Five Steps Ahead

SIX

By noon, I arrived in the parking lot of the Riverfront Museum. The backstreets of the Riverfront is where Joe and the Caucasian guy had met up to partake in business the other day. Around this area, you usually see illegal graffiti on the back walls of the buildings and teenaged skater boys busing their asses around the stairway, but it was busy with women this time. I looked around to see if I could spot Joe, but he was nowhere to be found. Suddenly, I heard a woman with a raspy voice call out, "Josephere!" After the woman's echo began to fade, I skimmed the territory for about ten minutes with the aim of following the sound of her voice, but there were many women around; her whereabouts were imperceptible. "Josephere!" I heard once again. Abruptly, I felt a tight grip, nearly equivalent to the one back at the café, around the back of my arm. I powerfully turned my back to slacken the grasp, once again, and there was Joe.

"You better be looking for something. No one ever visits the Riverfront without a group of friends; It's too good of sight to bear alone." He started.

"I was looking around for you, and I figured you would be here. I need to discuss some things with you regarding the sexual assault case." I responded.

"Some things like what? I told you everything that happened." He asked in uncertainty.

"I need to document everything word for word, and I need some proof. I won't get any here at your hangout spot, Joe; I need the footage from the security cameras at your place." I demanded.

"Good. We need to hurry and get away from here. I walk these streets so much the prostitutes remember my name." He walked away without signaling for me to follow him. But I did it anyway. Only this time, I didn't feel like a kid pressured to do whatever he said. I was going to drive my own vehicle to this destination for the sake of his ass.

The drive from Downtown Peoria to Joe's house was about fifteen minutes long. He was always walking the streets of downtown because that's where he stayed precisely. Downtown houses were far more expensive than the average home in Peoria. If you could acquire a place downtown, you had to fall into three categories: an African American who lives in an apartment complex or duplex, a white or black person (legally or illegally rich) with a mansion, or any other race who just fell in the mix. You can guess which category Joe fell in. The front of his house had a towering white water fountain with two modern sculptures of horses with gold chains that overlapped each other, surrounded by Florida-styled palm trees. His home-security system unlocked his front door with his fingerprint, and the first thing you would spot in the interior was a long black carpet with bordering gold diamonds that ran from the entryway to a glassed rooftop swimming pool.

"You look like you like what you see," He scoffed while breaking my concentration.

"I'm just baffled. I can't imagine how much money you've put into this place. You got all of this money from killing people?" I answered.

"More than you're making working for the government. You know they don't care about you, right black woman?" He stated while entering the kitchen and started to pour a glass of Merlot. "You're just a sycophant to those white folks."

"I don't discriminate, black man. White people deserve the same respect as you and me. Your fancy possessions limit your humbleness." I grabbed his glass of wine and began to drink it.

"Your past has blinded you. You're used to success and stability. You've grown immune to people telling you what they'll do for you and being all nice and shit." He grabbed another glass.

"People?" I asked.

"In general," He responded. "Your parents told you to go to school because it would help you earn money, but they never told you that you'd have to go damn near broke just to make it out. You knew you'd become a lawyer because you went to an Ivy League school that could give you that spot in a heartbeat. I can read you like I've known you forever. You've never had to struggle, so you don't know the definition. I'm humble with a side of confidence and awareness. I'm happy to know I've grown past where I started."

"Is that why you introduced me to Joe, Josephere?" I scrunched my eyebrows in confusion. "The new and improved."

He didn't know I had researched some of his background information and stumbled upon his real name.

"I introduced you to Joe so that neither of us would have to answer to or say/hear the name Josephere again. Josephere was my father's name." He started to pour me another glass of wine.

"I'm guessing you'd rather not associate yourself with your father anymore." I continued.

"I couldn't equate myself with my dad any longer; that is the reason he is dead." He shrugged.

I spit out my drink in disbelief. I stood unequivocally on the conviction that any individual who could kill their own blood was just heartless, and there I was, standing in the same room with a careless murderer!

"YOU KILLED YOUR FATHER?" I yelled.

"There's no need to scream," He responded calmly, "Since he killed my mother, I killed him. I felt that if I had done something to get him back for all the harm he had caused, I would be able to live a life without pain and less pressure. When I was sixteen years old, I murdered him, and I had never felt so alive before. In my book, he was the first and most wonderful murder case."

I remained amazed and just continued to let him talk.

"My mother was the best thing that ever happened to me, and he took her away from me." He shook his head while glancing at a heart-shaped silver ring down on his pinky finger. The pinky finger is always the first option for a man who wants to wear a "statement" ring.

"What does the ring on your finger symbolize? If you don't mind me asking," I questioned cautiously.

"It was my mother's," He paused, "When she died in my lap, she was wearing it. Despite realizing her spirit had left, I inclined that if I only kept her favorite piece of jewelry, she would still be with me. My grandmother gave this ring to my mom, and when my grandmother passed, my mom thought the same thing about it." He started to twirl it. "Good things and good people came into her life from Heaven because of this ring. The devil just never left it."

His story appeared as though behind his criminal appearance, there was something beyond a craving to execute. He slaughtered people to help people. Now, I understood why he had begun his business. He needed to accomplish something pleasant for individuals who were placed in the same situation as he was. Because of that, his character was less frightening and more compassionate.