SUFFER WITH ME Page 9

  Now it hits Suffiyah what she’s implying.

  “His family,” she mumbles.

  Tyler Scott was a twenty-one year-old financial whiz. His career on Wall Street was already predetermined after college. His presence was sought in multiple firms. With only one school semester left, he was on his way to unimaginable riches. How ironic is it that he was planning to make his life off other’s money and instead he ended up dying for the same reason. He was from a very prominent family. His mother was a doctor, father a surgeon and three brothers of various ages. All of whom viewed his dying and her surviving as catastrophes. A fact that they didn’t attempt to sugar coat or disguise.

  “Don’t you believe that they suffer, also? Can you think of anybody else who you could have caused more suffering?”

  “Here you go,” skunk lady says excitedly.

  She dumps five vials of cocaine in Detective Lewis’ hand. Unconcerned with his intentions for the narcotic, she on the other hand, can already taste the drug. Her leg shakes in anticipation as she waits to be dismissed by the detective. Addicts will sell their own soul for one dollar. So how much can anyone else’s be worth?

  “Sonya?” Suffiyah calls before entering her cubicle. Sonya swivels her chair around to face her.

  “Hey, Missy. How can I help you?”

  “I need to ask you a few questions about the Tyler Scott case.”

  “Honey, why would you step back in that mess?”

  “I think I overlooked something substantial while out there. Did any of his siblings have a record?”

  “No, they was as clean as the Brady Bunch. No records, perfect attendance, honor roll students. You name it, they was it. He became the black sheep after meeting a girl named Cynthia Rocelli. According to his brothers, she was the source of his addiction.”

  Sonya goes on filling her in on all she knew. Giving Suffiyah plenty to think about on her way back to her cubicle. She would put the number for Cynthia to use later on. First she has to do a little digging on her own.

  It only took five long strides to cover the distance from the front entrance to the man placing the beers in the refrigeration units. Soon as he was secured the other two gunmen entered immediately. There was no opportunity for a reaction between the first man’s entrance to the last two. Shock and fear covered the owners face as he watched the first assailant wrap his arm around the workers neck and shove the gun in his temple. Menacing eyes stared at him through the slits of the ski mask. He had thick plexi-glass put up around the entire counter of the liquor store to withstand an assault such as this. Although he is in the safe zone, his brother wasn’t so lucky. One of the other masked men shoved the only two customers face down on the floor, after he caught the lady staring too hard.

  “You know what it is, Pa! Don’t be stupid.”

  The last of the trio commands as he aims his pistol at the glass. The owner still stands stunned, frozen. One hundred and fifty percent of his faith went into the glass, so he became arrogant. Antagonizing consumers who he felt were beneath him. He would curse them out, throw their change or just blatantly disrespect them. Knowing something like this would happen, he was just waiting for it. He imagined himself laughing at the exercise in futility as he and his family watched from behind the safety glass. But in none of his visions were one of them out of the safe zone, like now.

  “Pop that shit now, Poppi!”

  The words snatching him from his thoughts. A little pee trickled down his leg as he stared down the barrel of the 44. Desert Eagle. The hole in its nose and the size of the seven bullets that he knew filled its magazine, erased the surety of the safety glass.

  “I want all the scratch offs, the money, ya watch, whatever’s in your pockets and anything of value, Pussy!”

  The first gunman rifles through the brother’s pocket as the directives are issued. Popping the gold cross from his neck, he then instructs him to remove the bracelet and watch from his wrist, before violently striking him with the gun. Causing him to babble in Spanish as he removes his jewelry expeditiously. Seeing his brother suffer caused the owner to place everything in the bags more swiftly. When he was done, all the booty was shoved through the rotating door in the glass.

  “For now on watch ya mouth and know who ‘hood you in. This personal.” He says.

  The desert Eagle roars to life. The owner hit the floor as soon as he saw the flare from the giant cannon. Gunfire exploded rapidly filling the silence with terror. Hot piss escapes the lady’s bladder as she reflects on her last moments.

  “It all happened so fast there was nothing I could do. By time I looked up they already had my brother.”

  “How many of them were there?”

  “Three morenos. Motherfuckers killed my brother. Diablo!” the owner states crying.

  “Mr. Arocho, it’s important we get a description from you to get the suspects. Every second counts.”

  “You don’t think I want to help? Please,” He places both hands out, palms up. “Please tell me how do I give a description of a face mask? Or should I let you show me a line up of face masks to see which is the closest color? Hmm? Stupido.” he mumbles but Suffiyah still hears the insult. The muggers told him it was personal. Judging from his attitude, she finds it hard to believe the situation has took this long to escalate.

  “Let’s take this from the top, Mr. Arocho. And one more thing. If you ever insult me again, you’ll be down here pressing charges for police brutality also.”

  The two customers are being held in separate rooms. This is to keep them from comparing what they know and altering their version of the incident based on the others recollection. Suffiyah will take Ray Brown after she finishes with the store owner and Detective Lewis will focus on…

  “Olivia Watkins,” Detective Lewis says in a spirited manner. “What age are you?”

  “I’m twenty-nine years old. I’m from around there, I see a lot!” she replies with emphasis.

  “Is that right Ms. Watkins?” he asks skeptically, trying to understand how a twenty-nine year old could pass for fifty so easily.

  “That’s right,” she affirms.

  He hasn’t started recording their conversation. It’s procedure to find out what a witness has to say before going on the record. So he skips the formalities and speaks plainly.

  “Stinkin’ Lincoln, what you know good?”

  The woman he dubbed “Skunk Lady” smiles her rotten toothed smile. “Lots, Detective. Didn’t I tell you I know all them around there? From they walks, how they dress, down to their tattoos. I know that what Stinkin’ Lincoln know is worth more than five shitty dimes.”

  “Give it to me. Let me judge.”

  You can tell from her facial expression that she’s deciding which factors of the story she’s willing to pass on for free.

  ”Wayne-Wayne came in first and grabbed the young poppi by the collar.”

  “Wait. How do you know that if he had on a mask?”

  “He wear those same Robin jeans ‘til the rhinestones fall off and those Jordan’s with the pink shoestrings.”

  “Okay. What happened next?”

  “One of the other boys came in. I don’t know who he was, but Munch came in last.”

  “How do you know it was Munch? Does he wear the same outfit too or was it his cologne?” Lewis asks sarcastically.

  “Naw. Munch different. He keeps a low profile but he’s dangerous as shit. A real cowboy. So I gotta be John Doe if I tell you anything.”

  “You mean Jane.”

  “Huh?”

  “Jane Doe. You would have to be Jane Doe.”

  “Well her too. As long as I ain’t me.”

  Detective Lewis rubs his face in frustration, “If you can’t tell from his outfit, which wouldn’t be worth shit anyway, how would you possibly know it was him?”

  Skunk Lady sits quietly, smirking, baiting him deliberately. This tad bit of information would keep her floating on cloud nine for
a week easy.

  “What’s it worth, Lewis?”

  CHAPTER 16

  Grunts of pleasure echo off the walls of the bedroom. The smell of sex lingers in the air and coats their perspiring bodies. His fingertips push through her hair gently and massage her scalp. A guttural moan leaves Suffiyah’s lips as the motion between her thighs intensifies. One hand remains in her hair while she lays on her back, the other travels her figure and rests on her bottom. The warmth of his hand couple with the soft roughness of his callouses and makes her moisture overflow. He grips her right cheek emphatically and pulls her into his thrusts. She runs her hand down his back. The crevices feeling like little canyons as she senses his muscles flex under her fingertips. Her legs spread wider as she places her hands on Benji’s butt and forces him deeper in her tunnel and herself deeper into delight. Wetness drips from one orifice and soaks the other, which he immediately slides his finger into. Her pleasure upsurges at the alien feeling invading her as his finger nestles in her back entrance. Benji kisses her face tenderly with each stroke.

  Forehead.

  Left eye.

  Right eye.

  Cheek.

  Other cheek.

  Nose.

  Top lip.

  Bottom lip.

  Suffiyah locks onto his aperture as if it’s her only source of oxygen and she’s close to her demise. The sweet heat of her breaths as beautiful and inviting as the passionate whimpers laced in between them. Increasing his hardness as he guides his vessel into the depths of her flooded river. His pace quickens. Her legs wrap around his waist, arms around his neck. Her swollen entrance trapping his girth. Suffiyah’s body tenses signaling her imminent eruption.

  “Harder. Deeper. Ohhhh…”

  The sound of her voice pushes Benji over the edge as he attempts to fuck her worries into nonexistence.

  “I’m, I’m, I’m, ummm!” She explodes.

  Pulling the sheets between her clenched thighs against her throbbing femininity as she grinds her mattress. The orgasm drenching her sheets as she awakens. The moonlight kissing off her bare posterior as she pants heavily into her pillow. Never in her thirty-three years has she had a wet dream. But if they all feel like this, she can’t wait to fall back asleep.

  “A German astronomer once said, ‘I much prefer the sharpest criticism from a single intelligent man to the thoughtless approval of the masses.’. Feel me?” Benji allows the depth of the statement to permeate the mental. He rarely has time to do this part of his job, except on this day. The three family home houses MISFITS. This is where his most intimate and critical counseling takes place. The red Nike jogger he wears allows him to feel more akin to the youths that surround him this Saturday morning.

  “That’s a powerful spill. Especially in today’s world where the consensus is if you aren’t doing what everybody else is, than you’re nobody. The question we have to ask ourselves is, ‘How can a somebody be a nobody?’ The answer to that is, as long as you be you, you’re somebody. But the moment you feel you have to maneuver like everybody else, you become nobody. Why? Because to become someone else means you must first lose yourself. So you bartered what made you special. What made you unique. To appease the thoughtless masses.” he states while staring at Drama.

  After their first introduction, Benji canvassed the area around the school daily until he found him. Inside Drama’s eyes he sees himself and the tumultuous path he was tossed down. If he can be the voice that persuades him away from that road, he’d give every Saturday up for the rest of his life.

  The room light twinkles off of the silver heart nipple rings as they bounce up and down vigorously. Storm is “rolling”. The gram of Molly which she mixed into her drink increases her sexual appetite and decreases her grip on reality. This makes her job easier to deal with and to stomach. Money has no gender or nationality. It isn’t judged by its looks, only its worth. A hundred dollar bill can be wrinkled, dirty, written on, stinky or torn, but it still spends like a hundred dollars. So that’s the same manner in which she conducts her clientele. Her eyes are glazed over as she performs the reverse cowgirl better than any porn star she has ever watched. He’s mesmerized by the way her small waist moves her jiggly bottom. Waves flow across the surface of her derriere as she slams on his pelvis. His eyes lock onto the tattoo of the handprint on each butt cheek. Her beauty is a rarity foreign to this bedroom. She looks over her shoulder to see if she’s earning her keep. It takes all her willpower not to laugh as Lewis sits with the goofiest look on his face she can remember ever seeing. He’s been paying for this joyride since he saw her at Exotics. His mouth is wide open, his eyes shut. He looks like a chocolate crocodile. This causes her to bounce harder, it’s now a game to her. How much uglier can she make this ugly face? To him this is an experience but for her, it’s just another day of work.

  Cynthia Rocelli was nothing like the image Suffiyah had envisioned. Her mind’s eye was seeing a well-dressed, beautiful Italian woman. Maybe a little nerdy but exuding femininity. Instead she was being inspected by a portly female with multiple facial piercings. Clad in black from head to toe, resembling a neo-Nazi from the streets of London, she stares at Suffiyah with disgust. Giving her little more respect than she would dog feces.

  “License, registration and insurance, please?” Suffiyah asks from the driver’s side window.

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m an officer of the law and I’m requesting your credentials.”

  “But why are you stopping me?” the pincushion asks defiantly.

  She’s been driving properly, not exceeding the speed limit and signaling when necessary. This is a blatant violation of her rights and she refuses to stand for it.

  “I’m stopping you because you just purchased narcotics at the corner of South Orange Avenue and Smith Street. I can both search you and call the K-9 Unit to find the drugs or we can have a conversation and I may go away alone. But if you decide you don’t wish to speak to me, then we’ll be leaving together.”

  The arrogance melts away and is replaced with fear. The twenty-two bags of heroin in Cynthia’s bra have her looking at jail. Not only will her parents kill her but she can kiss her scholarship goodbye. As she eyes the plainclothes officer only two words play in her mind. I’m telling. This has to be about the dealer and she’s willing to give him up with no problem. If it is one thing Newark has in excess, it is dealers. So she can always find another source.

  “Do I need a lawyer, Ma’am?” she asks respectfully for the first time.

  “You come answer my questions and then you decide. Deal?” Cynthia nods her assent. “Okay, then follow me.”

  The cops hastily exit the car before anyone has a chance to run. The group of young men sit on the steps of the abandoned house. Guilt or nervousness etched into each of their faces. They were so focused on their phones they didn’t notice the lone patrol car creeping through the intersection.

  “You fellas live here?” The officer points at the boarded up door. “If not, you’re loitering.”

  Silence.

  “Okay. Let’s see some ID guys?”

  Realizing this is just a regular case of the heat hassling them and nothing more, the men relax. Everyone is clean so they allow the police to search them.

  “He just searched me,” the man says.

  “Thanks for telling me,” the other officer says smirking. “What’s your name big homie?”

  “Marshon Welch. I ain’t no big nothing either.”

  “Sure, sure. The rest of you get the fuck outta here.” He demands while frisking Marshon. “Look back if you want and see if I can’t find a gun for y’all to share.” Prior incidents convince them that his threat is legitimate. They leave their comrade behind with very little fuss or concern.

  The bare room is sparsely furnished. Three chairs and a table are the only items occupying the windowless space. The architect must have structured this room to induce extreme discomfort. He overdid his
job from the look of Cynthia. Sweat soaks her to the underclothes as she sits in the lone chair on her side of the table. A part of her is angry. After sitting in the room alone for the past half hour, she has finally figured out the officer’s face. Like a bad dream, it all comes back to her. Tyler’s death, the officer being shot, her being alone and no one around to take the ridicule but her. The door to her little box opens, interrupting her thoughts. All business is the expression worn by Suffiyah as she enters wielding a thick manila folder. Cynthia’s eye bounce back and forth from the folder to Suffiyah face. Anger has taken a backseat and anxiety is driving.

  “Ms. Rocelli, I’m Detective Adams. This is regarding an issue with your vehicle. First, are you the only person who drives your car?” Cynthia thinks for a second.

  “Yes.”

  “Even while Tyler was alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “I think. No, I know no one else drove my car.”

  Suffiyah opens the folder and shuffles through the papers. The thing that was nagging at her memory finally surfaced.

  “It’s strange you say that. I didn’t peg you as a suspect, but it’s no other possibility. You just confirmed that you don’t let anyone drive your car. This is video surveillance from the bank.” She slides the picture over for Cynthia to see. When she pulled Cynthia’s 1999 Pontiac Bonneville over, she couldn’t help but notice that although the car was navy blue, the driver’s door was white.

  “Is that your car, Ms. Rocelli? Because if so, then you are a co-conspirer to robbery in the first degree. Oh and felony murder, because the robbery resulted in the death of Tyler Scott.”

  The car that backfired was Cynthia Rocelli’s. Suffiyah misunderstood. Tyler wasn’t surprised by the car backfiring, but more at seeing his getaway car getting away from him. Her defiant streak once cracked, is now broken as she stares at her car. The water pours from her tear ducts like it’s a faucet. Suffiyah’s face remains stoic. The seconds of silence become insufferable.