Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  “Well, the clients that I meet here are quite different from the individuals I met doing business in the entertainment industry.” He laughed.

  The golden girl returned with two bottles of Aquadeco and glasses of ice. She asked if they required anything else. Pearson looked at Taylor, who shook her head, and then Pearson nodded at the old lady. She closed the door on her way out and Pearson sat down.

  Taylor wondered if Pearson was a defense attorney. He was bold and confident enough to allow himself to be questioned without another lawyer present.

  “So, how did you meet Six Hands?”

  “I met him on a video shoot for a rapper I was working with. You heard of the rapper Massacre?” Pearson raised an eyebrow.

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Right, so I represent him,” Pearson continued. “One night he’s performing at Big Boys Nightclub and the owner of the club tells me he has a boxer he’s managing. One thing led to another and a month later we had our first fight.”

  “So, you were the promoter, Fats was the manager and the guy from Knuckles…”

  “Dumbass Dave,” Pearson said.

  “Ok, Dave…was the trainer?”

  “Right. We lined up five quick and easy wins to build his confidence. Then he exploded through the next five guys. That’s when people started calling us looking for a match against Six Hands Johnson.”

  “Why’d he fire you guys after he won the title?”

  “He thought he had gone as far as he could with us,” Pearson shrugged. “It was time for him to run with the big dogs. So, he thought,” Pearson restacked some papers on the table.

  “The title fight…was it fixed?”

  Pearson stopped with the papers and looked up at Taylor. She had seen the fight and remembered being very shocked that the local boy had scored such a surprising upset.

  “Not really,” Pearson answered.

  “Not really?”

  “William wasn’t supposed to win. The kid, Manuel Santiago, was a new champ. He was popular down in the southwestern states. An impressive win on a cable broadcast might have made him a household name and a pay-per-view draw.

  “So, they called Fats and asked if we would serve up Six Hands for the ass whipping. Fats did it.”

  “Six Hands had no idea he was supposed to be bait, huh?”

  “No way,” Pearson said. “We told him the challenger had broken his hand and backed out of the fight. We told him the WBO had offered him a chance to fill-in, but he would only have a few days to train for the fight.

  “Well, William jumped at the opportunity,” he chuckled as he looked up at the ceiling. “He was so excited to get out of DC.”

  “So, anyway, we fly out to Vegas and for three and half rounds everything is going according to plan. Santiago is out-classing William. The president of the WBO was so pleased that he comes over to our seats and promised me and Fats another title shot when Six Hands was really ready for one. He went so far as to say that he would give another one of our fighters a title shot if Six Hands never matured into a world class boxer.

  “Well, right about then ol’ Six Hands landed the hardest right hook he ever threw in his life. Knocked the Santiago boy clean out.”

  “Your stock rose.”

  “That’s what I thought,” Pearson stopped smiling. “Most of the champions are signed to a cable television deal. Or they’re signed to one of the big-name promoters as soon as they leave the amateurs and turn pro. I took William from being a drug dealer’s bodyguard to being the most sought-after world champion in boxing.

  “I promoted the fighter that HBO and Showtime desperately wanted to sign to a multi-million dollar, multi –fight deal. I’m about to cash out. Color in... And then he fired me.”

  “How much had you invested in him?”

  “About $75,000 total.”

  “That’s enough for me to kill a man,” Taylor said.

  Pearson raised an eyebrow at the detective. “For me, it was the price of fame. I met my new wife at a casino before a Six Hands fight. I made invaluable contacts and brokered the most exciting deals of my career. Six Hands signed with a shark and then got himself gunned down in a northwest barbershop. I don’t care about the money. Or him.” Pearson took a swig out of his bottle of water. “I didn’t kill William.”

  “Who did?”

  ”I have neither an idea nor an interest.”

  “So why did he smack you around at Big Boys’ a few weeks ago?”

  Pearson looked embarrassed. “Because he was drunk and stupid .”

  She looked up at him and waited. Pearson continued. “He was upset about some lyrics in a song. An underground mixtape or something or another. I told him to grow up and he slugged me.”

  “What song?”

  “A rap song on some underground mixtape,” Franklin explained with his palms up to the ceiling. “I dunno. Massacre dissed him, apparently, and so he attacked me.”

  “Why did Massacre diss Six Hands Johnson?”

  “I have no idea. I'm an attorney. I represent Massacre in legal matters and I review some business deals for him. I don’t listen to his music, I don't know all of his lyrics, and I don’t care about who he’s beefing with.

  “Anytime I am in a nightclub now, it’s to do business. I don’t go to nightclubs for recreation and William knew that. I was entertaining a foreign client and that asshole tried to make me look bad. He attacked my client and myself.”

  “Did you lose the client?”

  “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you file a suit?”

  “I knew he didn’t have the money to pay me, so I didn’t want to waste my time. Every minute I spent on William ‘Six Hands’ Johnson was a waste of money.”

  Taylor understood he was implying the same about his time and she concluded her interview. Then she said, “Um, what kind of cologne are you wearing? Do you mind me asking?”

  “No, it’s...um, it’s called Bond #9. You like it?” He smiled and handed her his card.

  “Yes, I want to get a bottle for my husband. Where do you buy it?”

  Pearson stopped smiling. Taylor thought, that was easy.

  * * * * * *

  Saturday 12:30pm

  He answered the phone despite the Caller ID labeling it a “private number.”. “Brooks.”

  “Yeah, this is Dave. Dave from the gym?”

  “Oh, sure. Dave from Knuckles. What’s up?” Brooks was pulling into the parking lot of Big Boy’s nightclub when he took the call.

  “Well, I said that me and Six Hands ain’t have no problems between us.”

  “Right.”

  “That’s true. Six didn’t wanna to fire me. I understood why he needed to,” Dave said.

  Brooks waited.

  “Plus, he took care of me, like, financially, you know,” Dave said.

  “I see.”

  “So, I wasn’t mad when he moved on.”

  “I appreciate you calling to tell me so…”

  “Fats is a different story,” Dave continued.

  “Oh?”

  Brooks heard Dave’s voice crack. “I’d bet the house that skinny piece of shit had something to do with that boy’s murder.” He cleared his throat.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I saw his face when I told him Six Hands had left Las Vegas.”

  “What was his expression like?”

  “He looked like he had a mouth full of warm shit.”

  “He didn’t take it too well, huh?”

  “Hell no, he was pissed…him and that Theodore Pearson motherfucka. They both thought Six Hands was dumb and he played them. And everybody knew it. Fats was lookin like a bitch… until today.”

  “What about you?”

  “What you mean?”

  “Fats was mad and looking like a bitch, but you were cool? Why didn’t you look like a bitch too?”

  “Look, Six Hands was like a thoroughbred horse. I was the broke old dude training the animal. They wa
s the rich Arabian niggas paying for everything. So, imagine your horse wins the Kentucky Derby and gives the money and roses to another, richer Arabian nigga. You’d be fucked up, right? It might not be just about the money, you know.

  “I got every manager and promoter on the East Coast calling me tryna get me to work with this kid or that kid trying to see if I can make another world champion. Fats and Theodore they outta the game, man.

  “So, yeah, Fats was pissed. He wasn’t gon’ let Six Hands get away with that.”

  “I understand.”

  “If you ask me, Fats Harrington is your man,” Dave said.

  * * * * *

  Detectives Aiden, Brooks, and Taylor were all on a three-way call updating each other. Brooks was in his car heading to Big Boys’ Nightclub. Melissa Taylor was in line at a food truck and Aiden was outside of Moochie’s Barbershop leaning against the wall.

  “Look, everywhere we turn we keep hearing the name Fats Harrington,” Brooks said. “We need to be on this guy, and I mean, interviewing him, following him, the whole nine.”

  “We gotta be right before we go after Fats Harrington,” Aiden sighed. “He’s rich and he’s a friend of the Mayor.”

  Brooks dropped his phone in his lap and shook his head in mock exhaustion. He picked it back up to his ear and began, “Fuck that. If this guy is our killer, I don’t care if he’s friends with the Dalai Lama, we need to be on his ass,” he said.

  “Harrington is too obvious,” Aiden said. “I don’t see him taking the risk.”

  “What other suspects do we have, Aiden? I believe the trainer. Taylor, what did you think of the lawyer?”

  “Doubt it,” she said.

  “Everyone in the streets was saying Harrington’s name before the smoke cleared,” Brooks continued. He stopped when he heard Taylor talking but soon realized she was ordering a lobster roll and a Sprite.

  “I don’t believe a guy like Harrington would be that dumb or that desperate,” Aiden said. “Now these guys at the barbershop, um… Maurice Coles and the owner, Moochie Grant, I think they had something to do with it. I can’t put my finger on it, but I bet a dime to a dollar they know more than they’ve said so far.”

  Brooks started scribbling the names in his notepad. “The barber?” he scoffed. “And the nigga with the coke bottle glasses? Why would you think they were in on it?”

  “Gut feeling, years of experience,” Aiden answered.

  “Oh shit,” Brooks sighed. He scratched the names out and rolled his eyes. “Look, I’m on my way to Fats Harrington’s nightclub. You follow your gut and I’ll arrest Fats Harrington right after he confesses.”

  “Of course,” Aiden said.

  “Hey, Brooks, ask him what happened between Six Hands and Theodore Pearson at the club a few weeks ago,” Taylor added.

  “I will,” Brooks answered.

  “Call me when you leave the club,” Aiden said.

  “Sure,” Brooks answered unconvincingly.

  * * * * * *

  Big Boys’ was the largest and most popular nightclub in DC. It was where the celebrities and athletes held their birthday bashes and where politicians held fundraisers. Big Boys’ was the spot for the official after parties following all of the city’s big concerts. It was one of the only clubs in DC that didn’t have to have an international night, a college night, or a gay night. Big Boys’ didn’t need that. The club was jumping every night and just about everyone in the city had partied there regardless of age, race, or status. WKYS broadcast live from Big Boys’ every Friday night and several local lifestyle websites posted pictures of partygoers every night. Area newspapers referred to Big Boys’ owner, Joseph “Fats” Harrington, as DC’s nightlife impresario.

  The streets said Fats was a front for a Mafia family. Those who knew him understood that Fats had arrived. Fats Harrington had made enough money, doing whatever, that he didn’t have to front for anyone anymore. The police often influenced the ABC Board to close other clubs because of violence or drunk driving. Big Boys’ was too large for that. There weren’t any shootings, stabbings, robberies, or rapes inside or near Big Boys’. Rarely a fight or an argument. People sort of knew better. Fats Harrington was cool with the gangsters and thugs, the police, the city council, the promoters, the celebrities, and everyone in between.

  The club had four levels – one strictly for entertainers. There were rooftop bars with retractable roofs, rooms with beds, tents outside during huge events and VIP sections to fit every taste. The VIP lounges were separated by more than just a velvet rope. Big Boys’ had glass walls separating the exclusives. Inside the VIP rooms were private chefs and servers, flat screen televisions, and fireplaces. And unlike other area clubs, you really had to be a very important person in order to get into the VIP.

  The main floor featured three cash bars and the walls were lined with huge aquariums and more flat screens. There were balconies, pool tables, and a performance stage that had been danced on by every singer or rapper of relevance. Elevators lifted and descended patrons to other floors, valets parked the hottest cars outside.

  When Detective Brooks arrived to interview Fats, there were about twenty people preparing the club for the night’s events: vacuuming, Windexing, restocking the bar, preparing food, etc. Fats was in a meeting with a distributor who was trying to sell him napkins and coasters with the Big Boys’ logo. A sales rep from Newport was waiting to see if she could place displays around the bar advertising a new minty menthol brand targeted at the urban young adult crowd.

  Ten years ago, when Fats Harrington was a young thug fresh out of high school, Brooks would have just grabbed his arm and pulled him out of his chair while simply saying, “I need to talk to you. Now.” But Fats was now a well-respected multi-millionaire with very important friends. Detective Brooks would have to wait. And wait. He sat on a plush couch and tried to count the fish in a wall-sized aquarium. He tried to identify each species. He noticed a school of African Cichlids and was momentarily impressed.

  African Cichlids are rare, beautiful, and interesting. Brooks wondered if Fats knew or cared what kind of fish he had in the aquarium or if they were merely decoration for the drunks who partied the nights away at Big Boys’.

  Fats was wearing a white dress shirt with Bull & Bear cufflinks, jeans, and black cowboy boots. He was six foot three and weighed 170lbswas full of energy, drug - and alcohol - free. His only addictions were money and women. He waved Detective Brooks over begrudgingly after his last meeting.

  “I have a lot of things to accomplish today, so I need this to be quick.”

  “Sure,” Brooks said as he sat down. “I’m sure you heard about Six Hands Johnson.”

  “Yeah, I heard about him,” Fats stretched. Then he frowned. “You’re homicide?”

  “Yes, Detective Brunson Brooks.”

  “Ok, Detective Brunson Brooks, what you need with me?”

  “I interviewed a couple of his friends, family, and your name just kept coming up as an enemy.” Brooks said. “Would you say you and Six Hands were enemies?”

  Fats’ eyelids drooped half shut and he raised his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t give a fuck about him.”

  “There was some bad business between the two of you, right?”

  “Old news.”

  “When did you first meet Six Hands?”

  “High school,” Fats looked annoyed already. He watched a Spanish worker who was vacuuming the carpet around a chair instead of moving the chair and getting under it.

  “Six Hands went to Woodson, right?” Brooks asked.

  “Yeah,”

  “You too?”

  Fats closed his eyes and shook his head. “Dunbar.”

  “Ok, so how did you meet?”

  “A friend was in Oak Hill with him.”

  “What friend?”

  “Maurice Coles.”

  “What was Six Hands in Oak Hill for?”

  “Peddling drugs. My man Moe was sharp with his hands. So, the guards ma
de the two of ‘em square off in a bathroom one day after lunch. The guards bet a six-pack of Coke on the fight,” Fats told him. “Moe was two years older and about 30 pounds bigger than Will. So, Moe hit him with a few haymakers and lumped him up pretty bad. When Will responded with a combination, the punches were coming so fast that Moe couldn’t see where they were coming from. When they woke my man up, he said he felt like the nigga had six hands.”

  Brooks smiled. He carefully checked his notes for the name Moe.

  “Look, I could sit here and tell you a hundred stories about Six Hands,” Fats said. “None of them are going to help you find the person who shot him. I didn’t do it. I don’t know who did and I don’t know anyone who would.”

  “Does Moe wear thick eyeglasses?” Brooks asked.

  “That’s why they call him Blinds. Look, I told you, I don’t have nothing for you. Talking to me is wasting both of our time. I got some other things I have to do, detective. If you have any more questions, email me.” Fats started to slide his thin frame from under the table and began rising.

  “How often did Six Hands frequent your club?”

  “Not often,” he answered.

  “How often?”

  “Maybe once a month.”

  “When was the last time he was here?”

  “I’ll have to ask my security manager,” he exhaled.

  “I’ll wait. Is he here now?” Brooks said while turning to look at the largest man in the room. Big Vic was at another table interviewing another big man.

  “I saw Will in here a few weeks ago,” Fats said. “Showing off.”

  “Did you talk to him?”

  “Nope.”

  “Did you see him fighting Theodore Pearson in your club?” Brooks asked.

  Fats sat down.

  “Yeah, I saw Six Hands slap Ted Pearson. I wouldn’t call it a fight,” Fats said.

  “What was it about?”

  “I have no idea. You’d have to ask Ted Pearson.”

  Chapter 6: The hustler

  L amont “Fats” Harrington grew up in the Montana Terrace housing projects. His mother was the neighborhood “candy lady.”. She sold sodas, candy, gum, cigarettes, blunts, and sometimes weed and coke out of the apartment. His aunt sold clothes in the barbershops and beauty salons. He was six when he started to understand the saying, “no soliciting.”.