Shakedown on Hate St

by Matthew Copes

  “Maybe once they get the genocide thing cleared up we can go to Angkor Wat,” I said, but my distasteful attempt at humor missed the mark.

  I told her I wanted to peruse the fiction section, and proposed a little game.

  “You're Sherlock Holmes,” I said. “Use his methods to deduce the kinds of books I like.”

  She squinted, puckered her lips and cradled her chin. “OK, let's see. What kind of man are you? Hmm. You're organized and goal-oriented. Traditional but trendy. Sincere but a smartass. And gentle but masculine.” She deliberated. “Business, economics, and self-help are you genres of choice. So Dr. Watson, how'd I do?”

  “You're gorgeous and I love you,” I said, “but don’t quit your day job. I like the classics. Hemmingway, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck...”

  “Excuse me sir. May I have a word?” asked a short, pear-shaped, bald man who'd appeared behind me. He was David Ordley, Store Manager. Said so on his name tag.

  “Sure,” I said. I figured Soul had damaged a book and he wanted to bring it to my attention. He stood uncomfortably but didn't continue.

  “Whenever you're ready,” I said.

  “I'm sorry. I meant a word in private.”

  It was then that I realized that La Lena and I were holding hands.

  “Why don't you go find Soul and I'll be over in a minute.”

  “OK Dutch,” she said obediently.

  “Problem?” I asked.

  Ordley's face turned rare-steak-red, and he waffled between no problem and a small one before finally spitting it out. The problem was La Lena and I were holding hands. More specifically, that she was black, I was white, and we were holding hands. He said it made the other customers uncomfortable, but I knew it made him uncomfortable and he was just too much of a pussy to admit it, and I told him so.

  “Please sir. Let's not make a scene,” he said.

  “The only scene I wanted to see today was a cute little girl looking at books, and if she wasn't looking at us right now I'd knock your teeth down your throat. Now smile and shake my hand like everything's fine or I'll do it.”

  He pumped my hand mechanically and grimaced at La Lena and Soul like I’d just smacked him. I left him standing there with his sweaty shirt and red face and walked over to see what Soul had found.

  “Momma says I can only get one,” she said, holding up a shiny new book in each hand. The girl’s brown eyes had a way of melting my heart like Velveeta in a pressure cooker.

  “I don't think she'd mind if you got two,” I said. “Let’s see what you have.”

  The Big Book of Things, and A Children's Guide to American Presidents.

  “Two great choices,” I said. “Let's go pay for them and hit the road.” Giving Ordley my business left a nasty taste in my mouth, but it beat the hell out of Soul going home empty handed.

  Walking to the car I thought about what'd happened. About what a self-righteous prick I'd been. Who was I to judge David Ordley? He'd definitely been in the wrong, but at least he'd been professional and discreet. I thought about the incident at the restaurant with the guys from the office. About that black cop too. Compared to me David Ordley was a titan of restraint and morality.

  36

  AT FIVE-THIRTY I WAS reclining on the sofa watching the evening news and dwelling on my situation. I had two people in my life who brought me a lot of joy, but overall my impression of the world was still shit. Race riots in Chicago and LA. Mafia assassins on trial in New York. Car bombs in the Middle East. Famine in Africa. Genocide in Cambodia. Paranoid dictators butchering thousands in South America.

  I'd like to buy the world a Coke...

  My television was becoming a source of angst I could do without, but La Lena’s knock jolted a little happiness and optimism into my dark mood. I opened the door and must've gone in for a routine nice to see you hug, but her arms were around me and her lips were on mine before I knew what hit me. She pushed me toward the living room, stripping off her clothes as we went. I followed her lead and by the time we made it to the sofa we were both nearly naked. She threw me down and climbed on top. We didn’t make love, we fucked, and it was amazing. Rough, passionate, and explosive. When it was over she eased forward and rested her head on my chest.

  “Sounds like somebody's hungry,” she said, referring to the gastric juices gurgling in my stomach.

  Earlier I'd remembered I was on-deck for dinner, but my fridge was empty and my culinary motivation was in the toilet. The last few times we'd eaten out I'd picked the places. Dominic's and pizza.

  “Starving,” I said, “but tonight’s your choice.”

  She said she’d been craving barbecue and knew just the place if I was game. I told her I was, but suggested a co-ed shower first. As we made our way to the bathroom we picked up the clothes we’d strewn so haphazardly, and once inside the frosted glass shower I manipulated the knobs until the water was pleasantly hot. When La Lena slipped by me her firm bronze breasts brushed my arm, arousing me more than I would've thought possible after what we’d just experienced. We explored each other’s mouths with our tongues while my hands instinctively made their way to her ass and breasts. When it became too much to bear I spun her around roughly, and on cue she raised her backside slowly allowing me to enter her from behind.

  After round two we finished showering and dressed, and I was in such an idyllic stupor that I decided to let her take the helm. She drove the Jeep, and I eased the seat back, smoked a cigarette, and enjoyed Van Halen's Everybody Wants Some, which was drifting from the speakers just audibly.

  At the restaurant I asked La Lena to order for me like I'd done for her at Dominic's. The girl knew her barbecue, and in 20 minutes we were staring at a rack of Kansas City style ribs, corn on the cob, coleslaw, and hush puppies.

  The tables were covered in long sheets of thick, brown paper to make cleanup easy, and Johnny Lee was Lookin' for Love on the jukebox. The place had a nice, family atmosphere, and I felt guilty that Soul wasn't with us. But it wasn't just guilt, I missed her.

  “Know what I'm thinking?” I asked.

  “Yup. I'm thinking the same thing,” she said.

  “Next time let's bring her,” I said. “Even if it means she gets to bed a little late on a school night. What's it matter? It's not like they're splitting the atom in second grade.”

  “Deal,” she said.

  “Something occurred to me this morning,” I said. “Before you told me if I disappeared the organization wouldn't come after me, right?” It still felt strange calling it the organization. Like George Peppard auditioning for a B-grade movie.

  “It was just a guess. But no, I don't think they would. They don't have that kind of reach.”

  “What if you and Soul disappeared? You told me you were fascinated by exotic places. What if you two went to live in Arizona, Brazil, or Thailand?”

  “There's a big difference Dutch. You don't have any family. I've got a grandmother, aunts, uncles, nieces and nephews. They wouldn't think twice about harming them, trust me. I can't put them in danger because of the stupid choices I've made.”

  She was right. I hadn't thought about her family.

  On the way home we stopped at a convenience store and I waited in the car while she ran inside.

  “What'd you get?” I asked.

  “Just some girly stuff, some dessert, and this,” she held up a shiny magazine. “A few of the small indulgences I allow myself. Candy bars and travel magazines.”

  “What's for dessert?” I asked.

  “Snickers and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups,” she said.

  “You know you have to put the Snickers in the freezer for at least an hour before you eat it, right? It's the law.”

  “No, I didn't know that law had passed. Thanks for the heads-up.”

  Back at my place we stretched out on the bed and the travel magazine sucked her in. She semi-forgot about me, but I didn't mind. I was just enjoying her presence. Every now and then she'd reach over and insert a chunk of chocolate int
o my mouth, and she pointed out a few breathtaking photographs too. Night time at the Great Wall. Machu Picchu enveloped in clouds. A picturesque diner in Williams, Arizona just a stone's throw from the Grand Canyon. I found it curious that she lingered on the pictures of Arizona more than the other two.

  “Look how beautiful it is,” she said. She had a point. It looked quaint and appealing. “It's perfect. Near one of the world's natural wonders, all four magnificent seasons, and right here in the USA so we wouldn't have to learn a new language.”

  Her wheels were turning.

  37

  THE BAR WHERE GINO and I were meeting was below street level and depressing as hell. Rusty metal stairs led down a moldy breezeway to a tomb-like door obscured by shadows. I had the sense that everything foul in the city washed down the stairwell each night where it collected in oily pools and increased in potency. The inside wasn't any better. Dark and smoky. Only a few dim strands of ugly light poked through the tiny windows near the ceiling. The main illumination came from the electric signs behind the bar. Black Label. Rolling Rock. National Bohemian. A mysterious funk lingered too, like the brown leafy sludge that collects in clogged storm drains. It was a good place to stop for a few drinks before you went home and hung yourself.

  Gino couldn't have looked any more out of place if he tried. Like a Swiss diplomat at a tractor-pull. This time the meeting had been his idea, and I was pretty sure that by the time I left I'd know whether he was in or out. I was treading lightly, but the whole thing had me on edge. I'd given him a lot to think about the last time we met. I'd hammered his heartstrings and walked away feeling like I'd tied things together pretty well.

  They say time heals all wounds, but that's bullshit. Sometimes it infects them. I was about to find out how time had treated Gino.

  “Not the kind of place I'd expect to find you,” I said.

  “I spend more time here than at home,” he said. “I can't be in that apartment. Too many memories. It may sound crazy, but I can still smell Veronica. I’m always expecting her to walk around the corner.”

  “Why not get a new apartment? Maybe see a shrink?”

  He said shrinks were quacks and a new apartment was out of the question, so I switched gears and asked if he was a football or baseball fan. He wasn't. Fisherman? Artist? Reader? Nope. Nope. Nope.

  “I'm in,” he said, after an awkward lull.

  I scrambled for an appropriate response, remembering something I'd learned in a sales training seminar years ago. The idea was that if you push someone in one direction, their natural response is to go the other way. To resist. So if you push them in the opposite direction you want them to go, they'll naturally move toward you, which is where you wanted them to go all along.

  “Gino, you're a good friend,” I said. “I can think of a million reasons why you shouldn't.”

  “There's no way what happened to Veronica and Alan is a coincidence,” he said. “Not that we could ever prove it, but there's a connection there somewhere. When Veronica called me from jail it was difficult to hear her. She was sobbing and we had a shitty connection, but I caught enough to know what she was trying to say. One thing I heard clearly was setup. A few days later there was an article in the paper with a big photo. The trooper and police chief were standing by the Cadillac’s open trunk grinning like hyenas, but the caption said there were only a few bricks of pot and even less heroin. Like less than 20 pounds altogether. Not exactly the bust of the century. If that trunk had been full it would've been a hell of a lot more.”

  I was hanging on Gino’s every word, and the more he spoke the more I began to believe that my conspiratorial mind was onto something.

  “And even if there's no connection between her and Stein,” he continued, “he's still a crooked piece of shit. He could've helped. If he had things could've been different. He deserves what he's got coming. The world will be a better place without him. I'm happy to have this thing to do. It gives me something to live for. When it's over I'll have nothing. I'm tired. Life's a motherfucker. What can you do?”

  Couldn't argue with that, and since maintaining momentum was imperative I told Gino we’d be using a bomb. When he ran his meaty hands over his slick black hair I noticed that he had more diamond rings than Liberace and Elton John combined.

  We spent the next hour discussing details and devising a rudimentary plan, and on the way home I sifted through every word of our conversation, wondering how likely we were to succeed. And by succeed I meant doing what we had to do and getting away. 50 percent? 30 percent? Probably lower. Maybe more like 10. You never saw guys who assassinated public officials doing interviews for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous from beachside villas in Acapulco. I guessed you usually ended up blown to bits, gunned down in an alley, or spent the rest of your life doing pushups in solitary confinement until you went insane.

  38

  CALL IT A HUNCH OR a sixth sense, but whatever it was I’d been questioning La Lena’s motives all day. Maybe I just had too much free time on my hands. Maybe the stress and uncertainty had finally reached unmanageable levels.

  At four o’clock I loaded my binoculars, sandwiches, and sodas into the Jeep and drove across town to Cherry Hill. By the time I got there the winter sun was already partially obscured behind the horizon, and I parked a block down from the dry cleaners on the opposite side of the street. Though the fading light wasn’t helping, from my vantage point I could see the shop’s entrance clearly. I hoped La Lena wouldn’t look my way and spot the Jeep before heading home, but all I could do was wait and hope.

  At five-thirty the lights went out and she and another woman emerged, locked up together then headed in opposite directions.

  I cranked the V-8 and pulled onto the street, careful to keep her in my sight without alerting her to my presence. She followed the same route we had the night I had dinner at her place, and when she disappeared inside her building I settled in for a long night.

  I was sure pretty sure her building had a back door, but I was banking on the fact that it’d be locked at night, and that if she left she’d come out the front.

  For hours I sat there eating and smoking, determined to stay at least until midnight. I figured if I didn’t see her by then it meant she was in for good. Turns out I didn’t have to wait that long, because just after eight she emerged, lit a cigarette, and looked in both directions multiple times. Then headlights appeared in the rearview mirror and a canary yellow cab passed at just more than idle speed. About 40 yards down it pulled to the curb, and like I suspected she would, La Lena got in.

  The traffic was light so following the cab wasn’t a problem. Eventually in a shitty ghetto neighborhood by the ballpark it stopped in front of a row-house that looked like it was well past its date with the wrecking ball.

  I killed the lights and drifted to the curb, then slid to the passenger side, rolled down the window, and gazed through the binoculars. When the cab drove away she scoped the terrain tentatively before walking up to the house.

  There was a slight commotion on the porch that I couldn’t make out, then a window parted, and a handsome young black man’s face appeared before the door opened and she slipped inside.

  On the way home I stopped at a payphone and called La Lena’s apartment. Her grandmother picked up on the third ring.

  “La Lena there?” I asked.

  “If this is Dutch, she said she’d be with you.”

  39

  BEFORE CLIMBING THE short flight of warped stairs, La Lena gazed at the rows of dreary and nearly identical homes that vanished mundanely into the darkness. Dim orbs of light escaped through their grimy windows, and she knew in each of them lost souls sat motionless on worn sofas staring blankly into the most efficient brain killing machine in the history of civilization.

  It'd been ages since she'd been there, but the house hadn't changed. Plain and shabby brick. Chipped paint flaking from brittle shutters. The city was littered with them. The Dismal Family. 123 Despair Way.


  A cloudy yellow bulb hung from the porch ceiling, and as she neared the door a cat that had been under a patio chair made a break, its claws scratching but finding little traction on the bone-dry wood. She was already tense and edgy, and when it careened around the corner nearly knocking over a trash can she jumped. Then the threadbare curtain to her right parted, and Jeff leered at her briefly before opening the door just wide enough for her to squeeze through.

  The coffee table was strewn with the same malt-liquor bottles, ashtrays, and rolling papers she remembered from nearly a decade ago, and a pretty young girl lay slumped in a corner of the ugly blue and white sofa. La Lena wanted to shake her, scream – Run for your life, and don’t look back! The poor thing had probably fallen for Jefferson’s tired old lines just like she had. Romantic Jefferson. The Negro Robin Hood. Taking from whitey and giving to his downtrodden brothers and sisters. Fighting the good fight and saving the world, one bong-hit at a time.

  “Maid’s day off?” she asked.

  He jerked his head toward the dark hallway that led to the back of the house. They walked through the cramped kitchen and descended the stairs into the perpetually damp and musty basement. The same basement where they'd taken Dutch. A vision of him bewildered and beaten flashed vividly. He'd looked pretty bad that day. They'd worked him over good, but he'd been defiant. Scared, but never letting it show. Strong emotions welled within her. Pride and love. She smiled when she remembered Carl's brutally broken nose.

  Along the walls long plywood work benches held the tools and materials needed to make bombs. There they'd sit, cutting, soldering, drilling, packing and wiring. It wasn't rocket science. The difficult part was not killing yourself in the process. Years ago they'd perfected a safe and effective design. Potent, compact and reliable. An eight inch section of steel pipe threaded on both ends, two heavy-duty caps, and a modest amount of black powder was all it took. With one cap screwed down tightly, the hollow tube was packed with black powder. Even match heads could be used in a pinch. It was all simple physics. Even low pressure explosives are capable of creating a devastating blast when their outward pressure exceeded the pipe's ability to contain it. The expansion caused the pipe to fragment, violently spewing shrapnel in all directions. For an added kick, ball-bearings, screws and bits of scrap metal could be duct-taped to the outside.