Black Buck(118)

“Relax,” the voice said, turning the knife in front of me. “Or I will drive this through your fucking eyeball faster than you can say Harriet Tubman.”

The voice brought the knife to my ankles, cutting the rope. Then my wrists. Even though I was now free, or at least thought I was, I stayed glued to the seat, afraid of what the voice would do next.

“Go ahead,” it said. “Stand up and face me.”

Trembling, I slowly rose, my eyes fixed on the wall in front of me, then quickly turned around.

“Hello, Buck,” Clyde said, grinning from ear to ear. “Welcome to my home.”



* * *





“You?” I said, wondering how the fuck Clyde had become Jason’s customer without him ever knowing, how any of this added up. Did Jason set me up?

“Me,” he replied, walking to his kitchen. “Drink?”

“No, thanks. What the fuck are you doing, man? You’re crossing a line, over what? This white-salespeople shit? C’mon, Clyde.”

He grabbed a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and poured himself a glass, slowly smelled it, brought it to his lips, sipped, and let out a sigh of satisfaction before sitting down at a dining table. “Sure you don’t want any? It’s expensive.”

I stayed where I was, deciding when to knock the shit out of him or worse. He had left the knife in the living room, so I could just grab it and force him to let me leave.

“Fine.” He shrugged. “Suit yourself. But if you want to talk about crossing lines, I think you and your friends crossed a line when you waterboarded me. But that’s just my opinion.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He poured himself another glass. “You don’t? C’mon, Buck. That dyke Rose and your drug-dealing friend Jason? That cute stunt where you tried to hack me. I gotta say, you all are creative, but not smart.”

Kujoe. It had to be him. How else would Clyde know all of these details?

“I don’t know what you promised Kujoe,” I said, walking toward him. “But it had to be good for him to turn his back on us. You fucking asshole.”

Clyde looked up, confused. “I don’t know a Kujoe, but if you’re wondering how you got here, I’ll let him tell you himself.”

“Him?”

Clyde turned toward the hallway. “You can come out now.”

I couldn’t believe my eyes. I stepped backward, tripped over a chair, and looked up from the floor. He stood in the kitchen, staring at me with fire in his eyes.

“Trey?”

“In the flesh,” he said.

“But you’re—”

“D-d-d-dead?” he said, laughing. “Looks like I’m pretty alive, Buck.”

He walked over and extended a hand to help me up, but when I grabbed it, he brought his other one around and slammed a cane into my face.

“What the fuck, Trey!”

“That must’ve felt good,” Clyde said, looking up from his wine.

Trey turned to Clyde. “You know what? It did. It felt so good.”

Trey. Clyde. They knew each other. And the truth of everything started to unfold. Kujoe wasn’t the snitch—it was Trey. The whole time. But how?

Trey stood over me, still laughing. “You seem confused, Buck, so I’ll help you out. You see, it was you who actually did this to yourself. When I first joined the Happy Campers, all you’d talk about was that—what did you call him?—‘pigment-deficient pussy, Clyde.’ Yeah. So I figured if you hated someone that much, he and I would get along. When we met, it was obvious we shared the same goal, so we hatched a plan to”—he stretched his hand toward me—“put you on your ass, so to speak.”

“But, Trey. You’re dead, man. We found the body. Pieces of your shoes.”

“Body brokers,” Clyde said, handing Trey a glass. “You’d be surprised how easy it is to buy cadavers, especially Black ones.”

Trey took a seat at Clyde’s table and crossed his legs. “That’s why I ran back in. I planted the body and the shoes. I ran out the back through the garden and even dropped that photo there, as a nice touch, long before the building collapsed.”

I still didn’t get it. “Why would you do this to me, Trey? After everything I’ve done, everything the Happy Campers have done for you?”

“Because you are everything that’s wrong with this world, Buck,” he said, and banged his cane on the floor. “The person who lives like they can do whatever they want without any consequences. Consider this a consequence of past sins committed.”

“Trey.” I got up and walked over to him. “What are you talking about?”

He seemed unfazed. “What is my name?”

“It’s Trey.”

“No.” He shook his head. “My full name.”

“Treyborn Percival Evans. Why?” I placed a hand on his shoulder, but he flung it off. “It’s me, Trey. It’s Buck, man. What the fuck?”

“Does my name sound familiar to you? Any part of it?”

I closed my eyes, trying to think, but I couldn’t connect it to anything. “No, it doesn’t.”

He stood and faced me. “When I was younger, people used to call me Percy.” He paused. “After my grandfather.”