Double Dead

by Gary Hardwick

  Cane had purchased the half-grown tiger from a white man two months ago. He paid five thousand dollars for her. They chained the cat up while she was still sedated. When the tiger came to, she was hungry and mad as hell.

  Cane admired the cat's beauty and strength. But he really wanted her to establish a reputation on the street. Rollers were ready to kill and to die, but not like this.

  “Please don't,” said Earl.

  The tiger took a swipe with a big paw. She was weak and sick, but still fast. The cat growled and walked back to the wall, waiting. “Okay, okay,” said Earl. Cane took the man by the seat of his pants and pulled him away from the tiger.

  “Tell it.”

  “I was watching the house before I hit it.”

  “I know that. Who sent you to do it?”

  “Take me upstairs first.”

  Cane shoved the man at the tiger. Earl hopped on his bound-up feet, digging in his heels and pushing himself back. The big cat leaped with a loud roar, instinctively pouncing at the man.

  The chain went to its limit, and the tiger missed, making a choking sound as she was pulled back. Earl screamed, a high-pitched scream that sounded almost like a child.

  “Who the fuck was it?” yelled Cane. He slapped Earl hard in the face.

  “Okay... okay.” Earl caught his breath. “It was the Girls... the Nasty Girls.... One of them told me the place was ripe for a hit. I took it from there.”

  “You work for them?” asked Cane.

  “Naw, man, I'm just fucking her, that's all. I swear.”

  “Which one?”

  “Sheri, Sheri Foland.”

  “Okay,” said Cane. “Now it's time for you to see why they call them predators.” He tightened his grip on Earl and moved him toward the tiger.

  “Wait, man,” Earl said. “I got something else.”

  “Not interested,” said Cane. He pushed him closer.

  “Someone is stealing from you.”

  Cane loosened his grip. “Who?”

  “Get me out of here first.”

  “No. Tell me now or I'll give you to the cat.”

  “I know this guy, he works for you, he's been taking money. Braggin' about it too.”

  “Who?” said Cane. “What's his name?”

  “Take me away from this animal first,” said Earl.

  Cane waited a moment. He hated people who stole from the

  crew more than anything. Maybe this guy was lying, but he had to know. A thief breeds rebels, and he didn't need that right now. Cane pulled Earl away from the big cat.

  “Okay,” he said. “Now tell it.”

  “JaIeel over by Grand River and Fenkell, skinny dude, always carries this little dog.” “Jaleel Jackson,” Cane said. He knew the man. He was a good roller and reliable-- so far.

  “Me and Jaleel was gettin' high with these two white girls one night, and he was braggin' about how he was stealin' from the house. Couldn't shut up about it.”

  Cane took this in. It would be easy to check out. “Okay,” said Cane. “Let's go.” Cane released Earl, who wobbled a little. Cane had turned to go back up the stairs when he wheeled around and pushed Earl and sent him flying at the big cat. The tiger struck, this time hitting her mark.

  The sound of the man screaming sent chills through Tico. He hated that damned tiger. The neighbors had called the cops about the smell and the roaring, but so far the police hadn't believed it. There were a lot of strange things in the city, but nothing like this.

  Tico had tried to stop Cane from buying the cat, but Cane had been tripping that day. Cane wanted to make everyone scared of him in Detroit. He talked about dying, cheating death, God, and all that weird shit. Tico had known Cane long enough to know there was no reasoning with him when he got like that.

  “Nigga's crazy,” said Walker, shaking his head. “He'd do well on the island. Crazy men prosper in Jamaica.”

  “He's crazy, but it works,” Tico said. “Four years ago I had nothing. Now I'm running out of places to put the money.”

  “Soon I'll be like that too,” said Walker. “I can go back to

  Jamaica a rich man. I can't wait.”

  “Why'd you leave if it's so good in Jamaica?” asked Tico.

  “More opportunity here. I love Jamaica, but there's no place like here for making money.”

  “I heard Jamaica is a shit hole,” said Tico.

  Walker grew angry. “You should not talk about what you don't know. We were building hospitals and colleges in Jamaica when your people were picking cotton.”

  “Fuck Jamaica,” said Tico. “You in America now, boy. That backward island shit don't play here.”

  Walker turned sullen. He scowled at Tico, then covered it with a smile.

  “So, I hear Cane don't like the ladies,” said Walker. “That true?”

  “He ain't no fag if that's what you mean,” said Tico. “Cane is just ... he's above all that kinda shit.”

  “Above pussy? Bullshit,” Walker said. He laughed.

  “You don't wanna go bringing that up around him,” said Tico. “Believe me.”

  Tico and Walker stood in silence for a moment. They listened, but no more sounds came from the basement.

  “You think he did it this time?” asked Walker.

  “Sounded like it,” said Tico. “We gotta get the hell out of here.”

  They heard footsteps, and soon Cane walked into the room carrying Earl. Earl's legs were bloody where the cat had mauled him and he had passed out.

  “Cat's weak,” said Cane. “She almost didn't get him.” Cane dropped Earl to the floor. “Walker, take him out and dump his ass somewhere. “

  “Damn,” said Walker. “I just got my car washed. Come on, fool.” He picked up Earl and dragged him out.

  “It was the Girls, then, huh?” said Tico.

  “Yeah,” said Cane. “Plus this thief says Jaleel is skimming on me.”

  “He's full of shit,” Tico protested. “Jaleel is cool people.”

  “Maybe,” said Cane. “I want you to check it out.”

  “All right,” said Tico. “Look, Cane, this shit with the cat has got to stop.”

  Cane walked to the door. “Yeah. Have someone call the cops.”

  “The police won't believe it. They've ignored every call that went in.”

  “Then call them animal rights people,” said Cane. “They believe everything. And make it this morning. I don't want her to die down there.”

  7

  Ramona

  Ramona awoke with a scream in her throat. She rose up and looked around the room, making sure there were no killers at her bed. She calmed herself, then lay back down but could not get back to sleep.

  Yancy was dead, she was almost murdered, and now the cops were looking for her. She'd been wearing a wig to cover her braids and lots of makeup to mask her face, but she still felt vulnerable.

  She'd thought of turning herself in, telling the cops what happened, but that would be stupid. The cops would never believe her, and if she survived a night in county jail, she'd surely go to the penitentiary anyway.

  Ramona was in a high-rise condo in Southfield. It was the home of a friend named Venita Washington, whom everyone called Vinny. The condo was Vinny's secret place. Even her husband didn't know about it. Ramona had her own key and watched it for Vinny from time to time.

  She got into the shower. The hot water felt good, soothing. She tried to let go of her anxiety, but she couldn't. The ordeal with the masked killers had unnerved her.

  She had no idea who the killers were, how they got in, or why Yancy's guards were gone from outside. She had tried to get inside the black metallic briefcase but failed. It was solid, no seams, just a big, heavy metal block and a handle. When she shook it, she heard nothing move inside. The case had not been there before Yancy was killed, so someone must have brought it. And if Yancy had the case, then whatever was inside it was important.

  Ramona got out of the shower and dried herself. She glanced in t
he mirror. She had never been modest about her looks. She was beautiful. The face and body in the mirror were her prime assets. They had gotten her money, cars, a nice apartment, and trips to exotic islands. They had also saved her from Detroit's neighborhoods.

  Ramona Blake was raised in a blue-collar household on the east side. Her mother was what they called a picture model back in the sixties. Bethel Blake's face graced the pages of the few magazine ads that catered to Negro women. Bethel was a striking woman who was high on the list of many neighborhood suitors. But when she made her choice, she picked a laborer, Henry Blake, a strikingly handsome man. He had swept Bethel away with his dark good looks and easy manner. Bethel became pregnant, and after a hasty marriage Ramona was born.

  Shortly after Ramona came into the family, the marriage began to crumble. Henry was a good man but was never able to deal with Bethel's constant pressure to make more money and lift the family into the middle class. Henry was long on good looks and short on talent. He lifted boxes, not lives.

  After a few years, the marriage broke Henry's already fragile resolve. So, by the time Ramona's third sister, Sarah, was born, Henry was ready to go. And after a few years of being a weekend dad, Henry never showed his face again.

  Bethel was shattered. Henry's leaving was the last proof she needed that her life was over. She became stricter on her girls, especially Ramona. She pushed them, punishing them for what Henry had done to her.

  Ramona and her younger sisters, Sarah and Cheryl, were given the discipline of the church by their mother at an early age. Bethel Blake was a God-fearing woman who wanted her daughters to learn virtue. They went to church services at least four times a week. Bible class, Sunday school, early service, late service, choir practice. It was forced upon them and reinforced with beatings. Bethel Blake had been raised by the code of “spare the rod,” and she saw no reason to change, especially with no man around. A whipping was the cure for any infraction, no matter how small.

  Ramona grew tired of her mother's tyranny and stopped going to church over Bethel's objections. She became what the old church ladies called a fast girl. Ramona began to stay out late and hang with her friends. They taught her to be free, independent, and strong. The other fast girls had none of her inhibitions, ignorance, and Baptist guilt.

  Ramona and her friends began their education hanging out in the streets, getting into trouble, fighting, and stealing. Ramona became a hard, rough-edged girl who would never back down from a fight. She was teased by her friends because the one thing she hated was getting any kind of scar on her face.

  As they grew into womanhood, Ramona and her friends started hanging with young men. They partied, stayed out late, and smoked dope. Ramona lost her virginity to a man named Carlos on a cold night in a Cadillac and never looked back.

  Many of the men they hung out with were drug dealers. They were dangerous, but they always had money. When they began to die or went to prison, things started to change.

  Ramona's friends started to sell drugs themselves. To them it was a natural extension of their already perilous lifestyle. For Ramona it was more of a problem. She tried it for a while, but she was not good at it. You had to deal with nasty people and sell to innocent kids. The money was good, but it was much too dangerous.

  One day, while she and her crew were making a deal, some rival dealers came after them in a car and began shooting. Ramona and her friends all scattered, running in different directions. Ramona ran through the neighborhood, cutting through yards and alleys. Finally, when she was sure she had lost them, she went home.

  Ramona arrived at her house but found the rollers were on her street, looking for her. She was never one for using guns, but she had one that day. When she saw the dealers getting out of the car, she fired at them. They ran for cover, and she slipped into her house.

  The rival dealers sprayed the place with bullets. Ramona could still see the holes in the cheap walls and the cracked pictures of Jesus as the house was riddled.

  Ramona's mother and her middle sister, Cheryl, were not hurt, but her little sister, Sarah, was hit. Bethel had consigned Sarah to kitchen work, and the young girl caught a bullet while washing dishes.

  Sarah was taken to a hospital. She lingered for one awful week but didn't make it. Her sister, little Sarah, who sang in the bathtub, kissed her Tevin Campbell poster, and put sugar on her spaghetti, was dead.

  Ramona took all the blame. Their family was not rich, but it was proud, and she had brought shame and death upon them. To her mother the tragedy was a result of Ramona's spreading lack of faith and rejection of God. To Ramona it was a bitter reminder of the cruelty of poverty and the sad choices for those living in it.

  Ramona moved out of the house after her sister died and broke ranks with her drug-dealing buddies. It was a sad parting, but they could not talk her out of it. Hanging with them had cost Ramona her family.

  She left home, got a job as a waitress in a bar, and began to hang out with women like Vinny Washington, pretty women, who taught her that she was wasting herself on silly neighborhood boys.

  Ramona began to date men, some married, some not, who gave her anything she wanted. Suddenly she had money, clothes, cars, and a nice apartment.

  But she didn't think of herself as a whore. That was a streetwalker, and she didn't walk the streets. Nor was she a call girl. They were just whores with gold cards. Ramona was a professional girlfriend, a woman who dated wealthy men and asked nothing in return, but if they gave her something, she was not about to turn it down.

  Ramona rose through the ranks of the unofficial “girlfriends club.” They were always at political fund-raisers, private clubs, working vacations, wherever the fiancées or wives weren't. Eventually she caught the eye of Harris Yancy himself.

  Ramona got dressed in a pair of tight jeans and a little blue blouse. She chose a red wig, put on heavy makeup, and started out. She was working on getting out of town. But she was still too hot. She was planning to visit a friend who could get her a fake ID so that she could slip out of the city undercover. She was thinking of D.C. or Atlanta, where she could get lost in the large black population.

  Ramona picked up the metallic briefcase before she went to the door. She checked it again and could see no seams or ways to get into it. She shook it again-- nothing.

  She always kept the case close to her. She had a feeling that Yancy's killers were after it, so her life would be worth nothing if she lost it.

  When Ramona went to the elevator, she found one of the two elevator cars out of service. The servicemen had the doors open, and were working on it. She had to step over their tools, which were scattered on the floor. One of the two men looked at her and smiled. Ramona smiled back. He was a grunt, but she'd learned long ago never to be uppity to any man. It was not good for business.

  “Lookin' good, honey,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said. She rubbed the side of her butt. The man's eyes immediately went there. She hadn't meant to do that, but it was a habit.

  The other elevator's doors opened. The man inside was big and had a bandage on the side of his head. Ramona hardly looked at him. She got inside the elevator. The big man got out. The doors started to close.

  “Hey, baby, can I get your number?” asked Don the worker, stopping the elevator door.

  “Move this shit off the floor,” said the big man.

  Ramona went rigid. She recognized that voice. The big man's back was to her, but she was sure it was the man in the green mask, one of Yancy's killers.

  “Sorry, I gotta go,” said Ramona.

  Hearing Ramona's voice, the big man turned abruptly. Ramona pushed Don backward and slammed her fist on the close door button. The big man ran to the elevator but crashed into the falling serviceman.

  The elevator doors closed. The car descended, and she heard a struggle above her. The killer was fighting the serviceman. Ramona frantically pushed the button marked B1.

  “Come on,” she said.

  The ele
vator car jerked to a halt. The door opened slowly. Ramona positioned the briefcase to strike, expecting death on the other side of the door. The door opened, but there was no one there.

  She ran out of the elevator into the underground garage. She looked at the valet booth. No one was inside. She moved back to the elevator, but it was already gone. She walked in the garage drive lane headed toward space 33B. Ramona had ditched her car, but Vinny kept an extra one here.

  Suddenly she heard a loud pop. A figure rose next to Vinny's little Miata. It was a man. Ramona could not see his face, but she knew in an instant it was the other killer. She ran quickly toward the garage opening. She hadn't gotten far when she heard footsteps behind her, blunt crashes on the cement.

  Panicked, she ran faster, toward the light of the big garage door.

  Something whizzed past her ear and hit a red Seville with a metallic clang. Ramona heard it clatter on the pavement. The killer had thrown his knife at her.

  She raced outside. She saw a bus loading across the street. She ran for it, crossing the street against the light. Cars swerved and blew their horns. She looked over her shoulder at the condo's garage but did not see the killer come out.

  Ramona reached the bus as it was pulling off. She ran alongside, beating on its door until the driver stopped, let her on, then drove into traffic. Ramona climbed the stairs. This was better, she thought, lots of people.

  “Fare,” snapped the driver.

  She looked at the man's stern face. She was tired, scared, and still shaking. Ramona coughed a little laugh, fumbled in her purse, and put the fare inside. She went to the back of the bus and sat down, keeping her eyes on the condo. The killers did not emerge.

  Ramona could hear her heart beating in her ears. She took several deep breaths, collected herself. The metallic briefcase felt cool on her lap.

  She got off at the next stop, ran for a few blocks, then hailed a cab. Terrified that the killers would round a corner and shoot her dead, she stood in dread as it approached. She gave the cabbie directions, and the car pulled off, headed for Detroit's east side.