Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  A White couple walked a dog down the sidewalk. Fats looked at the owner holding a scooper and a plastic bag and wondered if the pet and master had role reversal. He was about to skip down the steps, but he didn’t want to scare the White folks. He stopped and straightened a runway light until they passed before heading across the street.

  He had changed into a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. He wore gray New Balance running shoes and a broad smile. Mrs. James pretended to be surprised to see him. “Oh, hello Mr. Harrington.”

  ‘Hi, Mrs, Jam--”

  A tinted, black Tahoe truck sped toward him. He froze. The truck swerved to avoid him and slammed on brakes. Fats was livid. “What the--”

  The driver jumped out of the driver’s side and pointed a black handgun at Fats’s face. Fats put his hands up slowly. “Don’t shoot. I have kids,” he said. Mrs. James put her hands in the air too.

  “Don’t rape me,” she said.

  Fats stared at the barrel of the pistol. “Blinds don’t do nothing stupid.”

  “Nigga, get in the back of the truck.”

  Fats opened the driver’s side back seat passenger door and started to climb in. Blinds smacked him in the back of the head with the pistol’s butt. Fats blacked out.

  * * * * *

  Deputy Chief Gillespie was pulling away from the curb when Detective Brooks called him. “Chief, I got something. I’ve been trying to reach Detectives Aiden and Taylor but couldn’t.”

  “They were in a briefing with me just now. Try to call one of them now.”

  “Well, I just came from Knuckles Gym and, well Chief, I found out Six Hands owns a piece of that barbershop. I think it’s a front for Fats Harrington’s drug operation and I think Moochie Grant was in on the murder.”

  “Why don’t you tell the lead investigator your theories?” Gillespie was on Connecticut Avenue. He was taking the tunnel under DuPont Circle and heading uptown. It was a few days before spring but young people were out already. He was thinking, these kids drink a lot of coffee. It’s a coffee shop on every--.

  “Because I don’t think he wants to solve the case.”

  Gillespie rolled his eyes. “Exactly, what are you talking about?”

  “Chief, I think Det. Aiden is tanking the case.”

  “Of course you do, Brooks.”

  “No, I mean, on purpose.”

  Gillespie pulled the car over. “Why would you say something like that?”

  “First, you remember, he didn’t want me to interview Fats Harrington, right?”

  “Right.” Gillespie looks over and notices a sex toy store sandwiched between a bookstore and a high-end hair salon.

  “Then, after I question Harrington I get in trouble with City Hall.”

  “So what? Detective, you’re throwing around some wild accusations without any proof.” Gillespie pulled back onto Connecticut Avenue.

  “No proof? Ok, he says, a homeless person identified the shooter. Did anyone else see this so-called witness? Nobody right?”

  “Eh…” GIllespie stopped at a light and watched joggers, young moms with nice figures pushing strollers, people playing checkers in the park, a fountain shooting water, and couples crossing the street holding hands. When the light changed he continued up the avenue peering over at one swanky restaurant after the other.

  “Then I see him at Fats Harrington’s nightclub doing what? Receiving a bag of something… looked like cash. He gets a bag of cash and then the person he ID'd ends up dead an hour later. This shit ain’t adding up, Chief. Your boy is dirty.”

  “Slow down, detective. I’ve known Christopher Aiden since he was a cadet.” Traffic stalled Gillespie at another light and he gazed up at a five-star hotel. His eyes came back down to the doorman standing outside on the ground.

  “Chief, he has a low clearance rate and he drives luxury sports cars. How?!”

  “Detective, I’m on a street that was a part of Pierre L’Enfant’s original design. This street was here when there were only thirteen states.”

  “Oh.”

  “I wonder what would’ve happened if Benjamin Banneker broke chain-of-command and called up ol’ George Washington and snitched on somebody.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, sir.”

  Gillespie hung up. Then he called Internal Affairs.

  * * * * *

  When Fats woke up, his hands were handcuffed behind his back in the backseat of a minivan. He saw Blinds driving and remembered being hit. They were on Benning Road passing the Langston Golf Course. It was a sunny day, so the driving range was full of old Black men whacking away their pain on the public course.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Blinds looked at him through the rearview mirror but ignored him. Fats looked down at the handcuffs that were too tight on his wrist. They were from a sex store in DuPont Circle. “So you want more money, right?”

  Blinds dragged on his cigarette and blew out of the crack in the window. A Metro train flew over the overpass. “That’s what you want, right?” Fats continued. “How much you want?”

  Blinds turned the music up.

  “This is what I get for trying to help a bum,” Fats said.

  “Help? Nigga, you use people,” Blinds said. “How was you helping me?”

  “I tried to put some bread in your pocket. It’s not my fault you fucked up.”

  “You’re a smuggler. You got caught doing the easiest job in the game and now I'm handcuffed because you made mistakes.”

  “I made mistakes? Nigga, if your hot ass wasn’t there, I never would’ve had a connecting flight or an alias name on the ticket. All of your scared nigga shit got me caught! On top of that, you were never gonna make shit right with me. You were never gonna take care of my family--”

  “I don’t owe you a pension, nigga!” Fats said. “You fucked up a job. That’s it. I don't owe you anything!”

  “Well, I owe you,” Blinds said. “And today, your skinny ass is gonna pay.”

  “You’re a fool,” Fats said.

  “I know that’s what you think,”

  “You already cost me fifty stacks! Then I let you live. And this is how you repay me?”

  “Let me live? Let me live? Nigga! You sent that young boy in the barbershop to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, when I was at the vigil I looked around and wondered how did this nigga know Six Hands was in the barbershop. It's no way to see inside from the street. When I played it back in my head I remember Moochie making a phone call and giving dude the drop on me. Motherfucker, I got lucky by Six Hands pulling up and eating those slugs for me.”

  Fats closed his eyes.

  “Don’t worry. Ima get Moochie’s bitch ass, too.”

  Blinds pulled into the alley behind Moochie’s Barbershop. He parked in a spot next to a dumpster. He killed the engine, got out, looked around, opened the backdoor and stuck a .45 in Fats’s ribs.

  “Ouch.”

  “It's gon’ hurt more if I have to shoot you,” Blinds said. “Get out.”

  Blinds walked to the back door of Moochie’s and unlocked it. He held the door open for Fats.

  “Come on, get in here.”

  Fats complied. In the back room of the barbershop were two pedicure spa chairs. There were two small tables with folding chairs on either side. The walls were covered with posters showing different staples and colors of nail polish designs. Blinds pushed Fats past all of that. They walked down the hall past the restrooms into the room where the shooting took place the day before.

  Fats stood with his hands cuffed behind his back wearing a smug scowl on his face. “You still think you’re better than me, don’t you?” Blinds said.

  “Why are we here?”

  Blinds shot him. The bullet crushed Fats left pec and he fell to the ground immediately. He squirmed on the ground and fought against the handcuffs. Blinds slowly put on black latex gloves. Blinds tucked the revolver in his pocket.

  Chapter 19: The Word

 
; T he unsolved murder of local hero William “Six Hands” Johnson was the lead story of the midday news report for the second day in a row. It was 3pm Sunday and there were no fictional soap operas on Weekends. The news was broadcasting the city’s real-life drama. The anchor’s used their solemn voices and acted as if the city had lost a neighborhood. They sent viewers to the scene of the crime where a young reporter was broadcasting live. The police were gone, and the ambulance had removed the body, but drivers were still slowing down to stare when they passed.

  Tammy Turner had recently graduated from a Big Ten school and was pretty enough to get a job at a news station in a major city. She hated it. Her dream was to be an actress. Unable to act, sing, dance on beat, or tell jokes, her only way of getting on television was as a reporter. While she had little empathy for others and no passion for journalism, being nosey and confident made her excellent at the job. Tammy was known for going into stories clueless and then getting a great story.

  As soon as she was given her cue she launched. “Yes, Doreen, I am outside of Moochie and Whitey’s Barbershop on Georgia Avenue. Yesterday, this community sanctuary, normally a lounge for elderly men and a clubhouse for young boys, was turned into a shooting gallery as a brazen thug barged into the shop, shot and killed a local legend.

  “William ‘Six Hands’ Johnson was more than the WBO middleweight champion. He was a pillar of his community and a brother to everyone here. This morning a community is heartbroken.”

  Blinds shook his head.

  “Standing with me is the owner of the shop and DC native, Marlon ‘Moochie’ Grant. He was in the shop when the ambush attack was perpetrated. Mr. Moochie, can you tell us what Six Hands Johnson meant to this neighborhood?”

  “He was a good dude,” Moochie said.

  “Do you know anyone who could have done this?”

  “Sure, plenty of people didn’t like him.”

  Tammy couldn’t hide her shock.

  “I mean, some people was jealous,” Moochie said. “It could've been anybody really.”

  “Are you speaking in general? Or do you actually know individuals who would do this?”

  “I know people who wanted him dead. But I ain’t no snitch. We don’t snitch in this neighborhood.”

  “I’m confused,” Tammy stuttered. “You know suspects who had a motive to kill this man and you’re not telling police?”

  “That’s not my job.”

  “But, it happened in your shop.”

  “I know. Shit, I was standing there. What’s your point?”

  “You don’t want the people responsible for shooting up your shop held accountable?”

  “Sure, but that don’t have nothing to do with me snitching.”

  “I... ok, thank you. Here’s another gentleman looking at the memorial over here. Let’s get some, excuse me, sir, hi, I see you left a candle. Were you a fan of Six Hands Johnson?”

  It was Billy the Bum. “No, I didn’t know him. It’s a terrible way to go.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “My heart goes out to his family and his fans. I couldn’t watch his fights because I don't have cable. Or a television. But he must’ve been good and I see he meant a lot to a lot of people. I’m sorry for him. That's why I bought that candle with my last dollar.”

  “Bless your heart.’

  “Can you help me get something to eat?”

  “Uh…”

  “Maybe some of your viewers can. If anyone out there wants to help a brother out, you can Cash App me at $billydabum.” I have a phone and a bank account and I am drug-free.”

  “Ok, thank you, Billy,” Tammy said. She tried to move away but the cameraman did a double take when he noticed Billy opening his coat to show a custom-made T-shirt that read, $billydabum.” Billy was showing his flip phone and bank card.

  “Everything helps,” he said.

  Moochie walked away. Tammy kept interviewing strangers who came to pay their respects. It was early Sunday morning but the incident had brought enough onlookers that Billy had a crowd to work. He went from one sympathizer to the next trying to see how far their compassion would reach.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Moochie noticed the guy with the glasses watching from the alley across the street. He noticed him blend into the crowd as Moochie approached.

  Moochie turned toward his shop and walked into the alley unnoticed. He passed the garbage dumpsters and junk furniture on his way to the back of the barbershop. He rounded the corner and walked past the van parked behind his shop. He stopped and thought about it for a second but figured it was a friend of Latifah’s from the World Pawn Shop who had parked in the wrong space.

  The police had yellow tape crossing the front of the store but nothing in the back alley. They asked Moochie and Whitey to stay out of the shop until they had completed the investigation, but Moochie wanted to see the damage to his future. He used his good hand to unlock the back door and walked in.

  He was back in the ladies’ salon. He walked down the hall past the restroom. He turned on the light and saw Fats slumped over in the corner. He saw Blinds sitting next to him with a pistol trained on him. “Don’t shoot,” Moochie said as he raised his hands and showed his palms.

  “You set me up, Moochie.”

  “I saved your life.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I was in debt, ok. You know, this used to be the hood. Gentrification and shit--”

  “Get to the point, nigga. Ain’t no white people have nothin’ to do with this.”

  “Nah, white people bought up all of the cheap storefronts and turned ‘em into yoga studios and organic grocery stores and shit. That raised my rent through the roof.”

  “You got ten seconds.”

  “So, I owed Six Hands and I owed everybody else. I gave Fats ten grand for a brick of coke. He said I could owe him the other twenty. A week later, he says there’s no coke, and ‘we gotta kill Blinds’. I didn’t see how killing you was gonna fix my problem with Six Hands. So, I switched you with Six Hands. Fuck him.

  Moochie felt the shot at the same time he heard the blast. He grabbed his gut. He looked at the wound and saw his good hand was covered in bright red blood. His left hand was still at his side, useless. The wound was gaping. “You ungrateful mother--”

  Then, a second shot. His body collapsed. Everything went black.

  Blinds wiped the pistol and placed it in Fats’s hand. He stood. Then, with a handkerchief, he pulled a .357 snub nose revolver out of his pocket and put it in Moochie’s hand. He carefully walked out of the back, got in the van, drove down the alley and made a left onto the street.

  At the opposite end of the alley, Billy mouthed the letters and numbers of the license plate to himself as he fished through his pockets. He pulled Aiden’s business card out of his right pocket and his cell phone out of his left pocket.

  * * * * *

  After brunch, Aiden had gotten a call from his star witness, the not-so-homeless man Billy, and he was off with his new confidential informant. Detective Melissa Taylor was at the 4th District Precinct preparing to type up Candace Holmes’s witness statement. She crossed her fingers and prayed before calling. If Candace backed out, they would have no choice but to make a deal with a drug smuggler.

  “Hey, Candace,” she said. She tried to sound like a girlfriend. “I know you said you don't want to come to the station, so I typed up your statement. I can bring it to you now to sign--”

  “Nah, don’t come to my apartment,” she said.

  “Ok, where do you want to meet?”

  “I dunno. I don't want to be seen talking to no police people.”

  “I understand, but you want the reward, right?”

  “How much is it, again?”

  “Fifty thousand dollars. Could you use fifty grand right now?”

  “Hell yeah, but I don't want to die tryna get it.”

  “Has anyone threatened you?”

  “Nah, I just...seeing that up close was...I dunno, it c
hanged me.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “The gun was so loud. It sounded like a cannon. And I was standing right beside the guy. I still got his blood on my clothes.”

  “That’s good. I need those clothes as evidence. Look, I know the perfect place for us to meet.”

  “I’m listening.”

  Detective Taylor explained her thoughts and Candace agreed. Taylor packed the affidavit in a folder, made another phone call, grabbed her suit coat and left the precinct.

  Taylor got in her personal vehicle and pulled out onto Georgia Avenue heading downtown. Blinds let her get a block away before he pulled his car off of the curb and started following her.

  * * * * *

  He knew who the other witness was as soon as the detectives left the restaurant. He knew Moochie was afraid to rat and the other barber, Whitey, was a solid street dude. The no-names were clueless, but the girl with the son seemed like she wanted to be involved. She didn’t haul ass after the shooting like some of the men who were sitting there. She was a witness to the murder of a celebrity. She just couldn’t mind her business. He remembered the girl standing with Detective Taylor on the sidewalk. He remembered the detective handing her a business card. For a second, he wondered if the girl could be scared into silence. The next second, he decided she had to be killed.

  The detective made a left off of Georgia Avenue and entered the campus of Howard University. Blinds stayed four cars behind her. She passed WHUR and then the School of Dentistry. She passed the School of Communications and made another left turn on 4th Street. She drove up the hill and parked in front of the Harriet Tubman Triangle. Blinds parked at the bottom of the hill.

  He watched the detective cross the street and go onto the campus’s “yard,”, or, as Howard students call it, “the Quad.”. Blinds pulled a .38 out of the glovebox, exited the car, and pocketed the pistol as casually as a kid putting candy in his pants before school.

  He walked briskly up the hill. He wanted to catch up with Taylor without attracting attention. Students were going in and out of the girls’ dormitories. He laughed to himself at these bougie Blacks who lived in a sheltered environment safe from DC hoodlums, unaware of the city’s gentrification and enjoying four years of education and free sex. They all looked like little models.