Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  “Ok, I'm on my way there. Stay there,” Fats snorted. “I need to know what happened.”

  “You know what happened,” Moochie said.

  “Nah, no I don’t! I saw the nigger Blinds ten minutes ago,” Fats said.

  “Yeah?”

  “He told me this wild ass story about him being in the chair and you switching him out the chair for Six Hands.”

  “Yeah, that was an accident,” Moochie said.

  “Yeah, I need to hear how that accident happened,” Fats said. “Why the fuck would you move the nigger out of the chair and put Six Hands there if you knew what was about to go down?”

  “I thought I could call the boy and tell him to wait a few minutes,” Moochie said.

  “You had already made the call that put the boy in play!”

  “I know, I wasn’t expecting Six Hands to show up like that,” Moochie said. “Then everything happened so fast…”

  “I got cops asking questions and this nigger ain’t even dead!”

  “I’m sorry, man. I was nervous about the whole thing. I still am,” Moochie said. He looked out of the storefront and watched the two detectives talking across the street.

  “You? You’re nervous? Ay, man when can I get some money, Moochie?”

  “What?”

  “When can I get some money,” Fats snapped. “You owe me thirty grand. I want my bread.”

  “I thought…”

  “You thought what?! You got me in more trouble than I already was in.”

  “That’s fucked up, man” Moochie said. “My shop is all over the news, undercovers gon’ be comin’, in here for months now. I put my neck on the line for you, Fats, and you say I still owe you the thirty thousand?”

  “Muthafucker, I’m gonna be getting my hair cut in prison because of your incompetent ass!” He calmed himself down. “Hell yeah, you still me owe me the thirty thousand and you better pay me something quick.”

  “Aiight,” Moochie said softly. “But…”

  The line clicked on the other end. Moochie handed the phone back to the muscle. “You rentin that apartment above the shop?” the man asked Latifah.

  “Oh, you talk?” Latifah said.

  “How much?”

  “Two stacks a month plus utilities.”

  “For that little shitty apartment?”

  “If you wanna live on top of the World it's gonna cost ya.”

  The big man twisted his mouth and left.

  * * * * *

  Terrance hated the news and Jeopardy. He never watched either. But this day was different. He couldn’t wait to see his carnage on television. Even though he was anonymous his crime was important. He sat on the edge of his sofa, elbows on knees and flipped through the networks looking for a news broadcast. He didn’t know top stories ran at the top of the hour and the weather report was used just to fill time at the end of the broadcast. He suffered through the weather report and a story about the city’s huge potholes. Potholes are to DC streets what pimples are to teenagers, but this summer the craters were especially big after the city was rocked by a blizzard in February. The holes were so bad that wheel axles on cars were being broken and citizens wanted the city to pay for repairs.

  Terrance plucked a blunt out of an ashtray and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. The apartment and everything in it was cheap, save the 42” television. There wasn’t any art in the room and the only pictures on the wall were of Malcolm X: the one with him looking out of the window with the AK-47 and the one where he is pointing and his teeth are clenching his bottom lip. Other than some pictures from parties and a few from prison, there was no evidence of travel or family.

  He called Massacre, but there was no answer.

  The sofa creaked every time he shifted his weight. A breeze blew through an open window. Outside, a squad car’s siren screamed close by. With both doors open, Terrance could see the inside of his only bathroom and only bedroom from his living room couch. He lay supine and stretched his long legs over the length of his sofa. He started replaying his kill in his head like an athlete after a big game.

  He remembered the look of shock on his victim’s face and how the guy had tried to lunge at him. He was shocked at how fast the man moved and how he had almost hit Terrance with a punch. He figured Blinds’s infamous thick glasses had been removed in preparation for his haircut. Must have, because he remembered how he walked by and saw Blinds in Moochie’s barber chair. He rounded the corner, waited and watched everyone in the area. There was a woman and her son walking down the street, but they turned in to the check cashing store. He saw a bum across the street but he figured the man was asleep, drunk, or doped out. A guy manning a hot dog cart was inside and facing the opposite way.

  Terrance checked under the trash can and found the pistol. He waited for what felt like an hour, but it was really only 20 minutes. When Moochie called and pretended he was talking to a girlfriend, he said a prayer, and left the alley. He walked briskly back up the street, into the barbershop, put three bullets in Blinds’s chest and walked back to his car.

  Terrance knew too many numb nuts that got away with murders. He was confident that this was something he could be good at.

  He felt like partying. He rarely went to the clubs but tonight he felt young, strong and smart. He felt like he could win a fist-fight with the devil. He vowed his next job would cost $10K. That way he could earn around $100,000 a year in this line of work. He wondered if Fats needed anyone else rubbed out. Or if Fats would give him a recommendation to another hustler that had a problem. He wondered if he could make a name for himself as a killer. Go down in DC history like Wayne Perry.

  T sometimes listened to the radio station’s live broadcast from Big Boys on Friday nights. He knew this was First Friday so everybody who was anybody would be at Big Boys. And now T was somebody. He had his clothes laid out under his mattress. He was going to party at the city’s hottest night spot because he was now a player –a Big Boy.

  He wished he had a BMW like the one that was outside the barber shop that morning. He had almost forgotten about the BMW. He wondered who was in it and if they had seen anything.

  He muted the volume and fell asleep shortly before the 3pm broadcast ended and the 4 o’clock show began. Terrance was snoring when they showed the commotion outside of Moochie’s barbershop. He never heard the phone ringing.

  * * * * *

  By 3pm, a crowd of a few hundred people had gathered outside of Moochie’s Barbershop for an impromptu vigil. Teddy bears, candles and bottles of cognac covered the sidewalk from the curb to the storefront. A hastily painted mural had been commissioned by the hood and sprayed onto a wall near the spot where Six Hands was shot.

  A podium was set up in the street and news cameras gathered around it. A lady from the councilman’s office asked Moochie to say a few words discouraging violence. Moochie had never seen the woman before and she didn’t introduce herself. She was wearing a T-shirt that read, “Chisholm for Mayor” a navy blue-blazer, slacks, and a walkie--talkie, so he figured she was important enough. He declined to speak to the crowd, but she ignored him. She introduced him to a young White guy in a white polo and khakis. “Do you know your ANC?”

  “What?”

  “Connor is your Advisory Neighborhood Commissioner,” she said.

  “Nice to meet you,” Connor said, offering his hand.

  “I thought Mr. Robinson was the ANC,” Moochie said. They shook, but Connor was visibly disappointed.

  “I unseated him two years ago. Are you following the neighborhood Facebook?”

  “No.”

  “This is Reverend Jackson,” the lady said. “His church is across the street. Rev. Jackson is going to lead us in prayer.”.

  “Hey, how are you, brother? This is your barbershop right here across the street from my church? Do you attend church?”

  “Do you get haircuts?

  More people were arriving at the vigil from every direction. Reporters started going live from
the scene to national audiences. Fans were taking selfies and broadcasting live on social media.

  “Moochie, this is William’s brother Melvin,” the lady said.

  Moochie had forgotten Six Hands had an older brother. He remembered him from the old days when he was a neighborhood bully. Moochie could tell by Melvin’s demeanor he had been away doing a few semesters in prison.

  “We need to talk,” Melvin said.

  Lying to reporters, politicians and police was one thing, but Moochie would need his best acting chops to convince Melvin he was innocent. Melvin grabbed Moochie around the back of his neck and politely led him away from the group. “I know my brother owned that barbershop,” he said.

  “Whoa…”

  “Whoa nothing,” Melvin interrupted. “Whoa what? He loaned you the bread to open that shop and you never paid him back. What? You think because he’s dead I’m not gonna collect my money?”

  “Hold, Six didn’t give me all of the money for the shop.”.

  “Who did? You was broke. You didn’t have a dime.”.

  “Fats gave me some of it,” Moochie lied. “I owe him $20K.”

  “Ohhhhhhh. Fats’s name on paperwork?”

  “No, but…”

  “Then you already know.”

  “Bro--”

  “You already know, nigga, you owe him $20K. I don’t have nothing to do with that,” Melvin said. “I know I'm owed. My brother gave you the bread for that shop so I own at least half of that motherfucker! And I better not find out you had something to do with my brother’s murder.”

  Melvin walked away. Moochie looked around at the scene and couldn't believe how the street had changed so much since he unlocked the barbershop doors that morning. His eyes followed Melvin. Someone was on the corner selling “We Miss You, Six Hands” T-shirts and Melvin was stalking angrily toward the guy on his way to get his cut of the profits.

  Councilman Thomas Chisolm stood behind a podium addressing the crowd.

  “Just like so many times Six Hands made the referee wave his hands, shake his head and say, ‘“that’s enough, no mas!”’ we need to wave our hands to crime, shake our heads to violence and tell these crooks ‘“that’s enough, no mas!”” Chisolm said.

  The crowd cheered and then chanted, “No mas! No mas! No mas!”

  On the east edge of the crowd, the corner store homeless man sauntered up to a patrolman and stood next to him. “What’s going on?”

  “A candlelight vigil for a guy. Somebody got killed in that barbershop today,” the officer said.

  “Oh. They catch the guy?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Oh.”

  He stood there looking over the crowd. The officer reached in his pocket, pulled out a dollar, and gave it to him. The homeless man said, “thanks” and shuffled away.

  “Who said, “crime don’t pay?” Not Mayor Roland Brown,” Chisolm continued. “Criminals are making an entire career here in DC. Our best and brightest are being gunned down in broad daylight and people are too afraid to talk to the police. You shouldn’t need a bulletproof vest just to get a haircut in DC. Crooks feel brasen because the mayor is running around town cavorting with notorious drug dealers. There’s a sense of lawlessness in this city because you can't separate the politicians from the pimps.”

  A man in the crowd leaned toward the lady next to him and said, “Ain’t he a politician?” The lady bristled at the comment. She gave the man a once-over and noticed he had a dog on a leash. The man smiled at her “Chisolm for Mayor” T-shirt and continued, “These people don’t know nothing about the streets. I got a program that keeps these kids off of the streets--”

  “Is that right?” she said.

  “Yeah, these kids need something to do, but this mayor don’t like me, so my grant money has been short the last three years.”

  “You say Mayor Brown doesn’t like you?”

  “He can’t stand me, so he cut my funds,” he said. “That's why I hope your guy gets elected. I can help him.”

  She started smiling.

  “Accountability breeds responsibility, and it's time someone stands accountable for all of the blood in our streets,” Chisolm was wrapping up his tribute to the deceased. “A vote for Thomas Chisolm is a vote for all of the Six Hands Johnsons of DC!”

  The crowd murmured as Chisolm rocked his fists in the air before leaving the podium.

  On the west edge of the crowd Blinds sat on a mailbox watching the vigil. He shook his head. He saw Melvin Johnson, a jailhouse associate he hadn't seen in years. He watched Melvin confront Moochie about his little brother.

  “Hmph, Melvin wants answers.”

  Then he watched Melvin and Moochie walk away in opposite directions. Five minutes later, he watched Melvin yell at the man selling T-shirts. Blinds thought Melvin was offended by the man selling tees with his brother’s face on them six hours after the man was murdered. That is, until he watched the vendor go in his pocket and then hand Melvin some cash. Melvin walked away and the man continued selling his shirts.

  At the same time, he saw Moochie talking to someone in a truck. The truck’s back door opened, and Fats Harrington stepped out.

  “Aww suki,” he said.

  A lady introduced the next speaker. Blinds cleaned his glasses in his shirt and focused on Fats and Moochie. They were arguing. Both screaming and pointing fingers in each other's faces. Blinds couldn't tell what was happening. “Damn, everybody’s mad at Mooch.” he said to himself. “Moochie is up to something.”

  “We need to stop supporting people who don’t support us,” the speaker said. “I’m supporting Chisolm for mayor so that this won't happen again.” It was the man with the dog.

  Chapter 10: The eyewitness

  4pm Saturday

  A iden sat in the truck and watched the end of the vigil. He noticed the homeless man shuffle away from the crowd and down H Street. Aiden was parked on 12th Street, so the homeless man was slowly walking toward him. As usual, he turned on 12th and headed south. Aiden sat in the truck and watched the old man slowly labor down the street, block after block. Four blocks away, he was starting to fade out of sight, so Aiden started the truck and slowly cruised the street behind him. When he was a block away, he pulled to the side, left the engine running, and continued watching. This would continue for an hour.

  The homeless man reached Lincoln Park and Aiden knew there was no way he slept in this park. This was Capitol Hill and White people jogged and walked their dogs in this park. It was off limits to the homeless.

  Lincoln Park is a circle and at one end is a statue of a freed slave on one knee as Lincoln pats him on the head. At the other end of the park is a statue of the great educator Mary McLeod Bethune. Across the street from the circle were row houses, a very small sidewalk café where Caucasians enjoyed Jazz, a convenience store that sold expensive wines and political newspapers, and an overpriced dry cleaner. Aiden parked at the top of the circle and sat again with the engine running.

  As expected, the homeless man walked straight through the circle and continued down 12th Street. Aiden figured he had to walk another 10 blocks before he got off of Capitol Hill and reached a place where a homeless man wouldn’t be bothered. He almost pissed himself when the man ascended the stairs into an apartment building.

  Aiden sped around the circle and parked in front of the white, four-story structure. He jogged up the stairs and opened a front door that led to a vestibule. The second set of doors was locked. Aiden looked down through the locked doors at an empty hallway. He was nowhere in sight. Aiden looked at the door knobs and saw a keyhole. Looking around and eyeing the telephone on the wall Aiden figured the wino either had a key or knew a code to get in the building. He looked at the list of residents and none were listed as “homeless guy”.

  He turned to exit and almost bumped into a woman coming in.

  “I’m sorry.”

  She smiled, “No problem.” She was young, White and pretty, Aiden was certain she would h
elp him get a homeless Black guy out of her building.

  “I hate to bother you,” he started.

  She rolled her eyes. Aiden pulled his shield anchoring necklace from under his shirt and said. “I’m looking for a guy who just ran in this building--” he continued.

  She looked excited. “Could you let me in?”

  “Sure, sure.” She quickly used her key to unlock the door. While balancing her attaché and some heavy books against her chest she held it opened for Aiden with her foot. Aiden noticed the muscle in her calf. Her blue suit and white blouse weren’t expensive, but she wore the look well.

  “What did the guy look like?”

  “Homeless.”

  She was clearly disappointed. “You’re chasing a homeless man?”

  “I never said I was chasing him,” he said as he walked down the empty hallway and darted down the stairs to the laundry room. The laundry room was empty, so he opened the back door to the parking lot. Nothing but cars, a trash can and a rat.

  Aiden jammed the door with a brick and ran to the alley. The man was nowhere in sight in either direction.

  When he returned to the first floor the White girl was still waiting for the elevator. She noticed he was alone. They simply nodded at each other as he passed her back down the hall. As he opened the front door to leave, she said, “You’re not talking about Mr. Williamson, are you?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Williamson…he looks …homeless and crazy, but he lives upstairs on the fourth floor,” she said. “Three doors down from me.”

  “Describe Mr. Williamson.”

  “He looks homeless and crazy.”

  “Fair enough.” He headed back to her at the elevator.

  On the elevator, she explained that her name was Lauren and that she was from Hollywood. Hollywood, Florida, not Hollywood, California. Lauren had lived in the building for two years, four less than Mr. Williamson, and she worked for the MS Society. She started explaining how Mr. Williamson is a classic case of the misunderstood genius. Aiden stopped her there.

  “A genius?”