Magilla couldn't believe that some random nut had killed Grip and busted up the Shalon Street house. Handyman his ass. It had to be some renegade rollers out to break up the Union. He had started keeping his gun under his pillow at night. No one was gonna just waltz in and kill him. He heard a rumor that a war was going to start and he dreaded it. It would mean a drop in business as the heads got cold feet. Even worse, it would mean a drop in his sex life.
In a far corner, a couple were having sex on an old love seat. A dirty sheet had been strung across the front of the area on a wire suspended from the ceiling to shield anyone who wanted to use it. Their grunts and groans were ignored by the others who were busy getting high. Someone was in the bathroom taking a dump and farting like a symphony. In the middle of the room was a drain on the hard tile floor. Directly over it, was a fading, green R.
Magilla walked over to the couple on the love seat. As he passed, people looked up. Some in fear, others in a drug-induced carelessness. Magilla waddled his frame over to the copulating pair and hovered above them. The girl's dress was hiked up and the man had pulled his pants down around his ankles. Magilla smiled. The man was a regular, a guy named Phillip who was in his thirties. The girl was new and she couldn't have been more than eighteen.
“Who said you could fuck in my house?” bellowed Magilla, fighting back a smile. He could hear the familiar sound of crackheads laughing in the background.
“What the--” said Phillip looking up and over his shoulder. “Magilla, hey man, cain't you see I'm takin' care of some bidness here?”
The girl looked startled. Magilla could see that she was indeed young and very pretty. Her legs were long and unblemished. He followed them with his eyes as they surrounded the man between them. Her eyes were large, brown, and held the familiar devastation of drug use behind them.
Magilla wanted her. She was young and relatively unused. He needed a new woman. Most of the ones around lately were getting too nasty-looking to have sex with.
“Don't no fuckin' go on here less I say so. You wanna keep doing bizness here, you better shut the fuck up with that shit,” Magilla said to Phillip.
Phillip was angry. He knew that Magilla could have any five crackheads beat his ass for one lousy rock. He hated the fat bastard but he didn't want to risk anything.
“Finish up quick,” said Magilla as he walked away.
Magilla returned to the room's center and regarded the occupants with hate. They were all fucking assholes. Owned by a little white rock no bigger than a pebble. They would sell their mothers for it, maybe even their souls. He used coke but not that cheap crack. He only snorted real cocaine. But he was not an addict, he told himself. He was only a “recreational user” as he had heard the term used on television. He was certainly not like these fuckheads.
The drug had complete control of them. Sometimes, he had the women perform sex acts for his amusement in private. But never with men, only with other women. He wanted them to debase themselves just for him. After all the abuse that he had suffered at the hands of women, he finally had his revenge. Now he dealt out the abuse and the pain. Time was the great equalizer, he thought. He was happy for the first time in his life.
He heard Phillip reach his climax with the attendant groaning. Magilla shifted his attention to the couple. Phillip rolled off the girl and pulled up his pants. He gave her several rocks of crack. She took it and walked into the bathroom which was now empty. Phillip went with her, pulling at the condom he wore.
Magilla watched the girl pass. She was tall for her age and had a great body. She looked at him as she passed. She knew he wanted her. He winked his eye at her and she smiled. He would enjoy having her. Magilla turned his attention back to the crackheads in the room. Through the haze in their brains, they knew a show was coming.
“Why you wanna do me like that, Magilla?” He heard Phillip's voice behind him. “You know how it is. She's prime stuff, man, I was just--”
“Shut the fuck up,” Magilla said. “I could give less than a rat's fat ass about what you think. Now get the fuck out, before I put some of my boys on you.”
“Soon as my woman get through in the bathroom,” Phillip said, trying to look confident.
The girl had come out of the bathroom and was already lighting up one of the few rocks that she had gotten from Phillip. She had heard the conversation and looked directly at Phillip as she spoke.
“I don't know who you was talkin' 'bout, but I ain't yo woman or nobody's,” she said as she lit up.
She smiled at Magilla. She could use him to get all the crack she would ever need and all she had to do was have sex with him.
“Hey, bitch, I was the one who brought you here--”
Magilla backhanded Phillip across the mouth, knocking him backwards onto the floor. Several people laughed as he hit the floor. They were wired out of their minds and anything was funny. Magilla turned and stood over Phillip.
“Don't call my woman no bitch, nigga,” Magilla smiled at the fallen man. “Now this is the last time I'm gone tell you. Get outta my house!”
''I'll throw his ass out for some rock,” said a burly man sitting on a crate and smoking. Magilla ignored the offer and watched Phillip get up and slowly walk to the stairs.
“You know this ain't right,” Phillip said holding the side of his face. “You know it ain't.” He ascended the stairs slowly disappearing from sight.
The girl walked over to Magilla. She was wearing a tight, black one-piece miniskirt that hugged her body. Magilla almost licked his lips as she approached. Her stomach was flat and her breasts high and firm. Magilla put his arm around her.
“What's your name, baby?”
“Jamilla.”
“Come on with me, I got some real shit upstairs.” Jamilla put out her pipe and followed eagerly. She knew what
Magilla meant by “real shit.” He had some cocaine, probably not even cut, she thought.
As they walked up the stairs, Magilla was bursting inside his pants. He grabbed her ass and she giggled and ran up the stairs. Life was good. He smiled as he thought of all the things that he would do to Jamilla tonight. He heaved as they reached the lop of the stairs. Magilla followed the girl through the kitchen where his people continued to make crack using a gas oven and several microwaves. He pointed her to the living room, planning to take her upstairs.
The front of the house was filled with buyers and rollers selling crack to the public over an old dining room table.
Suddenly, Magilla froze in his tracks. Fear seized him and his heart began to race. He saw the smug face of Phillip near the front door, talking to a bald man with a gold hoop earring. The man turned and Magilla stared into the very angry face of his boss, Steven Mayo.
16
Indian Village
Tony and Jim had been waiting for over an hour for Vincent Roberts to come out of the Chief's house. They sat in the unmarked car near the end of Seminole Street in Indian Village, a fashionable neighborhood on a succession of streets named after Indian tribes. Roberts had gone in as scheduled at 9:00. Jim and Tony had just sat and watched since then.
“What's taking him so long?” asked Jim. He and Tony had been watching the Chief's house from an unmarked car parked four houses past Fuller's.
“Maybe they're planning what to do with the evidence they're hiding,” said Tony.
“Fuckin' assholes, the both of 'em,” said Jim. “Like we ain't got it bad enough trying to do our fuckin' job, we have to fight our own people.”
''I'm sure Fuller's got some reason for it,” said Tony. “Probably political. To me, it's just something else to get by.”
“How the hell can you say that?” said Jim, somewhat angrily. “What he's doing is a crime.” Jim was mad.
“I just have faith that he thinks he's doing the right thing.”
“Then why are we here? If there's such a God-almighty-fuckin-good-reason, why aren't we both at home giving our women the high hard one?” Jim asked.
“W
e have to get our information through Roberts. He's the weak link. That woman he talked to today was obviously his mistress. I've seen his wife and believe me, if any man ever needed a mistress, it's Roberts.”
“I don't fuckin' believe this. Cops tailing cops. It's like we're those goddamned IAD assholes.”
“I don't understand what the problem is,” said Tony. “You knew we were coming this afternoon and you agreed. Now all of a sudden, it's all fucked up. You're full of all this law-and-order shit. You know how it is, man. Politics, rule at the top. We just do our job as best we can. What choice do we have? Accuse Fuller? It's our word against his, and he'll deny everything.”
They were quiet a moment. Both men felt uneasy about the night's activities.
They watched Fuller's spectacular house with the six-foot wrought iron gate in front. There was a jockey holding a lantern on the front lawn. Its face had been painted white.
“There he is,” said Tony, as Roberts walked out of the front door of the house. Fuller appeared in his robe for a second, then he was gone. Roberts walked to his car and got in. He pulled away from the curb and drove to the corner. Tony started the car. “Here we go,” he said.
They followed the gray Mercedes 320-E onto Interstate 75. Roberts sped along at eighty as he hurried to his appointment.
“Man's got to have it tonight,” laughed Jim.
Tony smiled. The thought of Roberts having a sexual rendezvous was totally comical.
Roberts drove out of Detroit at the Eight Mile border on the freeway. He took the W P. Reuther Freeway east. Tony was careful not to get too close. It had been a long time since he'd done this.
“Where the hell is he going?” asked Tony, thinking out loud.
Roberts exited and hung a sharp left at a light. He drove for a few blocks, then took a long driveway into an impressive-looking, hilly complex. A huge sign in front proclaimed, “KNOLLWOOD - A CONDOMINIUM COMMUNITY.”
“Hey, I had a woman that lived here once,” said Jim.
“You had a woman everywhere,” said Tony, keeping up with Roberts. He slowed the police car as Roberts stopped at the guard booth. The guard, a young black man, stuck his head out of the booth's window for a second. The yellow crossing arm lifted and Roberts's car went through.
Cold Medina
Tony waited a moment, then pulled up to the guard booth. He saw the guard lean out. He was probably only twenty, Tony thought. His hair was long and curly. I t was what the kids called a jheri curl. Chemicals were put into the hair to make it limp and curly. The only problem was that the stuff smelled like battery acid and it was a wet, sticky mess. This guy had a lot of hair and the smell of the curling ingredients was strong.
“Can I help you?” said the guard, smiling.
“Police officers,” said Tony showing his badge. “Where did that last car go to?”
The guard suddenly looked frightened. “What's the deal? Is this a bust or something?” His smile faded.
“No,” said Tony.
“I dunno. I ain't suppose to give out information on the residents or guests.” He looked into the car harder, trying to see Jim on the other side. “He a cop, too?”
“Yeah,” said Jim showing his badge.
“Look, man, we ain't here to bust nobody,” said Tony. “We just want to know who our boy is going to see, dig? We been after this white boy's ass for a long time. We ain't lookin' to fuck with no brothers. I doubt if there's any out here anyway. We just need a little information, that's all.” Tony sounded almost stereotypically ethnic and Jim hid his smile.
“Well,” said the guard. “In that case, I guess it's cool. He went into 3117 Terrace Court. He comes here regular.”
“You wouldn't happen to know who lives in 3117 Terrace Court, do you?”
“Oh, hell yeah!” he laughed. The smell of his hair was overwhelming Tony but he tried to hide it. He heard Jim snicker next to him. “It's a lady named ... wait a minute,” he said as he checked a list. “Barbara Volkarwicz,” he said with difficulty, then he laughed again.
“What's so funny about her?” asked Jim from the other side of the car.
“She a prostitute-uh, excuse me, call girl,” he said. “Yeah, fine, too. I tried to get some once and she told me it was five hundred. Ain't that a bitch! Two weeks pay for some pussy. Sheed!” He laughed again. “Nothing but Benzes, Beemers, Cadillacs goes in to see her. She high class, man, all the way.”
“What kind of car does she drive?” asked Tony.
“Badass convertible Saab, blue one.”
The guard gave directions to the Terrace Court unit, then lifted the crossing arm. Tony thanked him and drove along the circular drive. The condos were townhouses. Two-storied, wood-framed units. Each one had a garage and a private yard.
“Boy that jheri curl juice is potent,” said Tony.
“I thought you would go blind,” laughed Jim.
“They ought to outlaw that shit. I thought it was out of style,” Tony said.
“I guess my man there is living in the past,” said Jim. He paused a second, then, “You know, I love the way you play that brother shit when you want information from black people.”
“What you talking 'bout?”
“We ain't here ta bust no righteous bruh-thahs,” Jim mocked him in the stereotypical voice. “We just be needin' some info you dig?”
“All right, all right, so I laid it on a little thick. I got what we needed, didn't I?”
“You sholl did bruh-tha,” Jim mocked again.
“Fuck you,” Tony laughed as he slowed the car behind Roberts's Mercedes. He noticed a blue Saab convertible two cars away. It had a personalized license plate that read, BADGRL.
“I bet she is, too,” said Jim. “Now what, Kemosabe?”
“Well, we can bust in on them. Or we can get the low-down on her from the license plate from the DMV before we move on Roberts.”
“You know what I vote for,” said Jim.
“Yeah, but let's think,” said Tony. “If the Chief is in on this, the mayor knows. If so, then this thing is big, real big. Maybe we should proceed slowly here, feel things out first.”
“What? Are you punkin' out on me here? This was your idea you know?” Jim turned to Tony.
“No, I'm not punkin' out,” Tony said. “I want to get to the bottom of this just like you, but let's not get ourselves into a lot of trouble in the process.”
“I don't understand what all this pussyfootin' is about! Roberts is fucking this bitch, we know about it, so we press his ass until he tells us what we want to know. What else is there?”
“There's diplomacy,” Tony said forcefully.
“I don't see anything we need to finesse here,” said Jim. “I say we bust his big-headed ass right here, right now.”
“You can't let your personal hatred of Roberts guide my investigation.” Now he was angry and determined to have it his way.
“Your investigation? You pulling rank on me, partner?” Jim asked.
“You know me better than that, man.”
“Well, I just want to get the case moving. This clandestine shit is bad enough, but playing politics with Roberts is the ultimate jackoff.”
“Look,” said Tony putting the car in gear, “I'll compromise. Let's just wait and check this babe out first. If nothing comes of it, then we'll do it your way. OK?”
Jim was still a little angry but he agreed reluctantly. “But remember, if we don't find anything, it's my way,” he turned back around in his seat.
They were quiet again as Tony pulled the car out. They were used to having such fights. It made for a good partnership. A difference of opinion provided balance in judgment. They both knew that partnering was a constant exercise of covering the other guy's ass. Tony drove out of the complex, happy that he didn't have to endure the guard's hairdo again.
In 3117 Terrace Court, Dr. Vince Roberts poured two glasses of wine, while a naked Barbara Volkarwicz, on her knees, unzipped his pants and started work on her fifth c
lient that day.
17
Mayo and Magilla
Magilla was frightened of few things, but one of them was Steve Mayo. Mayo was the manager of Magilla's territory and a mean son of a bitch. Magilla remembered about a year ago when Mayo had a fight with his woman and had set her hair on fire, watching her burn. The woman had flung herself on the floor and Mayo had pulled his gun, daring anyone to help her. And now here he was in his house, looking totally pissed.
There was bad blood between the two men and everyone knew it. When Mayo was still just another roller, Magilla had embarrassed him in front of a group of women. Mayo could not read well and he was running down a written list of new houses, when Magilla made fun of his reading. He mimicked his hesitant, clumsy vocalization. The women laughed and Mayo never forgot the incident.
After Mayo became one of the Big Three, he had made Magilla's life hell at every available opportunity. The main reason he didn't get rid of Magilla was that he loved to torment him. That and the fact that Magilla ran the most profitable house they had.
The others in the room sensed the tension. Jamilla, recognizing Mayo, smiled at him, trying to look sexy.
“Hey, what's up?” Magilla said lamely.
“How you gone run a house, when you always in the basement jackin' off?” Mayo answered, going on the offensive.
Magilla was scared and angry at once. He didn't like being humiliated in front of his people but he didn't want to make matters worse by trying to answer the question. He tried an aggressive posture.
“Hey, man, the house is gettin' run just like always,” he said.
Mayo looked around in disbelief, as if he were trying to see to whom the remark was directed. He walked closer to Magilla. Several people in the room moved away, jumped, anticipating a fight.
“Who the fuck is you talkin' to like that?! I'll kick yo extra large ass up and down this muthafucka myself!” He was face to face with Magilla. “Answer me, bitch. Who was you talkin' to?”
Cold Medina Page 10