Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  Blinds looked at Fats.

  “I’ve already lost a lot on this, Blinds. Losing two bricks in the air ain’t a small set-back,” he said. “It’s gonna take me a minute to get back even on this one.”

  “I know. Fats, it’s gon’ take me five years--”

  “Blinds, you made that choice. You a grown man,” Fats said. “You gotta take responsibility for that shit and--” Fats stopped. A lady in front of them bristled and two another turned to look at them. Fats exhaled through his nose and stiffened his back. Blinds smirked.

  He looked around the church at the people. The old people who were trying to make peace before the end. The lonely, the poor, the heartbroken. He wished he could trade places with one of them. He’d rather be married to an ugly woman than jailing with a guy a foot taller than himself. He wondered how many of these people had never been in handcuffs, had never been beaten by a cop, never been stabbed, never been shot, never been homeless. He wondered what it was like to play by the rules. The Goody Two--shoes he abhorred didn’t seem like suckers at that instant. Maybe, you do right and God blesses you. And the more you do right, the more blessings you get. He thought about God, forgiveness, and salvation and then the pastor asked for his love offering.

  “You all know Bishop James gave up his salary five years ago so that others could have a job,” the young minister said. Dude was clearly next in line and had to kiss the pastor’s ass a few more years before he could inherit the business. The dark-skinned man continued to expound the greatness of the shepherd. The Carolinian was wearing a Gucci necktie, eyeglasses, belt, and shoes. Blinds was trying not to laugh out loud.

  The short bishop sat in an oversized executive’s chair in the center of the stage. He sat and tried to look modest as his mentee praised him. He slouched in his chair like he was exhausted from a long week of praying for his sheep. He made a temple with his hands in front of his face. He looked like he was loving every second. The young minister was screaming now. “Bishop married some of y’all, he presided over y’all mommas’ funerals and your daddies’ funerals…”

  Blinds thought, Ain’t that the nigga job?

  The young minister told everyone to stand up and give the short bishop an ovation. Fats jumped up like the Redskins had scored a touchdown. Blinds dropped his head in disgust. He wondered if the bishop knew any form of modesty. He wondered how much money Fats had sunk into the little man’s pockets.

  Fats looked down at him and raised a brow. Blinds stood and pretended to clap. Blinds figured there had to be at least 3,000 seats in the sanctuary, not counting Children’s Church and the cafeteria upstairs. If everyone gave a dollar or two, at both Sunday services, this guy was raking in $5K a week minimum. “I can’t take this, man. I’m ready to get the fuck outta here,” he said. He knew the profanity was unnecessary, but he wanted to get a reaction out of Fats.

  “Nobody’s stopping you,” he said.

  “When can I get some bread, Fats?

  “When I can. Like I said, we all lost on that trip…”

  “You lost a little money--”

  “A little?”

  “Fats, I lost years off of my life.”

  “I lost more than a little money, nigga. One brick was for me, the other one was for someone else,” Fats said. “Dude thought you were gon snitch. He wanted to kill you, so I had to reimburse him for his loss to keep him calm. You were about to lose some years off of your life all right.”

  Blinds thought that the whole story was a lie. The people were starting to sit down and the wicker baskets were being passed through the congregation. The last time Blinds had been to church they used a small gold plate. Now they’re using little laundry baskets.

  “I’m going away for five years and you sayin’ you can’t do nothin’ for me and my family?”

  “I already did. I paid this dude $30,000 for the brick he lost and I’m gonna help you with your family. But to cough up fifty stacks today is crazy.” Another minister read some announcements and some commercials were shown on the screens.

  Blinds sucked his teeth.

  “You have to shoulder some of the blame and let’s be real, you knew the risk going in,” Fats said.

  Blinds tried to talk, but Fats continued. “I tried to help you out. You came to me and asked if I could help you make some money, right. I gave you a job. It’s the easiest job in hustling. You messed up. You blew it. I shouldn’t have to pay $50,000 to cover up your mistake. That’s way more than I was trying to spend.”

  “My silence and loyalty aren’t worth ten grand a year?” Blinds said.

  “You threatening me?” Fats asked.

  “Don’t play tough with me, Fats,” Blinds said. They were looking directly at each other. “Just because you got your first body Friday don’t make you the Godfather.”

  “You’re lucky it wasn’t you,” Fats replied.

  “What? You lost your mind? Who the fuck you talkin to?” Blinds said.

  Fats turned back toward the choir and pulpit. The woman beside him was singing and clapping as loud as she could. “Look, I got a little cash for you today,” he said softly. “I’m gonna get you that lawyer and everything I do after that is a gift.”

  Blinds couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He had come to church expecting Fats to give him a gym bag of cash. He had already planned what he was going to do with the money. Blinds knew Fats was a miser, but this was too much to bear. Blinds was going to do five years behind a wall rather than snitch on Fats and do birthdays in the DC jail, and Fats couldn’t appreciate that.

  Right before the sermon, Fats handed Blinds a church envelope filled with cash. Blinds stuffed it in his breast pocket. The bishop’s message was about Paul in the storm and how God puts us in storms to test our faith. Blinds walked out in the middle of the sermon.

  He knew the envelope felt light when Fats handed it to him. When he saw $50, $20 and $10 bills he really got angry. Blinds was insulted. He counted the money in his car. A little more than three thousand bucks. He knew how much money Fats made in one night from the nightclub. He knew Fats was merely giving him the cash from the coat check the night before. He figured Fats had paid more in tithes today than he did to Blinds in hush money. Blinds wanted to go back to the church and whip Fats’s ass and toss him over that balcony.

  He was sitting there pondering when Detective Christopher Aiden called his cell phone.

  Chapter 17: Reward money

  10:30am Sunday

  C andace Holmes was pacing in her small kitchen while her four-year-old son, Marcus, played with his toys in the living room. She watched him through a breakfast nook as he used a John Cena action figure to shoot a Power Ranger. Little Marcus wasn’t saying “pow, pow, pow,” but rather “boom, boom, boom.” Instead of the John Wayne cowboy style, the boy turned the action figure’s arm sideways like the thug he saw in the barbershop that morning.

  She pulled her hair back with her hands and held her head. A knock at the door made her jump. Candace put her hand on her chest and closed her eyes, waited a few ticks and then headed for the door.

  Through the peephole she saw the boy’s father. She quickly unlatched the lock and opened it. Marcus Sampson, Sr. didn’t wait for an invitation. He pushed the door open and stepped into the space Candace made when she stepped back.

  “Daddy!” The elder held his arms wide for the boy to run into. The kid dropped his action figures, darted around a coffee table and jumped at his dad. They both embraced with their eyes shut tight. “Daddy, I almost got killed today.”

  Big Marcus glared at Candace before acting surprised. “Whaaaat? What happened, man?” Candace watched Big Marcus carry his son to the couch and sit down with the boy in his lap. She didn’t feel any safer with the tall man present. She took off the Juicy sweatpants that had the victim’s blood splattered on them, grabbed a pair of jeans from a laundry basket and threw them over her Hello Kitty panties.

  She saw Big Marcus’ eyes go from her thighs to the overflowi
ng ashtray on the coffee table in reach of the toddler. There were beer cans, empty cups, and two business cards on the table. One from a homicide detective and one from a mechanic. Candace, who didn’t own a car, changed her sweatshirt for a black polo short-sleeve. She sat barefoot on a loveseat.

  Little Marcus did his best to report what happened in the barbershop that morning. He was just one chair away from the attack. The dead man gave him dap a few minutes before he met his demise. Little Marcus talked about how loud gunshots were. He talked about how the people looked at his ears afterwards. He talked about the blood.

  The man’s long legs extended well beyond and above the edge of the couch. He had no facial hair, lazy eyelids, and a chipped tooth.

  “Then the man?” he paused to see if his dad was still with him.

  “Yeah?”

  “The man tried to shoot me,” he said, his eyes as wide as traffic lights.

  “Whaaat?”

  The boy stared up at his dad and nodded.

  “How did he try to shoot you?”

  “Right here,” he said. Little Marcus pointed at the ground. Candace could see the confusion on his father’s face.

  “He was watching music videos and then he ran in the bedroom screaming, “‘The man’s trying to kill me!’” she said. “I thought he was scared from the barbershop, but when I came in here I see this on the screen.”

  Candace picked up the remote and cued the tube. A rap video started playing. Killer Ty was grabbing his crotch and flipping the bird when Terrance stepped in front of him and pointed a 9mm Beretta at the camera. Candace froze the frame on Terrance’s ugly mug, contorted and intimidating. She looked at her son’s father. “That’s him.”

  “That’s the hitter? Killer Ty’s hype man?”

  “I saw him. I was standing close enough to smell his toothpaste.”

  “Damn. Tell me what happened again.”

  Candace rolled her eyes and let out half a lung. “In the first chair, it’s this guy with these big, thick-ass glasses,” Candace says. “The guy who owns the shop was cutting his hair.”

  “Moochie.”

  “Whatever. Marcus is sitting in the next chair and the light--skin guy is cutting his hair.”

  “Whitey.”

  “I guess so. Anyway, I’m tellin’ the guy, Whitey, how to cut lil Marcus hair, and next I see the guy with the glasses is wearing an ankle bracelet,” She says. “So, he’s telling all the guys all about how he’s gotta get a lawyer for court and stuff, when the barber tells him to get up.”

  She looks at Big Marcus and he is staring at her like he’d pay to hear the rest of the story.

  “The guy with the glasses is like, ‘Fuck that, man. You gotta finish my cutting my hair,’” Candace said. “Then he said, Fuck that, I’m not moving. Fuck him.””

  “Long story short, this other guy comes in. This boxer. And ev’rybody starts calling him ‘Champ’ and acting all diff’rent. He looks at the guy with the thick glasses and laughs at him. He’s like, “Nigga, get yo bitch ass up befo’ I beat yo ass, agin.” And laughs.”

  “So, the guy with the big glasses gets up and moves. He goes and stands by the coat rack. Ev’rybody in the barbershop started laughin’ at the dude. I felt sorry for him. That was wrong.” Candace remembered how she had sympathy for the guy with the bad vision, but she was simultaneously excited by the other man’s prowess. In a few seconds, the guy they called “Champ” had flashed his wealth, power and confidence. Without saying as much as a word to her, he impressed and intrigued her like no one had before.

  “So, anyway,” she points to the flat screen. “This muthafucka comes in, shoots the guy in the chest three times, and then walks out.’”

  He held his palm up to her. “Lemme get this straight. You’re telling me you saw Six Hands Johnson get killed?”

  “Yes!”

  “And Killer Ty’s hype-man did it?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you, dummy!”

  “Damn. I shoulda took him to get his haircut,” he said.

  “No shit.”

  “Unreal. You know this is all over the news, right?”

  “You watched the news today?”

  “Everybody is talking about it.”

  Her eyes widened. “You think the Mafia killed him?”

  “The Mafia?”

  “Yeah.”

  Big Marcus looked at the television and back at Candace. “You think the Mafia used this guy as a hitman?”

  She shrugged and frowned. She hated how he thought he knew everything. “Guess not.”

  He picked up one of the business cards and looked it over. He pointed it at the television and said, “You gon’ tell this detective about this guy?”

  “Nah.”

  Big Marcus smiled. Candace grabbed the ashtray and walked to the dining area. “This could solve his case,” he said.

  She dumped the ashes and butts into a grocery bag from a Chinese restaurant and said, “I ain’t no snitch.”

  “Riiiiight.”

  She lit two Newports on the stove. She returned to the living room. “I ain’t have nothing to do with dat.’”. She handed Marcus a square.

  “Zactly.” He smoked with his eyes closed and exhaled through his nose. He frowned as he rolled the cigarette around in the now empty tray. “You know that bullet could have ricocheted and hit our son.”

  “But it didn’t.”

  “Still,” he said. “He was sitting in the chair right next to that nigga.”

  “I was standing there too! That motherfucker was wanton endangerment like shit, but fuck that, we alive. Aright?” she said and stared at him. “He came in, handled his business, and rolled out. He ain't bother nobody else. He coulda killed everybody in there!”

  “I’m jus’ sayin’” Big Marcus said.

  “Nothin’. If they killed that boxer nigga, whadayou think they’ll do to me?”

  “I feel you.”

  “I don’t want no police, or anybody else for that matter, knockin’ on my door askin’ me nothin’ about no boxer got shot in the barbershop.”

  She hit the remote and turned from the image on the screen. The 6 o’clock news was on. The anchor led with the barbershop shooting. A reporter on the scene started dramatically detailing how the boxer rose from the projects to the “peak of pugilism.” That made Big Marcus say, “Huh?”

  The reporter briefed the audience on the five Ws of the story as Candace told Marcus, “I saw this reporter down there.”

  “Did you get interviewed?”

  “No nigga. I don’t want no trouble. How many times I gotta say that?”

  The reporter interviewed Councilmember Chisholm. “Look at this fake nigga,” Big Marcus said.

  “They all fake. He was askin’ me was I okay and was lil Marcus okay. Then he asked me to vote for him. Then he asked me for my phone number.”

  “Damn.”

  She looked at the screen and curled her mouth. A long shot of the street showed crowds behind yellow tape. “I don’t want nothing to do wit’ that.”

  “Yeah, you right. You tell ‘em who shot that nigga and you’ll be in the news and jokers will be calling you for interviews and stuff.”

  “I ain’t a rat,” she said.

  The reporter wrapped up his report by announcing, “There is a reward of up to $50,000 for information leading to the arrest…”

  Candace had stubbed her cigarette and was walking toward the phone before the guy could finish the sentence. Big Marcus was right behind her screaming, “Tell ‘em everything you know!”

  “I am.”

  * * * * *

  Aiden figured Blinds as a shifty sort the first time he interviewed him. He wasn’t surprised to find out the man was a smuggler. He knew Blinds would do anything to get out of trouble. He didn’t have a plan when he started calling the man’s phone number. In fact, Aiden didn’t know if Blinds was aware that he was the real target or if he was still walking around clueless.

 
When Blinds answered, Aiden asked if they could talk. He was surprised when he readily agreed. “Yeah. When?”

  “Now. Where are you?”

  “At church.”

  “I can meet you there.”

  “I don’t want anyone seeing me talking to a cop,” he said. “Not even church folk.”

  “You know the back room of Ben’s Chili Bowl?”

  “Are you serious? It’s gotta be somewhere people from my neighborhood won't see me.”

  “Dupont Circle?”

  “The gay area?”

  “Do they know you down there?”

  “Hell no. Nobody.”

  “Ok, I’ll meet you at the Front Page Restaurant at noon.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Right across the street from the Metro.”

  “Good, because I don’t want to be just walking around by myself down there.”

  Aiden took Detective Taylor to meet with Maurice “Blinds” Coles. They saw Blinds pacing in front of the restaurant as soon as they pulled up. “Does he know he was the target?” Det. Taylor asked.

  “I don’t know what he knows.”

  When the smuggler saw the detectives approaching he stubbed his cigarette at the door.

  “Mr. Coles,” Aiden said. He offered a smile and a handshake and Blinds felt unnerved. “You know my partner, right?”

  He nodded to the woman. “Thanks for meeting me,” Blinds said.

  “Oh, no. Thank you,” Aiden said.

  “Interesting place,” Taylor said.

  “I aint gay,” Blinds said.

  Taylor held both hands in the air and smiled. “That’s not my business,” she said.

  “I won’t hold you long. I’m sure you have things to do…” Aiden said.

  “Well, I was hoping we could talk a bit,” Blinds said.

  “Whats up?”

  “Well, you know, I seen everything up close, right” Blinds said.

  “Uh huh.”

  “And you asked me if I knew the dude and I said ‘“nah”’ ... because it was other people around and I ain’t want to look like a snitch, you know.” Blinds looked at Taylor. He shifted his weight, lowered his voice, and said, “But I got a problem. I …I mean, I got a pending charge.”