Like Cracked Glass

Prologue.
         This is an account of murder, robbery, betrayal, extortion and violence in Washington, D.C. I don’t kill people for no reason, and I don’t kill innocent bystanders. All my “victims” are those who are already in the motherfuckin’ life and deep in it at that. I don’t really care about shooting people who wouldn’t think twice about shooting me. I just take peoples’ money and I do what they want me to do. In and out. Done and done.
         None of this means that this negativity is constant and omnipresent in the city. The city itself is actually on a rebound from the high murder rates of the late 1980s and early 1990s. Now that the crack epidemic is “officially” over, there has been a sharp decline in violent felonies.
         What can I say? I spend time in the library. My momma didn’t raise no fool.
         So I give you a slice of my life and a slice of the city. It may not be the one you want to encounter or read about, but it’s extant nonetheless. So let yourself bask in the sights, sounds, and happenings of our fair city.

One Day.          

         The sky looked like cracked glass the way those clouds showed up. Maybe it was glass, who really knows. But on that day in some week of some month of some year, the neighborhood cared about more things than just how some damn clouds appeared in the sky. No, the citizens of Tenleytown in NW Washington, D.C. cared about something else.
         Twin brothers A.J. and Drew Smith, at the ripe age of 11 years apiece, had been playing hide-and-seek in a row of houses under construction. It was one of those days where snow had just fallen but the sun was peaking out just enough to melt a good amount of it away. Well, it wasn’t too long until they found him. The blood in the snow had led them there.
          He was partially under a set of stairs leading up to the back door of one of the duplexes. His name was DeShawn LaRue, black male, age 20, resident of the Deanwood neighborhood in NE Washington. He had taken six .380 caliber bullets to his arms, upper torso, and head. He had also taken two more slugs to the back of the head, apparently delivered a little bit later in time. The forensic technicians on scene had placed the time of death at around 4 AM the previous night. Investigators were just happy that the body had been discovered so quickly.
         There weren’t many murders in this part of town though, nor were there many blacks. No, most of the neighborhood’s old guard had been driven out by an onslaught of gentrification and community restructuring. It was like that a lot of places now.
         It was quickly discovered by homicide detectives that not only were there no murder weapon stashed in the area, but there were no fingerprints, no shoe marks, no witnesses, and definitely no DNA from DeShawn’s assailants.
         And I know that.
         Because I was there.
         And because I put the bullets into him.

         
Three Earlier in SE.

         “We want you to take this nigga DeShawn out. We’re prepared to part with twenty large for it done right.” said Little Arn, coke still dripping from his nose.
         “Done.” I took a drag of my Newport Medium. I’m trying to quit, it’s a step down from the Kings. Me, I don’t fuck with that cocaine shit. It just eats away at your brain.
         Arnold “Little Arn” Taylor was not little. He wasn’t huge either. I suppose the name is neither true to life nor ironic. Sometimes these things can’t be explained. Shit, I got a fuckin’ 1510 on my SATs, but look at me now. Doin’ deeds for the kingpins. I could be a lawyer or somethin’ by now. Shit, the fact I even took the SATs says something.
         He turned a looked out the window “Do it personally. I want to know that it’s been done. Bring me something, I don’t give a fuck what it is, just somethin’ to let us know this cat’s been did.” He sounded frenzied. But that’s what happens when you get high off your own supply. Every nigga like him has seen Scarface – they should know better.
         “Done.”
         “Nigga, is that all you can say? I swear, motherfucker.”
         “I’m just not in a talkative mood.” He knew not to push me any further. I’m a pretty peaceful dude, but I have shot people for less. I like keepin’ to myself and all but that doesn’t stop the young’uns from running when they say “Howard’s comin’! Howard’s on the block!”. I guess it brings me some pride. Deep down and shit.
         “What heat are you usin’ these days, How?” Arn’s voice had calmed. He had taken my cues.
         “What’s it to you? Just tell me when and where.” I was getting sick of his bullshit.
         “It’s all in here.” He slid a manila envelope across the desk at which we were seated. “I made a dossier on this motherfucker.”
         “Arn, can you spell, ‘dossier’ for me?”
         “Nigga, get off my dick. Go get this motherfucker.” As much as I wanted to slap the taste out of Arn’s mouth, I was still an employee. Hired to do some dirt. I opened the envelope and was greeted by a large black and white picture of a man in his early 20s who probably had some kind of idea by now what he was in store for. Man, he was probably in Pennsylvania by now. But dirt I must do. He had to go.

         
Next Night.
         
         It wasn’t hard to break into DeShawn’s house. It was in his momma’s name so all it took was a simple trip to the local public library to figure out where he laid his head.
         I cracked open the back window and put an armchair facing his front door. I sat and waited quite comfortably until he got home.

         The look on that stupid nigga’s face when he saw me was priceless. It was a combination of instant laxative and one of those “What the fuck?” kinda things.
         “Wh...what are you doing here?” DeShawn finally let out after dropping his car keys and nearly pissing himself.”
         “Don’t act dumb, fool. You know what you done.” The look of sheer terror in DeShawn LaRue’s eyes was, at the time, quite comedic. Hell, I ain’t even know what this dumb fuck did to deserve this punishment. I just dole it out.
         “How...Howard, I’ll give you anything! I’ve got money...” I brought the butt of my Sig Sauer .380 down on the bridge of his nose. He fell onto the floor almost instantly with blood leaking quickly out of his nostrils and mouth. I bent down and slapped a pair of cheap handcuffs on his wrists and gathered him up. He was a skinny motherfucker so tossing him into the trunk of my car wasn’t no thing.
         I drove across town until I found a suitable location. A bunch of houses being built or some shit. Whatever, ain’t no one gonna go in there for a while.
         
         I looked into DeShawn LaRue’s eyes knowing I was the last person he was ever going to see. I guess it’s kinda sad when you really think about it a lot, but sometimes shit has got to get done. Something was brewing in my head, something clever to say, perhaps? Nah, fuck that. No need to insult the man in addition to injuring him.
         “Please, Howard...”
         Blap. Blap. Blap. Blap. Blap. Blap.
         He was gone. Two more for the road.
         Blap. Blap. The wall looked like a disturbing Jackson Pollock painting.
         I grabbed DeShawn’s wallet to prove to Arn I did what had to be done. I think he wanted a head or a finger or some sick shit. I ain’t down with that grisly-ass bullshit. A wallet’s plenty good.
         Time to dump the heat in the usual spot: the beautiful bluish Anacostia river. The river that separates the bad from the worse.

         I drove down the old and forgotten boat ramp on the west bank of the Anacostia river in SE D.C. I stopped and looked around at the lights the speckled the horizon in every direction. It was like being surrounded by stars. I liked that, after doing what had to be done, being surrounded by all those stars. It was like I was on a drug of some kind. Other than the fine indo I’d been indulging in earlier, I was stone cold sober.
         “Funnier things have happened.” I muttered to myself. I grabbed the .380 and pulled out. Before I heaved it I kissed it goodbye. Hell, it’s just something I did with old heat.
         “Peace.”
         The splash was about 35 feet out, no one was going to go looking for that strap there. No chance. I jumped into the whip and put her in gear.
         I drove straight to Arn’s and put the wallet through his mail slot. No need to wake the dumb, bellicose asshole up. He would just cause a ruckus of some kind. Stupid bitch.


Next Day.

         “How’s your moms?” said the kid.
         “You know, she and I haven’t spoken in ages.” My mom never forgave me, her only son, for turning to the life. For turning to the street. I let that hang in the air for a bit. The kid looked around for any potential eavesdroppers before he asked me anything else.
         “You hear Arn put one out on you, How?” said 13 year old Tyrone Greene quietly in between sips of a 40 ounce that the boy could barely hold. Tyrone was one of the only block kids not afraid of me. More than fearless, I would say he even purposely tested my patience to impress his friends, the corner kids. You know, I respected him for that. And from time to time, he would give me tips on the du jour talk of the street.
         “Put one what out on me?”
         “Didn’t you hear? DeShawn was going District’s evidence and shit. He was going to be a key witness in a case against Dee Dee. Some niggas say he had been talking to the po’s for weeks, maybe even months. Said he had him dead to rights and shit. Dee owed DeShawn some money or something like that, it’s a grudge that goes back.”
         Daylor “Dee Dee” Lamont was a key soldier in Little Arn’s cartel. I never really asked what Little Arn did for a living, but it was common knowledge ‘round the way that it was a smack, crack, and coke business.
         “So now they say that Arn put one out on you too. He thinks you know too much about what happened to DeShawn and what that nigga was plottin’.”
         I would never let him know by looking at me, but I was furious. I make a point of not asking questions and not involving myself in other peoples’ business any more than I have to. I didn’t know shit about DeShawn being a key witness and informant for the cops. Fucking Little Arn was probably putting so much goddamn sniff up his nose, nigga’s bound to get paranoid and shit.
         “Well when you fuck with that llello so much, it tends to go to your head.”
         Tyrone finished his 40 and threw it across the street into a park. He checked his watch. “Well Howie, my nigga, what are you gonna do about this shit? You gonna end up ghostly if you stand around with your dick in your hands.” The mouth on this little kid.
         “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of all of this.”
         Let’s face it, I’ve dealt with scarier and more imposing foes than small time crack and smack peddlers like Arnold. What was I going to do? Wait it out. Play it by ear.
         See who blinks first.

         Later that night, I cleaned my guns. Now I’m no NRA nut, but when you stick and clip people for a living, you need to be well-stocked.
         I had to throw away that Sig Sauer .380.
         Damn, I liked that one. Oh well, they’ll be another like it.
         I opened my desk drawer and pulled out my Glock .357 Magnum automatic. I loaded the bullets into the clip and slammed the magazine home into the butt of the pistol. I checked the slider to make sure there wouldn’t be any unexpected jams. I slid the silencer, acquired through some fence on Georgia Avenue, into the barrel and locked it in place.          When a cokehead coke dealer is after your ass, you don’t want to be stuck with a faulty piece.
         Almost as soon as I finished loading up the mag, I heard a rustling outside my window. I pulled the slider back on the heat, putting a bullet in the chamber. I wasn’t taking any motherfucking chances.
         I slunk over to the window in the dark avoiding the places the light would illuminate my figure. I could vaguely see a man wearing a ski mask outside my window. Maybe I was just high, but that’s sure as hell what it looked like.
         Not in my house. I’ll let him come in. That’s no problem.
But what he does in my house will be up to me. He just doesn’t know that yet.
         I’m close enough to see the man clearly now. Can’t fucking tell who it is though with that goddamn mask on. He got the screen off my window and started to creep his way into my living room. After he’d gotten all the way inside, I ran up to him and punched him in the face, only I used the hand holding my .357. Damn, it musta felt like a fucking freight train hit him right outta nowhere. This thought made me chuckle to myself as this man writhed and groaned on my floor. I reached down and grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket. Dumbshit. One should never bring ID into a hit and run situation. His name was Cedric Williams.
         I removed an old .22 from his waistband. A fucking .22? Are you shitting me? I turned to his face.
         “OK, we can tell who is in control of this conversation, my friend. Do we want to do this the hard way or the easy way? You know what I want to know and I’m goddamn sure you know who I am. So tell me what I want to know.” I said all this with a grin. A pretty darn big one.
         “Fuck you, Howard. Fuck your stupid whore of a mother for having you-” The butt of my gun met the base of his spine before he could finish his comment on my matriarchy. He let out a shriek reminiscent of a cat getting his tail stuck in a door.
         “Shhhh.” I say. “Don’t want to wake the neighbors do we?” I reached down and unmasked this masked intruder.
         The corner kid Tyrone was right. Arn had put one out on me. No, it wasn’t Dee or Arn in the flesh, but I’d seen this kid picking up packages for Arn on several occasions. For those not in the know, a “package” is a large quantity of pre-packaged illicit illegal substances, usually several ounces of heroin in vials or cocaine in baggies. So I knew this kid was in the life. He only looked 17 or 18, but I had no sympathy for this cat. I was only 22.
         “Care to talk now, or would you like all of the bones in your body to break? I ain’t got shit but time, son.”
         “OK, OK. Arn fuckin’ sent me...all he said was that there was this nigga that know too much that need to be got. He didn’t tell me who it was going to be or why, really. Just please, don’t shoot me.” A crimson streak ran from his head across his face. Looks as if the boy might need some stitches. I thought for a second.
         “Nah, I ain’t gonna shoot you, son.” Was I lying? The kid crossed himself but he didn’t look like no Catholic. I think I’m going to do something I never do. I’m going to let this kid go. But with a message. I raised the .357 and pointed it at the young man’s knee.
         “This is going to hurt.” I squeezed the trigger and blood and little chunks of bone flew all over. The dude screamed again so loud I slapped him.
          “Take this message to Arnold Taylor for me. I am coming for him. He is not going to live past next week. I will take his corners, I will take his business, I will take him down to hell with me. Will you let him know this for me?’
         “Yes!” Cedric Williams screamed. It cut through the night air real sharp. “Just please, no more! No more!” It made me think a little bit. Yeah, I’ll let this kid go.
         “Alright, well get the fuck out of here. I never want to see you again, young’un. Never. Fuck off.”
         He did his best to collect himself and hobble out the front door.
         “And next time, bring something better than a fuckin’ deuce-deuce. I ain’t no motherfuckin’ squirrel, nigga!” I called out after him.
         The night was still again.
         But blood will stain the morrow.


Day of DeShawn’s Body Being Found, SE D.C.

         It felt like the Matrix. I was strapped like a motherfuckin’ Navy SEAL. I had my Glock .357 in my holster, my Smith and Wesson .38 Police Special was strapped to my ankle, my old Colt .45 in the back of my waist, and a semi-automatic Remington 12 gauge in my hands. I was packin’ like I was about to take on the Red Army.
         I kicked the door of Arn’s poker room in no time flat. There he was with Daylor and a bunch of package boys I didn’t recognize. I racked the chamber on the shotgun and said, “Nobody’s hands are going where I can’t see ‘em. Drop all the straps on the ground. Everyone!”
         Arnold and his young’uns all complied and dropped their respective guns, but Dee Dee’s hands were still lookin’ all old-West and shit, hovering above his right side. I wasted no time in showing what was going down.
         I turned towards Daylor Lamont and pulled the trigger of the 12 gauge. His body was partially lifted off the ground by the blast. He landed slumped over Little Arn’s desk. There was blood pretty much everywhere now.
         “Did I not fucking make myself clear about the hands thing? That’s what happens when you don’t listen to the man with the gun.” They all looked pretty goddamn freaked.
         “ Now there are some things I want to know, Arn. Why did you you call me up and ask me to do you a favor, and then all of a sudden turn your back on me and order my death? I don’t fucking understand that. Can you enlighten me?”
         Arn looked silly with Dee Dee’s blood spattered across his face. “Just...just let me explain, dude. I didn’t do shi-” As he was talking I saw one of the older lookin’ kids reaching for the back of his waistband. I swung the Remington over and pointed it at his thigh and fired. He slumped onto the ground clutching the wound on his leg.
         “I said all the guns in this bitch. Not some of them. That’s just what happens, again, when you don’t listen to the man with the gun.” I realized I only had three shells left in the chamber of the Remington. That’d be enough I think.
         Arnold Taylor looked genuinely scared now. “Please, Howard. I’ll give you anything to make you forget about this. I have money, I have girls, I’ve got anything you want.”
         “I don’t want what you have, young Arnold. You’re dead to me. I could let you go, but then I know I’d probably end up in a ditch within a week. I’ve come to my decision.” I’d already fired two 12 gauge shells inside a house, but likely in this neighborhood no one would think, or have the balls, to call the police.
         “Young’uns, get the fuck out of here.” They didn’t need to be told twice. The one with the buckshot in the leg stumbled out of the poker room gasping for air. There are no real heroes in this game. Not anymore.
         “Now it’s just you and me, Arnold.” I said with that smirk still on my face.
         Now this is where things get fucked up. I didn’t want any of this to happen but shit’s ugly sometimes.
          I first saw the blue and red lights reflecting on the wall through the windows of Arnold’s poker room. Through a megaphone I heard: “This is Officer Daly of the Metropolitan Police Department, come out with your hands up!” But I didn’t really hear this. It just shot through my head like lightning. Real quick-like. What happened? Had a neighbor called the police? I shoulda been more careful. Fuck.
         Fuck.
         Well, I need to do what I came here to do. No more thinking about it, considering the pros and cons. Fuck it.
         I pointed the shotgun barrel at Arn’s heart and shot him. He went out like a fluorescent light that has just been unplugged – not real quick, but he got there. I saw the life slowly fade from his eyes.
         I realized I could never go to jail.
         I could never go back into the system.
         I had done so much to get out.
         I stopped smoking bud for three years after I got popped for aggravated assault and battery and got put on probation. What a terrible time that was. I knew I wasn’t going back. I had plenty of ammunition and plenty of guns.
         It was then that I heard the front door come smashing in. I was just around the corner from about forty MPD officers with guns. I shut and locked the back door to the late Arnold’s poker room. Two young cops kicked down the door. We sorta looked at each other for a second but it was I that moved first. With the last two rounds in my shotty, I leveled those two cops, one blast after another.
         That was when I saw the red dot on my chest in the mirror above Arn’s desk.
         I didn’t hear the shot.
         I remember hitting the ground, though. Shit hurt.

         
Two Days Later. Epilogue.
         
         So it turns out that Tyrone Greene, the corner kid, was a CI for the MPD. Now, he wasn’t lying that Arn set me up to get taken care of, that was all true. But he told the police to stake out Arn’s house and to get backup when the black El Dorado, my black El Dorado, arrived. They did just that.
         And goddamn if they didn’t have a sniper in that tree. I’m impressed with myself that I got that much heat for just killin’ a couple rat-fink, two-timin’, good-for-nothin’ fools. A sniper in the tree, dude. Like fuckin’ Platoon or some shit. Thank God that fucker shot me in the lung and not the heart. I woulda been levitating towards a better place right quick.
         So I’m facing several consecutive 25-to-life sentences for aggravated murder and kidnapping. Being in jail certainly has its drawbacks, but sometimes I feel almost at home inside these concrete walls. I can put off death a little bit longer.
         Until I get shanked in gen-pop.
         Until I got shot trying to escape.
         Until I get taken out for talking shit to the Central-Americans.
         All because of Arnold Taylor and his cocaine paranoia. Maybe I’m blaming other people too much, but that nigga had a big part in putting me where I am today.
         But killing him? Was that too much?
         Hell no, I’d do it again if I had the chance.
         But I’ll be inside for a while. Not gettin’ outta this one. Is there a real reason why I’m telling you this story right now? Not one in particular. I’m not trying to teach you that violence is wrong or that blood can never be shed. Maybe I am trying to say that you should be careful when utilizing brute force. It can get you lit up or put in a place like this one.
         The main lockup at central. I’m in a cell with at least thirty other guys. All of whom I could have wasted on the outside, but now I’ve been reduced to taping phone books to my chest to avoid being stabbed. To be reduced to this plebian state, this fuckin’ forced servitude; it’s just not something you want.
         I’m just sitting in my corner reading the newest Washington Post when I feel  several sharp pains in my back. A shiv.
         “That’s for Arn and Dee, motherfucker.” I turn to face my assailant.
         No shit.
         It’s the kid I let go. He broke into my house and I set him free.
          With blood quickly leaking out my backside I grab the kid by the throat and start throttling him viciously. The guards show up and try to separate us but I am holding this kid with all my might. I feel their batons crashing upon me and my life-force slowly ebbing away. I let go of the kid and collapse to the ground. I feel the moist blood all around me.
         Well, I had a good run.
         Feeling resolved and at peace, I let out my last words.
         “Mom, I’m sorry for what I became.” I closed my eyes.