Magilla trembled with anger and hoped that no one thought it was fear. “Nobody,” he said. “Nobody.”
“That's what I thought,” said Mayo. “Like I was sayin', how you gone run the crib, when you fuckin' off half the time?” Mayo stepped back from Magilla. “Get on yo job and stop fuckin' with this sack-chasin' hoodrat!” Mayo looked at
Jamilla. A sack-chaser was a few steps below a whore and a hoodrat was a drug dealer's groupie.
Jamilla stormed out the front door, insulted. Phillip, who was still laughing, followed her. Magilla wanted to stop her, but decided that he would look like a punk if he did. He had to act like it didn't matter. Women were supposed to be worthless to rollers. They were replaceable, things to be used and discarded.
“We gotta talk,” said Mayo walking to the front door. Magilla followed like a puppy, not looking at anyone.
Mayo got into his car, a red Alfa Romeo, and Magilla followed. He put in the key and turned on the auxiliary switch. The radio came on. He hit the CD changer and turned down the volume as a rap song blasted out of the speakers.
“I want three muthafuckas that owes us money. I want names and where they hang out,” said Mayo.
“Easy,” said Magilla. “Just pick three. They all in debt. You know the policy is to keep 'em behind on credit.”
“Yeah, well, then gimme three that owe the most.”
“What you gone do to 'em?”
“None of yo fat, fuckin' bidness!” Mayo exploded. “Just gimme da names!” Mayo took a pad and pen from his glove box and handed them to Magilla who began to write. A half-smile drifted over his face as he wrote.
“I know what you thinkin', fat boy,” said Mayo. ''I'll write it, but you won't be able ta read it. Well, don't you worry 'bout it lard ass, just write the shit down.”
“How am I supposed to know where somebody hang out? I don't keep up with these heads.”
“You ain't shit, you know that? I ask you some simple shit, an' you actin' like I want you to chew off yo fat ass dick.” Mayo looked disgusted. “Just gimme the names!”
Magilla continued to write. “Why you always comin' wrong on me?” he asked. “I know we ain't cool an' shit, but you ain't gotta fuck with me every time I see you.”
“Yes, I do. 'Cause you fucked wif me.”
“Hey, man, that was only one time, all right!” Magilla gestured with one hand.
“One time too many, gorilla.”
“It ain't even necessary, you know. That's what I'm sayin'.”
“I don't give a fuck! You fucked with me and made an enemy. The worse enemy you could ever make. I may not read good and shit, but I'm still smart. Smart enough to be over yo fat ass, and that's the way it is, life in the big, muthafuckin' city,” he poked each syllable out on MagilIa's chest. “You fucked up, now live with your shit.” He snatched the pad from Magilla.
Magilla glared at Mayo. “If I was you, I'd get happy quick, bitch,” said Mayo. “I don't like yo attitude.”
“We'll see 'bout this shit,” said Magilla a little too angrily. Mayo grabbed him by the collar and whipped a gun to his nose. Magilla was so startled that his hand automatically reached for the door's handle. Mayo's move was catlike and Magilla had no idea where the gun had come from.
“This ain't school, nigga!” Mayo was leaning toward him. “I guarantee you if you start any shit, I'll finish it quick. We got some muthafucka out there whackin' our people, and you worryin' about what I do to you. You just better smile and say 'yessir' like you always do.” He pushed Magilla away. 'The gun disappeared to its secret place. Mayo looked at the list. Magilla could see he was having trouble reading it.
“Is that it?” asked Magilla, sighing heavily. He'd had enough of Mayo.
“Yeah,” said Mayo. “Raise yo' fat ass up outta my ride.”
Magilla moved quickly to free himself from the car.
“And don't tell nobody 'bout the names you gave me. If I find out any of these people knew I was comin', it's yo ass.”
Magilla was silent. He stared at Mayo, trying to radiate hate at him. The Alfa Romeo pulled away from the curb and Magilla gave it the finger when it was well out of sight.
“One day, muthafucka,” he whispered to himself. “One day.”
18
Palmer Park
Amir Hamood pulled his white Mercedes along a side street adjacent to Palmer Park, a large public facility on Detroit's fashionable northwest side. Amir bopped his head to the beat of the music on the radio. He was a strikingly handsome man whose every mannerism indicated that he had no idea how handsome he was. Disheveled and tacky, only his extreme good looks saved him from looking like a bum.
Next to him sat Fakir Aranki, his partner and friend. In contrast, Fakir (who changed his name to Frank because it was more American) was short, average-looking, and immaculately dressed. It was always Frank's dream to wear expensive clothes and drive in the finest car money could buy. He was not going to waste the fruits of drug dealing on buying dope like Amir.
There were only a few Chaldean crews in the city. They disregarded the territorial domain of the blacks and were generally not bothered. In the suburbs, however, there were several big-time Chaldean distribution middlemen.
Chaldeans were Iraqis, many of whom were Christian. Next to their homeland, Detroit had the largest population of them in the world.
Frank, Amir, and other dealers like them were shunned by their own community. Drug dealers were just criminals and thugs and were eschewed by everyone.
But Frank saw dealing as part of the American experience. He had studied this country in school before his family moved here. America was founded upon violence and treachery. He had learned that many of the first Americans were not only those looking for religious freedom, but also the scourge and scum of Europe, released from the prisons to the new world. And the country rose to power by murder and ruthlessness, killing the Indians, enslaving blacks, promoting indentured servitude and the oppression of immigrants, imprisoning the Japanese and stealing their money and property for the good of the country. That was how you got ahead here.
Frank was excited by the call from T-Bone. They didn't know the target, but the price was always right with T-Bone. Frank greatly respected T-Bone, whom he considered a true American.
T-Bone had accumulated great wealth and power, even though he was black, in a country that hated him. He was also one of the few blacks they dealt with who respected the Chaldean people.
“Hey, what do you think T-Bone has for us?” asked Amir. His accent was thick.
“It's what,” said Frank, emphasizing the t. Frank tried to suppress his own accent and constantly kept on Amir about his English. Amir's “what” came out “whad” and his “has” came out “hazz.” It made him sound like he was fresh off the boat.
“I bet it has something to do with this Handyman,” Frank said. His accent was soft. “Word is the Southend is doing this killing. If I know T-Bone, he will want revenge.”
“And this is where we come in,” smiled Amir.
“This, not dis!” said Frank, harsher this time. “You have to work harder to stop this immigrant talk. I am getting tired of correcting you. “
“So am I,” said Amir.
“Why do I try?” said Frank.
Amir turned the Mercedes along the south end of the park. He saw a burgundy Cadillac with blacked-out windows parked by a row of trees. A moment later, Frank's car phone rang.
“Hello,” Frank said.
“What's up, man?” T-Bone said.
He sounded funny to Frank, who had only actually seen T-Bone once. T-Bone was a recluse and for him to even be out like this meant trouble.
''I'm OK and you?” Frank asked.
“Cool man, hold on.”
A moment later, Frank heard the unmistakable voice of Robert Campbell. Smart, thought Frank. T-Bone let his men do the talking because conspiracy was a felony.
T-Bone's car pulled off and Amir followed in the Mercedes. The cars
moved into traffic as they talked.
“I don't have m-much time here,” said Campbell. “I need you t-t-to take c-care of something.”
“If it's your problem, it's mine, too,” said Frank.
“Well, you know that we-we're having a p-problem. It's t-time we let ourselves be heard.”
“I see,” said Frank. “And who do you want to hear this message?”
“You know.”
‘They are tough. It will be hard,” Frank said.
“Hey, that's why we c-c-came to you.” Campbell turned down Seven Mile Road toward Woodward Avenue. “This is special. We'll pay d-d-double.”
“More than fair,” said Frank rubbing his manicured fingers together. “Do you want the leader as well?”
“No,” said Campbell. “N-not him. Say hello to one of his places. And don't take anything, just make 'em hurt. Leave the c-card.”
“No problem, my friend.”
In T-Bone's Caddy, Campbell clicked off the cellular phone. He turned south on Woodward and cruised along the front of the park. T-Bone whispered into his portable phone in the backseat. He finished his conversation, ending it with, “Bye, Jasmine.”
“Everything cool?” he asked Campbell.
“Cool,” said Campbell.
T-Bone rode in the backseat of the Cadillac with K-9 nestled in a corner. “You sure? We can't afford any remote kind of fuck-up with this.”
“You know F-Frank, he's smart.”
“Yeah, all right.”
T-Bone reclined in the soft leather and Sighed. He really hated getting this involved in things. But it was necessary. Sometimes, you had to show your face, get things done. It was risky, but necessary. He didn't even trust the Big Three with starting a war.
T-Bone was still working on getting the money together for his suppliers. He had one of his white boys running to dip into his personal accounts to get it. It was costly to move around that much cash, but his hand was forced.
Campbell pulled the Cadillac behind his own car on a side street and got out. T-Bone exited the backseat of the Caddy and climbed into the driver's seat without a word. Campbell got into his car and drove away.
As T-Bone pulled off, K-9 became alert. He shifted into the middle of the long backseat.
“OK, Mr. Nine,” said T-Bone. “Repeat back to me, everything Campbell just said on the phone.”
K-9 did. Verbatim.
“Cool. Nothing too incriminating in that. It's time to answer some questions for me.”
“OK,” said K-9 in a soft, almost feminine voice.
“How much money will I lose because of all of this Handyman shit, including what I have to pay Frank and Amir?”
“Gross or net?”
“Net.”
K-9 took a second. “Two hundred five thousand, six hundred fifty dollars.”
“Damn. And I have to give that fuckin' Santana five big ones. OK, Mr. Nine, the real question. If we can make the new drug at the prices agreed upon with our new friend, the Prince, how long before I will have the money I need to get out.”
“A year.”
“A year. A long time out here.”
K-9 was what was called an idiot savant, like that guy in the movie Rain Man. He could do complex math at incredible speed and could remember large volumes of information, but was baffled by the simplest things.
K-9 was another inner-city treasure. T-Bone had stumbled onto the boy after his mother, a prostitute and drug addict, overdosed two years ago. The woman worked for Jasmine, T-Bone's madam. When she discovered what the boy could do, she gave him to T-Bone.
Because of K-9, he never needed to keep records that could be used against him in court. He could eavesdrop on people and never needed anyone to keep track of his money. T-Bone had even used K-9 to catch several rollers stealing from the houses.
Too bad K-9's powers couldn't help him find the Handyman, or pay that blood-sucking Santana. T-Bone had to go the normal route on these problems. A war. It had been a long time since there was a major one in the city.
T-Bone dialed a number on his cellular. He had to let his police connection know that trouble was coming.
19
The Prince
The old, green Chevy Astrovan pulled into the parking lot of the Grand Eight Motel, creaking and chugging as it moved into the parking slot in front of room 11-B. The engine died with some hesitation and three people exited the vehicle. The driver was a tall, bulky white man with a river of lines etched in his face. He clutched a large brown bag.
“Van's on its last legs,” he said. Exiting from the rear was a white woman with a shock of bleached blond hair and a homely and overly made-up face atop a fabulous body. She looked like a store mannequin at Halloween.
“That thing's dangerous. I smell like gas,” she said, looking at the van with disdain. She poked out her tongue, tugged at her short skirt, and walked toward the motel room.
Riding shotgun was a short, dark black man. He had a large forehead, a receding hairline, and eyes that looked like cheap plastic. He had arms that seemed shorter than they should have been and teeth dotted with gold.
“Stop complaining,” he said to the woman. “Soon, we'll be riding in a limo and drinking champagne.” He jumped out of the van full of energy and walked briskly to the room, passing the other two.
The man they called the Prince was excited. His plans had come together ahead of schedule and he was looking forward to cashing out soon. He entered the shabby room and immediately headed for the phone and dialed a number.
The woman, Donna, headed into the bathroom. ''I'm sick of this fuckin' dump,” she said.
“Nobody asked your ass,” said the Prince.
The big white man they called the Professor reached into his bag, opened a bottle of gin and took a drink. “Who you calln’?” he asked.
“My man the dealer, T-Bone. Been readin' about his problem.” He laughed a little. “I think he's ready to do business.” The line picked up. The Prince gave his number and hung up. “He be callin' back in a little while. Man's got a system.”
“I don't know about this shit,” said the Professor.
“You don't need to know. I know.”
The Prince's real name was D'Terrance Clark, a name he detested because it was his mother's feeble attempt to give her poor son some class. He had always been a slick kid, regularly finding a way out of trouble. He'd talked his way out of a hundred ass-whippings and seemed destined to be a great hustler. He was a natural at the game, a smiling, quick witted one-man show. He'd pulled a thousand scams, from old-fashioned three-card monte to elaborate insurance and social security frauds. And in true hustler tradition, he'd blown each fortune and started all over again. That was the cycle in the game. Hit it, quit it, and get back with it.
What the Prince hadn't bargained for was the savage turn the business took in the '80s. Suddenly, you had to be willing to kill or die just to play the game. It was a setback. At that time, he was not a violent man-- talking was his weapon. But eventually, his need to live the adventure in his mind took over and he stepped up to the new order. The Prince found that it wasn't an unpleasant undertaking. Violence was a natural part of the can game. It raised the stakes and increased the risk.
Donna came out of the bathroom. She looked good as she walked by the Professor, who was starting on his second bottle. He never noticed her. Donna pulled out a cigarette, then thought better of it. She was trying to quit. She poked out her tongue, then quickly pulled it back in. She was trying to kick that annoying habit, too. She put the cigarette back and headed for the door.
“Where you think you gain'?” asked the Prince.
“Out,” said Donna.
“Naw,” said the Prince. “My call's comin' back soon. We might have to get on the road. I need you to be here.”
“I hate this fuckin' one-horse, one-dick town. I gotta get into something.”
“You be gettin' in a coffin, bitch, if you don't sit yo itchy ass down somewhere. “
/>
The Prince smiled and took a step her way. Donna had been with him too long not to know what that smile meant with its insincere corners and dirty flecks of gold. She made a grumbling noise, put her purse down and sat hard on the bed.
The Prince grabbed his crotch, adjusting it, and stepped over to the Professor. “How ya doin', man?” he asked.
“Good. I'm calming down.” He took another long swig from the bottle of gin.
“You should be cool on that, man,” the Prince said. He pointed to the bottle. “I'm gone need you soon.”
“I know, I know,” he said and took another drink. ''I'm just nervous about all this. I've never--”
“Don't fuck with me!” The Prince snatched the bottle.
“Hey, gimme that, damn!” The Professor stood up. He was much taller than the Prince.
The phone rang. The Prince looked at the white man for a second, then threw him the bottle and went to the phone.
“Hello... yes, my brotha,” said the Prince. He was animated and seemed to be moving to some music in his head. Donna and the Professor had seen this many times. He was on the make.
It was T-Bone on the phone. ''I'm outside. Let's talk. Just you,” he said. Then he hung up.
The Prince went to the door. He patted his hair as if he were going on a date. “Don't leave here until I get back,” he said. He was looking right into Donna's eyes.
The Prince walked outside and got into the front seat of the Cadillac in the parking lot. He was shocked at the sight of K-9 in the backseat, but recovered quickly, only to be shocked again by the sawed-off pump nestled between T-Bone's legs.
“You ain't expecting trouble, are you?” asked the Prince.
“You ain't gonna give me any, are you?” said T-Bone.
“No, no, not me, my brotha. It ain't my thang. I'm strictly a businessman. “
“I know. I had you checked out.” T-Bone pulled the car away.
“So, are you ready to deal, my brotha?” asked the Prince with a smile.
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