2024 Baltimore County, Monday, September 23, 10:55 AM
Daryl was awake early, the rain dripping drearily out the window, where he could see that big ass giant liquor store. Though he had a few dollars and a thirst to numb the pain that had infested his brain these long years, he did not dare go there. His eyes wet.
“Not a man on paper a month and already caught a serious charge!”
He shook his head as he sat on the corner of the disheveled bed, “Driving without a license is one thing, nut goddamned Nelson had just robbed a dude—accessory after the what? Shit,” he cried, “Dat rich nigga rob a dude for fun and got his daddy’s lawyer! I got Little Miss Dumb Butt public defender—not even a fuckable bitch, but a human ravioli!”
The tears came in earnest as he imagined being thrown under the bus by Nelson Butcher, slickest shithead he had ever trusted. Worse than that, was he couldn’t smoke in here and going out on the covered walk above the front lot would expose him to who knew how many hard men. The entire motel was filled with dudes that pretty much looked like him, if you replaced his baby face and tears with hard looks and sneers. There might be somebody watching him for Nelson, maybe some thugs skulking on him to take his last five cigarettes.
“Mamma,” he began to whine for that big bitch that didn’t care, who had not been there in court. He had been lucky to get bailed on zero, he half thought so that Nelson’s brothers or cousins could get to him here—but he needed a smoke or he’d keep crying for her.
He was cold all over, especially his skinny feet with no clean socks, half laced into his scuffed Nike’s, as he propped the door open with a hand towel, terrified he would get locked out. Right, down the hall, out the glass door onto the covered walk he went, the railing wet with soot over the white paint, the rain pooling on the long lot a broken leg below. He turned, shook out his hands, lit a smoke, a half done one, put it between his cracked lips of worry with his thin ashy hand, and quaked. A look left showed three hard dudes smoking blunts on the balcony, already into a 40 of Steel Reserve, looking him down hard.
‘Smoke, Daryl, just smoke—don’t choke, not here, not now.’
He narrowed his gaze, trying to be kind of hard, but not too hard so as to get a whooping.
The nearest one, a bad, buff looking dude, saw right through him and began to grin. That one nodded to the skinny one and the thick one, all hooded up in white for the rain, and they looked his way.
‘This smoke is terrible, like piss.’
‘What is that feeling?—it ain’t good.’
He looked away right to make certain nobody was behind him sneaking up, “Oh shit!”
Right next to him was some tall, scary white man, not basketball tall, but regular, beat-your-ass, tall. He had a brown beard streaked with gray, long brown hair under the hood of his plain black hoody. His eyes were behind cheap sunglasses, where they burned blue. There was a knit hat of black under the hood. His shoulders were broad, waist narrow and legs concealed in black sweat pants. He wore black boots, black gloves and spoke softly, “Good morning. Finish your smoke. I will not harm you—My Word.”
With those creep-for-sake words, the man shouldered past Daryl and walked down the way to the three thugs, the hard buff one posting up bold. No word was heard by Daryl but the three dudes were listening intently to what the man must have said in those low, soft tones.
A bill was handed to the buff one, who took it and backed to the railing. Bills were then handed to the other two, who took the green money notes with amazed looks. Daryl wanted to know if they were 20s, 50s, 100s, but could not tell. Only ten paces away, at 19 whole years, his eyes were fading away.
The man’s hands went into his hoody pockets and he said softly, kindly, “Thank you, Gentlemen,” and walked back towards Daryl, who was about to pass out.
The man pulled out a $50, nodded towards the glass door to the rooms and asked, “For a word. For a phone call, fifty more.”
“Yes, yezzir,” Daryl stammered nervously and opened the door to the inside hallway where all of the apartments in this section were accessed. Back to room 31, door propped open with a washcloth, Daryl walked half dazed, and held it open.
‘Grow some balls, Man, this is it, maybe your last moment. You’re letting the wolf into the little pig house!’
He turned as he saw the man make sure the door was locked. Before he got back even with the bathroom door and the end of the bed, he shook out his hands together, like they were both on a basketball and stammered, “Are you from Nelson, Nelson’s lawyer, I mean?”
The man looked at him, “I am not here for you. You are my bait. You will call Baltimore City Homicide Sergeant of Detectives, Barry Garrison. You will tell him that you have information about the death of Bobby, ‘the African Dude.’ You will then stay here while I converse with Barry. Barry and I will then leave and your life will continue on its course, with an additional fifty dollars.”
“What, what about the dudes, you gave money to those hard thugs?”
“What is your name?”
“Daryl, sir.”
“Daryl, I gave you my word that you would not be harmed, that means by me or for me. That Word is the hill I die on—do you understand?”
Daryl was somewhat relieved, “Honor en shit, right?”
“Yes Daryl, Honor. Those men, one will knock on this door when the detective rolls onto the lot.”
He then walked over to Daryl, patted him on the shoulder, with a strong but not mean hand, handing him a police business card with the other. “Daryl, please sit down in the chair in the corner there, and call Barry. Feel free to give your name. Do not mention me. You have to meet here now, today. Your trial date has been moved up to tomorrow—your lawyer just called and told you that. You are being expedited.”
“You’re working with my lawyer, the Public Defender?”
The man smiled softly, “Yes Daryl, as a matter of moral record, I am working with your lawyer.”
The black hooded man stood like one of them scary-ass Lord of the Rings riders, in the corner, behind the door, where Daryl somehow sensed, that quiet, crazy cracker would stay, like a snake ready to feed, until Daryl brought him who he wanted.
Before he called he had to lay it out, “I’m no snitch. Whoever your badass is, you is not an informant. I ain’t either. I will not go to no cops. But if they come to me, I ain’t good at this shit. I’ll say what went down if asked, but never, ever offer it up.”
“I know,” smiled the man, “that is why I have disguised that fact that I’m a Nigerian.”
Daryl belly laughed, “Motherfucker! You got ta give me a minute till I get out this laugh. I ain’t ‘bout to call no city cop with a grin—dem snakes can hear dat shit, will know I’m lurin’ him in!”
The man in the hood smiled, leaned back and rolled his shoulders with what seemed infinite patience for somebody that was obviously set to do wrong to one of the wrongest of them all.
