Push Comes To Shove Part 31

15. What are the pros and cons of GP and Kitchie welcoming Denise into their home?

16. In your opinion, will Desmond take the money and leave things be, or do you think we'll be hearing more from him? Explain.

17. Is it vain to have a loved one's cremated remains turned into a diamond?

AUTHOR'S EXIT The apple of my eye, JaVenna. You are my ideas, hopes, desires, moral obligations personified. You are more woman than I would even dare pray for. You have enriched my existence, added new color and meaning to my world, and supported and believed in me effortlessly. Girl, to you I humbly extend my eternal grat.i.tude for blessing little ole me with your presence this lifetime. Your love is awe-inspiring. (Okay, right now I'm down on my knee, gazing into your eyes.) Baby, I love you with all my heart. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, showing you. Caring for you and protecting you. Will you make my dreams come true and continue this journey with me as my wife?

I am very thankful for everyone who contributed their talents and skills in order to make Push Comes To Shove Push Comes To Shove a reality. Specifically, Brenda Hampton, Zane and Docuversion. a reality. Specifically, Brenda Hampton, Zane and Docuversion.

Of equal measure, I thank my family (Williams, Myrieckes, Smith and the Harris boys), knowing I have people like you in my corner is all the encouragement I need to write just one more page.

And to my amazing readers, I swear none of this would be possible without you. Thanks for holding me down.

Oasis Fort Dix, New Jersey July, 2010

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Chapter 1.

Parrish Clovis awoke naked on his neighbor's lawn. He was stretched out beside a mountain of Rottweiler s.h.i.+t. He absolutely had no idea of how he'd managed to be spooning with dog c.r.a.p. He scrunched up his stubbled face at the tangy smell. He distinctly remembered climbing into bed last night and s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g his wife into a frenzy. This change of location, he couldn't explain. In fact, a lot of absurd and peculiar things had occurred lately that he couldn't explain.

He glanced at his bandaged hand. He still hadn't figured out how he'd fractured three fingers, either. One thing, though: he was grateful that daybreak was just approaching, and that his a.s.s hadn't been busted. The thought of explaining this bout of bizarre behavior to anyone embarra.s.sed him.

Parrish turned up his nose at the rotten stench again, pulled himself to his feet, and trudged to the fence that divided the yards, his hands covering his sacred parts. When he hurdled the fence, his wife swung open the back door of their home.

Hana looked at him with disdain. "This is absolutely ridiculous." Her Hungarian accent was intense, matching her glare.

"Don't start, Hana. I'm really, really not in the mood. I smell like dog p.o.o.p." He stalked by her. "I hate that dog."

"The enforcements are coming."

"You called the cops?" He sighed. "Shouldn't have done that, Han."

"My anxiety has been agitated all night." She followed him through the house. "Last time you showed up-"

"I don't need reminding."

"You swore everything was under control." She looked at the pieces of gra.s.s that clung to his brown a.s.s. "You're nude. That's miles away from control."

He froze in his tracks and turned his head to a painting that decorated the wall of their staircase. A line creased between his brows. "Where did this come from?"

"You brought it home two days prior. Monday." Tears streaked her beautiful face. "Don't you remember?"

A stolen UPS truck plowed toward its destination. Ace, the driver, was a colossus man. Six-foot-eight with a stony, pale face and hands the size of baseball mitts. He had a balding crown that peeled because of a constant thras.h.i.+ng from the sun. He smashed his size 16s against the gas pedal and put an eye on his pa.s.senger. "You are right about me; I am not a good man," the giant spoke, slow and without contractions. "It is true; I only joined the Rangers so I could kill people for free."

The pa.s.senger chuckled. "You didn't need the military. Y'all white folks been getting away with murder for centuries."

"The military was my gymnasium to practice in." Ace thumped a finger against the steering wheel. "Pop, and the enemy goes down. You are still sore that you did not beat me; could not beat me."

"I didn't kick your big a.s.s because this trick knee gave out on me." The pa.s.senger rubbed his knee and thought back to the day Ace had taken advantage of the injury and pinned him to a mat in front of his platoon. "You don't feel good about the way you won the trophy."

"We are fifteen years away from the Rangers...Sergeant Lindsay, but it is never too late for a rematch. Fighting makes my d.i.c.k hard." Ace parked curbside at an expensive home. He placed a toupee on his chapped, bald spot and patted it.

"Ace, I will f.u.c.k you up," the retired sergeant said, handing Ace a package. "Now, do what the f.u.c.k I'm paying you to do."

"Two wrongs don't make it even, justify it, or make it right." Parrish shut CNN off, disgusted. "They're going to execute that brother no matter what. So what, they found him guilty? The conviction is iffy. People don't have the permission to decide who should live and who should die." He gazed through the window at his neighbor's yard and wondered about last night.

"Tookie Williams deserves the death penalty," Hana said, refilling her husband's favorite Garfield mug with coffee. "He actually did horrible things, Parrish."

"How do you really know that?" He gestured at the TV. "This thing is brainwas.h.i.+ng you. You're becoming more and more Americanized." He said Americanized Americanized as if he were speaking of devil wors.h.i.+ping. "Trust me, Han; I know what it's like to want to be different. Before my mother died, I used to pretend I was someone else. You're Hungarian. You look Hungarian, so why do you want to feel American? Be yourself and think for yourself. Don't let the media dictate your thoughts and opinions. No human deserves to die at the hands of another human." as if he were speaking of devil wors.h.i.+ping. "Trust me, Han; I know what it's like to want to be different. Before my mother died, I used to pretend I was someone else. You're Hungarian. You look Hungarian, so why do you want to feel American? Be yourself and think for yourself. Don't let the media dictate your thoughts and opinions. No human deserves to die at the hands of another human."

"I'm ent.i.tled to my opinion, of course."

"When it's yours."

"You did a great job of changing the subject. Americans are experts at deviating when they don't want to address an issue. I haven't adopted that practice."

Smart a.s.s. He sighed. "I haven't had any symptoms since high school; I haven't taken any medicine since then, either."

"Um...things change with time. At least see a physician before something absolutely terrible happens. I'm worried."

The doorbell rang.

She shook her head. "Have a ball explaining why you slept on the neighbor's lawn."

"You shouldn't have called the cops." He adjusted his housecoat and went to the door.

Parrish was amazed at the UPS man's size. He stood eight inches over Parrish, maybe nine. His blond hair balanced on his head as if it were a foreign object. His fingers reminded Parrish of jumbo Oscar Mayer franks; his knuckles of lug nuts.

"Good morning," Parrish said as a police car parked in the driveway.

"I'm looking for Parrish Clovis. I have a package for him."

Two uniformed officers stepped out of the car.

"How can I help you?"

Ace thrust the package into Parrish's arms. "You must sign for it."

The uniforms started up the driveway.

"What is it?" Parrish eyed the package. The cops lurching up the walk were in his peripherals, and he was rehearsing the lie he would tell.

"I do not know. I only deliver." Ace gave him an electronic pen and a digital Tos.h.i.+ba tablet.

A Hispanic officer nodded at Ace in pa.s.sing and then faced Parrish. "We got a call about a missing person."

Ace headed for the truck and emailed Parrish's signature to his personal computer.

Parrish tore the package open. It was empty.

10:39 PM PM, OCTOBER 1, 2005 1, 2005.

Chapter 2.

Murder. I had gotten away with it once; tonight was the perfect time to try my luck again.

The sky was dark and quarrelsome, reflective of my mood. Lightning split the night in two. The heavens cried a steady downpour of tears. The heavens' choice of pain purging was tears. Mine? Double homicide.

The sway of my winds.h.i.+eld blades was hypnotizing, sedative even. They seemed to wipe the blur away from my vision. They seemed to wipe her ugliness away from my thoughts. The SUV's idling engine was smooth. Meditative. Healing.

Only a moment slipped by before her her ugliness tormented me again. ugliness tormented me again.

My palms were slick with evidence of my nervousness. I gripped the steering wheel, thinking. I forced a fidgety foot to keep pressure on the brake. My worn-out brown eyes were fixated on the Italianate structure eleven yards ahead of me, a place that I was once proud to call home. Neighbors, pa.s.sersby, and a.s.sociates from our inner circle of influence considered this type of home a symbol of status, success. I, on the other hand, know that it represented four wasted years, failure, regret.

Everything beyond the handcrafted doors facing me, taunting me, was what I once loved. A love that was patient, kind. Neither was it envious nor boastful-just love. I stored no records of wrong, not until she had taken her mask off and showed me her ugly face.

Now, everything beyond the threshold of those doors, beyond the security system, is everything I hate worse than my mother.

Lightning parted the night again; thunder barked behind it. Call me crazy, but it seemed as if the thunder were cussing me like I were a little boy in need of scolding.

My BlackBerry glowed; its ring tone crooned a neo-soul tune by Vivian somebody. The sultry lyrics reminded me of what I must do: Gotta go, gotta leave Gotta go, gotta leave. I wished I could blend with the rain and trickle down the sewer. I pressed SEND but didn't bother to say anything. I wasn't in a talkative mood. I gave the caller nothing more than a deep breath. but didn't bother to say anything. I wasn't in a talkative mood. I gave the caller nothing more than a deep breath.

"Parrish, is you...everything okay?" Sade said.

Stupid question. What can be said about any man wanting to kill his wife and her lover? "I'm fine." "I'm fine."

"Twenty minutes is left before you hafta cross the Holland Tunnel and come to the airstrip. Then, we home free."

Her raggedy cadence set fire to my loins' erogenous zones. It's strange how humans desire s.e.x in the presence of death. Even sitting here staring at those doors I could smell Sade. Her p.u.s.s.y perfumed my mustache.

She said, "You there?"

"Wish I were there with you."

"Is you sure you okay? Boy, you don't sound like it."

I put my eyes on the glove compartment. "I will be after tonight." My palms were still sweaty. My foot was still on the brake. The doors of that home were still taunting me. The rain was still pelting the winds.h.i.+eld.

"Where are you?" She sounded irritated. "We gotta schedule to keep."

"Outside of my house...thinking."

"You done, then, ain't you?"

"No."

"No?"

"No!"

"d.a.m.n, boy, you 'bout to blow everything. You trippin'." Her voice was two octaves too d.a.m.n high. "Hana deserves this. We done come this far; now ain't the time to be f.u.c.kin' thinking." She sighed in my ear, much louder than necessary-her ridiculous signature.

I hate it when she does that. I've hit myself upside the head several times for becoming involved with someone so...ghetto. I'd like to know what the h.e.l.l I was thinking.

"You was s'posed to be done and on your way back to me. This plane gots to be in the sky before our cover is blown."

"Don't press me. I'm not in the mood. We'll make it."

"You scared. It ain't even difficult. f.u.c.k that b.i.t.c.h."

I stared at the doors, thinking of all that I had been through.

She said, "Stay right there. I'm on my way. I ain't scared. I'll do it my d.a.m.n self."

"I said, I'll take care of it."

A car horn was blown.

I studied the rearview; it studied me back, reflecting the pain trapped behind my eyes. There was a BMW with a missing headlight behind me. Behind it, from my Hoboken, New Jersey avenue, I could see the wh.o.r.e of America-the Statue of Liberty. Her crown and torch punctuated the night. I eased my fidgety foot from the brake.

Hoboken was a Hudson River city whose community was a cultural melting pot. The city had been long seasoned with writers, artists, singers, actors, professional athletes, and others. Most of us had chosen Hoboken because it was situated directly across the river from Manhattan. The commute to New York was swift and convenient.

The swift part would come in handy tonight.