Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 97951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97951 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 490(@200wpm)___ 392(@250wpm)___ 327(@300wpm)
He casually made his way back onto the street and headed in the opposite direction he’d come. The bulldozer didn’t drive very fast, 1,800 r/min, but he’d planned everything out just fine. Not a care in the world. If the fucker had come to the door and tried to interrupt him, he’d have been shot. Simple as that. Since he didn’t, the bastard could thank his lucky stars that he got to live to see another day.
Less than a minute later, he spied the old library. It was boarded up, just as seen on Google maps. He looked around and noted there appeared to be no cameras, either. No need for plan B, then. Perfect.
He parked behind the defunct library and made quick work of removing the fake rust stains with the cleaning solution and cloths he’d brought in his bag. He removed the glued-on tire treads, too, which had made for a slightly bumpy ride. Then, he quickly took off the jacket, hat and glasses, folded them up and shoved them in his duffle bag, then covered the bulldozer with a large, dark tarp. I’ll keep it for two days. If I return it right away, that’ll draw suspicion. Making his way back towards the street, his gloves off and duffle bag in tow, he trekked the thirty-two-minute walk back towards where his truck was parked. Instead of going to retrieve it, however, he headed to the diner across the street.
He’d worked up quite the appetite. When he sat down at the counter, he was still on a high from his little adventure. An older guy with thinning wheat-colored hair approached him, asking what he’d like. He opened the menu and scanned it, then placed it quietly back down onto the counter.
“Three scrambled eggs. Bacon, extra crispy. A servin’ of buttermilk pancakes. Home fries with onion ’nd peppers, and coffee. Black.”
“You got it.”
Keith Whitley’s, ‘When You Say Nothing at All’ played through scratchy speakers. He bobbed his head to the song, a favorite of his father’s. Looking around the establishment, he realized the place looked a lot like the one where he and Nadia used to work. He felt his phone buzz and pulled it from his pocket. Two missed calls and a text from Nadia.
Nadia: Boy, where the hell are you?!
Lennox: Had to take care of a few morning errands. I have to make a couple more stops too, but I’ll be back soon. I didn’t want to wake you.
He was fine with that. He’d told the truth. They were in fact errands, and he definitely did not want to wake her.
Three dots popped up in response, then disappeared. A couple minutes later, all she wrote back was: OKAY. Soon, his food and coffee arrived, and he took his time to savor it. He added a bit of salt and pepper to his eggs and potatoes, then ordered a glass of orange juice. He liked it served with a little ice. After he was finished, he paid the bill and left a nice tip. Walking the rest of the short distance, he crossed the road to retrieve his truck, whistling ‘Sitting on the Dock of the Bay,’ by Otis Redding. Once he got to the construction vehicle rental spot, he kept a low profile and didn’t speak to anyone. He’d been gone almost two hours, just like he’d said.
Hopping in his truck, he turned on the radio. Brent Faiyaz’s, ‘Pistachios’ played as he drove the back roads. Once he was almost at his next destination, he pulled over to the side of the thoroughfare in a desolate area of town. This last task had to be done before he made it to the heart of the damn city where all the cameras, glitz, and people would be.
He ripped away two fake confederate dixie flag decals from the back of his truck he’d snagged late last night at a gas station, took down the naked lady air freshener he’d obtained from the junkyard, too, and removed the fake license plate he’d placed on the back of his truck. He always kept a spare license plate, just for occasions such as this. He slipped the license plate in a black trash bag, followed by everything else, including his surgical gloves, and tucked the rubbish neatly under his driver’s seat. Everything except for his truck—the clothing and all would be burned up later in a sweet bonfire.
He got back behind the wheel, and drove with determination.
Next order of business: See the marine.
It was time to pay Roman Wilde, the black sheep cousin, a much-deserved visit…
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Standing on Business
Grandmama told me one time that hurt people hurt people. Mama told me one time that Black folk are always lookin’ for a messiah. Someone to save us. Swoop down and rescue us from the evils of racism and poverty. That’s why we’re so susceptible to fake preachers, pimp mentality, toxic culture, and so-called leaders of the Black community that don’t do nothin’ but exploit us, peddle pipe dreams, and sell snake oil. Sometimes, I think the situation is more complicated than that. Other times, I think we as a people make it too complicated our damn selves. Things aren’t always so simple but sometimes, they aren’t so tough and hard to understand.