In This Life Page 13

  The other person was a detective working for the Chicago Police Department. He would also be no problem because the Table ran the police departments.

  This task should prove trivial, find Ms. Marilyn Fox and Mr. Freddy Thugstin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As the cab made a right at 51st and King Drive and her heart raced, Sasha looked out the back window to see if the police were following. Turning back, she found Freddy slouched in the seat, his frail body sweating feverishly. She eased closer to cradle him affectionately in her arms, but he just keeled over onto her breast. “Oh, my God!” she gasped. His flesh was on fire and his sweat-soaked gown opened exposing his nakedness. The gauze wrapped around his chest was spotted with fresh blood. It needed to be changed. “Freddy, Freddy,” she cooed in his ear. “Baby, are you okay?” She wiped at the perspiration on his forehead with the hem of her blouse. He smiled up at her weakly, and she willed herself not to cry.

  Freddy closed his eyes and began to babble deliriously, “Mama… mama… I’m comin’ to get you…”

  ******

  Officers James Stewart and Alvin Kincaid were parked at the corner of 38th and King Drive, in front of the Walgreen drugstore when they heard the all points bulletin announced on their car’s radio.

  “Calling all cars, all cars are to be on the lookout for a yellow cab heading north on King Drive. The suspect’s name is Freddy Thugstin, sixteen years of age, six-foot-four, brown skin. The suspect is wanted for murder and is considered armed and dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution. There are also two other people with him, a woman and a male driver. This may be a hostage situation.”

  Officer Stewart had just taken a bite of his Egg McMuffin when he looked up to see a yellow cab speeding by headed north. He nudged his partner. “That looks like them. I think I saw two people in the backseat.” The siren blared, bright lights strobed. The driver of the cab looked in his rearview mirror with surprise to see a police car behind him, lights flashing. He checked the speedometer; he was doing fifty-eight miles per hour in a thirty-five mile per hour zone. He slowed the cab, pulling over to the shoulder of the road.

  Throngs of police seemed to appear out of nowhere. A helicopter hovered directly overhead, with its hellish rotors reverberating with the machine’s power. A cop on a bullhorn barked orders. “Slowly place your hands above your head. Take your right hand and open the door and step out of the vehicle with both hands raised above your head. Walk twenty feet away from the car and lie face down on the ground.” The cab driver sat terrified, he was surrounded by a platoon of cops.

  Detective Fermen drove up to the scene and was met by a blue-and-white uniformed officer named Graham. “Sir, we believe the suspect may be holed up in the backseat. Stewart and his partner spotted the cab and they say they saw two people in the back before pulling it over. We ran the plate and the cab was reported stolen from O’Hare two days ago…”

  Fermen noticed the young officer glancing back over his shoulder as he spoke. He recognized that sort of behavior all too well. The kid was a rookie. Fermen ran his hand through his spiked hair with a hunter’s anticipation. Now, with his prey trapped, he reached for his ankle holster and withdrew a .22 caliber throw-down that he carried for just such occasions. He palmed the small pistol briefly before concealing it up his shirtsleeve.

  Fermen watched as the front door of the cab slowly opened. A white male with his hands in the air stepped out, walked a short distance, and laid down spread-eagle on the pavement. The bullhorn bellowed once more. “You in the backseat…Step out with your hands up and you will not be harmed.” There was no response.

  With the rush of pure adrenaline power that only a trigger-happy cop can describe, Fermen leaped out of his unmarked car, the gun concealed up his sleeve. Today, he’d receive a Distinguished Service Citation for the brave act he was about to perform in the line of duty. He would act in self-defense and kill a black boy.

  “Give me your radio,” he told the young officer. “All units be advised, this is Detective Mark Fermen. I’m handling this arrest and I alone will take the suspect into custody. If there are any signs of resistance, shoot to kill! I repeat, shoot to kill! Fermen then drew his weapon. “Have your men cover me,” he instructed the officer. He blinked in astonishment at the sudden arrival of a SWAT team unit. Fermen looked back at the officer, signaling with his eyes and nodding at the SWAT unit. Graham quickly got on this radio, informing the SWAT commander of the situation.

  Fermen made sure to reach the cab before anyone else, so he would have time to fire his weapon into the vehicle and plant the small handgun, all in one motion. Quickly, he flung open the back door of the cab. A symphony of clicks and snicks could be heard through a momentary lull in the commotion as dozens of weapons were cocked and aimed at the rear of the cab. Nothing… just blankets strewn about as if someone had been sleeping in the backseat. “Fuck!” Fermen cursed, kicking the side of the cab, hurting his toe. The attention suddenly turned to the lone man who lay suffering on the hot asphalt.

  Mario Guido watched in horror as men clad in Army fatigues and bullet-proof vest stormed the empty cab. As the helicopter thundered above, he wondered, “Since when did stealing a cab require calling out the fucking National Guard!?” It seemed as if thousands of shiny black boots flashed past his face and then someone shoved a knee in his spine while another jammed his neck. Mario cried out in pain.

  Amidst the swarming mass of police, an officer who was searching the cab discovered a nine-millimeter pistol under the front seat. So he said, “I found a gun.” A passing sleep-deprived officer, with ears ringing from too much caffeine, misunderstood those fateful words, and instead repeated what he thought he heard. Yelling, “He’s got a gun!” Cops dived for cover in every direction.

  Mario looked up to see what all the commotion was about. His timing couldn’t have been worse. His sudden movement brought an immediate retaliation in the form of kicks to his ribs and night sticks to his head. Someone developed an affinity for his balls, apparently curious to see how far that particular part of the anatomy could be stretched. The ominous word “gun” still hung in the air as someone tried to balance himself on Mario’s head. To his amazement and horror, Mario Guido learned, for the first time, that he was double-jointed, as both his arms were yanked to the back of his neck and cuffed. As he lost consciousness, somewhere in the gray haze of pain, a hollow voice admonished him saying, “You’re getting too old for this…”

  ******

  Cruising at fifty-five miles per hour on Chicago’s expressway, the cab driver spoke for the first time. “Ma’am, I know it’s none of my business…but, err, well, you know they ain’t real partial to black folks in Ford City.”

  “Ford City!” Sash gasped incredulously.

  “Ford City,” Freddy mumbled, raising his head as if making ready to disembark from the speeding cab.

  “They just did a 60 Minutes special on Ford City and racism,” the cabbie continued. “Hell, they don’t even allow black postal workers to deliver their mail…”

  Sasha looked somberly at Freddy, who was staring back at her through one partially open eye. “Freddy, where are we going?” she asked, trying to keep the panic from her voice.

  “We’re going to my aunt’s condo. We’ll be safe there.”

  Sasha sucked her tongue loudly in chagrin. Before she could complain, Freddy closed his eyes as the cab jerked from lane to lane on its journey to a destination unknown. She shuddered as she looked out the window. A helicopter was hanging in the distance like an angry spider about to pounce on some unsuspecting prey. The uncaring vastness of the world at large was nearly too much for a young, pregnant girl to handle. Her breath stuttered in her throat as she sat back in the runaway cab and stared at Freddy’s handsome face. In an attempt to understand the grim reality of their situation, her mind wandered back to the time when they first met and life was carefree and innocent.

  She was nine and he was eight. She was tall and lankly for her
age, and he was a little runt. Sasha was known as a tomboy and her daily ritual was chasing the bald-headed Freddy home from school.

  That hot summer, a welcome breeze kissed the city, daffodils swayed, Popsicle sticks littered the worn concrete, and the little kids laughed and played. The ardent sun bathed their brown skins. Climbing over fences and racing across lawns, Sasha would chase Freddy all the way home and right into his mother’s waiting arms, engulfing him in her blue and white apron. “Y’all ain’t fightin’ again, are you?” Mrs. Thugstin would always ask with smiling eyes. What she didn’t know was that there was never a fight. Sasha just simply mauled Freddy’s little peanut-head, that is, if she could ever catch the runt.

  One hot July day, Freddy stood waiting for her in front of the store, eating a nickel freeze cup. His new baldhead gleamed, and he stuck out his strawberry red tongue at her as soon as he saw her on the other side of the street. With a singsong shout of “Big Bird, Big Bird,” he took off running. The chase was on. They raced feverishly, giggling and laughing perilously dodging cars and crossing manicured lawns of complaining owners. They ignored all and just ran…

  Freddy turned a corner and barely avoided colliding with a tricycle blocking the path. But when he looked back, he saw Sasha crash into the tricycle and tumble to the ground. His heart nearly leaped from his chest as he screeched to a stop. Blood flowed from a cut in her hand and she began to wail, tears streaking her cheeks. Her big eyes pleaded for help and Freddy’s young heart melted. “Sasha, don’t cry. Okay?” he said as he sat beside her and took her hand in his.

  She nodded her head and the pink barrettes bobbed at the ends of her ponytails. She sniffled as she watched him pull a large piece of glass from her palm and then suck small fragments and blood from her wound. It didn’t even hurt when he did it. She wanted to ask him how he knew what to do. He then tore a piece of cloth from his new school shirt and wrapped the gash neatly, tying it off with a small bow at the back of her hand. She knew that he would get in trouble when he got home.

  That was the first time that Freddy walked a teary-eyed Sasha home. Neither of them said a word. From that moment on they just knew. Freddy was sure thankful he had learned that Wilderness First Aid in Cub Scouts.

  ******

  The cab came to a stop in front of a row of handsomely designed duplex buildings surrounded by immaculate gardens and trees. The landscape spoke of the affluence of the neighborhood’s aristocratic inhabitants. The driveways and carports held expensive automobiles and boats. Sasha nudged Freddy to consciousness. She could feel the driver’s eyes on her as he stared at her in the rearview mirror. “Freddy… Freddy, wake up!” He opened his eyes groggily and stared into space, or perhaps heaven, he was drenched with perspiration, her thigh was damp. He raised his wobbly head, squinting at her in pain.

  It then dawned on her that she would have to dress him before they could leave the car. Reaching into one of the shopping bags, she removed a pair of pants and a shirt. Piqued by her woman’s curiosity, she checked to see the price of the Versace pants. One –hundred-eighty-nine dollars, just for a pair of pants! She helped him get dressed as the driver watched them. “How much do I owe you,” she asked, reaching into her purse in search of money and pulling out the prescription for Freddy’s medication?

  “You don’t owe me anything lady. My fare has been paid for the entire day.” He leaned closer over the back seat. She could smell cigar smoke as she looked into his bloodshot eyes. “Ma’am, I know this is none of my business, but your friend there looks pretty ill—“

  Freddy interrupted him, “Yeah, you’re right my man. It ain’t none of your business. Looks can be deceiving.” With that, Freddy flung open the cab door, grimacing in pain.

  Going against her better judgment, Sasha hesitantly asked the driver, “Sir, could you please wait until I take him inside, and then take me to a pharmacy?”

  The car jerked as the driver rudely shifted it into gear. “No,” he said curtly. “Besides, he’s got a big mouth. That’s one of the reasons I don’t like to take you people anywhere.” His words hung in the air.

  “Please, mister,” she pleaded. I’ll pay you double!” She was fully intent on getting the medication.

  Freddy scowled at her and snapped, “Fuck that racist ass crackah! Girl, don’t let me ever hear you begging a crackah for shit!” Freddy smacked the back window hard with his hand. Sasha grabbed his arm. The driver was busy searching for something under his seat.

  Realizing the danger, she nudged Freddy out of the cab. As she was closing the door, the driver leaned out the window swearing a string of vulgarities. Freddy gave him the finger, and the cab sped off. Sasha pinched his arm, eliciting an “Ouch!”

  “Boy, you acting just like a nigger,” she said.

  They stood taking in the grandiose splendor of the white folk’s world, Ford City. Sasha slowly turned in a circle. The scenic landscape was just like the pictures she had seen in Better Homes & Gardens Magazine. In all this clean richness, it seemed to her as if white folk's air even smelled different, the sun shone brighter, and the birds chirped louder. But there was something else that disturbed her, and she couldn’t quite put her finger on it.

  She carried the bags while he carried the suitcase. He held on to her shoulder, taking tiny steps up the walkway. Inside the spacious vestibule, he leaned against the wall, exhausted. She dug into her pocket for the keys. #107. “It’s on the first floor,” he whispered, reading her mind.

  As they walked through the corridor, Sasha looked up to see people standing in their doorways, staring at them with contumacious scowls on their white faces. She inserted the key, feeling like a criminal the whole time. The door opened, and the smell of coconut surrounded them, yet once again, there was something else that she couldn’t put her finger on. She listened to an eerie silence that was loud as the ringing in a dead man’s ears. There were no babies crying, soul music blaring, or televisions clamoring “All My Children.” Just peace and quiet waiting to be shattered.

  They entered the living room, and she just had to peek her head back out one last time to see if them white folks were still watching. She closed the door, locking it behind her. As soon as she turned around, her jaw dropped open in awe at the décor of the condo. Expensive collages of fine art adorned the place. Marilyn Fox was definitely a dilettante, a lover of fine African arts. A thick, mauve shag carpet gave the room a rich pastel undertone. On each side of a fireplace stood carved ebony statues of a king and queen. On the wall hung various portraits, paintings that seemed to capture a precise moment in the subjects’ lives, vignettes of Africa’s ancient cultures. Sasha stared at a portrait of a baby suckling at its mother’s breast. It seemed to have a special significance for her.

  On a mantle to her left were pictures, almost daguerreotype, cracked and weathered with age, enshrined in gold frames. Sasha took one of the framed photos and studied it closely. It was of a small child, a little girl. She had golden locks of hair that hung past her shoulders and looked like a black Shirley Temple. The girl couldn’t have been more than six years old at the time.

  Everywhere there were memorabilia of Marilyn Fox’s meteoric rise to fame. A plaque commemorated her work and dedication in the L.F.L. program: “Lady’s For Life.” With the help of her celebrity friends and sponsors, she had raised over one million dollars for impoverished young girls to go to college. Embedded in the plaque was a picture of Marilyn shaking hands with the Mayor of Chicago with what looked like a thousand young girls standing behind her as she held a large check with the amount “One-Million Dollars” written on it.

  Sasha was startled by a damp hand on her shoulder. She noticed that Freddy’s brown eyes were swollen and puffy. “Baby, come and sit down.” She held his waist, guiding him toward a large couch that faced the fireplace. As they approached it from the rear, she noticed a foot hanging motionless. She took a startled step back and pointed at the foot. Freddy signaled for her to wait while he went to investigate. “No!�
�� she mouthed, her forehead wrinkled in fearful apprehension. He stared in bemusement as she darted her glance around the room, seemingly in search of something. Freddy knew instantly what she was looking for; a weapon. Together, they approached as she held a fire-poker like a club. To their surprise, once they looked over the back of the couch, there were two bodies, one at each end. Sasha was somehow able to stifle the scream that barged its way into her throat. Freddy stared in shock.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Freddy just shook his head from side to side, but Sasha was furious. “How in the hell did they get here Freddy?” she asked, taking a step back from him in an accusing manner.

  “I dunno,” was all he could reply, with a glint of a smile in his wry eyes as he looked down at his buddies, Mykle and Dee, both sound asleep. The floor was covered with beer cans and wine bottles. A half-eaten pizza was still in the box next to a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20 wine. Beside that was an ounce of marijuana and a partially smoked joint that had burned out on the rug.

  Sasha could not suppress her anger any longer. She screamed, “Myle! Dee!” shattering the quiet. Dee sprang to his feet in a fighting stance. “Wha? Wha? Wha--?” he stuttered, looking around alarmed, struggling to regain his equanimity.

  Mykle just looked up at Sasha, wiping his eyes. “Big headed ass girl, why you hollerin’ my damn name out and shit?” Freddy could not help but laugh at his boys. He was so happy to see them.

  “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  “What are you doing here?” Mykle asked, mimicking her.

  “Ms. Fox brought us here last night,” Dee cut in. “She said that Freddy was gonna need our help.” Mykle sat up and massaged his temples.