Nickel City Crossfire

by Gary Earl Ross

  She was quiet as I braced the Taclight between two hymnals on the bench between us. We were half in shadow but could still see each other.

  “All relationships have secrets. Believe me, I know. You can’t know everything about someone. Maybe you’re not even supposed to.” I paused to let her consider that. She looked at me with uncertainty. “But if you died tonight and Bianca did nothing to stop it, this secret would have killed them as a couple. Bianca would have blamed herself and transferred her misery to Jen until it broke them apart.” I paused. “I like them a lot, your friends, just the way they are.”

  “They showed you the text. What about—”

  “Was Bianca the only one you told what you planned to do?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it doesn’t matter.”

  She was quiet a moment. “I have to do this, for Odell. For Mom and Dad. Sometimes you have to be willing to make the sacrifice.” She shook her head, eyes moistening. “If I don’t, Odell died for nothing.” She started to stand. “I’m going to clear his name.”

  “You’ll die,” I said, taking her arm and gently pulling her back into her seat. “If Dante is anywhere in this building tonight, he will try to kill you.”

  She wrenched her arm free. “I told you, I’m willing to make the sacrifice.”

  “He wants to kill me too but I’m not ready to go.” I offered her tissue from one of my pockets and waited for her to dab her eyes. “Now, I think I know what you want to do. This loft is too far away.”

  “I wasn’t going to shoot from here!”

  “Course not,” I said. “I think your plan is to sneak downstairs, go through the basement, and come up near the front. Then you’ll step in and make your move. Right?”

  She said nothing.

  “The trouble with your plan is that Loni expects you.”

  “So?”

  “So, her brother and at least one of his men are in town. There may be more. She’ll have somebody at each door. They’ll have guns, maybe with silencers, or cord to strangle you—while people are singing gospel songs on the other side of the wall. You’ll never get close enough by trying to go around.”

  She looked at her gun before returning it to her bag. “I still won’t let you stop me.”

  “I’m not here to stop you. I’m here to keep you alive.”

  “How are you going to do that? By walking me right down the aisle?”

  “Yes.” I took her hand in mine and looked into her eyes. “If we think it through, you can finish this tonight. You can get justice for Odell, and we can both walk out of here alive.”

  48

  Loni must have entered through the parking lot door. The first sign we had anyone else in the building, about thirty minutes before the start of service, was the squeak of the side door being opened from the inside, followed by Loni’s voice saying, “Come inside, quick!”

  Then there were men’s voices greeting her and the scrape of feet, first on a doormat and then hitting the stairs that led to the narthex.

  Keisha and I were still sitting on the floor in the dark in the choir loft. During the previous half-hour, I had made a phone call and sent two text messages before I explained to her all I had learned since our meeting in Tim Horton’s. Now, left index finger pressed to her lips, I held her right hand with my own. My fingertips felt her pulse racing. For a moment I was afraid the tension might cause her to exhale too loudly and set things in motion before we were ready. Someone switched on the narthex ceiling fixtures, which threw muted light up to us, enough for me to see her eyes widen with fear. I took a few deep but quiet breaths, calming myself. Then I raised my eyebrows as if to ask if she understood what I wanted her to do. When she nodded, I removed my finger. She caught her lower lip between her teeth.

  We waited. Listened.

  “I told you before I wished you’d brought more people, D,” Loni said. “Least two.”

  “Told you, QC and I could handle things.” The voice was deep and melodious as if the vocal cords had been cut off an upright bass and sewn into his throat with angel hair filament. “Holiday time keeps my people busy organizing for the new year.”

  I raised my eyebrows toward Keisha again. She nodded. Dante.

  “Problems here might mean problems everywhere. Local cops get on to something interesting and hook up with the feds—Jesus, all it takes is a thread. This shoulda been simple. Follow the guy hired to look for her and take her out when he finds her—him too if necessary.”

  “He made us the first day.”

  “So you rented other SUVs. Gave him room to do his job. Passed him back and forth by cell phone when you saw him. One morning you followed him home from the hospital, so you started watching his place. Good plan. Sooner or later he’d lead you to her, and he did.”

  “Damn it, Loni. Once we saw they were together in the coffee shop, we passed them like we were supposed to. I mean, we coulda gone in and made a massacre out of it, but the idea was to keep a low profile. Nobody told Tito and that dumb biker hillbilly to make a run at a moving car. They were just supposed to follow and pass them back to us for the kill.”

  “Maybe Grizzly Man was pissed Rimes beat up his bitch in the hospital,” Loni said. “I don’t know these clowns on the flip side. A wall of protection, deniability—that’s the whole point of compartmentalization. They fucked up the hospital hit and ended up killing some meth addict, which led to the fire. God knows how much we lost in product and cover in that mess. I hope there’s nothing to connect those fools to us. They’re your responsibility.”

  “Tito was yours. He fucked up just as much as the white boys. He was supposed to shoot at the bitch’s parents, not hit them. Like we needed another investigation.”

  “Don’t go blaming Tito! You liked him just fine when he made this business hook-up possible. There woulda been no investigation at all if you’d got it right the first time.”

  For a few seconds, no one said anything.

  “Nobody knew Tito was gonna clock out either. Sorry.” More silence. “But the real pain in the ass here is this guy Rimes. All up in our shit and not even a real badge.”

  “Right. If anything has stretched this out, it’s him. He’s always a beat behind us but unwilling to just step off. We underestimated how persistent he would be.”

  Keisha smiled at me and mouthed Thank you.

  “All the years it took us to build this up, and he almost tanks it in a week? He got off the if necessary list a long time ago. That motherfucker has got to die. He’s mine.”

  “Chill, Dante. You gonna get your shot.” This was a new voice. “So you really think she’ll come here tonight?” Higher, reedier, a bit too cheerful. “She that stupid?”

  I looked at Keisha. She nodded again. QC.

  “No, I’m not sure, QC.” Loni sounded exasperated. “If I was, I wouldn’ta had you watching her house all day and Dante watching mine. I woulda just had you come here. If you’d brought more people, I wouldn’ta had a pinch hitter burning a tank of gas shuttling back and forth between Rimes’s office and his apartment building.”

  Then there came a giggle, high and almost a cackle as if Macbeth’s witches were laughing through waxed paper. “I’m just sayin’, maybe she’s smart enough to get out of town with her folks. So they’re in Cleveland?”

  “Sister Simpkins called one of her friends, who told me after church this morning when I mentioned how surprised I was they weren’t there. I said it like I was hoping they had good news about Keisha. But they’re not important right now.”

  I looked at Keisha. Looking horrified, she shook her head and mouthed Sorry.

  “Always amazes me how much you know,” Dante said. “It’s like a sixth sense.”

  “All people love to talk, Dante. Church ladies and cab drivers. Hospital aides and janitors. Counter clerks and food servers. Everybody wants to confess or impress. That’s why nobody can keep a secret. I learned a long time ago to just listen and piece things together. I’m still surp
rised I could keep the news about Tito a secret.”

  “Yeah, how’d you pull that off?” QC asked.

  “Two people in the congregation know. I bought us a little time by convincing them the police told us not to say anything until the investigation is complete. Talking about it could get all of us charged with obstruction of justice. Then I called the police on a burner and said I was Tito’s Aunt Susie. I’d be back from California Monday night to identify him.”

  “You’re sure good old Felton doesn’t know?” Dante asked.

  “Good old Felton doesn’t even know I have a brother,” Loni said. “When I last saw him, about an hour ago, he didn’t know about Tito either. He was gonna make a couple of hospital stops and then come straight here.” She paused. “Okay, here’s how we’re gonna do this. QC, I want you by the side door, there. Just hold the door for folks and smile. Anybody asks you’re just visiting from out of town and saw we were having a service. Dante, I want you between the parking lot door and the right side door near the altar, across from where I’ll be, at the piano. You’ve seen Felton on TV. See him here, same story. You’re just visiting and thought you’d drop in. Ask how to get to the men’s room.”

  “Who got the front door?” QC asked.

  “You, until my pinch hitter gets here. Then it’s his.”

  “Who is it?”

  “No one you know and no one who knows you,” Loni said. “Compartmentalization, remember? Okay, if either of you see Keisha or Rimes, move on them, even if they come in with the crowd. Silencers or not, do not shoot inside this church, in front of all these people. Just get them outside with the threat of shooting. If Rimes shows, make sure you get his gun. Get them around back where nobody can see. Then you can drop them. Put them behind that row of blue garbage totes until things are over and we can clean up.”

  “Your pinch hitter up to all that?” Dante asked.

  “No. He’ll call QC from the side door if either one shows. All that is up to you two.”

  There was a knock.

  Footsteps crossed the narthex and went down the stairs. The door squeaked open.

  “About time.”

  Two sets of footsteps returned to the narthex.

  “Sorry I’m late,” Harlow Graves said. “Had to drop Ros and the kids at a movie.”

  Keisha’s eyes widened and she mouthed Harlow Graves? I nodded.

  Loni made introductions without explaining her relationship to any of the men, except to say that Graves was a church VIP who would greet worshippers at the front door. Then she summarized the plan for Graves and told them in a few minutes they would take their places while she went to the piano. She would begin playing ten minutes before the service started. The choir would come up the side stairs to the narthex and walk in step with the music down the center aisle, followed by several deaconesses who would greet those in attendance, and finally her husband.

  Fifteen minutes later the music began.

  49

  Peeking over the solid front of the loft, I saw Loni at the piano and watched the last of the choir take their seats, followed by a boy maybe fourteen who sat at the drums. Deaconesses moved from pew to pew, shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries with worshippers. There was a jubilance to the exchanges filling the air—rapid talk, chuckles, outright laughter. I could see smiles, hands on shoulders, heads bobbing up and down, women kissing cheeks and giving hugs. But gradually the conversations trailed off to an expectant silence. Dr. Markham had not yet come in. I ducked down as heads began to swivel in search of him.

  A moment later I heard an almost collective sigh of relief. Footsteps hurried down the center aisle. A finger tapped a microphone, and the speaker above us in the loft thumped.

  “Brothers and sisters, after pleasant hospital visits with Mother Carlyle and Brother Fisher—both coming along nicely, praise God—it was my intention to simply close this day of worship with a joyful noise that would lift our spirits as we went back to work this week.” Dr. Markham’s customary authoritative tone seemed unsettled. “But—” His voice cracked, and I knew he had listened to my message on his office answering machine. “But the unexpected compels me to change the order of service tonight. Would you mind if I did that, if I changed the order of service, in the name of the Lord?”

  As one, the congregation said, “No!”

  “Thank you, brothers and sisters. I reached the church only a short time ago and checked the messages in my office when I came in.” He hesitated. “Somebody from the police left a sad message about one of our own and a number to call back. I didn’t want to believe what I’d been told because the man didn’t leave his name, but I called back. Now I can confirm that a son of this church, our custodian, Tito Glenroy, is dead.”

  The gasps were almost in unison, followed by chatter, questions, crying. I couldn’t see it as I kept out of sight but I pictured Dr. Markham holding up his hand to calm everyone.

  “They said he was killed in an accident on the expressway yesterday afternoon but went unclaimed all night because there was no one to identify him. They couldn’t give me details because they’re still investigating. I imagine him there, cold and lonely, sad nobody came, wanting nothing more than to go home. Funny thing though. The man I spoke to said a note clipped to his file said his Aunt Susie was coming from California on Monday to claim the body. As far as I know, Tito doesn’t have an Aunt Susie. If any of you know differently, please tell us now.” He paused, waiting in vain for confirmation of Aunt Susie. Then he swallowed audibly. “If Tito died yesterday, that means he didn’t come in to turn up the heat this morning. It means—” Dr. Markham began to cry. “I told that boy time and again not to leave the heat so high when nobody was here, and he was good about it because he knew what our heating bills are. But this one time he must have left it on when he went about his Saturday chores—like he knew he was gonna die and didn’t want us to be cold. Should I forgive him?”

  “Yes, forgive him!” a woman said, and the congregation echoed her sentiment.

  “I forgive you, Tito,” the minister said. “I forgive you in the name of Jesus and for all your service to this faith community. I forgive you, and I ask that my dear wife lead the choir and all of you in ‘I’ll Praise His Name.’ For poor Tito.”

  The first few notes were shaky—because, I suspected, Loni was calculating how this revelation would impact her plans. But that mattered little to me because I had plans of my own. As the tempo picked up and the sound of the gospel number filled the sanctuary, I sent another text message. Then I crept downstairs as far as I could, pulled down the tape, and peeked around the archway. A minute later Oscar Edgerton, overcoat unbuttoned, pushed through one of the swinging doors and went to the front door. Music muffled his exchange with Harlow Graves, but a rush of cold air told me Graves had agreed to Oscar’s request they step outside for a moment to discuss a matter of importance to the church.

  Which was what I’d told him to say in my most recent text.

  I had called Oscar from home earlier, before heading to the hospital. I laid out the case as I understood it. Though he found it hard to believe Loni Markham was behind everything, he had read about the crash and the fire and even knew a woman had been found dead in the Black Rock Canal. He hadn’t known about Tito and agreed to tell no one, not even Louisa, until the news was official. Giving me the benefit of the doubt, he’d promised to attend the evening service and keep his phone on vibrate so I could tell him what help I needed. My first text had told him to sit near the back. My second told him to get Harlow Graves outside.

  Now that Graves was gone, I peeked as far as I dared around the other side of the archway. I couldn’t see all of QC, just a thick arm and shoulder stuffed into a wide-striped tan suit jacket. I clicked on the penlight I’d got from Keisha and rolled it hard toward the stairs. With the singing, drumming, and piano playing in the sanctuary so loud, I couldn’t hear the penlight bounce down the stairs toward him. I couldn’t hear whether he called out to Graves. Bu
t I knew he would come up the steps to see what was going on.

  I readied myself.

  Right arm inside his jacket, QC moved into view as he began to pass the arch. He was big, a bit shorter than I but heavier, with medium brown skin and a broad back. He turned, as if peripherally aware the Danger tape was missing, a mouth between fat cheeks beginning to open, beady eyes beginning to widen.

  I grabbed his right arm with my left hand, jammed the glass breakpoints of my Taclight into the soft flesh of his neck, and pressed the stun button. QC jerked and made a strange hiccupping motion with his mouth. The music covered whatever sound he made, as well as the phfft of his silencer. But I felt his gun, still in its holster, jerk when the shock made him seize and squeeze the trigger. I saw the blood soaking through his pants and lowered him to the steps but kept hold of his right arm.

  He looked up at me, blinking, mouth moving without saying anything, gun hand trembling. Then he started to giggle, an unnerving sound even amid loud music.

  With my free hand, I stuffed the pocket square from his suit jacket into his mouth and pushed it deeper as he tried to speak. Then I removed his gun from the cross-draw holster on his left hip, unscrewed the still warm suppressor, and tossed it aside. The gun and his cell phone went into one of my pockets and plasticuffs came out of another. Rolling him onto his right side, I cuffed his hands behind him and then his feet at the ankles.

  “You shot yourself, QC,” I said. “If you need a tourniquet, all I’ve got is your tie. But if you try to scream, I’ll tie it around your mouth, and you might bleed out. Should I use it to stop the bleeding?”

  Still on his side against the edges of the stairs, he nodded, hard.

  With my tactical knife, I cut away enough of his pants to show me the bullet was likely lodged in his meaty left hip. The rate of blood flow did not indicate arterial damage or the need for a tourniquet. I cut a long strip off his pants and tied it around the entry wound just tight enough to make a temporary bandage. Then I rolled him back as far as both sets of cuffs would allow. His angle was awkward against the stairs. He looked uncomfortable.