Free The Assigned by A. D. Smith, Iii

Deacon, but he says nothing. A’ma takes a swig from her generic bottle before carrying on. “But as those hypocritical zealots love to do, he left out one major part of the story. I didn’t leave him because I got pregnant with another man’s child.” A’ma pauses. She looks me straight in the eye. “ He left because I got pregnant with his child … you, Mija.”
    I—I—hunh? Can this be true? I look back and forth at these two people in the room I hardly know now and I can’t get a read on either. Both look away, their faces blank.
    “That’s right Gloria. Wonder why there’s no pictures up anywhere, why I never talk about your father? You wanna know why I made sure you went to that good fa’ nothin’ church? Because I wanted him to see you. See what he abandoned—he abandoned us, Gloria! He found out I was pregnant and … HE … LEFT!”
    I look to the Deacon for answers, but his silence makes no case for denial. Guess I have my answer. “And … and so all this time, you were just being nice to me to make up for being such a horrible father?”
    I stare at the very thing that drove my mom over the edge, though David Nichols dare not look me in the eye. It seems likes minutes pass before I can muster up the strength to move. In reality, only seconds go by before I brush past the stranger and into the night.
    -----------T H E A S S I G N E D-----------
    “Where are you, T-Mart?”
    This has to be the correct address—242 Bering Ave, right here in front of the old abandoned dry-cleaners. No sign of Martin though. Half consumed beer bottles lay scattered throughout the decaying parking lot. Pressed for time, I decide to step out and look around.
    “Hello? Is anyone here?” No answer. “Hello? Martin? T-Mart, you here?”
    Still, no answer. Cautiously, I search around the deserted building, but there’s no one here. Back outside, I glance up at the intersecting street signs. Bering Avenue and Cross Street. This is definitely it. Man, if that blonde doesn’t show, I’ll kill you, T-Mart.
    Having seen enough, I step back inside the Escalade. This is not the type of neighborhood you want to explore in the middle of the night. I decide to give the area one more drive through before getting back to more pressing matters.
    A couple suspicious characters line the dark streets. Thankfully, the car locks itself. Frowning mugs stare as I slowly drive down the mostly abandoned avenue.
    When I get back, I’ma definitely need a double —something catches my eye. Sneakers lay near the edge of a high field of uncut grass. But not just any kicks. These look like shoes only two people in Memphis possess. My eyes strain to get a better view. Can’t be.
    Against better judgment, I park the SUV and hop out to get a closer look.
    Before I got hurt, I was on the verge of releasing my first signature shoe. Contracts had been signed, advertising was about to begin, the works. Of course the shoe company postponed the campaign until more clarity was given in response to my return to the field. They gave me a few pairs to tryout and share with friends. I gave a couple pairs to teammates, none of whom were from or reside in Memphis, and one pair to Martin. It hadn’t been my initial intent to share them, but Martin discovered them during one of his unannounced house calls.
    “T-Mart—Martin,” I whisper while creeping towards an opening in the grassy field. Moving closer, I get a better view of the colorful shoes. Those are definitely the prototypes for the never released, TNT-330’s
    “What the—”
    My heart nearly stops. Connected to the shoes is … nothing. I let out a deep sigh of relief before laughing at myself. I don’t know if I should be relieved or mad.
    “I’m outta here.”
    I hope Brittany—Brenda—man, what was her name? Anyway, hope she’s—THUMP. I trip over a hump in the grass falling to the dampened ground. Not again! This is a $600 shirt! My head starts to spin as the alcohol coursing