Hood Ornaments

The splash the body made when it hit the water made Sticks chuckle, causing Dre to mutter a million motherfuckers under his breath. For whatever reason, that angered Sticks. But he didn’t say anything; he just went back to steering the tiny yacht towards the shore.

Dre, pacing bow to stern and muttering, finally grabbed a beer from out of a cooler, twisted off the cap and tossed it into the sea.

Just like what Sticks just did to the mother of his child.

That comparison caused Dre to hang his head overboard and throw up. Now completely enraged, Sticks pressed whatever gears and buttons needed for the yacht to sail automatically, thrust himself up from the driving chair, and charged at Dre like a bull.

Dre couldn’t stand up if he wanted to. He was ill and when he looked up at who was snarling down upon him his eyes filled with tears. Sticks, filled with rage, yanked Dre to his feet and whispered an inch away from his face.

“Motherfucka, I know you ain’t about to shed tears over that dope head?!”

Dre’s facial expression changed to one of disgust. He pushed Sticks so hard he hit the railing. Then Dre became the charging bull and Sticks had no other choice but to grab the railing, so he wouldn’t go overboard. Dre began punching Sticks so hard it knocked his summer Kangol and sunglasses into the waves lapping with vigor into the side of the yacht. The sound seemed to be mocking each punch Dre planted on Stick’s face as he held him up by his windbreaker. The only thing that stopped Dre was his fist was wet and began to slip when it connected with Stick’s face. Panting with exhaustion, he threw Sticks down on the deck and looked at his now throbbing hand.

It was covered in blood.

And he will always have blood on his hands from here on out.

He trudged by the pile of Sticks that he left lying on the deck, stuck his hand back in the cooler, grabbed another beer, and went below deck.

For all intents and purposes, Dre knew Sticks was right. Dee, his daughter’s mother, got hooked on that heroin. She was a dope head. But whose fault was that?

Was it his?

Was it?

Andre Watts, the son of a well-liked postal worker, entered a life a crime with his best friend Sticks Martin.

Not cause he needed anything.

No, Jake and Trudy provided everything for him.

Not because he was forced into it.

He was fortunate enough to live in “the good part” of the city. The irony is Sticks and him had to leave their neighborhood to begin that downward spiral.

No, Andre Watts’ dumb ass became a drug dealer why?

To impress a girl.

The same girl who became the mother of his daughter.

Who overdosed at their engagement party.

Who he watched get rolled up in a painter’s tarp, wrapped in weighted chains and tossed into the sea like she was garbage.

As if it were a synchronized rhythm, Dre felt his hand throbbing just as stick was coming down the stairs that led below deck.

Boom-Bap.

Boom-Bap.

The pounding of his heart joined in the percussion.

Lub-Dub

Boom-Bap

Lub-Dub.

Sticks sighed heavily as he strutted to the sofa-bench where Dre was sitting still holding the unopened beer. Letting a huff of disapproval, he watched Sticks take the beer out of his swollen hand, open it, toss the cap on the tiny end table, and hand the beer back to his uninjured hand before he sat beside him staring at the side of Dre’s clenched jaw.

Dre took a large gulp.

“Are you waiting for a fucking thank you, bitch?” Dre hissed.

Sticks let out a grunt that could have been mistaken for a chuckle, “Dre look…”

Dre finished his beer and glared at his once his best friend as he gave the worst excuse filled speech about why he had to throw Dee overboard into the Atlantic Ocean.

“What were we supposed to do? Call the cops? With what we do? We woulda both been doin time. You know that. Then what would Tori do? Grow up talkin to you through glass? Is that how you want you want to see your daughter for the rest of your life?”

Dre finally dropped his glare and hung his head between his knees.

“…there were too many people at that party Dre. There is bound to be talk about Dee. We have to get you outta town.”

At that point Dre’s head shot up and he spouted, “Why the fuck I gotta leave town? I didn’t do it?!?”

“I know this. You know this. But the only thing the cops are gonna care about is the argument that over a hundred witnesses heard at the party between you and Dee and that the bitch is missing.”

“I swear for God Sticks you disrespect her again…” Dre said through clenched teeth. Sticks shook his head and chuckled.

“One thing my uncle always told me Dre is that the truth cannot be disrespected. I won’t call Dee out her name again, let her sad soul rest in peace, but Dre she got hooked and died from the same dope you sell. You have this city on lock, and that cannot change. So, I will protect you and our investment with my life. I have some family in Chicago…”

“…Chicago?!! Motherfucker I have a daughter, a family!!!”

Sticks put his hand on Dre’s shoulder and it was immediately shrugged off in anger, but Sticks continued, “It won’t be permanent, I have a plan.”

Dre should have known better than to listen to any more of Stick’s plans. It was Stick’s plan to start off bein look outs, then runners, then muscle, then…

…then weed

…then heroin

…then this.

Dee’s dead body washed up on a shore in Maryland. If it wasn’t for the fingerprinting program that the elementary school had done back in the day, she would have never have been identified because she was gnawed on by every type of sea creature in the Atlantic Ocean.

That made Dre sick to his stomach every time he thought about it.

Which was often.

As soon as Dee was identified and the connection was made through the wonderful world of volunteered information, Dre had no choice but to think about her when the police picked him up the first time…

…then the second time

…by the third time, he honestly thought the police were going to label Dee’s death a suicide until an overzealous medical examiner reexamined the marks around her remaining limbs and noticed they weren’t track marks but bruising from being tied behind her back.

Now Dre’s hands were tied and rather than take a murder charge, he fled to Chicago.

…but not after Sticks convinced him to fake his own death.

The plan was brilliant except for the part where Dre could never come home again.

Never see or contact his family again.

But better to have died a hero than live as a villain.

At least Tori would always respect him.

Right?

The body that took Dre’s place in the house fire was that of a homeless man with no record of fingerprints or dental records. So Sticks took it upon himself to put on the best performance of his life as he tearfully named the homeless man Andre Watts.

As Dre was being driven to his new life in the city of Chicago, his closed casket wake was wrapping up, and a large bank account was being established for Trudy and Tori

After the first month of living away from everyone he loved and everything he knew, Dre wished he had died.

He thought about it several times.

For years.

Then in a phone call, Sticks casually mentioned how he recruited his nephew, Dell. And although extremely eager and enthusiastic, he was getting uncomfortably close to Tori.

Dre demanded a meeting.

Immediately.