The Missing Key

Gwinnett County, Georgia July 2010

Chapter 1

Gwinnett County, Georgia

July 2010

“I need a room please,” I barely got the words out, the terrible pain shooting through my face preventing me from speaking as clearly as I wanted.

The front desk clerk was seated behind the counter, his head buried in a newspaper. He didn’t acknowledge me. The ache in my face grew stronger, as I raised my voice, speaking as firmly and loudly as I could, “A room please!”

That got his attention. He lowered the paper, his disinterested eyes blossoming into full interest as he saw my puffy, battered face. Setting the newspaper on the counter, he stood before me, his inquisitive eyes inspecting my face. Then he glanced at the clock on the wall behind him: 11:45 p.m. on a Sunday. He was obviously curious about the circumstances behind my beaten face and my late-night visit to his motel. But, I wasn’t in the mood for questions, only solitude and a room. Plus, I didn’t come to his dingy motel by choice. I was there only because it was the closest, most convenient one I could find.

Still examining my face, he said, “You should get that looked after.” His Middle Eastern accent was heavy, but his English was perfect. I didn’t reply, so he began punching some keys on the computer.

“Forty-five dollars for one night,” he said.

            I quickly paid him in cash. He insisted on me giving him my name, so I offered a fake last name: Key Jones. Apparently satisfied with that information, he gave me the keycard to room110 and said checkout was at 11 a.m. the next day. The whole time he spoke, his eyes never left my face. “That looks very bad,” he said.

            Without responding, I quickly left the office and headed down the barely lit hallway.

            Room 110 smelled as musty and looked as run-down as I’d expected. Seedy motels like these were magnets for prostitutes and johns. But, I couldn’t complain. At forty-five dollars, I got what I paid for. At least it would give me the shelter I needed.

I sat on the lumpy mattress, in front of the dresser, which had a large c***k in the middle of its mirror. I barely recognized my reflection. Compliments of the fist that had relentlessly pounded me less than an hour ago, my cheeks and surrounding areas of my face were enlarged to size of a golf ball; my eyes were black and blue; and in the center of my forehead, was a big lumpy knot. I looked a mess. But my heart felt even worse. I had just been terribly beaten by the man whose past I was aware of but had hoped would escape me.

I climbed onto the queen-sized bed, lay on my back and gazed up at the splotchy, water-damaged ceiling, which only served to remind me of the shitty state of the room. To block out the ugly sight, I switched off the light, and stared up at the black ceiling. My heart longed for my home in Detroit, which held bittersweet memories of me and my family.

*****

Home Is Where the Heart Is

Detroit, Michigan

1984

For a month now, radio and TV news stations had been reporting that a serial kidnapper was abducting little girls in the 6 mile and Schaefer area, near my home. So far, three African American girls between ages four and eight had been reported missing. No one in our neighborhood knew who the perpetrator was, but I would soon find out.

It was a beautiful Saturday morning, the sun caressing our living room through the draped high-set windows while I lay on the couch watching TV. His cheeks and chin smothered in shaving cream and his toothbrush dangling from his mouth, my daddy was bustling back and forth, up and down the stairs, preparing for his shift at General Motors, also called “the plant.” My mama, who worked an office job at Blue Cross Blue Shield, was already at work; and my sixteen-year-old brother Ivan, who was eight years older than me, had left right before dawn.

Mama usually worked the afternoon shift from 4 p.m. to 11:30 p.m., but my daddy said she’d been called into work early that day. My daddy’s work schedule was 2:30 p.m. ‘til 10:30 p.m., or longer if he worked overtime. He said he had some errands to run today before going to work; one of those errands was the “lot ‘tree.” That was how my daddy pronounced the “lottery”.  My daddy wasn’t big on drinking and he wasn’t into the clubbing scene, but his gambling habit kept him away from home a lot. He started off playing legally at the convenience store then he moved on to playing in the streets via the bootleg lottery man. Soon, he was running his own camp. Known as the “number man,” gambling addicts in my area flocked to my daddy to place their bets in the Michigan, Ohio and Illinois lotteries.

As my daddy prepared for work, I continued watching the twenty-four-hour Scooby Doo marathon. I’d been watching it since 11:30 p.m. the night before. My daddy and mama had let me stay up late because it was the weekend, and I didn’t have school the next day.

“Scooby Dooby Doo, where are you?” I sang along to the groovy ending theme. “We got some work to…”

Before I could finish that line, another song (a distant playful tune) caught my attention: “Pop Goes the Weasel” in music box form coming from outside my house. The sound got closer and closer, and I knew what it meant.

“The ice cream truck!” I whispered.

My heart swelled with excitement as I thought of my favorite ice cream: swirled strawberry. But my daddy had been on my case recently, constantly warning me never to go outside the house alone. He used to say that every now and then, but he hadn’t really been bothering me about it until recently, warning me at least twice a day. Ignoring my daddy’s order, I dashed to the kitchen where my mama kept the change jar. I opened the little container on top of the counter and scooped up fifty cents.

As the melodic chiming of the ice cream truck grew even nearer, I rushed out the door. If I didn’t hurry, I would miss the chance to taste that delicious cone of strawberry-flavored ice cream. At the fence surrounding my house, I smiled in anticipation and bolted across the street to the colorfully decorated truck right across from my house. I was only inches from the truck’s rear, when the backdoor flew open and a beefy ski-masked man in the back lunged toward me. Too shocked to cry out loud, I closed my eyes tight and recoiled as the masked man began reaching for me.

As he got closer, I found my voice and let out a piercing scream. I was about to run toward my gate when my daddy came charging out the house. Like a badass knight from the hood, he had his pistol pointed up in the air, busting shots on rapid like a man possessed.

“Get away from my baby girl!” he growled.

The man grunted in surprise. With the back door still open, the driver of the van screeched off, almost toppling the masked man over in the back. The masked man scrambled to shut the rear door while my daddy c****d his pistol again, this time pumping a bullet into the masked man’s chest. I saw blood spurting from the man’s chest, as the van hightailed off, disappearing out of sight. Shortly after, the neighbors rushed out of their homes.

            “Call the police!” my daddy said.

Then he grabbed and hugged me, as I stood frozen, still disbelieving that I almost got kidn*pped. My daddy wasn’t an affectionate man, but the look he gave me that day was as warm as melting butter. “It’s gon’ be alright,” he assured me.

The police arrived and began to investigate. They asked me, my daddy and the neighbors a bunch of questions. I couldn’t help them much because I didn’t get to see the masked man’s face. But, thanks to my daddy, the kidnappers never appeared in my hood again.

*****

Detroit, Michigan

1985

My block, called Hartwell, was one of the hottest blocks on the west side. “Hot” meaning it had a lot of traffic. People always walked or drove down my block, which was filled with lots of good-looking girls of all ages. Most of the mamas were pretty and had banging figures and many of the teenage girls had drug dealer boyfriends with real nice cars, like low rider trucks, Mustangs, BMWs and Irocs. Their boyfriends had booming stereo systems in their cars, and wore big donkey kong chains, Gazel eyewear, Filas and MGM track suits. Pretty boys wore Levi and Calvin Klein jeans and silk shirts. They all kept their girlfriends and side-chicks super fly with Gucci bags and shoes and leather outfits, and gave them money to get their hair and nails done. If they had lots of money, their chicks also had posh cribs and cars, rocked jewelry, and nameplate diamond necklaces. The drug dealers’ girlfriends were so fly to me, as a kid, I looked up to them.

One Saturday night, my daddy and mama were having one of their famous house parties on the block. In their free time my parents partied a lot, and our house was the party spot. Their friends from work, people around the neighborhood, and my family always came. The parties would rotate on the weekends from our house to other family members’ houses. All the kids had to stay upstairs while the grownups partied downstairs. That night, my thirteen-year-old cousin, Tamara, was at my house for a sleepover. From my bedroom window, we stood gazing down Hartwell.

“Look!” Tamara said, pointing to the teenaged boy and girl entering the souped-up Mustang in the driveway across the street. “There go Ricky and Mona. Damn, I can see her diamonds from way over here. And that Ricky… ooooooh…”

I fanned my face, feigning heat. “That boy so fine. One day, I’mma be as fly as Mona. I’mma have my own rich boyfriend. He gon’ buy me a crib, a flashy car and a whole lotta diamonds.”

Tamara sighed dreamily. “I already got a man.”

“Oh yeah… Jamal, right?”

“Yep, he’s in my math class. He’s soooo cute. All the girls wanna get with him, but they better not f**k with my property. He’s mine, ‘til I say he ain’t.”

Though five years older than me, Tamara liked hanging with me because I didn’t act my age. She could tell me anything, and she never felt like she was hanging with a kid.

People-watching got boring after an hour, and even though a party was in session downstairs, we had nothing to do.

“Damn, Key,” Tamara sighed. “This s**t ain’t fair. Every time I come over here for one of your parties, they lock us up inside of your room. Grownups get to have all the fun.”

“Yeah,” I said, feeling almost as miserable as Tamara. “But it’s better than your house. At your house, you can’t even have sleepovers.”

That was another reason Tamara liked visiting my house; she hardly had any freedom at hers. Her parents were like drill sergeants, making her wake up at the c***k of dawn every morning and forcing her to read a book at least thirty minutes a night. Tamara sighed again as she lifted the hatch on the window and hiked the window up. Then she kicked back on my bed and reached into her pocket for a cigarette and matchbox, sparking the nicotine.

I wasn’t about to have Tamara getting us both into trouble. “Blow the smoke out the window. If mama smells it, we’re both gonna be in trouble.”

Tamara jumped off the bed and went to the window ledge. She took a long pull on the cigarette and blew the smoke outside. “But your mama smokes too. All of them downstairs drinking and smoking, so why we can’t smoke?”

I stated the obvious. “‘Cause we’re kids.”

“Being eight years old stinks, don’t it?”

“I’mma be eight in November… I’m almost there. But yeah, I can’t wait to grow up.”

Tamara smiled. “It’s okay though. Before you know it, you’ll be my age. Anyway, you’re still my favorite cousin.”

“I’m your favorite cousin now?”

“Yeah.” Tamara took another drag and smoothly exhaled the smoke like a pro. “If you was boring, I wouldn’t come over here.”

In the hood, we called all our close friends our cousins. It didn’t matter if we shared the same bloodline or not. If we developed a tight bond, we became cousins. Tamara was my real cousin, but it still felt good to know that she liked me so much.

She flashed a mischievous grin. “Let’s go see what they doing downstairs.”

“You know we gonna be in trouble if we get caught, right?”

Tamara sucked her teeth and tossed the cigarette out the window. Then she dug into her purse for a small bottle of cotton candy-scented perfume. She sprayed two sprits into the air and said, “I wanna know what they be doing downstairs. If we get caught, oh f*****g well… C’mon. Stop looking out the window. Just ‘cause we kids don’t mean we should miss out on all the fun.”

She opened the bedroom door, and I could hear the latest Kool Moe Dee song playing downstairs. Nodding her head to the fresh beat, Tamara disappeared through the bedroom door. Cautious, I inched my way out.

“C’mon,” Tamara said, wagging an impatient hand as she snuck over to the top of the staircase and sat on the steps. I followed her.

The music was real loud, people were dancing, smoking joints, playing cards, cussing and drinking. But it was the images on the big TV that caused me and Tamara to burst into giggles. A pornographic movie was showcasing a s*x scene of a Hispanic woman with large lips and colossal breasts sucking on a massive p***s. The p***s bearer’s face wasn’t revealed.

“Damn! She got some big titties!” Tamara said, laughing hysterically.

I tried to cover her mouth with my hand, but I was too late. Alerted by Tamara’s voice, my mama and some of the guests abruptly turned and glared us down.

“s**t!” Tamara said. “Run, Key!”

We made it back to my room, but I already knew we were in trouble. Seconds later, mama barged into the room with a glass of Cognac in one hand and a weed joint plus a leather belt in the other hand. My mama was a functional alcoholic who knew how to drink without getting sloppy drunk. She couldn’t live without her liquor, but you wouldn’t know it by looking at her. With her flawless light golden-colored skin, long falling hair, and tall hourglass-shaped body, she was a natural beauty. I’d never seen another woman so fond of the bottle yet maintain such sophistication. She was always telling me, “No matter what, always act like a lady.  ”It was easy to see why my daddy fell in love with her. 

She didn’t whoop me and Tamara that night, but she did warn us that if she caught us spying again, she would lash us both to death. After five minutes of scolding us, mama went back downstairs to join the party, slamming the door behind her.

 A long silence hung between me and Tamara after my mama left. Then Tamara gave a rambunctious laugh. “Did you see that b***h’s titties? My friend Simone from school told me only surgery can make that happen.”

I was not amused. Instead, I sighed and crawled into bed, falling asleep shortly after. When I woke up the next day, Tamara was still asleep in her sleeping bag on the floor. My daddy was at work and the house was silent, so I assumed my mama and my brother Ivan were still asleep. The house would be mine until they awoke.

I crept into my daddy and mama’s room. Yep, my mama was fast asleep in bed. I tiptoed past her, to the closet way on the other side of the room. Quietly, I sifted through the contents in the closet, trying to find whatever dirty videos daddy and mama had stashed in there. It didn’t take long for me to hit the jackpot. Packed into a small green duffle bag was a collection of at least twenty pornographic tapes. Curious, I examined the cover of one of the tapes, which featured the same Hispanic woman with the massive t**s from the video Tamara and I had seen yesterday. Vanessa Del Rio was her name, as written on the cover.

I packed everything in the closet neatly back into place and headed for the kitchen. I figured I would drink some Kool Aid or eat a snack until my mama awoke or Ivan returned to make breakfast. Instead, I was pleasantly greeted by the succulent aroma of bacon sizzling in the kitchen. I wondered who was in our house making breakfast. My curiosity disappeared when I saw my mama’s cousin, Auntie Lorna, by the counter near the stove whipping eggs in a bowl. Scrambled eggs and fried bacon were one of my favorite breakfast meals.

“Auntie Lorna!” I said with a big smile on my face as I ran toward her.

She looked up, the dimples in her chubby cheeks deepening at the sight of me. “Hey, Key!” She turned down the stove then scooped me up into her arms, smoothing my hair back to get a good look at me. “My, you’ve grown since I last saw you. Go sit at the table, baby. I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

            I didn’t have to ask what Auntie Lorna was doing in our house because I already knew. Our house was the “welcome house.” If people were traveling from out-of-town, they could stay with us. If someone was going through hard times and needed to get on their feet, our doors were always open. That was just how my mama was. She would say, “We got extra space. I don’t mind helping.” They didn’t have to pay bills while living with us and they always had enough to eat—and they didn’t have to pay for the food. My mama did it solely because she was a generous and compassionate person.

Still, the cold reality was that my parents worked odd hours and were hardly home. Inevitably, my brother Ivan and I grew close… so close that people called me “Lil’ Ivan” or “Lil’ I” whenever they saw us together. But, my brother was a hustler. That was the route he chose. He also helped intro duce me to “the game.”

Chapter 2

Gwinnett County, Georgia

July 2010

            Except for the whirring sounds of the air conditioning unit and the crimson light showing the time on the clockadio, the motel room was quiet and dark. Tired of lying on my back, I shifted carefully onto my right side, but even that slight movement caused me to flinch in agony, as just lifting my head was highly discomforting. The pain in my face was escalating. I needed something to dull it. I rose from the bed, went to the tiny bathroom then sighed in annoyance. No cabinets, not even under the sink. What a dump.

No way would I go to the store to buy pain relievers looking all beat up. Still, I needed something. Then it hit me. Why didn’t I think of it before? I searched through my purse and took out a Swisher Sweets blunt wrap and the folded Ziploc bag, which had an ounce of weed. I rolled a blunt, lit it, and took my longest pull to date. Slowly, I let out the smoke, savoring the calming m*******a. The clock said 12:30 a.m., Monday, now here. I needed to sleep, but knew I wouldn’t get any tonight. My life was in dreadful shape, but I was powerless to fix it. All I could do was cling to the memories of my past.

*****

The Hustler’s Way

Detroit, Michigan

1986

Though I was born in Detroit, Michigan, my parents were from a small town in Alabama called Westborough. My daddy had been chasing my mama since her teenage years, but he lost touch with her when she moved to Texas with her girlfriend to pursue a modeling career. She stayed in Texas for two years, and when her modeling career didn’t pan out, she returned to Westborough, where she later became pregnant with my brother, Ivan. 

With Westborough being a small town, everybody pretty much knew everybody—which means gossiping was rampant. If word of my mom’s unplanned pregnancy got around in our town, it would have been deemed a community scandal. Ashamed, my mama didn’t tell anyone in Westborough about her situation. Instead, she moved to Cleveland, Ohio, where she roomed with one of her older brother’s ex-girlfriends. Still pregnant, and being a go-getter at heart, my mama didn’t hesitate to get a job. But after giving birth to Ivan, she began to have financial difficulties. So she got in touch with my daddy, who was now living in the hood on the west side of Detroit, in the 6 mile and Schaefer area. When my daddy found out that my mama was struggling, he brought her to Detroit.

My daddy always loved my mama. He catered to her and never raised his voice at her.  But he wasn’t passive. He had a mean temper, loved guns, and had no problem defending his self, property, or beliefs. He just always had a soft spot for my mama. They got married a year after Ivan was born. Two years later, my daddy legally adopted Ivan, and my mama got a decent job at Blue Cross Blue Shield in downtown Detroit, while my daddy worked at the plant.

My daddy soon began pressuring my mama to have a child for him, and his wish was granted when I was born, eight years after Ivan. The fact that we had different fathers never mattered to Ivan and me; we regarded each other as full-fledged siblings, and looked out for each other in the best way we knew. Ivan’s way of showing me he cared was to take me around with him and educate me on the rules of the streets.

One of these lessons happened one afternoon, when Ivan picked me up from school instead of my mama. Decked in my catholic school uniform and riding shotgun, I eyed Ivan suspiciously.

“Where we going? I thought mama was gonna pick me up from school.”

With a serious look on his face, Ivan said, “I told mama I would pick you up today. I know you into getting good grades and s**t and that’s cool, lil’ sis, but that s**t ain’t for me. f**k school! Real niggas is about that dough. I’m about to show you what’s real.”

I still didn’t know where we were going, but whatever Ivan had in mind sounded exciting. Fifteen minutes later, he made a left onto Whitcomb Street. I didn’t know anybody on that block, but Ivan seemed to know everybody. He nodded his head in greeting at those standing outside their homes, sitting on their porches, or strolling down the street. Now this was why I admired my brother—he was so cool, getting everybody to like and respect him so easily. Out of the blue, he sl owed the vehicle. Then he smiled at me—that charming smile no person with a pulse could refuse. “Show them niggas what’s up.”

With a mischievous grin, I rolled down the passenger window and spread my hands out the window so the passersby could see my bling. The four rings on my fingers sparkled in the sun: a gold motion ring with two hearts, a gold letter ring with a cursive “K” inside of a heart, a gold step ring shaped like a pyramid, and a gold Mickey Mouse ring. Ivan had bought them for me.

Although Ivan hated school, I was still proud of him. At sixteen, he had his driver’s license and his own vehicle, a burgundy Nissan Pathfinder. Before that he had a burgundy  Honda Elite 250 scooter with a sound system. Like my daddy, my mama, and many others in my family, he was a true go-getter.

Ivan was also a master manipulator, with a fixation for selling drugs, being popular, and “sack chasers”—also called “gold diggers. ”He was a born hustler who could make money out of anything. He could flash a ten-dollar watch, spin a convincing tale about it, and then sell that piece of s**t for a hundred bucks. And he could do it all with a smile. Manipulating people was easy for him because he looked like the kind of guy you could trust. Naturally thick wavy jet black hair, caramel complexion, thick eyebrows, and dreamy eyes, he wore the coolest gear, always had money, and was very approachable.

Ivan started off going to private school, but I guess he was what you would call a bad seed. He made a habit of cussing out the teachers, mooning them, skipping class, and stirring up trouble. Infatuated with the streets, hustling, and crime, he didn’t make good grades, so my parents pulled him out of private catholic school and enrolled him in Cooley High, a popular public school in my hood. But that transition wasn’t working out so well. 

As we parked alongside a modest vinyl-paneled house on Whitcomb and climbed the steps leading to the front door, Ivan protectively held my hand. A big dude with cropped jheri-curled hair was sitting in a plastic chair on the porch. I could tell he was packing, though I couldn’t see his piece. He just had that look. As Ivan and I approached, he didn’t look too happy to see me.

He frowned at me while speaking to Ivan. “Who dat?”

“This my ‘lil sis,” Ivan said. “We good.”

The guy said nothing, but I could tell he didn’t like me being there. Inside the living room, a black guy was sitting around a table full of m*******a, which he bagged into smaller portions. At the other table, an Arab dude was shredding cocaine with a cutting tool. Both tables had scales on them. They looked up when Ivan and I came in. The skinny dark-skinned guy weighing the weed spoke to Ivan. “Dis your ‘lil sister you be going on about?”

Not knowing who these guys were, I felt a bit nervous. But when the black guy smiled at me, I began to feel at ease. He had a friendly smile (and nice white teeth).

Ivan, who was beside me, put his arm around my shoulders and briefly hugged me. “Yep,” he said, looking down at me with pride. “I’mma be a minute… Go watch TV, ‘kay?”

I nodded and went to the couch, while Ivan joined the guy at the weed table. My eyes were fixed on the cartoon TV show, but my ears were hooked on Ivan and the weed man’s discussion.

“How much?” I heard the guy say.

“Two,” Ivan said.

I wanted to see what was going on, so I took out my notebook from my backpack and pretended to study. Then I glanced over to where Ivan sat and saw the guy bagging and weighing some weed. He scooped up two bulky Ziploc bags off the table and gave them to Ivan.

“Dat’s two pounds right there. How long it’s gonna take you to flip it?”

Pause. I knew Ivan was considering his answer.

“A week,” he said.

The guy dipped his head several times. “That’s good.” 

They began discussing Ivan’s wholesale price. Afterwards, Ivan stuffed the goods into his knapsack then approached the muscular Arab guy at the cocaine table. I had noticed that when Ivan and I came in, he barely looked at me, not because he was rude, but because he was really into his “job.” Pretty much the same conversation took place with him and Ivan, except that Ivan was given half a kilo of coke.  

 When it was time to leave, we passed the same jheri-curled hair guy sitting on the porch. He was respectful to Ivan, but kept his sour face on when looking at me. I could tell he felt I was too young to be there. On the way home, with Run DMC thumping through the Pathfinder’s speaker box, I became even more curious about what I had just seen at the house.

“Ivan, who you sell that stuff to?”

He gave me a long look before putting on his strict daddy face. He reminded me of my real daddy whenever he did that. “Don’t ask… just hang.”

After that day, Ivan continued to pick me up from school sometimes and take me on his drug runs. He also warned me not to tell my daddy and my mama or anyone else about what I saw and heard on those days. He said he could go to jail, so I didn’t tell a soul. But some of his drug dealing buddies felt I was being too exposed to that lifestyle. They used to say to Ivan, “Why your little sister always around? She shouldn’t be hanging around, seeing what’s going on. That ain’t right, man.” But what they didn’t know was that keeping me close was Ivan’s way of protecting me and preparing me for the future.

The more I hung with Ivan, the more I learned “the business. ”But I didn’t know enough, and wanted to know more. So, one evening as we rode home, I said, “Ivan, how much you sell that stuff for?”

He didn’t respond—seemed deep in thought, as though trying to figure whether now was the time for me to learn more. Then he smiled. “I’mma tell you.”

He began to explain how much weed and cocaine could be sold for based on weight. Finished, he said, “Dope selling is an art… you gotta master that s**t. I know you only eight, but one day you might need to sell a pound or two of weed yourself to make that rent money.”

That bit of advice stuck with me.

*****

Although Ivan could literally sell anything to anyone, drug dealing was his true hustle. When I was around him, I often felt like I was at a drug dealing academy. Through Ivan, I saw and heard stories about dealers who flew straight and those who made a living out of double crossing others.

One afternoon, after returning home from school, I sat at the dining room table to eat a snack Ivan had just made for me. Halfway into my sandwich, I heard someone pounding on the front door. Ivan went to open it. One of his friends, Deshaun, a stocky dreadlocked guy, came in, carrying his two-month-old baby girl, Shayna, in a car seat. With perspiration dripping down his face, he looked disturbed; like something awful had just happened to him.

“Dat b***h-ass nigga Mike just played me, dawg,” he said, setting the car seat on the carpet in front of the couch.

Ivan’s expression was blank, as though he’d expected the news. “Gimmie the 411.”

Deshaun sat with Ivan on the sofa. Then he gazed at Shayna who was in a deep sleep.

“Shayna carried it?” Ivan said.

Deshaun nodded, leaning back