Rahiem The-Authortainer Brooks “DIE LATER”
Chapters 1- 4
DIE LATER CHAPTERS 1-4
by Rahiem The-Authortainer Brooks on Tuesday, October 18, 2011 at 6:47pm
Having planned this robbery two months in advance, Antoine knew that he would be able to stick up the man who picked up the cash just before he hopped into his car. Antoine dug his gun deep into the man’s temple. A clot of blood had formed on the man’s face as Antoine said, “Drop the fucking bag.” The bag hit the street and Antoine pulled back his hand and back-handed the man with thunderous force. Before the man hit the ground, Antoine picked up the duffle bag and exited stage left. He had turned the corner before the man could summon backup from in the house.
Humans instinctively resist killing, but for Antoine it was done without thought. He had advanced ghetto training that robbed him of any individuality, and he was weaned on craving exotic cars, bling bling and other things that he could not afford. His Timberland Chukka boots crashed on the concrete as he made his way from the robbery scene. He ran and waved a gun, which simply confirmed that the neighborhood was normal. That was the sort of day Antoine was having as he ran, because his life depended on it.
His heart pounded uncontrollably as he escaped the crime scene. The evening was undoubtedly normal, and it lacked luck. There were at least five people aware that a crime had been committed and who the perp was. Two of them side-stepped out of the robber’s path before the Rueger that he had pointed at them went off. Another witness was perched in an apartment window and watched from a distance. She somehow rooted for the thug to get away. After all, she was glad that the man who distributed drugs in their hood had taken a loss.
It was not until Antoine had bent the corner that he heard a gunshot. He was a gangster and never ducked for cover. He kept pushing down Wayne Avenue from Seymour Street. He raced by more witnesses, who he raised his gun at and demanded that they clear his path. What he had not expected was the cop car to be parked 50-feet from the corner.
The police scrambled for cover as Antoine jetted pass them. Officer Burros radioed for backup and hopped into the pilot seat of the Philadelphia PD cruiser. Officer Neismith took off after the gunman and yelled, “Freeze!” to the robber’s back. He was duly ignored. Antoine bolted south on Wayne Avenue and with the cops now in on the chase, the heat had been turned up.
Antoine typically flatlined any witnesses–cops included–but his only mission was to seek refuge and thwart being stopped. He reached Happy Hollow Playground and prayed that the gate was open. He had sped past his get-away car, and was pissed.
The gate was open.
He disappeared inside.
He hit the corner of the gymnasium, dipped past the swings, sliding board and monkey bars. Officer Neismith continued to pursue him. The robber reached the red-brick winding hill, which kids slid down sitting in milk crates. The hill had no lights. Under the cover of the October darkness, Antoine hoped that the policeman would back off because he was afraid of what lay ahead in the darkness. He heard the park’s residents chirp, buzz and bark, but the sounds were not loud enough to mask the jingle of the officer’s keys and footsteps. He ran and hoped that he beat the other officer in the cruiser to the Pulaski Avenue park entrance.
Two shots rang out.
“Shots fired,” Officer Neismith radioed to his fellow officers. “I repeat, the perp has fired.” He drew his service revolver and ducked to the ground. There was nowhere to take cover, but in the event the gunman began to shoot all over the place, he’d be low. He took up position and awaited backup.
Officer Burros had double-parked on the other side of the park and his car lights lit up the park. Antoine knew that he could not exit there. Cell phones in the hands of spectators who lived across the street from the park recorded exhibit “A” in the event there was a criminal or civil trial. While they hated criminals, they hated criminals who wore badges too. If the police resorted to stupidity and immoral corrupt behavior they would work for his dismissal without pay. For thirty years, they had been abused in the Germantown section of North Philadelphia, and they were not having it any more. They were tired of rogue police behavior, and were determined to promote moral, or at least amoral, police conduct.
The officers heard more gunshots and they both took cover. They did not care about Internal Affairs. With bullets dancing in the air, they were prepared to take a life. They radioed each other and planned to keep the robber trapped in the park until backup arrived to surround the area. Antoine had other plans, though. He dipped out of the park through an alley. It was an exit that only a native of the area would have known about. He emerged out of the alley and onto Clapier Street and was nearly run over by an SUV. The SUV froze within seconds of helping Antoine get out of his quandary.
The driver was pissed and hopped out of his truck barking condescending obscenities. His face was distorted with anger. But that changed to fright when he saw a gun in his face.
“Get the fuck back in the truck!” said Antoine.
Without debate, the driver did as he was told. He wanted to get away from the crazed gunman.
Police cruisers zoomed pass the top of the block, desperately wanting to get to the crime scene. The police visualized feeding their murderous hunger pangs. They wanted the opportunity, since one of their own had been shot at. They were so off base.
They sped pass a Range Rover and their man was deep into the floor of the truck with a gun trained on the driver.
The Range Rover was eerily quiet as the driver cautiously drove north on Pulaski Avenue. He bypassed dozens of policeman headed to the crime scene. They had no idea that the robber had committed a second crime–carjacking and kidnapping–and drove by them. The driver drove methodically. He was forced to match his survival instinct against his street smarts. His night was suddenly derailed and his vision of a Sunday night in Atlantic City at the 40/40 Club looked grainy.
The driver glanced into the rearview mirror and golden eyes stared at strong cheekbones and a wavy flow of hair. Women appreciated his charm, and the animal in the back seat was taking advantage of that. He had a show-stopping smile, but he was stone-faced as he watched red and blue lights fade behind him. At Manheim Street, Antoine demanded that the driver turn left. Without question, he did. He was no dummy. His captor had been in the back seat less than a minute, but it seemed like hours. He surmised that the man was in a desperate situation that he needed out of before arrest occurred, or something more obnoxious.
“Left or right?” the driver asked, as he approached Wissahickon Avenue. The Social Security Administration building was in front of him, so he could not proceed straight.
“Swing a left and hop on the E-way,” the thug instructed and waved the Rueger in the air. He kept his index finger planted firmly on the trigger, as if the driver gave a damn.
The driver was extremely aware of the dangers to his health had he not obeyed. He also knew that the man needed him.
“Where are you taking me to?” the driver asked, and he desperately wanted to know. He sounded and was probably perceived to be timid and passive. He was neither. He glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a sinister sparkle in his captor’s eyes that evidenced little, or no, commonsense.
“Just drive!” Antoine said. His voice was grim and dark. Killer.
The driver slipped in with the other traffic onto I-76 at Fox Street. To his horror, traffic became gridlocked just after driving one mile to the City Avenue exit. “Fuck, an accident,” the driver said out loud and his visions of getting the gun toting ingrate to his final destination vanished. There he was doing a meteoric zero miles per hour with a caged animal in his back seat. He had to bust a move because the silence was extremely loud.
Antoine deemed the jam a very dangerous liability.
The driver cleared a lump in his throat and prepped to talk his way from up under the gun. That was the most moving moment in his life. To the kidnapper, he cordially said, “You’re running from the cops, huh?” He let that sink in and then added, “I can dig it. Been there before.”
“Cut the shit.” Antoine hissed. “I’m having a very bad fucking night.”
“I’m having a blast, being held at gunpoint in a traffic jam and shit,” the driver replied as he turned to face the man. He wore a smirk on his face.
The buffoon jumped up and slammed the Rueger into the driver’s side. He pressed it hard, even though the man was his accomplice.
“Go ahead and kill me. There’s no less than fifty sets of eyes on us. You’ll get very far on foot,” the man said mockingly. “You need me. Act like it!” He didn’t add pussy. He knew well that the criminal would not have shot him for that disrespectful line. Not at that point. It was best that he gathered all of the courage that he could to prevent that clown from sending him to meet his maker.
“Oh! You think you a tough guy?”
“Naw, I am a street nigga, though. Don’t let the smoothness fool you, my dude. Believe me, I am not the enemy. I am glad that you got away. Now get that gun out of my side.” The driver hoped that everything that he said registered. He prayed that he had a criminal in the back of his ride with a small dosage of deductive reasoning.
“You have a lot of balls to talk to me like that,” the gunman said to the driver as he pulled his gun back and slid back into his hole. “You make a good point, but I will kill you if you disrespect me again, between now and me carjacking you.”
“You want my fucking ride?” the driver asked, and snatched the key out of the ignition. He swung the car door open and hit the button to open the back hatch. He hopped out of the driver side, and said, “Take it!”
He punctuated his statement by slamming the door shut. At the back of the truck, he pulled the hatch open. He was pissed and prepared to take that show on the road as the director. “You got a gun, running from the cops. To me that translates to you being a dealer or a robber. By the look of the duffle bag, I am thinking the latter. I can put you onto some serious cash, no gun required. But with that gun on me, that ain’t likely.”
Antoine looked at the driver shockingly. Inwardly he could not believe the audacity. To the driver’s dismay, Antoine did not budge. Not even blink. Just a crazy stare. Could he have contemplated shooting him in the face? The driver had no idea, so helped the kidnapper along. He said, “You can’t kill me man. Well, you could, but you shouldn’t. For one, I am a criminal just as much as you, or else I would be screaming for my life. Secondly, you have to no escape plan, sorta the same way you were prior to jumping into my ride.”
Antoine sat on the floor and conferred with his self for a moment. His train of thought was derailed by car horns blaring from vehicles behind them. The accident had been cleared and traffic began to crawl.
“How do I know that I can trust you?” Antoine asked, as he was ready to crawl.
“You don’t but I am standing here and not strolling away causing you to really have to think. Nor am I running from car to car and screaming bloody murder. Now what’s it going to be?”
“Get in. You’re drawing.” Antoine warned the driver, but he did not care.
“I am drawing? You hopped in my car after putting a gun in my face and forced me to drive you to God knows where. You’re drawing! I am not getting in the wheel with the gun.”
“Toss the gun into the Schuykill River, hop in the front seat, and then we can leave.”
“Get the fuck outta here! What kind of dumb shit are you on?”
“Either the gun goes or I walk.”
The driver with equal defiance walked against the traffic without a care in the world.
“Hey!” Antoine yelled, he had had a second thought.
The driver ignored him and kept walking.
The man turned around and found the kidnapper standing outside the truck. He had the driver’s son’s book bag in his hand and motioned that the gun was inside. He then swerved around a sixteen-wheeler and reached the edge of the bridge. There was a concrete wall and a six-foot gate topped with barb wire. He tossed the bag over and then jogged back to the truck and hopped into the passenger seat.
He stuck his head out of the window and then yelled, “The gun’s gone. Come back.” He pleaded.
Mark smiled with his back to the goon. Before he turned around, he threw on his “I-mean-business” mug and walked back to his car. He was cautious as if he hadn’t bought the car. With car horns assaulting him from every angle, he hopped into the driver seat and pulled off. To his dismay, the passenger wore an angry mask and pouted. It was hilarious to the driver. Held me at gun point and now he’s pissed. Some fucking nerve!
They drove about 100-feet before the kidnapper reclined his seat all the way back. Who was he hiding from? He was three miles from the original crime scene where the police were at, no doubt conducting a pulse pounding man hunt.
“What they call you, dude?” the driver asked him. He was entitled to know, he thought.
“Come on with the thousand questions. What the fuck kinda dollar are you tryinna turn me on to?”
“A job!” the driver said, and surmised that he had him.
“Job! Man I am doing my job right now. I ain’t looking to build a retirement pension. Fuck outta here.”
“Well, how’s that working out for you?” the driver asked as if he was looking to know about his workout regimen.
“You’re a real fucking smart ass. Just drive.”
“Look, shut the fuck up and get me downtown to the Clothes Pin sculpture across from City Hall. I can find my way from there.”
The driver was sure that he could. That was the central location of the SEPTA public bus/train system. The driver drove the rest of the way and formulated how he could convince the clown to get on his team. He had been masterminding a very elaborate scheme and needed a few guinea pigs to act in his criminal production. The ignorant asshole beside him would be the perfect actor. Ten minutes later they exited the expressway and headed down 15th Street. They passed Race, Arch, and Cherry Street before they reached JFK Boulevard and then Market Street. The driver pulled behind a bank of cabs.
“I guess this is your stop?”
“Naw yours,” Antoine said and pulled out his gun. “Hand over your wallet and cell phone, nut!”
“You’re a smart ass. You’re lucky we’re downtown or I would have flatlined yo ass.”
“Your choice. Not mine.”
“Hand me the shit, pussy!”
The driver handed it over and Antoine opened the car door. He looked in the wallet and took out the car owner’s New York license. “You try any heroic shit, it’s a rap, Mr. Kareem Bezel. You’ll never make it back to Manhattan,” Antoine said and slammed the car door shut.
Kareem jumped out of the car and approached Antoine, as he pulled the duffle bag out of the car.
“You try any heroic shit and it’s over.” Hard stare.
Kareem was a bona fide hero and he really had no plans for things to be over. He proffered a goofy smile, and said, “Dig this. What I said on the bridge was not a game, or a ploy to earn my freedom. You got $500 in my wallet. There’re plenty of tellys close by. Check into one for the night. Let a load off and tomorrow afternoon meet me at the bar in the Ritz Carlton.” Kareem looked at the duffle bag and guessed that money or drugs or both were inside.
“You know what a hotel around here costs. Besides why should I trust you?”
“Because right now, you need me. I could be yelling for that officer right there and I am not. I did not tell you which hotel to go to because I don’t care. All I want is to shoot something your way tomorrow. It’s a grand opportunity.”
“Man, I’m good.”
“Look, you have my cell. I will call it tomorrow to confirm at 11:30 a.m. Is that cool?” Kareem asked very nicely.
Antoine thought a second and then said, “Call and I will let you know. But I swear, if you’re setting me up and tracking this phone, you will die and it will be painful!” He picked up his bag and then slowly disappeared down the spiral staircase that led to the subway system.
The Special Housing Unit (SHU) at the Philadelphia Federal Detention Center was quiet for the evening and things had run smoothly for a Saturday. Just before 11 o’clock, Officer Johnson made her last minute round to assure that all inmates were alive and hadn’t escaped. She had an all-star cast of Philadelphia celebrities up there for their protection, albeit none of them wanted it. Prison officials didn’t see it that way.
Johnson made her way down the wing with her keys jingling to identify her presence. She said good night to each inmate as she flashed her flashlight into every cell. She stepped in front of 812S and said, “Good night, Mr. Bezel,” just as she did everyone else, just before looking inside. He was shirtless and she admired his physique a tad more than an officer should, but she was a woman and he was a fine man. News accounts had made her fully aware of Andre Bezel and she was undoubtedly attracted to him. Dre had grown to an even six feet of chocolate. He maintained wavy hair by sleeping with a cut up sheet shaped like and tied like a doo rag on his head. Officer Johnson looked deeply into his dark brown eyes and smiled at his sly grin. She was in heaven on the grounds of a prison and was lusting over an inmate. A double whammy, but hey, she was a woman and quick to become emotionally attracted to a fine specimen, and Andre was one fine specimen.
Andre flashed a sexy smile and put up one finger indicating for her to stand there and she did. He stood on the stool and gave her a full frontal view of him. He was erect and his penis swung in the air. He stroked it with one hand and had his other hand behind his back. She was impressed and bound by his secret. To avoid suspicion, she tapped on his door and said, “Mr. Bezel, are you alive under that sheet.” She then put her face closer to the window. He was stroking himself and she was into it. He pulled his hand from behind his back and hurled feces at the window with the force of Philadelphia Phillies Cliff Lee pitching to a New York Yankee.
Officer Johnson jumped back and dropped her flashlight. It rolled down the corridor as she snatched her walkie-talkie from her hip and radioed for her SHU Lieutenant to switch to a secure line.
“Lieutenant Freeman, go.”
“LT, Andre Bezel just threw feces at his cell window as I was making my last round. From what I can see he’s nude, and…”
Andre cut her off, and yelled, “Shut the fuck up, butch!” He heard the other officers running down the corridor and watched them gather around his cell. He smiled as he pressed the button on the metal sink and let water run into his hand. He poured it out and then threw sprinkles onto the window. He quickly dried his hand and then unrolled two strips of toilet paper from the roll. “Look at me now, chumps,” he said, and put the tissue over the feces on the window and covered it. The water helped the tissue stick there.
Officer Connelly banged on the cell window. “Uncover this window, Bezel. What are you doing, man?”
“You come do it, pussy!” Andre yelled and slid a piece of paper under the door with shit on it. Urine then began to come out of the door. “Get off my fucking porch, faggots!”
“You see this shit. Five minutes before shift change,” Officer Brown said to his colleagues. “This is bullshit.”
Lt. Freeman walked up to his subordinates and they didn’t have to explain much. It was obvious. Lt. Freeman was a tall, obscure looking man with a unifocal on his hip. He was an interesting man into sciences, but he had a peculiar way of handling inmates.
“Yo, Dre,” another inmate yelled out. “Yoooooo, Freeman is out there.”
“Connelly and Brown, cover the windows on this wing,” Lt. Freeman said and they moved. They went to retrieve black magnets shaped to perfectly cover the windows of inmates to prevent them from witnessing what was going to go down. To Andre the lieutenant said, “You know how this is going to end, Bezel. You’ve been up here a year and you’ve seen it all. Now uncover the window. I’mma get you some cleaning supplies to get that shit up off your window and then we can talk about what caused this action.”
“Get your 3-D glasses ‘cause I am coming straight at you LT. Trust me, I have thought long and hard about this. I’m like expensive art work. Not to be touched.”
“Let’s talk about that, because if you think you’re dealing with Inmate McKenzey on the north side, I assure you that you’re in for the ride of your life, especially if we have to suit up and extract you. Now what’s the problem?”
“Your wife is the problem. She lied to me.”
“Ok, let’s talk about that. What’s the problem, Bezel? This is shocking to me coming from you.”
“Don’t let him sweet talk you like some negotiator, Dre!” an inmate yelled out.
“Who was that?” Lt. Freeman whispered to Officer Johnson.
“That was Cordona. Cell 803S,” Officer Johnson said.
“Shut his water off!” Lt. Freeman told her, and then to Andre he said, “What has Counselor Freeman told you, Bezel?”
“Was that a rhetorical question?” Andre yelled out.
Officer Brown and Connelly had returned to the front of the cell and Lt. Freeman ordered Connelly to get the camcorder because he was fully aware of Andre Bezel and his conniving ways. Staff had been briefed on his manipulative and malicious ways, and were warned to proceed with caution. He had a way with words and could be sinister.
“See that’s what I mean, Bezel. You’re a smart kid. So what’s the problem?”
“Fuck them, Dre! Don’t talk to him,” another inmate yelled and kicked his cell door five times with enough force to have the staff question if the doors could be kicked off the hinges.
“Where the fuck is my lawyer?” Dre asked. He pulled one of the strips of tissue back and looked at the lieutenant. “I wanna see you tell me a lie. Man to man.”
“You know we have no control over that.”
“Lying to me will force me to turn this up, LT. Please don’t prey on my intelligence, sir.”
“Uh…uh…uhn. Don’t start any statement off as if you’re chastising me. I assure you that you’re not in charge. Have one of your flunky’s look out of the window on Arch Street.”
“I’ll do that. But you take the other strip of tissue down,” Lt. Brown said and stared sternly at Officer Connelly, who walked off. And clean that shit off my glass.”
“Your glass. News flash, this is every American citizen’s glass. They pay the taxes to keep these kennels operating. What’s the matter? You don’t like the stench of shit with all of the bullshit that spills out of the mouths of all of you on team grey? It’s about time the boys in green and orange do some winning around here. What ya think?”
“We can debate this at some other time. In the meantime, take the tissue down.”
“What the fuck are you going to do if I don’t?”
“Have my guys suit up in their turtle suits.”
“Suit ya self. Be sure they’re wearing 3-D glasses,” Dre said and covered his window again.
Officer Connelly returned as Lt. Freeman asked Andre, “And why is that?”
“I am coming straight at whoever enters this cell!”
“That’s your best bet,” Lt. Freeman said and walked off. He asked Connelly, “What’s going on out Arch?”
Connelly held his head low, and said, “It looks like the entire tri-state area media has converged on the prison. There’s enough antennae on top of trucks out there to communicate with aliens.”
Justin Ashburn had searched all of the self-publishing print-on-demand companies. He had settled on lulu.com. They were less intrusive than the others and didn’t require an ISBN or copyright to publish. All you had to do was upload a WORD doc and print. He could type whatever he wanted between the sheets, slap a template cover design on the material and have them print it up into a perfect bound book.
Justin was from Mecklenburg, North Carolina and had the IQ of God. He was in a dank room in South Philadelphia that he had rented from an old Italian woman. She welcomed his four months’ rent, which he paid in cash. He had been there two months and had been plotting the escape of his pal since he had word that he as arrested. That was what Iraqi vets did for one another. Before he could act, though, he had to develop a bona fide method to get word to DEA Agent Lucas McKenzey, who was housed in protective custody at the Philadelphia FDC.
Justin had surmised that Agent McKenzey was housed in PC to protect the malign, corrupt agent from killing someone in the general population, whether it was staff or an inmate. Justin did not like that and was coming to the agent’s rescue. This would not be a forceful escape plan involving blazing guns. This plan was sophisticated and tight, and what better place to put it than in a book? Certainly, the mail room would not read an entire book shipped from a publisher, titled Crying to Pretend I’m Not Laughing.
After uploading the interior document, Justin worked on the cover. He uploaded a smile and then positioned a tear drop to hang from the corner of the lips. Now it was time to type in the title and the author: Kareem Bezel. He smiled at the joke, and thought, laugh now.
To pre-order for $9.50 (shipping included), please visit: http://www.rahiembrooks.com.
Please pre-order, if you want to know:
1) Will Antoine meet Kareem, and if so, what will Kareem have him do?
2) What’s Dre’s motive for his actions?
3) Will McKenzey escape from jail?
P.S. I am looking for pre-reviewers so if your interested in reading a PDF for review, in box me.
Rahiem Jerome Brooks is the breakout novelist with an overwhelming reservoir of criminal tales that motivate American denizen to be overprotective with their personal data, i.e. social security number, pin number, and account number. His debut street thriller, LAUGH NOW won 2010 African-Americans on the Move Book Club’s Book of the Year, and Rahiem won 2011 AAMBC Author of the Year. Laugh Now also won Most Creative Plot of 2010 at the DMV Expo’s Creative Excellence Awards. Rahiem released his second title CON TEST on April 11, 2011. Since 1995, Rahiem Brooks has done hundreds of interviews with con men and swindlers in county, state and federal prisons; after all, he was locked down in them, too. He spawned tougher white collar crimes law and the Truncated Act. Hollywood blockbusters like Oceans Eleven and Italian Job that do not affect ordinary citizens are nothing more than entertainment. Through fictional accounts of his former crimes, Rahiem conveys the types of white-collar crimes that obstruct the livelihood of identity theft victims, by chronicling how con men acquire someones identity profile from an avaricious car salesman or medical records specialist for a small fee, and commences to rob the national economy to the tune of 14-billion dollars a year. Rahiems novels prompt retailers to thoroughly scrutinize every transaction, and not to allow a teenager to use the credit card in the name, Dr. John Warwick. Sounds absurd, and it is; however, successful swindlers like Rahiem has used credit cards with the last name Romanovski, Wu, and Philippidis. A glimpse at Rahiems press photo evidence, he is not a Wu. Some of Rahiem’s other soon-to-be published books include: TRUTH, LIES, AND CONFESSIONS (Prodigy Publishing Group), MR. 357 (Prodigy Publishing Group), and DIE LATER (Prodigy Publishing Group) set to release 9-10-11, the highly anticipated sequel to the published novel, LAUGH NOW (Prodigy Publishing Group), available at amazon.com. Rahiem Brooks plans to continue his Film/TV certificate program at University of California, Los Angeles, and currently lives in Philadelphia building his Prodigy Publishing Group brand.