Chapter 6

Chain of Command

I’m sitting here across the room from MadBlack, who’s lazily smoking a Cuban cigar while he stares at me. Very uncomfortable scene here. Too early for a party, no ho’s to distract him and he didn’t feel like watching the TV. It’s dead silent in here except for some thumping Atlanta house music that’s turned down real low to set the vibe he likes. He’s sprawled out on that black leather sofa in the front room, wearing his San Jose Sharks hockey jersey, black jeans and a size 16 pair of tan Lugz. The lighting’s dim in here because the man just finished a hash pipe I loaded for him, then asked me to dim the room. Me, I’m nursing a tallboy can of Natty Ice to chill my nerves a bit for this conversation.

“Me and Philly talked to the Knuckleheads for you like you asked us to,” I offer and since he doesn’t respond I continue. “Met ‘em at the Brass Jaw, up in Windale.”

He nods and blows a perfect smoke ring. I envy how well he does that shit.

“Two dudes,” I hope the fucker isn’t so stoned that he’s not listening to me. “Red-bearded cracker called Uncle Fritz and the other one, the one in charge of shit, named Kobra. Like the snake, you know?”

“I don’t like snakes,” his gray eyes fix on mine. “Got snake-bit one time. Cottonmouth. Hurt like a motherfucker.”

“Damn,” I have no idea how this is relevant. “You don’t let nothin’ get you down tho, huh? You came back. Now these Knuckleheads say what happened down at Benton was pure accident. They didn’t know Benton is Kingfin turf.”

The man irritates me with this not talking thing, he just nods. I take a chug of my beer to avoid scowling.

“Apparently, these Saxon fuckers are tight. Knuckleheads are in with the Seabeards down in Long Beach,” I fish out a cigarette and buy some time by lighting it. “Some dude in their crew down there, Darkhorse his name is, he wants to use Benton for a while. Paid us to keep the dealers outta the park while they work.”

“Work on what?” MadBlack is apparently not stoned enough for tough questions. Damn.

“Digging for something,” I hate being in this room right now, it could get ugly. “Philly thinks it’s probably bones of one of their homeboys or some shit like that.”

“They didn’t tell you?” MadBlack loves those direct questions.

“Not exactly,” I produce the envelope and toss it on the sofa beside him. “But they did pay us ten g’s for 17 hours. They said they might need more time, but I told ‘em that’s entirely up to your discretion because you’re the decision maker for Doyle Heights Kingfins.”

“Damn straight,” he drawls this, going Southern on me. “Ma’fukkin’ Knuckleheads come up in here knockin’ our dealers around. They pay us for apologies and that’s two thousand right there. Not so bad for just a day.”

“I tried to figure it so we’d have a profit, Mad,” I tell him, hoping to head any potential aggression off because I don’t want him getting angry on me. “Tribute, right? They said they probably won’t need the whole time they paid for and we can keep the change. I figure we made out good.”

“Yeah,” he’s staring at me from a million mental miles away. “Yeah. We made out good. That’s good work, Percy. Real good. You alright, maine. Fine good work. Just make sure they don’t go over-staying our generosity. They do that, then we have to remind ‘em who’s running these streets. Kingfins, fuck the rest.”

“Hell yeah,” thank god he didn’t pitch a bitch. “We’ll ride on ‘em and wipe ‘em out. Saxons ain’t established in Seattle, this is small time shit. They give us even so much as a tiny issue and I’ll enforce law on ‘em. I got you.”

“Put me some Friday on,” he drawls, blowing out a dragon’s lung worth of Cuban smoke, “See my nigga Ice Cube.”

“No problem.”

Damn am I glad this is over.

Author note: Chapter 7 will go up November 25th.

Chapter 5

Sit Down at the Brass Jaw

Windale is located in a section of the city that’s mainly blue-collar neighborhoods. Lots of factories, mills and that sort of thing. Grimy and rusty, lots of sorry looking houses with peeling paint and potholes in the streets. The place is neglected, probably crawling with addicts of various stripes. There are a few gangs from Windale, but none of them have managed to earn themselves much notoriety as far as I know. The Brass Jaw sits between a closed shoe repair shop with busted windows that are all boarded up, and a hardware store that doesn’t appear to be doing much business today. The sign says this bar’s been in business since 1962.

Stepping inside, Philly and I survey the place. Grubby drinkers are already lined up at the bar, talking loudly. No one turns to watch us come in, but clearly we’re not their average customers. Barely any lighting in here to speak of. The inside reeks of sweat, booze and smoke. Whoever decorated this place must’ve thought Seattle was located in Alabama, not Washington, because there are stuffed and mounted animal heads everywhere you look. A cheap TV is playing ESPN above one end of the bar. From the looks of him, the bartender is also the bouncer. A hulk of a man with a shaved head and a thick mustache like they had on gunslingers in old cowboy movies. Though neither of us show it, I’m sure Philly gets a shiver down his spine, too. A place like this holds no attraction for us.

Philly spots the Knuckleheads we came to chat with. Two great big men dwarfing a table in the back corner of this dimly lit shithole. He leads the way and I’m only a few steps behind him. Drawing closer, I get a good look at who we’ve been sent to negotiate with. There’s the one with the eye patch, that Oxy told us about, called Uncle Fritz. A massive spray of orange-red beard sprouts from his cheeks and chin; his golden mane of hair has been pulled back into a tight ponytail that runs far down his back. His one laser blue eye trains on me, creeping me out. He’s got the ruddy face of a chronic consumer of hard liquor and judging by the belly on this man, I’d say he’s okay with beer, too. That being said, he’s taken off his black leather jacket to reveal a massive stretch of intricate tattooing that covers arms damn near the width of my thighs. He lifts one side of his upper lip in what is either a smirk or a snarl before casting a glance at his partner. That guy has a bit more style. He’s cupping a mug of beer between two heavily inked hands, rings ranging from sapphires to silver skulls crowding each of his fingers. I’m really not interested in seeing his face as I scan up, taking in the art on his arms. Maybe he doesn’t have quite the bulk of Uncle Fritz, but his body’s got a rangy kind of musculature and his posture gives me the impression that this dude takes zero shit. He’s clean shaven with dark brown hair falling down over his shoulders from underneath his gray beanie. I find it odd that he’s wearing shades in a dark place like this.

“Well what do you know?” Uncle Fritz cries out in a hoarse, booming dialect that’s surely Southern. “You boys must be with that fish gang, right?”

Philly stays quiet, but I can see him tense. He’s clenching his fists, too.

“Gentleman,” I give each of them a nod. “I’m Percy Straight and this is my associate, Philly Mako. You wanted to speak with us?”

This causes Uncle Fritz to chuckle heartily before sucking a mouthful of beer from his mug. It strikes me that he’d have made a good Hells Angel. Or maybe a modern Viking.

The thinner guy gestures towards the two empty chairs with a smile that shows surprisingly white teeth, “Good to see you. I’m Kobra and this is Uncle Fritz. Sit down with us?”

Philly looks to me and I nod, pulling out a chair I can slide down into. I don’t expect this to take too long so I keep my coat on.

“You’re with the KSM?” Kobra asks, leaning back in his chair, “Doyle Heights crew, right?”

“Straight up,” I tell him, watching my reflection in his sunglasses. “Kingfins are who we represent. Our organization controls the streets of Doyle Heights. All business goes through us under approval of our leader, MadBlack.”

Kobra’s got on a black t-shirt with some strange design. After a few minutes of staring, I realize it’s a word. Aargota? There are wings coming off either side of the logo. Probably some German thing or other.

“I see,” Kobra’s measuring his words carefully. “We didn’t realize that when we showed up there last night. We thought those dealers were unaffiliated.”

“If it goes down in Doyle Heights, we get our cut,” I can tell this guy’s slick so I don’t mince my words. “Doesn’t matter what kind of enterprise it is, we get ours. Big mistake to try shaking our assets down.”

“Now wait just a goddamn minute-” Uncle Fritz’s one eye narrows at me, but Kobra raises a hand to silence him.

“Understandable,” he takes a sip of his half-finished beer. “We’re not looking to start any problems with your assets, as you call them, or you. That’s why, once we realized our mistake, we called you here to hammer things out over drinks. I already paid Mercer, the bartender,” he points to the bald giant wiping down the bar, “So your drinks are on us today as a sign of good will.”

Philly cuts his eyes over to me. I can tell he’s thirsty for free booze. Drinking during negotiations seems unusual, but MadBlack wants us to resolve this peaceably so I’ve got to avoid offending them if at all possible.

“Hey Philly,” I tell him, “Get us a pitcher of Pabst Blue Ribbon if they got it.”

“No problem, boss,” he plays his role calmly so as not to appear overeager.

“Good choice,” Uncle Fritz grins at us, making his cheeks rise and causing that eye patch to buckle a little. “Working class beer. You guys got decent tastes.”

“Peanuts?” Kobra asks, pushing a bowl of them across the table towards me.

“No, thanks. Just had lunch.”

He notices me staring at the logo on his shirt.

“Vargotah,” he says, “German metal. Heard of them?”

I shake my head, “Can’t say that I have,” or that I want to, “They any good?”

“I enjoy their sound,” Kobra pops a few peanuts into his mouth, chews for a while. “Metal’s probably not your sound, huh?”

“Not so much. I’m more into hip hop.”

Uncle Fritz snorts and rolls his exposed eye.

“To each their own, I say,” Kobra’s smiling but if I could see behind those shades of his I have a feeling his gaze would be disapproving. “So, shall we get down to business or wait for your friend to get back?”

I look over to the bar and see Philly bringing back a pitcher of beer in one hand, two mugs in the other.

“Might as well start talking,” I tell him, “He’s not calling the shots anyways.”

I can’t be sure, but it sounds like Uncle Fritz just muttered ‘thank god’ into his beer before he downed it. Dude’s got a bad attitude.

“Alright,” Kobra’s watching Philly set the pitcher on the table, “As you probably know, we’re with the Diamondknuckle Saxons. Unlike your ‘organization’, as you put it, we don’t have territories or do much business on the streets. I’m sure you know about what we do so I won’t go into that.”

Philly pours our beers and I nod for Kobra to continue as I take my first sip, hating the froth. I wonder how clean mugs in a place this poorly maintained can possibly be.

“Our chapter is only one in a network that stretches across the United States and Europe called Teutonic Knights,” Kobra pauses for a slight second before continuing, clearly aiming for a dramatic flair. “Saxons are simply a branch on a large and mighty oak, if you see what I mean?”

“You got connections, right,” I can’t help hiding the fact that I’m not real impressed. “We know all about you guys, don’t worry.”

Kobra laughs in a way that’s unmistakably arrogant.

“I’m sure you do,” his tone narrowly avoids mockery. “I just wanted to be clear on who you’re dealing with.”

“If that’s a threat,” my voice becomes icy, “It’s not working. We’re here to negotiate out of respect so there’s no need to get carried away talking yourselves up.”

Uncle Fritz exhales loudly and shakes his head to show his exasperation. An urge to pimp slap him wells up within me. I resist, turning my attention towards Kobra who is fishing a Marlboro out of a hard pack that’s been lying on the table. He offers the pack first to me and then to Philly. We each take one. Kobra offers us his butane lighter and damn if it’s not a heavy one. On it is engraved a skull with emerald eyes and two machine guns crossed behind it. Below the image there’s the inscription, ‘Tod ist nichts, Ruhm ist für immer.’ That’s German, I’m guessing.

“It means ‘Death is nothing, glory is forever’,” Kobra informs me when he catches me eying his lighter. “German, of course. That’s the Saxon creed.”

He lifts the sleeve of his shirt so I can make out the large cobra tattooed there along with his name and their motto running along either side of the snake’s body, “Buddy of mine in the SEALs inked me while we were on leave over in Iraq.”

“Nice,” Philly nods appreciatively at the lighter before lighting his smoke.

“Y’all got a motto?” Uncle Fritz asks in a tone that suggests he doubts we do.

I stare into his eye, “These jaws make the laws.”

Both men nod solemnly. I find myself staring at the shaggy stuffed head of an elk and wondering how long all this small talk is going to take. The thing’s got glassy eyes that kind of creep me out.

“Now, when I sent some of our brothers down to Benton Park,” Kobra taps his Marlboro against the ashtray. “I had no idea the place was your turf. We assumed we’d be strong-arming it from a few dealers, pimps or maybe some local hoods.”

“Well,” I’m having trouble believing him, “Apparently some of your soldiers saw our tags because they sprayed over the top of them. That’s considered to be a sign of disrespect on the streets.”

“I take full responsibility for that,” Kobra answers. “My mistake to send others out on a mission I should have done myself. That’s the past, now, though. Let’s talk about the future. We’d like to rent your park for a little while.”

“Rent?” I have no idea what the fuck this is supposed to mean. “What do you mean ‘rent’? What do you need Benton for?”

“We’ll pay you for uninterrupted access to place. Meaning no dealers or other things go down around there until we’re done with our work.”

“What kind of work are we talking about?” I’m extremely skeptical.

Obviously, Kobra intended to avoid being too specific, but since I’m forcing his hand he’s got to tell me, “See, some of our brothers down in Long Beach, California – the Seabeard Saxons – contacted us about getting a hold of something for them. We think what they’re looking for can be found in Benton Park,” everyone at the table is watching my face for a reaction I don’t plan to give. “We’re willing to pay you good money so that we can do this favor for our Seabeard brothers.”

I’ve heard of these Seabeards, surprisingly. A biker gang that cropped up in the mid-80’s. Had themselves a decent little racket ‘renting’ the beach out to surfers, and selling white dope. Vicious fuckers back in the day from what I’ve heard. Used to dye their beards with cheap blue ink. For a while they had a war going with the Bloods, who thought they were aligned with the Crips, and the Crips who didn’t appreciate them claiming their color.

“Look,” I lean forward to stub out the last of my cig. “I ain’t trying to be rude, but vague bullshit like that is not going to get permission from MadBlack. That means this whole thing won’t be going down. He’s a businessman and paying attention to details is how he keeps from getting fucked. Those are his own words I’m repeating to you, of course, but I don’t see how I’m going to get his approval when he won’t even know what he’s approving.”

“So how much would it cost to make sure he’s not interested in the details?” Kobra grins.

He wants to play hardball. We can do that. I calculate mentally how much we make per hour in Benton on average.

“Gonna be a royal pain in the ass keeping the dealers out of there since there’s so much traffic to the place, especially after dark,” finishing off the last of my beer I push it toward Philly for him to refill. “You’ll be needing protection while you do whatever it is you’re planning and that ain’t cheap, either.”

Uncle Fritz snorts, snapping back with, “We got our own protection so you don’t gotta worry about that shit.”

“You’ll need us, man,” Philly scowls at him. “You guys don’t have the knowledge of the area that we got. Those projects around Benton are full of mean-ass motherfuckers who’ll swarm that place if they think there’s no Kingfins around.”

“Uncle’s right,” Kobra tosses peanuts into his mouth, chews. “We can handle ourselves, but we’ll pay you for keeping a lookout, too, if you want. Name your price. Within reason.”

“Six hundred an hour,” I tell him. “Plus a cut of whatever you’re making off your project out there.”

Uncle Fritz nearly spits his beer at this, “Sonofabitch! We get blowjobs to go with that?”

Kobra considers what I’ve said after shaking his head at his partner, “I’ve got no way to tell how long it’s going to take to find what the Seabeards are asking for,” he reaches behind his back and for a split second I feel my stomach clench, thinking he’s going to draw a pistol.

Instead, he pulls out an envelope and pushes it across the table towards me, “Think a ten grand down payment would do the trick?”

I check the envelope’s contents. Definitely looks like ten grand in hundreds to me. MadBlack is going to be fairly thrilled. However, I also feel a shadow of suspicion cross my thoughts. If these Knuckleheads are shelling out ten thousand dollars just to borrow the park, then whatever they’re after must be worth a hell of a lot more.

“If this takes more time than we’ve estimated,” Kobra sees me hesitate as I consider his offer. “Then we can pay you the rest at an hourly rate like you said. You know we’re good for it. You guys prefer cash, gold bars, guns or what?”

“Cash,” what the fuck does this fool think we’d need gold bars for. “But MadBlack isn’t going to want this taking too many days because if it does, the junkies are gonna be going elsewhere to get their fix. That’s bad for business.”

Some social reject from the bar just paid actual money to hear Guns N’ Roses play Welcome to the Jungle on the jukebox. Once again, the urge to exercise my pimp arm is strong. I can’t help glaring at the guy’s back as he saunters back to his stool. Hopefully he feels it.

“Hey!” Uncle Fritz is nodding enthusiastically, “My kinda music! G n’ R, baby!”

For a moment I’m gripped by the nauseating fear that he may try singing along. Kobra shoots him a disapproving smirk.

“I doubt it’ll take us that long to be out of your hair,” Kobra pulls another smoke from his pack and touches the lighter’s flame to its tip. “But we’ve gotta have an agreement that we’re not going to have to stop in the middle of things.”

Axel Rose’s screechy voice reminds me of what it feels like when the dentist is giving you a filling. Except right now I’m not numbed by Novocain.

“The only thing I can do for you is ensure that you can use the park for seventeen hours,” I’m sure the music’s causing my expression to look sour. “After that it’s up to MadBlack’s mood about this thing. Take it or leave it, that’s all I can promise you.”

“Okay,” Kobra exhales a plume of smoke. “We’ll take it on those terms.”

“When do you want to get started?” I down the rest of my beer, getting ready to leave this roach trap.

“Tonight. After the sun’s down,” Kobra tells me, “Seven o’clock or around there. Have the place cleared for us.”

I push my chair back, stand up and stuff the envelope inside my coat. No use counting it in front of them because that’d be insulting. Plus, if they lied about the amount Kobra just passed me then we can settle the score tonight. I’d like to keep on their good side as long as I don’t have to be their bitch in order to do it. I’ve got a thirst to know what it is they’re looking for in Benton.

“It’ll be clear,” I tell Kobra. “Get a hold of us if you change your plans. Thanks for the drinks and smokes.”

“It’s nothing,” Kobra flashes a wide smile. “See you tonight, Percy.”

He glances at Philly, “You, too, brother.”

Finally, Philly and I exit this little slice of hell. On the way back to the house we count the money. It’s all there, none of it counterfeit, either. Philly theorizes they’re looking for some Saxon’s bones, but I’m almost positive it’s some sort of mystical gem. Bad juju, my gut tells me. I don’t tell Philly this. Since he’s not Selachi he wouldn’t understand. Besides that, he’s a suspicious motherfucker who still wears the crucifix his mother gave him because, “It’s protection from vampires.”

If only he knew the truth about the world around him.

He’d have reason to be even more scared.

Author’s notes: The next post will go up on November 22, 2009. Thanks for reading along so far!

Chapter 2

What’s Buried in Benton

Once we get everyone suited up and strapped, we’re ready to roll. I check the Luger in my shoulder holster, enjoying the sound of the metallic click when I turn off the safety. After this I check the matching pistol I’ve got belted tightly inside the waist of my jeans and double-check my extra clips in the side pockets. I’ve probably got enough ammo on me to waste their entire crew, but as the old saying goes, ‘It’s better to be safe than dick-down and dead in the dirt!’

“MadBlack!” I call to him over the opening credits of The Devil’s Rejects DVD he’s just had one of his bitches start up for his viewing pleasure, “I’m snatchin’ a blunt off your stash! We’re going to Benton to take care of shit, aight?”

Mr. Nonchalant doesn’t even bother to turn his head or vocalize. He simply waves the back of his big hand at me in a shooing gesture.

“Yeah, I’ll miss you too, baby!” I yell as I get into my parka. It’s freezing out there with a stiff wind blowing in off the ocean, so my Rocawear parka with sky blue fur lining is my protection from the miserable Seattle winter. Sky blue because that’s our color.

Every gang has its colors and Kingfins are no different. We usually roll in sky blue and dark green when we need to represent. The two rides we’re taking tonight are both Oldsmobiles since that’s the brand most Kingfins favor. An Aurora and an Intrigue, both from 2002 and both of them a shade of hunter green. The Aurora’s been worked on more since it’s Kettle’s ride and he’s a vain dude. He’s got it chromed out and the sound system’s been replaced so he can blast his Wu-Tang CD’s louder than he ought to. Kettle is visiting us from Sunset Point so normally that’s where he’d be, but when something goes down and a Kingfin’s around then we join right in. The Intrigue is stock right now and belongs to Ducky, who’s one of our newer recruits here in Doyle Heights. Even though most of us are smoking as we head to the rides, we wouldn’t need to in order to get the same effect, it’s cold out here and you see your breath with each exhale.

All together we got me, Philly Mako, Kettle, Ducky, Ronnie-K, Junior Maze, Dank, Big Pete and Whistler. Since the smoke starts settling into my lungs, I’m feeling pretty good and not real worried about the situation in Benton Park. Most of these boys are seasoned and with the exception of Ducky, capable of handling a gunfight if need be. Doubt we’re going to run into too much resistance. Kettle takes the lead, with Philly at his side and I slip in next to Ducky since I’m not too fond of arguing with Kettle over which Wu-Tang CD best fits the mood. I can be quite particular in my musical tastes which sits fine with Ducky. He agrees to go ahead and load up some old school Warren G for our trip. In a couple minutes we’ll be at the park, so even if he doesn’t dig the beat, it’s not long to suffer.

“So, Ducky,” I ask between puffs of my blunt, watching Ronnie-K and Dank passing a joint in the backseat, “You ready for this shit, man? May get real violent tonight. Think you can handle it?”

Ducky’s got his favorite Florida Marlins cap socked down low over his eyes, but he nods vigorously, “Hell yeah I am. I grew up right across the street from Benton. In those Squarewood apartments? My mom used to tell me to stay out of the park after dark because of muggers. Me and the homeboys would drink out there. Remember that shit, Ronnie?”

“Uh huh,” Ronnie-K’s freckled face has that relaxed look that tells me he’s getting a lot of good off that joint. “Fucking King Cobra or Mad Dog or whatever the fuck we could get a hold of. Good times.”

“Shit yeah!” Ducky’s head bobs in agreement, a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. “I remember your old man came and found us out there one night when we didn’t come home. Passed out, drunk as damned bums. About four o’clock in the morning, wasn’t it?”

Ronnie nods, holding the smoke in from his latest drag. Dank takes the joint from him, grinning crazily. Dank’s quite the heavy smoker, nearly always stoned. He says it’s because he comes from a long line of opium-smoking Chinese, but his folks actually came over from Cambodia before he was born.

“My mom was at work so I beat her home from her shift at the restaurant,” Ducky follows Kettle’s Aurora and pulls into the parking lot behind them, looking for an open slot. “You musta got smacked around pretty good for that one because you had a black eye the next day.”

“Yeah,” Ronny doesn’t appear to like this memory, “Scottish temper, man, he always had that Scottish temper. ‘Specially when he’d been drinking all night.”

Our car rolls to a stop and Ducky cuts the engine. Philly Mako and his crew are already getting out of the Intrigue. We aren’t the only cars here this late despite the fact that the park closes after dark. Plenty of business gets conducted in Benton twenty four hours a day. In fact, after surveying the area I’d say there are more cars here than usual. That’s most likely because the Knuckleheads shook the dealers down tonight. Probably caused a few shortages and now the customers have to wait around to score. I exit the vehicle and stroll over to Philly who’s waiting leaned up against Kettle’s car.

“So how you wanna do this?” he asks, lighting himself one of those nasty Newports he smokes. “You’re in charge here.”

“Bet your ass I am,” I tell him with a grin. “I’m thinking Dank and Junior Maze should re-tag our shit since that’s what they’re good at. You guys got your spray ready?”

Junior Maze speaks up first, “Hell yeah,” he shakes the backpack he’s brought along for the job, causing the cans to jangle. “I can cover that shit real quick. ‘Specially with a partner.”

“Long as he’s got the paint,” Dank adds, “I’m up for some art, man.”

“Right on,” I tell the group, “Ronnie-K and Big Pete, I want you boys to keep our rides on lockdown and ring my cell if you see the cops moving in. Got it?”

“Nobody gonna touch ‘em,” Big Pete assures me with a toss of his head.

“Good. Now let’s go find Ramos. Where’d he say he’d be at?” I ask Philly.

“He usually hangs out in the dark part and has his girls do the transactions,” Philly responds, thumbing the direction he believes Ramos to be in. “Surprised he ain’t come walking this way, but he’s probably sweating over the lost cash.”

“How much did he lose?” I ask.

“I think around two grand.”

“Shit!” I’m surprised the moron would keep that much on him after dark. “Must be a good night for slangin’ then. Whatever. Let’s find him and figure out what the story is on these Knuckleheads. Then we’ll hit up the other dealers and see if they got shook.”

The four of us head towards the dark part of the park, looking larger than life in our big parkas. The park would have lights all over it, but for years it’s been the same story: the city installs new lighting on the north side and the next night it gets shot out again. Dealers like their cover, you see. So do the dope fiends that frequent Benton. If one side doesn’t darken the place, the other will. All in the name of capitalism.

Ramos looks pretty nervous. Took us a while to find him since he decided to hide out in case the Knuckleheads came back for him. He’s by no means the only dealer out here tonight, probably five of them all together, but he’s the most established and definitely has his regular clientele. As far as slangers go, Ramos is a decent dude. Of course, that’s not saying much because he’s still the kind of guy who’d cheat his own mother if he saw the chance to make a buck. Unlike some of the crackheads out here trying to hustle, Ramos spends his wad on his appearance so he always looks sharp. Some people think he’s a pimp and others swear he’s a gigolo. He may be both. I couldn’t care less either way.

No matter which way you slice it, even in the orange haze from the streetlights, Ramos clearly identifies as a metrosexual. That or a homosexual, take your pick. He’s got on his usual wintertime coat, some expensive designer label duster. His stocking cap looks normal enough to me, but he probably spent a fortune on that, too. Standing in the shadow of an ancient redwood, he watches our approach. He’s definitely feeling skittish tonight, I can tell by the way he’s shifting his weight from foot to foot as he scans the park.

“Finally!” his voice is high, grating against my buzz. “Took you guys long enough. What the fuck? I pay you good money to protect me and you can’t even send me soldiers in under half an hour?”

“Chill out, Ramos,” Philly barks, “We got more to do around here than wiping your ass. Now tell Perce what happened.”

“Fucking Knuckleheads, man,” Ramos’ anger boils, he’s rubbing his nose with his gloved hand every few words. “Came through here and started saying they want payment. I say payment for what? For not curbstomping us tonight they tell me. Four great big dudes, all biker’d out in chains and leather and shit.”

“Shook you down?” I ask as I exhale some smoke in his direction. “How much they take?”

“Off me?” his twitchiness irritates me, must’ve dipped into his own stash to handle the stress. “Shit, like two grand, easy. Searched my pockets for it. No way I was gonna take them on. Big ex-cons, looks like. Beards and all that Hell’s Angels bullshit. You guys know how they are.”

“Shoulda popped ‘em one!” Ducky says, demonstrating by whipping out the piece I gave him back at the house. “You can’t take that kinda treatment, man! Cap one and I bet they all run, too.”

“Ducky?” I’m glaring at him. He can tell even in this poor lighting. “Shut the fuck up. And put that damned gat away. Ramos doesn’t need to be shooting people. Only draws the cops in here, any ways. Smart thing is to let us handle it. Right, Ramos?”

“Definitely,” he nods emphatically, “Besides, I don’t strap when I’m selling. I got a Maglite and that’s risk enough. I see trouble, I usually run, but these guys came in from different directions and running from a Knucklehead is only gonna earn you a blanket party. Even if you get away, they’re gonna put a price on your ass after that.”

“That’s right,” Philly lights himself another cigarette. “So what they want with Benton Park? Did they tell you?”

A woman comes striding up from Ramos’ left. She pauses and her eyes flit towards us, trying to determine if we’re friends or foes. When she reaches Ramos, they reach toward one another like they’re about to shake hands. She’s passing him cash and he’s giving her dope. It all happens extremely fast and if you aren’t aware of what you’re looking at, it’d simply look like they just gave each other five. Since she greeted him with, “Hey Daddy,” I know she’s telling him she needs a few grams of cocaine. Expensive stuff. She’ll walk that back to the customer who just paid her. Most likely some middle manager in a Lexus or similarly half-luxurious ride. The girls who work for Ramos give him an extra buffer by doing the transactions for him. He’s very methodical in the way he sells. The girls handle the customers, he bags everything himself with gloves on to eliminate prints on the bags, and he’s got pockets with escape hatches for the dope should he be approached by the police. He’s methodical about personal hygiene, too. His teeth practically glow white whenever he grimaces or smiles.

“Said some dude named Darkhorse told them to take Benton,” he sounds apprehensive about revealing this next bit, “Said Kingfins got twenty four hours to give up the turf or there’s gonna be a war over it. Called you squids, though, not Kingfins.”

The boys all look to me for my reaction, which is a chuckle, “Twenty-four hours, huh? That’s all official of them. I don’t know who this Darkhorse fucker is, but he’s in for quite a re-adjustment to his ballsy way of doing things. Kingfin territory doesn’t get given up. They want blood, they get blood. Theirs, not ours.”

“I know, Perce,” Ramos sounds whiny at this point. “You know I’m down with Kingfins. You know that! Thing is, I can’t protect myself down here and I’m losing a lot of money. Money you guys get a cut of, every time,” he’s lying but I let it slide. “And I ain’t got nobody here to look out for me. If they come back, what do I tell them? I’m gonna call my friends?”

“You don’t say anything,” I step forward, taking some smoke from the blunt, holding it while I talk. “What you do this time is run. Fast as you can. Then you call us and we ride down here and make these overzealous shit buckets wish they’d never heard of Benton Park. You clear on that, Ramos?”

“Oh yeah,” his grin is wide but scared. “Okay. Okay. But I mean, I lost money and…”

“They take any your supplies?” Philly asks him.

“Couple sacks of primo Columbian, yeah.”

Now I’m suspicious, “They snort the shit in front of you, too?”

“Yeah man, sucked it right up their noses. Must be dedicated baseheads.”

“Uh huh,” my eyes narrow. I smell a rat. “And you didn’t pass them a trick sack?”

Trick sacks are what Ramos carries to sell to people he hates. Or narcs. Looks like your normal dope, but it’s poison. Sometimes arsenic or something equally lethal. In this case he should’ve employed that and it would have put a stop to this.

“Man, I can’t do that!” Ramos’ eyes double in size. “First one to drop into convulsions would’ve got the others on me like a pack of dogs!”

He’s got a point.

“Aight, well, look,” I tell him, gesturing with my blunt, “We got our tags going back up right now. We’re gonna talk to the other dealers and figure out what all went down. They come back, you call us that very second.”

“Hell yeah I will,” Ramos seems relieved. “And sorry I can’t pay you guys for tonight.”

“It’s cool,” I reassure him. “You can owe us later.”

He starts to protest, then thinks the better of it.

We walk off towards another of the dealers. First we hit up Duster, a tall and scrawny dude who got his name from the long black coat he wears through every season. He’s walking back from the parking lot, just having completed a sale. I immediately notice the cut above his right eye. Though he hasn’t got any useful information for us, he does confirm that he got that cut from the Knuckleheads. Apparently he felt they weren’t entitled to five free hits of his best acid. Smart mouthing them turned out to be a mistake. Duster whipped out his knife and they didn’t appreciate the resistance. Jumped him quick and held him down so they could slice him with his own blade. A lesson, they told him, of what happens when you don’t know your place in the Saxon pecking order. Took a whole bunch of his blotter supply, too. They didn’t bother with his shrooms.

Oxy, the pharmaceuticals specialist of Benton, tell us he played along. A kiss-ass routine seems to do a little better with Knuckleheads. None of his cash or pills got taken because they liked his attitude. Knowing Oxy, I’m sure he seemed harmless with his poofy afro and down home demeanor. Of course, the fact that he happened to be the last dealer they approached gave him a definite edge. After watching what they did to the others, he knew getting bitchy was liable to cost him. Two of them he remembered names for. The biggest one, who wore an eye patch, was named Uncle Fritz. The one with streaks of red dye in his beard they called Skully.

Last, but certainly not least, we found Josiah sitting at one of the picnic tables. Josiah isn’t a big guy, but he’s strong as a pitbull and has the temperament of a starving wolverine. I’ve seen him fight before. I still remember the time some dude yanked a bag of weed from him and tried running off. Josiah caught him somewhere around the basketball courts. Tackled the thief with such finesse it’d have made any good coach tear up. He claims he wrestled in high school a few years ago, but since he spent more time studying bongs than his homework, he lost his scholarship. Mouthy by nature and one of those guys who hasn’t got the slightest idea when to shut up, his strategy involved trying to debate the Knuckleheads. It got him a few punches. Those gave him one hell of pair of black eyes. Lost a tooth, too, the poor fool. Despite this, he managed to find out why those bastards want Benton.

They’re dowsing for something buried in this park.

Author’s note: You can find Chapter Three here on November 13, 2009!