“I do know, it's just that we have many other places to go with our wares.” The Prince smiled and placed his keys on a crate, noticing Mayo's annoyed look.
“Fuck it, go on and go. We be here when you get back.” Mayo smiled.
“Oh, no, my brotha. That's not acceptable. We must have the money in order to travel.”
“Well, I'm sorry 'bout that, but I ain't the man.” Mayo walked away and instructed the remaining rollers where to take the formula.
Mayo disliked the Prince. He was overly friendly and phony, a sneaky little bastard. And he was dangerous. Mayo had been around enough killers to recognize that the Prince would cut your throat and order dinner while you bled.
Mayo had met his kind before and it was never good.
As the Prince and the Professor left, Donna said something to the Prince and they allowed her to stay behind. She strolled by Mayo, poked out her tongue at him and walked behind a stack of large crates.
Faintly, Mayo heard a zipper being undone. He quickly sent the last rollers away and went to her.
Behind the crates, he found Donna topless and smiling. She wiggled out of her tight jeans and leaned over a crate.
Mayo almost fell in his run over to her. He cupped his hands over her breasts and licked her hard back. She pulled his hands away.
“Hurry up,” she said not looking at him.
Mayo fumbled with his pants and was soon inside her. He made love to her, his pants around his ankles. He was loud in his passion and she smiled, happy with her control over him.
They never saw the Prince watching them. He had come back for his keys.
13
Courting Medina
Magilla squinted as he looked at the dull crystals that had been dropped off at the house. They were hard to see in the dimness of his basement. This was the new thing everyone was buzzing about. Magilla had only heard rumors of the Union's leader and had never met him. But whoever he was, he was a genius if the shit was half what they said it was.
He was glad that Mayo had not brought the new drug called Medina. He was not in the mood for his abuse and he was feeling scared after Campbell's death. Whoever the Handyman was, he had no fear of dealers and that was enough to keep anybody up nights. Magilla had taken on even more bodyguards at the house. But he trusted no one and he slept with a loaded gun in his room.
Magilla's first order was to give some of the new product to the biggest crackheads. He told them to rave about it as instructed. They had not even asked what it was. They would smoke anything.
Magilla watched as a head named Quinten popped a rock of Medina into a pipe and lit it up. He took a long puff and closed his eyes. A contented smile spread over his face and he took another long puff. He then smoked furiously until it was gone. He immediately put another rock in the pipe.
“Man, this is the shit!” Quinten exclaimed loudly as he began to smoke again. “Cold Medina!”
Magilla smiled and watched. The other crackheads all talked with Quinten and took hits on the pipe. Magilla couldn't tell if the stuff was good or if it was just good acting on Quinten's part. There was only one way to find out.
Magilla borrowed a pipe and after wiping it, lit up a rock of the Medina and took a long drag.
Magilla's head went light and a rush of sensation hit him. His fingers and toes tingled and he felt the unmistakable sensation of an erection coming. His body was hit by a host of commands as the drug sped through his cerebrum. He felt stronger than he had ever been. He could do anything. He was attractive and virile. Suddenly, the world was a place that he was in total control of. He was The Man and no one else. He possessed power and no one could deny it. He smoked the first rock and lit another right away. He ran his hand across his chest. He was horny. He looked at the women in the basement. They were ugly and skinny but he wanted them anyway. And he could have them if he wanted 'cause he was in control.
As Magilla smoked rock after rock, he thought of things that he had always wanted to do. He dreamed of screwing Ms. Phillips, a woman who lived next door to him when he was a kid. Hers had been the first breasts that he had seen as a young man. He thought of making two men freak off with each other and watching. He wasn't a fag or anything, but he always wanted to see that.
And he thought of Steven Mayo. 'The things he could do to him. He thought of tying him down and beating the shit out of him and pissing in his face. Or making him watch as he screwed his woman-or his mother. Yes, that was better. The day would come he thought when he would have him right where he wanted him.
Magilla walked around the basement of the old Ridley house and stood over the large R in the center of the floor. He took a long puff and threw his arms into the air.
“This is my muthafuckin' house!” he yelled.
The crackheads looked at him through glazed eyes. One young crackhead sitting on an old sofa snorted a quick laugh. Magilla puffed the pipe as he stepped toward him. Magilla smiled, took another puff and kicked him in the face. The man reeled back His head hit the muddy brown wall and made a dull sound. His eyes rolled up into his head and he slumped into the sofa.
“I said, this is my muthafuckin' house! Don't nobody fuck wif me in here.”
Magilla walked around smoking another rock, smiling. This stuff was good, too good for fuckin' crackheads, he thought. His house was set to get the stuff used to make it. He couldn't wait. He prided himself on not being a crackhead, but this stuff might change his mind. He could feel the high slipping already, like water running out of a container. The stuff was good. The high was strong, unusual, and it didn't last long.
Magilla instructed his people to distribute more of the Medina to the users, but he made sure that he had a good amount for himself and there was plenty upstairs to sell. He smiled and lit up again.
The users smoked up the Medina as quickly as it was given out and raved about its powers. There was only one thing a crackhead liked more than drugs, and that was free drugs. When it was all gone, the basement was buzzing with requests for more.
Magilla ignored them. He was busy smoking.
“You can buy the shit upstairs,” was all he would say.
After it was apparent that no one was getting any more free, they opted to purchase the product. There was almost a stampede up the stairs.
Magilla laughed at the Silly-ass addicts as they stepped over each other to get high again. A crackhead didn't realize that he spent most of his time smoking dope. If he wasn't smoking, he was stealing to get money to get high, or fucking somebody for it.
Quinten lumbered by Magilla holding his head. “Thanks for the shit, man. It was good at first, but it gave me a headache.”
“You want some more?” asked Magilla.
“Oh, hell, yeah!” said Quinten and pulled out his pipe.
“Get the fuck outta my face,” said Magilla and laughed in his face. Quinten took the advice and left the house quickly. Outside, the hot summer air hit him.
“Hotter than a muthafucka out here,” he said.
Quinten rubbed his temples. His head did hurt after smoking the Medina. In fact, it began throbbing as the humidity choked him.
“Damn,” he whispered. “I need some damn aspirin or something.”
He stumbled on an uneven patch of concrete and steadied himself next to a telephone pole, then staggered on. The pain grew worse as his high slipped away. It was like a tiny cannon being discharged inside his head. There was a moment of terrible pain followed by a short moment of relief. The anticipation of the next assault only made the waiting worse.
Quinten grabbed his head and fought tears as he sat down on a bus stop bench at Chene Street. The bus would be here soon and then he could go home and get some aspirin. In his pain, he thought that if he got high again, it would go away.
“Shit fucked me up,” he said to himself as the bus approached. He reached to get the fare from his pockets and was hit by a wave of convulsions. He shook and twitched, moving uncontrollably. His head thundered with pain
and a tiny drop of blood welled in the corner of his eye. He stumbled in front of the bus before it could stop. The impact lifted him right out of his shoes.
The shocked bus driver cursed as she watched the man's body fly into the air. Quinten landed with a thud. His head hit the pavement first. The rest of him flopped down afterwards with a wet thud.
The bus's brakes locked the wheels and the huge vehicle skidded on the pavement. The passengers were thrown forward like rag dolls, screaming and clutching at the support bars. The driver ran out to the injured man after calling for an ambulance on the radio. She stood over Quinten's body with a large first-aid kit. Quinten still shook Violently and blood poured from his head and face. The driver had never seen so much blood. She knelt next to him and told him to be calm.
She removed a blanket and covered him with it. She was crying but didn't seem to notice. Quinten gurgled something, then stopped moving. The passengers crowded around the body. The driver turned to them, sobbing.
“He just fell in front of me,” the driver said.
“Sho did, I saw it,” said a man.
“I got to get to work,” said a woman.
“Damn, lady, have some sympathy,” said another passenger.
“I can't pay my rent with sympathy. Can't nobody help him,” she said pointing. “Look at him, he as dead as you can get. He ain't even breathing.” She stormed off to hail a cab, cursing on the way.
Thirty minutes later, a police car rounded the corner, lights flashing. The crowd instinctively stepped away from the scene. In the distance, an ambulance wailed.
14
Tony and Mbutu
“What is this shit, candy?” asked the crackhead. He took the bluish rocks into his hands.
“It's base, fool,” said the young dealer. “They call it Medina, like funky cold medina. You remember that song?”
The head examined the Medina on the steps of an old abandoned church. The sun was hiding behind some clouds, but the humidity was still high.
“Yeah, heard about it. Is it as bad as they say?” asked the head. “Best you ever had, now come on. It's too damn hot to be jacking off with you out here. You want the shit or not?”
“OK,” the crackhead took the rocks and slipped the dealer a hill. “Peace,” he said and left.
The dealer pocketed the money and walked down the steps. The new drug was moving like nothing he had ever seen. Once someone got a hit, he was hooked for life.
The young dealer headed toward a group of kids playing on a nearby playground. The sun came back and the street heated up again.
“That ain't the way, young brother.”
The young dealer turned to face Mbutu and two of his men. They wore African garb.
“Look, man,” said the young dealer, “I don't wanna hear none of your save-the-race shit today. Just let me do my thang.”
“That can be dangerous these days,” said Mbutu. “Some white man is killing people in your line of work.”
“I can take care of myself. So fuck off.”
“OK, we will. Just give us all the drugs you're carrying. As long as this white killer is out here, we can't let him kill any more black men.”
“Kiss my ass,” said the young dealer and started away.
One of Mbutu's men pulled out a gun.
The young dealer stopped. “OK, here, take the shit,” he said. “But you know what it means.” The dealer gave Mbutu a small plastic bag containing some regular crack. “Where's the new drug, the Medina? We know you got some,” said Mbutu.
“Don't know what you talkin' 'bout,” said the dealer.
“Give it to me or my fellas will take it.”
“Man, if T give it to you, they be comin' after my ass to kill me tonight!” said the dealer.
“Give it up-now.” said Mbutu. The man with the gun took a step toward the dealer. The young dealer was about to pull out the Medina, when a police cruiser pulled up. A short blast of a siren sounded.
“Stop where you are!” said a voice over the car's speaker.
All four men took off running.
The police cruiser's doors flew open and the officers inside gave chase. The young dealer ran, tossing his drugs along the way. He was soon overtaken by an officer and stopped, throwing up his arms.
“OK, OK,” the young dealer said. “Don't shoot, man!”
The officer ran by him and tackled Mbutu. They struggled a moment, then the other officer came and soon they had him handcuffed.
“Hey, what is this--” said Mbutu.
“You know what it is,” said an officer.
The dealer watched in amazement as they took Mbutu back to the cruiser and pulled away. He watched the police car disappear, then began looking for his Medina.
**********
“This is bullshit!” said Mbutu. “I want to see my attorney.”
“Fuck an attorney,” said Jim. “You're not under arrest. We just want you for questioning.”
“Y’all ain't shit, you know that,” said Mbutu. “You look like brothers but you just puppets for the white man. He's got his hand right up your ass.”
“Save the speeches,” said Tony. “We need to talk with you for a while, that's all.”
The interrogation room in 1300 was warm and quiet. The mugginess of the summer seeped in through an open window. Jim and Tony sat across an old table from Mbutu.
Mbutu settled a little. lie rubbed his wrists where the handcuffs were, pushed back his dreadlocks and let out a small chuckle. “Black cops. Savior of the people.”
“The man who tried to shoot you is in custody. Why haven't you been here to press charges?” Tony asked.
“Because someone is always trying to get at me,” said Mbutu. “Comes with the job of speaking out for my people.”
“Let's talk about your people,” said Jim. “We want them to back off the vigilante stuff. It's causing a problem.”
“I don't see how.”
“Your people are making citizen's arrests on dealers and chasing down men they think are the killer,” said Tony. “It's only a matter of time before one of them catches a bullet.”
“They're in the struggle,” said Mbutu. “They die, they do it for the cause.”
“Who are you to send someone off to their death?” Jim asked, pounding the table.
“I am a black man, a real one, not a house nigger like you!”
Jim stood up and threw his chair aside. Tony grabbed him and whispered something in his ear. Jim turned and left the room, giving Mbutu a cold look.
Tony sat back down in front of Mbutu.
“That good cop/bad cop shit is played out, my brother,” said Mbutu.
“We're not playing. He was going to kick your ass.”
“My lawyers would love that.”
“Let's talk, me and you. Forget all the political stuff, let's get to the one thing we have in common,” said Tony.
“And what would that be, officer? The liberation of our people?”
“We both want the Handyman.”
“I want him dead,” said Mbutu. “You want to use him to cover yourself in glory.”
“Makes no difference. Call your people off and let us do our job.”
“I have to look after the people of this city. You so-called leaders are just promulgating the white man's power.”
“Get off your fuckin' soapbox,” said Tony. 'Tm black too.”
“But some of us are blacker than others.”
“You people make me sick. It's easy to sit on the sidelines and criticize, race bait, and complain about everything that happens. You don't produce anything, all you do is piss and moan and pretend to be in charge of something. You're no better than those so-called community activists looking to line their pockets over this thing.”
“Now who's on the soapbox? Look, I was brought here to make a statement. Let me make it and I'll be on my way.”
“I can get you on obstruction of justice, interference with a peace officer, not to mention possession of
an illegal substance.”
“I took that crack off a dealer and your men know it,” said Mbutu.
“Don't fuck with me. I’ll grind your sorry ass up and put it in jail as sure as I'm standin' here.”
“We all gotta do what we gotta do.”
Tony got up and opened the door. “Take his ass away.”
Two uniforms came in and took Mbutu to the door.
“What do we do with him, sir?” asked a uniform.
Tony looked Mbutu in the eyes. The man was obviously on the other side of the whole issue of race. Mbutu had graduated from hating white people, to hating black people, to hating all people. He would go to jail before he would abandon his cause.
“Let him make his statement,” Tony said. “Then let him go.” The uniform pushed Mbutu toward the door. Mbutu stopped them.
“You know what your problem is, officer?” Mbutu said to Tony. “You love white people too much.”
The uniforms took him away.
Tony cursed under his breath and walked back toward his office. He was startled as Jim and several detectives rounded a corner in a run. “We got something,” said Jim.
“What?” asked Tony.
“One of the Union killings. The murderer of that woman who was tossed off the bridge.”
“Where is he?” asked Tony. “He's holed up in a house on the west side,” said Jim. “What's the situation?” Tony was getting his jacket.
“He's got a gun and apparently there's a woman and a kid inside with him,” said Jim.
To one of the detectives, Tony said, “Tell them I don't want anybody to do anything until we get there.” Tony and Jim ran out of the building, passing Mbutu, who was being taken to make his statement.
Tony and Jim sped along in their cruiser headed for Six Mile and Greenfield on the west side of town. Tanya Hale, the woman who was thrown from the overpass, had put up enough of a fight to get her killer to touch the back of her earring and leave a fingerprint. A big, fat, beautiful thumbprint.
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