Dre stuck the key in the ignition and turned it. The car started despite the heavy damage. He drove down Jefferson Street swerving and speeding. He prayed that he did not encounter any police cruisers. He had the perfect probable cause in the back seat to justify a search of the vehicle and seize the driver. In the distance, he heard the wail of sirens that raced to the crime scene he just departed.
At 17th Street, Dre turned right and continued to the hospital on the corner of 17th and Girard Avenue. When he crossed Girard, he drove past the hospital, though. He pulled over just passed the hospital and jumped out of the mini van. He climbed into the back seat and checked Chino for a pulse. There wasn’t one.
He grabbed Leah’s briefcase and Chino’s gun and climbed out. He packed the drugs in his gym duffle bag after he took out his sweaty gym clothes. He took off the battery-included orange and put on his black Polo sweat suit, to which he ignored the smell of stinking sweat.
Dre walked from the car, but he returned, having forgotten an important piece of evidence to at least give the cops a hard time with figuring out who the car belonged to.
Dre strolled down Girard Avenue, and as he crossed 15th Street, a Chevrolet Caprice Classic passed him slowly. The driver yelled, “yo, get in!”
Dre continued to walk and crossed the street. He did not know the driver. He cut through the Kentucky Fried Chicken parking lot and was cut off by the Caprice that came whipping into another entrance of the parking lot.
Dre stuffed Chino’s gun into the driver’s window. “Who the fuck is you? Speak or I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out!”
“Don’t shoot,” the man said. “I’m a criminal investigator. I work for an attorney, but was hired by your brother to keep an eye on you. I provided the information that got you off that Snobli murder. Please put the gun down and get the fuck in the car, before someone sees you and calls the police.”
Dre ignored the man’s advice and with his free hand he dialed Kareem. When Kareem picked up, he put the phone on speaker. “Talk to him.”
“Kareem, I have Dre. He has a gun on me. He was shot at by three white guys in a black Navigator,” the man said in one breath.
“Dre, that’s Mr. Jonathan Rude. Get the gun off him and get the hell out of there, now!”
Obstinately, Dre stood there stunned. He did not have anything to say, and he was confused. “Where are you?” He asked his brother, and hopped into the Caprice.
Once again, saved by my little nigga, Dre thought.