“Yo,” Mann spoke into the telephone. “I found out where that nigger Sykes is at.”
Tone’s ears pricked. “You know where the nigger rests his head?”
“Better than that,” Mann responded.
“Say somethin’ kid!” Tone demanded.
“City Jail,” Mann told him.
“What?” Tone exclaimed. “How you know?”
“Bumped into a dope fiend at Lexington Market and he told me he seen the nigger. Sykes got picked up on a retail theft charge,” Mann assured him.
“Word?” Tone added.
“Word!” Mann chimed in.
Tone sighed as he came to a sudden realization. “That information ain’t gone do me no good. I can’t get at him in jail.”
“Listen,” Mann began. “You can if you bail the nigger out.”
Suddenly a light bulb went off in Tone’s head. The wheels in his mind began to turn. Mann had said a mouthful. For all intents and purposes, he thought that the news of Sykes’ arrest had put their beef on hold. Up until now it had been impossible to pinpoint Sykes’ location, the dope houses he frequented, or where he rested his head. Now suddenly Sykes’ advantage had just slipped away. For the first time since their altercation began, Tone had the upper hand. Now he could get some closure. Put an end to this dangerous game that he had been playing.
By bailing Sykes out, Tone would know exactly where he would be and at what time. He could take it from there. The moment had come. Tone put the plan in place, and he knew what had to be done. Later that evening, he had one of Mann’s girlfriends pay the bond with a bail bondsman. Now all there was left to do was wait until the bail was posted and Sykes was released from City Jail on Eager Street. He would be right there watching and waiting.
It was a narrow window of opportunity, but Tone thought it was well worth the shot. He knew he had one thing in his favor, the element of surprise.
The conditions in Baltimore City Jail were deplorable; the place was unlivable, on a good day, unbearable on a bad day. Sykes thrived in these conditions, he was immune to them, having spent so much time in correctional facilities. He had lived in shooting galleries that weren’t much better than this. Fortunately for him, this wasn’t his first rodeo. He knew how to maneuver in jail.
The legal system was his personal revolving door. Sykes had spent more than half his life incarcerated in jails from Hagerstown to the Maryland Eastern Shore. He thrived in these conditions. He was well known throughout the system. He once bragged that he could do his time at Baltimore City Jail standing on my head, that he knew how to bid.
Sykes’ heroin habit had gotten the best of him, resulting in him attempting to steal soap powder from a supermarket to feed his habit. Arrested, he was sent to City Jail in lieu of bail, not because of the severity of the crime, but because of his lengthy criminal history. Sykes was a repeat offender.
Slowly, his cell door mechanically began to open, shattering the peaceful night’s silence that had engulfed the tier. The loud noise was enough to only make Sykes barely stir in his sleep. His cell door stood wide open for a few seconds without him so much as acknowledging it. Still in a deep sleep, Sykes hadn’t realized yet that his cell door was even open.
“Sykes,” a correctional officer called out. Sykes was like a famous basketball player, he was known on a first name basis.
No answer. “Sykes! Sykes!” He shouted again, this time louder. Sykes continued to lie on his back on his bunk, in a comatose state. He was enjoying the precious rest that jail afforded him. It was the same rest that evaded him whenever he was in the streets, and his drug habit kept him up for days and all hours of the night.
“Sykes! Yo!” An inmate from a neighboring cell called out. “Wake up! The C.O. callin’ you.”
He heard that.
Groggily, Sykes opened his eyes to discover his cell door wide open. This is strange, he thought. The minute he sat up on his bed, his large belly protruded over his waistline. Bare-chested and dressed only in a pair of dingy white boxers, he stumbled to his feet and walked over to the cell door. He leaned halfway out the cell as he looked down the tier.
“C.O., what the fuck is up, yo?” Sykes hollered down the tier.
“Pack ya shit,” the Correctional Officer began. “You made bail. Let’s go!”
“You whores better stop playin’ wit’ me, yo!” Sykes swore. “I just fuckin’ got here the other day. I ain’t even been to court yet. I ain’t made no fuckin’ bail, yo!... Now close my fuckin’ cell door and stop playin’ wit’ me!”
Frustrated, Sykes re-entered his cell and laid back down on his bunk. He shook his head in disbelief.
“I made bail? Yeah right,” he said to himself.
His luck didn’t run like that. He didn’t have a get-out-of-jail-free card in his back pocket. Sykes had done too much dirt to the people that loved him for them to ever come get him out of a jam. The only person who would come get him out of jail, his mother, had died over ten years ago. At any second, he fully expected his cell door to shut close and he could resume his slumber. Yet he watched and waited for something to happen that just didn’t.
Click-Click, Click-Click.... His cell door
