Cannibal in the City
A Black Love Detective Story
Antwan Floyd Sr.
Cannibal in the City
Copyright © 2017 by Antwan Floyd Sr.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.
Dedicated To
Hustlers
Table of Contents
Present Day
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Present Day
All he could see was the heel of a shoe coming down on his face, a mixture of blood and saliva pooled in his mouth that began to seep out covering his neck and chest. When it seemed he was about to draw a fresh breath, it was stolen away by another kick to the face or chest.
“Fuck em.”
Black thought to himself as he sat back and watched. He once considered himself a 21st century African American man. Apart of the elitist, he would help usher in another renaissance of the African American race. The thought alone was funny. Where he was now, he could show no smiles. He was no longer an African American, he was a Black man, whatever that meant. He reasoned with himself that it had to be a step up under being African American and a step over being a nigga. Whatever the title he was it, and he was here. He knew that whatever he was, that where he was at present the weak got eaten! Cook County jail that was no place for an African American. Hell that was no place for no sane person. One of the worse county jails in the country, right here in Illinois. The over cramped quarters housed the desperate, career criminals, bad luck misdemeanor type, as well as the gang bangers and repeat offenders and murderers they were all treated the same. Black had long blocked out the smell of raw mustiness of men that hadn’t showered in hours if not days mixed with dried blood, and old rusted bars. Inmates were happy to get transferred to prison, likely hood of being killed was less likely there.
He had no fear of prison or getting killed for that matter. He had something more pressing on his mind. That stack of papers sitting on his desk, about 200 pages. All missing kids. Missing Black kids that the city had written off. Part of the reason he was here. He zoned back in to the one sided fight, there was plenty of commotion but a guard had yet to show up, Black shook his head in disappointment. They would probably show up once the noise stopped that way they would have a dead nigga and new nigga to charge with murder. He knew the cycle, the system. He was once a part of it. Former lead District Attorney for the state of Illinois.
He was from these streets, grew up in the hundreds, Roseland graduated from Fenger High School. Still had people out there even though he lived in Jackson Park now, Roseland would always be home. He knew all he had to do was give the word and the beating would stop. He had to prove a point. What point? He didn’t know. He had been in lock up for a little over four hours, most he was locked up with knew who he was. Hell he had put them there before he resigned. It’s always one, he thought. Someone always has to be made an example. A young guy maybe early twenties wanted to flex his muscle. He was a Traveler. A branch of the Vice Lord family. Small in numbers compared to the Black Stones, and Disciples but still as deadly and respected.
He knew Black wasn’t plugged. Thought he would punk him. Black was toe to toe with him ready to box after he told him once he wasn’t in a gang. Instead of walking away he decided to kick it up a notch and began cursing him and talking about what he would do. Before either knew what was going on all the loud talking bluffing got him he sucker punched from the side and was face first on the floor, that’s when the kicking commenced. Black didn’t know why the stranger was helping him but he didn’t question it. A small circle formed around Black. He didn’t know what was going on, he thought he would have to fight all of them. It didn’t take long before he realized the circle was formed to protect him. He eased back and sat down. The circle parted enough so that he could see the fight.
Black nonchalantly waved his hand.
“He had enough champ.”
Black said jokingly. The man issuing out the beating was a little taller than Black at 5’7, a light skinned Shemar Moore looking brother. From the untrained, uneducated eye to the streets he looked like a pretty boy. Living in the city you learn at a young age never underestimate folks on the streets, you never know what they know or sometimes more often than not who they know. The gangstafied Shemar Moore paused with his foot on the want to be thug’s throat. He shot Black an annoyed look as his victim clutched with both hands at his ankles, his eyes watered and pleaded to live. He dismissively raised his foot and allowed air to flow through his lungs again, before he could enjoy the taste of oxygen he was kicked in the face one final time before his attacker stepped over him and stood face to face with Black.
Black stood to his feet, eye to eye with his protector, fists clenched. Jaws tightened. He ignored the other men around him. Shemar Moore held his hands up in a non-defensive manner.
“Hold up playboy, it ain’t like that.”
Black let his hands relax but not his guard. Eyes still trained on Shemar Moore, he saw from his peripheral the other men start to disperse. The man stepped around him and sat down. Black turned and faced him.
“What is it like then?”
“I know you ain’t plugged, and I know you used to work for the police got a lot of good people locked up. And keeping it 100 Joe I want to put hands on you bad.”
“What’s stopping you then?”
“Even though you did some hoe shit for years and got folks sent up Bunchy told me what you’re doing and I honor that.”
Black paused. The name Bunchy wasn’t ringing a bell with him. Shemar Moore saw the look of confusion on his face.
“Detective Edwards. We came up together.”
Black nodded, acknowledging that he knew who Edwards was. The man continued.
“They call me Rondo.”
He extended his hand to shake hands with Black. Black took his hand in a firm shake.
“I’m Black.”
“Yeah, I know. Bunchy told me how you close to finding out who took Lil Bunch.”
“I was.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, that’s what got me in here. I got too close.”
“Crooked ass police involved in this?”
“I’m not speaking on it. So Edwards told you to play bodyguard or some shit?”
He smirked.
“Something like that.”
“Yeah, well I appreciate him playing the over protective father but I’m good Joe, don’t let the law degree fool you.”
“I don’t know about all that, all I know is as long as I’m in this piece you good. Told Bunchy I was going look out for you and I will.”
Black didn’t respond. He knew there would be no point in arguing it was what it
was, a simple missing person’s case, and his first official case as a P.I. had turned to shit.
Chapter One
Charles Tyner sat alone in his 3,137 square foot 2 bedroom condominium he owned in downtown Chicago. 21 year old caramel complexioned young man with deep set eyes and curly hair. Upon first glance he would put you in mind of a Black Ryan Phillippe, the actor from Cruel Intentions. Wearing a leather apron like the kind a Blacksmith would wear covered in dried and fresh blood. He leaned back in the five thousand dollar leather and wood office chair looking at the chair you could never tell it cost so much. Just as his apron and his work station it was covered in blood and smeared organ tissue. Gripping the 12V cordless circular saw he licked the blade and closed his eyes savoring the taste of warm blood on his tongue. He blew out a breath of air and watched a cloud form in the cold air the temperature in the room at 32 degrees Fahrenheit. He’d had the room repurposed to serve as a meat locker.
The walls, floors, and windows were all replaced with stainless steel, although the apartment is on the seven tenth floor, he had seen enough movies like Alfred Hitchcock’s Rear Window the movie about the nosey neighbor peeking in business that wasn’t his with binoculars to be weary of nosey neighbors. The last thing he needed was an imitation James Stewart all in his business especially in today’s times with every six years old and their grandma trying to become famous filming everything they see with their cell phones. The nerve of some people he thought, intruding on other’s privacy. He wiped the thought from his mind. Stood and looked at his handy work.
He heaved heavily, this was the part he hated the most. The cleanup, he was beginning to regret going on his inquisition without Avery. That was his wife. Not his legal wife by society’s standards their bond went beyond the piece of paper and a ring promised, they were bonded by blood they had done they first kill together. She was visiting her mother in Canada. Although they promised to never go on inquisitions without one another his appetite not only for the kill, but for the zest of the meat on his taste palates almost became unbearable. His intentions at first were just to watch, he thought that would be enough to cradle his urges. That all changed once he saw her, Layus the 5ft. And a half Black half Asian bite sized morsel of deliciousness standing alone at the bar. One look and he knew he had to have her. It didn’t take much persuasion to get her to come with him, she didn’t talk much but he got the impression she was new to Chicago, probably city life in general. Fresh off the boat sort to speak. Sweet, sweet Layus. He looked over at the meat hook hanging from the ceiling Layus’ upper torso hung from the hook, blood draining into the 30.5 x 15 x 9.5 inch; 6 pound metal tub.
Her bottom half sat on the stainless steel table he used as his work station. Her limbs, were separated into fours the arms and legs next to one another vacuum seal wrapped. Both hands detached at the wrists and both feet severed at the ankles. He left them out he would take his time and skin and debone them. He hated the meat from that part of the carcass, reminded him of eating catfish, just too many bones to deal with to get to the meat. Avery liked them so to ease the sting of going out without her he would take care of that chore.
Setting the saw on the table next to his kill, he picked up the sealed portions and placed them into the deep freezer. He went back to the rest of the carcass on the table and began hacking at the tail bone with a meat cleaver until the two cheeks separated. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he inadvertently began drooling thinking about how she would taste. He laughed aloud thinking about Jhene Aiko’s infamous line from the song she did with Chris Brown unlike her suitor’s, he was going to literally eat the booty like groceries.
Chapter Two
Black lay on his back staring up at the ceiling, it was a muggy night. He had the sliding door to his bedroom balcony open so that a cool breeze could blow in. His head positioned in the nook of his female companion’s lap. He lay in only his boxers. She donned a sports bra and boy shorts. The scent of sweet cherry blossom scented candles mixed with the aroma of sex was wafting in the air. The lights in the room dimly lit, enough to set the romantic mood and still be able to read.
Trigger Brown, was her name. Black’s “friend.” They’d met after he returned from Indiana. His luck with women hadn’t been so good so he almost didn’t approach her, but finding out she was an amateur MMA fighter was too intriguing to pass up at least that was the excuse he used to justify pursuing yet another woman after his string of bad luck with women. He had met her while visiting his father, although he often tried to get him to sell that old house and move, he could never get him to leave Roseland. Black was at his father’s he was getting a new roof put on and he was having a conversation with the contractor which happened to be none other than Ms. Trigger Brown.
Trigger was five and a half feet of toned, mocha, sexiness. Silk and steel. Sexy and smooth as silk, yet looking at her body it was obvious she worked out she looked to be as solid as steel, in a feminine way that is. She wore her hair naturally, it had a curly bounce to it that came down and stopped at the bottom of her ears. Her eyes held a slight slant to them as if mixed with Asian, although she often got upset by the question if she were mixed, which she wasn’t. Nice B cups, and cuff able derriere, with a smile that made hearts skip beats she was 145 lbs. of raw sex appeal.
Black was good at reading body language and although she was far from being thirsty, or throwing herself at him he knew there was an attraction there between the both of them. He wasn’t interested at least that’s the lie he tried to tell himself. Between Teresa, Morena, and not to mention whatever it was he had with Zarra while in Indiana he was beginning to think that women were a hassle. He was there to pick up some of his father’s things he would be staying with him while his home got repaired. After being introduced, his father conveniently found an excuse to leave and Black found himself engaged in conversation with Trigger that’s when he found out she trained at Victory’s on 18th street.
A 15 minute conversation had turned into six months of phone conversations and routine booty calls. Black thought Trigger would become attached but the funny thing was at times he couldn’t decide if she was the booty call or if he was. It didn’t matter at this point, he had viewed her as more of a comrade than a sexual partner, she was a good friend the sex just happened to be a bonus. He lay with his head cradled in her lap, staring at the ceiling thinking. She held a book by Stephen Kotkin called Stalin, about a poor Russian boy from humble beginnings who rose to power to become a powerful dictator.
She had been talking about in her assessment of the story that the country and nationality didn’t matter when coming from nothing and having a do or die mentality great things could be accomplished in the mind of a winner. Dedication, determination, and discipline determined the person’s meter of success. She compared him to Larry Hoover or Jeff Fort. Black was half in and half out of the conversation, last he heard the conversation had shifted to if he believed Hillary had a chance of winning the nomination or not. He didn’t want to argue, she knew that he was a firm supporter of Ben Carson he ignored her question. She playfully pinched his nose.
“Don’t ignore me, what’s on your mind?”
She asked, releasing his nose and playfully rubbing his face and the stubble on his chin as if he were a cute little puppy.
“Nothing.”
He replied not wanting to share.
“Tell me Black, maybe I can help.”
He reluctantly sat up. Sighed.
“Need to figure out my next move.”
She ran her fingers through her hair, then placed a soft hand on his bare chest.
“Have you considered what we talked about?”
He held her hand and examined it as if it were his first time seeing it. Then softly kissed it. She loved when he did that. Looked at her as if every time was the first time. He continued.
“I don’t know, that Private Investigator stuff?”
“Yeah, why not?
”
“I’m not for taking pictures of cheating wives and husbands or snooping through folk’s trash or emails.”
She pulled her hand from his, stood and stretched.
“It doesn’t have to be that way Black, you make it what you want it to be. You aren’t hurting for money so you can be particular about the cases you take. And you have connections in law enforcement you were the lead District Attorney remember?”
“Yeah I remember.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
“I just want whatever I do to make a difference.”
“Then make it make a difference.”
He sat silent for a moment deliberating on what she was saying. She walked around the bed and faced him. Sat in his lap, stroked the hair from her face. She spoke.
“From what you’ve told me, that’s what you’ve been doing all along.”
“How do you figure?”
“The situation in Danville with your ex.”
Black had told her about what happened to Teresa, leaving out the part about the bodies he had sister and her crew dispose of, he was feeling her but not enough to incriminate himself, all in all he trusted her judgement.
“You’re right.”
She stood and smiled. Not that make your heart melt smile, but that knowing smile as if she knew Black would follow suit. She turned and went to the drawer where the night lamp sat on the side of the bed. Opened it and removed a stack of forms. Returning to where he was she dropped them in his lap, kissed him on his lips and went to the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower. He picked up the papers and began thumbing through them.
“Qualify for the PI Exam and License in Illinois, Private Investigator Training Requirements in Illinois, application for Licensure in Illinois?”
She spoke from the bathroom over the running shower.
“You read well Black, passing the bar worked wonders for your articulation of the English language.”
“Ha, ha.”
“Fill them out and fax them in, later we can go see about obtaining your gun license.”
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