Chapter 27

Hassles of Protocol

Driving to Oklahoma Blue’s property takes a while. First you’ve got to get out of Seattle proper, which takes long enough. Then you’ve got to wind down long stretches of country roads which become progressively worse in terms of their upkeep. I don’t like the idea of being stranded out in the woods, especially after dark. The trees crowd in along the road and you can’t see a damned thing. If you come across a deer, or worse yet, an elk standing in the headlights, good luck swerving before you total your ride. It’s cold, wet and generally miserable out here and the very idea of trekking around in the dark trying to find a pocket of cellphone reception makes me want to whip around and go back home. Unfortunately, that is absolutely not an option.

After what feels like hours of cruising at exactly the speed limit posted, I come to a gravel road. There’s a sign reading No Trespassing: Violators Will Be Prosecuted. Of course, this is an empty threat and the bullet holes riddling the metal of the sign confirm that. Out here, same as it is in the cities, it’s every man for himself. Of course, the thing is, there’s fewer men per square mile and most of these men use four-wheel drive trucks. Big, mud-splattered monster machines that have rifles and shotguns hanging in the rear windows of their cabs. Law enforcement officers are few and far between out here so if you’re in need of assistance, hope you don’t mind being aided by a permanently drunk former logger. Maybe I’m exaggerating, but I doubt it.

Though this isn’t my turn-off, adrenaline seeps into my bloodstream. It’s not far from where I’m headed, another unmarked gravel road. Logging companies used to own many of these vast tracts of wilderness so they created these gravel roads to make harvesting the timber easier. I’d never be able to know which of these roads to nowhere I’m supposed to take, but I do know what I’m looking for: a Folgers coffee can sitting alongside the road I’m on. When I see this can then I know that I’m two turn-offs away from where I need to be. I pull over and pick that empty can up because I’ll need it to prove I’m the man Oklahoma Blue’s expecting. Every criminal worth a damn has his or her rituals. This is his. It’s not always a coffee can. The time before this, he used an old hubcap. The point is for the item not to look out of place in its environment yet serve as a key to Okie’s hide-out.

After dumping the rainwater from the Folgers can, I cruise up to the turn-off I’m looking for. I haven’t seen another vehicle for quite awhile, but I know I’m not alone. As a Selachi I can sense lifeforms from a great distance and the fewer of them there are, the stronger their signal is. I already know how far I’ll be going before I reach Okie’s men. There’s at least three of them waiting for me, maybe more. I grit my teeth as I steer my ride onto what’s sure to be a hellaciously torn up road. In these winter months it’s not uncommon to see slices of road buried by mudslides or simply washed away in a flash flood. The trees seem to crush in on either side of the road as if they’re trying to contain its potential widening. As the car bucks and sways its way over the loose gravel, I struggle not to think about what lies ahead. I’ll pass Oklahoma’s men before I see them. That’s the way this game works. I’m coming up to them right now, in fact, my Selachi senses tell me.

In the rear view mirror there’s no sign of them until they turn on their headlights. Pulling over, my stomach does a flip and I get that same sensation of dread, so familiar. It’s the one I always experience when I see red and blue strobes flashing behind me. These dudes aren’t cops, but they’re the authority out here in their own way. As I pull over and cut the engine, I can hear the rumbling from their huge Dodge Ram behind me and though I can’t see them inside the cab from here, I know they’ve got their weapons trained on me. A single false move and they’ll open fire, I’ve been told. I roll down my window and place the can on top of the car so they’ll know it’s me. Next, I put both my arms out the driver’s side window, dangle my keys and drop them outside the car. All this must be done before they’ll be willing to get out of their truck, much less approach me.

Gravel crunches under their boots as they approach the vehicle, alert for any sign of ambush. I sense several more of them, one in the wooded area on each side of the road and a few more grouped up ahead of us, probably listening for any signs of trouble. Even with the truck’s engine idling and their noisy approach, it’s eerily quiet out here. One of them steps up to my door and opens it for me. He’s a medium-sized guy in woodland camo fatigues with a pistol in his hands. He studies me carefully, his face displaying no emotion. From his blond crew cut and close shave, I’d guess he’s been a soldier. Makes sense because those are the men Okie’s most likely to trust.

“Step out of the car,” he orders. “Hands where we can see ‘em and no fast moves.”

I don’t feel like responding verbally so I simply comply, standing up in the light mist of rain, facing the man.

“You armed?” His accent sounds Southern to me.

“I am.” There’s a part of my nature that won’t let me not return direct eye contact so hopefully this doesn’t threaten Soldier Boy here.

“Where are the weapons?”

“The knife’s in my right boot and there’s a .45 in the waistline of my jeans. In the front.”

He nods. “We’ll be taking those. Give ‘em back to you at the end.”

“Fine by me,” I tell him even though I find this whole process obnoxious since they already know me.

“Disarm him,” he tells one of the others, never taking his eyes from me.

Another of the men takes my weapons, but I don’t look at him.

“Have Roscoe check him out, then do the car.” I don’t think he’s talking to me.

My hands are hanging at my sides when something damp and wet touches them. “What the fuck?”

I can’t help but look. It’s a German Shepherd held on a leash by a lanky guy in similar camo. The dog growls low before he continues sniffing me.

“Might wanna keep still,” the first guy says in a bored tone. “Jerkin’ around only makes him nervous. He gets nervous, he’s gonna bite.”

“Not unless I fuckin’ tell him to, he won’t,” Roscoe’s handler says, telling the dog, “Search!”

“Yeah, and you don’t talk unless I tell you to, either,” Blond Crewcut glares at Dog Handler.

I’ve liked dogs my whole life, so being in their presence isn’t a problem. Thing is, a lot of a dog’s personality depends on how you treat him. I’ve been searched by plenty of K-9’s in my time and though most aren’t hostile, some definitely begrudge the human race. I imagine those dogs, same as some of those guarding drug dealers or junkyards, got made mean by being treated as if they’re furry robots who live only to serve. Roscoe here seems to be acting normal. He doesn’t know me from Adam, so growling when I act startled is natural enough. While we wait, Roscoe thoroughly inspects first me and then my ride, inside and out. I’m hoping he didn’t get too much mud on the upholstery.

“So where is it?” Blond Crewcut asks me once the search is over.

“Where’s what?” Damn these hillbillies and their cryptic communication.

“Brought us somethin’, didn’t you?”

“In the front seat, passenger’s side, there’s a Supersonics’ bag. Money’s in there.”

“Hey,” Crewcut looks over to one of his men, “Count that up for me.”

More time passes while I hope MadBlack gave me the correct amount and that these guys don’t have any issues with math. I also fantasize about killing them all and then stealing the weapons. Be easy enough for me to do.

“Ok,” Crewcut says after his man assures him that all the money’s there, “Boots, jeans, coat and shirt all come off.”

This is a new one.

“Why the fuck do I–” I begin before he cuts me off.

“You want to do business with us, you do it our way. Our way is to check you for a wire.” The bored tone of his voice grates my nerves.

“Whatever.” I do as they’ve asked, cursing the chill rain that causes my entire body to rise up in a riot of goosebumps.

“Drop the boxers to your ankles,” Crewcut’s telling me, “I’ll let you know when you can pull ‘em back up.”

I’d act offended, but right now I’m standing barefoot on sharp gravel in temperatures that hover just above freezing while a light rain falls on me. I’m mainly interested in getting through with this bullshit as quickly as possible, so I peel the boxers down.

“Turn around once, then pull ‘em back up. We’re not interested in seeing you naked, this is standard procedure now.”

I grit my teeth and do as they’ve asked. Probably got mud on the damn things in the process. Ride home ought to be real comfortable in soaked boxers. Damn these fuckers!

“Okay. Now we give you the clothes back. You get dressed again and then we’ll shackle your ankles and blindfold you for the ride.”

One of the men steps forward and hands me my clothes. I dress in a hurry, they bind me, blindfold me and then lead me somewhere away from the truck. They don’t want me, or any other customer, knowing the location of their operation. Another vehicle arrives and they have me step up into it, a van I’m guessing. The ride feels like we’re driving off-road over rough terrain, but I’ve got no way to be sure since I can’t see anything. No one says a word to me the entire way until we come to a stop.

The silence from the engine being cut creates a tidal wave of anxiousness within me. We’re here.

“Ok, partner,” an unfamiliar voice informs me, “Let’s go. Give me your arm and I’ll lead you in.”

They don’t need to warn me not to try anything. I curse those Knuckleheads for getting me into this mess.

Chapter 26

Going Rogue

I consider myself to be a brave man. Not necessarily fearless, since fear’s a good part of what keeps you on your toes and living through danger, but courageous. Growing up, I fought plenty with my fists, sticks, rocks, knives and guns. Not too many situations give me a true sense of dread, but there are exceptions. Purchasing military-grade weapons from Oklahoma Blue definitely earns a spot as one of those exceptions. The man’s a straight-up nut.

Oklahoma Blue hails from, well, Oklahoma, I guess. No one seems to know his whole story and chances are that’s because they figure it’d be safer not to. To most of those working in shadier professions, he’s considered a legendary myth. Only a few in Seattle have encountered him personally, despite the fact that he lives close to our city, because Oklahoma Blue does business on a global scale. I’ve met him on a couple occasions, unfortunately. I say unfortunately because I’m certain that merely knowing the face that goes with the name and reputation would earn me life in federal prison if not a straight out snuffing by the CIA.

You see, the man has a complicated past. From what I understand, he served in Vietnam as a young kid, fresh out of high school. This was at the beginning of the war and Okie, coming from a long line of proud military men, volunteered out of fierce patriotism. During the many years he served he made plenty of friends. He also witnessed atrocities committed by both sides, but his youthful mind refused to see Americans as capable of anything but justice. It didn’t take long until he came to view the Viet Cong as wicked. Then he decided, after seeing so many friends die in the fields of combat, that the Vietnamese, as a people, were evil. Having grown up on war stories from relatives who fought in the Pacific theater of World War II, he had heard plenty about the Japanese and none of it was good. Eventually, he began feeling that the real problem’s roots sprang from racial incompatibility. By the time he returned to American shores he’d evolved into a full-fledged white supremacist with years of combat experience and a wide network of veteran military personnel he considered friends.

Throughout the 70’s he rose in prominence among his peers, turning his back on a government and civilian population that he felt had turned its back on him. Due to his connections, obtaining weaponry to support the cause proved to be easy as cake for Okie. Some of those who smuggled firepower to him knew what it was for, others didn’t. In Okie’s eyes, his work supported the cause of brotherhood among white men, an endangered species needing protection from a planet brimming with lesser savages, of other skin tones, waiting to slaughter them. He honestly believed an apocalypse lay just beyond the horizon so he put forth his most vigorous effort to arm his brethren. He sold a lot of machine guns, grenades, rocket launchers and survival gear of all types, never concerning himself with profits. He knew that at any moment World War III would break out and it’d be survival of the fittest.

Then came the 80’s and with it, no Armageddon, no great war to end all wars. More of the same bullshit he’d endured up to that time. Only now there were militias and openly proud Neo-Nazis appearing in the media. It turned into a political game, a media circus. That kind of attention could endanger the cause, Okie reasoned, expose him to the feds who couldn’t wait to bring him down. In response to the whoring of the great cause, Oklahoma Blue started cutting back on the quantity of supplies he’d once offered so freely. He grew paranoid, suspicious of anyone new who’d been referred to him. This made his comrades in the white supremacist movement angry. They refused to tolerate their movement being criticized by anyone, much less a lowly arms dealer. After all, he was just an ignorant farm kid from the Midwest who’d killed a few gooks overseas before turning into a crook. Probably a Jew anyway, they said, betraying them out of cowardice. If he wouldn’t give them what they wanted, then by God, they’d take it.

And take it they did. Instead of a foreign invasion or federal raid like Okie’d always feared, he woke up one morning to find his compound being overrun by the same people he’d been aiding for years. Rogue skinheads killed his entire guard force, stole everything they could find and burned every building on his property, including his home, to the ground. Like a nightmare revisited, he witnessed the madness over his surveillance cameras. His own kind turned on him like rabid dogs, tearing everything he’d worked and fought for to pieces. He escaped to his hidden fallout bunker, but his wife and children did not. The most precious people in his life burned alive in his home while he lay pinned down in a hidden room beneath a shed several hundred feet away.

Devastated, Okie turned to the leaders of all the various groups he’d been loyally serving for years. Know what they told him? That’s right, they couldn’t help him because they didn’t want to support fighting between rival factions of their own proud race. They also told him that if they did retaliate against the rogue group of skinheads, it’d draw negative federal and media attention they couldn’t afford because it would tarnish the movement. Okie’s devastation began to transform itself into a furious rage. His hatred shifted its focus so that he no longer even identified with white supremacy, no longer gave a flying fuck what the color of anyone’s skin was. The metamorphosis was complete. He’d become a total misanthrope.

Having no other real option left in life by which he could support himself, he returned to dealing the tools of warfare. Since he had no loyalties left among men, he was free to buy from and sell to whomever he pleased. The motive, beyond helping people kill each other, now became profit. He traveled the world in search of new providers of quality product, marking it up so he’d make a handsome commission with each sale. He sold assault rifles to street gangs, explosives to cartels, US helicopters to African warlords, Chinese missiles to South American dictators and chemical weapons to nations in the Middle East. In short, the man did whatever the fuck he felt like doing because he had no reason not to. Anyone who’s got very little left to lose is a dangerous person. Oklahoma Blue ain’t got shit left to lose in this world, as far as he’s concerned.

Chapter 25

Code Blue

Stepping through the door to MadBlack’s, I can smell the reefer before I see it. Impressively dank skunk that’s practically making my mouth water. I hear the TV blaring, too. The living room’s lights are low, smoke hanging in the air, giving the sense that I’m stepping into some Amsterdam pot bar. On the couch MadBlack’s sprawled out in the same silk robe he had on when I left, a woman on each side of him. One, a slender Asian girl, watches me enter while clutching what’s probably her nightie up over her chest. She’s not wearing a stitch other than this. The other girl’s a brunette in a nearly transparent negligee of some sort, too focused on the swan-shaped bong she’s holding to care much about my arrival. Judging by the sheen of sweat on all the flesh exposed by each of the three, I’d wager MadBlack recently enjoyed a menage a trois. Lucky bastard.

“What up, Percy?” He’s glued to the television’s screen as BET airs yet another music video. He’s still got those damned sunglasses on, too.

“Hate to interrupt your, uh, activities but we need to talk,” I know he’s going to try to blow me off. “Would’ve called, but this is real important.”

He lets out a tortured sigh to the depth that a bull would, standing up slowly as he ties his robe shut. Poor fool, probably tuckered right out from such a rigorous day. I think this to myself since I’m smart enough not to offer my embittered opinions to him.

“Let’s go,” he tells me before telling the women, “Y’all keep each other busy till I get back, ya hear me?”

The brunette laughs and nods, passing the bong to the Asian girl who’s trying to figure out a way to accept it without dropping her shield. I follow MadBlack upstairs to his room. He locks the door behind us, turning to face me.

“Huh-uh,” I tell him, shaking my head and thumbing towards the master bathroom. “Level two, man. Real fucking serious.”

‘Level two’ means that I need him to go into the master bedroom’s bathroom further away from the door so no one can possibly eavesdrop on our conversation. Women are by nature nosy creatures, even when they’re stoned out of their minds, and what I’m going to discuss with him warrants all the protective measures we can use to ensure we’re not overheard. He rolls his eyes, says ’shit’ under his breath and trudges to the bathroom, closing the door behind us.

“What is it?” He sits down on the closed lid of the toilet, leaving me to stand.

I fill him in on all the details of what went down today. He listens quietly, but I know what it means when clenches and releases his fists like that. He’s angry. Angry enough to kill. Of course, as an OG he can’t risk doing that himself so guess who’ll get to make sure it gets done? Yep.

“I think,” he drawls the words like a thick syrup, “You know what I’m gonna have you do. Go downstairs and wait while I make some calls. Knuckleheads gonna learn tonight what happens when you fuck with Kingfins. They’ll be wishin’ they’d pulled this shit on Al Qaeda when we done with ‘em. Nobody fucks a Kingfin outta money, but what’s worse’n that, Percy?”

“To fuck a Kingfin outta blood.” I say somberly.

“S’right.” MadBlack’s cool, but his breathing’s too slow, reminding me of a python prepared to strike. “Tell you the truth, Percy, wish I could do this myself. Wouldn’t even use no gun. Use a ball-peen hammer and smash up their cracker-ass skulls myself. Tryin’ to bribe us for favors we already refused, that’s a black mark. Kill four of our homeboys in cold blood in our own hood just to take that money back? That’s a goddamn death sentence, son! We gon’ kill ev’r one of ‘em till there ain’t a motherfuckin’ Knucklehead left in all Seattle, much less a whole set. Saxons send anybody else up here, we gon’ kill their asses, too! This is fuckin’ genocide right hurr!”

“You know I’m with you, Mad,” I’m hoping I don’t look as nervous as I feel, like I’m locked in the grizzly exhibit at the zoo. “I promise you I’ll personally enforce whatever decree you wanna make. Ensure that shit gets done correctly.”

As we both exit the bedroom MadBlack rumbles, “Go on down and wait for me. Won’t be but a minute.”

Back in the living room the TV’s still blaring. I’m only mildly disappointed to see the girls aren’t engaged in any porn-worthy performances. The Asian one’s got her nightie back on and is studiously packing another bowl into the swan bong.

I saunter over and tell her, “Gimme a hit, sugar.”

The brunette gives me a wide, hazy smile displaying teeth so perfect she clearly didn’t grow up around here or any other low-income area. Her tits don’t look real either which means she’s probably a stripper.

“Everything goin’ ok up there?” she asks.

“Yep, just doing a little business.” I take a huge hit, my head swimming from the strength of this stuff.

“You take smoke like a pro,” she offers brightly. “If the business you two are doing brings in more of this kind of bud then I’m hella impressed!”

“Ain’t any of your concern, anyhow,” I glare at her. I love insulting gorgeous girls who are trying to kiss my ass. They’re never ready for it.

“Right,” she nods and both girls wisely go back to passing the bong and soaking in music videos.

I go into the kitchen to call Gabe Morton and let him know Philly’s on the way. Soon as I’m done I hear MadBlack calling to me from upstairs so I rush up there to him since his tone sounds less than serene. He’s waiting for me at the door to his bedroom holding a bolt cutter and a cellphone. I lock the door behind myself and we return to his bathroom.

“Called around,” he’s tapping the bolt cutter against one massive thigh, “Okie’s got what we need.”

“Aw, damn,” I try not to whine. “Oklahoma Blue? Ain’t there anybody else we can work with?”

“No.” He’s all business. “Only one who’s got what we want. And you gonna pick it up.”

“Motherfucker,” I grumble under my breath.

“What you call me?” His tone’s sharp and I’m worried he might decide to bash me a good one with that big-ass tool he’s holding.

“Not you, man,” I recover in a heartbeat. “Just you know how I hate dealing with those crazy rednecks. Paranoid motherfuckers way out in the boonies and all that. Creeps me out, that’s all.”

“This ain’t a discussion, Percy,” he snarls at me. “You gon’ do what I told you. We ain’t fuckin’ around while your candy ass waits to do business with a party that’s more comfortable to ya. Now listen up. You gon’ drive out to the usual spot. They pick you up and take you up there to Okie. Make sure you drive proper cause I don’t want some sheep-fuckin’ country sheriff slowin’ you down none. You gonna take the money in your trunk and they gon’ check it before they take you anywhere. Once you get to Okie’s, you pick out some big guns. Okie gon’ know how much you can buy and I want you to maximize my dollar, you understand me?”

“I got you.”

“Then you gon’ take them guns and blast the fuck out them Knuckleheads at Lanky Joe’s. I want ‘em dead, many as you can drop, but don’t you blow this. You know how to be careful when you gotta be and I don’t want no heroics. You kill ‘em, take the cash if you find it, and you get the fuck outta there before the SWAT team or some shit shows up.”

“Whew,” I shake my head for emphasis, “I’ve done a whole lot of crazy shit, but this is gonna be the most dangerous shit I’ve ever pulled off.”

“You do what you gotta do,” MadBlack points the bolt cutter at me to make his point. “Smear those traitoristic sons’a'bitches right off the goddamn map.”

“Good as done, man,” I tell him. “Won’t know what hit ‘em.”

“Better not,” is all he says before crushing the cellphone with the bolt cutter, handing the smashed remains to me. “Get rid of this on your way outta town. Used it to call Okie.”

It’s a stolen cellphone, one similar to those he’s got dozens of. After he makes calls that require total secrecy, he destroys them. The bolt cutter’s new, he used to use a hammer but this makes less noise. I pocket the pieces and we head back downstairs so I can take off after I get the keys to the car he wants me to use and a sports bag loaded with the cash. Thirty grand, he tells me. I ask if I’m supposed to pick up rocket launchers or what. He warns me not to be a smart ass and returns to his ladies of the evening.

Chapter 24

Dying Like Dogs

“Perce!” he’s yelling. “Perce, I called Kettle to ask about the money. He didn’t answer so I called around to find him. Found out he ain’t called me cause he got shot!”

“Slow down, Philly!” I keep my voice low so the people in this parking lot can’t overhear me. “Kettle got shot? Who shot him? Is he okay, what happened?”

“He’s dead, Perce.” Philly seems only slightly calmer as he tells me this. “Him, Ducky and Big Pete. All fucking dead.”

“How in the fuck?” is all I can muster, my nerves not quite catching up to the news.

“Drive-by,” my lieutenant informs me. “Outside the liquor store in Doyle Heights, man.”

“Aw, shit!” I curse quietly. “Smoke Money, right?”

“Ain’t sure who shot ‘em,” Philly tells me. “From what I can get outta people, apparently it was some sort of Nissan sedan. Tinted windows. Whoever shot ‘em ditched the thing about half a mile from where they gunned our boys down. Stolen ride, the cops are saying.”

“No one got a good look at the shooters?” I can’t believe this bullshit.

“Nah, it happened real quick so it must’ve been planned out. Only thing we know is Kettle didn’t have none of that money on him. All of ‘em straight dead and none of ‘em had anything unusual with ‘em. Cops know they’re Kingfin so they figure this shit is gang-related, but can’t figure out a motive since as far as they know we ain’t feuding with anybody.”

This strikes me as strange. Kettle’s from Sunset Point, but he’s still Kingfin and Philly still pulls rank on him so I seriously doubt he’d pocket that cash or risk leaving it with anyone. The only conclusion that I can come to is that he must’ve had it stripped off his corpse. That’s pretty sick and it’s not real likely Smoke Money’s crew would do that kind of thing if this was a vendetta hit. I highly doubt that Smoke Money has any clue we shot ‘em up at Thunder Gate, anyhow. My intuition tells me this is pure Knucklehead bullshit and that money was real, not fake.

“Three of our men dead.” I let the statement hang in the air. “Money gone off Kettle. I guess that doesn’t leave a whole lot of guesswork for us now does it?”

“What you sayin’ Perce?”

“I’m telling you this is a Knucklehead hit.” I let my tone tell him how deadly serious I am. “They want us to continue business as usual and show up at Lanky Joe’s to get at least a partial payment. When we show up, they off us.”

“You fucking serious?” Philly’s got to be foaming at the mouth now. “You think they set this shit up just to knock us off and take Benton?”

“S’right, I do. This isn’t just about Seattle, Philly. It’s some sort of gig that interests their entire fucking organization. Why else would the Diamondknuckles be doing bitch work for some fucker from LA? Why else would they toss us decent chunks of change to keep us off their asses while they dowsed the park? This isn’t some minor thing they’re looking for. Whatever it is, it’s worth a lot to them or they wouldn’t risk provoking a war with us. However, what they’ve done calls for war. None of those boys deserved to die, especially not by ambush.”

“Holy fuck!” Philly hasn’t technically known full-scare war. Beef, yes, but not war. “We’re at war?”

“Gonna need MadBlack’s approval since it’s his Doyle Heights set, but that won’t be hard for me to get. This is gonna be a war those Knuckleheads are never gonna forget. I’m going straight to MadBlack’s to get his approval. You get some troops decked out and bring ‘em to Morton’s. Fast as you can.”

Morton’s is Morton & Son’s Scrap & Salvage, our secret weapon. Philly’s got some idea about it though we’ve rarely needed to use the place before now. It’s on our payroll and he’ll learn why once things get rolling.

“Got it, Boss,” he rushes his words. “Get ‘em to Morton’s quick as I can.”

“Good. See you there.”

I click my phone shut and enter the car, smiling at Lolinda. “I hate to do this, you know I do, but I’ve got some up and coming business to handle. I’ll swing you back to your place and we’ll re-schedule the walk on the pier if that’s alright with you.”

“Okay,” her smile flickers a little. I know she’s disappointed. “I understand. You do what you’ve got to do.”

“That’s right,” I tell her, “Don’t worry, though. We’ll get together again soon, I promise you.”

She doesn’t mind 2pac and right now that’s what I need, so we listen to The Don Killuminati: The 7 Day Theory during the trip back to her place. I make sure she has a fifty tucked down the back pocket of her jeans before I let her out of the car. She thinks I just felt her up.

Author’s Note: more tomorrow….

Chapter 23

Angel Bell Ring

“It sure feels great to be sitting at this table with you again.” Lolinda graces me with an adoring smile. “Remember when you brought me here for Valentine’s Day years ago? That’ll always be a magical moment for me. I consider it my first real date.”

I have to laugh at the memory of it. “I do, indeed. We’d hung out so much I considered you almost like one of the guys back then. Went to pick you up and damn if I wasn’t stunned at how well you could dress up when you meant to. A dress and everything! Blew me away seeing you with your hair done up and no ball cap.”

She covers her mouth, giggling and then takes a sip of the lemonade she ordered. I try not to stare at the way her luscious lips pout around the drink’s straw.

“I suppose that might sound like I wasn’t aware you were female, but I was,” I continue. “Thing is, I never thought you cared about girly kinds of things, always figured you were too serious for that. Always reading books about philosophy and collections of poetry, always hearing about underground music before any of us boys. That’s why we never had a problem letting you hang with us. Not only were you real easy to get along with, you were smart as hell and could fight if you had to.”

“I can still fight if I have to.” She looks directly into my eyes, “That instinct never leaves a person. You know how I learned to fight so well, Percy?”

“I s’pose cause you grew up with Arnold,” I tell her, referencing her older brother. “That boy made it a policy to take no shit off anyone.”

She shakes her head, her expression bittersweet. “No, not cause of Arnold, though he did teach me what he knew before he moved out. I learned to fight because I had to. You didn’t go to the same grade school as me, but before I moved to Cedar River I lived down in Southern California. Not Compton, but a place that’s a lot like it. Went to Downings Elementary, the kind of school every parent wants their kids bussed away from. Only the poorest of the poor kids wind up there and it’s no place for kids who can’t hold their own against bullies because half the school’s made up of kids who can’t read. Those kids get held back year after year and every year they get bigger and meaner if they don’t drop out altogether. I knew my mother’d whip my butt harder than any of those kids could if I failed any classes, so I studied and I passed. That made me a prime target for my classmates. By the time I hit middle school we moved up here where I didn’t have to struggle so hard, but I never lost my edge.”

“How come you never told me about that before?” I ask, taking a bite out of one of the three tuna melts I ordered.

“You’ve never asked.” She’s watching me eat instead of trying her club sandwich. “Besides, I wasn’t interested in bragging on myself. That’d be like advertising. It’d be about the same as going around asking people to fight me. I kept things on the down low because I wanted to avoid fights, not have more of them. You boys ended up bringing plenty of conflict my way, anyhow.”

I chew a mouthful of sandwich and wash it down with the Coke I ordered. “That’s right. The old Cedar River Set could really throw down, couldn’t we? Never lost our turf, though. Stood up for the hood the whole way through.”

She tries a bite of her club sandwich carefully, still watching me. Lolinda’s such a quiet girl that sometimes it’s difficult to tell what in the world that broad mind of hers might be pondering. This is one of those times and for some reason it makes me nervous. Like she’s waiting to spring a considerable question on me or reveal a secret to me. I finish off my first sandwich and go straight for the second one.

“Hear about what happened at Thunder Gate last night?” she asks, studying my reaction carefully.

“Yeah, I think Philly said somethin’ about that.” I feign trying to remember details. “Van got shot up in front of the courthouse or that kinda thing?”

“An SUV’s what it was.” She’s still watching me. “In front of the public library. Eight dead from gunshots, all of them belonging to a gang called Smoke Money Family, and the police have no leads.”

“Damn shame, ain’t it?” I try to look concerned. “Philly said there were no witnesses, either. Nobody wanted to look out their windows cause of the gunfire.”

She’s looking emotional and it has me worried.

“It’s dangerous out there, Percy,” her tone is serious, “So many people dying every day on the streets. I don’t want you to become one of them. I get worried sick every time I see another gang-related murder on the news.”

“Oh, you don’t have to worry about me, Baby,” I reassure her, hugely relieved she’s not thinking I was involved with that shootout. “I take care of myself and my boys. We play it sensible out there, doing our jobs and watching each other’s backs. Haven’t lost a Kingfin to homicide for over a year now.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “You’re smart and you don’t take too many chances. You’re a good man, Percy Straight. That’s why I don’t want to lose you. Especially not to some violent punk with a Saturday night special.”

I polish off the second sandwich before leaning across the table to place my hand over one of hers, “That’s awfully sweet of you to care about my well being like that. My way of life has it’s elements of risk, for sure, but you know me and you know I wouldn’t jeopardize myself or my boys without a solid reason. I didn’t gain my status by actin’ like a fool. I stayed true to my principles. What went down last night happens to those who forget loyalty and respect. I’ve heard about the bullshit those Smoke Money bitches pull on their rivals. They got no honor, no real ties to these streets. You treat others bad and it’s no wonder you get gunned down like a rabid dog. See what I’m sayin’?”

“I do.” Her eyes still look misty to me, though. “It’s just that, well, I mean look at it, Perce. Neighbors claim they didn’t see anything and the police don’t seem to care enough to find whoever did it. All those people who died probably thought they were safe, too. Then, in an instant, it all changed. Now they’re dead and someone’s missing them.”

This really isn’t the kind of conversation I felt like having today. In fact, I’d be fine if I never had a conversation like this again for the rest of my life. I can’t go telling Lolinda that I fired a good portion of those bullets because I can’t risk trusting her to keep my secret. I wish I could, but over time I’ve learned it’s better to keep your personal life to yourself. There’s no telling when a person is going to ‘find Jesus’ or start having an attack of the conscience and end up ratting you out. While it puts distance between me and many people I know, it saves my ass and in the end theirs, too. That’s because the only good snitch is a dead snitch.

As Lolinda and I head out the door of Angel Bell Deli, my cellphone goes off. It’s Philly. She and I had planned to drive down to the waterfront and take a stroll out onto the pier, but I’ll have to handle this phone call first. I open the car’s door for Lolinda and let her get situated while I call Philly back.

He picks up on the first ring.

Chapter 22

The Girl I Used to Know

“Hey baby,” I grin at Juke as I answer. “You ready for me?”

“I sure am,” she giggles. “Waiting patiently now that I’m all prettied up for you.”

“Mm-hm,” I give a parting nod to Juke as I head out the door and he waves back happily. “I bet you didn’t need to do much work for that to happen. Decide where you want to eat at?”

“How about Taco Bell?” she asks shyly. “Or wherever you’d like is fine with me.”

“Taco Bell?” I frown at my reflection as I approach my ride. “Baby, this is my treat! You can’t be pickin’ some nasty, cheap joint like Taco Bell. I know you like the place and you’re tryin’ to be sweet to my wallet, but where do you really wanna go?”

“Oh, Perce, I hate to go runnin’ up a bill with a good friend like you.” She’s worried she offended me. “Maybe Angel Bell Deli? Like how we used to do?”

“Now you’re talkin’,” I slide in behind the wheel and take the first fizzy sip of my soda. “Good food, good memories. Fine choice! I’ll be over in just a minute to pick you up, ok?”

“Ok!” she sings, “Can’t wait to see you!”

The drive to Canton Gardens passes by swiftly, in fact I’ve barely got time to finish my soda and gnaw on some of that jerky. Lolinda’s apartment never has been difficult for me to find because even though she moved out of Cedar River in our sophomore year of high school, I kept visiting her. We never straight up dated, but we get along nicely and enjoy the hell out of each other’s company. Matter of fact, I can’t imagine anyone not enjoying her company.

Strolling up to her apartment, I reach for the doorbell. Before I can ring it, the front door opens to me.

“Percy Straight,” she beams at me, her smile lighting up the soft moon of a face she’s got, “You are a sight for sore eyes, boy!”

She steps back to allow me inside, but I take a few seconds to absorb how she looks, how she’s changed. Her hair’s long and silky straight, some shade of honey blond which contrasts her milk chocolate skin tone beautifully. She either got it straightened or she’s wearing extensions because I know her hair has the natural kinky curl of any woman with African ancestry. Her jeans are tight, flaring at the ankles, faded in the right places to accentuate her divine curves. The tight, long-sleeved shirt she’s wearing gloves her slender figure in a pale shade of pink. The belt matches the shirt, shimmering with rhinestones that compliment her silver hoop earrings. It’s difficult to imagine that this woman and the girl I knew growing up are one and the same. When we were teenagers she wore baggy jeans and loose-fitting tee shirts only. She’s blossomed into quite the prize rose these days.

“My, my!” I lean in to give her a hug. “You could start a house fire with that outfit it’s so hot!”

“Aw,” she squeezes me. “You still know how to make a girl feel like a princess don’t you, Perce?”

I inhale deeply, savoring some unknown scent around her neck.

“What’s that perfume you’re wearing? You about drop a man smellin’ so fine.”

“Oh!” her hands shoot up to her neck. She’s embarrassed. “Did I use too much?”

“No, no, no,” I reassure her, “I’d just like to know because I don’t think I’ve ever inhaled anything quite so inviting.”

She giggles, covering her mouth like she always does, “It’s called ‘Lovely’ by Sarah Jessica Parker.”

“Lovely is right,” I’ll have to remember the name. “You sure have come a long way from the girl who used to insist that tight clothes were for loose women and jewelry would only make you a nice target for muggers.”

“Maybe I matured a little,” she shrugs. “Or maybe now I have to work harder to get dates. All I know is I got tired of watching every other girl get to look good while I waited for a man who liked me for my mind. I still read plenty of books when I can, but I try to get out to have a little fun now and then, too.”

“Looking like that, scoring dates and getting out has got to be easy.” I shake my head at her, still smiling. “Probably got you a stable full of sugar daddies.”

“Oh, quit it!” she’s about to melt from the compliments. “Come back in here and say hi to Shawnita and the kids, will you?”

“You know I couldn’t set foot in here without seein’ your rug rats.”

I follow her into the living room where the little ones are watching Blue’s Clues on an old TV.

“Devon, Emmy!” She’s always cheerful with her babies. “Look who came to see you! Uncle Percy!”

Both kids whip their heads around and scramble towards me shouting and reaching out to be hugged. Devon’s grown like a weed since I last saw him, green eyes shining from a face shaped like his mothers, but a complexion that proves his daddy was white. His sister’s smaller and several shades darker than he is, her hair done up into a multitude of small braids tied with tiny yellow ribbons. It’s a ritual that during my visits I pat Devon’s poofy little afro and hold Emmy up in the air, doing what she calls ‘airplane!’ as she’s rocked by a giggling fit.

“You kids been good?” I ask as I let Emmy land gently on the floor. “Not giving your momma any trouble are you?”

Both of them shake their heads, serious as can be. Since Emmy’s only three, she may not know what I’m about to do next, but at age five, Devon’s well practiced in this routine.

“That true, Momma?” I ask Lolinda who’s smiling and nodding at me. “Well, isn’t that good to hear! Sounds like what we’ve got here are two little saints who deserve a reward for bein’ so good when it’s easier to make trouble. Don’t you think?”

All three of them nod, each bursting with their own flavors of pride. I reach inside my coat and pull out the sacks of gummy worms, handing them over to the kids.

“Now you won’t want to go eating all of them today,” I chide playfully. “Give yourselves a tummy ache like you can’t believe, so make sure you save plenty for later, ok?”

They nod wildly and thank me because their mother reminds them to before they run off into the kitchen to ask Shawnita for help getting their packages open.

“You know,” Lolinda’s tone is thoughtful, “Sweet as you are to me, you’re even better with the babies. Wonder you haven’t got a family of your own, Percy. You’d be an excellent father.”

I wave her off, more than horrified at the thought. “Nah, I just remember how it was growin’ up is all. I make a lot better uncle than I would a daddy. This way I get to visit and never have to deal with diapers or temper tantrums. Suits me just fine.”

“Percy Straight!” Shawnita barrels out from the kitchen. “Damn you look smokin’ today!”

I brace myself for impact as she swoops in for a hug. She’s Lolinda’s younger sister and the two women couldn’t look any less alike. Despite her generous figure and short stature, she’s squeezed herself into a screaming lime green halter top and a pair of jeans that must surely be straining to contain her. She appraises me with those deep black eyes, shaking her head, making an “mm-mm” sound and licking her lips as she sizes me up visually.

“Good to see you, too, Shawnita.” I’ve always been curious how two sisters could have such different personalities. “You get those gummy worms open ok?”

“You know I’m a pro at opening packages.” She winks at me in a manner she must believe looks coy. “Especially if there’s something sweet waiting for me. Had a couple myself, too.”

“You eating my babies’ candy?” Lolinda rolls her eyes. “Don’t you have enough food of your own without gobbling up the kids’?”

Shawnita waves her away. “Percy don’t mind, do you, Sexy?”

“I s’pose it’s good to encourage sharing.” I hate when she calls me Sexy. “Long as they get the majority of ‘em.”

“Course they do!” She wobbles a little when she laughs. “I’m not some kinda crazy candy thief.”

“Okay, girl,” Lolinda’s telling her, “We’re goin’ down to Angel Bell for a bite to eat. You need me for anything, you call my cell. Don’t forget they’re due for nap time in about half an hour.”

“Oh,” Shawnita croons, clearly jealous. “Angel Bell? Now, that’s a nice place. Ricardo took me down there a couple months back. They have the finest pastrami sandwiches in town. Good lemon meringue pie, too! Oh, you are gonna enjoy yourself, Lolinda! Make sure you try the Heavenly Meat & Cheese platter. Comes with three different kinds of mustard and these little crackers, taste kinda like Wheat Thins. You’d love it, girl!”

“We’ll be sure to do that,” I try not to picture Shawnita scarfing all that down. “Only be gone a couple hours or so.”