Connected (Connections, #1)(113)
Julliard or Else
Tucker
“This going to be enough?” The stranger asked looking at what I had given him, opening his hand then closing it fast.
“Should be,” I answered quickly, then glanced down the street because I heard police sirens getting closer to us as they headed our way.
One police car rounded the corner and I watched it as it pulled over to the curb to stop in front of us, with its lights flipped on. “Stay still man,” I told the stranger who complied. “Whatever you do, don’t run.” I turned my body and looked at the lit up vehicle. Of course, I’m pretty sure I knew who was driving it, the one and only, Officer Daniels. He always patrolled this area and knew me pretty well; including all the shenanigans I had gotten myself into over the years.
Sure enough, it was Officer Daniels who stepped out of the patrol car. He slowly walked over to us, taking his sweet time, one slow step after another. He had on his usual policeman attire, but today he had on an extra jacket. The weather took a turn for the worse, making it a very cold and windy during this early morning. It almost felt like tiny paper cuts on my face, the wind was that cold. It always got really windy around the beginning of September in Brooklyn, to remind us that winter was coming.
“Tucker,” Officer Daniels growled and nodded his head. My body went stiff as a board when he used my name like that. He already knew what I’ve been doing this morning.
“What, Daniels?” I snapped, shoving my hands in the front pocket of my hoodie.
“I hope you’re not selling your product out here to this guy… or I should say boy,” I glanced over my shoulder at the kid, who slowly backed away from me. I knew he was young, but he was old enough to know what the hell he was getting himself into by coming into this part of town and even contacting me. Watching him back away from me some more, I already knew what he was planning to do, and before I could say anything to stop him, he took off down the sidewalk at full speed.
“God damn it, Tucker! You promised you were done with this shit!” Officer Daniels yelled at me, while pulling off his Walkie Talkie to give out the description of the kid who took off and which direction he was headed in.
I heard the sirens of the rest of the cop cars that always patrolled this area with Daniels. No matter what, the kid was going to get busted; he didn’t stand a chance against the cops around here. He was a noob in the drug world, even I could tell. But if I didn’t get rid of it fast, my buddy would be in trouble more, life or death kind of trouble.
Daniels just glared at me, “You said you were done Tucker, or should I just finally take your ass into custody?” Daniels knew my situation at home. He knew I didn’t have any money to get myself out of jail; my mother wouldn’t bail me out either. She didn’t have a dime to her name and even if she did, it would evaporate faster than water.
I put my hands up defending myself, hearing more sirens coming in our direction. “I’m done Daniels, swear.”
He let out a big breath that I could see in the cold morning air, “Get outta here,” he warned me and he jerked his head to the side.
“Alright man,” I muttered at him, turning around to leave, cutting through the alleyways to head back where I belonged - Bushwick, Brooklyn.
The morning sun was beginning to shine through the tagged buildings, marked up in graffiti. The sound of beer cans echoed through the empty alleyways as the cold wind blew around them.
I made my way back to the rundown apartment I shared with my mother. The cold air was hitting my face harder than before, so I pulled up the hood from my gray hoodie, to help keep warm; wishing that I had worn something heavier.
As I rounded a corner, I kicked an empty pop can most of the way back. Thinking about what Officer Daniels just told me, I really did need to stop dealing, or I was going to find myself in a situation I would regret. As I passed more buildings, black trash bags lined most of the front walls, just another day to show that the garbage man could give two shits about our trash. Most people considered where I lived an unwelcome part of the neighborhood and it was. You shouldn't be caught walking around here after dark, carrying any money or wearing any sort of jewelry on you. It was simple; you shouldn't come to this part of town, but if you did and you were smart, you’d carry a gun.
A screaming woman on the sidewalk shouting at her husband didn’t make me move any faster as I buzzed myself in to my cold dirty building and walked up the creaky four flights of stairs to my apartment. The screaming woman reminded me of my mom and my dirt bag of a father always fighting. When I was eight, I would scream at them to stop, my dad just ended up beating me until I stopped, or passed out. They could never get along and my dad finally left us. He left me and my mom dirt poor and in a shitty apartment. He never came around at first, but then he started coming around sporadically to beat my mom and take what little money she’d had, but I haven’t seen him in a couple of years, so I don’t know what’s happened to him.
As I climbed the stairs, my eyes scanned over the dirty green and brown flowered wallpaper stripping away, the holes in the walls seemed to grow larger by the day, and the broken banister looked like it had its day a hundred years ago, when the building was first built. The hallway lights flickered as if they were trying to stay on but the electricity was deciding on something else. This building was so run down and old that you had to watch your every step on the stairs, or you might just fall through the boards, each step almost felt like it would be your last.