Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

But now that the man was a big shot, all this could pay off big. She wasn’t sure who to tell though. She didn’t want anyone cutting in on her deal. She thought of her brother, Samual. He was a good kid. He’d escaped the hood through a church organization that helped him with a scholarship and he was doing real good. Yes, she thought he might know what to do. Of course she’d have to tell her man too. He’d kill her if she didn’t and he found out later. But she thought telling her brother might still be a good idea, just in case her man, Dilly, got to being stupid and got the wrong people mad at them. Dilly had done that in the past; lots of times. So, yes, she’d tell Dilly, but after she told Sam. That made everything easier. She called Sam and told him what she knew and asked him what he thought she should do. He told her not to tell anybody, especially Dilly, and to never bring the subject up to anyone ever again. That made her mad and she told Sam he was just being jealous and she hung up. Now she was mad… mad and frustrated because the drugs were beginning to wear off a little and she still wasn’t sure what she should do. So she decided to do what she always did in the end and call Dilly. Then she could just fill him in on everything and let him take over like he always did. Some of that good feeling was coming from the drugs, but the rest was just the release of responsibility. Once her man, Dilly, took over, everything would be fine and they’d be sitting on easy street. The both of them. That would show that snooty brother of hers. She should never have even told him anything.

Rockeeta took out her phone and made the call.

Jerome stood outside of the City building that Gil had just left, watching both the front doors as well as the exit to the parking garage. The sun blazed high in the sky, fading the blue to a whitish haze. The humidity hung heavy and thick, making his shirt stick to his chest. But it didn’t bother him in the least. This was home. He’d lived here his whole life till he moved to Colorado with Clair. The dessert climate didn’t suit him at all. And the altitude still hit his lungs and endurance. Even the air felt and smelled different. Dry and thin and unsatisfying.

Clyde stepped outside with three other men, all brothers and all dressed pretty much the same as they had been in Colorado. Suits, ties, fancy shoes, and those squiggly wires going from their collars to their ears. A few seconds later, a car pulled up and five bangers got out. Bloods, no doubt about that. Clyde spoke to them for a few seconds and they piled back into their car and drove off. The three men that had come out with Clyde followed them in a black SUV. Clyde went back inside.

Jerome got into the car he’d stolen the night before and followed the SUV. They wound their way through the city and finally stopped at a block of Section 8 houses in a not-so-very-nice part of the city.

Two of the fancy-dressed men went with the five bangers into a building, while the last man stayed with the car, standing outside smoking a cigarette.

Jerome stopped down a way and parked. He made his way behind the building and hopped a broken-down fence. He went through a yard, with rusted out cars littering the dirt, and rounded the apartment building. The man guarding the cars rested against the driver’s side door, still smoking and looking at something on his phone. Jerome sauntered quietly up to him and, as soon as he turned, clouted him full force on the chin. The man went instantly limp and started to crumple, but caught himself and tried a weak punch, which Jerome easily deflected with his forearm before hitting the man again in the side of the head. The punch was hard and made a meaty smack, but still the man shoved into him, wrapping his arms around Jerome’s waist and trying for a leg sweep that wasn’t about to happen. Jerome clubbed down with his elbow five swift times, smashing the man’s head, neck and shoulders. He went out, hitting the pavement hard with his chin. A small puddle of blood began to spread beneath his face. Jerome did a quick pat-down, taking his wallet, keys, gun, spare magazines and radio. He clipped the ear piece in, once he figured it out, and dumped the man into the back seat of the car after handcuffing him behind his back with his own cuffs.

Inside the building, Jerome had to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. An old man lay in a pile of filth and trash, his torn and faded jeans soaked from his crotch to his knees. He snored loudly as Jerome passed. The place stank of rotted food, old sweat and other fluids, both bodily and otherwise. A big rat scuttled across the hallway, completely careless of Jerome’s presence. Jerome had to admit to himself that Colorado did have its advantages. He moved quickly, taking the stairs and listening as best he could for any sign of the men. The building rose for about ten floors and he had no way of knowing where they might be. He stopped at every floor, entered the side doors and let his hearing strain at each hallway and intersection. He came across two other men, passed out in the stairwells, broken glass and trash as prevalent as the graffiti that covered every square inch of wall, ceiling and floor.

On the eighth floor, Jerome heard a woman scream and the sound of a slap. He entered the hall, easing the