Push Comes to Shove (8 page)

Kitchie stuck her fingers through the wire. “My mother is impossible.”

GP faced her and laced his fingers with hers. “Jewels is gone. I don’t know who else to call. I’ll figure something out.”

“We can’t let the kids stay, not even one night, in some custody crap.” She wept. “Junior is afraid of the dark…and Secret has to sleep—”

“Time’s up.” The officer stuck a key in the first cage’s lock. “Mrs. Patterson, your escort is here to take you to the women’s lock-up.”

“Kitchie, listen to me.” GP penetrated her with his eyes. “I’ll do something.”

Kitchie turned to the officer. “Please. Let me see my babies first.”

“Uno!” Secret threw a card onto the table.

Junior sat on his knees to boost himself in the chair. “Uh-uh, you draw four.”

The conference room door swung open. Nancy Pittman strolled in wearing a tacky business suit. “Hello, Secret, Greg Jr. How are you guys doing this evening?” She set her briefcase on the table and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

Secret’s face tightened. “We’re fine. Can we go home now?”

“I’m here to speak with you about that. I’m Ms. Pittman. I’m with the Department of Social Services.”

Junior laid his cards on the table. “Where’s my mom?”

Ms. Pittman squatted beside him. “I’m afraid that she and your father will have to stay in jail; at least overnight. Are you hungry?”

“I said, we’re fine.” Secret sucked her teeth.

Junior looked at Ms. Pittman. “That real fat police lady gave us McDonald’s.”

“Secret, do you have any relatives that can come for you and your brother?”

“We already called my Aunt Jewels and left a message. She’ll come when she checks the answering machine.”

“Does your Aunt Jewels have a cell phone? Do you think she’s at work?”

“Aunty Jewels says she’s allergic to work; it breaks her out with the hives.” Junior scratched a mosquito bite. “Secret doesn’t know the cell phone number.”

“Would you shut up!”

“I ain’t got to.”

Ms. Pittman pulled out a third chair and seated herself. “Where are your grandparents?”

Secret looked at the ceiling and exhaled. “Are you always this nosy? They live in New York.”

“Yes, I am. I’m concerned about your well-being. I’m not your enemy; I’m here to help.”

“Then let my mom and dad out so we can go home.” Secret curled her lips up out of frustration.

“Yeah, they’re not bad people.” Junior stared.

“I have no say in the matter, and I’m sure your parents aren’t bad people. Do you know your grandparents’ phone number?”

Secret showed Ms. Pittman her ID bracelet. “All of my important information and telephone numbers are on here.”

“Can I see it?” Ms. Pittman noticed the same bracelet on Junior’s wrist.

Secret gave it to her. “The first number is Aunt Jewels’s; the next is my
abuela
.”

“I don’t understand what you mean.”

“It’s Spanish for grandma.” Junior stacked the cards.

“And whose number is this?” Ms. Pittman pointed to a third set of digits.

Secret rolled her eyes. “It’s to a pay phone downtown.”

“Excuse me a minute. I’ll bring this right back.” She took the bracelet and left the room.

Ms. Pittman seated herself in the hall and tried the first number from a cell phone.

It only took Squeeze forty minutes to travel from the inner city to the country. He guided the Chrysler up a quarter-of-a-mile gravel driveway. Squeeze loved his ranch-style home because there wasn’t a neighbor’s house in sight.

He went inside and found Hector standing over a fish bowl. He felt an unpleasant vibe seeping from Hector. “What’s wrong with you?”

Hector turned around with watery eyes. “I went to feed Pablo and he was floating in his bowl. He won’t wake up.”

Squeeze never understood Hector’s attachment to the goldfish. Had he been the one to find the dead fish first, he would have had it replaced just as he had all the other times.

Hector stuck a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. “Pablo and me been partners for five years now.” He thought for a moment. “What are you doing here? Miles must’ve come clean.”

“No.” Squeeze’s eyes communicated all that needed to be said.

Hector pushed the door open and entered a large bathroom. He didn’t bother to wipe his tears. “It’s your fault Pablo is dead.”

Jap was gagged and duct taped to a chair sitting inside a round tub in the center of the room. His eyes widened with alarm. “Hmmh, umm hmmh.” He wiggled as Hector approached with a .357 aimed at his face.

“All your fault.” He pulled the trigger.

Blood and brain matter splattered inside the tub as the bullet passed through Jap’s face and created a crater in the back of his head.

“Feel better now?” Squeeze leaned on the doorjamb.

“Uh…” He pulled the trigger two more times. “…a little.”

Mrs. Garcia was putting dinner dishes away when the phone rang. She wiped her hands then answered. “Garcia residence.”

“Yes, Mrs. Garcia, I’m Nancy Pittman, a social worker for the Department of Social Services here in Cleveland. Forgive me for disturbing you this evening, but I’m here with your grandchildren.”

“I’ve spoken with my daughter earlier.”

“Then you’re familiar with the situation.”

“Yes, I’m aware.”

“I’m putting forth my best efforts not to put your grandchildren in the care of the state. To be truthful, I’m running out of options.”

“Kitchie had you call me, didn’t she?”

“No, ma’am. I actually got your number from Secret. She’s quite a lady. Is there some way that I can turn the children over to you until their parents handle their legal affairs?”

“Miss, I’m more than nine hours away. I don’t have transportation.”

Ms. Pittman crossed her legs. “If you would take them, we’ll make the arrangements to get the children there safely.”

Mrs. Garcia sat down to rest her aching feet. “Miss, I’m up in my age. My husband and I live in a one-bedroom apartment on a fixed income. We’re not capable of handling them children. Where will they sleep? I can’t give them the attention they need. I already raised my children. I’m sorry.”

“So am I. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Garcia. You have a good evening.”

“Do the same.” Mrs. Garcia ended the call.

Ms. Pittman stared at the door for a minute before she went in. “Secret, Greg Jr., gather your things. We’re leaving.”

Junior stood and stretched. “Where are we going?”

Even after nine years of being a social worker, this was the part of the job that she still hated to perform. “To a place where you guys can play with other children your ages.”

Trouble kept a close eye on the stairwell as Dirty jimmied Jewels’s door.

Two years ago, Dirty could have walked up to a door with a crowbar and opened it like he had the keys. Tonight, he’d been trying to gain access for over five minutes.

“Would you hurry up! Goddamn!” Trouble talked over a shoulder.

“Chill, I almost…” He pushed with everything he had. “…got it.”

The door burst open with a sharp sound.

“About time.” Trouble closed the door behind them. “Who said you have to play a number to hit the lottery?”

Dirty was amazed by the living room. “She got this rinky-dink apartment looking like something you’d find in a
Florida Design
mag. Look at this shit.” The more he took in, the more he was impressed by Jewels’s living arrangement.

“Stop fronting; you can’t read.”

“I count good as hell, though.” Dirty stood at the entertainment center. “These eight kickboxing trophies right here explain that big-ass speed knot on your head, and that constant reminder she left on your face.”

“Fuck you. Let’s toss the place; see what we come off with.” A blinking number stole Trouble’s attention as he rubbed the lump on his forehead. He seated himself at the computer and pressed play on an answering machine beside the monitor.

“Aunty Jewels…Mommy and Daddy—” He skipped to the next message.

“Aunty, if you’re there, pick up the—” Another skip.

“Jewels, you’re not going to believe this shit. I’m in jail—” Skip.

“Yo, Jewels, I plugged you in. I got you the—” Skip.

“Yes, I’m with the Department of Social—”

Dirty had a handful of jewelry. “Man, you got to see the bathroom. Play that last message again. Swear that sound like that old-school hustler, Sticky Fingers.”

“Sticky wouldn’t fuck with Jewels. She’s out of his league.”

“Don’t be so sure; look around you.” Dirty motioned toward the plasma flat-panel television and the designer glass and cashmere theme throughout the apartment. “Play it back.”

Trouble mashed the button.

“Yes, I’m with—”

“The one before that one.” He began adding up the total weight of the iron on the bench press. 200…225.

“Yo, Jewels, I plugged you in. I got you the sweetest deal I could on those corporate numbers. Ten stacks a piece. If you cop ten, my connect will throw in all the equipment you need to work your magic. The equipment alone will run you fifty stacks. The only thing dividing you from petty hustling and real wealth is you linking with us next Saturday at the Improv with your paper. Holler at your boy, Sticky Fingers.”

“Told you I knew that voice.” Dirty laid a Patek Philippe watch against his wrist. “They say he’s nasty with a gun and don’t have no problem getting his man in broad daylight.”

“That was in his heyday. It’s official street thugs like me now.” Trouble glanced at the jewelry Dirty gathered and began wiping his prints off of the phone. “Put all that back, and clean up behind yourself.”

“You got me fucked up. I didn’t pull a B and E for the fun of it. This here is me.”

Trouble’s voice hardened. “Don’t get hurt! I’m not about to go through this bullshit with you. Use your head sometimes and
stop being greedy. Sticky Fingers is calling this bitch personally. Didn’t you hear what he said?”

“What you know about corporate numbers? I don’t know shit about them.”

“I don’t need to know about ’em.” Trouble smiled, displaying his chipped tooth. “What I do know is how much it takes to buy them, when Jewels is supposed to buy them, and where she’s going to buy them.”

“I doubt she has that type of cash stacked. And if she does, it’s stashed in here—” He pointed to the carpet. “—right now.”