The Case of the Death Dealer

by Lawrence Johnson Sr.

Alexander Steele arrived at his upscale night club bright and early the next morning. When Club Inner Sanctum opened two years ago Steele enlisted Shakia to help him design the club’s interior. As a professional decorator Shakia combined eclectic elements with Steele’s taste and melded it with elegant nightspots of the fifties and sixties. The clubs décor was made up of various shades of dark reds, blues, medium grays, and a touch of polished steel that gave the club style and originality. He was very proud of what he had accomplished. Steele had created an environment where people of all races, backgrounds, and social status could hang out and be themselves.

  His friend and club manager who lives above Club Inner Sanctum had a pot of fresh brewed coffee waiting for Steele every morning.

  “Morning Sugar Bear, did you have any problems here last night?”

  Sugar Bear was a large dark completed heavyset man with a friendly smile. He shook his head as he polished one of the glasses behind the bar, “No boss, it was business as usual. How was the concert? Looks like you got home pretty late.”

  Steele nodded his head, it was good. If there was anyone who hated Trench more than Steele’s girlfriend it was his three best friends Sugar Bear, Stan, and Roger aka the Philosopher. Steele motioned for his friend to meet him in the back.

  The last booth on the left in the rear of the club is where Steele spent most of his time. During the day he conducts business but during club hours it was all about socializing with friends and customers. Sugar Bear and Steele took their coffee to the booth.

  The club manager listened intently to Steele’s story about last night’s encounter with Trench. He politely waited until the story was over before rearing back and proclaiming, “Well I guess there’s going to be a lotta of dead junkies cause I know you aren’t going to help that dude again. He’s been bad news since we were kids and he’s never gonna change.”

  Sugar Bear’s response was expected, they all knew that Trench was rotten to the core but this wasn’t about him.

  Steele sipped the steaming hot coffee and looked at Sugar Bear. “I’m taking the case.”

  Sugar Bear’s eyes widened, “You what! You do know who we are talking about don’t you? Besides aren’t you retired?”

  Steele was unfazed by his friend’s emotional outburst. He sat back in the booth and corrected “Sugar Bear; you called them dead junkies, wrong, they are people. Oh Trench will be the one who pays me alright but I ain’t doing it for him. He’s a lying bastard but there is one thing that he said that was true. I can’t stand by and let all of those people die.”

  Later that morning Steele drove down to North Philly to an area known by the locals as the Badlands. Steele agreed to meet Trench in his office hidden behind a restaurant aptly named the Greasy Spoon.

  The weather was bright sunny outside but it was clear from the grease and grime on the front window that the sun’s attempt to brighten the inside was a lost cause.

  From the moment Steele walked in the door it was evident that whoever was responsible for cleaning the place had taken the last five years off. The dingy red and white sign in the corner read special, 2 eggs, hash browns, and coffee $1.50.

  Knowing that it was a front for Trench’s illegal activities in the back Steele shook his head as he entered.

  He murmured, “They should change the sign to leave your taste buds at the door.”

  The half dozen zombie-like patrons didn’t bother to look up when he walked in. The decor was early seventies with duck taped stools but the balding; cigarette smoking man in front of the grill was defiantly a product of the fifties.

  Never taking the cigarette from his mouth the sweaty cook turned around holding a spatula in one hand and plate of eggs with hash browns in the other. “What can I get you young blood?”

  Steele chuckled as he thought, ‘Coffee, hash browns and eggs $1.50. Cigarette ashes, no charge. Does that come with a side of Pepto Bismol? This place would be a health inspector’s dream if one was ever bold enough to come through those doors.

  Steele took notice of the bulge near the cook’s waistline under his dirty white apron. ‘That ain’t no fanny pack, he thought, this guy was definitely packing heat.’ The cook was doing double duty as Trench’s first line of defense; too bad he didn’t do windows.’

  Steele glanced at the plate of food and waved him off, “No thanks.” He pointed to the dark brown door all the way in the back. The man set the plate on the counter in front of the customer.

  Hanging directly over head was a swirly strip of fly paper that had done its job all too well.

  “You Steele?” he asked.

  When Steele nodded the cook reached under the counter and buzzed him in. Steele passed by an assortment of boxes containing counterfeit merchandise from Trench’s suppliers.

  They lined the walls of his office in the back of the rundown greasy spoon diner. He counted three body guards plus the hired help.

  Trench had changed into blue jeans and a short sleeved olive green shirt, he motioned for one of the men to clear a box of Gucci handbags from the chair so that his guest could sit down. Trench sat behind a large oak desk filled with papers and lit up a cigarette. “Thanks for coming Steele. I know that it was hard…”

  Steele waved him off. “Let’s cut the bull crap. I don’t like you and if the truth be told you never really liked me either so there’s no point in us acting like we are best buddies okay? I want one hundred grand, half up front and the rest later so get rid of your boys here and tell me more about this crazy ass doctor.”

  Once Trench’s men left the room he told Steele about Doctor D. and how the once respected doctor picked up the gambling habit that forced him into making the illegal drug Ecstasy to support that habit. “One day he got carless and screwed up the mix, a couple of college students got sick at a frat party. One of them went into convolutions and died. That’s how he got the name Dr. Death or Dr. D for short.”

  Steele nodded, “So when is Fat Daddy’s next shipment due?”

  Trench took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air as he shook his head, “I don’t know man. I don’t even know where he keeps it stashed but Dr. D knows. Fat Daddy distributes his drugs out of 7 or 8 hoagie shops around town but his one legitimate business is his steakhouse on Germantown Avenue.”

  Steele was a bit miffed; “You mean you want me to stop this Dr. D from poisoning Fat Daddy’s drug shipment but you don’t know when it’s coming or where it’s going?” Steele leaned back in his chair; “Well let’s see should I use my crystal ball or should I break out my Ouija board? How do you know any of this is true?”

  Trench waved the cigarette around as he got up from the chair and walked around to the front of the desk. “When I got out of the business my crew disbanded. One of my guys ended up working for the good doctor. He called me because he has people in Philly that will most definitely die if this tainted stuff hits the streets.”

  When he took a moment to pause Trench noticed that a copy of the wall street journal was sitting on his desk in plain view. Steele didn’t think much about it until Trench tried to cover it with a magazine before he handed Steele a piece of paper.

  “Call this guy,” he instructed. “His name is Panama; he drives a cab at 30th Street Station. A while back Panama did time with Fat Daddy and the Dr; that’s where the two meet.” Trench chuckled, “Strange, ain’t it? Prison is supposed to rehabilitate your ass instead it just makes you a better criminal.”

  He opened the safe and handed Steele the $50,000 then reached inside the top drawer and gave Steele a picture of Dr. D. “That’s the best I can do man.”

  Twenty minutes later Steele was back on Broad Street headed to his club. He saw no point in telling Trench what they both already knew. There was a strong possibility that the poisonous drugs could already be on the street. There was no time to waste. As he reached for his cell phone Steele caught a glimpse of a blue Chrysler in his rear view mirror. It was the same car that was parked up the street
from the toxic restaurant. He was being tailed and he had a pretty good idea of who it was.

  Steele pulled into a side street and confronted the two men. “Can I help you gentlemen?”

  Both guys were muscular with dark tight fitting shirts; they were taller and heavier than Steele. Judging from the size and thickness of their necks they could have been the poster boys for steroid use. The middle aged men looked like bouncers you would find inside a sleazy strip joint.

  The bigger of the two stroked his coarse black beard, “What business do you have with Trench?” he said in a husky voice.

  Steele laughed in his face. “You must work for Little John.”

  The second man stepped forward and waved his finger at Steele. “Man, you don’t want to say that to his face. The last guy who did needed $8,000 worth of dental work.”

  Steele chuckled, “Okay, fine, I get it. Tell Johnny that Trench is a client of mine and if he wants to know what’s going on he needs to talk to his cousin.”

  As Steele turned to walk away the man with the beard grabbed him on his shoulder. Steele whirled around and stuck his gun in the man’s gut.

  The man froze instantly once he felt the tip of the cold steel barrel plunging into his abs.

  Steele was no longer smiling, he stared directly into the thugs eyes and said “Look; I don’t have time for this, talk to Trench.” Then he aimed his weapon in the man’s face for a few seconds just to make sure they both got the point before backing away and getting into his car to drive off.

  It was just before the evening rush hour when Steele caught up with Panama, outside the train station on the outskirts of center city. Dressed in light tan pants and a light palm tree shirt Panama was a small olive completed man with a mustache and goatee.

  “Alexander Steele,” he tipped his straw hat and shook Steele’s hand. “Trench told me that you would be calling. As the cabbies around him picked up passengers exiting from 30th Street Panama told Steele about how he met the Fat Man and Dr. Death in prison. “We were all cellmates,” he recalled. Panama looked to the ground; “I knew that one day there would be bad blood between them, I could feel it, even back then. There were four of us, there was a guy named Eddie in our cell. He became Fat Daddy’s right hand man. Did Trench tell you that Eddie has gone missing?”

  Steele shook his head, “No, when did this happen?” he asked.

  Panama thought for a while and said “About two weeks ago. Yeah, I remember because it was the day after my wife’s birthday.”

  The cabbie looked at Steele and pointed to his head, “You see Dr. D is muy loco; he was crazy even then. If you ask me I think that he used too much of his own product, if you get my drift. Even in jail he still couldn’t get that damn monkey off his back. The Fat Man’s got issues too, he likes to gamble, a real high roller, he’s also superstitious and that makes him very paranoid my friend. He’s into astrology and all that supernatural shit. Every month he goes to the Borgata down the shore. It’s a real shame; do you know he went to Morehouse College?” Panama motioned as if he was washing his hands. “I don’t run with that crowd no more. I got a wife and kid to support.”

  Panama’s information was useful, the two talked until he had a fare. Hey Steele, gracias, the man smiled at the two crisp twenty dollar bills Steele had given him and waved to Steele as he was leaving.

  Steele now had something to work with but there was the nagging thought that all of his efforts would be for naught if the doctor had already put his deadly plan into motion. Back at Club Inner Sanctum the evening crowd had already begun to trickle in. Members of the club ran the gambit from politicians to construction workers, pro athlete’s lawyers and others made up the cast of regulars.

  Steele has always exuded a quiet confidence, a coolness that everyone notices whenever he walks into a room. As he greeted the costumers at the bar with hugs and handshakes as he noticed a few of his friends waiting for him.

  It’s common knowledge that no one sits at Steele’s back booth unless they are invited however that rule doesn’t apply to his two oldest friends Stan and Roger who was known around Philly as the Philosopher. With an IQ of 165 and a knack for writing inspirational quotes Roger’s personality was more like a prankster than an intellectual. Dressed in his usual attire of blue jeans and grey tee shirt he waved to Steele just in case he hadn’t spotted them. His somber looking buddies had been concerned about him since earlier in the day when they received his call.

  Chapter 3

  Glass Houses