Miami Contingent

By Robert Earl

Eleven-year-old Renee Jenkins is a vivacious, bright girl who is unfortunately a member of the notorious, dysfunctional Jenkins clan living in a Miami neighborhood where it is not unusual to hold a nine-millimeter Glock pistol while answering the door and where little girls like Renee shop for heroin for their mothers. As she maneuvers her way through the asphalt jungle of Miamis dangerous Overtown section, Renee bravely attempts to find happiness amid a world consumed with death, despair, drugs, and pain.

Renees days are kept busy caring for her younger brother, Sean, and attempting to protect him from the chaos that surrounds the streets. As her mother, Moncell, her uncle, Money, and her grandfather, Shipyard, lay the groundwork for what seems to be a destiny filled with killers, gangsters, and drug addicts, little Renee dreams of becoming a doctor. But what she does not know is that a storm is coming to Overtown that will cause her to commit an unthinkable act with consequences and the power to change everything.

Miami Contingent is a compelling urban tale that provides a glimpse into a gritty trek through the streets of Miamis forbidden neighborhoods as a girl grows into a woman and does everything she can just to survive.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Aug 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781480809543

Robert Earl

The truth always speaks loudly. Sometimes people don't want to open their eyes to what's really happening. What this author has written is the ABSOLUTE TRUTH, and you can be assured that NO man in his right mind will challenge the truth, as told by God, in His written word. II Timothy 2:15 Study to shew thyself approved unto God, a workman that needeth not to be ashamed, rightly dividing the word of truth. The truth has gone forward. You be the judge.

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Copyright © 2014 Robert Earl.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0953-6 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0955-0 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0954-3 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2014914287

Archway Publishing rev. date: 09/04/14

Contents

Author’s Note

Acknowledgments

Introduction

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

To all of those hurting hopeless people like me, who found themselves lost and abandoned in the mean, hard streets and in prisons for whatever reasons—be it drugs, mental illness, or plain old bad luck. This is to you and especially to those who found the grace of God, empowering themselves to hold on tight, to pull themselves up out of their miry existences, and who can now say, I’m still here. How do you like me now?

To Claudel (Poppy) Francois. Rest in peace.

To Mr. John Holmes. Rest in peace.

1Cor.9,22

To the weak became I as weak, that I might gain the weak: I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some.

Author’s Note

DU E TO THE SENSITIVE material and the nature of this story, the names of characters were changed to protect the guilty. No one had foreknowledge of what I was writing, nor did anyone collaborate with me, so nobody can be held responsible for me. I’m not politically correct, nor am I trying to be. I’m off the chain, and there’s no holding me back. I’ll tell the truth about a thing in my own way. I didn’t whitewash over any subject. Somebody needs to tell it like it is and have the balls to speak up. For that, I offer absolutely no apologies. If the shoe fits, wear it. If I walked down the block where you lived, then so be it. The truth is the truth. There are good and bad people in every race and nationality. You know who you are. This book may not be for you, if you are too prissy and holier than thou, or too heavenly minded to be of any earthly good. Well don’t hate the player, hate the game. Be that as it may, rest assured that God will get his word and message out one way or the other. If he could use a jackass to speak to the prophet, then, Lord, here am I. Use my black ass for your glory, and bless this story.

Acknowledgments

I WILL FIRST AND foremost give thanks to the Almighty Creator Lord God. Without his inspiration and blessed gifts, I would not have written this story. I’m nothing without him. I thank all the residents of Miami-Dade County who really live this story every day of their lives, and the lives of those who contributed to the context of this tale. Special thanks goes to Reynande Francois, who told me I should and could do it and gave me constant reassurance, and to the one and only Lenora (Lee) Holmes and her fabulous daughter, Colby Allen, for being the prime examples of this tale and how hard work pays off. And to Sandia (Dia) Dorvil and her lovely young daughter, Miyah, whose experiences contributed to this story. They’re about to take their own journey into higher education. Both of these women are excellent mothers with kids in magnet schools that greatly inspired me with their true stories of beating the odds and winning. I’d like to thank Dorlene Neptune, one hellava realtor and colleague, for forever listening and being my cheerleader in McDonald’s for weekly readings. My friends and classmates at the University of Miami writing class, you all are like family to me. Manny, you’re the first person to pay me for writing stories. Thanks to my teacher, Lisa Reyes, who knows what she’s doing and helped me to get a handle on this gift that God has entrusted me with. To Mr. DC Clark, a great black writer from Miami who is too great for his time. I read his book. To Evelyn Randle, who said to me descriptions be a bug on the wall. Thank you, Cleopatra (Cleo) Smith, for all your insights and valuable input into this work of art. To Carmen Forston, who went before me with her book of poems, proving it can be done. To my dear friend Wendy Frierson, who saved my story for me for years on a floppy disk. Thanks to Lorna Washington and Angie (B) Lee for your long time support. To Deon, who typed the story when I didn’t know how. To Djah Djah the Dred, who believes in me. To my sister Leronia Josey for all her valuable support. To a friend Robert Carroll who said he liked the story and I believed him . And to all the other friends and acquaintances that I personally pray for and carry in my heart and mind. God bless you, South Florida.

Introduction

TH IS IS A PEEPHOLE into a gritty, brutal, realistic, no-holds-barred trek through the mean streets of Miami’s forbidden neighborhoods, long off-limits to the sophisticated, bougie crowds, it’s nowhere near the Ritz, beaches or palms trees, it’s a glance at the dirty truths we all know but want to forget. As told by a very reliable soul who purchased at a great price, a ringside seat into that grim world. So take a load off your ass, sit down, relax and enjoy the fast-paced ride. This is a real novel in every sense of the word—original, fresh, unconventional, surprising, unusual, innovative, and rare. It’ll engage you and make you laugh, weep, and think. I guarantee you, this is a page-turner you can’t put down. Can you handle the truth?

CHAPTER 1

D ON’T BE BEATIN’ ON my doe like you the Po Po, bitch. You done lost your mind or somethin’? Poppa Queen screamed out as he peered through the peephole of the low-income apartment’s reinforced steel door. His dilated pupils focused on the blurred figure of a vivacious young girl standing in the darkened hallway. She wore braids and beads in her hair and was listening to her Walkman, jamming to the music. This pretty little girl he recognized was little Renee Jenkins, the only daughter of the very sexy Moncell Jenkins. He used to fantasize about scoring a piece of Moncell’s red ass, the way she walked around the neighborhood and carried herself like she was a queen or something. The mere thought alone was a turn-on, but he’d gotten the distinct impression that Moncell thought she was too good for the likes of him, with her dope-fiend ass. Reluctantly, he had left that fantasy alone, replacing it with hostility and contempt for her.

Poppa hardly cared for anybody, much less the Jenkins clan. He was considered an old-school thug, a hardened criminal despite his young age of thirty-two. He had already served repeated time on Florida’s infamous chain gangs. Being in and out of trouble with the authorities most of his life only contributed to the animosity and disdain he felt for society. His formal education was cut short after attacking a teacher and being expelled from grade school. Consequently, he was more than adequately compensated with his PhD from SWU (Sidewalk University). Being streetwise leveled the playing field, so to speak, and he was shrewd and cunning, more so than he appeared. Past abuses had helped to make Poppa quick-tempered and extremely violent.

Moncell’s younger brother, Money Jenkins, had humiliated him in a prison yard fight while they were serving time in Raeford Prison up in Stark Florida. Let Poppa tell it; he won the fight that day.

Poppa felt the scar beneath his chin that he’d received from that fight while he undid four locks and swung the door open, proceeding to go off on a verbal rant like some crazy man, spit flying everywhere as he hollered and screamed.

You ain’t got no fucking sense? Blowing people’s high, beating on the doe like that? People gettin high in here, they want it quiet! Should kick your little ass. Fuck you want anyway? What’s that smell? He wiped away the excess white powder from under his wide nose with his jeweled pinky finger. Looking down, he realized that she wasn’t alone. She had her little brother, Sean, with her.

The child was two years old, snotty nosed, dirty, and needed to be changed. He had do-doed on himself in the hallway, and Poppa hadn’t helped by screaming at them. Sean really didn’t smell all that bad; Poppa’s sense of smell was simply heightened from snorting cocaine. Y’all crumb snatchers ain’t in school today? What time it is? he said, yawning as he cooled down from his hissy fit.

Renee slowly looked up, taking in the five-foot-nine gargoyle figure of what to her was the ugliest human being she had ever seen in her entire eleven years of life. Poppa was ashy black, wide nosed, and resembled the cartoon character Bullwinkle the moose. He sported a mouth full of gold teeth that made his breath smell bad, and his hair was matted into long, unkempt, horrible-looking, De La Soul ghetto braids. Poppa wore his pants sagging under his buttocks, about to fall off at any minute, a white wife-beater undershirt, and he was draped in gold chains.

He held a nine-millimeter Glock pistol down to his side while looking around cautiously, as was his habit every time he answered the door. Multiple tattoos adorned his hardened prison body, but you couldn’t make them out; he was so black he could leave fingerprints on a piece of coal. Therefore the tattoos just looked like a bunch of lines drawn against his charcoal hue. He had intentionally done his best to intimidate and instill fear into this child of the ghetto, who simply smacked her lips and wondered to herself if he actually thought he was all of that and a bag of chips.

Renee, twisting her neck, stepped back, placing her hands on her narrow hips. Rolling her little eyes at him, she replied, Why you talk to people like that? I am not a dog. Hum, you probably smell your house. Poppa’s jaw dropped. He wasn’t expecting that kind of response. She sensed it from his body language and continued, Everybody know school is closed on Saturdays. Shaking her head, she looked at her little watch and said, It’s eleven thirty, thank you very much. Smiling, she added, Momma said you’re to never even kick a dog. Hum smacking her lips ghetto style.

He didn’t know if he should shoot her ass or bow down. He thought to himself, little bitch, but he dared not speak it out loud. Finally, he licked his lips and sighed, trying to appear in control of that which was lost.You’s a smart-ass little girl, just like yo mama. What you want? Ain’t got all day to be messing with you.

Momma said she wants three and one, three boys and one girl. Momma said you know the deal, Renee replied.

Poppa knew all too well the deal. He knew that she wanted heroin, also known as boy, and cocaine, also known as girl, the terms affectionately used in the streets. Poppa said, Okay. But no credit. Twenty dollars cash or get lost.

Renee took off her tennis shoe, found what she was looking for, and then handed him a crumpled twenty-dollar bill, saying as sweetly as she could, Here you go, Mister Poppa. He snatched the money from out of her hand and disappeared behind the door.

Ney, let’s go ’fore he come back! This place stinks. See ah rat run right over dair, Sean said, pointing.

Boy, be quiet. Wait. I don’t want to be in this nasty place either. We shopping for Momma, Renee said.

Is we in pee? Smell like ah bunch of pee coming out that hole in the wall, Sean said.

Yeah, smells just like your bed, and that’s how your behind is gonna look you keep peeing in bed, Renee answered, getting a little impatient.

The wall was hidden from the view of traffic traveling on Second Avenue and had been used as an outside urinal for so long that the concrete had corroded and turned brown. The kids were waiting outside Poppa’s apartment on the first floor, right underneath the concrete steps that led to the second floor of the Twelve Thirty-Four building. The building earned its nickname, the Green House, because of the ugly florescent-lime color that made it stick out like a green architectural nightmare.

A twenty-four-unit, three-story apartment building that by design resembled prison tiers, the building was situated in the center of Overtown, directly across the street from another shabby establishment call The Shack, run by Sonny Red, who at this time was Poppa’s immediate competition. Both these locations kept the City of Miami Police Department working overtime with shootings, stabbings, and beatings. The fact that this corner hailed as one of the busiest dope holes in this poverty-stricken community of Miami didn’t make waiting any safer or pleasant for anybody, much less two kids

Poppa Queen had walked through the two-bed, one-bath apartment located on the corner of the building. It was sparsely furnished. The master bedroom had a double bed and a television that was set on a milk crate. No one dared to enter that room without permission from him; it was his personal room while he was there serving drugs. There was a table in the middle of the dining room/kitchen with three chairs, and the refrigerator was old and outdated and needed to be defrosted.

The apartment had a sour, tangy odor of old sex, smoke, and drugs that had marinated with time. An outdated gas stove decorated this decorous nightmare, and faded linoleum covered the floors in the kitchen and bathroom. The second bedroom was used exclusively to get off (high) in. All of his customers—the crack heads and junkie heroin users who were spending money on crack and other drugs from Poppa—were permitted use of his facilities to smoke and inject their purchases for a small fee, and that included the use of his assorted equipment and drug paraphernalia.

The compact butane gas torches, glass crack pipes, and syringes were laid out on top of the decrepit oak furniture—an oblong wooden table scarred and marred with blood stains and cigarette burns, with seven wobbly chairs standing guard around it. Crack whores were always welcomed here, to freak, to trick, and to perform blow jobs—you know, head, booty, and cock for a five-dollar rock—to keep the customers happy and freaky until their money ran out. The apartment possessed an abominable ambiance due to what transpired daily on the inside of the hellish abode.

The rest of the apartment was carpeted, and it was so dirty and dingy you couldn’t tell what color it had been before. This particular apartment was on section eight, a subsidy set aside by the county to help those in need on welfare. It was almost free to live there. The cost was fifty-five dollars a month, and all the utilities were free. Poppa gave the nasty-looking crack head Miss Dee, who resembled a true mythical Gorgon, and whose name the apartment was registered under, a few crack rocks every month to work for him and to let him operate his business there. She was also a loyal customer. After he had taken all of her welfare checks and food stamps with his product, she still owed him.

Miss Dee had crept up, smiling and smoking a crack stem, and with her repulsive toothless ass, she suddenly possessed the nerve to say jokingly to Poppa, Um that child was time enough for you, causing an already angry Poppa to backhand her in the mouth with a swift slap and say, Mind your goddamn business, bitch, and time that, as she grabbed her face in shock.

He went outside in the fenced backyard and reached deep inside the old wooden doghouse, underneath the tattered, red blanket, and got his stash of drugs out. The drugs were safe from theft on account of his three prized pit bull terriers whom he halfway starved to death to make them more vicious and better fighters. He used to have four dogs, but one had been killed, costing him to lose his money on a huge bet he recently wagered