Hard Candy Saga (13 page)

Rock rushed into his apartment after being out all day. He was on top of his game lately, sickness and all. He had a mission, just like Candy did, except his was to protect her from herself.

He flopped down onto his favorite raggedy recliner and unfolded the papers he had picked up from his lawyer's office. Rock's hands trembled as he read the words over and over again:
Last Will and Testament.

Rock had never thought he'd need a will, since there was a time when he didn't have any family, through blood or affiliation. As far as he was concerned, his last will and testament could have been just one sentence that read: “Everything to Candice Hardaway.” But there was someone else he needed to leave something for, not materially, but more so in the form of an explanation or maybe even an apology.

Rock had some years to make up for, but his pride and hurt heart wouldn't allow him to do it in person. He decided that in death he would be able to speak and make his peace. Time wasn't really on his side anyway, but in the meantime, while he was still alive, he had to continue carrying out his plan to keep Candice out of harm's way.

After placing the document down on his worn wood coffee table, he went to pick up his cell phone to call Candy, but a couple of rapid-fire knocks on his apartment door prevented him from completing the task.

Gently placing the cell phone down on the table, Rock stared suspiciously across the room at the door. He knew it couldn't be Candice, because she had the keys to his apartment. No one else visited him. Period. He remained quiet and waited.

There were three knocks again, this time harder and more insistent.

Rock slowly rose from his recliner and, walking as lightly as a man his size could, went into his bedroom. He retrieved his .357 Heckler & Koch and stuffed it into the back of his pants. Sweat droplets lined up like ready soldiers across his forehead, and a few drops ran down his temples. Rock felt an overwhelming urge to cough, but he stifled it.

“Barton!” A familiar voice filtered in from the other side of the door. “Open up!”

Rock's chest tightened with dread. He couldn't swallow, and he could no longer hold in his cough. Suddenly, a loud cough erupted from his chest. They said they'd never come back. I was done with their program and set free, he thought. His stomach muscles clenched, and the burning in his chest flared up like a newly kindled fire.

“Barton, don't make us put your business in the streets for all of your neighbors to hear. Now, open up,” the voice boomed again.

Those words propelled Rock forward, his steps heavy and mechanical. Flipping and twisting locks, he finally pulled back the door, fear flitting through his heart. Rock had experienced this feeling only one other time in his life—when he'd been captured in Vietnam and offered over to the CIA.

“Barton, what's the matter? You don't look happy to see us,” a tall, wrinkled white man said with a crooked Clint Eastwood grin.

Rock knew the man well. They were around the same age. Only, Rock had aged much better. He took a few steps back, stumbling as the man and his younger counterpart pressed forward, invading his personal space. Rendered powerless, Rock eyed them with unsuppressed hatred. He was willing himself not to kill them on the spot and quickly dispose of the bodies. Rock knew his plans were futile at best; the old white man most definitely had countersnipers posted outside his place. That was their style. Rock had, after all, been one of them.

“So I guess you won't be inviting us in for tea,” Wrinkled Face stated, his false teeth clicking slightly against the roof of his mouth. He looked around at Rock's meager living arrangements.

“Okay, we'll just make ourselves comfortable, if you don't mind,” the fake Clint Eastwood look-alike said, patting a place next to him on Rock's threadbare sofa for his partner to sit on. “So this is what became of one of our best-trained assassins, huh?” the man commented, with a smirk.

Rock's face remained stoic, his eyes hooded over, and fists clenched.

“Barton, I'll get right down to it. This is, of course, not a pleasure visit. I know we haven't spoken in eons. How long has it been? Thirty-plus years, right?” Wrinkled Face looked up at the ceiling like he was recalling their past from some far-distant place in his mind.

Rock could still hear traces of the man's British accent. He regulated his breathing and calmed himself down.

“How've you been feeling these days, Barton?” the old man continued, trying to goad Rock into talking. “We're all getting old, I suppose.”

“What do you want?” Rock finally spoke, his words barely a whisper.

“We have one more job for you.”

Rock's facial expression turned stony; his mood dark.

“I know after your debriefing we told you that you were free to go forever, but now there is one last thing we need from you.”

Rock shook his head back and forth. The Agency had told him he was free to go. They had put him through a very painful debriefing, complete with mood and mind-altering drugs, trying to deprogram him from being a “cleaner,” and Rock played along with it, enduring the ordeal. But he had never forgotten what he'd learned, as much as he wished he could at times.

“I'm free. I won't do it,” Rock said firmly. He had more than paid his dues for the murders he'd committed in Vietnam.

“Oh, this is not optional. We are not asking,” Wrinkled Face replied, his tone deadly.

Rock flexed his jaws back and forth.

“Barton, when we let you go, you were supposed to stay out of our business, but you couldn't. Somehow you got linked in with a couple of our most valuable street assets. We found you in the middle of one of our operations in the mid to late eighties. Ah, yes, Operation Easy In,” the old man said, as if the name just popped up in his memory.

The CIA program began by distributing crack cocaine in low-income neighborhoods in New York City and Los Angeles. The distribution was to fund Reagan's Contras. Through the controlled distribution of the new and cheap spin on regular cocaine, the government was also able to set their plans in motion to rid cities of the worst ghettos, like a self-inflicted genocide.

In New York, the CIA had duped Eric “Easy” Hardaway into taking part in their distribution scheme, and in L.A. they had duped “Freeway” Ricky Ross into signing on to their scheme. The promise of a better life with riches galore had lured Easy right into the CIA's trap. When Rock learned about it through some of his old sources, he put himself in a position to protect Easy. He had tried talking Easy out of the game, but he didn't realize the only way out for Easy was through death.

“So you will do this one last thing? Or else you will go to jail for the rest of your life for the massacre of your favorite drug dealer, Eric Hardaway, and his family. We will paint the picture so vividly of how you killed them and kept one girl alive for your depraved desires,” Rock's old nemesis calmly informed him.

The words flowed from the man's tight lips with ease, as if he was ordering toast and eggs for breakfast.

“You couldn't leave well enough alone, could you, Barton? Do you think she was left alive by accident? Shame on you if you did,” the man said.

Rock grew angrier by the minute.

“What did you do, Barton? Feed the girl the evidence we planted so she came up with suspects? She opened up a can of worms again when she started digging. It has been four years. You should've let sleeping dogs lie, or at least controlled your protégée a little better. We will let her live if and when you complete this job.”

Rock shook his head left to right. He had never told Candice anything about who had killed her father. Candice had heard about suspects on the news. Rock had locked the information he'd acquired over the years in a safe. It wasn't until long after the family's deaths that he figured out that the suspects were just fed to the media.

When Candice started showing an interest in the planted suspects—the pawns—he quickly set out to protect her, following her almost everywhere. His mission every day was to keep her safe, and he took that job very seriously.

“It was you that threw her to the wolves this time, wasn't it, Barton? What will we call our new operation? How does Operation Hard Candy sound to you? That has a nice ring to it, don't you think?” he taunted.

Rock clenched his fists behind his back. He swayed on his feet. He thought about taking his gun from his pants and killing the two devils occupying his personal space. He bit down into his jaw harder now. The metallic taste of blood made him feel animalistic.

“So, either you do this, or you go to jail for life. If you go to jail, we will see to it that the last Hardaway is taken care of. How does that sound?” Wrinkled Face was goading him.

Rock blinked rapidly, truly at a loss for words.

“I take that as a yes. Well, that is just splendid,” the old man said, standing up like he'd just gotten great news.

The other man stood up as well.

“Barton, you didn't even ask me what I've been up to these days. How rude! Well, I'll just tell you. I run the same program you were in, but for all government agencies now. Even the DEA. Too bad we will never have one as good and dedicated as you. You were like a machine in your day,” the Clint Eastwood look-alike said, lifting his hand and placing it on Rock's shoulder. “But even machines get old and need replacing after a while.” The man laughed at his own joke.

Rock's nerve endings were on edge. His skin burned where the man touched his shoulder.

“When we leave here someone will be contacting you with information about the job. This one has to be done smoothly, or else things could go terribly wrong. I am confident in you, Barton. I'm sure you don't want to go back to where we first met,” he cautioned, walking toward the door to leave.

When the door slammed behind the two devils, Uncle Rock raced over to it and secured all of the locks. He bent over and dry heaved on the hardwood floors. He felt like a wild animal, wanting to rip his prey to pieces with his bare hands and teeth. He had no choice in the matter. Candy's life was at stake, and there was no room for error. Whatever they asked him to do, he would do it, even if it meant killing someone to save Candy's life.

“Yo, son, these niggas are always late. It's like they make a point of doing this shit to prove their power.” Junior looked at his watch impatiently.

Avon Tucker was noncommittal. The anxiety welling up inside of him was enough to make him vomit, so he decided to just keep his mouth shut. Avon was so close to finding out who Junior bought his drugs from, it made his dick hard. That was all he needed to get the recognition and redemption he so desperately needed from the DEA. Brubaker had been putting a great deal of pressure on him lately. Now the possibility of a clean slate was dangling in front of Avon like a carrot in front of a starving horse.

Junior looked at his watch again and let out an exasperated sigh. “These motherfuckers playin' tonight, and everything in the streets is on E since we been caught up with that Razor shit.”

Avon remained silent.

“Yo, Tuck. Motherfucker, I'm up in here by myself or some shit?” Junior said.

Tuck nodded his agreement.

Junior furrowed his eyebrows and stared over at the side of Tuck's face as he stared straight ahead, clearly preoccupied with other matters.

“Yo, nigga, you givin' me the silent treatment or some shit?” Junior asked, screwing his face up even more.

Avon quickly snapped out of his trance.

“Nah, I'm listening,” Tuck replied, glancing over at Junior.

“You seem distant since the other night . . . you know, at my brother's crib. I ain't got to explain myself to nobody, son. You was right there and heard that nigga Phil give his word that he ain't murk Razor. This nigga Broady been out of control for a minute. I'm tired of the nigga.”

Tuck was now giving him his full attention.

“I been taking care of that nigga since my moms had him. I'm thirty-five years old, and I been acting like a father to this nigga since I was ten. My moms treated that nigga like shit from birth. She decided after she had him that she hated his pops. That nigga pops used to beat my mom's ass. When he got killed at a gambling spot, it's like she just started hatin' him. Nah, more like despising him. If I wasn't around that li'l nigga, he wouldn't even eat. It's like she was depressed and blamed that nigga for her depression and shit. I was a kid, man. I couldn't see my baby brother fucked up like that. I tried to school the nigga when he started playing ball in school. Stay in school, stay in school, I drilled that nigga hard body, but it's like Broady was fuckin' determined to be like me.” Junior checked his watch again.

“How did you wind up in the game?” Tuck inquired. They had nothing but time anyway.

“It was simple. Same story, different hood. Where I lived at in the eighties, shit was serious. Heroin and expensive-ass powder coke had been replaced by cheap-ass crack, and niggas was making tons of money. Once that shit made it to the hood, it was like magic for some and destruction for others. I was hungry and fucked up. My moms had been struggling after Broady's father got iced, and she lived off the system. That was it. Occasionally, she would get a boyfriend that helped out here and there. So, in essence, she either waited on men or the
man
to give her loot.” Junior reflected somberly.

He made direct eye contact with Tuck to see if he had his attention now. Tuck was glued. Satisfied, Junior continued on with his rags-to-riches tale.

“I used to walk through my hood dreaming of driving those big cars and wearing the big chains and shit I used to see motherfuckers rockin'.” Junior chuckled as he reminisced. “Then one day, I was being chased out of a corner store by the owner for tryin'a steal a loaf of bread for me and Broady to make sandwiches outta whatever crap we had in the crib. Shit, I used to make the best syrup and sugar sandwiches around.” Junior smiled. “Anyway, that's when I ran into Eric ‘Easy' Hardaway. I'm sure you heard hood legends about Easy, right?”

Tuck nodded in the affirmative.
Who hasn't heard of Easy?
Tuck only knew about Eric Hardaway from a brief he'd received before going undercover. Basically, he'd been told who killed Easy and why, but he wasn't sure how much the government's version of events could be trusted.

“Yeah, son, Easy was the man in my neighborhood, and everybody knew it. He graduated from corner boy to boss and he was on the come-up. The day I got chased by the store owner, Easy was with this older cat, kicking it in his tight-ass Maxima. Yeah, that fuckin' Maxima was the big status car of hustlers at that time. Easy's shit had the silver paneling on the side, all that. I remembered staring at Easy and the older dude through the windshield of the car and thinking I wish I could be like Easy.

“When Easy saw the store owner chasing me, he hopped out his ride and intervened. That fat Puerto Rican bodega owner backed the fuck down real quick. Easy grabbed me up and told me there wasn't no need to be stealing. He made me apologize to the store dude. Yo, that nigga Easy took me inside and bought me five bags of groceries. I mean, bread, lunch meat, rice, juices, the works. I was embarrassed at first, especially because the older dude with Easy just kept staring at me like I was a dirty thief, but Easy made me feel good, man. He never made me feel like a charity case.

“After that day, Easy gave me a job. I was thirteen years old. I started out delivering packages of weight. Then I graduated to sales. After a while, Easy let me live and have a few of my own workers. I grew up in this game. It's all I know.”

“So you worked for Easy for a lot of years?” Tuck asked, although he already knew the answer.

“
Ssss!
What? Hell yeah, son. I was under Easy for eighteen-plus years when that nigga got murked. I was down for that dude from thirteen until I was thirty-one. That's a lot of loyalty right there. Easy was good to niggas to a certain extent, but he was a power tripper, ya dig? Easy Hardaway wasn't gon' let a nigga rise above him in the game, you know, one of those type niggas that always kept his thumb on ya back.” Junior gritted.

Tuck could see he'd struck a nerve with Junior. “It wasn't till Easy was outta the way that you got your position at the top then?” Tuck asked innocently.

“Damn, nigga! When you ask it like that, you make it seem like I was jealous of that nigga. Or like I wanted a nigga outta the way and shit.” Junior raised his eyebrows, his head cocked to the side, challenging Tuck's question.

“Nah. I'm just sayin', it seems to me like that nigga was holding you back. But I know you respected him enough to let him have his shine,” Tuck said to clean up his slip.

“Exactly. I had so much respect for the nigga over the years, I woulda been happy just letting the nigga ride as the top dog. Easy gave me a tiny piece of a big pie, and I was content for a minute on that shit. I was eatin' lovely. I had my own little peoples workin' for me and shit. I was giving Easy his cut. It was all gravy for a minute.

“But Easy changed up the game. That nigga started getting fucked up in his old age, though, I'ma tell you that. Like tryin'a make his little teenage-ass son like a boss and shit,” Junior explained, his tone angry. “Son, I was in my thirties. You think I wanted to be told what the fuck to do by a seventeen-year-old li'l nigga?”

“Nah, I can't imagine that.” Tuck knew what it was like to take orders from somebody you didn't really respect. He had been doing it for a lot of years with the DEA.

“There was a lot of niggas on the streets not happy with Easy and his decision making. I was hearing talk that niggas wanted to get rid of him, just wipe him out completely. Not leaving no heirs to his shit, nothing. As a matter of fact, Easy's own son, who was also called Junior, wasn't happy with some of the decisions that nigga Easy was making at the time. And, yo, that nigga Eric Junior was straight seven thirty. I heard that li'l nigga used to wild out in the house, breaking shit up, trying to fuck up his mother and little sisters. Straight buggin'. They said the nigga had, um, what you call that shit,
psychicis
or some
psycho
-shit.” Junior made circles with his index finger next to his head, giving the universal sign for crazy.

“You mean, psychosis?”

“Yeah, that shit you just said. He was a crazy motherfucker that needed to be on lockdown somewhere. So, now imagine how I felt with this dude Easy appointing this li'l crazy nigga as the boss of me.
Ssss
!” Junior shook his head and sucked his teeth.

“That must've been fucked all the way up,” Tuck said, trying to encourage Junior to continue his stroll down memory lane. The information was certainly proving quite the eye-opener. Tuck had not been told during his undercover briefing that Easy's son had worked for him.

“Hell yeah! Then shit got worse when a nigga I was tight with, kinda like how me and you is tight right now, went missing. I'm saying that nigga Bam-Bam was my ace, my lieutenant. He had my back. Easy called me up and told me I had to murk Bam-Bam because Easy thought he was a cop. I told Easy that ain't no way this nigga was a cop. Easy insisted, and I refused. Easy didn't like it when I questioned his judgment. Easy ain't like no push-back. In his book, any little bit of pressure broke pipes. His fuckin' word was supposed to be the last fuckin' say all the time.

“I wasn't backing down on that one, so that nigga cut my pockets. He shut me the fuck down. Next thing I know, my dude Bam-Bam was missing, never to be found again,” Junior said, his voice trailing off. “And I know that nigga Easy had Bam-Bam taken out.” Junior had a scowl on his face, and his nostrils flared.

From the tone of his voice, Tuck could tell that Junior's deep-rooted anger was mixed with hurt and disappointment.

“And the cops never figured out what happened to your right-hand man or Easy, huh?”

“Nah, man. Whoever took out Easy also wiped out his entire family. Ain't no tellin' who killed that nigga. It coulda been any fuckin' body out there. Niggas all over Brooklyn and uptown wanted that nigga outta the way. Shit, his own son coulda done it. You know you fucked up in the game when you can't even lay your head at home without keeping one eye fuckin' open.” Junior could see some similarity between his situation with Broady and Easy's predicament with his son.

Tuck was burning up inside. He wanted to question Junior further, but it was too dangerous. Junior was no dummy, and Tuck needed to protect his cover.

“Enough about me, nigga. The bottom line is, I'm in the game to stay. I'ma go out blazing like a gangsta. I will take niggas with me if they get in my way too, including that hotheaded-ass brother of mine.” Junior chuckled.

Tuck laughed nervously.

“These niggas ain't coming. They musta got cold feet when I told them I was changing up the game and bringing you. I'ma have to go see my dude without you, son,” Junior said, pulling his car out of the spot they'd been in for almost two hours.

Tuck's shoulders slumped.
Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!
This was going to be a major setback.

* * *

“Lift ya head up, nigga!” Broady growled, throwing another punch that connected with the boy's skull.

The boy's head snapped back so hard, a loud crack resounded through the basement.

Broady had asked the boy to do the impossible. After being tied to a chair for hours and beaten at will, there was no way he could lift up his head. He moaned as pain ripped through his skull again.

“What's ya name, li'l nigga?” Broady gritted, this time grabbing the boy's face roughly and lifting his down-turned head.

The boy's face was a bloody mess. Both of his eyes were swollen shut, and the bridge of his nose was disfigured, broken in more than one place, he imagined.

“
Car—Car—me—llo
,” the boy rasped out. His throat felt like he'd swallowed a fire-lit sword in a circus act.

Broady released his head with a shove, causing more pain to permeate the boy's cranium.

“Carmello? Who the fuck names their kid Carmello?” Broady hissed evilly, circling the boy like a bird of prey. He let out a maniacal laugh. “Y'all heard that shit? This li'l nigga is named Carmello. That shit sound gay as a motherfucker!” Broady chortled, turning to the little cronies he'd hired to abduct the boy.

The two teenaged boys laughed, scared shitless not to agree with anything Broady said.

The two boys had snatched Carmello at gunpoint after luring him to a deserted building with the promise of selling him a pair of Gucci sneakers that nobody else in Harlem owned. Given his love for fashion and his need to have the latest gear, Carmello easily took the bait.

“Carmello, you from uptown, right?” Broady asked, knowing the answer.

Carmello moved his head up and down painfully.

“A'ight then. Since you claiming that whack-ass hood, I'ma give you an uptown history test. If you pass, maybe I'll let ya little punk ass go. But if you fail, nigga, you dead.” Broady gritted, spittle settling on his lips.

Carmello couldn't even respond. His eyes were shut, his mouth was bleeding profusely, his wrists burned from the duct tape, and one of his legs pulsed with a throbbing pain. He had fought Broady's little goons so hard, he'd shattered the shin on his left leg.

“Yeah, that's what I'ma do. Give you a test on some real warrior shit—pass or fail,” Broady explained. The drugs coursing through his system put him in maniac mode. “You hear me, li'l nigga?” he growled, dissatisfied with the boy's lackluster response.

Carmello finally moved his head slightly to acknowledge his understanding of the situation.

“A'ight then. Now, here we go. You from uptown, and your brother is supposed to be a big-time hustler, correct?”