Push Comes To Shove Part 5

"She's away for a minute. I'm supposed to take a message."

"Who is this?"

"...but, Mama-" Kitchie wiped her tears away. "-this doesn't have anything to do with it."

"There is nothing I can do, Kitchie. I begged you to not marry GP; you wouldn't listen to me. He's a loser. New York is entirely too far away for me to do something, even if I wanted to help." Mrs. Garcia took a pan of homemade cornbread from the oven. "You told me you were grown when you left home. I'm sure you're grown enough to work this out."

"All that ain't important." Trouble eased away from a traffic light. "Me and Jewels is taking care of some business together, and I'm working the phone. You leaving her a message or what?"

"Did she leave to go out of town yet?" GP prayed that the answer would be no.

Trouble flashed back to when Jewels had tossed a suitcase into the taxi's trunk, and he remembered when her pretty woman had tossed her hips across the parking lot clutching a pillow. "Yeah. Who's asking all the questions?"

"GP. When is the next time you're gonna talk to her?"

"Tonight. Why, what's up?" Trouble parked in Dirty's driveway and honked the horn.

"Tell her that me and Kitchie is in jail, downtown on some bulls.h.i.+t. I need her to come get the kids; they're down here, too. These people is threatening to turn them over to DSS if someone doesn't come for them."

Too d.a.m.n bad. "That's f.u.c.ked up."

"Is there some way you can get in touch with her before later? This is important." GP stared at Kitchie through the wire mesh and watched her eyeliner run.

"Nah, dawg. I gotta wait until she hits me. I'll let her know, though. Keep your head up in there." He hung up, then touched fists with Dirty when he climbed in the car. "The butch went on a little vacation. I say we stop by her apartment tonight."

"I'm with that."

GP placed the receiver on its cradle.

Kitchie stuck her fingers through the wire. "My mother is impossible."

GP faced her and laced his fingers with hers. "Jewels is gone. I don't know who else to call. I'll figure something out."

"We can't let the kids stay, not even one night, in some custody c.r.a.p." She wept. "Junior is afraid of the dark...and Secret has to sleep-"

"Time's up." The officer stuck a key in the first cage's lock. "Mrs. Patterson, your escort is here to take you to the women's lock-up."

"Kitchie, listen to me." GP penetrated her with his eyes. "I'll do something."

Kitchie turned to the officer. "Please. Let me see my babies first."

"Uno!" Secret threw a card onto the table.

Junior sat on his knees to boost himself in the chair. "Uh-uh, you draw four."

The conference room door swung open. Nancy Pittman strolled in wearing a tacky business suit. "h.e.l.lo, Secret, Greg Jr. How are you guys doing this evening?" She set her briefcase on the table and tucked a lock of blonde hair behind her ear.

Secret's face tightened. "We're fine. Can we go home now?"

"I'm here to speak with you about that. I'm Ms. Pittman. I'm with the Department of Social Services."

Junior laid his cards on the table. "Where's my mom?"

Ms. Pittman squatted beside him. "I'm afraid that she and your father will have to stay in jail; at least overnight. Are you hungry?"

"I said, we're fine." Secret sucked her teeth.

Junior looked at Ms. Pittman. "That real fat police lady gave us McDonald's."

"Secret, do you have any relatives that can come for you and your brother?"

"We already called my Aunt Jewels and left a message. She'll come when she checks the answering machine."

"Does your Aunt Jewels have a cell phone? Do you think she's at work?"

"Aunty Jewels says she's allergic to work; it breaks her out with the hives." Junior scratched a mosquito bite. "Secret doesn't know the cell phone number."

"Would you shut up!"

"I ain't got to."

Ms. Pittman pulled out a third chair and seated herself. "Where are your grandparents?"

Secret looked at the ceiling and exhaled. "Are you always this nosy? They live in New York."

"Yes, I am. I'm concerned about your well-being. I'm not your enemy; I'm here to help."

"Then let my mom and dad out so we can go home." Secret curled her lips up out of frustration.

"Yeah, they're not bad people." Junior stared.

"I have no say in the matter, and I'm sure your parents aren't bad people. Do you know your grandparents' phone number?"

Secret showed Ms. Pittman her ID bracelet. "All of my important information and telephone numbers are on here."

"Can I see it?" Ms. Pittman noticed the same bracelet on Junior's wrist.

Secret gave it to her. "The first number is Aunt Jewels's; the next is my abuela abuela."

"I don't understand what you mean."

"It's Spanish for grandma." Junior stacked the cards.

"And whose number is this?" Ms. Pittman pointed to a third set of digits.

Secret rolled her eyes. "It's to a pay phone downtown."

"Excuse me a minute. I'll bring this right back." She took the bracelet and left the room.

Ms. Pittman seated herself in the hall and tried the first number from a cell phone.

It only took Squeeze forty minutes to travel from the inner city to the country. He guided the Chrysler up a quarter-of-a-mile gravel driveway. Squeeze loved his ranch-style home because there wasn't a neighbor's house in sight.

He went inside and found Hector standing over a fish bowl. He felt an unpleasant vibe seeping from Hector. "What's wrong with you?"

Hector turned around with watery eyes. "I went to feed Pablo and he was floating in his bowl. He won't wake up."

Squeeze never understood Hector's attachment to the goldfish. Had he been the one to find the dead fish first, he would have had it replaced just as he had all the other times.

Hector stuck a fresh piece of gum into his mouth. "Pablo and me been partners for five years now." He thought for a moment. "What are you doing here? Miles must've come clean."

"No." Squeeze's eyes communicated all that needed to be said.

Hector pushed the door open and entered a large bathroom. He didn't bother to wipe his tears. "It's your fault Pablo is dead."

j.a.p was gagged and duct taped to a chair sitting inside a round tub in the center of the room. His eyes widened with alarm. "Hmmh, umm hmmh." He wiggled as Hector approached with a .357 aimed at his face.

"All your fault." He pulled the trigger.

Blood and brain matter splattered inside the tub as the bullet pa.s.sed through j.a.p's face and created a crater in the back of his head.

"Feel better now?" Squeeze leaned on the doorjamb.

"Uh..." He pulled the trigger two more times. "...a little."

Mrs. Garcia was putting dinner dishes away when the phone rang. She wiped her hands then answered. "Garcia residence."

"Yes, Mrs. Garcia, I'm Nancy Pittman, a social worker for the Department of Social Services here in Cleveland. Forgive me for disturbing you this evening, but I'm here with your grandchildren."

"I've spoken with my daughter earlier."

"Then you're familiar with the situation."

"Yes, I'm aware."

"I'm putting forth my best efforts not to put your grandchildren in the care of the state. To be truthful, I'm running out of options."

"Kitchie had you call me, didn't she?"

"No, ma'am. I actually got your number from Secret. She's quite a lady. Is there some way that I can turn the children over to you until their parents handle their legal affairs?"

"Miss, I'm more than nine hours away. I don't have transportation."

Ms. Pittman crossed her legs. "If you would take them, we'll make the arrangements to get the children there safely."

Mrs. Garcia sat down to rest her aching feet. "Miss, I'm up in my age. My husband and I live in a one-bedroom apartment on a fixed income. We're not capable of handling them children. Where will they sleep? I can't give them the attention they need. I already raised my children. I'm sorry."

"So am I. Thank you for your time, Mrs. Garcia. You have a good evening."

"Do the same." Mrs. Garcia ended the call.

Ms. Pittman stared at the door for a minute before she went in. "Secret, Greg Jr., gather your things. We're leaving."

Junior stood and stretched. "Where are we going?"

Even after nine years of being a social worker, this was the part of the job that she still hated to perform. "To a place where you guys can play with other children your ages."

Trouble kept a close eye on the stairwell as Dirty jimmied Jewels's door.

Two years ago, Dirty could have walked up to a door with a crowbar and opened it like he had the keys. Tonight, he'd been trying to gain access for over five minutes.

"Would you hurry up! G.o.dd.a.m.n!" Trouble talked over a shoulder.

"Chill, I almost..." He pushed with everything he had. "...got it."

The door burst open with a sharp sound.

"About time." Trouble closed the door behind them. "Who said you have to play a number to hit the lottery?"

Dirty was amazed by the living room. "She got this rinky-d.i.n.k apartment looking like something you'd find in a Florida Design Florida Design mag. Look at this s.h.i.+t." The more he took in, the more he was impressed by Jewels's living arrangement. mag. Look at this s.h.i.+t." The more he took in, the more he was impressed by Jewels's living arrangement.

"Stop fronting; you can't read."

"I count good as h.e.l.l, though." Dirty stood at the entertainment center. "These eight kickboxing trophies right here explain that big-a.s.s speed knot on your head, and that constant reminder she left on your face."

"f.u.c.k you. Let's toss the place; see what we come off with." A blinking number stole Trouble's attention as he rubbed the lump on his forehead. He seated himself at the computer and pressed play on an answering machine beside the monitor.

"Aunty Jewels...Mommy and Daddy-" He skipped to the next message.

"Aunty, if you're there, pick up the-" Another skip.

"Jewels, you're not going to believe this s.h.i.+t. I'm in jail-" Skip.

"Yo, Jewels, I plugged you in. I got you the-" Skip.

"Yes, I'm with the Department of Social-"

Dirty had a handful of jewelry. "Man, you got to see the bathroom. Play that last message again. Swear that sound like that old-school hustler, Sticky Fingers."

"Sticky wouldn't f.u.c.k with Jewels. She's out of his league."

"Don't be so sure; look around you." Dirty motioned toward the plasma flat-panel television and the designer gla.s.s and cashmere theme throughout the apartment. "Play it back."

Trouble mashed the b.u.t.ton.

"Yes, I'm with-"

"The one before that one." He began adding up the total weight of the iron on the bench press. 200...225.