by Bill Stanton
Only hours earlier, Oz had pulled off what he believed was a perfect crime, tying up three loose ends with one knot—Ayad, Andrea, and Mary. Now it was time to take care of his last piece of business. Oz had done his homework. He was familiar with Supreme’s club antics and he had come prepared. He’d slipped the doorman a $100 bill to get into Roxx, he’d dressed the part, and he had a pretty good idea about when he wanted to take care of business.
Oz had come to Roxx not long after shooting Andrea Jafaari, taking just enough time to go home, change clothes, and put on his wig. He could have hired someone else for this job, but that always had the potential to get messy, no matter how meticulous the preparation, and then he’d have another loose end to eliminate. Too bad, because in this case it would’ve been particularly easy, and cheap, to hire someone. There was no shortage of jealous guys from the neighborhood who would’ve been willing to smoke Supreme just for the fun of it. And the cops would’ve happily classified it as another rap music feud. In the end, however, Oz had decided, as he always did, to handle the matter himself.
• • •
Bishop couldn’t believe what he was watching. About half an hour after Supreme had settled in with Lucy in the VIP area, the rapper everyone had been waiting to see, TnT—“Tuff ’n’ Tuffer,” he growled—took the stage. After one song, Supreme decided to crank things up. “Watch this,” he said to Lucy as he got up and motioned to two of his assistants. They brought over two Hermes bags, stuffed with thousands of dollars in fives, tens, and twenties. “Okay, yo,” Supreme said to his guys, “it’s time to make it rain.” Smiling now, Supreme and the two men all reached into the bags, grabbed handfuls of cash, and began throwing them out over the crowd on the dance floor. They repeated this several times and it quickly looked like it was raining money.
“What’re you doing?” Lucy asked, stunned.
“Just makin’ the people happy, girl, just givin’ ’em what they want. You think all these people rolled up tonight just to hear TnT? And all those people outside huggin’ the block, waitin’ for hours and hopin’ to get in? Shit, they came ’cause they knew this would get crazy. They knew I’d make it rain, and who knows what other shit might go down?”
“But how much money can anybody actually get?” she asked.
“Girl, you missin’ the point. It’s not about the money. It’s about the show, it’s about the craziness. It’s about bein’ part of some shit nobody else is part of. That’s why they come.”
“And why do you do it?” Lucy shouted into Supreme’s ear so she’d be heard over TnT, who’d started performing again.
“That’s easy. ’Cause it brings ’em out. Wherever I go now, they expect all this. It creates major attention for my artists. Believe me, pretty girl, I more than get my money’s worth. It’s cheap but effective promotion.”
“Are you finished, or do you do it again?”
“It’s definitely gonna rain again.”
“Can I help?” Lucy asked, excited now.
Supreme laughed. Lucy liked when he laughed; he had a nice smile and it made him look like an innocent young boy. “Pretty girl, get ready to rock the house. But when we done here, tell A. J. the clock is ticking. I need to see him.”
“Absolutely. First thing tomorrow.”
With that, Supreme motioned to his people again to bring back the money.
• • •
Oz had just come out of the men’s room wearing latex gloves, and he began to work his way across the dance floor. Even though he was aware that he couldn’t be identified by his prints—they’d been altered years ago, along with several of his features—he felt he could never be too careful. The dance floor was packed with nearly two thousand hot, sweaty people jumping up and down and screaming. Oz just kept moving forward, pushing and shoving whenever he needed to. As he got closer to the VIP area, he reached into his waistband and pulled out the Glock. He held it low at his side, along his thigh. Getting spotted was a nonissue. In this crowd, he felt like he could’ve been carrying a rocket-propelled-grenade launcher on his shoulder and no one would’ve given him a look. And Supreme, dressed in all white, was the perfect target.
His bling didn’t just make him more visible; the “piece” around his neck was like a big bull’s-eye. A piece in the hip-hop world was that singular emblem that represented who you were. It was the symbol of your success and your empire. Jay Z had a “Roc” piece, after his company Roc-A-Fella; 50 Cent had a “G-Unit” piece. Supreme’s piece, a sparkling medallion of white gold and colored diamonds that said, “Black Ice,” was so blindingly bright it looked like it had its own light source. He’d had it custom-made for $500,000. Pieces were also phallic; they were a visible representation, in precious stones and metal, of the wearer’s manhood. They were usually worn on a thick chain and hung in the center of the body. The greatest affront in the rap world was to steal somebody’s piece. But to take it, you had to be man enough—or crazy enough—to rip it off someone’s neck. Oz couldn’t have cared less about hip-hop rituals, but he thought he’d give Supreme’s piece to Brock.
Supreme turned to Lucy and asked, “Ready?”
“You bet.”
“Then let’s do it. But not till I give you the signal.” At this point, all he had to do was stand up and the crowd surged toward him. Just for fun, he did this twice without making it rain. Finally, he dug into the Hermes bag and pulled out a huge wad of bills. As he raised his arms to let the money go, Oz lifted the hand holding the Glock nine-millimeter, loosening his grip slowly as he squeezed the trigger.
Supreme let the money fly and it floated down on the crowd like a torrent of leaves on a windy fall day. Just as the hammer hit the primer of the nine-millimeter round, Oz was bumped from behind in the wild orgy of hands and elbows and limbs. The bullet hit Supreme’s bodyguard in the mouth showering blood, shattered teeth, and tissue all over Supreme’s immaculate white suit. At first, no one seemed to notice what had happened. Or maybe they didn’t care. But the next three shots got everyone’s attention. Now there was a different kind of hysteria.
• • •
At first Bishop wasn’t sure what he’d seen. He barely realized that shots had been fired—they sounded like muffled firecrackers in the din of the blaring music and the screams over the money. But as soon as he saw the blood splatter, he knew. To his credit, Bishop thought, Supreme reacted quickly, grabbing Lucy by the wrist and pulling her along with him as he ran.
• • •
After the fourth round Oz knew he had to go. All four shots had missed their mark. He dropped the gun and pulled off his wig and glasses while walking calmly in the opposite direction of the crowd. He was sure no one would remember his profile. He was headed to a rear door.
• • •
Bishop spotted Lucy and was fighting through the crowd, which was rushing en masse toward the exits, to try to reach her. Supreme held on to the back of his bodyguard’s jacket and followed him through the turbulent sea of people, all the while maintaining his hold on Lucy’s wrist. The bodyguard had little trouble using his bulk to clear a path. It almost looked like some weird football play, with Lucy following her blockers.
• • •
Once they were out on the street, the bodyguard opened the door of the Rolls, and Supreme and Lucy spilled into the back. Lucy was panting and trying to catch her breath. “Get the fuck out of here! Now. Go, go, go,” Supreme screamed at his driver as Lucy struggled to catch her breath. Without hesitation, the driver floored the gas pedal and clipped a cop as the car peeled away from the front of the club. The officer was sent reeling to the ground. The driver didn’t stop.
At the corner, Supreme yelled, “Run the light, run the light!” In the middle of the intersection, the Rolls smashed into the side of a patrol car. Still determined to get away, Supreme was shouting “Back out, motherfucker, back out and go! Get us the hell out of here!” But before the driver could get the car in reverse, four cops with their guns drawn had surrounded t
he vehicle.
“Get the fuck out of the car!” the cop in charge bellowed several times.
Finally, but very slowly, the doors opened and the driver, the bodyguard, Supreme, and Lucy sheepishly got out of the Rolls. Moving deliberately, the cops got all four up against the car, patted them down, and then put the cuffs on.
• • •
Bishop made it to the street just in time to see Lucy being put into a squad car, which pulled away with its lights and siren blaring.
“Shit,” he said, looking around at the mess. “A. J.’s gonna be pissed.”
13
SIX HOURS AFTER all hell had broken loose at Roxx, Bishop was sitting at a table in an otherwise empty Bell’s chugging coffee. He had a splitting headache centered right between his temples and he was so physically tired that the mug actually felt heavy when he picked it up. But more than anything else, he was pissed—punch-a-hole-in-the-wall, scream-at-the-help, kick-the-dog pissed. Bishop knew he’d been useless. When the shooting started, he was little more than a spectator. He didn’t even get a decent look at the gunman. And his impotence, metaphorically speaking, was not likely to improve his standing with Lucy. The only way the night could’ve been worse was if Lucy had gotten shot or if he’d gotten arrested.
“So I go to the fuckin’ precinct, figuring, you know, maybe I can at least get some information. Maybe they’d even let me talk to Lucy,” a frustrated Bishop was telling Bell, who sat across the table from him. “I thought they’d extend me some professional courtesy. So what happens? I walk into the Seven-Seven and introduce myself to the desk sergeant. I ask him if he could help me out, you know, do me a favor since I used to be on the job. He looks at my ID and the first thing he does is lean back in his chair and start stroking his chin like he’s the CEO of some big corporation and he’s trying to figure out how to deal with the fuckin’ shareholders. It was unbelievable. I wanted to tell him, ‘Hey, shithead, it’s been a long night and you better start smiling, ’cause I’m one wrong look away from losing it. Just gimme what I need so I can get outta here. It’s not that big a thing.’ But I figured I better keep my mouth shut. So he’s pondering the situation like he’s got some critical decision to make. I mean he’s totally caught up in this little power game. That’s what I love about cops. That petty bullshit. Their world can be so small sometimes.”
Bishop paused for a moment to refill his coffee cup and pour himself a glass of water. He loved being at Bell’s when it was closed and no one was there. It made him feel like the ultimate insider. “By the way,” he continued, “I ever tell you about the fuckin’ cops who work the midnight tour? Shit, what a bunch of freaks. The cops of the night, my first partner used to call them. They’re like a totally separate breed from the rest of the force. Really weird. Believe me, it’s no accident that every time some black guy gets beaten, sodomized, or shot forty times, or some other crazy shit takes place, it happens on the midnight tour. You know most cops look pretty sharp now. But these guys on the midnight tour got food stains on their shirts, their shoes are scuffed, even their holsters look worn. I mean, who they dressing up for, right?”
“Get to the point, Frankie,” Bell interrupted, in a tobacco-soaked voice as scratchy and abrasive as a nail file. “I’m tired, I worked all night, and I gotta go home and get some sleep.”
“Sorry, Bell,” Bishop said, reaching out and affectionately touching her arm. “So the desk sergeant is leaning back and saying to himself, ‘Bishop, Bishop, why does that name ring a bell?’ Then, all of a sudden it clicks. ‘Bishop,’ he says, ‘you’re that scumbag working for the terrorist, right?’ Then he yells to a couple of the other cops, ‘Hey, look who we got here askin’ for favors. It’s Frank fuckin’ Bishop, the Page Six PI.’ I was lucky at that point to even find out what Lucy was charged with: section 265.001 of the penal code, criminal possession of a firearm, ’cause she was in the car with all the guns.”
Bishop had left the precinct before things got really ugly, called his guys, and told them to meet him at the “Fat Lady’s.” Whenever the shit hit the fan and his team needed to go to the mattresses, they always went to Bell’s.
• • •
Victoria had called A. J. around three thirty a.m., practically psychotic. Ayad Jafaari had gone into cardiac arrest around midnight and died shortly thereafter. Then she couldn’t get ahold of Bishop for several hours. When she finally heard from him, he told her Lucy and Supreme had been arrested. A. J. did the best he could, particularly considering it was the middle of the night, to settle her down so he could get some information.
Driving into the city in his BMW Z4, A. J. was feverishly working the cell phone, trying to reach his contacts at police headquarters and talking to his editor about getting Lucy out of jail. Since the magazine’s lawyers only handled contracts and libel issues, A. J. suggested they hire either Victoria or one of the city’s other top criminal defense attorneys.
His next call was to Jerry Polone at the Post, to try to get a little more information about what happened to Ayad Jafaari, and that’s when he found out about the mother and sister. “The cops are calling it a double murder–suicide,” Jerry told him. “The official line is the mother killed the daughter, then they think she went to the hospital and probably injected something into the son’s IV that killed him, then blew her brains out in the parking garage. Off the record, I hear there was a suicide note left on her laptop in the apartment. Said the pressure, the humiliation, and the certainty that her son was either going to die or get the death penalty as a terrorist were just too much too bear.”
“You hearing anything different on the inside?” A. J. asked.
“Yeah, there’s a decent amount of skepticism about that scenario. I don’t know why, but a couple of detectives I talked to this morning aren’t buying it. At least not yet. They don’t have anything definitive, it’s just their instincts. They’re waiting on the autopsy and the toxicology report to find out exactly what killed Jafaari and they’re waiting for ballistics on the gun. Just doesn’t feel right as a murder-suicide, they said. But it would be awfully neat and convenient for the department, and especially your buddy Brock, to write it off that way. Hey, what was Lucy doing hanging out with a drug-dealing shithead like Supreme?”
“She was working a story.”
“That’s what I figured. Speaking of which, how’s that piece going on Brock and the ‘Great Raid’?”
“Well, it gets more complicated all the time. And now that the Jafaari kid’s dead, there are no more eyewitnesses to the raid other than the cops. I haven’t really turned the screws on the reporting yet, but I will over the next several days. Something doesn’t feel right about the raid either, but that’s just my gut.”
“Any idea how Lucy’s doing?”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” A. J. said, doing his best to mask his concern. “She’s a lot tougher than she looks. Listen, I gotta run. Let’s try and catch up later. Thanks for the update. You’re the best.”
• • •
Bishop, his two investigators, Bell, and one of Victoria’s drivers were all sitting at the big table up front when A. J. walked in. Victoria was on the phone, pacing, lionlike, back and forth in a short, tight line. In the back, the Mexican porters were doing what they always do in the early morning—putting the chairs on top of the tables, sweeping and mopping the floors, and getting ready for the next night’s dinner crowd. John, the headwaiter, had his tie off and his sleeves rolled up, and he was trying to tally the night’s receipts. He was also doing triple duty as waiter, bartender, and cook to Bishop and his crew.
“Everyone just ordered breakfast,” he said to A. J. in greeting. “What can I make you?”
“Are you cooking? ’Cause I don’t want you to go to any trouble just for me,” A. J. said. “I can just have some coffee.”
“It’s no trouble, I’m cooking anyway.”
“All right, I’ll have some eggs, well-done bacon, whole wheat toast, and coffee.”
/> “Got it. How d’you like your eggs?”
“Whatever you do best.”
John disappeared into the kitchen and A. J. looked directly at Bishop. “Long night, huh?” A. J. said. “Whaddaya got for me?”
“How do you wanna be updated?” Bishop asked, looking at A. J. through half-closed eyes. “Listen, before we get started, I want you to know there was nothing I could’ve done. Lucy didn’t want me breathing down her neck, and when the shit came down, it happened too fast and the crowd was too thick for me to get to her.”
“I have no problem with you on this,” A. J. said. “She’s a big girl and I’m sure you did whatever you could. Just give me everything from the beginning.”
Before Bishop had a chance to respond, the room was filled with the sound of Victoria screaming into the phone. “I don’t give a fuck what has to be done,” she practically shrieked. “I want it done now. Got it? Don’t fuck with me on this unless you’d like to see a story in the paper about some late-night trips the judge makes to a certain West Village apartment, with you named as the source. I’ll be downtown before the judge gets there. Don’t worry about that. You just get Lucy Chapin out of there.” She ended the call, fully aware that everyone in the room was watching her. She now turned her attention, and her wrath, toward them.
“Maybe someone can explain to me why every time I have to call in a favor it’s to bail one of your dumb asses out of the fire?” As she railed at them, they sat stone-faced. No one made a sound. There was, they all knew, little if any real anger behind the rant. It was all about the performance, which was, as these kinds of things went, first-rate.