by David Kazzie
At the corner of Allen and Claiborne, south of the I-195 bypass, the Audi slid against the curb and into a snowdrift it couldn't overcome. Pasquale got out to push while Samantha revved the engine, but the wheels spun as if they weren't even touching the ground. Sam took a quick look around and walked around to the passenger side window.
"We need some kitty litter," she said.
"Fresh out," Pasquale said.
"Looks like we're walking," she said. "It's not much farther. How're you feeling?"
"I'm fine," he said. "Should we knock on someone's door and ask for help?"
Sam chewed on her lower lip while she considered the question. The street looked familiar, and it suddenly hit her why. During her internship with the prosecutor's office, she had come to this neighborhood in search of a witness to an aggravated assault. It was a warm summer night, and the neighborhood was bustling with people, some proud, some scared, some beaten, some desperate to get out, and some up to no good. Sam had never been in a neighborhood like this before, and she had been scared shitless.
She knocked on several doors, looking for a teenage girl who allegedly had witnessed the beating. Nearly everyone denied knowing her, and those that did claimed they didn't know where she was. After an hour, a pair of young thugs began harassing her, and she gave up looking for the witness, her deodorant in total failure. She ran back to her car, her legal pad tucked underneath her arm. She drove home, quiet tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Let's just not draw any more attention to ourselves than we need to."
Samantha zipped up her parka, popped the hood over her head and joined Pasquale on the street. A push of the button on her key fob locked her car doors with a boop, leaving them alone on the street. Nervously, she pulled the drawstrings of the hood tight. Her last prep was to tuck the ticket into a waterproof pocket inside her jacket.
"Ravenwood is a few blocks south of here," she said.
"Let's get on with it," he said.
Samantha turned on her heel headed south, crunching her way through the snowpack. It was slow going, calling for high-stepping through the snow. Luckily, the snow was relatively dry powder, so their pants stayed relatively dry as well. They were, however, freezing their behinds off.
* * *
The smaller but wiser older brother to Carrolton Oaks, Ravenwood was also a Richmond Redevelopment & Housing Authority project. Built in 1963, it was located at the corner of Allen and Kemper and bracketed to the east by Lombardy Street. Four stories high and occupying two city blocks, it had long been riddled with drugs and prostitution, pockmarked with violence. It had eight hundred units and was home to nearly 1,200 people.
Recently, the complex had come under the control of a new drug lord, who, while young, was nevertheless intelligent, charismatic and ruthless. He had consolidated power and had helped reduce violence by bringing together the various dealers that had fought like rival religious factions. Richmond Police, aware of the shift in the balance of power and the relative peace that had descended on the area, had backed off patrols and focused their attention on more lawless areas of the city. This was not something they admitted in the press releases.
The complex itself was shaped like the letter "H" closed off at the ends, with an extra slash across the middle, leaving three large open courtyards, connected by corridors. The smaller apartments ringed the perimeter of the complex, opening up onto the courtyard. Larger units filled the center of the complex, like the middle of a jelly doughnut. Samantha and Pasquale approached from the west side and entered through the breezeway leading to the outer courtyard. The snow was deep and pure at this end and looked lovely, even though it was going to turn these courtyards into slop as soon as it melted. They could hear kids squealing in one of the other courtyards, but this one remained unspoiled for now.
"Let's just knock on a few doors," she said. "Someone's bound to know him."
"You're optimistic in the morning," replied Pasquale.
"Hope springs eternal, what can I say?"
The sound of a door screeching open behind them caught their attention, and they both turned to look. A woman donning ski pants, a heavy jacket and a thick hood came roaring out with a snow shovel, going to work on the drifts that had piled up in front of her apartment. The courtyard was quiet except for the scritch-scritch of the shovel scraping against the sidewalk.
"Excuse me," Samantha said, taking a few high steps toward the woman.
The woman didn't respond.
"We're looking for a boy named Jamal Wheeler," she said. "Do you know him?"
"You police?"
"No."
She continued shoveling snow.
"Young kid," Sam said, "maybe sixteen years old?"
"Don't know him," the woman said. "Now get out of here. I'm busy."
"Sorry to bother you, ma'am," Samantha said.
The woman continued to chew away at the snow with her shovel, slowly reclaiming the sidewalk in front of her apartment. Samantha retreated back toward Pasquale.
"That went well, don't you think?" Pasquale said.
"Shut up," she said. "My legs are freezing."
"I can't believe how helpful she was."
She whipped her head around and gave him a look she rarely gave anyone. It was the sort of look that suggested she might hold his head down in the snow until he stopped struggling.
"Sorry," he said.
"We are getting this goddamn ticket to Jamal."
"Right," he said. "Right. I know. We will."
Knocks on three more doors drew no answer, but people were starting to take notice of their presence. Blinds covering darkened living rooms rippled around the complex like waves. The kids playing in the next courtyard snapped into silence, like they were waiting for a tee shot on the eighteenth hole at Augusta National.
As they neared the fourth door of the morning, two young men strode intently toward them, approaching from the opposite side of the courtyard. Both were tall and thin. The older one, whose skin was black like cooled lava, wore a Washington Redskins jacket and cap. His name was Ricky, and he was twenty-six. His colleague, Leon, was twenty-three, lighter skinned, and dead-eyed.
"The fuck y'all doing up in here?" asked Leon.
"You know Jamal Wheeler?" asked Samantha. No point in beating around the bush.
"Who wants to know?"
"That's between me and Jamal," Samantha said.
"Listen to this shit," said Leon, looking over at Ricky. Ricky looked nervous and didn't reply. He was just hungry and wanted to go get some breakfast from his aunt's house across the way. He hated getting in fights and attributed his survival so far to this aversion. Two of his brothers had been killed before they made it to twenty-six. He wasn't ready to see them at the crossroads just yet.
"Don't talk to her that way," Pasquale said quietly.
"The fuck you say to me?" Leon said.
"You heard me."
Oh, shit, Samantha thought. We're dead.
Slowly, Leon's hand slid behind his back. As it did, Pasquale was already on the move. The gun had barely come level before Pasquale grabbed it by the barrel and wrenched Leon's wrist counterclockwise until it snapped with a soft, sickening crack. In the same motion, he yanked Leon toward him, side-stepped him and drove his elbow into the nape of his neck. The boy dropped to his knees, and Pasquale dropped the butt of the gun on his head with a satisfying crack. Leon fell face forward into the snow. The icy shock of the snow revived him almost instantly, and he was back up on his knees, moaning in pain.
"What'd you do to him?" wailed Ricky.
Samantha became dully aware of a presence behind her. She looked over her shoulder just in time for a right cross against her cheek. She crumpled to her knees, hearing an "ooph" that sounded very Pasquale-like behind her.
* * *
After ten hazy minutes, clarity and focus started seeping back in like the outer edges of a Polaroid picture. Sam was in a soft chair, her hands tied behind her back. In front
of her, there was a low-slung table, on which several basketball and football magazines were splayed out like a fan. Beyond that, a large flat-screen television was tuned to ESPN. It helped orient her. She was in someone's living room. She had a wicked headache, and her cheek felt numb where it had taken the blow.
She could hear the outlines of conversation in the room, but she was still too woozy to make out the words. As her vision improved, she saw Pasquale laid out on a sofa like a freshly caught fish. His chest rose and fell rhythmically. He appeared to be unconscious but otherwise OK. A light-skinned teenager stood by the door. Another sat next to Pasquale.
The ticket! Her thoughts immediately went to the ticket. She was still in her parka, and while she couldn't tell if the ticket was still in her pocket, her jacket seemed undisturbed. She didn't think anyone had tried to take it off since she had gotten her ass kicked ten minutes ago. She had never been in a fight before; she supposed that was still true, as getting flattened with one punch didn't really constitute a fight.
"You awake?" a voice called out.
She turned toward the voice, belonging to a young black man sporting a Cleveland Indians baseball cap, the brim pulled low. He wore low-ride jeans and a black hooded sweatshirt. He was a big guy, well over six feet tall and built like a cinderblock. Despite the baggy clothes, the chiseled face left no doubt about the powerfully built man underneath.
"Now who the hell are you?" he asked, his voice tinged with more exasperation than anger.
"Samantha. Samantha Khouri."
"What are you doin' down here? You know you white, right?"
"What's your point?"
"Could be dangerous for a young lady."
"I'm a big girl," she said, stunned by the level of her sassiness.
He took a sip of his coffee.
"Is he OK?" she asked, nodding toward Pasquale.
"Yeah, fine," he asked, dismissing her with a wave of the hand. "Let's get back to my question."
"I'm looking for someone."
"Who?"
"Jamal Wheeler."
"Jamal Wheeler," he said.
"You know him?"
"I didn't say that," he asked.
"So you don't know him," she said.
"I didn't say that either."
Silence filled the room like carbon monoxide, invisible and potentially deadly if not dealt with immediately. Samantha worried that if she didn't do something soon, they'd both be dead.
"Let's say I know Jamal Wheeler," he said finally. "What do you want with him?"
"I have something for him."
"What?"
"That's between me and Jamal."
"What is it? Why you gotta be all mysterious about it?"
Samantha took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Something from his father."
The man's head rocked backward slightly, just barely, but just enough for Samantha to notice. He whispered to himself softly, too softly for Samantha to hear. Immediately, though, his tone hardened, like quick-dry concrete.
"The fuck you want with Jamal's father?"
He peeled off his baseball cap and dropped it on the coffee table, ran his fingers across the shiny dome of his pristine scalp. When he looked back up at Samantha, she saw it. There was no questioning it. The nose bore the same crook, and the chin jutted out at the same angle. The thing that sealed it, though, was the eyes. They were identical.
"Jamal?"
CHAPTER THIRTY
Monday, December 24
9:31 a.m.
Samantha took two ibuprofen that Jamal offered her and washed it down with a few sips of coffee. It was the best coffee she'd had in a long time. They sat back down in the living room.
"So, you're not fifteen," Samantha said, taking a sip of the hot coffee.
"What made you think I was fifteen?"
"Your father said you were about fifteen."
"That stupid old man," he said. "He ain't seen me in twenty years. I'm twenty-three. How you know him, anyway? You in book club together?"
"I didn't know him long," she said. "I just met him a few days ago. Look, Jamal, I have some bad news," Samantha said.
"What?"
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
"Your father's dead."
"So?"
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Don't be," he said. "The fuck do I care if he's dead?"
Samantha didn't know what to say to this. On one hand, she supposed she shouldn't be surprised. Julius never claimed to be father of the year. On the other hand…well, there was no other hand. Why should Jamal care if Julius was dead? The man had been dead to Jamal all his life. That he was now actually dead really didn't make a whole hell of a lot of difference.
"Well, I've got something for you," she said.
A groan interrupted them. Samantha looked over and saw Pasquale stirring on the couch. He rolled up into a sitting position, moaning, his hand pressed against the back of his head. Samantha's heart crumbled. The last eighteen hours had not been particularly kind to Pasquale Paoli.
"You OK, little man?" he asked.
"You the one that clocked me?" Pasquale asked softly.
"No," said Jamal. "One of my boys. They saw you kick Leon's ass, they got worried. Good thing you're white."
"Why?"
"Why, he asks. Why? Because if you looked like me," he said, tapping a finger against his chest, "they'da popped a cap in you. Seriously."
Pasquale slowly leaned back against the sofa and closed his eyes. Jamal turned his attention back to Samantha.
"So what is it you've come all this way to show me?"
She chewed on her lower lip. Was she so sure this was Jamal Wheeler?
"You got some kind of ID?"
He leaned forward in his seat, propping his elbows on his knees. His eyes narrowed to slits, and then he started laughing. It started as a few chuckles, like light rain showers, before exploding into a thunderstorm of laughter. His compadres, sensing that it was OK to laugh, joined in, guffawing as well, never as loud as Jamal, but not much softer either. Like, yeah, boss, this is some funny shit, and we're right there with you.
By the time the laughter began to die down, Jamal was wiping tears away from his face.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I got some ID."
Still laughing, he got up and slipped down a dark corridor to Samantha's left. His two foot soldiers stayed behind.
"ID?" Pasquale asked. "What are you, a bartender?"
"Look, I gotta be sure."
"Better safe than sorry, I guess."
"Let me make this right and we can get the hell out of here," Samantha said.
Jamal returned a moment later and handed her his driver's license. Samantha looked at it for a moment, which was more than enough time to convince her that this young man was who he said he was. She handed it back to him.
"That good enough, Officer?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said. "It's fine."
"Glad to hear it."
"Can we talk in private?" Samantha asked.
"These are my boys," Jamal said harshly. "What you say to me, you can say to them."
Wonder if you'll still think that when I show you what I've got, she thought.
"Alright," she said. "I'm a lawyer. I work downtown. Your father was a janitor in my building. Four nights ago, he came to my office looking for some legal advice."
"So you a criminal lawyer," Jamal said.
"Not exactly," she said, thinking about her own reaction to Julius' statement in her office that he needed a lawyer. "Anyway, Julius needed some legal advice because he'd come into a bit of money."
"Really?" Jamal asked, his mood brightening a bit. The other men in the room shifted as their interest in the proceedings ramped up.
"Look, I really think we need to talk in private."
"Don't start with that shit again," Jamal said with a flash of anger. "I'll decide when we need to talk in private."
"Fine," she said. "Your call. Here's the de
al. Your father won the lottery the other night."
One of his men whistled softly.
"How much?" asked Jamal.
Samantha sat quietly, glancing around the room at the other men. She wondered if they were armed. She wondered if Jamal was armed. She wondered if she should be armed.
Jamal seemed to be getting the picture. He waved his hand behind his head brusquely. "Y'all bust outta here. I got this."
The pair obediently stepped outside the apartment, leaving Samantha and Pasquale alone with Jamal.
"How much?" Jamal asked.
"Four hundred and fifteen million," she said. "Before taxes."
Jamal stared at her blankly for a full minute. Then his head spun around toward Pasquale, as if to look for help, confirmation, advice, something. Pasquale nodded his head.
"How much after?"
"If you take it all at once, about a hundred and fifty million. Give or take."
Jamal looked at Pasquale again. "Is she serious?"
Pasquale nodded again.
Another long silence filled the room. Jamal lit a cigarette and smoked half of it before speaking again.
"So what is it you're here to give me?"
"The ticket."
"The ticket? You mean the actual ticket?"
"You're the only known heir to Julius Wheeler's estate," she said. "He told me that he did not have a will. Under Virginia law, everything in his estate passes to you. I got the impression there wasn't a whole lot else to the estate besides the ticket. And he wanted you to have it."
"You mean you have the ticket with you? Like right now?"
She nodded.
"Shit, you fucking crazy."
She remained quiet, contemplating whether to share the fact that there was another player in this little game, and he had sort of cornered the market on "fucking crazy."
"I didn't have any choice but to keep it with me."
"Why didn't you keep it for yourself? No one would ever have known."
She chuckled softly. "Long story short. It wasn't mine to keep."
Jamal looked at her closely.
Samantha nodded.
"What happened to Julius?" Jamal asked.