Deadly Assets

by W. E. B Griffin

  Damn. Locked . . .

  Carefully, awkwardly, he rushed to catch up with Cross.

  —

  Five minutes later, Tyrone Hooks and Josiah Cross were standing before a wooden wall—what looked like a dead end—with empty plastic milk crates stacked next to it.

  “Now what?” Hooks said. “We’re trapped?”

  “No,” Cross said.

  Hooks tapped his phone to light up the screen again.

  “And there’s still no signal down here,” Hooks added.

  He waved the screen light of the phone around at the stack of crates and then the wood panel that capped off the tunnel.

  “What is this place?”

  “What DiAndre said. An escape route back when booze was illegal. For when the cops cracked down on the market selling moonshine—at least the cops who didn’t take an envelope of cash, and maybe a bottle or two, to look the other way.”

  “What market?”

  “It’s now a bodega, but same thing then. Selling whatever people wanted, legal or not.”

  Cross shone his flashlight on the plastic crates and reached down. Hooks saw that not all the crates were empty. Cross removed a large blanket from one and handed it to Hooks.

  “We’ll be here a little while, so better wrap up,” Cross said.

  As Hooks did so, Cross sniffed once, then again, and added, “What’s that stink from? Is it that blanket?”

  Cross pulled out another blanket, sniffed it, and said, “This one’s okay.”

  Hooks did not say anything.

  After a long, quiet moment, Cross began chuckling.

  “Oh, man, don’t tell me . . .” he said.

  “I ain’t ever been shot at before,” Hooks said quietly. He sounded deeply embarrassed.

  “Shot at!” Cross parroted, then could not contain himself. He laughed so loud it echoed down the tunnel.

  “What’s . . . what’s so damn funny? Those bullets went right past me!”

  After a moment, Cross forced himself to stop laughing.

  He said: “It’s just that the big badass rapper singing about capping the police hears a gun go off and shits his pants!”

  “Fuck you,” Hooks said meekly.

  “And I shouldn’t say . . .” he began, chuckling again. “Oh, this is funny . . . but it wasn’t . . . it wasn’t . . .”

  “It wasn’t what?” Hooks said.

  “He was shooting blanks!”

  —

  Nearly three hours later, a grinding sound startled them. The wooden wall that had looked like it could be a dead end started moving, sliding to the side like the one under the ministry’s row house.

  Light flooded into the dark tunnel.

  Hooks squinted as his eyes adjusted enough to see Cross quickly get up from the plastic crate and then slip through the opening.

  Hooks heard DiAndre Pringle’s voice: “What was so funny, Rev? The guys said they heard you all the way upstairs. Ugh. And what the hell is that smell?”

  “Tell you later,” Cross replied. “Everything okay?”

  “Yeah, Rev.”

  “Then let’s get upstairs.”

  “C’mon, Ty,” Pringle called.

  Hooks paused a moment to let them get a head start, then went through the opening.

  On the other side of the panel was another basement, packed with shelving and cardboard boxes carrying everything from potato chips to Tastykakes to cases imprinted with VIKTOR VODKA—SIX (6) 750-MILLILITER BOTTLES in large red Cyrillic-like lettering. Hooks, who drunk cheap liquor, knew that, despite the genuine-looking “Imported Russian Spirits,” the small print on the back of the clear plastic bottles, also in red Cyrillic-like lettering, stated that the cheap booze had been made in a Kensington distillery.

  There were also cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans stacked next to cases of forty-ounce bottles of Colt 45 malt liquor. The latter was a favorite of Hooks’s—he liked to call it “liquid crack”—because it was beer brewed with more sugar to create six percent alcohol for a stiffer, and cheaper, kick.

  He watched Pringle and Cross disappear up the back stairs.

  As Hooks passed one stack, and no one could see, he grabbed a bottle and stuffed it in the belly pocket of his hoodie.

  Need this to help me calm down.

  —

  The back stairs led up to the street-level floor that was the bodega.

  The top of the stairs opened into the back storeroom, which Hooks saw had a half-bath with a filthy toilet and sink—its door was open, the light burning—and on the opposite side of the room a second staircase leading up to the next level.

  Hooks started to head for the half-bath, but Cross pointed to the staircase.

  “No, use the one upstairs,” he said. “Follow me. But be quiet!”

  After ascending the second set of stairs, Hooks saw that the next level was a full two-bedroom apartment. It had a living room area with a dirty gray fabric couch and a fairly new flat-screen television, a small kitchen with a wooden table and four chairs, and a single full bathroom.

  “In there!” Cross said, pointing into the bathroom as he headed for one of the two windows that overlooked North Twenty-ninth Street.

  Cross, standing to the side of the window, carefully pulled back the outer edge of the curtain and scanned the street.

  A single marked police cruiser was parked in front of the mission, its overhead red-and-blue lights pulsing. Maybe a dozen uniformed police officers were milling about.

  “There’s only the one car,” Pringle said. “That Sergeant Payne said there’d be one there until you turned up. Dead or alive, he said.”

  “Really? We can use that,” Cross said, turning to look at him. “And what did you tell our Public Enemy Number One about what happened?”

  “Like you said: not a thing. Let them have a look around—they said they were going to even if I didn’t—but then I didn’t say anything. And they found nothing.”

  “Good job. You bring your computer pad?”

  “Yeah, and I already got the next one set up—asterisk-MarchForRevCross—with the Liberty Bell labeled BEATDOWNTHEMAN on the Philly News Now website.” He paused. “But there’s something you got to know about the rally. Here. Wait. Hear it from Smitty, Rev.”

  Pringle pulled out his phone, and a moment later said into it, “Tell Rev what you said.”

  Cross took the phone.

  “Smitty,” he said, “what the hell is going on?”

  “Hey, Lenny, look,” Smitty Jones began, “I did what I was told to. But I thought I was the only one.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I was in the crowd, right where I was supposed to be in front of the stage, and waiting for you to finish your speech, before, you know, before shooting those blanks I got at the sporting goods store Chester.” He paused, and chuckled, then said, “You know, when I was buying them, the kid behind the counter asked me if I was getting them for horses or dogs, and I said, ‘What?’ and he said, you know, there’s small blanks—ones that don’t make too loud a bang—for training a horse or hunting dog, to get used to hearing a gun going off—”

  “Smitty—” Cross said, trying to interrupt.

  “—I said I wanted the louder blanks. You believe that, Lenny? That’s what those rich folks do. Shoot fake bullets to get used to the sound. I about said just come on in to Philly, ’cause we’re used to lots of shooting going on—”

  “Smitty!” Cross snapped. “Tell me what the hell happened in the damn crowd!”

  “Oh, yeah,” Jones said after a moment. “Sorry. So, like I said, I was doing what I was told, waiting for you to finish your speech—gonna shoot when you said, ‘I won’t be stopped’—but then King Two-One-Five jumped up on the stage and started getting the crowd chanting. I was afraid I missed
when I was supposed to shoot, so I got out the gun and—BAM! BAM! BAM!—some bastard starts shooting next to me. Couldn’t see who—bunch of white folks there holding posters. So I aimed at King and started squeezing the trigger.”

  “Someone else was shooting?” Cross said slowly.

  Cross’s eyes shifted to DiAndre Pringle, who was shaking his head.

  “It was just supposed to be Smitty alone,” Pringle said.

  “Yeah, it was someone,” Jones said, “but I dunno . . .”

  “I’ll call you back, Smitty,” Cross said, then broke off the call and handed the phone back to Pringle.

  “Who you think it was?” Cross said.

  “No idea, Rev,” Pringle said, shaking his head. “Except it could be anyone.”

  Cross glanced at Hooks, who was thumbing a message on his cellular telephone.

  So, Cross thought, he didn’t shit himself? No, he did do that. He said he saw the gun.

  But they were shooting at him?

  Or me, too?

  [ THREE ]

  Queens Club Resort

  George Town, Grand Cayman Islands

  Saturday, December 15, 7:35 P.M.

  “Here’s Illana now, right on time,” Mike Santos announced as the stunning tanned blonde appeared through the white canvas flaps of the Jolly Mon Cabana.

  Rapp Badde saw that she carried a stack of manila folders. He also noted, appreciatively, that she had changed from the nautical-themed outfit of tight navy shorts and sheer white captain’s shirt into a melon-colored linen sundress.

  Illana put the folders on the table between Badde and Janelle Harper.

  Santos looked at Jan and said, “These you’ll of course recognize as the contracts that I sent up for your review last week.

  “Rapp,” Santos then said, “if you’re ready to sign, we can move forward to more important things. Like celebrating.”

  As if on cue, the white cotton flap of the cabana was pushed aside again, and two very attractive females who looked like younger versions of Illana carried in a polished stainless steel insulated tub containing three bottles of champagne on ice and a serving tray holding champagne stems and an assortment of sushi, sashimi, and raw oysters on the half-shell.

  “A little something to celebrate with while the ink is drying,” Santos said, smiling broadly. “It’s a tradition for us. And after we celebrate, tomorrow I will show you the plans for the casino.”

  “I like it,” Badde said, and turned to Janelle. “You want to hand me a pen, so I can get this done?”

  —

  Illana popped open the first bottle of champagne and poured everyone a full stem. After Santos had made a toast—“To the success of Philly’s newest and finest luxury hotel and its developers”—and they touched glasses, Santos reached into the pocket of his shirt. He came out with a small cell phone, looked at its screen, thumbed it, then looked up at Rapp Badde and Jan Harper.

  “You’ll excuse me a moment, please,” Santos said, standing.

  He put the phone to his head as he carried the champagne stem out of the cabana.

  Rapp and Jan exchanged glances when they heard Santos say, “Talk to me, Bobby. What the hell is going on?”

  Badde shrugged, then drank half of his champagne. He looked at the tray of food, and proceeded to eat two pieces of the tuna sushi—selecting them over the sashimi only because the pieces were on rice—he wasn’t sure about simply eating slices of raw fish.

  And then, feeling adventurous after swallowing the sushi without incident, he tried one of the half-shell raw oysters.

  “You sure you want to do that?” Jan Harper said, right before he slurped it from the shell—and began gagging.

  She gestured toward his champagne stem.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Rapp. Just wash it down.”

  He did, emptying the stem. Then he burped.

  “Nice,” Jan said, shaking her head, disgusted.

  As Badde reached for the champagne bottle, his Go To Hell cell phone began ringing again. He refilled his stem, then looked at the caller ID. It again read gibberish: #01-0K0-30X-V34-X%K.

  He looked at it a long moment, considered ignoring it, began to answer it, then finally decided to let the call go to voice mail. Almost the moment after it did, the phone began ringing again, and again the ID came up as gibberish.

  “Damn it,” he said, then quickly left the cabana.

  He walked about ten yards over to where a pair of tall palms leaned against each other, flipped open the phone, and barked into it, “What?”

  “Councilman Badde,” an adult male said, his tone calm, with no indication he had taken any offense over how his calls had finally been answered. “We have a mutual friend, one who has asked that I get in touch with you.”

  Well, that’s how this guy got my private number. But who?

  “Who is this friend?” Badde said.

  “I believe you will be able to figure that out in due time.”

  What kind of accent does this guy have? Badde thought.

  Badde was quiet a moment, then said, “What is this about?”

  “A matter of mutual concern. We are in the process of recovering some valuables that belong to us.”

  “What kind of valuables?”

  “Perhaps you have seen the news today about the robbery in the casino.”

  Robbery? What robbery? All I’ve seen is Lenny’s craziness.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I see,” the male voice said.

  There was a long silence.

  “You know my name,” Badde then said. “What’s yours?”

  “That is immaterial right now. You are aware, I trust, of your friend Reverend Cross’s rally today?”

  I wouldn’t say he’s exactly my friend these days.

  But where are you going with this?

  “Yeah,” Badde said, “I know of it.”

  “And that he had a musician perform?”

  “I do not know the details of who was at the rally.”

  “Well, I do. And the musician who performed during it is a young African-American named Tyrone Hooks. He goes by the stage name King Two-One-Five.”

  “Okay, so this rapper, why is he relevant . . . ?”

  “You do not know Hooks?”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “I will have to take you at your word on that.”

  Well, you just do that, Badde thought, fuck you very much . . .

  “What the hell do you want?” Badde snapped.

  “It’s what and who. As I said, we intend to recover the stolen valuables. But in order to do that, we first need to find Tyrone Hooks.”

  “Okay. And?”

  “And the last time that Hooks was seen, he was in the company of Cross.”

  “What, assuming it were possible, is it that you want me to do?”

  “It is very important that I find Hooks immediately. I need you—our mutual friend needs you—to find Cross and then find Hooks.”

  There was a long pause, then Badde said, “Fine. How do I get in touch with you when I do?”

  “I will call back in thirty minutes. Every thirty minutes.”

  “Fine. Okay,” Badde said, as he looked at Jan exiting the cabana while holding her cell phone.

  As she approached him, he saw that she was looking at it, then apparently letting the call go to voice mail. After a moment she went to listen to the recording and raised her eyebrows as it played.

  A moment later Badde almost spilled his champagne when he heard Jan gasp audibly as she held her phone to her ear.

  She broke the connection and leaned in toward Badde.

  “That was Raychell Meadow. She’s the fifth reporter who’s been calling, asking for a comment—one from you, b
ut she would settle for me speaking for you—about the apparent shooting of Josiah Cross after he called Matt Payne Public Enemy Number One.”

  Badde, his eyes wide, did not immediately respond. Instead he drained his stem, then burped.

  After a moment’s thought, he shrugged, and then said, “Between you and me, Skinny Lenny is not shot, but him being out of the picture would not be a bad thing—”

  Badde felt his Go To Hell flip phone vibrate, and saw that the caller ID read PHILA MAYOR’S OFFICE.

  Probably that Stein guy. He, and Carlucci, can kiss my big black ass.

  He pushed the key, sending the call to voice mail.

  “What do you want to tell Raychell and the others?” Jan Harper said.

  “What I want to say and what I am limited to saying are two completely different things. You’re the lawyer. Why don’t you earn your keep and come up with a clever quote that says nothing?”

  Jan narrowed her eyes at him as she sipped her champagne.

  Just as he slid the Go To Hell phone back into his pocket, the smartphone with his general number began to vibrate. Without looking to see who was calling, he immediately pushed the key that sent the caller into voice mail; a moment later, a short vibration signaled that the caller had left a message.

  Curiosity caused him to glance at the screen. It read WILLIE LANE, 1 VOICE MAIL MESSAGE.

  He pushed the key to play the message, then put the phone to his head.

  He heard City Council President William Lane’s gravelly voice: “Rappe, it’s Willie. I need you to call me yesterday. It’s an extremely important matter. You should have my numbers, but just in case, these are my office and cellular . . .”

  Oh shit! Badde thought as the numbers were repeated.

  “Yesterday”?

  Willie sounds pissed.

  Then the phone rang again.

  He checked its screen.

  Willie again? He must really be pissed . . .

  —

  H. Rapp Badde Jr., using the hand he had not punched the palm tree with, pushed the white canvas flap aside and entered the Jolly Mon Cabana. Janelle was gone, and Santos was on his cell phone.

  Santos glanced up at Badde, then said into the phone, “I’ll get back to you.”