Double Dead

by Gary Hardwick

  2

  Me And The Boys

  The music of Parliament pumped loudly from a boom box as a rapper's lyrics flowed over it. Tico raised another bottle of beer to his still-swollen lips and drank deeply. About ten of Cane's men danced and drank in the living room of the old house.

  Little Jack had delivered Tico just as Cane had hoped. Tico had smiled and hugged Cane and everyone in the house when he got there. He was happy. It was the little things, like not getting killed, that made you happy in the life, Cane thought.

  Tico regaled everyone with Little Jack's ruthlessness. The boy proudly accepted the accolades of his new male peers. He was filled with new bravado and courage.

  The men drank, danced, and stomped loudly on the floor to the tune. They all raised their bottles and sang with the chorus:

  If you hear any noise,

  it's just me and the boys...

  gettin' it--

  There was electricity in the room. It wasn't often that a crew celebrated life. The young black men's hearts were filled with light and hope. It was as if Tico's escape from death had made them all forget that they were going to die.

  Cane stood by the front door, bopping to the beat. He wasn't much of a dancer. In fact he had very little natural rhythm, blasphemy for a black man in the 'hood.

  The door to the house opened, and Q stepped inside. He walked over to Cane, his long chain earring swinging with his steps. Over the music he said, “Big man's here.”

  Cane nodded, then went outside. This house on Daniel Street had two vacant houses on either side. The two empty houses were rather nice, and Cane and his men routinely chased squatters out of them. The street itself was perfect, only five families on a short block, and none of them foolish enough to talk to the cops. Cane bounded down the steps and went to the dark green car at the curb. Q was behind him.

  The car's dark-tinted window rolled down, revealing Minnesota's chubby, smiling face.

  “Hop in,” said Minnesota.

  Cane glanced at Q. The roller nodded. Q walked a few feet away but kept his attention focused on the car. Cane got in the backseat. It was a new car, and it still had that smell in it. The backseat was empty. The driver was a black woman about twenty or so. She smiled at Cane, showing her perfect teeth. Minnesota got in the back with Cane from the other side.

  “The woman has to go,” said Cane.

  “Why?” said Minnesota. “She's [burp] cool.”

  Cane just stared at the fat man until he got the message and turned to the woman. “Step out for a minute, baby,” he said.

  “No problem,” said the woman. She got out of the car.

  “Cool?” asked Minnesota. Cane said nothing. Minnesota shifted on the leather seats. “Our thing is on. Three [burp] days from tonight. It's comin' in on the river. [Burp] By boat.”

  “Boat?” said Cane. “How the hell did you do that? The feds locked down all that shit years ago.”

  “Didn't you hear? We [burp] won the War on Drugs?” Minnesota laughed. “The man got his headline, and we got the system back.”

  “Okay, gimme the details,” said Cane.

  He listened as Minnesota told him the plan. Minnesota repeated it twice. Cane didn't commit anything to writing. Memory was the smart dealer's file.

  Cane was always impressed by the ingenuity of white dealers. They seemed to have all the answers, and why shouldn't they? he reasoned. This was their game.

  Minnesota finished up and rolled away with his woman. Cane walked back to the house. Q remained on the street, standing guard. The house's door opened. Slowly Tico stepped out, holding a forty-ounce beer. The door closed, muffling the blare of music.

  “Hey, man, whatcha doin'?” said Tico. “Come on back inside.”

  “Had to talk to Minnesota,” said Cane. “It's on. The heroin is coming in by boat. We need to get our shit together now. It's time to call on Mr. Jaleel about the money he's been stealing from me.”

  Tico's face darkened, and he lowered the big bottle in his hand. “Look, man,” he said, “I don't know about this no more.”

  “Minnesota's cool,” said Cane. “I had him checked out. Brothers in Philly, Harlem, and Chicago say he's cool. What I want to do now is get everyone together . We need to work this thing like clockwork. No one's selling H here. We can own the whole damned thing.”

  Tico walked over to a railing on the porch and sat on it. The weak railing gave a little, and he jumped away from it. “Cheap-ass house,” he said. “Look, man, after what happened, I-- I don't know if I wanna keep doin' this shit.”

  Cane saw the fear in his friend's face. Almost dying in the pit in that juvenile prison had made Cane a stronger man, but Tico had been broken by his ordeal. Now Tico was going to punk out on him, leave him and go the other way. But Cane knew the answer to this kind of fear: a bigger one.

  “Tico, you're like family,” said Cane calmly. “So if you want to, go on.” “I knew you'd understand,” said Tico, relieved. “I thought I could die for the crew, but in the end I wanted to live, you know.”

  “And what are you going to do now?” Cane asked.

  Tico looked at him blankly. He had not even considered that prospect.

  “You gonna get a job? With your record? All you can get is shit-shoveling work, breaking your back to make some other fool rich.” Cane sneered a little. “You gonna get married? Lay up with some bitch, sittin' on her fat ass, asking where you going every night? You gonna take care of some crumb-snatching kids?” Slowly Cane closed the distance between himself and Tico. “How you gonna get the life you want, Tico? Who's gonna give you the money, the fine women, the cars, the right to do what the fuck you wanna do? The white man?” Cane uttered a short laugh. “Only thing he givin' away free is jail time. The rich-ass niggas downtown? They ain't got nothing to give away but lies and more misery. So go on, quit, you'll be dead anyway. But at least my way you're in charge of your own shit.” Cane moved closer and put a hand on his friend's shoulder. “And maybe, just maybe you might live to tell.”

  Cane motioned to Q, who left his post and went inside the house. Cane turned to Tico, who was stunned by Cane's statements. “If you outta the crew, then don't come in. We all picked the life we want in here.” Cane walked inside and shut the door.

  Tico stood on the porch, facing the door. The street and freedom were behind him. He turned and looked out at the old houses on the block. He could see two streets over through the vacant lots that dotted the area. A darkness filled the windows behind their cheap curtains. It was deep and menacing, like doom.

  The closeness of death was still with him, but it did not seem as bad as the world he looked at now, a world no bigger than the block he stood in. The crew was his family, and without it he would be alone.

  Tico took a long swig of the beer, then walked back into the house.

  3

  The Tunnel

  Velane Johnson was a small man, only about five feet two. He had a thin body and light brown skin. Even though he was thirty-five, he looked like a man of twenty or so. Those boyish looks helped Velane run an insurance scam that had almost landed him in prison. Jesse had prosecuted the case and got Velane a misdemeanor deal and probation in exchange for testimony for the bigger fish. Jesse then helped Velane get a job in the casino when his probation was over. If anyone ever owed Jesse big, it was Velane.

  Jesse smiled a little as the small man walked up to him by the busy McDonald's. Velane, however, did not look happy. He was scowling, and he looked nervously over his shoulder and around him.

  “Long time,” said Jesse. “If you want money, I got some,” said Velane. “Otherwise I can't help you.” He was scared.

  “Sure you can,” said Jesse. He moved away from the restaurant, taking Velane with him. “All I need is a ride back to Detroit.”

  “Oh, is that all!” Velane said sarcastically. His voice was high-pitched from his nervousness. “Just help a fugitive and commit a crime. What is that, ten to life?”

  “A
ctually it's probably only five years, depending on the judge,” said Jesse dryly.

  “Jokes,” said Velane. “You're so quick with the jokes. Well, here's one, why did Velane cross the road? To get away from your red-hot ass!”

  Jesse grabbed Velane by the arm. He put a nasty look on his face and stared into the thin man's eyes. “You were on your way to prison and a felony record. If the faggots didn't butt-fuck you to death in the joint, you would have certainly had no life when you got out!”

  “That's over and done with, man,” said Velane, weakening. “I don't wanna face that again. Did you know I'm getting married soon, Jesse? Well, I am. We have a kid, a little girl. I have a lot to lose here.”

  “Like I don't. I helped you because a black prosecutor hates to see one of his own go down unnecessarily. You've got to believe that I didn't do the things I'm accused of.”

  “Then why did you run?” said Velane. “You believe in the system, so why didn't you stay and face it, man?”

  The question hurt Jesse. And Velane was right to ask it. But he didn't understand the system. It only works when things are fair, and the setup Jesse had been put in was hardly fair.

  “I can't go into that,” said Jesse. “You'll just have to trust me, like I trusted you. I helped you get this life you have now. Help me get mine back.”

  “Let go of my damned arm.” Velane pulled away from Jesse. Jesse remembered that Velane had not lasted a minute before he confessed to the insurance scam. He was the nervous type, dangerous under these conditions, but he was all Jesse had right now.

  “I got a friend who goes across all the time,” said Velane finally. “She's a stripper. She always travels with a bodyguard, and they all know her at both borders. She's going over tonight. You can substitute for her regular man. That should do it.”

  Jesse went to Velane and put his hand on the small man's shoulder. “Thanks for this, Velane,” he said. “Yeah, but now we're even,” said Velane. “Forever.”

  An hour later Jesse was standing on a street corner, waiting for a light blue car to come. The night was chilly, and he kept moving to stave off the cold. He kept thinking about Dick Steals and the look of compassion in his eyes. “Whatever you're doing, Jesse, be careful. “

  It made no sense. Why would Richard help him unless he knew he was innocent? And something else troubled him. What were Richard and D’Estenne doing there with Ellis? D’Estenne's presence meant politics of some kind. Chapel, Swiss was a big contributor to political campaigns, but it had no criminal practice to speak of.

  He was also worried about Ramona. Letting her walk off like that had been stupid. He imagined terrible things happening to her. This was his fault, he reasoned. He was supposed to be looking out for her. She was smart, but she was a hothead, and she might find herself right back in jail. He had to find her.

  A light blue sedan pulled up to Jesse and stopped. He went to the car and opened the door. Inside was a young white woman with the biggest breasts he'd ever seen. She had a blond wig and was dressed in a nurse's uniform that was barely a uniform at all. It was short, tight, and he could almost see everything she had to offer.

  “Get in, honey,” she said. “I don't know about this,” said Jesse. “I don't need to attract attention. If you're dressed like that--”

  “Look,” said the stripper. “I go through the tunnel sometimes three times a day. They all know me. I could ride through with an elephant, and they wouldn't stop me. It's cool, eh?”

  Jesse hesitated. There were two ways to get to Detroit. The bridge over the river or the tunnel that ran under it. Going through the tunnel was usually faster and safer because of the volume of cars and the generally harmless nature of the people.

  “Okay,” said Jesse. He got in the car.

  “I'm Sula,” said the stripper, putting the car in gear.

  “Nice to meet you,” said Jesse.

  “What's your name?” asked Sula.

  “You don't wanna know,” said Jesse. “The less you know the better.” “Dangerous man, eh?” said Sula. “I'm all tingly.” Jesse smiled a little and tried not to look at her. She had probably

  been an attractive woman until she put in giant breast implants. Now she looked grotesque. He glanced at her chest. It shook as the car hit bumps in the street.

  “Can you do me a favor?” asked Jesse.

  “Besides this?” asked Sula.

  “Yes, I came here with a friend, and she and I-- we had a fight, and I need to find her.”

  “Lover's spat, eh?” said Sula. “Okay, I'll circle downtown a few times before we go.” They drove around for a half hour. Sula talked about how she planned to have the implants removed after she got enough money to go back to school. Jesse listened politely, but he didn't believe a word of it.

  They didn't spot Ramona, so Jesse decided to head for the tunnel. He didn't know what else to do. He'd be lost without Ramona at his side, but maybe she was already back over. She was not one to sit around on her ass. What he had to do now was find her on the other side.

  Sula pulled up to the Windsor side of the tunnel. The cars coming from Detroit were on their left. There were a lot more people going to Canada than vice versa. Windsor was definitely getting the best of this bargain. They approached the toll booth. Jesse tightened all over as he saw the toll taker and his uniform.

  “Hey, Sula,” said the toll taker, a man of about fifty or so.

  “Hey, Walter,” said Sula.

  “Got the day off tomorrow,” said Walter. “How about coming over to give me a private show?” He laughed.

  “Yeah,” said Sula. “I'll do your wife first, then you.” Sula and Walter laughed. Jesse sat nervously as Walter looked at him and then back to Sula.

  “Where you dancing tonight?” asked Walter.

  “Got a private party in Bloomfield,” said Sula.

  The car behind them blew its horn loudly.

  “All right!” said Sula to the man in the car. “See ya, Walter.”

  “Okay,” said Walter.

  Sula took off and got into the tunnel lane. Inside the tunnel it was narrow with only one lane in each direction. Jesse eased back into the seat a little as the car moved along briskly. The line coming the other way was backed up and not moving at all. Car horns sounded, making discordant echoes off the tunnel's thick walls. The din only made Jesse more nervous. Sula leaned on her horn, adding to the clamor.

  Soon they were out of the tunnel and entering a line for customs to Detroit. This was the hard part. They let you out of Canada easily, but getting into the other country required a check at the border. Sula slowed down as they approached the guards. Suddenly she veered to her right.

  “What are you doing?” asked Jesse. He was jumpy and looked around for danger. “I was in line for that woman guard. The women all hate me. I do better with the men.” Sula guided the car over to a fiftyish black man.

  “Sula, baby!” said the black guard.

  “How's it goin', Clarence?” said Sula. She handed Clarence some papers. The guard took the papers but hardly glanced at them. “You're the best thing I've seen all night,” he said.

  “You bet your dick I am,” said Sula.

  Though Jesse's heart was racing, he had to admire Sula. She was a real pro. She didn't rush her normal routine of flirting so as not to arouse suspicion. All the same, the waiting was killing him. “I'm coming to see you at the club next week,” said Clarence. “Bringing some of my relatives from out of town.” “Then I'll have to do something special for you, eh?” said Sula. “How about the shower?”

  “Yes!” said Clarence, pumping his fist. “Sula, I love you.”

  “Just bring plenty of money,” Sula said.

  The guard never even looked at Jesse. He handed Sula the papers back and motioned her ahead. Jesse calmed as they passed through the border into Detroit.

  “You okay?” asked Sula. “You look like shit.”

  “That was intense,” said Jesse. “I've been over and back a hundre
d times, but never has--”

  Jesse stopped. His heart leaped into his throat. Their car was passing the customs holding room. Inside he saw four young men being ushered in-and Ramona standing with them.

  “Stop,” said Jesse.

  “What?” said Sula. “What for?”

  “Stop the damned car!” Jesse yelled.

  “Okay, okay,” said Sula. She pulled over into a service parking spot.

  A young security officer started walking over to their car.

  “Tell me what's up before he gets here,” said Sula. “You're not supposed to park here.”

  “The woman I'm looking for is in there with a customs cop,” said Jesse. “I need to get her out. If they find out who she is, she'll go to jail.”

  “Shit,” said Sula, “once you're in there, you never-” She didn't have a chance to finish. The officer was at the door. He was young with sandy brown hair. Sula stepped out. “I need to get some information from an officer in the holding room,” she said. The young officer looked admiringly at her chest and smiled. She flirted with him, and like magic, he walked Sula to where Ramona was being held.

  Jesse watched as Sula stepped inside the customs room. Ramona and the young men were lined up on a bench. The customs cop had several driver's licenses in his hand. Sula went over to him and said something. Jesse's heart sank when the man didn't smile at her. Maybe the magic was gone. Sula pulled the man aside and began to talk urgently to him.

  Out of the comer of his eye Jesse saw the young security officer walk toward him. Jesse slowly turned his face away from the window. The officer walked over to the other side of the car, still trying to get a look at Jesse. He couldn't figure out why the cop was so interested in him. He suddenly remembered that Sula was white and he was black. A black man traveling with a woman like that was always suspicious to a cop. Jesse pretended to cough and covered his face. The cop had moved toward Jesse's door again when Clarence, the old black cop, ran up, said something, and took the young cop away.