I swung open the metal door expecting heavier resistance, but instead it smacked the cinder block wall, chipped paint crackling to the concrete floor.
“Nice one, Booker.” I think I’d just awakened the whole damn place.
Barreling up the first flight of stairs in three strides, I could feel a burst of energy run through me—survival of the fittest. I catapulted myself around the bend and pushed off to attempt the same quick ascension.
“Whoa, man! Watch what the fuck you’re doing.” A male with eyes that wouldn’t open spoke so slowly I thought he was joking around. His hand was stuffed inside his girlfriend’s sweatshirt, massaging her chest for the world to see. Not that she noticed me standing there. She’d yet to open her eyes as she lathered her partner with tongue-laden kisses, saliva coated on his face and neck. He tried saying something else, but she stuck her tongue down his throat, and he nearly suffocated. I scooted around the cute couple and continued my climb.
Up on the third floor, I spotted 3E. I knocked twice, using my left hand, and two apartments down, a door cracked open, a single eyeball checking me out. I could feel my heart peppering my chest, readying my free hand to grab the pistol in less than a second.
I knocked again. “Pizza delivery,” I said, attempting a rough Boston accent. A few seconds later, the door popped open.
“Yeah, how much I owe youse?”
I’d gotten lucky. Apparently, he’d ordered pizza. Or he’d been alerted about my presence.
The man had his back to me, ambling toward a kitchen table that had shit piled all over it: porno magazines, chips, bottles, bags of fast food. He reached into a pair of jeans draped over a chair, smoke curling above his head, and I spotted a cigarette bouncing between his lips. I took a half-step in and didn’t see anyone else, only piles of trash, a box TV, a couch with two missing cushions, and single coffee table covered with sandwich baggies and a glass tube usually used for smoking meth. I assumed this guy was Donny—nicknamed Dill, as in Dill Pickles—wearing a pair of jeans with boxers squeezing out at the waist, no socks or shoes. Tattoos covered his back, one with the letters I-R-A imprinted in the middle.
A hand reached inside my jacket, fingers wrapping the grip of the Sig Sauer, then I pulled out my wallet, exposing a copy of my PI license.
“Donny,” I said in my normal voice.
Jerking his head around, his light eyes narrowed, then he bolted out of his stance. I couldn’t shoot him, but I didn’t know what he was running after. Looking down, I saw a baseball bat. I turned and whipped it across the room. The bat cracked a knee, then wedged in between spastic legs, and he tumbled to the matted brown carpet, writhing in pain.
I was on him in less than three seconds, a forearm digging into his chest so hard he wheezed out a breath.
“Who…ah…you?” he said, his eyes bulging out.
“I’m a friend of your parole officer, the one you visit every week, telling him what a good boy you’ve been. Have you been a good boy, Donny?”
“I…can’t…breathe.” I lifted my elbow, and his face relaxed. “I got nothin’ to say, nigga.”
That rolled off his lips way too easily. “I thought you’d have a lot of street smarts, Donny. Or should I call you Dill? You didn’t choose your words very carefully. Care to try again?”
Turning his head a few inches to the right, he whipped it around and hurled a lugy. It splattered across my face. Just as I jerked my hand upward to swipe away the goo, his arm reached toward the table, then I heard a bottle smash.
It was my head. Tiny flakes of golden lights flickered, and I dropped to the floor. Donny crawled out from under me, and I heard feet pound the floor. Pushing myself through a mental fog and splintering pain, I climbed onto all fours, the bat sitting to my right. With blurred vision, I grabbed it and chunked it as hard as I could. A second later, another crack of the bat. Half out of breath, and blood streaming around my ear, onto my face, I got to my feet and lumbered over to Donny, who’d dropped just inside the door, eyes blinking and his limbs moving spasmodically. He’d live to smoke another day.
I slammed the door shut with the toe of my shoe, then grabbed a towel from the kitchen, pressing it against my head wound. “Shit!” Glass was embedded in my head. Not much I could do about it at that point, other than stop the bleeding. I sat against the wall and gave Donny a moment to regain his senses, what was left of them anyway.
Suddenly, he came around, rolling onto an elbow, rubbing his eyes. I think he’d experienced this state of mental fogginess plenty of times.
“Youse,” he said.
“You’re not accustomed to hosting a black man in your apartment?”
I spotted the result of my near-blind bat toss—a blue/green bruise protruding from Donny’s chin.
“Ahh,” he moaned, trying to move his jaw.
He blinked his bloodshot eyes, appearing to search the nasty apartment, perhaps looking for a weapon, another way out, maybe another person in an adjoining room. My senses went to full alert. I hadn’t done what I was trained to do.
Dropping the bloody towel on the floor, I lifted my body upward, a hand reaching for the wall to steady my balance. I swallowed, ears crackling, sending a surge of pain through the side of my head.
I took a step, then two, and my hand reached for a vinyl chair like a toddler learning how to walk. Shooting a glance at Donny Dill Pickles, he’d dropped to his back, rubbing his eyes. A knee moved upward, and it swayed back and forth.
I’m not sure Iron Mike Tyson had ever connected a punch so cleanly.
Forcing out a breath, I closed my eyes, seeking improved equilibrium. Acrid body odor hung in the air, unfiltered cigarettes mixed with a faint odor of crap.
A rustling sound. Turning my head, I searched for the source. There it was again, sounding like a shuffling newspaper. Padding around the table, I came to a hallway and took a quick look left. Empty, but two open doors, one a bedroom, the other a bathroom, I was betting.
Another look at Donny Dill, on his back, knees stirring. Without a partner, I had to leave Donny Dill alone for a few seconds, but if I didn’t clear the apartment, I was putting my life in jeopardy.
I pulled out my X-5, gripping it in both hands, then coiled around the corner, my elbow grazing the wall as balance still eluded me. A man shouted, and I glanced upward. I think it came from the floor above, maybe the apartment next door. I just hoped it had nothing to do with my arrival.
Making it to the first door, I shot a quick glance inside, then jerked my arms upward in a shooting stance, and did a quick scan. Clear, other than piles of towels, newspapers, a shower curtain ripped to shreds, a single hook clinging to the bent rod.
No more sounds, I shifted my eyes to the bedroom and slid down the wall. Another quick glance inside. I brought my pistol up and stepped inside. Empty of life, although something might be growing on remnants of Chinese food and slabs of beef sprawled out on the table next to a bed. Clothes, trash littered the floor. Wading in, I forced myself to the ground, pulled up a bed cover, and verified the space was clear.
Up on one knee, I questioned the sound I’d heard earlier. Could have been my murky mind playing tricks, at least in this location. Maybe it came from the outside hallway or the floor above. I padded through the doorway, touching my face where a line of blood, mostly dry, snaked to my goatee. I rolled out my tongue and tasted copper pennies mixed with sangria.
Another rustling sound just as I passed the bathroom. I stepped inside, using my shoe to shift towels, clothes, tissues, plastic bottles of aspirin. Something shifted in the tub. Leaning over, I used the end of my Sig to flip newspapers.
Meow!
A scraggily gray cat, missing half of one ear, peered at me, its paws batting newspaper. Taking a sniff, I’d entered the cat’s home: globs of feces, yellow stains on white porcelain. I felt sorry for the little fella with Donny Dill as his caretaker. That guy couldn’t take care of himself.
A swell of anger rushed over me, for Donny’s dis
regard of life of any form and for my cut scalp.
Now mentally sharper, I walked to the kitchen, pistol at my side. No more rustling newspaper, no sounds of any kind.
The next few seconds came at me in slow motion—my eyes not seeing Donny’s feet near the door, instinctively jerking my handgun upward, my shoe landing in the kitchen area, Donny thrusting a blade down on my arm. Jumping back, the long knife clanged off aluminum alloy. I swung my boot and connected with his ribs. A crack, and Donny doubled over. I crashed the butt of my Sig on top of his hands, and he released another groan, the knife dropping to the floor. I wanted to beat the crap out of him, but I diverted my reflexes and nudged his shoulder. He slid to the floor.
“Sit in the chair. Now.”
“Fuckin’ broke my ribs,” he said through clenched teeth.
“You almost chopped off my hands, asshole.”
I pulled up a chair and sat down, two feet from Donny’s bruised face, his eyes closed, an arm pressed against his torso.
“You don’t make friends very easily, do you?”
Raising his head, thin eyes shot darts at me. “What do you want with me, man?”
“I need you to answer all my questions as if you are on the stand in a court of law and your life is on the line. Capiche?”
He sucked in air, then lurched forward in pain. “Whatever, man.”
“I don’t speak that language. Is that whatever yes, or whatever no? Just so we’re clear.”
“Whatever, man. Yes!” Donny Dill peeked toward the door. I wondered if he was expecting visitors, possibly someone who might want to crack my head completely open. Time wasn’t an ally right now, so I had to make this quick.
“When’s the last time you spoke with your sister?”
“I don’t have a sistah,” he said too quickly.
Shaking my head, I lifted the Sig Sauer from my knee, bringing the .40 S&W caliber under his chin and held it there for a couple of seconds. He scowled, trying to act brave. Then I flipped it upward and popped the five-inch barrel off his blue/green chin knot that was now the size of a lemon.
“Ah, fuck!” he yelled. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“That’s called pain management. I help you forget about your cracked ribs by diverting your neurotransmitters to your chin. Make sense?”
Donny Dill shifted his jaw.
“It’s not broken. If it were broken, you wouldn’t be able to speak. Well, not very clearly. Then again, I can’t understand half the words that come out of your mouth. Maybe it is broken.”
He mumbled and groaned.
“That was your one Mulligan. You like that? I just made an Irish pun?”
No noise or movement.
“Not in a joking mood? That’s good. That means you understand the seriousness of the situation. One more time. When did you last speak with your sister?”
He cleared his throat. “I’m thirsty. Can you get me some water, maybe a bear?”
I think he meant beer. “Once you talk, then you can drink. Spill it.”
“Okay. Maggie. Let’s see. I don’t know. I’m not real good with calendars and shit.”
I raised the sidearm near the lemon knot.
“Wait, I think it was a week ago, maybe two.”
“What did you guys talk about?”
“I don’t know. She’s a dancer and does that ballet thing all over the country. Pretty good, from what I hear.”
This fucker was giving me the run around, I could feel it.
I released an annoyed chuckle. “Donny? Dill? Which would you prefer?”
I stood up and paced, scratching my chin with the butt of my Sig Sauer.
“Either one works.”
“How about I call you Dildo? Because if you don’t start giving me direct, honest answers in the next sixty seconds, I’m going to go straight to your parole officer with everything I’ve seen, including a few embellishments.”
His eyes scrunched together.
“Em-bell-ish-ments. Four syllables. Look it up, because it will fuck up your life. You’ll end up back in prison before you make another batch of that meth over there.” I flicked the handgun toward the table.
Another strange look.
“Dildo. You might want to purchase one, practice on yourself in anticipation of your extended vacation in prison. Did you hear? Officials have ensured they’ll integrate cellmates more effectively. They figure if you become friends, there will be less fighting, fewer murders, sexual assaults. Because once you go black, you never go back.”
I let out a deep chuckle.
Shaking his head with scared eyes, watching me pace, he said, “What are youse all freaked out for, man? I can do this. I’m just getting wahmed up.”
“Waiting.”
“Okay, Maggie and I talked a few days ago. Sataday, I think.”
That was the day after Courtney’s murder. “And?”
He huffed out a breath, shaking his head again. “Maggie’s been real upset about this boyfriend of hers, some turd-burglar named Edwahdo.”
Donny, Dill, Dildo, knew something, and I had to get it out of him.
Exercising his jaw more, I could see he’d lost track of me. I stood just behind his chair and let the butt of the gun drop on his head from about six inches.
“Ow! What the fuck, man?”
“I’m still here and you need to tell me the whole truth. So. Help. You. God.” Circling in front of him, my eyes matched his gaze, a foot away.
“She…” He bit his lower lip with chipped teeth. “She gave me five grand to take out the girl.”
“Take out. On a date?”
“Take out, as in dust, whack. Kill.”
The word lingered in the air, just like his sickening body odor.
“But I didn’t do it, man. I swear to you on a stack of Bibles.”
“Name all thirty-nine books of the Old Testament.”
He held out a finger like was going to make the attempt.
“Where’s the money?”
His nose twitched, and he glanced over at the table. “I have these urges, man. I just can’t help it. I get clean for a while, then…” Donny’s voice faded, eyes drifting to the floor.
“Who killed Courtney?”
“I got no clue, man.”
“So you expect me to believe that Maggie gave you five K to whack Eduardo’s girlfriend, she ends up dead, and you had nothing to do with it?”
“Honestly, I wanted to dust that dickhead, Edwahdo, for screwing over Maggie. Latin prick.”
I’m not sure why, but I think I believed this loser.
“What did you and Maggie talk about on Saturday?”
“She thanked me for whacking Courtney.”
“And you said?”
“I didn’t want her to think I let her down. I took credit for it.” He sounded like a teenage kid apologizing for missing curfew. “I just got lucky that someone else killed the little bitch.”
“Lucky, yeah.”
Donny had no idea that he’d just implicated his sister in a murder-for-hire plot. Even if the person she hired to finish the job smoked the money away, Maggie had committed a serious felony.
I walked to the sink, found a Styrofoam cup from a fast-food joint, and filled it with water. I handed it to Donny, who gulped it down in no time.
“Water is a little better for you than beer, especially before noon.”
Fluid dripped from his mouth, and he stared at nothing, perhaps realizing what this all meant.
“Maggie. She’s in trouble, huh?”
“I’m not the DA, nor a judge, but if they can prove it, she probably has danced in her last ballet.”
Regretful tears welled in his eyes, tiny red veins more visible. “I’ve been fucked up since I was ten. But now I got Maggie involved. She was always the smaht one, the one who made the right decisions to get out of this hell hole. She worked hahd. And now, with one spit of jealousy, she’ll be just like me. A convicted felon.”
For once, Donny spoke the
truth.
Without saying another word, I slipped out of the apartment, quietly made my way back outside, and called the cab company. Fortunately, the same guy who had driven me there had a tire slashed while filling up his gas tank four blocks away. On his way out of the war zone, dispatch said he’d grab me and then likely vow to never come back.
Waiting for the cab, standing next to three trees—ensuring I wasn’t easy prey for Donny or anyone who had an aversion to anything not pure white—I contacted four people.
I started with the parole officer. “Any luck of Donny kicking his addiction while behind bars?”
“As tough as it is, it’s the only place he can stay clean. Probably live longer too.”
We hung up, and I called both Renee and Henry, leaving each a voicemail. Seeing the cab round the corner, I fired off a quick text to Alisa.
Maggie punked u. Tried hiring Donny to kill Courtney but he used $$ on drugs. Killer is still out there. Left v-mails for Renee and Henry. Call u from airport.
“Need a lift back to Logan, but first need to stop at the same FedEx store,” I said, curling my body into the cab’s ripped back seat.
The overstuffed cabbie did a double take as I shut the door. “What the hell happened to youse?”
While my head’s stabbing pain was front and center, I’d temporarily forgotten about the visual the cabbie was getting. Leaning left, I spotted a dollop of blood at the point of impact. I touched it again and felt razor-like edges sticking out of my head. A crimson trail of blood spiraled around my ear, ending at my goatee.
“I tripped.” I found my seatbelt, while shifting left to ensure that same loose coil didn’t rip my jeans.
“Yeah, right.” He flipped around and punched it, leaving Dorchester behind us in minutes.
The ride back into the city seemed less stressful, now that I’d survived going behind enemy lines. Trees whipped by and my mind processed what I’d learned. Not surprisingly, a love triangle sparked a toxic reaction. But Maggie hadn’t caught Eduardo and Courtney in the act, so her response wasn’t spontaneous. She’d known about Eduardo playing both sides, and she then planned to kill the one impediment that stood between her and a life of bliss with the Latin lover, or so she thought. But with Eduardo, female companionship was like oxygen, it appeared—he could never have enough.
BOOKER Box Set #1 (Books 1-3: A Private Investigator Thriller Series of Crime and Suspense) Page 41