Zero Ave 1998: Chapter Six- Saying Goodbye

(This chapter is part of a series. Click here to read chapter five.)
SIX DAYS AGO.
A dusty brown Dodge Caravan pulls into an apartment complex on the north side of the city. Unlike the complex on the south side where Richie lives with his mom, this neighborhood is newer and is generally well preserved. The white buildings with green trim are three stories high and are home to small middle class families and young couples. A red and blue playground is located between the buildings and is a place where teenagers congregate to smoke marijuana. The sun has gone down and dusk is taking its last peek over the rooftops of these uniform structures.
James’ adopted son Manuel steps out of the van and onto the cracked pavement in the parking lot. He’s a dark skinned Guatemalan man in his mid 20’s and is wearing a black t-shirt with faded blue jeans and black Timberland boots.
His lungs wheeze a little while he drags his heavy boots up three flights of steps. He’s been asthmatic since he was a child and these stairs are the least favorite part of his job. Today is tax day and twice a month on the first and fifteenth Manuel makes the trip out to this unremarkable neighborhood since his dad elected him to run the north side for his organization years ago. Collecting taxes is dull but important since it’s the oil that keeps the machine moving.
Manuel coughs to open his lungs as he knocks on the door of apartment 301. The door opens a crack and a pair of eyes stare back at him.
“Yo, it’s me. Manuel.”
The door opens and standing in the entrance is Vince; a skinny white man with a rat like face and black whiskers that poke through the skin over his lip.
“You gonna let me in?” Manuel asks impatiently while Vince stands in front of the open doorway. His visits to this apartment are always a pain in the ass and it seems like today will be no different.
Vince steps to the side and Manuel walks through the hallway toward a living room where he can hear television commercials playing at a loud volume. The smell of cocaine immediately fills his nostrils as he strolls toward the sound.
Seated on a couch across from the blaring TV is Jordan. His muscular torso is wrapped in a white wife beater tank top and his cheeks are sunken in behind blonde stubble. His eyes are twitching frantically and his bottom jaw is grinding back and forth while he watches the screen intensely. He’s been awake for over 24 hours on an epic cocaine binge.
“Yo,” Manuel says when he enters the living room.
Jordan doesn’t acknowledge him so he walks over to the TV and stands next to it.
“Yo,” he repeats, waving his hand in front of the screen.
Jordan turns off the TV and throws the remote control down next to him. His hands and legs jitter as he moves.
“What’s up?” he answers, glaring at Manuel.
Manuel is tired and his patience is short.
“What’s up? Dude, it’s the first. I need your tax money.”
Jordan turns the TV on and his attention returns to the screen, as if Manuel were never present.
“I don’t have it.”
Manuel’s exhaustion is now turning into frustration.
“You don’t have it? What does that mean?”
Jordan gives an irritated response, “It means I don’t have it.”
This is the last thing Manuel wants to deal with today. Jordan is notoriously difficult to work with and the cocaine circulating in his system is not helping.
“So, you don’t have it? Like, you lost it?”
“No, I didn’t say that. I don’t have it, like I’m not gonna give it to you,” Jordan snarls.
Manuel squeezes the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. He’s trying to keep his composure.
“Ok, look dude. I’m not gonna argue with you. Just give me the money so I can get the fuck out of here.”
Jordan’s eyes and body spasm as he directs his attention back to Manuel.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Yeah,” Manuel says, gritting his teeth.
“I buy my shit from your dad that I sell,” Jordan barks while slapping his hand against his chest. “So why the fuck am I giving him fifteen percent of everything I make?”
Manuel is in no mood to give a long explanation, especially considering that Jordan knows exactly why he pays taxes.
“Come on, man. It’s been this way forever. You know what you’re paying for.”
“And what the fuck am I paying for?” Jordan counters.
“Operational fees,” Manuel answers.
Jordan’s body jerks even more violently now as the stimulants push his blood pressure higher.
“Nah. Fuck that. I’m not paying. Fuck you and fuck your nigger dad.”
Typically these would be fighting words but Manuel is too tired and embittered to care. Besides, Jordan has become increasingly erratic over the last few months and this was the final straw. Once James hears about this Jordan will have an entirely new set of problems to live with.
“Ok,” he sighs as he turns and walks out of the apartment.
Manuel descends the stairs back to his minivan while Jordan snorts a colossal line of coke off the side table next to him. He can feel the energy flow through his body and pulsate in his head. His anger is magnified by the narcotic lazer beams rebounding off the inside of his skull and pouring into his limbs.
“Fuck this,” Jordan says, his body convulsing as he looks at Vince. “Let’s go.”
Jordan grabs a handgun from a shelf near the front door and speedily stomps down the apartment steps to where Manuel is in his minivan buckling the seat belt.
“Yo, one more thing.”
Manuel looks up before Jordan fires four shots through the open window hitting him in the forehead, face and twice in the chest, killing him instantly.
Jordan steps back in shock as the edges of reality encroach on his cocaine induced bubble. He looks over his shoulder to see if anybody was watching but the streets are empty and nothing appears to be stirring around the apartment building. Vince stands behind him in disbelief of what he just witnessed.
“What the fuck are you waiting for? Help me,” Jordan demands, ripping off his wife beater and wrapping it around his hands.
Jordan slides open the back door and gets in. He then lifts Manuel under his arms and begins pulling him into the backseat. Vince runs around the van to the passenger side where he lifts Manuel’s legs and pushes them while Jordan pulls. Manuel’s lifeless body is like a two hundred pound square peg being reluctantly heaved through a round hole. Jordan sneers when the fresh carcass falls between the back seat and floor of the minivan.
“Drive the van and ditch it in the south side. Take the back streets so nobody sees you,” Jordan instructs Vince while he sweats and breathes heavily. “Don’t fucking touch anything and wipe down anything we did touch.”
Vince nods and moves into the driver’s seat as Jordan exits the back. He watches anxiously while the van pulls out of the parking lot and drives into the night. The fog of cocaine and adrenaline have begun to lift and all that remains is the gravity of his own drug induced impulsion.
FIVE DAYS AGO.
The early morning sun shines down on Diamonds strip club. A knock rattles the door and a bouncer answers.
“Yeah, I’m here to see Mike,” Jordan announces from the outside of the door. He’s wearing a grey sweater with the hood over his head and a bulky backpack hangs from his shoulders. His eyes are glossy and red as he blinks furiously, barely hanging on to the real world after more than 36 hours without sleep.
“What’s your name?” The bouncer asks.
Jordan is clearly agitated, “It’s eight o’clock in the fucking morning and I’m knocking on the door of a strip club. Does it really fucking matter?”
The bouncer opens the door and Jordan steps into the main room of the club. As he waits for Mike he looks around at the stage and the empty chairs. There are no windows in the club and it feels eerie during daytime hours as if it were a mysterious oasis that should only appear when nightfall sweeps over the city. Without the drunk patrons and naked women the club feels like a hollow cavern of sadness.
“Hey, Jordan, how are you?” Mike greets him, popping his head out from the back room. “Come on back to my office and we’ll talk here.”
Jordan walks through the club, staring at the pole on the stage while he passes. He can’t help but wonder how many vaginas have slid up and down it over the years.
“Fuck bro, you look rough,” Jordan remarks, closing the office door behind him. Mike’s button up shirt is wrinkled and a thin beard has begun to form around his face.
“Yeah, it’s been a hard couple of weeks,” Mike responds as Jordan sits down in the chair across from his desk.
Jordan spots a blanket and pillow on the floor behind Mike’s desk.
“Are you living here now?”
Mike looks back at the makeshift bed and laughs nervously. He’s been sleeping on the floor of his office because once again his payment to James is late and he doesn’t have any money to give him. He feels safer at the club where there are no windows for a potential intruder to enter through. Mike has a hunch his luck with James is about to run out.
“No, no. Just a couple of late nights.”
Jordan takes off his backpack and puts it in his lap.
“Yeah, if I owned this place I’d live here too. All that pussy walking around, who needs a house?”
“So what did you bring me?” Mike queries, trying to change the subject.
“Well, as you probably already know, heavy weapons are hard to come by out here,” Jordan explains while reaching into his bag. “But it just so happens I’ve had this one sitting around for a while. It’s a forty five caliber Smith and Wesson. Twelve bullets in the clip.”
Jordan lays the handgun on Mike’s desk. It’s the same gun that was used to kill Manuel. Mike looks at Jordan like he’s expecting to see more.
“What?” Jordan says.
“That’s it?” Mike asks disappointedly.
Agitation is creeps into Jordan’s voice. He doesn’t have time to do this dance with Mike.
“What do you mean?”
Mike shrugs, “It’s just usually there’s like four or five options or something.”
“This isn’t a fucking movie, bro. You wanted a gun so I brought one. Take it or leave it,” Jordan counters.
Mike picks up the gun and holds it in his hand. This might be the only thing that stands between him and a bullet from Bobby, or worse- Giorgio.
“Ok, ok. I’ll take it. How much?”
“Four fifty,” Jordan states.
Mike looks at Jordan surprised.
“Four hundred and fifty dollars? All I can afford is two fifty.”
Jordan is getting tense and beads of sweat are forming around his hairline. He should’ve left town last night but he hid out at his mom’s house so he could sell the gun to Mike this morning. He doesn’t necessarily need the money, but some extra cash wouldn’t hurt. Plus, Bobby potentially being shot with the same gun that killed Manuel seems poetic and he likes the thought of it.
“Come on, man. You made me carry a fucking piece all the way down here for this? You gotta do better than that.”
Mike holds his ground, “Two fifty. That’s all I have.”
Jordan glares at Mike while he considers the offer. Mike is an infamous cheapskate and he’ll never budge. Jordan’s only options are to either sell the gun at a heavily discounted price or toss it into the river on his way out of town.
“Alright. Two fifty. And a night with two of your girls, on you. My choice.”
Mike is reluctant to accept the deal. He’s cognizant of the fact that most of his girls do escort work on the side and the club is a means for them to build their client base, but he rarely gets involved and would never try to pimp them out to somebody.
“Hey, I can’t… That’s not how it works. I can’t make anybody do anything.”
Jordan is refuses to back down on his end of the bargain.
“That’s the deal.”
Mike shakes his head at Jordan’s counter offer. He knows these girls personally and dislikes the fact that a lot of them accept money for sex- in fact, he’s tried to talk some of them out of it on numerous occasions. But he’s in a tight space now. He couldn’t call any of his people on the south side about buying a gun because James would find out immediately. Jordan is the only person he knows from the outer walls of James’ reach and he’s Mike’s only lifeline.
“Alright. Deal.”
Mike resentfully slaps the cash into Jordan’s hand.
“Pleasure doing business with you. I’m heading out of town for a few months but when I get back I’m gonna hold you to our deal,” Jordan says, standing up from his chair and pushing the cash into his pocket.
Mike stares down at the gun on his desk. Never in a million years could he ever envision a day when he would need to own one. He fought long and hard to keep his business honest, but when he fell on hard times he went to James for help and now he’s intertwined in James’ infinite web of crime and violence. There is nowhere for him to run and nobody else to turn to for aid.
“If James' guys show up here, you’re gonna need more than a forty five to stop them,” Jordan advises him.
A cold chill curls down Mike’s spine as the status of his misfortune is confirmed.
“Yeah. Well, this will have to do for now.”
“Alright. I’m outta here. Peace,” Jordan says apathetically as he pushes through the office door.
Mike holds the gun flat in both palms and examines it as if he were holding the key to his own fate. He then drops the pistol into the top drawer of his desk and slams it shut. The feeling of crossing over into unknown territory has shaken him while the fear of inevitable catastrophe fills his mind.
TODAY.
James stands over Manuel’s open casket as tears roll down his cheek and drip from his nose onto the breast of his son’s suit jacket. The viewing room at the funeral home has turned a dull orange hue from the sunlight pouring through stained glass windows. James rubs his fingers over the small black holes on Manuel’s cheek and forehead where the bullets entered his skull. The mortician has done a fantastic job preparing Manuel for his final appearance. The scars are no longer evidence of a violent conclusion to a young life, but rather resemble dark birth marks.
“Oh, my boy… My boy,” James weeps softly as he stands alone in this large orange room. The outpouring of emotion was expected, but this last goodbye to his son is the hardest farewell he’s ever partaken in. The love that grew inside of him for this orphan boy far exceeded a capacity he thought he was capable of and will only continue to grow long after he’s lowered into the ground. When Manuel’s mother died from a heroin overdose in 1977 James had no idea what he would do with a 4 year old boy, but with no family and nowhere else to go James refused to watch an innocent child get sucked into the machinery of the system. Adopting Manuel was surprisingly easy since the courts and child protective services don’t have much use for a Central American immigrant orphan. So a few days after his mother’s death the papers were signed and Manuel came home.
James sits in a chair at the head of Manuel’s coffin and rests his face in his palms. “What am I doing, what am I doing?” he mumbles while his salt and pepper dreadlocks fall down over the back of his hands.
He sits for a few moments in silent introspection before standing and peering back into the casket.
“Goodbye, my boy,” he says, his voice trembling while he adjusts his son’s tie. James leans forward and kisses him on the forehead, the memory of their first Christmas together flashing in his mind like a film projector sputtering into action. He was baffled as to what a 4 year old might like so he settled on an Atari video game system. Manuel’s wide, toothless smile as he opened his gift on Christmas morning lights up behind James’ eyelids and burns bright white. It was one of his proudest moments as a father.
James begins walking down the aisle to the exit and his heart wrenches with guilt. He made a promise to this little boy over 20 years ago that he would always be there for him, but now he’s breaking that promise and leaving him behind. With every step his feet reluctantly push forward as the bond that held him so close to his son tatters and breaks.
James pauses briefly to wipe his eyes and nose with his pocket square as he approaches the door. He looks back over his shoulder at his son one last time, meticulously folding the square and pressing it into his jacket pocket. He then takes a deep breath and forces a smile as he turns the gold doorknob and exits to where a crowd of mourners have been patiently waiting.
