The Corner III (No Way Out) (16 page)

Parker walked in front of his vehicle towards Harold’s. He nodded at Feet.

Feet spat, “Mothafucka, you following me?”

Parker, who had done a couple of lines of cocaine when he left the crap house, was feeling strong. He walked up to the driver’s side of Feet’s car and said, “I ain’t never been the one to follow bitches. That’s why I have a problem with Greg having me working for your ass, nigga.” As he turned to walk away he mumbled, “But that shit won’t be for long. Your time is limited, that’s fo sho.”

Feet’s body became extremely hot, and his hands began to shake. “Fuck this shit!” he muttered as he reached into his waistband and grabbed his pistol. He stepped out of his car and yelled, “Ay yo, Parker.”

“What bitch…oh shit,” Parker said as he turned and saw the weapon pointed at him. He made a move for his pistol that was under his long t-shirt, but his arm barely moved up before Feet hit him with a shot to his chest.

Parker fell backwards, and his white t began to pool with blood. People screamed, and Red saw Feet walking toward Parker. “Shit!” Red yelled. He was about to head out of the carry-out when Feet looked up at him and shook his head. None of the patrons caught it, they were too busy ducking and hiding.

Feet stood over Parker and asked, “What you have to say now, bitch? This is for the crew, you snitch.”

Feet pointed his weapon at Parker’s face.

“No, man, no!” Parker begged. There was a bright light, and then it was all over. Feet had put two rounds into Parker’s head.

Feet jumped into his car and sped out of the lot leaving Red to flee on his own. Feet left Red because after putting the first round into Parker, he knew he’d made a mistake. He had killed the man where there were witnesses, and he didn’t need to get Red caught with him in the car. He’d let his emotions get the best of him. He had orders to leave Parker alone until he was given the word, so now with killing Parker, he was going to have a problem with the police and the crew.

*     *     *

Greg was getting dressed. He was at a condo in Dolton he was purchasing. It was his low-key spot no one knew about. Greg was a smart hustler who liked to dress in fine clothes, dine at nice restaurants and enjoyed the company of pretty women—women who weren’t from the hood. He usually picked up on women from poetry sets, and college hang-outs. At the age of twenty-eight he had done well for himself. During the recession when the housing market crashed, he was taking classes at Chicago State and when he asked a business professor what would be the best thing for a person with about fifty to one hundred thousand to invest his money in, the professor told him, real estate. Greg looked into it and came to the conclusion that he needed more money. About a month later, he was over to a lady friend’s house, and she was changing the channels to the television. When she stopped at the HG station, Greg was intrigued by what he saw. It was a show called ‘Flip this House’ and during the thirty minute program, he learned a lot and decided that is what he was going to do with his money. He was on the road to being legit and told himself that when he hit his mark of one million, he’d stop selling drugs. It was a slow process since he was laundering the money through his houses, but it was going to be worth the wait. He only hoped that he didn’t hit any bumps in the road that the drug game brought—death or incarceration.

He slipped on his Kenneth Cole shoes and then his Movado watch. He looked himself over in the mirror and thought about how a lot of dealers liked to wear nice jewelry and clothes—but it was always attire that spelled drug dealer.

His cell began to ring. He saw the name and answered.

The man’s voice on the other end was one of panic when he said, “Uncle, I need your help. I just did a nigga.”

Greg thinking quickly said, “Hang up, and I’ll call you right back!”

Feet did as told, and Greg ran to his bedroom to grab his throwaway cell. He dialed and Feet answered on the first ring. “Unk?”

Feet never called Greg uncle. Actually, no one knew that Greg was his uncle. They knew they were related, with them being so close in age everyone figured they were cousins.

“Yeah, Feet, where are you? What happened?”

“Man, that nigga, Parker. We got—”

“Look, let me know where you’re at, and I’ll come get you, then you can tell me what time it is.”

“At my girl’s spot—”

“She there?”

“Nah, she’s out of town this weekend, but I need to get out of here.”

“I’m on my way, and don’t call nobody or talk to nobody. You hear me?”

“I got ya.”

Greg hung the phone up and yelled, “Fuck!”

He grabbed his pistol and a change of clothes for Feet in case he needed them. Greg figured he’d bring Feet back to his spot until he knew exactly what went down. He got in his SUV and drove off. As he drove his Suburban, he thought about how Feet could be a hothead, and Greg knew that he’d fucked up. That Feet didn’t get along with Parker and couldn’t wait to slump him, but he hadn’t been given the green light. Now Greg had the hard task of bringing this drama to Reese who would in turn relay it to Slim. Either way, Feet was in serious trouble.

*     *     *

It was Sunday afternoon, and Slim was walking out of St. Michael’s Catholic Church. He hadn’t been inside a church in a while, but the feeling he had was one that he couldn’t explain. He remembered having the same feeling the last time he was inside a house of worship. He was raised Baptist, but didn’t feel uncomfortable one bit while the Priest conducted Mass, when they knelt for prayer or when people took communion.

As Slim and Trish walked down the street to his car she said, “Marcellus, you seemed comfortable. I thought you were going to be nervous.”

Trish had told Slim that she didn’t like calling him by his street name. That she didn’t see him that way so she had asked if it was okay to call him by the name his mother had given him. Slim didn’t mind. As a matter-of-fact, he liked the way she said it. The way the syllables rolled off her tongue. Usually Slim would have never let anyone call him by his first name. Hell, the only people in the streets and in their crew who knew his given name was Lucky and Reese—two people who have known him since he was a child.

Slim said, “I went to a Catholic school for one year.”

“But you’re not Catholic, are you?”

They arrived at his Cadillac. He opened her door for Trish, and she got in. Once in the driver’s seat, he told her, “My uncle, rest his soul, raised me for a little while. My mom, she was a good woman, but she was out there. In the streets, I mean. Her brother was gangster, but he took time with me. I guess it was because he never had a son. Played ball with me, took me fishing and did stuff I didn’t understand, like putting me in Catholic school for a year.”

Slim put the luxury sedan in gear, and they were on their way. “I didn’t understand why, but many years later when I was grown, a longtime friend of his told me why my uncle did some of the things he did, and by sending me to a Catholic school with the white kids I would learn how white people operated and how to deal with them.”

“Your uncle sounds like he cares for you a lot.”

“Yeah, but he and my mom have passed. But they and his friend are who helped to shape me into the man I am today,” he said as he glanced at his Brown Croc Bulova watch.

“Sorry to hear that,” Trish said softly. She noticed Slim looking at his watch and hoped he didn’t have anywhere he needed to be. She was enjoying the weekend she was spending with him, from the walk on the beach and dinner, to breakfast, good sex and the time spent at the museum. To the time at her church, and she had to admit that it felt good for the older women to see her with him. He was handsome, sexy, and confident looking and had gentleness to him when introduced to the women.

“No need to be sorry. That was many years ago, and we all have to go someday, and I’m just now realizing that I haven’t been living.”

He glanced at Trish and noticed the look on her face.

He continued. “I know you probably think that I have everything, but I’m missing a lot.”

“What are you missing?” she asked.

His cell rang, and he was glad that it did. He didn’t want to have to answer her question.

“Hello,” he answered.

“Slim, you don’t check in on me, huh?” Lucky asked.

Slim could hear voices in the background and a pounding sound. “Where are you, Lucky?”

“That’s what I’m calling you for. I need you to get down here to Southeast side Gym, I have to show you something.”

“Lucky, I just left church and about—”

“You just left church? Bring her with you. What I have to show you won’t take long.”

Slim asked, “How’d you know I had a woman with me?” He glanced at Trish and smiled. She did also.

Lucky laughed and said, “Because the last time you set foot in a church was because a woman dragged you in there.” Lucky was referring to Lisa.

“I’ll be there in about thirty minutes.”

“See you then, and bring her with you so I can meet her,” Lucky said in a joyous tone Slim had not heard from him in a long while.

Slim set his cell in the cup holder as he headed for the southeast side.

“Where are we headed?” Trish asked not caring where they were going as long as she was with Slim.

“To see a very good friend of mine. He says he has something important to show me.”

“Hmm, taking me to see friends, I don’t know, what if he doesn’t like me?” she joked.

Slim replied, “Then I guess like Jay-Z said, ‘On to the next one’.”

Trish playfully slapped him on the arm. She was happy, and a feeling that was foreign to her was creeping into her body and she loved it.

*     *     *

Slim and Trish walked inside the boxing gym and you could hear the chatter of young men and feel the buzz. Slim saw a man he didn’t know personally, but knew by the name of Fight Doctor. It was a gym that had been frequented by many young men, some who never left, and Fight Doctor was one of them. He jumped his first rope and hit his first heavy bag right here nearly fifty years ago, and the gym has stood for over sixty years. It had gone through several renovations and at one time had succumbed to a fire in the early eighties where fifty percent of the gym was lost. But with the help of the citizens in the neighborhood and a donation by one of Chicago’s young men who made it to the top ranks of boxing, the gym survived.

Slim saw Lucky standing at one corner of the ring, and the older man nodded when he noticed Slim and Trish. As they walked toward the ring, Slim was surprised to see Jamel with a pair of boxing gloves on, listening intently to a short, older Hispanic. Jamel was so focused on his opponent, a man who was thicker, but shorter than he.

Slim gave Lucky a hug and said, “So this is what you wanted me to see.”

Lucky turned his attention to Trish. “Excuse Slim’s manners. Hi, my name is Lucky, and what’s yours, pretty lady?” he said as he held his hand out for her to shake.

Trish’s smile was warm when she said, “Trish, and it’s nice to meet you.” She turned toward Slim, “Marcellus, is this the friend you were telling me about?”

Slim nodded. “Yes, this is my uncle’s friend.”

Ding, ding!
The bell rang for the fight to begin.

Excitedly, Lucky said, “Here we go. Watch our boy. I’m telling you we got something special here.” He jokingly punched Slim on the arm, saying, “Marcellus.”

The fight was on. Jamel danced side to side as the muscular built man came straight at him. Jamel jabbed with his right in an attempt to keep the man off him. The man’s pursuit was relentless, and he was able to get in with some body shots. This went on for the entire first round. The bell rang, and the fighters sat in their corners. Slim glanced at Lucky with a furrowed brow questioning Jamel’s fighting. To Slim he looked to be on the defensive and tentative with his punches.