Price of Fame Page 3

  Jordan bit down into his jaw and clenched his fists at his side. He rocked on his heels, willing himself not to hit the woman who had given birth to him. That’s all she was to him: his birth canal, a way into this fucked-up world.

  “I raised three sons and you the only black bastard who ain’t amount to shit. I should’ve known when I laid down with ya dog-ass father I’d wake the fuck up with a black-ass flea like you!” she screamed, hitting the bottom of the bucket for emphasis. “I broke my back to put ya ass through school and this is what the fuck you do with a degree? Hmph, you not livin’ in here. Look at Ethan, a real estate mogul. Ain’t even get to go to college and made somethin’ outta himself. And look at David . . . the vituperative words continued to roll off her tongue. Before she could finish her degrading rant, Jordan sucked in his bottom lip, yanked off his wet wifebeater and grabbed a dry sweat shirt and a pair of jeans. He pushed past his mother, whose veins were now clearly visible and pounding in her high yellow neck.

  “Go on! You better not come back up in here another day without some money or a fuckin’ job!” she screamed at his back as he walked out the front door of their brownstone.

  Jordan stumbled down the front stoop stairs and onto the sidewalk. Tears burned at the backs of his eyes as he walked dejectedly down the street. He had no idea where he was headed, but wherever it was, he was sure it was going to be a paper chase. He was going to show that bitch of a mother of his. Once he made it, he’d take his money, wipe his ass with it, and throw it in her face.

  He hated his mother. For as long as he could remember she never had a kind word for him. Jordan was the youngest of Trina King’s three sons and the one she resented the most. Trina had been married to the father of her children until Jordan came along. After taking one look at Jordan’s dark skin, Ethan Sr. had told Trina the boy wasn’t his. Ethan Sr. had heard rumors that while he was out hustling up enough money to feed Trina and the kids, she had been sleeping with his archenemy.

  When Ethan left her, Trina struggled, and she took out every bit of her frustration on Jordan. Once, when he was five, she had beat all of the skin off his back because he had spilled milk trying to get a bowl of cereal for himself. She called Jordan degrading names on a daily basis. She also turned her other sons against Jordan, making them believe the reason they were without their father was because of their little bastard brother. Jordan’s two other brothers often beat on him at whim and called him names with no repercussions from their mother.

  The one thing Trina could not deny was that Jordan was her most book-smart child. Jordan excelled in school and he was the only one of her three boys to finish high school. When Jordan enrolled at Hunter College as a business major, Trina took all of the credit. She often ranted and raved about paying for him to go to school, when in actuality all she’d done was provide Jordan with carfare; state and federal government grants—TAP and PELL—had really paid for his schooling. Jordan had just graduated and was trying to find a job, but his mother didn’t want to hear it. Each time he landed a position, he would inevitably get into a dust-up with his supervisor. Jordan had trouble controlling his anger and he definitely could not deal very well with authority.

  “Dayum, young blood, who done pissed in your Cheerios?” a voice called out from a big-body Mercedes-Benz S500 that pulled up as Jordan almost reached the corner of his block. The driver was flashing a diamond-studded smile. He was the one person Jordan had tried to avoid since he was a kid. But today, Jordan stopped and smiled back.

  “Where you headed, young blood? You look like you need a friend,” the driver said. It was C-Lo. Everybody in Harlem knew who C-Lo was, especially Jordan. C-Lo was the hood’s jack-of-all-trades. He was a well-known pimp and notorious drug dealer around Harlem. C-Lo had a reputation that preceded him. When he came around or stepped into a room, everyone knew who he was and what he was capable of. C-Lo had been trying to recruit Jordan for years, but Jordan had chosen to go to college and try to make his money legitimately.

  As a child, Jordan didn’t revere C-Lo like all of the other kids in the neighborhood. He was not impressed that C-Lo had a new pair of kicks for every day of the week or that he wore the biggest gold rope chains and rings on every finger. In fact, Jordan hated C-Lo and he had good reason. Jordan often wondered if his mother knew that he’d seen C-Lo leaving her bedroom many nights after the sounds of them fucking had awoken him. It was a pattern that Jordan had become accustomed to. First his mother would complain about being broke. She would curse and call Jordan a black piece of shit and say he wouldn’t amount to anything. Then she would smoke a few cigarettes, make a phone call, and later on that night Jordan would see C-Lo creeping in his house when his mother thought he was asleep. The next day, his mother would have a fistful of cash to spend.

  C-Lo had plenty of money and Jordan needed it. Putting his feelings of hatred aside, he walked toward the car and climbed in.

  “How you doin , college boy? Them college degrees ain’t done shit for you, huh? You ready to finally take me up on my offer?” C-Lo smiled, the diamonds on his fronts sparkling like stars in a nighttime sky.

  “Yeah, I’m ready,” Jordan replied in an almost inaudible whisper.

  “I thought you’d come around one day. How’s your mother doing?” C-Lo asked, snickering. Jordan bit into his jaw and looked out the car window as they drove away from his house.

  Chapter Three

  The Lesser of Two Evils

  “Jordan, what did you do?” Dominique screamed, placing her hand over her mouth as she looked down at the bloody mess.

  “Oh my God! ” Casey screamed, jumping up and down in a panic.

  “Everybody just shut the fuck up and calm down!” Jordan barked, pacing the floor. He took a long sip of Mylanta and continued to pace.

  Dominique was haunted by thoughts from her past as she sped home from seeing Casey in the hospital. The sight of Casey had brought back memories Dominique had worked hard to suppress. The story Jordan had given her about what had happened to Casey didn’t add up. Knowing what Jordan was capable of, Casey’s “attempted suicide” just didn’t sound right.

  Dominique finally made it home. Fumbling through her pocketbook for her keys, Dominique looked around nervously. Alton’s car was missing from the driveway, which was a good sign. Letting out a deep sigh, she finally located her keys, peering over her shoulder once more before she rushed through the front door.

  A bolt of lightning flashed behind Dominique’s eyes. With a scream stuck in the back of her throat, a brutal force pulled her down on the hardwood floor of the foyer. The sudden motion caused her pocketbook strap to twist, making a tourniquet on her arm, cutting off the circulation. She could hear his animalistic breathing.

  Another blow caused an unbearable pain in her head. “Ahhhhhhhh!” She was finally able to let out a blood-curdling scream. Instinctively, Dominique placed her hands up in defense, but to no avail. Another blow to the top of her head caused the images from her past to appear again. Dominique saw herself stumbling backward. She watched Jordon’s foot connect with the center of her face. She felt the bone between her eyes crack. “J . . . Alton, no!” Dominique finally managed to scream, catching her words before the wrong name slipped from her lips. The scenes were so similar–the past and the present were blending into one.

  “You are the most disobedient woman alive!” Alton growled as he wrapped his gorilla hands around her ponytail. Dominique let her body go limp. She knew the results of fighting against Alton. “Where have you been?” he screamed, reaching under her bowed head and slamming his balled fist into the same spot that Jordon had injured years earlier. Blood sprayed from Dominique’s face onto Alton’s pants like a lawn sprinkler. As he yanked her head back to look into her eyes, blood from her nose dripped into the back of her throat, threatening to choke her.

  “Alton, pa-lease!” she gasped out, pleading as he dragged her across the floor. She could feel the skin on her knees splitting. An open-handed slap land
ed on her cheek. Dominique saw small squirming flashes of light out of the side of her eyes. Now she knew what people meant when they said they saw “stars.” She prayed Alton wouldn’t kick her this time. Dominique was sure her ribs hadn’t fully healed from the last time. Another blow would surely send bone fragments into her heart or lungs and kill her instantly. The pain pulsing through her head became unbearable. She placed her hands on top of Alton’s, trying to pry his fingers from her scalp.

  “You need to repent today! For God says the husband is the head of his wife! She must obey and be humble!” Alton roared, continuing his assault.

  Dominique knew that he would beat her until the demon that she was sure lived inside of him had finally had enough. Then he would reach down to the crumpled pile that was his wife and help her up off the floor. He would force her to have Bible Study, followed by sex. As he dragged her up the staircase, Alton punched her in the back, causing her to involuntarily emit a loud cough. He’d literally knocked the wind out of her. Urine ran down her legs. As she drifted to a place between consciousness and hell, she thought about Casey, lying with tubes coming out of her body, close to death. At this moment, Dominique would have gladly changed places with Casey.

  When Alton had finished “God’s work,” he threw her limp, injured arm around his neck and carried her like a wounded comrade in a war. “I’m sorry.

  I just love you and the Lord so much,” he whispered as he placed Dominique gently on the floor of the bathroom. Dominique struggled to breathe. She felt like all of her ribs were broken. Her knees burned from the friction burns she had suffered while being dragged. As bad as she wanted to scream out or even moan, Dominique did not want to take a chance on making him angry again.

  “Come here, let me help you clean up,” Alton consoled in a low, soft voice that was completely different than the booming, maniacal voice he’d been using just a few minutes earlier. Dominique struggled to open her eyes. Blood and tears had dried and crusted around them, nearly sealing them shut. She lay in the fetal position in a growing pool of blood, every inch of her body on fire.

  Alton went into the linen closet and got a hand towel. Dominique could hear the water running. Then she felt the warm rag against her battered skin. “Ssss,” she winced, shrinking away from his touch.

  “I am so sorry,” he said, wiping more blood from her face and neck.

  “I know you are. I forgive you,” Dominique whispered, knowing it was what he wanted to hear.

  Brice looked at his new gold badge again. He breathed on it, rubbing it on his shirt to get it to shine. He liked the sound of his new title, “Detective Brice Simpson.” Placing his belt badge back on his Armani suit pants, he stretched his arms out and looked around the bustling detective squad room of the Brooklyn North Task Force. He tapped his fingers on his new desk, albeit old and rickety. He had finally made it. As a patrol cop, the only thing he had was a tiny steel locker sandwiched between slews of other lockers in his precinct. But street patrols and uniforms were a thing of the past.

  Brice looked around the room at the wanted posters. Being only twenty-eight years old and from Brooklyn, he recognized more than a few faces on the posters. He probably knew where to find the suspects, too.

  “Hey, Simpson, you think the good commissioner promoted you to sit there and look at the manicure Kim Ling gave you?” Detective Sergeant Curruthers yelled out as he walked toward Brice, his joke garnering snickers from the rest of the squad. Brice felt his cheeks flame.

  “Here you go, some work. I know you’re not used to it, but up here we work,” Sergeant Curruthers said, slamming a stack of case files on Brice’s desk.

  “I ain’t never scared,” Brice said jokingly, letting out a short, nervous chuckle. Looking down at the files he saw a big red sticker labeled, COLD CASE FILES.

  “Aww, shit,” he cursed, flipping through the stack. He looked up and saw that the other detectives were staring and laughing at him.

  “The new guy gets the dogs . . . you know, the shit nobody else wants. We don’t care how much cops and robbers you played as a street cop, solve those sons of bitches and you really earn this promotion,” Sergeant Curruthers said utterly serious for a change, popping his suspenders that looked stretched to the limit over his huge gut.

  Brice had been a New York City Police Department patrol cop for six years before he shot two fleeing armed robbery suspects who had turned their weapons on Brice’s partner, wounding him in the stomach. Brice had been lauded by the NYPD for his heroic and courageous actions and earned a promotion to detective as a result. What the Department didn’t know was that, yes, Brice had given chase and drawn his weapon, but the only reason he hadn’t also been shot was because one of the robbers had been Brice’s childhood best friend, Earl.

  Brice could still hear Earl’s words. “Wait, niggah, don’t shoot. Wait the fuck a minute! B-boy? You a fuckin’ cop?” Earl had asked, calling Brice by his childhood tag name. Earl was clearly shocked to see his best friend in the graveee blues, which is what they called the navy blue NYPD uniforms on the streets, making reference to how many black boys the NYPD had put in the grave.

  Brice had ignored his old friend’s question, but kept his gun trained on Earl.

  They locked eyes. Their past indiscretions stood between them like a giant ogre, scary and threatening to eat them alive.

  “A’ight, B-boy, I’ma drop my weapon,” Earl said, calmly placing one hand up and preparing to bend down to drop his weapon.

  “Fuck that!” Earl’s accomplice screamed out, raising his gun. With that distraction and without thinking first, Brice opened fire on both of them. He watched Earl fold to the ground like a deflated balloon.

  “Damn, B-boy . . . you was my brother from another mother,” Earl rasped before throngs of police officers descended upon the scene in response to the 10-13 that Brice had previously called over the radio. Brice found out a few hours later that he had “heroically” taken the suspects down. The entire scene had taken a toll on him and he still suffered nightmares. He had not planned for Earl to find out his secret like that. Brice was determined to take his promotion to detective and fuck the wheels off of it to move up the ranks. The further removed he was from the streets, the easier it would be to live with the choice he’d made during the robbery.

  Brice flipped through several of the cold case files. Many of the cases were related to indigent people found dead under bridges and in abandoned buildings; some were of known gang members found dead in project elevators and stairwells; and others of dead crackheads. But one case stood out from all the rest. A fourteen-year-old girl had been found bludgeoned to death in a Dumpster behind a Brooklyn bodega. Brice immediately thought of his little sister, Ciara, who’d just turned sixteen. He was Ciara’s big brother, but acted more in the capacity of her father. He had stepped in where his alcoholic stepfather had stepped out. Overprotective big brother was an understatement.

  Brice opened the folder and on the inside cover were several crime scene photographs. Brice winced, feeling the pain the girl must have endured. He could hardly make out the girl’s face in the pictures. Her head, from the neck up, resembled a blob–a red clump of flesh with no definition. Brice couldn’t distinguish her eyes or nose. Her hair was matted with blood. Whoever murdered her left her butt naked. She’d been beaten all over her body and then dumped atop bags of trash, an indistinguishable mass of flesh and blood. Bugs had already started eating away at the flesh by the time the pictures were taken.

  Brice shuffled the photos and looked at the girl after she had been cleaned up by the medical examiner. Although her face was completely disfigured, like someone with elephantitis, Brice could tell that she was just a baby. Her breasts were barely developed, her fingers small and slender like delicate straws. The medical examiner had ruled the cause of death as a brain hemorrhage. Who would beat such a young girl so unmercifully? Brice’s fingers closed tightly around the file. He meticulously reviewed each piece of paper and flipped thro
ugh all the notes. A handwritten Post-it note had been left in the file, where someone had scribbled: “Runaway prostitute got herself killed. Case closed.”

  Brice squinted his eyes into little slits and feverishly turned the pages to find out which detective had been assigned the case. “D’Guilio,” he mumbled under his breath. “It fucking figures . . . white prick. If she were a white runaway, would he have come to the same conclusion?” It was apparent that the detective assigned the case didn’t bother to fully investigate before having it deemed a cold case.

  Brice glanced at the address where the body was found. He grabbed his gun out of his desk drawer and put it in his shoulder holster. “I’ll be back!” he yelled to no one in particular.

  Jordan was asleep on a small foldout hospital chair/bed. The nurse came in to check on Casey’s vitals before the shift change. Jordan was awakened by her movement. “How she doin’?” he asked, clearing his throat.

  The nurse didn’t turn to acknowledge him; instead she continued her work. “As good as can be expected for what she ingested. Lucky to be alive,” the nurse said dryly. Everyone in the hospital now knew who Casey and Jordan were, thanks to the small media and porno paparazzi that had gathered outside. When the nurse left, Jordan slumped down in the chair. He looked over at Casey’s stiff form and started thinking of his plan B. Jordan always kept a plan B. He had promised himself he would never go back to being broke. Women were the key to his success and fortune in the porn industry. Jordan picked up his cell phone and scrolled through his contacts. Finding the number he wanted, he looked over at Casey, shrugged his shoulders and left the room.