Black 01 - Black Rain Read online

  The rednecks’ raunchy body odor and perspiration from their fear fills the air. A gunshot sounds. O’Brian grabs between his legs, screaming as he falls to his knees, his khaki police pants darkening with blood and country dirt.

  “You like to point guns at people’s balls. Then enjoy the feeling?” Dread mocks, laughing. “Pick his punk ass up and throw him in his car and get the petro,”

  Dread orders.

  Christopher and Adam grab the whimpering O’Brian and place him in his vehicle.

  An officer Chase knows as Clark Malone goes to the Vincent Alexandria

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  back of the SUV, grabs the gas can and rushes to stand next to the driver’s side of O’Brian’s squad car. Smiling, he opens the can and places the spout upright, so the gasoline can be poured out.

  The other men now kneeling on the ground join in the whimpering and start to plead with Dread for mercy.

  One urinates on himself as he shakes with fear, and tears stream down his face.

  “Mercy, you say? How much mercy would you have on me and my men, you piece of garbage?” Dread spits at the three-hundred-and-fifty-pound, cow-faced man.

  “What we gonna have here is a little barbecue. Then I’m gonna give you boys a fair shake, okay?” Dread explains with an honest smile.

  O’Brian’s face is contorted as he looks over at Dread in obvious pain. “Dread, I got your money. Look in the bag in the trunk.”

  O’Brian pops the trunk from the inside as Christopher pushes his gun into O’Brian’s temple.

  Brutus starts toward the trunk to retrieve the money.

  “No, Brutus, you stay there and cover those assholes.

  Clark, get the money.”

  Clark takes a flashlight out of his jacket and walks toward the trunk. He retrieves a duffel bag, lays it on the ground, opens it then screams. A five-foot rattlesnake darts out and strikes him in the face. He quickly falls backward, rolls on the ground and struggles with the huge snake that coils its body and refuses to let go of its bite.

  Brutus pulls his switchblade, grabs the head of the huge snake and cuts the body from it. He carefully pulls the head from Clark Malone’s face. But Clark has already gone into shock and convulsions from the snake’s poison.

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  Brutus shoots Clark in the head to take him out of his misery, then goes over and kicks the duffel bag, dumping out multiple large bundles of hundred-dollar bills.

  Dread clenches his fist, spits at the ground and kicks the car door several times in a rage. He looks at Clark’s body and then at O’Brian, who wears a smirk.

  “It should have been you, you Cuban bastard!”

  O’Brian yells.

  Dread slowly goes over and punches O’Brian in the face repeatedly, then grabs the gas can from the ground and pours it all over O’Brian and the inside of the vehicle. O’Brian tries to yank the can from Dread, but gets a quick elbow to the face each time he tries.

  O’Brian pleads, “Please don’t do this. You got the money. For heaven’s sake, just shoot me!”

  Dread lights a match and flicks it into the police car.

  Fire engulfs the vehicle. The metallic smell of gasoline fills the night air along with the screams of O’Brian.

  He tries to get out of the car, but is shot in the shoulder by Dread as he kicks the door shut. One last bellow-ing yell comes as O’Brian gives in to his living hell.

  “Jesus, help me!”

  Dread picks up the twitching body of the rattlesnake and tosses it into the burning vehicle.

  “Shit ain’t funny no more, eh, asshole?” Dread asks the burned body.

  He slicks back his black hair and takes a deep breath, then turns to the horrified men kneeling on the ground.

  He motions for his men to get behind them.

  “Okay, I’m a-gonna tell you what I am gonna do for you assholes. We gonna count to ten, and if you fat maggots can outrun a bullet, you live. Or you can stay Vincent Alexandria

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  kneeling and die not trying. Anybody got a problem wit’

  dat?” Dread raises his gun to the level of their heads.

  No one answers.

  Dread counts to ten, and the six men get up screaming as chaos unfolds. They begin running for their lives into the field. Dread and his men open fire, dropping all six.

  Dread motions to Ronnell and Weasel to go and make sure they are all dead. They walk into the fields with their flashlights. A shot can be heard here and there until all the men have been accounted for, and then they return, putting away their guns.

  The group collects the money that has been dumped on the ground, and then they come to the vehicles.

  “I thought I told you to get in the van?” Dread asks.

  Though Chase was lost for words, Dread was not bothered in the least. She climbs into the backseat, rests her head on the headrest and tries to push back the memory of what she has witnessed.

  Dread and his men get into the SUVs and slowly drive back the way they had entered the barren place.

  The fire from O’Brian’s squad car illuminates the midnight sky.

  Chapter 5

  The kids are playing in the back of the car and I can’t help but notice that on our way to Mom and Dad’s house, Sierra and I have nothing to say to each other. I cannot find the words to start a conversation, and Sierra just looks out the window and gives me an occasional snide glance. I hate the fact that this has never been a problem in the past. Actually we look forward to talking with each other and always have stories to tell. The uneasy quiet is killing me.

  The kids are as jovial as ever. Thank God that they can forgive me so fast. The twins, of course, just want their needs met. As long as Daddy or Mommy is around to play with them, feed them and wash them when they are dirty, they are cool. The children get unconditional love and time, and are basically spoiled rotten by their grandparents and us. Life is good.

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  I already know that the most agonizing of all my explanations lies ahead of me. My dad and I are best friends. I am the baby of fifteen children. Mom was a widow with five children when she married my widower father, who had five kids of his own.

  Their blessed union was the source of five additional children. We have five girls and ten boys, and I am number fifteen. Our family never referred to each other as “stepchildren.” Our parents would not allow it. They were examples of sacrifice and love.

  The children were not allowed to strike each other.

  That was the rule, and Mom and Dad enforced it.

  But the rules were ignored behind my parents back, and I was tortured quite often, and learned the art of ma-nipulation and extortion early in life. It was my balance and the only chance of my survival at the hands of my older, tougher brothers. A quick wit would get you everywhere, and a tattletale would get beat up when our parents weren’t around.

  We had plenty of fun, too, and created all sorts of games. We would put on talent shows and dance con-tests with Mom and Dad as the judges, but they often joined in on the fun.

  It was so cool having both parents and I didn’t realize until I was older just how important that was. Most of the other kids on my block came from one-parent homes. Our parents have been married for fifty-two years, and it doesn’t look like Dad will make it to his fifty-third wedding anniversary.

  The family had come in from all over the country.

  With fifteen of us children, when we got the call from Mom that we were having a family meeting about Dad’s 86

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  health at the hospital, we all knew it could not be good news. We gathered at Research Medical Center and were brought into a conference room. The doctor entered and discussed Dad’s cancer. It had spread and he would not be with us much longer. He told us that Dad had two to three weeks to live, and asked if we wanted him placed in an assisted-living center, or would we prefer that he “retire” at home. I always associate
d retirement with work, not life and death.

  While we were all meeting, my dad called for my mom and me, and the nurse came in and got us from the family meeting. Dad is a pretty sharp fellow, and after seeing so many of us at the hospital at the same time, he knew something was being kept from him. Many of my brothers and sisters had been to his room to visit before the meeting with the doctor.

  When Mom and I entered the room, my father was already questioning us. My mom couldn’t take it, broke down crying and left the room. She could not lie to my dad. So it was just him and me. My father is my buddy and my lifelong hero.

  “Give it to me straight, boy,” my dad ordered, looking me in the eyes. My father looked up at the ceiling as though he was preparing himself for bad news and looking into the heavens would secure his soul. His eyes watered, but my dad trusted me to tell him the truth.

  “Dad, they’re giving you about two to three weeks to live. The cancer is terminal. They say your white blood cells are growing more rapidly than your red, and there is nothing they can do at this point but make you comfortable. They asked if you want to go into an assisted-living center or go back to the house.”

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  Dad smiled at me, wiped a tear from his eye and took my hand. “Hell, I ain’t seen my grandbabies the week I’ve been in this place. I want to go home and spend some time with my family and grandbabies.”

  I hugged my dad and we both began to cry. Not tears of loss, but tears of pride. Twelve years earlier, my dad, who was a functioning alcoholic and smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, gave up both smoking and drinking at the same time. What strength, discipline and courage it took to do that.

  My pops raised fifteen children and never considered leaving us alone. No surprise then, that when death is certain, he thinks of his family and grandbabies. I always admired my father, but now our bond can only grow deeper. Please, God, let the doctor be wrong. But thank you that I am the offspring of such a wonderful man.

  Now, at my parents’ home, my sister, Candice, who has come to stay with my parents and help out during this trying time, greets us at the door. Three of my brothers jump from their seats in the living room to say hello. John, Aaron and Paul each grab a child, and then we exchange hugs.

  “Where’s Mom?” I ask, looking around the living room.

  “She’s in her room. She’s been really depressed seeing Dad in his condition,” John answers as the kids run into the kitchen to get some of the sweets my sisters have baked.

  “And how’s Dad?” Sierra asks as she puts her hand on my shoulder. This is a natural reaction for her, no matter the rest of the circumstances.

  With tears in his eyes, another brother, Ronald, who 88

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  has just come from upstairs answers, “He’s not doing so well. He’s kind of in and out of it. I’ve never seen Dad this weak before. It’s really hard.”

  Sierra and I both reach for my brother and hug him.

  He wipes his eyes as John takes him outside to get some air, so as not to upset the children. I turn and hug my wife. “Sierra, I just want you to know how much I love you. I know you’re upset with me right now, but I really appreciate what you’ve meant to me all these years. I just want you to know that.”

  “Joe, you mean the world to me, and I would die if something happened to you. You’re my man, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let some other woman take you from me,” Sierra says as she pulls me to her and holds me tight.

  “Baby, that’s something that will never happen.

  You’re all the woman I need. Believe that. Let’s go check on my parents.” I kiss my wife softly and take her hand as we ascend the oak staircase to the second floor of the three-story house.

  In my parents’ room, Mom is sitting at my father’s side, holding his hand while they watch television.

  “Hello, children. I didn’t hear you guys come in,”

  Mom says as she rises to greet us. Her eyes are puffy and red. You can tell she is weary and tired, but she is happy to see us, and still wears a smile. My mom is a full-figured, beautiful pecan-brown-skinned woman, with medium-length hair that reveals her Indian blood.

  A deeply spiritual woman who always places her family first, she is an excellent mother and wife. My dad adores her. And she adores him.

  “Hi, Dad,” Sierra says as she hugs and kisses my father.

  “Hey, girl, how are you doing? I would get up to greet Vincent Alexandria

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  you, but this old man is tired today, and I can’t seem to get this pain under control,” Dad says as he sits up in the bed. He grimaces from pain, but his pride and gentlemanly ways give him enough strength to push himself up into a sitting position. Mom and Sierra place pillows behind his back.

  “Baby, you be careful now. Take your time,” Mom exclaims as she fusses over Dad.

  “I’m okay. I just got to catch my breath.” Dad looks over at me as I marvel at his strength and pride. “Damn, boy, you gonna just stand there and stare at me or are you gonna come over here and show your old man some love?” Dad opens his thin arms and smiles, waiting on my embrace.

  I hug my dad and tears just flow from my eyes.

  “I love you so much, Dad, and I wish it was me instead of you in that bed,” I say.

  Dad pushes me back and looks me in the eye. “Boy, I wouldn’t wish this cancer on anybody. I’ve lived a full life and I’ve been blessed with fifteen children, a beautiful wife and a load of grandchildren. I hope that your life will be as full as mine has…and I ain’t dead yet, so let’s dry all these here tears up and you tell me what you been doing.”

  “Mom, let’s go get us a cup of coffee,” Sierra suggests when my mom starts to cry. Tears fill my eyes, as well.

  “Boy, don’t be getting wet-eyed on my account. The Lord’s been good to me. Sierra, y’all send my grandkids up here, so I can get my sugar. I want to see my grandbabies,” Dad explains as he wipes his eyes and blows his nose.

  I take the seat in the chair next to Dad after Sierra and 90

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  Mom leave. My brothers John, Ronald, Aaron and Paul enter and stand around the oak dresser across from Dad’s bed, waiting to participate in the conversation that has yet to take place.

  “It’s good seeing you up, Dad. Seems like you’re feeling better,” my brother John says.

  He flew in from San Francisco, California, four days earlier. He’s a retired Chief Master Sergeant with the United States Air Force. He is meticulous about time and having a routine for everything. You can set your watch and calendar by him. He sometimes forgets he’s out of the military and has a tendency to order us younger brothers around, but we always playfully remind him about it.

  “So, Joe, what’s this Sierra tells us about some case you’re about to take?” Paul asks.

  Paul has had some bouts with crack and is continually trying to get his life back together. I often tease him about being over fifty without benefits. A disabled vet after being shot in the shoulder in the Vietnam War, he has not had a steady job in five years.

  My brother was a pimp after the war, and I think he is still chasing his past, and what he has lost due to drugs. He is funny and talented, but his demons keep pulling him back into the life of misery. Our family will not stop loving him or give up on him, though.

  I explain to them the case I’m about to take on, the circumstances behind my decision to take the case, and how Vernon feels about it. Dad says nothing, but rubs his head and gives me an uneasy glance.

  My brother Aaron is a big man, weighing around two hundred and eighty pounds, all muscle. He’s a hand-Vincent Alexandria

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  some man, chocolate in complexion, balding with a graying beard to match his age of fifty-five years.

  “Damn, Joe, my wife would never go for some mess like that. You got to be out of your mind. I know Sierra is pissed about it. Shit, it’s making me mad and I ain’t even married to your
selfish ass.”

  “Look, I owe this woman my life on a couple of occasions. And this isn’t about me being selfish. It’s about me saving a friend. And aren’t you the same person that has to ask his wife for permission just to take out the trash?Your woman won’t even let you come to my house without checking up on you, so you need to stop tripping with me. She probably has on your underwear as we speak.” We all start to laugh at my brother’s expense.

  It lightens the room for a moment.

  “Well, you say what you want, but I wear the drawers in my house,” Aaron says, puffing out his chest.

  “Yeah, but who wears the drawers outside of the house?” I question with a goofy look on my face to add to the mockery. “Aren’t you the same person that tried to be funny and pay your ex-wife her first alimony payment of seven hundred dollars in pennies?” I interrogate.

  My brother shifts his weight and frowns as the rest of us smile.

  “Why you always got to be pulling that out your ass, Joe? That judge had no right having me pay alimony to Jeanette. She made more money than I did. It pissed me off, so I got one of my boys and we went around to all the banks and got the pennies.” He rubs his fingers together as he walks up to John and continues his story. “I got two of those tin, silver-colored trashcans with the lids and put a big red ribbon 92

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  on them. Then I filled them with seventy thousand pennies and sat them on the front porch with a note inside that said, The first of three alimony payments.

  I would have loved to see the look on her face. I bet she probably shit on herself.” He starts to laugh, and I have to admit, the act was so conniving and stupid that it’s funny.

  Dad grins, “Well, that wasn’t so funny when that judge locked your ass up in jail with those trashcans full of seventy thousand pennies and made you stay in jail until you had rolled those pennies up into fourteen hundred penny rolls. It took you two days to get it done.

  Now, that was funny!” Dad laughs as we join in.

  Aaron shakes his balding gray head. “Man, y’all just don’t know how close I came to killing that woman. I rolled so many pennies that I couldn’t think straight.