The Vigilantes boh-10

by W. E. B Griffin

  Maybe this place is past the point of saving?

  [TWO]

  5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:50 P.M.

  At the kitchen sink, Joelle Bazelon struggled to regain the strength in her knees, then moved as quickly as her legs and weight allowed. She came out of the kitchen and headed toward the sounds of scuffling at the front of the house. When she entered the living room, she came almost face-to-face with Xavier “Xpress” Smith. His left hand gripped Sasha’s right arm. He had a snub-nosed chrome-plated. 32-caliber revolver in his right hand.

  This was not Joelle’s first encounter with Smith. He’d grown up one block over, on Pentridge Street. A twenty-four-year-old black male with a short temper, he had a hard, mean face and wore baggy denim pants that hung so low that half of his brown boxer shorts were visible, a T-shirt, a zipper-front hoodie, and a New York Mets ballcap, the brim worn sideways over his right ear, in which a diamond stud twinkled.

  Sasha cried, “I didn’t see him hiding in the dark by the porch, Grammy!”

  “Shut up, bitch!” Smith shouted at her.

  As she’d done with so many students over so many years, Joelle carefully studied the punk. Though he had a pistol and was waving it, he wasn’t directly aiming it at anyone.

  She saw that his eyes were bloodshot, his movements jerky and hyperactive.

  He’s on something, she thought.

  “You will not speak to my granddaughter in that manner,” Joelle said in her crisp English accent, as calmly and authoritatively as she could. She felt as if her rapidly beating heart was about to burst through her chest.

  Smith tried to stare her down.

  “I told you this would happen!” he then shouted. “I warned you, don’t talk with nobody! You old bitch, you been fucking with me all my life!”

  What Joelle Bazelon had done the previous week was more or less the same thing she’d done ten years earlier, when she’d seen Xavier Smith, then fourteen years old, beating up younger boys as they walked to Shaw Middle School. After the first shakedown, she’d telephoned his house to speak with his parents. But Xavier’s mother-also, Joelle then learned, a single parent-had told her that she should mind her own business, that she could take care of her own boy. Then, when Joelle had seen Xavier shake down another boy the very next week, taking his money and wristwatch, she’d called the cops.

  She’d told the cops that she was saddened to see such bad behavior, but it could not be tolerated.

  And she’d still felt the same way four days ago when she’d again called the cops.

  The City of Philadelphia was divided into twenty-six patrol districts- twenty-five numbered ones, plus Center City. The corporal who answered the phone at the police department’s Twelfth District, down on Woodland Avenue at Sixty-fifth, dispatched a pair of patrol officers to respond to the house of the complainant, one Mrs. Joelle Bazelon at 5550 Ridgewood Street.

  Joelle had been waiting in the wooden rocking chair on the front porch when the Chevrolet Impala squad car pulled up to her curb. She repeated to the uniformed patrol officers what she’d witnessed: that when she’d been in the alleyway putting out trash that afternoon, she’d seen Xavier sneaking out the back of the neighbor’s house two doors down. He’d been carrying the new flat-screen television that she knew the neighbor had just bought.

  When Xavier had realized she’d seen him, he’d shouted at her: “Mind your own business, bitch! Or there be trouble!”

  The cops asked a few questions, wrote down her statement, had her read and sign it, and then told her that they’d be in touch if they needed anything else.

  And that was the last she’d heard about the episode.

  That was, until tonight, when Xavier Smith, angry and hopped up on some drug, burst into her house.

  “I seen that police car here!” he said. “Next I knowed, I was picked up!” Then he made an odd smile, showing his bad teeth. “But I got me a good lawyer.”

  He looked at Sasha and leered at her backside. “Your girl got herself one fine booty.”

  Sasha glared at him.

  He noticed the bulge in the back pocket of her tight jeans.

  “Give me that cell phone,” he said, and when she didn’t move, he worked it out of her pocket and put it in his front pocket.

  “Xavier, please let go of my granddaughter,” Joelle said as evenly and sternly as she could. “Then please leave. If you don’t-”

  He suddenly laughed out loud, interrupting her.

  “Leave, old woman? You telling me to leave? You crazy! I ain’t leaving till I show you what happens when you call the police on me! That cost me money, had to pay my lawyer and bail. I don’t like losing money.”

  Joelle started to move toward the couch, and to the white telephone with the long cord there. “I’m going to call-”

  “You not calling nobody!” he said. He waved with the pistol in the direction of the couch. “Sit there, you old bitch!”

  “Xavier…”

  He suddenly shook his head violently, as if trying to clear it, then shouted: “Don’t you be trying to talk me down!”

  He let go of Sasha’s arm, then waved the pistol muzzle at the elderly woman as he walked over to her. He then pushed her so hard that she fell onto the couch.

  As she lay there, struggling to sit up, he grabbed the telephone from the side table. He took up the slack in its cord and yanked hard, snapping it free of the wall plug.

  He then went back to Joelle and pushed her back down on the cushions. After tucking the snub-nosed revolver in the hoodie’s belly pocket, he grabbed Joelle’s wrists and started wrapping them with the cord. She resisted, pulling apart her wrists after a moment and undoing his work.

  He grabbed the pistol from the pocket and raised it above his head as if he was about to hit her.

  “Don’t make me do it,” he said, almost in a growl, then put the pistol back in his pocket and rewrapped her wrists, then tied her ankles.

  The white vinyl-coated cord pressed deeply into her loose black flesh.

  He looked down at her and said, “Now I’m gonna show you what it’s like when you got something to lose, too!”

  He walked back over to Sasha, who was visibly shaking.

  He aimed the pistol at her chest.

  “Get to your knees, whore!”

  Joelle, who suddenly started to hyperventilate, cried out: “Xavier, please! Don’t hurt her! She’s all I have left!”

  Sasha started sobbing.

  “Do it!” Smith said, pointing to the ground.

  Sasha suddenly shook her head in defiance.

  Smith hauled back his left hand, then swung forward, slapping her with an open palm with such force that it knocked her off her feet.

  As she started to get up, trembling, he grabbed her by the hair, yanking her around till she was on her knees, facing his crotch.

  “Go on, whore. You know what to do with it.”

  “No, please,” she said, starting to sob deeply. “No…”

  Joelle could be heard taking faster breaths, shorter ones.

  Smith looked down at Sasha.

  “Do it!”

  She shook her head again, closing her eyes at the anticipation of being slapped again.

  He didn’t hit her but, instead, touched the muzzle of the revolver to her head and slowly thumbed back the hammer. As he did so, the cylinder rotated. The metallic click-click sounds made her open her eyes wide.

  When he’d finished, Sasha began to sob softly.

  Xavier “Xpress” Smith, still with his left fist gripping her hair and his right hand holding the pistol to her head, then terrified the beautiful teenager one last time.

  “Bang-bang, bitch,” he said as he smiled and squeezed the trigger.

  Sasha screamed at the sound of the hammer falling forward.

  But there was no bang.

  There was just silence-and a great gasping from the couch. Then nothing.

  Smith laughed as he and Sasha l
ooked over to the couch.

  The old woman had either fainted or was pretending to sleep.

  “Next time, old woman, there be a bullet in there,” he called to her.

  His left hand let loose of Sasha’s hair. He patted her head.

  “That was good, girl. Real good. I just might make you my steady bitch.”

  Sasha got to her feet and bolted over to the couch.

  “Grammy!” she cried as she reached her.

  There was no response. Sasha shook her, but still nothing. She put her cheek to her grandmother’s nose and mouth, looking for an exhaled breath, then desperately touched the inside of her wrists and all along her neck at the jawbone, hoping to find a pulse, however weak.

  “She’s dead!” Sasha wailed. “Oh, Grammy!”

  Xavier “Xpress” Smith ran over to the couch and felt the wrist and neck of the old woman.

  Sasha balled her fists and started hitting Xavier Smith on the back and arms. “Don’t touch Grammy, you bastard!”

  He stood up and nervously aimed the pistol at Sasha.

  “Listen, bitch. Don’t you say a word I was here. You hear me?”

  She stared at him, a mixture of deep sadness and hatred in her eyes.

  He moved quickly toward the front door and said, “Don’t you forget. I can come here anytime I want. Or find you anywhere. Anytime.”

  Then Xavier “Xpress” Smith lived up to his nickname and fled into the dark of night.

  [THREE]

  705 N. Second Street, Philadelphia Saturday, October 31, 11:59 P.M.

  Tony’s and Mickey’s cars, Harris’s city-issued battered unmarked gray Ford Crown Victoria Police Interceptor and O’Hara’s new black BMW M5 sedan, were parked in front of Liberties Bar.

  Inside, Matt Payne saw that the place was not as packed as he’d expected. Along the left wall were wooden tables with booths. A couple were filled, but most looked like they’d recently been vacated. They were still covered with empty and unfinished drinking glasses. Same was true in the middle of the room, where there were more wooden tables and chairs. The busboy was working busily, and would be for some time.

  Matt noticed some motion across the room and looked to the century-old, ornately carved oak bar. It ran from the front window almost back to the wooden stairway leading to second-floor seating. The bar was three-quarters full, and at its right end, nearest the front window that looked out onto the street, stood Michael J. “Mickey” O’Hara.

  The Irishman exuded an infectious energy, and now used that to enthusiastically wave his right hand high above his very curly red hair.

  Standing next to him, wearing his usual well-worn blue blazer and gray slacks, was Tony Harris. He’d noticed Mickey’s manic wave and looked over his shoulder. When Tony saw Matt, he shuffled to the left, making a place for him at the bar. His move gave Matt a clear view of Mickey-more specifically, of what he wore under his tweed jacket: a green T-shirt that had a four-leaf clover and read KISS ME, I’M IRISH.

  As Payne approached, O’Hara said, “What the hell took you so long?”

  Discretion being the better part of valor, I believe I’ll dodge that one.

  “I had to walk her dog,” Matt said.

  “Oh?” O’Hara smiled. As he motioned suggestively with his right hand, the middle finger rubbing the top of the index finger, he said, “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

  Harris chuckled.

  “Screw you, Mickey,” Payne said, but he smiled. He changed the subject. “Nice shirt. But wrong holiday.”

  “It’s the closest to a costume I’ve got,” Mickey said. “But don’t be so damned sure of yourself, Matty.”

  “What do you mean?” Payne asked.

  Tony Harris had a bottle of Hops Haus lager beer to his lips, about to sip, when he nodded and said, “He’s already gotten six kisses, including two long ones from an incredibly cute, quote, angel, unquote, in all white. She rubbed Mickey’s head and said he was her lucky charm.”

  Matt laughed, and the bartender walked up and slid two glasses on the bar before him, one with ice cubes in a clear liquid and one with just a dark liquid, both half-filled.

  “First round tonight’s on me,” said the bartender, John Sullivan-a hefty forty-year-old, second-generation Irish-American with an ample belly, friendly bright eyes, and a full white beard. “Happy Halloween, Matt.”

  “I guess I should’ve said ‘Trick or treat’ to earn my single-malt, huh?” Payne replied, reaching for the glass that he knew held the ice water. He poured it into the glass that contained the dark brown liquor, mixing it fifty-fifty. “Thanks, John.”

  The bartender grinned as Payne held up his drink and said, “Cheers, gents,” clinked the glasses and bottle of John the bartender, Tony, and Mickey, then took a healthy sip.

  He turned to looked at Harris. “So tell me what the hell that was all about tonight in Old City.”

  Harris glanced at Mickey O’Hara. “You want to start?”

  O’Hara gestured grandly, After you.

  Harris shrugged, then nodded and said, “All off the record, right?”

  O’Hara sighed. “You know you’ll see what I put together before I post it online.”

  From the look on Tony Harris’s face, it was evident that he was genuinely embarrassed for the slip of tongue. “Sorry, Mickey. Old habits and all.”

  [FOUR]

  As a rule, cops didn’t much like reporters, and, accordingly, didn’t share with them more than they absolutely had to-and a good deal of the time not even that.

  Those who made up the Thin Blue Line were a guarded group. Outsiders simply didn’t understand what it was that they did, what their brotherhood meant, and apparently no amount of education changed that.

  You either were a cop-and understood-or you weren’t.

  Mickey O’Hara wasn’t a cop. “I couldn’t get on with the police department,” he joked with his cop friends, “because I knew both of my parents and knew that they were married.”

  But-as, invariably, rules had exceptions-O’Hara did indeed understand.

  He had long ago earned the respect-and in cases like Matt Payne, the friendship-of many on the police department, including more than a few of the white shirts, some of whom even wore stars on their uniforms.

  It was said of Mickey O’Hara that he knew more people on the police force than most of the cops did themselves, and certainly more cops recognized him than could identify in a crowd the top cop himself, Police Commissioner Ralph J. Mariana.

  O’Hara’s history with the police was almost, but not quite, as long as his history with the Bulletin. He’d begun with a paper route at age twelve, throwing the afternoon edition from his bike at the stoops of West Philadelphia row houses every day after school for four years.

  By the time he turned sixteen, a series of events had served to dramatically change his career in newspapers.

  The series was triggered by his being expelled from West Catholic High School.

  Monsignor Dooley had made it clear that gambling would not be tolerated. When he found out that the O’Hara boy had illegal numbers slips that could be traced back to Francesco “Frankie the Gut” Guttermo, and that Mickey would not rat out his co-conspirator-no matter how immoral the Monsignor declared it all to be-the Monsignor said that left him with no choice but to throw Mickey out of school.

  Before being caught by the Monsignor and being shown the door, Mickey had heard that the Bulletin had a copyboy position open. He’d never had the time to pursue it-until now. And now he really wanted it, because it offered far more money than throwing papers from a bike, and it was indoor work, so no more riding in the rain or racing away from the snapping maws of those goddamn rabid street dogs.

  Mickey actually got the position, but with a ninety-day probation period.

  He took his new job seriously, probation or not. And that did not go unnoticed.

  After his probation period expired, he came to be mentored by the ink-stained assista
nt city desk editor, who dumped on Mickey more and more of the research assignments-drudge work that no one else wanted to do. Before Mickey knew it, the research he was turning in was becoming actual articles, albeit short ones, printed under the credit “Staff Roundup.”

  Then, late one Friday afternoon-he clearly remembered it as if it had happened yesterday, not nearly two decades earlier-he’d been summoned to the managing editor’s office. The office had a huge glass window overlooking the entire newsroom, and as Mickey approached he saw that the managing editor was looking at a copy of that afternoon’s front page. The assistant city desk editor was in there, too, looking his usual deeply introspective self.

  Mickey O’Hara, days shy of turning eighteen, was convinced that this was the end of his newspaper days. Clearly, his mentor had been caught abusing his official duties by helping develop the questionable skills of a lowly copyboy.

  And now said copyboy was about to lose his job and be sent back to the streets.

  O’Hara figured that if he was lucky they might let him pedal around town slinging papers at stoops again.

  But, of course, that had not happened.

  After an initial awkward exchange of pleasantries, the managing editor had tossed the afternoon paper that he was holding to Mickey. Mickey had glanced at it, recognized the headline he’d written, then under that seen his name-his byline there on the front page.

  As Mickey O’Hara, speechless, looked between the two men, the managing editor said, “Congratulations, Mickey. Nice work. This is usually the part of the interview process when I ask, ‘When can you start?’ but it would appear that you already have.”

  O’Hara rose rapidly in the hierarchy of the Bulletin city room, eventually writing “Follow the Money,” the hard-hitting series of articles on graft and gross incompetence in the city’s Child Protective Services. It was the series that won him a Pulitzer Prize for public service.

  O’Hara had thought that he was on top of the world, particularly considering how far he’d come from the day Monsignor Dooley had shown him the door. He was being paid, he’d thought, damned decently for something he enjoyed doing. And, he believed, the stories that helped better the lot of kids trapped in the hell that was CPS was alone worth it all.