Black Love

By Zuriel Clinkscales

In a world of police brutality and justified murder in certain communities, Black Love is a book is about how two groups of youth respond to this reality.

One group is into the streets-drug dealing, gun trafficking, gang banging-while the other group of youths are blue-collar workers and college students.

One day, a young man called "Gun Crime" witnesses police officers gun down a childhood friend walking his daughter to school. Instantly, Crime is thrust into a situation where-as a street gangster-he has to use his resources to remain both alive and free, refusing to walk into a police precinct to state that he had witnessed a "murder."

That's where Ari comes in alongside her uncle Marcus, a former member of the Black Panther Party.

Will they be able to keep Crime alive in their current environment? More importantly, what is Black Love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Newman Springs Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: May 4, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636920276

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Black Love

Zuriel Clinkscales

Copyright © 2020 Zuriel Clinkscales

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2020

ISBN 978-1-63692-026-9 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63692-027-6 (Digital)

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Of Means and Ends

Today Defines Tomorrow

Awareness

Two Hearts, Two Souls

Echoes of a Distant Summer

The Worth of a Life

Grassroots

Youth Groups… Gangs

Terminus

Digital Playground

Direction Is What We Seek

Seize the Time

The Hands That Rocked the Cradle

Computers

Reactionary Suicide

Executive Decisions, Populace Control

Shock Value

Vicious Circle

To the future

Of Means and Ends

August 1974

The dull-gray steel of the truck sharply contrasted the environment immediately about it. Rugged all-terrain tires, a bluntly shaped armor-plated frame, blatantly thick bulletproof windows, the armed security guards and their truck stuck out more than the devil in a blue dress at an all-white affair. To them, whether or not they blended in with the neighborhoods they passed through mattered not.

Each one the armed security guards were forces, retirees, or veterans. And the only points that mattered were to get from point A to point B while keeping their shipment secured and completing their day’s duties.

From yards away, smells of the summer floated into their cab through the air ventilation system. Outside the armored truck, scents of barbecue twisted into the warm day’s air, with the sounds of a couple dozen children out playing on Branson Street. Music, laughter, and shouted conversations found ways to collide into one joyous vibe, a vibe the armed security guards almost seemed to revel in as they waited before the traffic light.

Coming across an article in the LA Times he been sifting through between sips of black coffee, the military veteran’s curiosities piqued at the Black Panther Party’s new leader, Elaine Brown. In his post-military years, all he wished for were peaceful days with his wife, Beth, and extra money to help see their grandchildren all the way through college. Although with the changing temperament of the times continuing as it had, his wishes could very likely dissipate just as quickly as most New Year’s resolutions.

Nearly ten minutes after driving away from Branson Street, the dull-gray armored truck slowed to a stop on the graveled back parking lot of a municipal bank. Two cars sparsely decorated the rest of the parking lot, neither one of them luxurious. Rays of the sun shone down through the uncluttered sky, heating up the gravel and the car’s surfaces. Gone now were the smells and sense of summertime and barbecue. Also gone was the joyful vibe of a community in harmony.

The municipal bank’s back parking lot seems to be dead center in some far-off pitiful place, not South Los Angeles.

Be right back, bud, the driver said, reaching for the door.

Pulling down on the front brim of his hat as the engine ran, the driver left the orange truck idling and stepped down from its cab.

As the driver buzzed the intercom to the back’s rear entrance with sunshine beating down on his gray uniform, the military veteran glanced up from the newspaper for swift reconnaissance of the surroundings. All clear. Moments later, a suit stepped out whom the military vet knew was the municipal bank’s manager. Waving back at him, the suit then let the driver inside. From experience, he knew both the suit and his partner would be back through the door in less than two minutes. The suit would stand back to hold the bank door open, and his partner would be steering a hand truck to the back of their armored truck.

That was when everything changed.

Sssssshhhh…

Reflexively, the military vet’s attention shot over to the driver-side door as it flashed open, revealing a black-clad man in combat gear with an M16 assault rifle leveled at his torso. Only do what I tell you or I open fire.

Seeing the assault rifle brought hard memories back to the veteran’s mind, tightening his gut with a sense of failure. Glancing through the armored truck’s windshield, he seen two more black-clad men in combat gear lying in wait near the bank’s back door, their respective assault rifles at the ready. He had no idea where they had come from, but here they were. And for the sake of Beth, there wasn’t a thing he could do to try and stop them.

After what seemed to be a lifetime to the two men lying in wait, the rear entrance door to the municipal bank finally reopened. First out the rear door, steering a red-handled steel hand truck, came the driver.

Less than twelve seconds passed before the suit and the driver had both fully succumbed to the will of the two assault-rifle-brandishing men. They were facedown, cuffed behind their backs, and lying still just before the parking lot’s gravel. Neither the driver nor the military veteran with the newspaper were in position to save; all were on their own.

Wordlessly, the veteran received a signal to have the rear of the armored truck opened.

The black-clad man leveling the M16 at his torso also gave him the vibe that Beth could be forced to make funeral arrangements, which further tightened his gut.

His stomach cramped, yet Beth was the only thought on his mind.

Thump-thump.

Hitting his bare fist up against the rear of the cab, he signaled for the two additional armed security guards to open the armored truck’s rear doors.

Like clockwork, the rear doors parted outward.

Kat-tat-tat!

Kat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Ambushing the armored truck’s additional security, the other two black-clad men unleashed the waves from their assault rifles. First a three-round burst exploded from the M16’s nozzle in long flames that immediately scorched several cloth bags by the rear doors and decapitated one of the gray-uniformed security guards. Too slow in reaching for his service pistol in response, the second armed security guard flipped backward over a steel chest from the full automatic’s bullets chopping on through his limbs and breaking into his level 3 Kevlar vest.

Please, you don’t have to kill us! You can just take the money! Begging for his life as he lay on his stomach next to the driver, the suit came to tears while the likewise-cuffed driver kept beside him in silence.

In his mind, he pitied the bank manager, for he knew the manager’s fears illumined him with false hopes in this hopeless moment. Circumstances were against them. Unless every one of the comic book superheroes were real, they hadn’t a chance.

Without remorse, the black-clad man above him thrust the stock of his assault rifle down hard into the back of the suit’s skull, knocking him unconscious.

Rushing into the rear of the armored truck, two of the black-clad men swiftly loaded an extended duffel bag with tens of pounds of bills in the two largest denominations while the rest of the men kept watch.

Kicking up gravel and dirt as it sped in, a stolen Chevy barely slid to a halt before it nearly hit the back of the armored truck. Bailing out the truck’s rear, the two black-clad men with their extended duffel bag were the first to jump inside the Chevy.

And nearly everyone was off almost as fast as they had come.

Kat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Spinning around in the gravel, the second-to-last black-clad man opened fire and exploded multiple bullets through the last black-clad man’s face mask, breaking his helmet.

The last black-clad man’s soulless body twisted haplessly within the parking lot’s gravel while everyone else pushed onward in the stolen car, cutting around a corner to flee the scene.

Keep it on, young blood, the black-clad man who killed off one of their crew said to one of the youngsters, who had begun to remove his face mask. The youngster’s thick hands were that of a man-child’s and, after repositioning his face mask, he used them to reposition his rifle. "You took off that pig’s head, but we ain’t finished yet."

Cutting around another corner, the momentum of the car threw everyone simultaneously to their left. People they sped by as the stolen Chevy tore its way up the streets. The sky was cloudless and as beautiful with the sunshine as the day itself had felt.

Five masked, black-clad men with assault rifles speeding away in a dark Chevy, however, in and of itself was no sign of beauty.

Hear me out now, the youngster said, sitting upright again with his M16 after the car completed its high-speed turn. When I took his head off, I sure finished that pig.

No jivin’, one of the other youngsters repeated for emphasis. That’s how you make them act in a desired manner.

Sirens blaring in the distance, everyone knew the police would be on to them, and the black-clad Chevy driver pushed their getaway car past its limits.

Within two city blocks, a black-and-white police cruiser became their tail.

Breaking the glass to the rear windshield with the stock of his M16, the large-handed youngster cleared away shards of glass as the Chevy bucked and swerved.

While the getaway car steadied again, regaining its speed, the youngster leveled his nozzle, and the two officers chasing in their cruiser looked on horrified at the assault rifle.

Kat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Kat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Summersaulting powerfully through the summertime vibe, the assault rifle’s ammunition ate through the cruiser’s hood and windshield and then devoured its interior. Hit high in the chest and arm, the officer behind the steering wheel fought not only for his breath but for control of the police cruiser swerving uncontrollably at the touch of his unresponsive hands.

As he slid out of consciousness, his partner was left no other choice. On an impulse, he grabbed for the steering wheel. More full automatic gunfire erupted in elongated flamed from the assault rifle’s nozzle while the partner attempted to steer their cruiser on the least destructive course possible, trying to stay alive.

Coming to a crash upon the brick steps beyond someone’s lawn, the partner sighed in relief that he was still alive.

Taking a moment to gather himself, he noticed his partner was hit mortally before he felt the blood pouring down his own face and the splitting ache in his head.

Smoke shooting up from beneath the hood told him the engine was done. Looks from the people out on the streets told him he looked horrible, but he was only pissed off that the armored truck robbers had gotten away.

The fact that he almost died, as his partner soon would, didn’t matter to him in that moment. Every day he put his life on the line in the pursuit of justice. Apprehension meant everything to him.

Niggers, he mumbled to himself as more people from the neighborhood came closer to observe what had happened.

Via radio, the officer requested an ambulance for his moribund partner. Then he reported the make, model, and color of the getaway vehicle that had just opened fire on them both.

By the time the call was being radioed in, LAPD and Channel 9 News each had helicopters already flying toward south Los Angeles.

Although multiple news stations covertly listened in on police radio channels, Channel 9 News had been the very first of many to respond that day.

News channels broke into regularly scheduled programs to show live coverage. Faster than a volcano’s eruption, news media had spread how at least two armed security guards and possibly one police officer had been murdered during the commission of an armored truck heist. It was a media field day.

Needless to say, it was a police department’s nightmare.

Before physically landing foot on scene, the responding helicopters and police cruisers could spot their answers. The media choppers were the first to report an update; the Channel 9 News crews were the first to show live footage of the scene, closing in on a burning Chevrolet Caprice abandoned on an empty Grape Street in Fruit Town. The dense, black smog thrusted far up into the sky. Smoldering debris floated throughout the air closest to the still-burning flames. While the smoke raced upward into the sky’s blue, the black-clad men were already far off and well below the radar.

Although it wasn’t in any of their given thoughts at that moment, every one of them was aware of how they would be a part of history, remembered for years to come…maybe even decades.

Almost four decades later

The large laptop sitting atop the desk showed an endless row of links for the young teenager to scroll through. In the dimly lit room, the screen of the laptop illuminated brightly, casting a large shadow over the wall directly behind. Sitting upright between the desk and its comfortable roller chair, the inquisitive mind scrolled through page after page, aimlessly clicking on partially interesting links until another thought emerged.

Clicking on the search box and typing in a new request in all caps, the teen tapped the enter key, and the Google engine went to work.

It was a name.

The name had been overheard one past weekend morning during a phone conversation between the teen’s father and one of their relatives in California. Nothing about the name itself was intriguing. If anything, the name was relatively ordinary.

However, it was to whom such name belonged that had made it so memorable.

A new flood of links appeared upon the laptop’s screen. Personal history, news articles, and many other things opened on the web page before the teenager’s eyes.

A door shut elsewhere in the apartment.

The only person who could be closing doors in the apartment, as far as the teen knew, was the teen’s father. And the pattern of footsteps nearing the room solidified those thoughts.

Opening the room’s door, the father cut on the room’s light and glanced at the laptop to see what his only child was currently inquiring about.

It caught him by surprise.

Hey, Daddy.

Hi, pumpkin.

Coming over to his daughter, he kissed the side of her head and looked closer to the face pictured in the news article displaying on the screen.

Can you run to the store for a bag of flour? I need it to make dinner, her father said, and she obliged.

Leaving her father behind as she headed out the door, she knew she more than likely have a conversation waiting for her when she came back.

On her elevator ride down to the lobby, she began wondering why her father hadn’t spoken more to her about his brother. She’d decided that it was worthy of a lengthy thought, though, since the topic of conversation would probably be focused on that when she returned.

Walking around toward the building’s side entrance, she glanced into its laundry room as she passed by. No different than usual; it was nearly lifeless. Continuing toward the side entrance, a boy wearing a black hoodie jogged out a stairwell up ahead, then went out through the side entrance seconds before her.

The boy’s black hoodie, black jeans, and black sneakers blended in with the dark-brown paint of the building’s interior, though it was odd for the early evening weather. Possibly in another few hours, it would be chilly enough outside for jeans and hooded sweatshirts. Right at this moment, however, South Jamaica, Queens, was a bit too warm for such clothing.

Wearing open-toe sandals and a blouse, she stepped out to the late summer evening’s warm air. Exhaust fumes, summer’s breeze, and marijuana all hit her sense of smell while the scents of body wash and perfume from her body hit those nearest to her. Not far off was the boy from her building’s inner stairwell.

Posted at the bottom of a staircase leading to their building’s basement utility room, the boy stood with two other people.

Now she recognized him.

Pulling a silver handgun from beneath his hooded sweatshirt, the boy handed it over to who the girl knew was his older cousin.

She knew what they were up to. And she ignored it, continuing on her way to Guy R. Brewer Blvd., where she would pick up the bag of flour for her father.

For a short time, thoughts of the boy crossed her mind. She anticipated seeing him in a couple of weeks… Hopefully.

A lot of younger boys looked up to the boy, she knew, just as a lot of girls their age chased after him—but it was different for her.

She heard running footsteps and turned