Fuller looked uneasy. He stumbled with the answer, and an undercurrent of laughter spread through the gallery.
“Your information is obviously not accurate. You are just throwing out numbers.”
“That's funny. I was about to suggest that you did the same.”
The gallery exploded in laughter. Fuller was upset. He moved on to the next question.
“Chief Fuller,” said a radio journalist, “A major street-level drug dealer was just killed. Would you say that it was a hit by a rival gang and if so, does the department expect further violence as a result?”
Fuller's brow furrowed. “I can't comment. We are still investigating the matter.”
“Is it true that Floyd Turner, or Big Money Grip as he was called, was mutilated?” asked Salinsky.
Fuller hesitated, then, 'Tm not at liberty to discuss any matters pertaining to the condition of the deceased.”
Salinsky smelled blood. “Were his hands cut off, Chief?” Salinsky said “Chief” with obvious contempt.
“Look, Salinsky, I said....”
“Was he sexually assaulted, Chief?”
“I am not going to answer any of those ridiculous questions!”
The television crews loved it. They got it all on camera. Pictures were flashed, capturing Fuller's frustrated look.
“Well, I guess we know one thing then,” Salinsky said. “Whoever killed Big Money Grip was over eighteen, or I guess you wouldn't know anything.”
The laughter was deafening. Fuller was going to find Salinsky's contact in the police department if it was the last thing he did. And when he found the leak, he was going to tear that officer a new asshole.
Fuller quickly ended the conference and tried to escape the media, who pursued him into the hallway as he left. He caught a glimpse of Salinsky. She had on a shit-eating grin. Fuller smiled back. The bitch would eat shit one day all right.
Fuller hurried. He would be in the City-County Building in no time thanks to the connecting walk between the buildings. He was supposed to meet the mayor right after the lunchtime press conference to tell him how it went. Yancy was not going to be happy.
8
Yancy and the River
The river was beautiful to Harris Yancy. It was late spring and boaters were happily cruising on the water which rolled and crested as if playing with the wind. The sun added its treasures and the river smiled a wonderful reflection. He loved the river. It was just like him.
He had been mayor of Detroit for two terms. Eight years. It seemed like an eternity. He remembered the city when it was run by whites. Blacks were blocked out of every major avenue of life, openly discriminated against, forced to live in the worst areas of the city, and denied public services. And when Coleman Young, ran that historic campaign, Yancy was right in the thick of it and they had won, beating the whites at their own game.
When Coleman Young retired, Yancy had gotten the call. But it was a struggle to fill his predecessor's shoes. The city was sick and crippled because white people would sooner move their businesses and lives out into a desert before they'd live in a city run by blacks. So Detroit, under black leadership, had not become a promised land for disenfranchised blacks, but a continuation of hardship and poverty.
And so he had taken up the fight with the establishment. He used the old tactics of the Movement to battle the white men who controlled all the money and power. He threw their past atrocities against blacks in their faces. He used race to bait them and beat them down whenever he could.
Some of the younger black leaders questioned this. They said he was only making the problem worse, that it was time to stop making everything an issue of race. But Yancy understood that it was his only tool. Whites had money and power. All his people had was their suffering and the guilt that moved moral men to do the right thing.
Race had given Detroit to blacks and it would be race that brought it back to its former power.
Still, Yancy had thought of retirement. Hell, half his friends told him to think about it. But if he left, who would look out for the people? He provided the means by which jobs were attained, money made, and bills paid. A whole generation of blacks had gone to college thanks to black rule. His machine was a spider's web of familial and personal relationships. It stretched out over two decades of power in the mayor's office.
Yancy regularly discussed leaving office with his wife, Louise. She was a faithful politician's mate, but lately she was yearning to see more of the world. At times, she urged him to think about what he was doing. They were in their sixties. There was wisdom in the idea that they should spend their last years enjoying life, instead of subjecting themselves to pressure.
He could not retire yet. He was needed and that was special. It was like Anthony Quinn said in that movie Lawrence of Arabia: “He was a river to his people.”
Yancy wanted one marc shot at rescuing the city. If he could just get reelected, he could bring the city back and leave the mayor's office with some dignity. If only the people had passed that casino measure. That would have done it. He would have had the money and development he needed. But that damned Batchelor and some ministers had taken to the streets and stopped it.
“Harris, Chief Fuller is here to sec you.” His secretary, Novelda Reed, cut through his musing.
Yancy reluctantly turned away from the water. This was one of the few moments that he'd had to himself in the last few months.
“Send him in.”
Fuller lumbered into the spacious office. Yancy and Fuller had known each other since their service in Korea. They were two of the few blacks who had been inducted into the elite fighting corps of the Green Berets. Yancy and a white soldier named Riggins had carried Fuller for two miles under fire after Fuller was hit in the leg. He still had the limp, a constant reminder of owing his life to Yancy.
Fuller looked upset and Yancy knew at once that his old friend had some trouble at the press conference. Normally, he would have been furious, but the river had mellowed him.
“Problem with the press, Bill?” he asked even before Fuller sat down.
“You heard already?” asked Fuller taking a seat.
“I know you, man.”
“Salinsky. That bitch knew about the juvenile deletion in the report.” “I see. And how did she find out?” “I wish to hell I knew.” Fuller turned his hat in his hands. ''I'll find out who's tipping her.”
“Is that all?” Yancy knew there was more. He could see it.
“No.”
“Tell it, man.”
“She also knew some sensitive information about the drug dealer who got popped last weekend. She knew about the missing hands and the possibility of sexual abuse.” Fuller stared straight at his friend. If there was an explosion coming, it was gonna happen now. Yancy hated leaks.
“Is she certain?” The calmness in Yancy's voice caused Fuller to relax. It was gonna be OK.
“She didn't say she definitely knew, but I know her. She knows. It'll be on the six o'clock news tonight. Hell, if Salinsky knew, Channel Five probably had it on the noon report, thirty minutes before the press conference. “
Yancy looked right into Fuller's soul. “Did she know about the samples?”
Fuller hadn't expected that. He had worried that Salinsky knew but didn't think the mayor would be concerned. “I don't think so. She didn't say anything about it and if she knew, she would have to. She's arrogant like that.”
“So, no one knows besides you, me, and Roberts?
“That's right.”
“Who's on the case again?
“Hill. Tony Hill. A good man. The best.”
“Does he know yet?”
“No. He hasn't been told yet.”
“Find the goddamned leak, Bill. If this thing gets out, I don't have to tell you what's gonna happen. And tell Roberts that if it gets out, it's his ass.” Yancy let a moment pass for the gravity to sink in. “How about some lunch, Bill?”
“Sure. Opus? Rattlesnake Club?”
>
“Mario's,” Yancy said smiling. It was his favorite place. Best Italian food in the world. Yancy put on his jacket and told Novelda to cancel three afternoon appointments. He was going to take a mini vacation.
Before he left, he took a last look at his river. He was troubled about Roberts's samples. He had a sense about these things. It idled around the back of his mind, defying his power to ignore it like a sore that wanted to be picked.
And not even the river helped.
9
T-Bone
T-Bone gripped her shoulders harder. The girl uttered something hard beneath him then let out a long breath. Her ponytail jostled as T-Bone moved faster behind her. Her hand slipped a bit as she held the edge of the dresser in the dark room.
T-Bone was lost in thought. His frustrations churned in his head as he made love to the girl. Grip was dead, Santana was on his ass about the late money, and his plan to get out of dealing was stalled.
He heard the girl make a pained sound and he slowed his effort and stroked the side of her face. He was not the type to hurt a woman.
He was told the young girl was twenty, but he had the feeling she was younger. In any event, she had cost him a nice piece of money. T-Bone only had sex with prostitutes. He'd learned that having a regular woman was too much of a hassle. They talked too much, spent too much, and eventually wanted to share your power. Sooner or later you might have to kill her and that would be a whole other set of annoying problems. A call girl was a criminal too, in her own way, and she'd keep her mouth shut. She just wanted the money. It was a perfect relationship.
T-Bone moved the girl over to the sofa where she straddled him. She was full of energy and seemed to be enjoying herself. T-Bone found himself getting into the act, too. He moved her onto her back and slipped between her legs. Soon, he reached a climax. He rose and planted kisses on her breasts. She breathed hard and made a pleasant little sound. He noticed for the first time that she had a wonderful smell.
T-Bone broke the connection and sat next to her. She stood up. She was beautiful. She was a soft brown with nice full breasts and long legs.
The girl smiled, removed the condom from him, then walked into the bathroom. T-Bone watched her. Jasmine, his supplier of women, had outdone herself this time, he thought. He would have to tell her that this girl was a keeper.
Soon he heard the shower running. He put on his boxers, lit up a joint and stretched out on the bed. He needed to relax. He would figure his way through his current troubles, he told himself. He always did.
T-Bone was from what was considered in his neighborhood a good family. His father was an assembly line foreman and his mother a teacher. He loved his mother dearly, but his relationship with his father had never even approached that emotion.
Theodore Bone Senior was a large, barrel-chested man full of male bravado. He was an autoworker, marine, and football player, he was the Great Father-Provider. And of course his only son had been nothing by comparison. “Little Teddy,” they called him. T-Bone hated the name. To his father and his friends he was never quite good enough, never able to match his father's maleness. Big Teddy called his good grades “sissy stuff” and inveighed his lack of athletic ability.
Slowly, his father had turned him away from every normal thought and need he ever had. T-Bone understood that his father didn't really want his son to be like him. Big Teddy cherished his son's failures and wallowed in the knowledge that he would always be the bigger man, the only man in the family.
But that was a long time ago, T-Bone thought. Now his father was old and broken and where an asshole like him deserved to be.
T-Bone credited his father for his turn to crime. Big Teddy had driven him to it as surely as he breathed. T-Bone felt he had to prove he was a man and chose crime because it only accepted real men. Besides, he had reasoned, there were two great truths in the world: only a fool defers gratification, and this country was too racist to ever let any smart black man (who didn't sing, dance, or play with a ball for a living) ever get ahead.
In a different world, he might have been the bright young man on the fast track in a Fortune 500 company. But in this reality, the truth of capitalist America, he was what a smart kid who doesn't escape the ghetto often turned out to be: a drug dealer.
In the old days, the drug business was run by a bunch of old men wearing big, ugly hats and listening to eight-track tapes of Isaac Hayes. It was different now. Most of the really serious dealers were still in their twenties and some of them (though not many) even had style.
T-Bone was in his mid-thirties and still on top in Detroit. If you read the papers or listened to the news, you would think that all dope was being run by a bunch of stupid, random punks who didn't know their asshole from the center of a doughnut. And that's just the way he liked it.
He had worked hard to put together the Union and even harder to put people between him and the law. Most of the street salesmen were juveniles who couldn't be prosecuted as adults and who never saw him in person. If they got busted, they were out in no time.
T-Bone had three main men who distributed the product: David Traylor, Robert Campbell (who was sometimes called Soup), and Steve Mayo. They were tough, loyal, smart and would lay down their lives for him. He had hand-picked and molded them from a young age. You had to get them while they were young, challenge them to overcome their fears, and make them into men.
Each of the Big Three had come from a fatally poor family and had no chance of success in the mainstream. T-Bone had given them the world: confidence, knowledge, money, and women. He was the father they never had. He kept them clean and away from the product long enough for them to respect moderation. He let them get busted and spend time in jail to learn the ropes. They became tough, smart, and faithful to him. Now, they basically did it all, acquisition, distribution, and collection of the cash. He had a bunch of white boys wash the money for him and he was home free. He kept his exposure to a minimum and he only became personally involved when someone was stealing, or in a crisis. Like Grip's death.
T-Bone also had a relationship with the police. There were always cops who took money. People knew, but proving it was another thing. To T-Bone, law and crime were not enemies but brothers. One needed the other to exist. Without crime, there would be no need for police. Without law, crime would be chaos and yield no profit.
He'd entered into a partnership with a cop on the force several years ago. T-Bone paid a weekly amount and his operation was provided a measure of protection. The only problem was, the cops wanted a lot of money and their numbers were small. So, they could only do so much. There were raids, but they tried to tip him off beforehand to keep the damage minimal. T-Bone only talked to the head cop, but had seen him only once. He just paid the money, asked no questions and so far, it was OK.
T Bone had been hoping that Grip would become his fourth high-level man. It would have been the Big Four, just like the cops called their team of two uniformed officers and two detectives.
T-Bone had risen through the ranks in a now defunct gang called the Black Killers. He'd managed to elude the police and, consequently, had no record. But the cops were not fools. They knew about him, but could never get anything on him. Even the Feds had failed. So far, he had been too smart. And now he was so far removed from the action that they didn't bother him at all.
There was only one group big enough to kill one of his dealers. But the Southend Crew were a bunch of faggots, lightweight punks who were lucky he let them stay around. Their leader, Cut Jefferson, was a man, though. He had taken those sorry-ass punks and made something of them. But he was too smart to fuck with the Union, T-Bone thought.
Maybe it was one of the independents, he thought, or one of the suburban Chaldean Crews. There were only a few of them, but they were crazy enough to try anything. But the Chaldeans were small and mainly distributors. T-Bone made deals with them when he could and kept the peace. Could they be trying to get the two biggest crews to fight, so they could expand after
the blood was spilled?
Grip's death was just part of the recent bad news. The Feds had made several major drug busts in Texas, Florida, and California two months ago. The bastards had hauled in enough coke to supply the western world. So T-Bone's suppliers were hurting and growing intolerant of his late payments.
T-Bone desperately wanted out of the business. Not many dealers made it out alive but he was determined to be one of those who did.
About six months ago, he was introduced by phone to a man who called himself the Prince. This man claimed he could revolutionize the drug trade by making a drug like crack that was even cheaper, used less cocaine, and was more potent.
Crack was already cheap to produce. So at first T-Bone was not interested. But then he remembered those who doubted whether crack would catch on. They said crack was too common and would never make money. They were wrong and the revolution caught them with their pants down.
T-Bone had spent considerable time thinking about what this could mean to him. Much of his money went back to his suppliers, and to the cops. So, he was going to meet with the Prince, who was coming into town soon. Nothing big, he just wanted to sec who he was dealing with. If the Prince was the real deal, he would find a way to get the money. If not, the Prince might leave town in a box.
The girl came back out of the bathroom dressed in a long, tight dress and high heels. The dress was white with a row of big, black buttons in the front.
T-Bone smiled. Jasmine had remembered all of his preferences. He motioned the girl to come over.
The girl walked slowly over to the bed and spun around, letting him see. The dress hugged her and he could clearly see the outline of her body.
“Nice,” he said.
T-Bone removed his boxers and began to unbutton the dress slowly, taking his time.
His beeper went off on the nightstand. He ignored it.
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