The Game of GWOP by Trae Macklin

Author:Trae Macklin [Macklin, Trae]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, United States, African American, Urban, Contemporary Fiction, Genre Fiction
Amazon: B00Q5JUIE8
Publisher: Wahida Clark Presents Publishing
Published: 2014-11-29T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter 20

Your Poker Face is Cracking

GQ cursed the fact that he hadn’t used his fake ID, but ironically, he was more worried about having a charge he didn’t know about on his fake ID than on his real one. He knew he didn’t have any charges under his real name because he never used it.

He was wrong.

GQ had been driving his Land Rover up Springfield Avenue when the police had passed him going the other way. They quickly swooped a U-turn and threw on the cherries, pulling him over.

“License and registration.”

“Is there a problem, officer?”

“Yeah, you. Now shut the fuck up.”

GQ was burning on the inside, but he knew to hold his tongue.

Several minutes later, he was cuffed and on his way to the precinct.

He sat in the interrogation room, the same one that Tyrone had sat in and helped put the finger on him.

The door opened and in walked Detective Simmons. GQ just shook his head. They knew each other well enough because Simmons had been a Narcotics Detective before he switched to Robbery/Homicide, and had arrested GQ numerous times.

Simmons looked at GQ, his hands behind his back while GQ sat cuffed in the chair.

“Didn’t I tell you I’d get you one day, Quincy?” Simmons gloated.

“Man, this some bullshit. I ain’t got no drug charge,” GQ fumed.

“Oh, you didn’t hear? I got promoted. I’m now Head Detective of Robbery/Homicide. Aren’t you gonna congratulate me?” Simmons quipped.

“Big Head Detective,” GQ mumbled.

“Exactly. Wanna see it?” Simmons shot back.

GQ glared at him, wishing he didn’t have the cuffs on.

“Anyway, I just wanted to return your property,” Simmons remarked, then came from behind his back with a large plastic bag, and in it was the Mac-11 that he had dropped at the robbery.

“I think maybe you dropped this,” Simmons said, tossing it on the table.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” GQ lied, but Simmons had seen all that he needed to see.

As soon as he had shown GQ the gun, his shoulders sagged. It wasn’t much, but Simmons was a great reader of body language.

He sat down. “Come on, G. We’ve been doing this too long. You know I know your tells by now. Your poker face is crackin’,” Simmons commented.

“Fuck you. I want a lawyer,” GQ spat, seeing that shit was deeper than he thought.

“You lawyerin’ up already, G? How are we supposed to make a deal?”

GQ looked him dead in the eyes. “You already know how I get down. Have we ever made a deal in the past?”

“No, but I’ve never had you for three homicides and a smoking gun before either. The stakes are too high for you to tough-talk shit. We’re talking about the rest of your life here. Don’t lawyer up until you hear me out,” Simmons proposed.

He could tell by GQ’s expression that he was thinking; he just didn’t know what about. But since GQ didn’t say anything, he continued. “You fucked up, G. You fucked up bad. But maybe, just maybe we can help each other .

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