Everything was tech now. Jangle was on Facebook, Twitter and Google Plus, Black Planet Tumblr and a few others. But he never conducted business online, of course. The Internet was for fun, for hooking up with women and parties. Only a fool did his dirt online, like that dumbass politician who tweeted his dick to some bitch.
The only serious thing he did online was keeping in touch with an old school player who was now in prison for life. That was more than fun. That was almost religion.
Jangle did business on disposable phones but he personally had an iPhone, an Android, an iPad and a mobile laptop.
Jangle’s given name was Dumartin Kingston. He started working as a lookout for dope boys called the Union when he was still in grade school. His mother would have killed him if she knew.
His mama had given him a big glass jar to save change in. So Jangle took all of his drug money and converted it to rolls of coins and hid them in his basement. His mother never noticed that the jar was always full. And that’s how he got his name. He always had coins on him and he made a jangling nose when he walked.
Jangle ran a tight crew and was doing well. Since the city got so thin and broke, he had to branch out and was now moving most of his stuff through the suburbs. The city was for shit but it still had the best dope.
Jangle had first been contacted by iDT through a local hitter name Rakeif Simms who told him a new supplier was in town. Jangle had gotten a text from an “unknown” number telling him that a sample was waiting for him at a location. He sent a runner to get it and it was some of the best dope he’d ever sampled.
When he made his first buy, Jangle was told to drop off money at one location, while picking up product at another. He was warned that non-payment would be dealt with severely.
Jangle picked up the product and thought about not leaving any money. He didn’t think Rakeif would do anything, after all, he didn’t know who iDT was either and what did he care? Rakeif got paid no matter what.
But Jangle was no fool. This was a business and this iDT would not be so stupid as to allow people to screw him on deals. Anyone with access to good dope probably had access to kill your ass, too. So he paid and began a relationship that saw his profits increase.
But not everyone was smart at first. A dealer they called Crucial took the package but did not pay iDT. The next day, one of his best street dealers went missing. Crucial received a message telling him that a man would be taken each day until he paid. Crucial laughed at this until another man went missing the next day, then another. After a fourth man vanished, he paid and had to add a bonus for the trouble he’d caused.
Two days later, Crucial was told where he could find the kidnapped men. They were bound, gagged and thrown into the basement of an abandoned house near downtown. All but one, that is.
Crucial’s last man was found dead by police in the trunk of Crucial’s ride. iDT had used the occasion to set him up, using the dead boy like a pawn in a chess game. Crucial went to prison and his crew was disbanded.
iDT used locals for his dirty work. There were three main hitters who freelanced for him, stone cold killers who would murder you and think nothing of it.
iDT paid cash money and never reneged on a contract. In the ‘hood, that was a bond no one wanted to break.
Rumor was the shadow man would expand to the west or even further but he never did. His kingdom was big but it was bounded by I-94 to the south, Gratiot to the east, Woodward to the west, and Eight Mile to the north.
iDT let the small fry do their thing and used them as muscle against anyone who did not comply. It was a brilliant configuration. Any time a big crew fell apart, the smaller crews were moved up with supply and money. Any time a dealer got too big or flashy, he was taken down.
Jangle called one of his runners and instructed him to leave the money for the dope where he was instructed. He wanted no trouble on this drop.
Jangle had made a money drop himself once, and waited to see who would come for it. He saw a kid pick up the package and take it to a bus terminal and put it in a locker. Jangle waited and waited but no one came to that locker.
He gave up. iDT was too smart and would never come to get his money himself anyway. Soon, the relationship became routine. Jangle got good dope, made money, iDT got his and the world kept rolling.
And over time, Jangle had what he felt was a good reputation with iDT. He’d gotten with the program early and so after a while, he was favored with a private communication from the man himself.
He’d only gotten one-way communications from iDT, then one day, out of the blue; Jangle got a message that wasn’t the normal cold instruction. It told him that if he ever needed to send a message, he should just put a yellow strip of tape on his windshield for a day and wait. He was also told that he should not tell anyone of this arrangement.
Jangle did this to test it out and sure enough, he got a text message with a phone number in it the next day. Jangle sent a text asking for a double order and the text came back from the usual anonymous number agreeing. When he tried to text to the number the next day, it was closed.
Since then, he had only used the yellow strip once when he need to be floated for a delivery. It was obvious that iDT had eyes and ears everywhere.
The cops had very little idea what was going on. They still busted the occasional dealer, sometimes an unknowing gift from iDT and so they didn’t care if there was some godfather of the consolidated drug game in the city. As far as they knew, the main crews had come to an agreement and were working together. This made more sense than the existence of an iDT.
It had to be a white man, Jangle thought as he got back into his car and drove away. No way some nigga could be this clever. Also, he knew every brother in the game and none of them had the money and smarts to put something like this together. Yeah, it was some white man probably living in a big house with his bullshit Republican friends, talking about how black folks were lowlives and needed to be locked up.
Other people thought it was one of the many Middle Eastern men in the growing community who had come from the old country with money and ruthlessness. That made even more sense than a white man, Jangle thought. The fucking camel-jockeys were everywhere. They’d taken over Dearborn and were moving into the city proper, buying up shit and staking their claim.
Jangle didn’t like them at all. They were arrogant, racist and had no respect for the street code. Those muthafuckas would snitch out a brother in a second.
Jangle took the dope and drove to his processing house. In the old days, he would have never done a pickup and drop himself. But iDT had made things much safer.
In the past few years, iDT rumors were everywhere. Any time some shit jumped off, there was a story that iDT was behind it.
Among the more superstitious black folk, iDT was a magic man who could turn you against your loved ones. This rumor started when a young boy popped a gasket and murdered his mother and his younger brother. The kid had been a package runner for a crew and was literally supporting his family with the money he made.
The cops picked up the kid and legend was he told them iDT was running the city and that he had gotten a glimpse of him once. The next day, the kid went home and killed everyone then shot himself in the head. The truth was the boy had been mentally ill for a long time, had gotten on meds and then stopped taking them in favor of self-medication. But weed was no substitute for anti-depression drugs.
Still, it was a great scary story for the masses. There were so many iDT stories, that now no one believed any of them. It was like his mama used to say, the Devil’s best trick was convincing people he wasn’t real.
Jangle rolled up outside his processing house and casually passed the two guards who snapped to as he approached.
The house was on a nice little street not too far from where he’d copped the drugs. In the last few years, many houses had been abandoned and razed. The city knew dealers would take over abandoned houses and set up shop or foolish kids would set them on fire. An
d so they figured it was better to just tear them down.
This made crackhouses even more conspicuous as a result. Jangle was one of the first dealers to get rid of the notion of drug dens. They were dangerous and a magnet for trouble. All he really needed was a processing place and distribution point. No central location for sale and use that a cop could bust. He kept the dealers out of flashy cars and used points of sale like a school or the mall. He even had one guy running product out of a video game store. iDT wasn’t the only smart man in town, he thought.
Jangle went inside the house and handed the supply to Trini, the girl who ran the processing house. Trini was a plump, cute woman who was good with numbers and people. In the drug game, a smart person was a real commodity.
Jangle had sex with Trini now and then. She wasn’t fine or anything but she had other skills he liked a lot. It was not very professional but it kept her loyal.
“What’s good, Trini?” asked Jangle.
“Me,” said Trini. “I got the shit going smooth today, boss.”
“Good,” said Jangle.
“Wanted to ask you something, Jangle,” said Trini.
Jangle sighed a little. Whenever she called him by his name instead of “boss” she wanted money. He wasn’t in the mood for it. He paid her well but she had a family of lowlife relatives who were always in trouble.
“No, Trini,” said Jangle. “No loans.”
“It’s my little brother, Kenjie,” said Trini. “You remember him, he used to help us out now and then.”
“The thief,” said Jangle. “What he do now?”
“He caught a case out in Royal Oak. Fraud or some shit. Anyway, they’ll drop the criminal if he pays the money back. It’s only eleven thousand.”
“Eleven? No. Forget it, woman. That nigga need to go to jail.”
“I can pay some,” said Trini. “He’s just a kid, boss.”
“He won’t be when he gets out the joint,” Jangle laughed a little. “He’ll be your little sister.”
“That shit ain’t funny,” said Trini. “Kenjie ain’t like that.”
“He will be,” said Jangle. “Sorry but no. You need to keep your mind on my business.”
Trini grew quiet as she watched the workers package their product. She was clearly upset. She loved her little brother and was trying hard to save him.
“Did you hear about Rashindah,” she said after a long moment. “Got her damned head blown off the other night over on Seven Mile.”
Jangle couldn’t stop his mouth from dropping open. Rashindah was one of his regulars. She was as fine as they came. He was hitting it once a month on the regular and she had graduated to staying over at his place.
Suddenly, he was sad and upset. He liked Rashindah and it was more than the sex. She was good to be with, smart, funny and she didn’t have a baby and didn’t want one. You could hit that bareback and not worry.
But he couldn’t express sadness or remorse over it. It would make him look like a punk. No one really knew about his relationship with Rashindah. He didn’t like people knowing which girls he spent time with. People would use it against you and the women got territorial.
“Damn,” said Jangle. “Too bad. But she was always on the hustle. Knocked on the wrong damned door this time.”
“iDT did it,” said Trini. “Everybody’s saying it.”
“They always saying he hit somebody. Don’t mean nothing.”
“Why don’t you ask him if he did it?” she said casually.
Without warning, Jangle grabbed Trini and pulled her away from the workers.
“What did I tell you, bitch?” said Jangle angrily when they were out of earshot of the others. He’d told Trini about the yellow strip and his ability to reach out to iDT. He’d done it while he was high off his ass and Trini had just given him the blowjob of a lifetime.
“Damn, I’m sorry baby,” said Trini. “I won’t… I’m sorry, boss.”
“You tell anybody about it?” Jangle’s eyes were wide and alarmed.
“No,” said Trini with fear. “You told me not—“
“I swear I’ll murder your little fat ass, your old stank mama and your thieving ass brother, if I find out you did.”
“No, I swear on my life,” said Trini fearfully.
Jangle glared at her a moment. He could feel her trembling in his hands and then, he let her go.
“If he did burn some bitch,” said Jangle. “What the fuck do I care? She had a big ass mouth.” He said this last part pointedly to Trini.
“I feel you,” said Trini. “I feel you, boss. Sorry.”
Jangle gave more instructions and once he was sure things were cool, he left. But for the rest of that day, he wondered if it was true and why iDT would go out of his way to kill someone as harmless as Rashindah Watson.
8
APPLES
Danny could tell that the owner of Apple’s Men Club had been expecting the police. When they announced themselves, the man had barely batted an eye. Most people grew nervous when the cops came around, but not Kevin Baker. He smiled a little and escorted them to his office, which was on the second level of the club.
The dance room was shaped like a triangle with two angled walls, which met at a point right under Baker’s office. From there he could see everything.
Danny and Erik walked toward the small elevator that went to the second level. Two large rooms ran along each angled wall.
“The Diamond Rooms,” Baker had said, “where all your dreams come true.”
The club wasn’t set to open for a while. They had just closed for lunch and Danny couldn’t imagine what kind of man went to a booty club to eat.
A few of the dancers lingered and Danny could not help but to sneak looks at them. Most were young and had perfectly toned bodies. He knew many dancers used drugs, favored abusive men or had been abused themselves, but still they were very alluring.
Erik made no secret of his admiration of the women. A young black girl gave him a smile that carried a certain promise, Danny thought.
“We don’t charge cops for coming in,” said Baker in his twangy voice. He might have been from southern Ohio or even Kentucky, Danny surmised.
“Good to know,” said Erik.
Danny didn’t say anything. He considered responding to such a statement to be unprofessional. But he knew Erik was responding because of his separation with his wife.
Baker’s office was nothing like Danny had imagined. It was downright corporate in appearance. No garish colors or naked pictures on the walls. A lawyer or CEO might have occupied this office.
“I know this is about Rashindah,” said Baker. “Have a seat, officers.”
Danny and Erik sat in two comfortable leather chairs, the kind with the big buttons on them. Danny knew these were expensive. Tits and ass was a thriving business, he thought.
“Then you won’t mind telling us who her friends were and letting us see her locker,” said Danny.
“The girls don’t have lockers here,” said Baker. “But I can tell you who she hung out with. Rashindah was tight with several of the dancers—”
“We’re more interested in the men,” said Erik.
“Men?” said Baker. “The customers talk to waitresses all the time. I wouldn’t have any idea about that.”
Danny could see now that Baker was hoping to deflect them and quickly put all of this business behind him.
“Even if she was selling drugs and turning tricks out of your club?” said Danny.
Baker was cool again as he heard these words. Danny was beginning to think Baker was a real creep, the kind of guy with a sterile corporate office but who had kiddie porn on his hard drive or a dead schoolgirl wrapped in plastic in the trunk of his BMW.
“I don’t allow either of those two activities in my place,” said Baker. “If any girl stepped over those lines, she’d be fired in a second.”
Now Danny was sure Baker was a liar. Strip clubs were always dens of iniquity. Girls always turned tric
ks and someone always sold drugs. If he were an honest man, he’d admit this and say that he had fired girls in the past.
“We have evidence that you took a cut of her business,” said Danny. “You can deny it if you want, but it won’t make a difference to us. We’re the murder police.”
“Of course, we’ll have to shut down your club while we sort it all out,” Erik added right on cue.
Baker leaned back in his chair a little. He was thinking, Danny could see. Baker pulled a small brown leather- bound notebook and opened it.
“Rashindah had three guys she was regular with. I have their names. Two of them still come in. One stopped coming, but it was before she died. She also had a friend who dropped by sometimes.”
“Just one?” asked Danny.
“Yes,” said Baker. “Rashindah wasn’t big on visitors.”
“You know this guy’s name?” asked Erik.
“Quinten,” said Baker. “Pretty sure he’s a fag. He got dances but he wasn’t really into it. Also, one of my bartenders is gay and he recognized him from the clubs.”
“Got a last name on this Quinten?” asked Danny sharing a quick look with Erik.
“Forrester,” said Baker looking back at the notebook. “I try to get at least that much info on any guy that comes here regularly.”
“Did you have a relationship with Rashindah?” asked Danny.
“I was her boss, if that’s what you mean,” said Baker.
“Were you fucking her?” asked Erik impatiently. “This ain’t TV man, you know what we need to know. Were you hittin’ that?”
“It was nothing,” said Baker. “Sure we hooked up a few times but—“
“Is that how she paid you for selling dope?” asked Danny.
“I told you I don’t allow that in here,” said Baker. “But if I did, I’d certainly consider her stuff the kind of currency I’d take.”
“How many of your bouncers are ex-cons?” asked Erik, “you know, the kind of men who might ice some mouthy waitress who got too big for her thong?”
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