Ghetto Girls Too. Anthony Whyte

Чтение книги онлайн.

       FOUR

      Lil’ Long felt his body would hold out after the bullets hit but as he laid out on floor bleeding, he began to feel his body shift into uncontrollable movements. The spasms came and his face contorted as the end dawned on him. Here it comes, the shakes. He struggled with the thought and fought hard against surrendering.

      This is not how it should end. Nah, this ain’t the kid’s time to go. Not yet. I’m just not ready to go. Nah, nah, especially, not like this. Lil’ Long wanted to scream but could only grunt in pain. The blood in his mouth suppressed his words. They stayed burrowed deep inside. His mind burst setting thoughts afloat.

      A surge of burning sensation left his senses numb to the discomfort of his journey. His insides wailed against the torment of increasing pain. I can’t go out like this, nah, not like this. Not now. Lil’ Long gripped his fists and willed himself to live as he felt blood stream from his wounds. Eyes cast downwards followed the red path of blood across the shiny wooden floor. Against the white walls of the luxury apartment, tiny splashes of blood red were repulsive against the artwork.

      Police continued to arrive in droves, lightning fast. Lil’ Long thought it was a good thing. He told himself that the paramedics couldn’t be too far behind. He desperately needed one. With all the blue uniforms walking around, you’d think a brother dropped a bomb, he mused.

      Police moved back and forth getting and searching for evidence. Crime Scene with their yellow tape sealed off areas and drew white chalk lines around the dead body. It was as if death had, in a blur, transported them into a nightmare.

      The squelching of radios and walkie-talkies and the bantering of the police and paramedics brought realness to the situation. These activities along with the buzz of arriving media completed the transformation of Eric Ascot’s ritzy apartment into a bonafide crime scene.

      In this enclave of expensive buildings occupied mostly by affluent whites, Ascot was an outsider and was viewed as dangerous because he was black. It was probably presumed that he had orchestrated a deal where a shootout inside his apartment was the final scenario. Nary had a neighbor batted an eye at the macabre scene on the twelfth floor. It was as if the uniformed officers standing guard outside Ascot’s apartment were expected to be there.

      Vans filled with camera crews and reporters arrived on the scene at the ready. All of the neighbors they spoke with attested to not knowing much about Ascot except that he was black and people were shot dead in his apartment. Ascot was guilty and should go to jail. An old white lady, completely ignorant of Ascot’s accomplishments in the record industry, first praised the work of the police for their quick response in catching a gun toting criminal then, after berating Ascot, apologized for the shame this hideous crime had brought on the neighborhood. Staring into the camera, the old lady used the last portion of her fifteen minutes ranting.

      Inside the apartment, techs combed the place scraping here and getting samples there. An angry looking sergeant paced the scene inspecting the area. He chatted wildly on the walkie-talkie.

      “Multiple gunshot wound, two victims. One appears to be fatal, checking....wait…hold your damn horses. Confirmed dead, early twenties, female. Another appears to be alive. Black male, late teen to early twenties. That’s what we’ve got so far. Over.”

      Surveying the scene, Kowalski asked, “Where are the paramedics already?”

      “Upstairs,” an officer yelled.

      “Get them down here, pronto! We’ve got to save this man. He maybe the last chance I…ah, we have to crack this case wide open. You agree with that, partner?”

      “It’s Detective Hall, not partner. And what makes you so sure that the scumbag lying there with all that blood leaking out of him is gonna make it, Kowalski?”

      “Cause Detective Hall, we, you and I, are gonna make sure he gets taken to our hospital.”

      They eyed Lil’ Long’s bloodied body unmoving on the wooden floor. Detective Hall held out looking for another answer. If the hotshot detective here thinks he should live, I’ll play along, Hall thought. Nevertheless, he felt Lil’ Long should remain on the floor and bleed to death. It would be better for everyone. The answer was that simple but he gave his word anyway.

      “All right, we’ll do it your way.”

      “That’s what I’m talking about, partner,” Kowalski gushed and patted Hall on the shoulder. “You won’t be sorry. You’ll see.” Kowalski held Hall’s shoulder as he continued, “This is the big one.”

      “We’ll see, partner,” Hall said, knowing that he had already betrayed his gut feeling, something he had not done in over twenty years on the job. As a rookie, he was always reminded to trust your partner because a cop out on the street had two friends, his gun and his partner. Your survival depended on it.

      Gregory Hall was a little different. He had once been the proud parent of a high school all star jock for a son who had been cut down in the prime of his life. Hall’s only son succumbed to bullets from the gun of a thug like the one laying in his own blood. It would be sweet revenge if that low life just bled to death, Hall thought. But the once fulfilled father had made it to detective sergeant. Now he had to act accordingly.