Then he lifted the sheet.
Detective Meritti proceeded to tell her that the pink-black distorted lump before her was her son.
This ain’t my son, Delores thought as her body began to tremble uncontrollably.
Meritti noticed that she was beginning to lose her equilibrium, and he gently grabbed her to support her in case she fainted.
“Mrs. Murphy? Are you all right? Can I get you anything? Please, sit down.”
Delores shook off his offer and brushed his hand off her shoulder. She stood very still, silently staring at the body. The nameless lump of flesh they claimed was her son wasn’t even the right height. Close, but a little too tall. His build, or what was left of it, was too bulky.
Anxious eyes looking for closure could be easily fooled.
Detective Smalls watched her intently, as if he had the eyes of a hawk. He was fully aware of the masquerade he and Meritti were perpetrating. More important, he was looking for a sign that Delores was staging a masquerade of her own. He felt that if she identified the body too quickly, too cleanly, perhaps she was already aware of her son’s whereabouts, already knew that he wasn’t dead. So Smalls watched her facial expressions from the moment the sheet was lifted and observed her eyes as they flicked over the body. He watched her very carefully to see if she had been prepared or had rehearsed her reaction. Crying too hard, screaming for the Lord, or shouting for mercy and faking too much drama would be dead giveaways. But to his surprise, Delores did nothing like that. The pain that glazed her eyes was too deep and too real to be an act. She had passed the test, but not for the reasons Smalls had assumed. Delores looked from face to face, and her motherly instincts kicked in.
She knew they were up to something. But what? This ain’t Bernard, but they must want it to be or they want to know where he is. I’m going to pretend right along with them. And that’s exactly what she did to protect her child.
The police were trying so hard to deceive her, but they themselves were being deceived. Delores stood in the middle of the cold, sterile room trying to figure out their motives while they were trying to figure out hers. The illusion of truth wore a mask of deception well.
“Mrs. Murphy, I know this is hard for you,” Meritti said slowly. “But can you ID this body for us as your son?”
Her weak gaze hid a strong resolve as she looked from Smalls to Meritti. Delores lowered her head and subtly nodded.
Meritti was relieved.
Smalls was perplexed.
And Delores’s soul was tormented. The pain in her eyes Smalls detected wasn’t caused by her belief that her son was dead. It was because he was still alive. Somehow, somewhere, Bernard James, Jr., was still alive. The nightmare wasn’t over, and she was more confused and flooded with emotion now than when they had first lifted the sheet. Once again, she had cosigned to a reign of terror she was sure would follow. The nightmare was nowhere near over. The truth was, it was just about to begin.
“Where do I sign for my son’s body?” she asked.
“Right here, Mrs. Murphy,” said Detective Meritti.
Delores took the pen and signed for the pretend Dutch to be released to the funeral director. I got to pay to bury this muthafucka that ain’t even Bernard. I’m going to kill that boy when I see him, she thought to herself. But her intentions were to cremate the remains so that the secret of Dutch could be scattered to the winds.
CHAPTER THREE
Whose world is this?”
“Mine!”
“Whose world am I?”
“Mine!”
“Then say my name, ma. Say my name.”
“Young World,” Lana purred as she posed in the bathroom doorway. She had the curves of two letter S’s facing each other. Chocolate from head to toe, she stood bowlegged, wet and naked, tantalizing Young World as he lay back on the spacious bed in their Cancún hotel suite.
“Do my dance, yo,” Young World told her.
Lana began to slowly and sensually gyrate her hips to the rhythm of her own lust, palming her full breasts and pulling at her tender brown nipples.
“Like this, World?” She smiled, loving the feeling of her man’s eyes all over her.
“No doubt. Slow motion, ma. Move it slow motion for me,” he replied with gangsta charisma. He licked his lips and grabbed his crotch.
Lana complied as she crawled on the bed like a black panther in the jungle stalking her prey. Young World parlayed like the young don Dutch made him, wearing only two things: a pair of burgundy silk boxers and Dutch’s dragon chain gleaming off the reddish-brown skin of his bare chest.
He watched Lana take his erect member into her warm mouth and wrap her juicy lips around his shaft, relaxing her throat, and curling his toes. Her head bobbed as if his dick was licorice and she was addicted to sweets.
Young World had definitely come up lovely. It had been nine months since the courthouse massacre and things had gone just as Dutch predicted they would.
The streets is gonna be wide open like pussy after this. Niggas you thought you could count on either gonna flip and try and go for dolo or nut up under pressure.
The streets lit up like the Fourth of July as street niggas and greedy crews scrambled for the crumbs off Dutch’s table. Young World had one of the sickest teams in the game, but even he took losses. His right-hand man, Jazz, didn’t have the killer instincts it took to ball on World’s level, so seventeen shots later found him on a basketball court in the park. Jazz and Young World had come up together so his death hit Young World hard, but there was no time to mourn because the streets wouldn’t let him.
The rest is up to you.
Dutch’s final words to him replayed in his head and made Young World put his gangsta down in a way that would make Dutch smile in his grave and make the streets bow down. While he relaxed with the love of his life in Cancún, Mexico, the streets of Newark were on fire.
“Young World, muthafucka!” the masked gunman yelled from the chrome black Ducati. His fully automatic Israeli Uzi spat round after round into both the driver of a droptop Lexus coupe and the girl sitting in the passenger seat. They slumped like Kennedy, and the Ducati gunner sped off, leaving the bodies nodded at the light.
Lana’s deep-throat game had Young World feeling like he was about to bust all over her tonsils, but he wasn’t ready to nut. He wanted to feel that bomb shot of hers that had him so in love. He lifted her chin and pulled her up until she straddled his hips and slid down on him, riding him like the stallion he was.
The young hustler wasn’t a stranger to the county jail, but with the paper he was making in the McCarter Highway Projects, bail was like candy money. His mama posted his bail. He knew it would be just a few hours more before his paperwork was processed and he was released. He stretched out on his bunk without a care in the world, knowing his name would soon be called. He didn’t know his number would come up before his name did.
Youngen closed his eyes to catch a quick nap. He never saw Duke slip into his cell like the Phantom of the Opera, gripping a homemade shank tight in his palm. Duke quickly snatched the pillow from behind the man’s head and put it over his face. The short struggle ended quickly when Duke plunged the shank into his victim’s heart, giving it a deadly twist to seal the deal.
“Tell ’em Young World sent you,” Duke whispered menacingly.
“Ooh, World, don’t stop, daddy. Ooh, I love you, World, I…” Lana groaned as she rode World like she was raised riding broncos. Her ass slapped against his thighs.