by Mason Dixon
“I don’t know, but it sounds like we have work to do.”
*
Island Blue Self-Storage was located on the outskirts of Baltimore, a short drive from the heart of town in one direction and the docks in another. Members of the drug enforcement squad had sat on the units for hours on end but had never witnessed any criminal activity taking place on the premises of the vast site. Just the usual comings and goings of regular paying customers moving their belongings into or out of the storage spaces as needed. The drug squad had deemed Island Blue one of Ice’s legitimate businesses and it had quickly fallen off the radar as attention turned to Miss Marie’s instead.
The drug squad, Bathsheba decided as she watched bricks of cocaine being secured behind a unit’s locked door, obviously hadn’t looked hard enough. Ice’s supply wasn’t sitting in some warehouse the police hadn’t been able to locate but in dozens of storage units they had chosen to ignore. Millions of dollars hiding practically in plain sight.
Bathsheba needed to get word to Carswell so he could set up round-the-clock surveillance. She still didn’t have enough evidence to take Ice down—she needed to prove the coke belonged to him instead of a rent-paying customer—but she had just taken a large step toward cracking the case. She was so close now she could almost see the finish line. But instead of jubilation, she felt only trepidation.
There was a reason she had been brought here. A reason she was being allowed to see what she was seeing. Either Ice trusted her enough to show her the inner workings of his organization or she wouldn’t be allowed to live long enough to tell anyone what she had seen.
Bigfoot and Winky stood outside a large unit on the end of the lot. When he saw Bathsheba and Raq approach, Bigfoot bent and lifted the unit’s retractable door. Light spilled out from the unit’s interior, mingling with the harsh glow emanating from the security lights overhead.
“Go on in,” Bigfoot said. “They’re waiting for you.”
Bathsheba and Raq ducked under the half-open door. Bathsheba tried not to flinch when the door slammed shut behind them.
Ice, flanked by Dez and One-Eyed Mike, stood at the front of the unit. Before him sat a small figure bound to a chair. The figure’s face bore little resemblance to the mug shots and surveillance photos Bathsheba had seen. Half Pint’s once-handsome face was grotesquely swollen, the results of what must have been a savage beating.
“You’re here,” Ice said, puffing on a cigar. “Now we can get this party started.”
“Get it started?” Raq said. “It looks like it’s almost over. What have I missed?”
“It seems Rashad has forgotten who calls the shots around here. He’s forgotten that I have eyes everywhere. I run the streets of Charm City, not some little boy pretending to be a man.”
Half Pint whimpered and fiercely shook his head from side to side, the bloody gag in his mouth preventing him from verbally proclaiming his innocence. Tears ran down his ravaged cheeks, even though one eye was bloodshot and the other was swollen shut.
“Did you know he was planning to go into business on his own?” Ice asked. “That he was siphoning off kilos of my product to build a stash of his own?”
“No,” Raq said. “You pay me to watch him when he’s on the streets, but I’m not with him twenty-four seven.”
“So you do think he’s capable of betraying me?”
“All I’ve ever heard him say is how much he wanted—wants to be like you. He said the two of you were tight.”
“He said a lot of things. But tonight’s the last night he’ll ever use my name in vain.” Using a handkerchief to mask his fingerprints, Ice pulled a nine-millimeter handgun out of his pocket and held it out with the butt end facing Raq. “Since you don’t have a piece of your own, I asked Rashad if you could borrow his. End him.”
Half Pint screamed behind his gag, his wide eyes pleading for mercy.
“Why me?” Raq asked, backing away from the gun.
“Because I need you to prove your loyalty to me. Show me you weren’t planning to betray me too.”
“Ice, I’ve had your back for eight years now,” Raq said. “You should know by now I’d never turn on you.”
“From now on, I’m Missouri. I’m not taking anyone’s word for anything. You’ve got to show me. If I still have your loyalty, do what I ask you to do.”
“You’ve got to pop your cherry sometime, right?” Dez asked. “Who better to practice on than a traitor?”
Raq’s hands remained at her sides. “Before today, he wasn’t a traitor. He was my friend.”
“Ain’t no room in this game for friendship.”
Ice pressed the barrel of the gun to the back of Half Pint’s head and pulled the trigger. Half Pint jerked and slumped sideways until both he and the chair he was duct taped to fell to the floor. Blood and brains spilled from what was left of his head. The acrid smell of piss and shit filled the room as Ice handed the smoking gun to Dez for disposal.
Ice stepped over the growing bloodstain on the floor and tapped his finger against Raq’s heaving chest. “The next time I ask you to do something, your answer better be yes, not why, you hear me?”
Raq nodded mutely.
Bathsheba swallowed the rising bile in her throat when Ice turned his cold, unfeeling eyes on her.
“I wanted you to be here tonight so you could see how I deal with traitors.” He buttoned his suit jacket as if he was wrapping up a business meeting instead of asking her and Raq to become accessories to murder. “Are you in or are you out?”
“I’m in,” Bathsheba said quickly before he could question her loyalty as he had Raq’s.
“Good. Now clean up this mess.”
“Anything you say, boss,” Raq said.
Bathsheba thought she heard a hint of challenge in Raq’s voice. Perhaps her loyalty was up for grabs after all. If so, Bathsheba planned to be the one to claim it. If she didn’t, she might soon find herself where Half Pint now was: bound to a chair, staring sightlessly at the ceiling while someone scraped her brains off the floor.
Chapter Fifteen
Raq jerked awake, her throat raw from screaming. Her next-door neighbor pounded on the wall between their apartments with what sounded like a broom handle.
“Keep it down in there, will you? Some of us have to go to work in the morning.”
Raq smacked the wall with the side of her fist. “Shut up and go back to sleep.”
“I will if you let me.”
Embarrassed by losing control of the emotions she normally kept in check, Raq tossed the tangled covers aside and swung her legs over the side of the bed. As she held her head in her hands, she tried to stop the unwanted images from coursing through her mind. No matter what she did, she couldn’t stop picturing Half Pint’s head exploding after Ice fired a bullet into the back of his skull.
She wiped away the tears that came like clockwork every night. Half Pint was a pain in the ass who liked to play by his own rules, but he was just a kid. A seventeen-year-old kid who deserved to learn from his mistakes, not die from them. But die he had. And Raq watched him go. Then she had helped get rid of the evidence afterward.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Half Pint’s body tense then go slack as the life drained out of him. She smelled the pungent stench of his bowels releasing. She saw herself cleaning up the mess Ice had made, scooping bits of brain and bone into a plastic bag after Bigfoot and Winky carted off Half Pint’s body to a Dumpster in the Middle East. If Half Pint had been found somewhere else, the cops might be more motivated to solve the case rather than being so quick to pile it on top of the rest of the unsolved homicides committed by one or more unknown assailants. A number nearly higher than Raq could count.
Raq had never known Ice to do his own wet work before. Normally, he had someone else do it after he gave the order. That was how she knew the situation with Half Pint was about more than business for Ice. For some reason, it was personal.
Was Ice jealous of Half Pint’s ambitio
n or afraid the little runt might actually unseat him from his throne? Either way, he had proven his point. When it came to his money, his product, and his reputation, Ice wasn’t to be played with.
In the days following Half Pint’s disappearance, speculation ran rampant as to not only who was responsible but also who would take his place. Raq knew the answer to the first question but didn’t have a clue about the answer to the second. She didn’t care about answers to someone else’s questions. What she wanted were answers to her own.
How had she not known what Half Pint was up to, and why was part of her glad he was gone? In a way, his death made her life easier. The other corner boys were easier to manage and none would risk taking the liberties Half Pint had. None of them would convince customers who couldn’t pay in cash to barter their bodies instead. Not because they didn’t want the sex but because they were too money-hungry to reach into their pockets to pay for it. Half Pint was the only one who had dared to do things his way because he thought he sold enough product to earn Ice’s favor. Obviously, he had thought wrong.
Raq hadn’t worked since Half Pint was killed. She had to get back out there before people started thinking she had developed a yellow streak. She wasn’t scared. She just didn’t have the stomach for the job like she used to.
She wasn’t looking forward to hitting the streets again. Everyone would be nervous and edgy for a while, wondering if they were next on someone’s hit list. Things would calm down in time. They always did. Yet Raq could find no comfort in the thought of returning to her old, familiar routine. It had been her job to keep Half Pint safe. To protect him from himself. She had failed at both. For that, she would never forgive herself.
She stared at her reflection in the rectangular mirror hanging over the sink. Silvery lines snaked through the discolored glass, giving her face a spooky appearance that fit perfectly with both her mood and the lateness of the hour. She looked as tired as she felt. She was tired of watching her friends die. Tired of running from the cops. Tired of fighting with rival crews. Tired of sleeping with one eye open.
She gripped the cracked sides of the porcelain sink to keep from putting her fist through the mirror.
“I don’t want any more of this life,” she said, feeling like crying again.
Working for Ice was like being in a gang. Once you were in, there was no getting out. She was stuck and she had nowhere to go. The realization was more crushing than a one-punch knockout.
She slowly sank to the floor, her boxers and tank top offering little protection from the cold tile. She wanted to feel safe. She wanted to be held by strong, loving arms. She wanted the little slice of heaven she had told Bathsheba about. She wanted it all and she wanted it now.
She reached for the phone that was never far from her side and called the woman who was never far from her heart.
“Hello?”
Bathsheba’s voice was thick with sleep.
“I didn’t know if it was too late to call or too early. Either way, I had to talk to you.”
“What’s wrong, Raq?”
Bathsheba’s voice was clearer. Raq could tell she was wide-awake now. Awake and worried about her. She wasn’t the only one. Raq felt more tears spring to her eyes. “I’m going crazy here and I need to see you. Can I come over?”
“Now?”
“I know it’s late, but I need to talk to someone who understands. Someone who was there, you know what I mean?”
Raq didn’t want to say too much over the phone, so she hoped she’d said enough to make Bathsheba understand where she was coming from.
“I know what you mean. I’ve been struggling, too.”
Raq was glad to hear she wasn’t the only one having a hard time dealing with things.
“Can I come see you?” she asked. “We don’t have to do anything. I just—”
“It’s okay, Raq,” Bathsheba said softly. “We can do whatever you want.” Then she said the words Raq hadn’t been able to. “I need you, too.”
Raq pulled herself to her feet, her heart relieved of a small share of its burden. “I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
Raq splashed cold water on her face to wash away the stink of the streets. Then she put on clothes—boots, hoodie, and oversized jeans—that allowed her to blend into them.
She walked with her head down and her shoulders bunched around her ears, hoping she looked unapproachable enough to keep the wolves at bay. She slowed when she neared the corner where Half Pint used to set up shop. In his place wasn’t a member of Ice’s crew but a member of King’s.
Raq recognized the dealer right away, a lanky kid from East Biddle who thought he was LeBron James. He didn’t have any of LeBron’s basketball skills, but he must have owned every piece of LeBron-themed apparel Nike put out because Raq never saw him wearing anything without LeBron’s name or face on it. His name was Gary, but for the last few years he had been calling himself The Heat. Raq often wondered if he’d change his name if LeBron bailed out on Miami at the end of his contract like he did Cleveland.
The Heat had enforcement on each end of the street, which meant Raq was outnumbered three to one. She started to cross the street to avoid trouble, but she couldn’t let the matter drop. Ice and King had worked out a deal years ago, squashing the beef that had long existed between their rival crews. They had divided up the city and established a clear buffer zone between them. Ice’s and King’s dealers weren’t supposed to come within two blocks of each other. King’s people setting up shop on the edge of Ice’s territory was one thing. Setting up inside it was another. One was a provocation that might spark another round of debates. This was an invitation to war.
When he saw Raq approach, The Heat signaled for his bodyguards to stay in their positions. Then he slowly lifted his oversized sweatshirt so Raq could see the butt of the gun sticking out of the waistband of his jeans.
Raq raised her hands to show she was unarmed. “I didn’t come to squabble. I came to talk.”
“About what?” The Heat asked, letting his sweatshirt drop.
“You’re a bit outside of your territory, aren’t you?”
He lifted his chin defiantly. “I go where I’m told and I was told to come here.”
“This is Ice Taylor’s territory.”
“Things have changed since the last time you were out here. Word is your man Ice is slipping and my man King is taking advantage. You should learn to keep up.”
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
When she took a step toward him, he reached for his gun to hold her at bay. “Like I said, I go where I’m told.” She began to retreat as he pulled back the slide and chambered a round. She stopped moving when he raised the gun and pointed it at her face. “And from what I’m told, King wants to talk to you.”
He put two fingers in his mouth and whistled sharply. Seconds later, headlights came on up the street and a dark gray SUV roared to life. The driver of the car did a U-turn and pulled up beside them. When the rear passenger’s side door swung open, Raq saw three of King’s men sitting inside, two in the front and one in the back.
“Get in,” The Heat said, waving his gun toward the car. “King doesn’t like to be kept waiting.” His trigger finger twitched when Raq stood her ground. “I said, get in.”
The words came out so slowly, each one felt like a separate sentence. Praying they wouldn’t amount to a death sentence, Raq reluctantly climbed into the backseat of the car. “What kind of parlay takes place at three in the morning?” she asked as the driver roared away from the curb.
Seated beside her, King’s man Breezy pulled his gun out of his jacket and placed it on his lap, the barrel pointing toward Raq’s ribs. “The kind where our people talk and you listen.”
Raq swallowed hard, trying not to show fear. King lived only a short distance away, but the trip felt like the longest ride of her life.
The car stopped in front of the project building where King continued to
live despite the riches he had amassed. Unlike Ice, he didn’t flaunt his money. He did, however, like to flex his muscle. Having his men snatch her off the street was his way of doing just that.
The two men in the front of the car stayed put while Breezy led Raq upstairs. Most of the tenants were on King’s payroll so the building was like a veritable fortress. King’s castle wasn’t as fancy as Ice’s, but it was even more secure. Fourteen floors of resistance lay between King and his enemies. And between Raq and freedom.
*
Bathsheba peeked between the blinds to get a better look at the deserted street. “She didn’t show,” she said into the phone pressed to her ear.
“What do you mean she didn’t show?” Bill Carswell’s voice had an edge to it. He sounded like a worried father sweating out his daughter’s first date. Only the possible consequences of this encounter were much worse than the results of a few hours of teenage irresponsibility.
Bathsheba let the blinds fall back into place as she moved away from the window. “I mean I’m here and she’s not.”
“She’s traveling on foot. Have you given her enough time to get to you?”
“She called me over two hours ago. Even if she was crawling on her hands and knees, she should have been here by now.”
“Do you think she changed her mind?”
Bathsheba raised her free hand in frustration and let it fall. “I don’t know what’s going on.”
“When you talked to her, how did she sound?”
Bathsheba chose her words carefully so she wouldn’t betray her growing feelings for a woman who was one of the subjects of her investigation.
“Vulnerable, tired, and afraid.” Like she needed me to hold her and say everything was going to be okay. “Like she needed a friend.” Like she needed me.
“Do you think you can flip her?”
Bathsheba had been wondering the same thing ever since Raq had called.