My manager, Dan Kravitz noticed my new attitude within a couple of days. I was handling problems on company projects better than ever, which made his life much easier and that pleased him.

It was Saturday morning in the City. Spring time was such an awakening and rebirthing season in Chicago. Rain waters tree roots and plants only to have them bud and sprout toward month's end. The sun burst through the dewy mist on Lake Michigan, its glare created beautiful rainbows and shadows reflecting against the city's landscape.

"Good morning," I said to Zoe.

"Hi," she sluggishly replied. Her response was so typical from a high school teenager's late nightlife. The night before, was over Jackie Brown's house fooling around doing nothing I'm sure into the wee hours of the morning. Jackie was, let us say one of her more high-spirited classmates. She was so captivated about the movie 'Jackie Brown' that she actually tried to imitate Pam Grier's character. As a young girl, Jackie must have seen the movie ten times at the theatre, and when it came out in video every time Zoe visited, Jackie would watch certain scenes of the movie imitating and learning each part. Zoe said she must have watched that movie twenty times with her. One time out of my own paranoia, I searched her purse for a gun. I often tried to persuade Zoe from visiting Jackie but somehow she'd point out all the positive things Jackie was involved in these days and that I was tripping on her because of Jackie's charismatic personality.

"What did yawl do last night?" I asked.

"Nothin', just played cards. Darryl, Mary, Lavelle and her cousin Uber came over."

"Uber?" I said peering over at her in confusion.

"Yeah...Uber."

"What's a Uber?"

Zoe giggled and said, "He's a silly somethin', I know that." "How so?" I asked.

"He's just young acting for a twenty year old," she said.

"Twenty! Does he attend college?"

Zoe rolled her eyes and cried, "That fool. College of hard knocks. He's lucky he ain't doing' time or somethin'."

I turned a serious eye at her and said, "Hump...he's not a banger is he?"

Zoe hunched her shoulders and said, "Mom...I don't know what he is. But I know he's gameless."

"Gameless?"

"Yeah...he ain't got no game," she said with a laugh.

I laughed and said, "Alright then. Make sure you stay your distance from those types."

"We played Bid Whist. Darryl, Mary and Lavelle were good."

"They finally teach you how to play?"

Zoe smiled, "Yeah...it wasn't as bad as I thought."

"See, I told you."

"Yeah, but they were nice. Some people can be rude and ignorant. But there wasn't any rough stuff or signifying and slammin' cards on the table." She waved her hand. "Cause I ain't havin' that."

"I told you everybody wasn't like Uncle Brad and your Grandmother," I said.

"Phew, thank God. Cause when it comes to Bid Whist, Grandma and Uncle Brad are just too serious for me," Zoe explained.

"Me too honey. You want some orange juice?"

"Yes, thank you."

I angled over to the Kenmore refrigerator and opened the door and shook the Tropicana orange juice carton, it appeared three-quarters full.

Nonchalantly she said, "So, when you going to introduce me to your new man?"

I almost bumped my head against the refrigerator door.

"Young lady, I told you there's nobody new in my life like that."

She looked me straight in the eye and said, "Then why you actin' all giddy and stuff. Like you been born again or somethin'."

There was no way that I could fool my daughter. "What are you talking about?"

Zoe leaned back in her chair towards me to get a little closer to my answer. "I mean, it's just something about you. The way you've been acting," she said.

I pointed to the lake and into the clear sky. "Oh, you mean like I'm on cloud nine, soaring above the earth like the Challenger space shuttle?"

"Naw, naw, like you're a sixties space cadet, floatin' around the house with nothin' on your mind," she giggled.

I had to smile at her as she stared at me with her round cow eyes, "Life is wonderful. You just have to grab it, seize it with all your positive spirit. Make every good time better, every better time best and every sad time a space for reflection and understanding.

Reach and keep reaching for the stars Zoe. Don't ever limit yourself and enjoy every moment-"

"Mom thanks. I love you. But...I already know that," she said jokingly. "But thanks anyway."

"That's enough smartie pants." It was one of those sayings I'd call her since the age of three. "Are you ready to go?"

"Mom, I can stay home," she said.

"I know but I'd rather you stay at Grandma's tonight.

Would you do that for me?"

She sighed, "Okay. But Mom I'm old enough to stay home by myself. I've done it many times before."

"I know, honey but your grandparents want to see you. So, do this for me." Zoe's been old enough to stay home, but I feel so much better when she's not alone and with responsible people. With times as crazy as they are, it's the choices made by kids but more importantly the decisions made by parents that can make the difference. So, when it comes to Zoe, I err on the side of caution. Again she sighed but as the trooper and super daughter that she is, Zoe did what I asked.

I was back and better than ever. My spirit was perfect like a newborn baby and soared with eagles flying over the pestilence of life's five o'clock news stories. The confidence I located from the hinterland of lost dreams was growing every day. Later that evening, Natalie and I attended one of the last Bulls games of the season. Plain and simple, they stunk up the joint that year. But we saw some promise in the young rookies. At one time, this year's team had barely scratched the win column, and they weren't just losing, they were losing big. By twenty points or more, whew, it was tough to watch those boys sometimes. But we hung in there and at times, they played well enough to be engaged in the game. But, even basketball junkies thought it a waste of time to go to the United Center.

After the game, we decided to see who was playing at Legend's Blues Club. If we got real lucky, maybe Buddy Guy himself would be performing. There have been discussions around town that the city was buying the property in order to expand Columbia College, so we figured that this may be one of the last times to see him at this most magnificent blues club venue. It's hard to duplicate a legend.

We arrived to a full house. "Girl, I hope he's playin' tonight," quipped Natalie.

"Yeah, like that would happen." I peered around the club to get a lay of the land. "I don't see that cowboy hat on stage."

"Me either," Natalie replied.

"Oh...there's a seat over there," I yelled over the sound system playing Albert King's cut 'When You Walk out The Door'.

Natalie visually explored the seating area and said, "Where?"

I grabbed her by the arm. "Follow me."

I rushed for my destination with Natalie close in tow. The table was up front, we sat down quickly and twirled around to see if someone else would come over to unseat us.

I leaned over to Natalie, "Hey now. What great seats."

She rubbed her hands together like she was about to dive into a slice of double chocolate cake. "Ooo wee, I hope Buddy's here tonight. Wouldn't that be the bomb?" Her excitement was contagious as I too held hope that Buddy was here.

"May I help you?" I looked up at the pretty young girl holding a serving tray in a manner that reminded me of a schoolgirl carrying her books to class. Her face was chocolate brown, topped off with a short blond afro and Coke bottle shaped hips that I would die for.

"I'll have White Zinfandel please," I requested.

"Make that two," Natalie chimed in.

"Two White Zinfandel's," she screeched. Evidently, I didn't hear her tone when she first arrived. Her voice sounded like fingernails sliding down a chalkboard. "Anything else?" Chocolate Brown squealed.

"No, thank you," I said holding my amusement to myself.

Chocolate Brown began to walk off when Natalie went to ask a question, "Excuse me."

Chocolate Brown whirled around, "Yes."

"Ha..." Natalie giggled from under her breath. I felt her amusement turning to laughter. "Is Buddy playing tonight?" she squeaked out just enough to let me know that her hilarity was being held back.

"I don't know. But there's some good talent here tonight.

You'll see," Chocolate Brown said and disappeared into the darkness of the atmosphere.

The crowd was older but younger at the same time. Plenty White folks abound. Matter of fact it was filled primarily with White folks. They were mainly out of Towner's. Local Whites hip to the blues and, for all practical purposes the main supporters of the blues genre visited blues joints regularly.

Throughout the years, African Americans just didn't support blues artists. I'm not sure why, maybe because of its origins which was a little too slow for today's youth. Or maybe Black folks hear the blues in everyday life and didn't need to keep repeating the story every time through another genre of music.

Baby boomers that were raised on Motown and today's generation raised on Hip-Hop just didn't get a chance to understand the vibe of the blues. Maybe the stigmatism of the word "blues" or the lack of proper marketing was part of the reason. The implication of down trodden, broke down, done wrong, and hood winked wasn't what today's blacks wanted to hear. Whatever the reason, the blues really hadn't caught on to current day main stream AfricanAmerican culture enough to support the industry.

But to many others, listening to the blues was joyous, earthy, real conversational, fun foot stomping' entertainment. Swinging' Blues artist like Z.Z. Hill, Leadbelly, Barbeque Bob, Blind Willie Johnson, Peetie Wheatstraw and Big Mama Thornton were unlike any others in music. Local Chicago blues artist like Peaches Staten, Ramblin' Rose and Tracee Adams with feline intensity kept the beat alive by performing at Northside venues like Legends, B.L.U.E.S. Etc., Blue Chicago, and Kingston Mines. In the spirit of Koko, Etta and Tina, their feisty persona appeared personal and home spun, like your grandfather sitting you on his knee and schooling you to the ways of the world.

"These seats are the best, huh?" Natalie smiled at me with that grin I've seen when she finally believes she got the best out of life.

"Yes lawd," I said.

"What you lookin' at?" Natalie noticed that I was searching from one end of the club to the other.

"Just trying' to see if any brothers in the house," I said.

Natalie waved her hand like she was shoeing away gnats from in front of her face. "Shit. You know ain't no real brothers kickin' it down here tonight."

"Sometimes I don't know why I bother to go here." I laughed, "Maybe we should have stayed on the West Side and went to the Rose. At least that was near the United Center."

"To the Rose?" she questioned.

"Yeah girl. At least there's some brothers always in the house."

"And you know that. Maybe they don't have a car," she said.

"Or a job," I said.

"They might be an ex-con," Natalie laughed.

"Or out on parole."

"But at least they're in the house," Natalie said holding up her hand for a high five. And I gave it to her too.

"True."

She continued, "And maybe they have ten kids with seven babies' mommas..."

"True."

"And maybe they a fugitive from the law..."

"True," I said laughing.

"And maybe they don't have a driver's license because they can't pay their child support and because they don't have a driver's license they can't get a job to pay for the child support..." Natalie laughed so hard she nearly fell out of the chair.

A salty appetizer was sitting on the table, so while sticking mixed nuts into my mouth I asked Natalie, "How's Walter?"

She gave me the lowbrow, "Oh, he's fine. He wanted to come with me to the game."

"Oh yeah?"

"But...that's my time," she gave me a Johnny Cochran-like concluding argument in court.

"True."

"I love him and all but-," she hesitated.

"But! But what?" I was anxious to know.

Natalie appeared confused. "I'ont know. Am I just getting too old?"

"Too old?"

"Yeah...you know what I mean."

Emphatically I said, "No, I don't."

"I'm set in my ways and doing things the way that I've always wanted. My privacy and freedom to come and go as I please have been hindered. I think I love him and he might even love me. But I need my space." Natalie spread out her arms waving them around expressing her space.

"That's not unusual, everybody needs their space."

"Yeah...I guess," but her response was unsure.

Continuing to press her, "So, hey what's up? There's something else isn't it?"

Natalie paused and didn't answer, and by then Chocolate Brown returned with our drinks. "Two White Zinfandels," her steel cutting high pitched voice pierced through our conversation with ease.

"Thank you," I smiled at her.

She placed the drinks on the club style round table. "That'll be eight dollars," she screeched.

"I got it." Natalie hurriedly reached into her purse and pulled out a ten-dollar bill and handed it to Chocolate Brown.

"Need change?" Chocolate Brown scraped through my ears like a fingernail against a chalkboard.

"No, thank you very much," Natalie bellowed through the music.

"If you need anything else, just holla." Chocolate Brown whirled around and disappeared into the bluesy aura of Legend's.

"Thanks..." I grabbed my wine glass and lifted it up towards Natalie. "Here's to us. Two friends enjoying the moment."

Natalie held up her wine glass. "To us."

We tapped glasses and sipped the sweetest tasting vino in Chicago. By then a local band named Blues Hawks had snuck on stage and began playing. The club was rocking, the band played blues standards like, _I'm Home Baby_ and _Big Daddy's Nest_. The crowd response was lively almost celebratory.

Three glasses of White Zinfandel later, I couldn't believe my eyes who was on stage. I thought I had died and went to Blues heaven. There standing no more than twenty feet away laughing like two young whipper snappers appeared Buddy Guy and B.B. King.

"This is our night girl!" I screamed. "Pinch me, pinch me. I must be dreaming."

Natalie nudged me with her elbow over and over, "Shut yo' mouth. Girl, you think they really gonna play?"

It happened so quickly. Before we knew it, Buddy Guy had his guitar strapped and B.B. had Lucille slapped over his shoulder and began a music festival of duets, "Everyday I Have the Blues" and "Sweet Little Angel." We were paralyzed in amazement at what was happening. It felt like me, Natalie, B.B. and Buddy at a jam session and with the twang of their guitars, blues heaven was on. After playing "When Love Comes To Town", their next cut was "Three O'clock Blues". Then all of a sudden, Bobby Blue Bland, the man with the chicken bone caught in his throat, appeared out of nowhere. Bobby Blue Bland was a favorite of blues people all over the world. By that time, everyone in the club tried to slide their tables and seats closer to the stage, attempting to feel the emotion emanating from the blues masters. The trio started with Bobby's "Farther Up the Road" and "It's My Life Baby"

Then B.B.'s "The Thrill Is Gone" and Buddy's "Damn Right I've Got The Blues", Oooh wee, what a frightfully gigantic good time. And we thought that there were no black men in the house, they showed up in force.

It was a fantastic night. All of our frustrations and anxieties were washed away by the masters of the blues. Natalie and I continued to pinch each other to make sure that it wasn't a dream, and that we weren't caught up in some worm hole of music fantasy, where your dreams come true only through illusions.

"I told yawl that there was some good talent playin' tonight," Chocolate Brown said as she wiped down tables.

I said beaming until my face hurt. "Oooh wee, honey you have never been so right."

"See yawl next time," Chocolate Brown bid us goodbye. I never did learn her name, but Chocolate Brown would never leave my memory.

"Oooh wee, honey you ain't never been wrong," I jibber jabbered still basking in the glow left by some sho' nuff blues legends.

We closed Buddy Guy's Legends Blues Club that night. It was close to three in the morning but our adrenaline was still streaming as if we had awakened to a million dollars in cash spread out all over the bed. B.B. King, Bobby Blue Bland and Buddy Guy jammed the entire night away. We were some of the last patrons to leave.

"What a night?" I laughed out loud.

Natalie couldn't get this permanent smile off of her face. "Oooh wee, nobody'll believe us. Nobody."

I giggled all night still unbelieving of the events myself. My emotions were still streaming wildly. I couldn't get the smile off of my face either. "If nobody else in this world will believe us, you and I will know."

"Wow, I'm tellin' you girl. Nobody will believe us.

Nobody, nobody, nobody," Natalie repeated it all night as we floated towards the door.

"Carla?"

"Oooh wee," I said.

Natalie laughed, "You're stuck on oooh wee."

"What?"

Natalie repeated, "Oooh wee. You're stuck on oooh wee."

"What are you talking about?"

She continued, "All night long you've been saying oooh wee."

"No I haven't."

Natalie placed her hands on my shoulder. "Yes you have girl. Oooh wee this and oooh wee that."

"No I haven't."

"Yep."

"Oooh wee?" I gave it thought. We glanced at each other, "Oooh wee," we both yelled for good measure like some old goat ropin' cowboy.

We left Buddy Guy's Legend, and meandered down Wabash Avenue then south toward Harrison walking past Columbia College, The Burger King and the transient hotel down the street to our special parking lot which we always use when parking in this area of the south Loop. The night was still and black, very little traffic crossed our path and even fewer people roamed the sidewalks. Natalie's 2001 Mercury Cougar was the only car left in the lot. We trekked our way across the lot's gravel dodging pot holes in the unkempt lot toward the car when I spotted someone coming towards us from behind. He came out of nowhere and was within a little more than a car length or so before we could take any evasive action. Both Natalie and I looked at each other at the same time; her eyes were large as silver dollars. The buzz we had gotten from Legends quickly vanished. My heart started racing and I felt my right eye twitch. At that split second, we both knew something was going to happen.

The silhouette moved quickly, too swift to evade. I can't figure out if it was my unbelieving or my fear causing me to stiffen.

"Natalie?" I finally murmured.

But she couldn't get a word out. We did manage to pick up the pace but he was literally on our heels.

"Hey!" the imp dressed in a silhouette commanded. "Go away, go away," I heard Natalie yell. We were in constant motion trying to reach the car.

"Stop bitch or I'll shoot yo' ass," the nightmare commanded.

Those were the magic words. Head bowed and shoulders slumped, I bit the bottom of my lip and slowed. Natalie stopped in her tracks. I took a deep breath as my thoughts turned to flashing memories of childhood and my dearest Zoe. I felt dizzy and isolated. Should I faint? Should I run? Fight, that's what I'll do.

No, no, that'll be stupid.

Natalie whispered awakening into this dark reality, "Oh God, oh God."

"Turn around," his raspy voice echoed through my soul.

My feet were cemented to the parking lot gravel. "Here sir, take my purse, here, here." I extended my purse around so my eyes wouldn't meet his. Natalie peered over at me nervously and mimicked the same thing and clumsily extended her purse as well.

"We don't want no trouble mista," Natalie sounded more and more like the little girl I grew up with on the South side when she would plead for a piece of her brothers Bit O' Honey candy bar.

"Shut the fuck up," the goblin decreed. "Walk towards the car and put your hands on the hood," he continued.

Natalie pleaded again, "We don't want no trouble mista."

I felt evil's hand push me between my shoulder blades inching me forward trying to hurry me along. What can I do? Why didn't he take my purse? This man's disturbed. Rape? Not both of us. No, no, I peered over at Natalie and saw tears running down her check.

"Sir, sir here take my purse, please...there's eighty or more dollars in my wallet," I pleaded. I dropped my purse on the ground in back of me but all he did was push me from my back again, this time it felt like heavy metal that must have been a gun.

We reached Natalie's car which was parked under the Chicago Transit Authority 'L' tracks. How stupid could we have been to park so far in the rear of the parking lot. Now look at us.

You'd need binoculars to see us from the street.

"I'm sorry Ms. King," the Nigga said.

He knows me? "Who is this? Do I know you?"

"No, not really. But then again..."

"Ok, who is this?" I tried to smile but my nervous jitters would only allow my face to twitch. "Is this some joke or something?"

"Hell no, this is the real deal honey, sorry." His voice was a smoker's from way back, hard and raspy with a hint of whiskey staining the air.

"But what do you want. You can have all the money,"

Natalie pleaded. "MasterCard, Visa, American Exp—."

"Sorry, I'm just a soldier. I just do what I'm told." The raspaholic voice explained.

"But, but..." Natalie tried to say more. But her speech came out stuttering and weak, so she just shook her head and cried.

"Have I talked to you? Did—."

The evil fiends voice cut in, "I ain't got time fo' no conversation,"

"Ju...just answer me. Please... j, just answer me. Did I talk to you?" I prodded.

Then, he was arrogant with his response, "What do you think?"

"It was a few weeks ago. You called my house." There was silence. He didn't answer me. It was so quiet, I could hear the earth rotate. I nudged him on. "Right? Right?"

"Maybe, maybe not," he said.

Right now at this second, a last breath confidence came over me. "Come on. What you got to lose," I coaxed him.

He was so close, that I heard the wind whistle from his nose.

Natalie cried, her face bent over the car's hood, face down motionless. "I ain't done nothin' to you mista," she whaled.

I sensed my deepest fear that the man was here for me only.

"If you come here for' me, fine. But let her go."

"You in the way," he calmly explained.

"In the way of what?"

"You talk too much," he said.

I slowly turned around with my hands still raised.

"Lower your hands," he ordered. "Lower your fuckin' hands."

Slowly turning and bringing my hands down I turned to meet him. He was tall, and ascended towards the deep black sky like one of Chicago's skyscrapers covering our every view. But his face was not the face of a killer but the face of a stock boy. Young looking with crystal white eyes and a clean shaven face. He wore a sport coat with a pull over sweater. I noticed his pants were pleated with a large western style buckle that reflected what little light there was. But mainly, I saw the hand gun. Although he stood about four feet away, the barrel seemed to extend to the tip of my nose.

"It's just too bad," he croaked. His harsh voice sounded almost regretful. "He said that you were fine."

"What do you mean?"

"He said not to be persuaded by your looks and for me to just do my job."

I glowered at him now full frontal. Fearless to the point where things started to slow down, where I could almost see the next step that he was about to make. My knees and hands stopped shaking and my heart rate ceased from pounding uncontrollably through my blouse. That feeling when you feel that you are in control and directing the theatre. "He said?"

"Yep."

I tipped and curled my lip ready to play his game. "So who is he?"

"Hmm, right," he seemed to almost laugh. "You know." "No I don't. Why don't you tell me?" I practically directed him to give me the answer. My sudden strength and bravery seemed to catch him by surprise. I was no longer a runaway deer but a defiant soldier combating the menacing demons of the underworld.

He paused then stuttered, "It, uh, umm, Cu-ti-no-."

And there it was. Cutino? "You mean Cutino Grigsby?"

My fear switched to anger. "You mean he's involved with you?" Then I thought, come on Carla, you knew it was him. Fess up and come to grips with it, he played you like a two dollar whore. He never cared for me, I was only a toy for him to play and plan his next move in his cruel and illegal conglomerate. What a spineless pig meat.

I could hear the humor in his voice when he said, "You don't know nothing, do you?" He was digging deep inside me and he liked it.

I was belligerent and hoity when I spoke, which was a far cry from where I had come just sixty seconds ago. "Well, since you know everything why don't you enlighten me?"

"He used you just like he did to some other woman like you in Dallas. That's where I met him." "So you met him," I asked.

"Well not really met him but it was over the phone.

Anyway, he cracks me up the way he does women. Buys 'em this and that, using this ol' country boy routine and shit."

I wanted more, not because I wanted to gather more information to put Cutino away, but at this point for my personal benefit. I wanted to know the whole story that put me in this situation. "Ah huh...and-"

"They were all in on it."

"All who?"

"All the people on that uh, um Internet thing. You know...what's dem silly ass niggas childish names? Oh yeah, Twis, Twisletoe, Shaft and oh yeah, one of my favorites Slamdunk.

I love that one, Slamdunk23," he chuckled. "Yep...they was all part of Cutino's gun runnin' hustle. They used the Internet. The boy's really got some skills. He used his military knowledge on secret codes and how to use them to transmit messages. I guess he worked in communications or somethin'," he said smirking.

"Damn," he was playing with me like a cat would a mouse.

He gave me that same sick chuckle, "Yeah, I know. Ya feel kinda stupid huh?"

He seemed to get off on my confusion and misfortune.

"Anybody can get tricked. If I had known, I would have dumped his ass. So I don't feel stupid at all," I felt bold in my response.

He pushed against my spine with the cold steel of the gun and said, "Yeah well, enough fa dis-"

"So, you killed them all?" I sensed that his small talk had ceased.

His voice was low and painfully deliberate. "That's what I get paid fo'."

"So, so why me?" I asked.

"I 'ont know, maybe you just got too close. Plus you caused one of his soldiers to die."

"Who?"

"Koltrane," he said.

"Koltrane?" I searched my mind for the connection.

"That's a lie!" I could barely get his name out of my mouth.

"Koltrane? He knew Cutino? This is crazy. Uh, uh, no, no, no I didn't cause anybody's murder," I defended. What the hell is going on? Koltrane was in on it? Is there no character and truth in this world? "All the times we chatted online and shared personal information just couldn't have been all a lie."

The chatty hitman continued to tell the story. "Koltrane was West Coast. He was supposed to be one of his best distributors in the network. Koltrane supplied all of the Mexican cartels and gangsters on the west coast," like molasses running down tree bark in a Maryland forest, the goblin murderer spoke like he had all night to say his piece.

So I asked him while planning some type of getaway, "Koltrane was in on it from the beginning?"

"Shit, I don't know nothin' bout that.

I heard the "L" train clacking its way toward us. When it raced directly overhead, it would be the opportunity for the black beast to shoot. I looked back at him again and for the first time, met him eye to eye. His black eyes penetrated through the air with a quiet determination, and as the "L" train rolled over our head, he seemed to look up. I kicked at the gun as he fired, the noise from the train made all other noises muffle. But I felt the extension of its power as the heat from the gun's explosion radiated off of my face.

The dark night was interrupted by bright red and yellow flashes of fire exploding from the gun's barrel, then another explosion. I kicked wildly again, striking his gun as it flew out of his hand toward the alley about ten feet away. His eyes never left the pathway of the flying gun as I slapped him with my open hand. The train passed overhead quickly and the sound of grunts started to sink back into the air.

I spun around as the black villain leaped for the gun and screamed, "Come on Natalie! Let's go!" But she was down. Her eyes closed like Dorothy from the Wizard of OZ in the poppy fields and I didn't know if she fell, passed out or just gave up. "Natalie!" I bent over her and yelled again "Natalie!" and in that split instant from looking at her sprawled body and closed eyes lying limp on the parking lot gravel, I just stood up and ran. I must run. Run and run...I stumbled to secure my footing and floundered past the alley just under the train tracks. I could hear Lucifer's henchman fumbling in the lot trying to recover his heat.

"Help! Help!" I yelled to anyone that would hear my cry.

I heard the explosion and hot steel pass by and bounce off of a nearby building. But I continued to dart around trash cans and dumpsters searching for a way to the main thoroughfare. My eyes watered as the cool morning wind blasted into my frightened eyes. My breath was short, but the little time that I spent on the treadmill was paying off. I kept galloping onto 11th street then onto South State Street where a car's headlight headed in my direction. It was a Yellow Cab.

I waved hysterically, hailing it, "Taxi, taxi," I squealed while peering down the alley. Fear struck me in my gut again when I noticed the black killer's silhouette standing there about fifty feet away. The taxi slowed, I saw the bearded Middle Eastern looking man wearing a turban stare at me and then passed as if I wasn't there. The tanned colored driver eyed me with contempt like I had an affliction with a capital 'A' written on my forehead.

"Taxi, stop, taxi!" I yelled again as it sped by.

I peeked back to see the Black Death closing fast towards me. I took off in the direction of the taxi chasing it for my life. "Taxi, taxi!" I kept yelling and it kept rolling, tail light getting further and further away from me. The yellow taxi cab seemed to represent the remainder of my life and the further the yellow cab sped away, was the closer death neared me.

Where was everybody? The streets in the south loop were vacuous. I felt my stomach churn then it happened just like that. I threw up, heaving the night's diversions partially onto the street and my clothes. I bent over aching, unable to move. I craned my neck and rolled my eyeballs up the dimly lit street where he was still pursuing, although cautiously closer towards me.

I forged past the pain to stand up; he was closer with every rancid thought passing through my mind. My mouth was dry and wet at the same time. I straightened up and continued to run down South State Street praying that somebody would come to my rescue.

Every building was closed, their lights out and doors dead. The buildings stood there like tombstones and I was running through the cemetery-like streets hoping they would let me in. Only paper trash blew from office building to sleepy office building. I felt like a chased animal in the urban jungle, running from the beast that preyed on the weak and crippled. I spotted a person appearing from the corner of a building. He was running too, crossing Roosevelt Road about a block away.

"Hey, hey," I yelled to the top of my voice. He was a jogger or at least he was thin like one. But at this time of night, who knows. He could have been a burglar or just some freak running from an ill-gotten crime. But right now, I had to take a chance. "Help me, help me," I barked. He was a thin white man who peered over at me and slowed. I saw him take a step towards me. Yes, I thought. But then he turned back around and took off running again, only this time faster. He was running away from me. "Hey, hey," I screamed with all I had. I twisted around to see the nightmare was closing in for the kill. The jogger must have seen him close behind and wanted no part of our mad theater. Still I tried to enlist him to join in, "Stop, stop, help meeee," I cried. My voice was weakening and trembling with fear. The Dark Horror still was even closer than before. By now, the slender figure was long gone. His school boy physique was flying down the gloomy side street probably never to jog down this path again.

I was running out of steam, my side began to ache, I felt like vomiting again. " _Cutino! "_ My mind just threw his name in anger. I couldn't believe he'd do this to me, and who was I that needed to be killed?

I angled around the corner following the would-be jogger's trail. My lungs burned while my kidney cut me like tumbling thumb tacks trying to be digested. I took a quick examination of myself and noticed that I had only one shoe. The other lost somewhere between the parking lot and here.

"Help, help," I continued to scream out still hoping that somebody would rescue me. Continuing down South State Street, I kept pacing myself just enough to not give out. Like one of those bobblehead toy dog dolls that sat in the back seat of some Mexican's car. My head swiveled behind me in order to keep a vigilant eye of the Black goblin.

Once again, the shots rang out from the killer's gat and again slugs bounced off of the walls around me. I could hear the bullets whisk past my head but neither one of them had my name on it. Nothing had changed; he was still resolute on shooting me.

I had given my all but, truth be told, I was out of steam and was about to give up and take a stand. Now limping on one shoe more than ever, I whirled my head back to see him not running too. He was just power walking towards me, evidently he was just as tired.

I spotted a possible hiding place. It was tucked away in the restaurant's entrance corridor, a six-foot sidewalk 'A' framed sign used for advertising valet parking for Tommy Gun's Hideout Dinner restaurant. I ducked over into the corridor and hid between the 'A' framed wooden sign. I was breathing hard and now actually sweating in the chill of the early morning air.

Why me Lord? Why me? After all these years of neglect, unbelief and lack of confidence in God, he was probably looking down at me thinking, oh yeah so now you want to come to me. I should have kept my mouth shut and none of this would have happened. I was shaking and scared, real scared. His feet slid against the concrete. The heel of his shoe seemed to creep down the sidewalk pavement, gradually penetrating my frightened soul. My eyes tried to poke through the signage. My ears stretched around the corner of the corridor's entrance way and searched for a hint of his presence.

With each passing second, I heard his shoes attacking the dewy cement and the steps of death approaching. Was I ready for death? Had I done everything that I'd planned in life? Had I traveled to far off places? No Africa or Paris, Hawaii...England. No, Beijing, China. Had my life been documented for Zoe to read to her children? I won't see my baby's children? My Grandchild! I won't see my son-in-law or Zoe's wedding. I never biked from Bryn Mawr Avenue to Rainbow Beach like I had always planned. I never skinny-dipped at Hedonism in Jamaica. Never went to Mardi gras in Trinidad. Shit, there are still things to do and I am not going to let this fool deprive me of my life! No, no, no...I got to fight for what I want. I gotta fight for my life. Get mean and nasty right now. So, I balled my fist tight and gritted my teeth ready to fight.

Koltrane tried to tell me to get away from Cutino. But in the end, they all used me. Cutino, Shaft, Twisletoe, Slamdunk23, they were all just liars and criminals using the anonymity of the internet to scheme and plot. I was just a pawn, a puppet. They were laughing at me, using me for Cutino's benefit and I thought his illiterate ass couldn't spell enough to use the computer. Damn, how could I have been so naïve?

I heard him slide past me, then stop. His breathing was heavy and labored. I sensed his eyes probing, searching for me to blunder and give him the opening he needed to end it all. But I wouldn't let him. Not that easily, I wanted to live and climb the hills of Brazil and walk down the beaches of Trinidad. I wanted to bounce Zoe's kids on my knee.

It was eerily quiet on the near Southside, like we were standing in the middle of a Southern Illinois cornfield. I heard his feet scrape the pavement a little quicker. But now, I believed my anxiety had transferred to him. I could sense his anxiousness becoming restless, his breathing was short and heavy, laboring as if ready to give birth to fatigue, which can make cowards out of every man. This could be my best chance.

I glanced through a space between the sign and the corridor wall and finally his face reflected from the street light. He glistened with sweat against his blackness. Not the blackness of African King's but that of hideous subterranean beetles. A big black bug, that needed to be squashed, that's what he had become to me. His nose was huge and nostrils flaring, reminding me of the space monsters from those Sigourney Weaver Alien movies. And like that monster, this beast came from another underworld and carried death with him as well.

As fate would have it, he also appeared to give up and searched for a place to rest. He started to bend over, his free hand; the one without the gun grabbed his knee. The black maggot craned his neck towards me peering down at the corridor steps. Damn, if I had only kept running, I'd be out of this. He backed up almost stumbling towards the dark corridor and dropped to the second step where he came to a rest. He slumped over exhausted. I could still see him as he placed the gun to his side.

"Get the gun," I screamed inside. "Get the gun!"

With life and death hanging with me in between, somehow my mind started to calm itself. It all began to seem amusing or was I going crazy. Only in the movies were there actual images of hitmen. Actors in the Godfather, Bruce Willis in The Jackal, John Travolta and Samuel Jackson in Pulp Fiction. This man actually appeared physically normal, with kinky hair, pliable skin, two arms and two legs. Hell, he even got tired. But, his emotions were definitely that of an unhuman. He'd probably shoot his mother for pay. When our eyes met in the parking lot they were cold and without emotion and I'm sure, when he shot or sliced someone's throat, he didn't even blink, feeling no pain for his prey while smiling and examining deep inside the wound, and proud of his work.

I was already at a squat position and now that he had sat on the stoop, I was actually staring at the back of his head. The gun lay by his side, his head slumped down and breathing labored. I guess killing people is tiring work too.

I slipped my hand through the small opening between the a framed sign and corridor wall. My index finger had just about reached the gun when I froze leaving my hand exposed, inches from the guns handle. The real Pulp Fiction killer lifted his head from the palms of his hand. He craned his neck to the left; I guess still looking for me or maybe the local authorities. That's when I completed my journey for the gun. I grabbed its steel barrel, the power of it flowing from my hand up my arm into my body.

I deftly pulled my arm back, but rubbed my arm against the sign. That's when he swung to the right and grabbed for his gat. I glanced at the gun's shape and felt its weight. The power of life and death, pain and suffering held heavy in my hands.

I'd only handled a gun once when as a teenager Mr. Ellis, a friend of my Dad's was showing off his new .45 Smith & Wesson in our home. I don't know why I remember the caliber and make, maybe it was the shine of the chrome or Dad's excitement over the gun that made such an unforgettable imprint on my mind. Moe Ellis and my Dad were bragging about guns and showing each other the types of weapons they each owned. Mr. Ellis believed that everybody should know how to handle a gun. Everybody should have been taught about weapons in a school curriculum just to have a healthy respect and understanding about guns.

All of his kids knew about weaponry, and Mr. Ellis would take them to some old' boy rifle range and hunting facility to hunt coon, deer, rabbit and I guess whatever else had a mother. Little Moe, Mr. Ellis's youngest son especially knew guns. He grew up owning and carrying a gun before Junior high school. But none of his knowledge and respect of guns detoured Little Moe, Jr. from shooting Russell Bledsoe during an argument, gambling in the back of Marshall's Barbershop. Little Moe is still doing time in Joliet State Penitentiary on a thirty-five year murder conviction. Like so many other Black men, they threw the book at him. Gun possession and misuse of guns by the public has always been a problem, right now in my situation, Moe Ellis may have a point.

Everybody should know how to handle a weapon. After all, a right to bear arms is the Second Amendment of the constitution.

Mr. Ellis was never the same after Little Moe's conviction. His bravado and cavalier attitude concerning guns altered. He was sullen and heartbroken blaming himself for Little Moe's trouble which amounted to a life with little more than a cot and three meals a day.

But now I held what could be my survival in the palm of my hands. The large handgun was cold and precise. The angles were exact and fitted my hand like it was custom made for me.

The black demon whirled around and darted over behind the a-framed sign. I saw the red of his eyes bulge, the shock of his face cringed as he halted in his footsteps witnessing me holding both hands on the pistol pointing it no more than three feet from his chest. I was tired and shaking but it had all come down to this moment.

All of my God fearing teaching from my parents to church to the fear of prison and the law rose up inside me. "Turn the other cheek" Pastor Frye would preach. "Just walk away from trouble" I recalled Mrs. Whitmore, my third grade teacher would bellow. It didn't matter what I had been taught or who had taught me, I held the gun at the Black Maggot's chest. All I had to do was pull this trigger and it would all be over.

He stared at me frozen, then peered back into the street, twisting his neck scoping down the block. What was he looking for? He calmly turned back around at me. "What chu doin' there litt'l lady?" he whispered to me like my conscience would nudge when that large piece of double chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream would come calling after a five course meal, which I knew was wrong.

"I mo' shoot yo' black ass nigga," I yelled back at him with as much venom as I could muster.

"Ha...ain't that a bitch," he slid a big toothy grin into the mix trying to emotionally disarm me. Then with an eternity at hand and much bravado he whispered, "You ain't gonna do shit."

I felt myself weakening, flowing back and forth, and doubting my determination, wavering on the basic moral foundations that I grew up on. I found myself almost speechless and unable to communicate my intentions to shoot the Black snake. I commanded like a Captain to a private, "Just move over!" But he didn't. "Move!" I directed at the top of my voice. But he just remained there like a wall of fire that I'd have to pass through for freedom.

"You ain't no killa'. You cain't stomach the sight of a human screamin' fo' his life, and bleedin' all over the place," he conned in a flexible voice.

"Just get away from me. Get, get," I said jabbing the gun back and forth like it was a knife, inching me closer to the street. He flinched backwards towards the street out of the corridor opening. I kept jabbing the pistol towards his chest.

He stopped at the sidewalk with one foot placed on the bottom step and leaned towards me. I sensed him gathering up his nerve for one last strike. I felt that he wouldn't leave without trying to accomplish his goal of killing me. It was his M.O. He was out to kill me and the only thing that I could do right now would be to protect myself and shoot this gun. No matter how difficult, I must pull the trigger.

His anxiousness showed by his antsy arm movements when he kept rubbing the side of his face while swiveling his head in every direction. Then he lunged at me and I reared back, closed my eyes and pulled the trigger. "Boom," the gun sounded, a flash of fire blew through the barrel of the life taker. The explosion had the effect of a flash camera, its light blinded me for an instant. The power of it threw my entire body backwards. The sound practically shattered my eardrums as the noise bounced off of the tiny corridor walls. I opened my eyes to see Black Death crunched over against the wall but he was still standing, his hand held over his head. He frenetically began feeling himself all over like he had an army of ants biting him. I stood there motionless trying to gather myself in the craziness.

"You missed," he smirked, leaped on me and grabbed my arm that held the gun. I fired the gun again, but he held my arm away from his body. The sound resonated against the wall as we fell. My head hit the ground as I heard my skull crash against the hardened cement. The Black Reaper placed his free hand against my face. He kept pounding my other hand against the brick wall. I felt a sharp pain rise up my back and elbow.

I screeched out in pain with the little breath left in my lungs, and felt my hand weakening as the gun fell out. All my energy toppled along with it as the gun tumbled to the ground.

"Uh huh, uh huh, uh huh...you thought you was gonna get away, ain't that right?" he whispered breathing hard against my ear, eyes cold and black as the ten o'clock news. He grabbed the gun as the life seeped out of me, even before he pulled the trigger.

He brought the gun to my face for one last taunt, "Bitch."

I closed my eyes as death was at my doorstep. I was too weak and I was beaten.

"Time fo' yo' ass to die," I heard him from far away but close at the same time.

Then, I felt him rise up from my body.

A familiar voice rang out, "If you shiver, I'll kill you where you stand. Place the gun down to your' side ever so slowly."

I opened my eyes to see Agent Hicks pointing a gun at the killer's head.

"Aw'ight, aw'ight man," said the Black maggot complying with Agent Hicks's command.

The Black Demon began to ease the gun very deliberately down to his side. Then he stopped. I saw him thinking, plotting his escape.

"She was tryin' to kill me man. I... I had to take the gun from her man," he lied quickly, almost convincingly.

"He's lying, he's lying," I cried.

"Just put the gun down," Agent Hicks commanded. His pistol pointing strong and deadly at the hit man's head.

"Aw'ight...aw'ight man...Listen," the Black liar pleaded. "Put the gun down now!" Agent Hicks demanded even more forcefully.

"Listen, just listen man," the Black serpent kept on. "I- I got two thousand dollars cash in my right pocket. Take it, take it, it's yours man, it's yours. We just walk away, we just walk away."

My eyes widened and hopes dimmed. Agent Hicks didn't say a word. Then he yelled, "It ain't happening. Just drop your weapon!"

"Just let me go. Nobody gets hurt. I walk away. She walks away. You walk away two grand richer. She ain't gotta tell nobody." His plea vacillated from cool and calm to frantic.

"Just place the gun on the ground and we all get out of here safely," Agent Hicks commanded while placing the gun flush against the killer's head.

"Two thousand man, three thousand man, I got three thousand. Just let me go, let me go, let me go man," he urged.

"Put the fuckin' gun down or I'll pull the trigger right now and won't nobody give a damn," Agent Hicks' 'Cool Hand Luke' calmly commanded again holding the gun with both hands, his arms stretched out and eyes focused entirely on the begging killer.

The Black agony gradually lowered the gun on the ground. Agent Hicks slammed the begging man with the back of his hand. The man fell off of me into the wall, then Agent Hicks kicked the gun away from him.

"Lay face down on the ground," Agent Hicks demanded. Agent Hicks captured the fiend's arm and helped him roll over while bringing out handcuffs, then locked both wrists with harsh movements.

I rolled the opposite way of the wickedness. Agent Hicks smiled at me and turned back over to the unnamed killer, "You OK Ms. King?" Agent Hicks asked while glaring at my assailant.

I climbed up the wall to stand, "Man, this is one time that I'm glad you came along."

Agent Hicks said, "I was watching you all night Ms. King."

"For the first time, you are a sight for sore eyes," I graciously said, wiping the blood from the cuts and scrapes from my head, hand and elbow.

Agent Hicks nodded in the direction of my terrorist. "Over there, laying on his stomach is Elroy "Jelly Roll" McPherson," Agent Hicks said.

"Jelly Roll?" I repeated the name in surprise. "You know him?"

"We know him and some of the things he's done. But up until now, we haven't had enough evidence to do anything." "Jelly Roll," I repeated.

"Yep, Jelly Roll is known fo' killin' people. He's a hard one to catch, that much is for sure."

Dusting myself off from the street dirt and grim, I said, "He ain't nothin' like the jelly rolls I'm used to."

He peered down at my nightmare and said, "This animal is called Jelly Roll because he squeezes people and they appear to burst like jelly spurting out of a sweat roll. You were about to be jelly rolled." Agent Hicks pulled out his radio, "I need a car at 899 South State Street."

I slid down the wall towards the street and stepped down the stairs.

"My blue Chevy is just down the block, why don't you go take a seat and rest a while," Agent Hicks suggested.

"Thanks," I didn't say another word as I took a deep breath and staggered in the direction of the only car with its parking lights staring at me about a block away. I walked clumsily because of the missing shoe lost back at the parking lot area and my other heel knocked off by my marathon getaway.

My cloudy thoughts were both of relief and fear. The joy of life and the fear of not having life harnessed my soul. The people I love, should be told that repeatedly, because our physical will not inherit this world but for a short time. We're just passing through only to be here for a short time. The senselessness of complicated scenarios circling our lives is eager to change the way we survive in life. The truth of the matter is doing the right thing has its cost.

Then like a bolt of lightning flashing and with a sudden burst of despair, was the thought of Natalie. I had forgotten about her. I was so exhausted from the battle that I had forgotten to ask Agent Hicks about Natalie. Throughout all of the confusion, Agent Hicks never mentioned her. My legs got a little weaker, my head a little foggier and my heart a lot heavier. A picture flashed of Natalie shot and laying in the dirt bleeding was just unimaginable. I fell against the nearest car parked against the curb in pain, and cringing with anguish.

My lifelong friend shot trying to run from a mad man that was after me. Everything started from an incident stemming from circumstances she had nothing to do with. My last memory of her lying lifeless, bleeding and sprawled out in the gravel filled grime of a vacant parking lot was not fair. If only I had kept my thoughts to myself none of this would have happened. Natalie would still be alive tonight rambling on about how the three blues kings turned an otherwise average night into an evening that we'd never forget. The blues were played with great sadness but enjoyed with such enthusiasm and verve, the same way Natalie lived her life. But she might still be alive, and begging for help.

Exhausted and ready to pass out, I gathered myself against the morning's dewy wet car and stumbled in the direction of the parking lot. I could barely stand on my own, so I summoned up strength from deep in my soul, a "superhuman" strength that my Dad used to tell me about. I again remembered my Dad's story. When he and my Mom were newlyweds and I was a newborn baby. Mama Jess, my Dad's mother became ill with cancer. Dad being an only child and fatherless was the one solely responsible for the care of his mother. He told me that life was extremely difficult back then struggling to earn a living with his new family. He explained that he and my Mom were having all types of difficulties, financial, shelter, food, and transportation all adding up to a marriage that wasn't such a smooth ride. Living in a home not big enough for his fledgling family, he and my Mom picked up and moved back to his mom's old house on the Westside of Chicago where he grew up. He despised moving back to an area he so desperately wanted to leave, but they did so out of the love and devotion to his mother.

After a month or two of convalescing my grandmother, Mama Jess's sister, Lucille stopped by to visit and was unnerved at how the house was so unkempt. She scolded my dad up one side and down the other for not taking care of Mama Jess properly. At the time, my dad couldn't understand it, he thought he was taking on a king's job and had done everything he could to bring Mama Jess's home under control. She asked him did he believe that he was doing something special just because he had moved back. Again, my dad thought he was doing a royal job, that he was coming to the rescue and seizing the reins of responsibility while driving the wild untamed horses through a dark tunnel of despair and uncertainty.

She pointed to a kitchen partially cleaned, the living and dining room in the house that were out of place and not up to Mama Jess's antiseptic standards. He cried to Lucille that he was doing the best he could, and that he had a lot on his plate. He pleaded that the days were too long and not long enough at the same time. But Lucille wasn't having any of his excuses and wasn't sympathetic with him at all. She knew that he had a new job that consumed all of his time, a new child, a new wife and a new life and that he was the only one to shoot that needle full of prescribed poison into his mother's dying body twice a day. Lucille explained to him that he couldn't be an ordinary human acting like everyday people, and that he'd have to be a phenomenal man because this is a responsibility most ordinary men aren't made to travel. Instead, she conveyed to him that it took a superhuman effort to make things right. Ordinary men will not make it through this experience but a superhuman event of care and concern will make this experience whole for both Mama Jess and my Dad.

Dad explained to me that he was hurt when she scolded him and upset that she had the nerve to rant and rave about him not doing the job for his mother. But after some agonizing introspection and thought, he decided that she might in fact be right, and some type of extraordinary effort was needed in order for the job to be done properly. So, from that point on, my Dad took Lucille's advice and called upon that heroic effort throughout the rest of my grandmother's life. He imparted wisdom to me that when you think you can't go on, just summon up uncommon strength deep within your soul and you'll find it. He made it clear that there will be times when you must find that type of uncommon strength in your life and if you live long enough you need to use it.

Right now, I needed to sit. My breathing was labored, my body torn with cuts and bruises. I felt that I couldn't go on. So, I called upon the superhuman strength that my Dad always preached about when times got hard. I called on the kind of force that made slaves survive when death was the easiest way out. The kind of strength that my Great –great Uncle Fred had before a group of white men threw him into a South Carolina Chattahoochee river with iron chains wrapped around his legs just for kicks.

My mouth smacked with dryness and the pain and blood from a busted body pummeled with my battle with Jelly Roll consumed every concern. But I stumbled towards the parking lot, barely able to focus. A few steps further, my head began pounding with pain and again, I felt like passing out. At that point, I knew that medical assistance was needed, but Natalie's needs were life or death.

Wobbly-legged, I worked my way past the building landmarks of my escape; I came to the alley leading to the parking lot under the 'L' tracks. I stopped and stared at the path, which appeared to narrow into a black cavern twisting and turning like a scene from the Twilight Zone. The parking lot reminded me of a deserted city, there was no movement or human sound and the only care in the lot was mine. I felt a gust of the Chicago wind swirl around and it sucked a tiny bit of my breath as I lumbered toward the car worried out of my wits of what I might see.

As I approached the car I saw her hand. It didn't look like the hand of my best friend. These hands were covered with the filth and grunge of back alley Chicago. Natalie's well-manicured nails were always shaped, polished and cleaned every Saturday morning by Sue at Ms. Suzy's Nails, a Korean nail shop just off the corner of Broadway and Granville.

But to my dismay, it was her soiled hand. As I inched closer to view more and more of her body, she still lay there motionless. Oh God, oh God...no, no, no, please Lord, don't let it be. "Natalie," I spoke as if to wake her from a Sunday nap. "Natalie, Natalie," again I spoke louder each time, but she didn't move.

Laying there on her side, one arm stretched out, and her head lying peacefully on top like so many times in which I'd seen her sleeping on my couch. The car stood there like it was waiting for us to get in and drive home. Just turn the key, switch the radio to V103 and drive off, laughing and joking all the way home. But the car didn't move, it just sat there like her tombstone.

Again I whispered, still not able to yell it out, "Natalie...Natalie." I circled around her now a little quicker to see her face. Her eyes were closed, not open wide shut like I anticipated. What will I tell Ms. Palmer, that her daughter died by the hand of Jelly Roll in a senseless murder. Or what will I tell Malcolm, that his mom died in an alley. I dropped to my knees and touched her face. It was still warm. "Oh Natalie... would you please forgive me?" I took a deep breath, "I should've just shut up and left it alone. But I just couldn't and now look at us, our lives torn apart and for what?"

"Oh girl shut up..." a faint voice rang out.

Startled, I jumped back, "What..?"

"I ain't goin' nowhere," her weak voice wheezed.

"Natalie? Natalie, Natalie!" I said louder with each calling of her name. "You're alive?" I cried out.

"What...hell yes I'm alive," she said, grinning.

"I thought you were- Ok, ok...just lay there, and don't move. I'll call an ambulance."

"An ambulance? For what?" Natalie started to sit up.

Stroking the limestone dust out her hair I told her, "No, no, don't move."

She gazed at me and said, "I'm ok. Are we in heaven?"

I could only smile and gave a nervous laugh, "No honey, you've been laying here for a few minutes."

"I saw angels Carla. I swear I saw angels." She was groggy and shaken as she continued to rise up. "What happened?"

"Yeah, I thought Jelly Roll had shot you."

"Jelly roll? Let's go have one," she said and cackled.

Again I snickered, "Yeah girl, right away."

She frowned then purred, "Oh yeah, I don't feel any pain except my head."

"Let me see." I helped her sit up and turned her head to the side. I felt around to find a bump and a slight cut that was still bleeding. "You must have hit your head against the ground."

"I guess I fainted or somethin'. I remember us against the car and ...What happened?"

"It's a long story from there. I'll tell you everything later." I sat back against the car's bumper next to her, a half-moon staring at us in an early morning black sky. Jelly Roll's bullet had missed Natalie as she fainted and crashed her head against the ground. She never knew what happened afterwards.

With my arm around her I said, "Natalie?"

She leaned her head on my shoulder and said, "Yeah."

"Who's your favorite poet?"

She cut her eyes to me and giggled, "You."

I held out my pinky and she hooked it with hers. "Friends forever?" We glanced at each other and grinned.

"Always." Natalie's smile was weak but sincerely grateful.

"Speaking of truth. You think finding the truth was worth it?"

She raised her head and we stared at each other, the quiet of early morning still surrounded us while we were licking our wounds.

"Cutino? Hell no!" Natalie said with a painful grin.

"I heard that."

An ambulance arrived and drove us to Michael Reece Hospital for care. Agent Hicks stopped by our hospital room to get our statements on Jelly Roll. He was gracious and actually a little charming, far from the ass that followed and harassed me throughout my place of employment.

He explained to us that we'd have to testify against both Cutino, once he was captured and Jelly Roll. Whenever they catch Cutino, I'd try to bury him under the jail for hiring a killer like Jelly Roll on me. Surprisingly, Jelly Roll had absolutely no record.

Consequently, he'd never had his fingerprints recorded. But once they were taken along with his DNA and traced, Jelly Roll found himself under investigation for numerous murders around the country including Koltrane, Shaft and more. When he caught all of those cases, he started singing like a choir of birds. Jelly Roll squealed about everything and on everybody. He knew about all sorts of criminal cases and people, including Cutino.

And as for Cutino, eventually he was going to do big time.

Frankly, I don't believe Cutino really knew the ramifications of his actions. He seemed to treat it as some type of game like cat and mouse or cops and robbers. But the fact of the matter was that it was for real and that his doings caused people pain and death. And while he had his season of profit, the payback he'll have to withstand will be painfully long and grueling.

A couple of bandages and a few stitches later, both Natalie and I busted out of the hospital with the quickness of an Olympic track star. Neither one of us could stand being clammed up in a hospital unless absolutely necessary. I called my parents to let them know that I was alright and would be there to pick-up Zoe later in the day. When I arrived at their home and told them the story, they were completely exasperated. My mother was upset at me and my dad was just relieved. She told me to always tell her about any situation whenever I needed help. My Dad agreed but was just grateful that God had taken care of his little girl.

The following week, me and Natalie packed our suitcases and kid's belongings, and vowed never to take life lightly again.

We then drove directly to O'Hare International Airport with a first class ticket bound for Montego Bay, Jamaica.

Life, what a beautiful thing.

Yeah Mon.

### About The Author

**Michael Paul Fuller** was raised in Evanston, Illinois. He is a graduate of Evanston Township High School and Southern Illinois University. He lives in Atlanta, Georgia with his wife and kids. He has also written **Chronicles of a Nappi Head** , and can be found in **Proverbs for the People**. He's just a hardworking, everyday man that among other things enjoys writing. Peace.

www.fultimebooks.com
