by T. E. Woods
I’ve got to give a shout-out to my readers. Thank you so very much for your loyalty to this series. I love your tweets, reviews, and comments. Here’s hoping we continue this dropping in on Mort and Lydia for many years to come.
And always. Always. Always. There’s my never-ending gratitude to that man of mine. Thank you for supporting my dream. From talking out plot points to eating dinner late (“Just let me get to the end of this scene.”) to everything else you do to leave me be when I’m in my office, I owe you big. (Thanks, too, for never collecting on the debt.)
BY T. E. WOODS
The Fixer
The Red Hot Fix
The Unforgivable Fix
Fixed in Blood
Fixed in Fear
About the Author
T. E. WOODS is a clinical psychologist and author living in Madison, Wisconsin. For random insight into how her strange mind works, contact her at [email protected] and follow her at:
tewoodswrites.com
Facebook.com/TEWoodsWrites
@tewoodswrites
If you enjoyed Fixed in Fear, read on for a special sneak preview of the next electrifying Justice Novel
Dead-End Fix
by T. E. Woods
Coming soon from Alibi
Chapter 1
His leg was cramping like a son of a bitch. He’d been crouched behind two dumpsters, wedged between them and five, maybe six, wooden crates overflowing with fish heads, rotten cabbage leaves, moldy pork skins, and whatever else those funny-talking slant-eyes decided to throw out after cooking whatever slop they were selling as food in their jive-ass restaurant. He heard once that if you were around some strange stink and gulped in air really fast, your nose would get some kind of overdose and just go numb. You wouldn’t smell it anymore more. Well, next time some smart-ass tried to sell him that particular piece of dope, he had proof positive that it was nothing but bullshit. He’d tell him about the time he sat for over an hour on a hot afternoon, surrounded by Chinese, Japanese, Who-the-Fuck-Cares-ese garbage and kept smelling the reek no matter how many deep breaths he took.
He’d learned the deep-breathing stuff from LaTonya. She was always running on about yoga this and karma that. He didn’t listen to half the stuff coming out of that luscious mouth of hers, but he acted like he did. LaTonya was one fine piece of equipment. Tall and straight. Ass bubbling out enough so that a man could park his champagne glass on its shelf and not worry about spilling a drop. Carried herself like some kind of princess out of a fairy-tale book. Long arms she liked to stretch over her head, acting like she didn’t realize that every time she did, her nipples pressed against that stretchy material in those little outfits she wore. But she knew, all right. It drove all the boys crazy and LaTonya liked sitting behind the steering wheel.
But LaTonya didn’t pay him any more mind beyond teaching him all about the latest thing she’d read about in her magazines. She let him know, without saying a word on the topic, she wasn’t about to take up with some po’ boy lacking sufficient cheddar to take her shopping downtown. No, sir. LaTonya needed a man who could drop two, three, maybe even ten large on a spree, then take her out to the clubs so she could show off her newsies to all the other bitches sipping their Cristal and giggling like puppets in a cartoon show. He knew until he could foot that kind of bill, all he was to LaTonya was another dick in the hood. Some dork-slap she could practice her tease on.
But he had other plans for LaTonya and her luscious mouth. Wouldn’t be long before he’d have so many Bens falling out of his pocket he could take on LaTonya and three more just like her. He’d know just what to do with each one of them bitches, too.
And that was sure enough to keep him crouched there. No stink, no ache in his legs, no bugs buzzing in his ears could block his mission today. He kept his mind focused and his eyes open. Watching the neighborhood go about its day through the crack between the dumpsters. He let the old men headed to the park pass right on by. Let ’em play their checkers or sit around laughing about whatever good-old days they lied about living. Same with the moms. Let them old ladies get on the busses and head on out to they jobs cleaning white people’s houses on the fancy side of town. He even let the bad kitties pass on by. Another day he might have had something to say about their tight clothes and their sashay walk. But not this day. Today was all about business.
And finally, there it was. Crossing the street in front of him. Later than he expected, but who gave a fuck at that moment? He took another deep breath for LaTonya and pulled his piece from his belt. He waited as it came nearer. A kick of fear shook his concentration but he kicked it right back. This was no time for what-ifs. He pulled himself out of his crouch, counted to three, stepped out from behind the dumpster, and took aim.
The first shot brought his target down. He stepped forward, ignoring the screams from two Beckys across the street. He was close now. His second shot stopped his target’s arms and legs from twitching. He knelt beside the dead thing on the sidewalk and acted quickly. He tucked his piece back into his belt and pulled a switchblade from his pocket. Three slices later he had what he needed. He reached in his pocket one last time.
Then he stood.
Then he ran.
He was six blocks away, sitting on a bench in front of a tattoo parlor when he heard the sirens headed south toward that stinking restaurant.
—
Three men escorted him through the main floor of the house. He knew each of them. At first just by reputation. But for the past two months he’d joined them in meetings and shared beers with them after they’d finished a job. He listened to their stories and kept his eyes averted when the bitches came in to do what the bitches came in to do. One night, he’d even willingly walked into that alley, knowing full damn well they’d be waiting to beat him until he was bloody and unable to speak; all to prove his worthiness to be one of them. The three men, and the dozens more like them, had been like gods to him.
Tonight they’d become brothers.
Next time the bitches came, there’d be one for him, too.
The four of them climbed the stairs. This was the first time he’d been allowed on the second floor of the house. This was his first face-to-face with the man who gave the orders. Not countin’ the times he’d seen him roll by. Lexus, Escalade, didn’t matter what the ride was. Didn’t matter how dark the windows were tinted. Everybody knew who was sittin’ in the backseat. Everybody knew to give that man some room.
And now he was getting ready to meet him.
The small group paused in front of a closed double door.
“You ready?” J-Fox asked him.
He nodded.
“This your last chance, boy.” Big Cheek’s rumbling voice came from behind him. “You do this, you do this till death.”
He nodded again. For a fast second he thought he saw J-Fox smile.
“Let’s do this,” he said.
Mouse reached from behind him and opened the door. He reminded himself to ask how someone as big as a fucking elephant ever got the name Mouse. He wouldn’t have dared ask that before. But tonight they’d be equals. Family. There’d be no secrets. Only brotherhood.
He walked in and his three escorts peeled away to join the dozen other men already in the dimly lit room. The air was heavy with a 420 haze. The pounding beat of a bass guitar hit him in the chest as it boomed out of speakers lining the opposite wall. He’d been told what was expected of him. He’d practiced his script and thought he’d be nervous. But he wasn’t. He stepped over and stood in front of the man sitting in the big-ass black leather chair. D’Loco. He looked the boss man square in the eye, holding the gaze without blinking until D’Loco nodded once. Then he got down on his knees and bowed his head. The blaring music went silent.
“You want this?” the man in the chair asked.
“I do.”
“You ready for this?”
“I am.”
“You’d kill for this?”
“I have.” He
reached into his pocket and pulled out his trophy. With his head still bowed, he handed it to the man in the chair.
The man accepted the offering. He looked at it, turning it first this way, then that. The man who bowed in front of him had no concerns about the inspection. He knew the article was genuine. He’d cut it off himself.
Finally, the man in the chair stood. He held the jacket sleeve offered as evidence of the kill high above his head, showing the stitched-on patch to the rest of the men in the room.
“Looks red to me.” D’Loco announced. “California just lost another one of its dreamers.”
Approving grunts, mingled with Hell yeahs and Damn straights filled the room.
“Get on up here, boy,” D’Loco commanded. “Who the hell are you, anyway?”
“I’m Kashawn Meadows.” D’Loco knew damned well who he was. It may have been Mouse who’d told Kashawn his particular target, but it was D’Loco who’d come up with the order to take out the Pico. But this was all part of the initiation script and Kashawn played along. “Sixth Street was my home. I’m looking for another.”
“Well, boy, you found it. Right here at 97.” D’Loco reached out his hand to Kashawn and pulled him into a hearty embrace. He held him tight as he called out to the others. “New brother, men. We got ourselves a new brother right here. Birthed on the streets. Raised on the streets. Born to die on those same damned streets.”
D’Loco released Kashawn and pushed him into the crowd. There were no beatings this time. More than a dozen men took their time with him. Slapping him on the shoulder, playfully grabbing his face, rubbing the top of his head like he was some kind of good-luck mojo. Each brother offered a welcome. Each swore to have his back no matter what came. Kashawn had never felt that much love. He would have been happy for it to go on forever, but the brothers stepped aside when D’Loco took command once again.
“C’mere, boy.”
Kashawn stood again in front of his leader.
D’Loco took a braided gold chain from the table beside his chair. He held it out to Kashawn.
“You wear this, boy. Any man tries to take it from you dies trying. You hear me?”
Kashawn swallowed the lump of pride choking his words. “I do.”
“Any man who does take it from you, takes it from your dead body. You hear that?”
“I do.”
“Give me your hand,” D’Loco demanded.
Kashawn opened his right hand and held it out in front of him. D’Loco placed a heavy gray bead the size of a pencil eraser in it.
“That’s lead,” D’Loco said. “Like the bullet you put in that no-good Pico. You put that on your chain and you wear it proud. Any time you take out a threat to this family I’ma give you another bead. You wear those with pride, too.”
Kashawn closed his fist around the lead bead. He brought it to his mouth and kissed it, fighting back tears.
“Go on, boy,” D’Loco laughed. “That’s for wearin’, not romancin’.”
Kashawn threaded the bead onto his gold chain, fastened the clasp, and pulled it over his head. He smiled in gratitude to D’Loco, nodding his appreciation to the chain his leader wore around his own neck. The one strung with at least twenty beads.
D’Loco raised an eyebrow, pursed his lips, and looked down at Kashawn. “Why you here, boy? And don’t give me no booge about family. You already got us now. There’s gotta be more. Why you here?”
Kashawn couldn’t tell him what was true. That he really was there for the family. That all he wanted was these brothers, this home, this protection and loyalty. There wasn’t anything else for Kashawn. Finally, after seventeen years of bouncing from one house to the next. Sometimes family, most times state-run. Finally he had himself a place. He didn’t want another thing in all the world.
But he couldn’t tell the truth. So he put on that half smile. The one that always got the social worker to blame his latest visit on his underprivileged circumstances. Whether he was in that white lady’s office to explain shoplifting, skipping school, or cussing out the teacher, Kashawn could always put on that smile and she’d be reaching for a cookie and telling him to try to do better. Make better decisions, she’d always say.
“It’s all about the Benjamins, man.” Kashawn let the smile go wider. “It’s all about the money.”
D’Loco stared at him long enough for Kashawn to fear he’d offended him. But then D’Loco laughed. Loud and long.
“Brother got it right. He already got the family. Now it’s all about the cheddar.”
The other men joined in the laughter, adding their agreement that after their bond, it was all about the money.
“Listen here.” D’Loco quieted the room in an instant. “Our new brother needs a new name to mark his joinin’. He done been baptized in blood. Time for a…a what those church folks call it? A christening! Tha’s it. Let’s christen this sumbitch.” He put his hand to his chin. “I got it. Here you go. All about the Bens, is it? Okay, Mr. Money. Boys, meet your newest brother. We gonna call him Green K.”
Kashawn heard the others bouncing his name back and forth between them, murmuring their approval. He looked up at D’Loco, feeling a warm heaviness wrap around him. D’Loco held his gaze with approving eyes.
Green K he was.
And he knew he would die for the man who’d named him.
Chapter 2
“I thought this neighborhood was cleaning itself up.” Jim DeVilla stepped out of his car. An oversized German shepherd bounced out behind him. He walked over to the woman who had beaten him to the crime scene by ten seconds. “It’s three thirty in the afternoon. Gun play should be like cocktails. Nothing before five o’clock. Nobody cares about tradition anymore.”
Micki Petty hefted her evidence kit onto her shoulder. She nodded toward the knotted circle of people up ahead. “Only two cops?”
“What are you insinuating, Officer Petty?” Jim’s voice held a tease. “I’m sure if a person was shot in broad daylight in any number of Seattle’s high-rent districts, dispatch would see fit to send the same economical pair of officers in response.” He called out as they approached, “Hey! Officer Numb Nuts…Officer Dip Stick. Get these good people back. They’re contaminating the scene.”
Two flustered patrolmen stood over a prone figure lying facedown on the sidewalk, doing their best to hold a group of at least thirty onlookers at bay.
“Everybody back away.” Micki’s voice sounded more authoritarian than her compact size and pixielike face would suggest possible. “Farther. Back, back.” She walked in an ever-widening spiral around the body, holding her hand out, directing the citizens away. Bruiser followed behind her, employing the herding skills passed down through hundreds of generations of working dogs, using his sturdy body to guide the people toward a more acceptable location. When Micki had the crowd stabilized to where she needed them, she joined Jim and the pair of patrol officers.
“What do we know?” Jim asked.
“Called in about twenty minutes ago.” The uniformed officer’s red hair curled up the sides of his cap. “Two women saw it go down. Said the vic was just walking down the sidewalk. Some guy pops up out of nowhere and starts shooting. A few other folks said they heard the shots but didn’t see it happen.”
“We got the two witnesses?” Micki asked.
The second officer, a tall man with a moustache so thin it looked penciled on, nodded toward his patrol car. “I got ’em both in there. They’re none too happy about sitting in the back of a squad car, but I figured you’d want to talk to them.”
Micki shook her head. “Ever occur to you to separate them? You got two cruisers. Plenty of room.”
Officer Red Hair jogged off toward the car holding the women. Jim watched Micki shake her head in frustration. They both knew it was too late. The witnesses already had twenty minutes alone to get their stories straight.
“What did they tell you about the shooter?” Jim asked Officer Moustache.
“Like Roscoe told
you. Victim was walking. By himself, they say. Another guy appears. Shots fired. Perp takes off running.”
“Ah!” Jim DeVilla tapped the side of his head. “Guy took off running. That’s news. What direction?”
Officer Moustache pointed east. “I called it in.”
“Along with a description?” Micki asked.
“Black guy. The ladies couldn’t agree on the height. One said he looked to be about her size. I’d put her around five-six. The other one swore he was over six feet tall. One lady said he was a skinny guy who looked like he might have a limp. The other one said he was built like Marshawn Lynch and ran like a track star.”
“So we know the shooter was black,” Jim said.
Officer Moustache shrugged. “One of the ladies said he could have been Puerto Rican.”
Micki and Jim shared a tired glance. Jim looked down at the body.
“At least we know about this one,” he said. “What d’ya say, Mick? Six feet tall? Maybe an inch more?”
Micki nodded. “Thin. All arms and legs.” She turned toward the patrolman. “No one’s moved the body?” She pulled a camera from her bag and began photographing the scene.
“No, ma’am. He was like this when we rolled on scene. If he was moved it wasn’t by us.”
Jim looked toward the growing group of citizens. “How many of them were here when you rolled up?”
Officer Moustache answered with confidence. “I got here first. Roscoe was less than two minutes behind me. There were the two witnesses and maybe one or two other folks. Nobody got near the body that I could tell.”
“And nobody knows who this is?” Jim asked.
“Kind of hard to ID the guy, what with him being facedown and all.”
“What about his clothes?” Jim pointed. “Guy’s got a jacket with one sleeve missing. Anybody have anything to say about that particular fashion statement? Maybe can put a name to it? Oh, that’s One-Sleeve Joe. Lives two blocks over. Anything like that?”