Least Wanted

by Debbi Mack

  The Dallas fan and Mr. Ass Crack looked up, then glanced at me. Their eyes met and they snickered. The bartender, who I assumed was Calvin, said, “Who the white girl, D?”

  “A friend. I need to speak to you. Alone.”

  The men looked Little D up and down. Neither seemed anxious to argue with him, but neither moved.

  Calvin flicked his hand and said, “Give us a minute.” They slid off their stools and slouched away.

  “Narsh been here?” Little D asked.

  Calvin’s gaze darted from me to Little D. “Ain’t seen him lately.”

  “You sure ’bout dat?” Smooth as a gunslinger pulling a pistol, Little D dipped in his pocket and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill.

  Calvin gazed at the fifty like a hungry man eyeing a juicy steak and gestured with his shoulder. “Who wants to know?”

  Little D chuckled. “C’mon, Calvin. Don’t start pretending you give a damn.”

  “Ain’t a po-lice thing, is it?”

  I stifled a laugh. “Do I really look like an undercover cop?” I said. “I blend in here about as well as David Duke at the Million Man March.”

  The corner of Calvin’s mouth turned up, then broadened into a grin. “Who are you then?”

  “I’m a lawyer, but that’s neither here nor there.”

  “You planning on suing Narsh?”

  “No.” Not anytime soon, anyway.

  “Well . . . .” he said.

  Little D waggled the bill at him, ready to withdraw it at a moment’s notice.

  “Narsh hangin’ at Choochie’s now,” Calvin said. “Just inside the District line.”

  “I know the place.”

  “Then you know he might be hard to reach, once you get there. And they ain’t gonna like your friend.”

  “We’ll see what we can work out. Thanks, Cal.” He handed the fifty to the bartender and the two did a grip-and-slide handshake.

  “So,” I said, as we walked out. “What up, dawg?”

  “Niggah please,” he said. “Too white for words.” His shoulders shook with soundless laughter as we walked to his car.

  On the way to Choochie’s, he said, “This could be a problem. You should probably wait in the car.”

  “Nuh-uh. I’m coming in.”

  Little D opened his mouth to protest. “I’ve got to talk to Narsh myself,” I said. “I’ve come this far. And I’m going to see him.”

  His mouth snapped shut for an instant. “Fine. Wear my jacket. And there’s a ball cap in the back seat. Put it on and pull it down low over your face. You have real short hair, anyway. With any luck, you’ll look more like a guy—or at least a little less white.”

  I reached back and found a burgundy-and-gold Redskins cap. “Got any brown shoe polish?”

  “Say what?”

  “It worked for Gene Wilder in Silver Streak?” I grinned.

  He smiled and shook his head. “You trippin’, girl, you know that?”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Choochie’s turned out to be an upscale version of Calvin’s. The booths were cushioned in red Naugahyde, the air was less than aromatic, and the place had a dim glow. The few customers were male, black, and ranged from young to middle-aged. Rap blasted from a jukebox. Little D’s jacket hung halfway to my knees. I felt like a kid playing dress-up. As we approached the bartender, I pulled the cap down until the bill practically touched my nose.

  “Lookin’ for Narsh. You seen him?” Little D asked.

  The bartender, rail-thin, with crepey skin, gazed at Little D with blank brown eyes. “Ain’t seen no one,” he said.

  “Next time you don’t see him, be sure and tell him Little D lookin’ for him. We got some bidness to discuss. About his employer. And a murder.”

  The bartender raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. He glanced at a hallway leading to the back of the bar.

  “We’ll be in the booth over there.” Little D cocked a thumb toward the far corner, then grabbed a bowl of pretzels before walking to the booth. Soon as we sat down, the bartender vanished.

  Little D nibbled a pretzel. “Shit, these mothers are stale.” He threw it back in the bowl.

  “Thanks,” I said. “That’s the last time I eat bar pretzels.” Little D grinned.

  The bartender reappeared, followed by another man wearing a red do-rag. Short and well-built, his jeans molded to his well-muscled legs. His skin-tight T-shirt showed off bulging pecs. The bartender returned to his job and the muscle man continued in our direction. My stomach clenched.

  “Whatchoo want?” he barked at Little D.

  “Narsh, isn’t it?”

  “Why the mutherfuck I be talkin’ to you if I wasn’t?”

  Little D replied in an even tone. “We have some questions for you about Rodney Fisher.”

  “What this got to do wit’ murder?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Well, if you don’t know, I sure the fuck don’t either.”

  The rap song stopped abruptly. A sappy ballad took its place. Narsh started to turn away. Little D said, “Then let’s talk about something else.”

  “What?”

  “Fisher’s business.”

  “What make you think I’ll answer?”

  “Because I asked nicely.” When Little D stood up, he towered over Narsh.

  Narsh narrowed his eyes and snorted. “Ast nicely. You funny, big man. Well, the bigger you are, the harder you fall, mutherfucker.”

  “Just have a seat,” Little D said. The voice of reason. “And talk to us.”

  “Fuck you.” Narsh started to walk off. Little D grabbed his shoulder and Narsh swung at him with his right fist. But Little D was light on his feet for a big guy. He blocked the punch with his arm. Narsh swung again with his left, but missed when Little D ducked out of reach. Narsh tried again with his right. Little D sidestepped the punch, grabbed Narsh, and flipped him onto the floor.

  Narsh lay there, shaking his head and looking like he didn’t know what hit him. In the background, the jukebox diva was stretching the word “love” out to four syllables.

  “Well done,” I murmured.

  “Tai chi,” Little D replied. He offered his hand to Narsh. “Ready to talk now?” he asked.

  “Sure, sure,” Narsh said. He scrambled into a crouch. As he rose, I saw him reach into his jacket pocket.

  “D—” I said. But Little D had seen the move. He grabbed Narsh’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back. A large handgun thudded to the floor.

  “Muther . . . fucker!” Narsh arched backward, his face contorted in pain. “Let me the fuck go!”

  “If you’re ready to talk.”

  “Okay, okay. Shit.”

  Little D let go. Narsh rubbed his wrist and glared.

  Extending an arm toward the booth, Little D said, “Have a seat.” He picked up the gun, checked the chamber, removed the clip, and handed the empty weapon to Narsh. “You get the rest back after we get some answers.”

  Narsh slid into the booth, opposite me, and Little D sat beside Narsh, who looked quizzically at my face beneath the cap.

  “More tai chi?” I said, feeling more at ease.

  “Nah. Sometimes brute force is called for.” Little D removed bullets from the clip, then glanced at Narsh. “I’ll start. You do a lot of business for Fisher, don’t you?”

  “What if I do?”

  “A lot of business ain’t exactly legal.”

  “What if it ain’t?”

  I placed a copy of the ledger in front of Narsh. “Can you tell me who these people are?”

  Narsh squinted. “Look, I dunno nothin’. I’m jus’ a runner, see? Even if I knew, I can’t be going around talkin’ about it.”

  “But this does represent income Fisher hasn’t claimed, doesn’t it?”

  “You with the IRS?”

  I shook my head.

  “Then whatchoo care, bitch?”

  Little D dropped the clip. His hand shot up and clamped Narsh’s neck. “You will use a poli
te tone when addressing my friend,” he said.

  Narsh made a choking noise. Little D withdrew his hand. Narsh inhaled sharply, then coughed, rubbing the sore spot.

  I took another tack. “Do you know where Fisher was last Wednesday night?” I asked.

  “No,” Narsh croaked, still coughing. Little D pocketed the bullets after he’d emptied the clip.

  “Where were you last Wednesday night?”

  “Here, probably.”

  “Probably?” I was tired of this verbal dance. “C’mon, it was only last week. I’m sure you can remember back that far.”

  Little D gave Narsh a warning glare. Narsh, still rubbing his neck, said, “I was here, okay? Damn.”

  Assuming that was true and someone saw him here, Narsh had an alibi for Shanae’s murder. But Fisher was still a suspect. I glanced at Little D to see if he had anything to say. He gestured for me to continue.

  “Do you know Shanae Jackson?” I asked.

  “She the mother of Rodney’s chile, right? I seen her.” Narsh’s expression told me this wasn’t a good thing.

  “Did you see Rodney and Shanae argue any time recently?”

  “She come by the shop and made a lotta noise, yeah. She do that now and then. Pain-in-the-ass bitch.”

  “You won’t have to worry about her anymore. She was beaten to death.”

  His eyes widened. “You don’t say?” He paused before speaking again. “With that mouth on her, can’t say I’m surprised.”

  I wondered what it was he had chosen not to say. “She was murdered last Wednesday night. Do you know where Fisher was that night?”

  He shook his head. “You po-lice or what?”

  “Let’s just say I’m an interested party. And it’s really interesting that Shanae was murdered after the two of them argued so much. And no one can account for where Fisher was that night.”

  “That don’t mean he killed her.”

  “Sure, but that doesn’t make it any less interesting. Did they argue about money? Because Shanae thought Fisher owed her child support.”

  “I dunno. I just handle his business.”

  “His money laundering business?”

  “I just make deliveries for the man.”

  “Do you know who this is?” I pointed to the ITN entry.

  Narsh looked and shook his head.

  “You must know who you’re delivering to,” I said. “Who is this?”

  Narsh shrugged.

  Little D put his hand on Narsh’s arm. “Answer the question.”

  Narsh glared at Little D, who returned an unblinking gaze. “And why the fuck should I?”

  “Cause if you don’t, I’m gonna drag you outta this booth and kick your sorry black ass.” Little D paused for effect. “Then, I’ma go to Rodney Fisher and tell him you sold us this information”—he pointed to the copy of the ledger—“and you’ll be outta work and your name’ll be dirt on the street. You be lucky to get a job at Church’s Chicken as a gotdamn counter boy.”

  Narsh’s mouth opened a fraction. His eyes were heavy-lidded and wary. “And if I talk, what’s to stop you from doin’ that anyway?”

  Little D grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “Because then you’re useful to us, and why would I want to hurt someone useful to us?” He shifted on the seat. “Either way, it’ll save you an ass-whoopin’.”

  Narsh fell silent, likely weighing the consequences of his response.

  “Look, I dunno names. All I know is two white boys.”

  “Two white guys?” I said. “Young? Old?”

  “Young. Geek-lookin’ mutherfuckers.”

  “So how does it work? They give you money and what happens next?”

  Little D squeezed Narsh’s arm. “We’d appreciate all the details.”

  Narsh swallowed hard. “I pick up the money from the white boys in the parking lot at Calvert Road Park and take it to Fisher. Now and then, I deliver some of that money to some ’bama give me a package. I take the package back to Fisher and he hold it ’til the white boys pick it up.”

  “Drugs?”

  “Naw. Somethin’ flat. Like a disc maybe.”

  I shot Little D a quizzical look. He shrugged.

  “How often do you do this?” I asked.

  “Maybe once a month, I get the money. The white boys pick up the package every two months or so.”

  “How long has this been going on?”

  Narsh squinted and counted on his fingers. “It been about six, seven months.”

  “So who gives you the package?” I said.

  “Don’t know his name. Some niggah in a blue uniform.”

  “A blue uniform?” I thought of the black man who’d been looking for Cooper at Elva McKutcheon’s place in Philadelphia. “Where do you meet him?”

  “Iverson Mall.”

  “Are you meeting him anytime soon?”

  “This Friday.”

  In two days. “When are you supposed to make your next delivery to the white guys?”

  “This weekend. Saturday.”

  I looked at Little D. “I have an idea.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  It was a simple plan. On Friday, Little D would observe the Iverson Mall drop and follow the man in the blue uniform. Narsh would meet the white guys around twelve-thirty the next day in the lot at Calvert Road Park and give them their package. I intended to be there to see the handoff, take photos, and follow the two men after they left the park. Little D and I would touch base later that day.

  Little D returned Narsh’s empty clip and we left Choochie’s. I asked if he would run me by Rochelle Watson’s house. I still hoped one of the neighbors would confirm Tina’s presence the night of the murder. Little D took me to the house. While I knocked on Rochelle’s door, he visited other neighbors.

  The door opened to reveal Tanya’s thin, sallow face. “What is it?” Her eyes were as dull as her voice.

  “Hi, Tanya. Remember me?”

  “Yeah, I ’member you. Whatchoo want now?”

  “I wondered if I could speak to Rochelle.”

  Tanya turned her head and, in a voice that could pierce steel, yelled, “Rochelle! Com’ere!” She turned back to face me.

  “You knew Shanae Jackson,” I said. “I assume Rochelle also met Tina’s mother.” Maybe Shanae had gotten up in Rochelle’s face enough to threaten the girl or her gang.

  “You have to ask her.” She bellowed Rochelle’s name once more.

  Tanya opened the door wider. I had no intention of entering the Roach Palace a second time. I heard noises and a tall girl, well-developed for 13, in jeans and a skin-tight pink shirt emerged from the kitchen at the end of the hall. A pink-sequined scrunchie was wrapped around her wrist—similar to one Tina had worn in her hair the day she came to my office. Rochelle swaggered to the door and looked me over. Her pores exuded ’tude. “This lady here to talk to you,” Tanya said.

  “Yeah?” Rochelle said.

  I introduced myself, explaining my connection to Tina. “First, I’d like to ask you where you were last Wednesday night.”

  Rochelle’s eyebrows drew together. “What I have to do wit’ this?” Tanya appeared to lose interest and wandered off.

  “It may be important for Tina’s defense.”

  “I was here.”

  “Was anyone with you?”

  “You mean like Tina?”

  “I mean like anyone.”

  She paused before speaking. “Tina here. And some friends.”

  “Members of your gang, the Pussy Posse?”

  “Sure.”

  “So you are in a gang by that name?”

  “Yeah.” She leaned against the door jamb, arms akimbo. “I started it,” she said with pride, as though speaking of the local Junior League chapter.

  “Did your gang have any problems with Tina’s mother?” I asked.

  “We ain’t had no problem wit’ her, but she had problems wit’ us.”

  “She didn’t want Tina hanging out with you?”
<
br />   “Somethin’ like that. But Tina made it pretty clear she didn’t give a shit what her moms want.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Tina said her moms always bossin’ her around. Heifer always trying to tell her what to do when she couldn’t even keep her own shit together.”

  “So Tina decided to join your gang? Was it her idea?”

  “I tole’ her she could join and she say yes. What else she got going?” Rochelle gave me a knowing look. “Wit’ us, she had a place to stay and friends to watch her back.”

  “Was the purse snatching her initiation?”

  “Right.”

  Rochelle’s nonchalance about her gang activities was quite a contrast to Tina’s refusal to admit to them. “Is theft a regular pastime for you guys?” I asked.

  “We do what we want.” She stood up straight and bore into me with a hard look. “We gots our things we do for money, so nobody tell us what to do.”

  “Your mom know about the gang?”

  “Shit no. Half the time, she don’t even know what day it is.”

  “So Tina was here with you last Wednesday. All night?”

  She paused again, then nodded. “Yeah.”

  “All of you.”

  Rochelle fiddled with the pink scrunchie. “Tina spent the night. The others left.”

  “What time?”

  “I dunno. Late.”

  “Eleven? One in the morning?” My exasperation grew. Nailing down a few facts with this kid was like nailing Jell-O to a wall.

  “I don’t know.” She came down hard on each word.

  “What are their names?”

  “Why it matter? You jus’ want an alibi for Tina right?”

  “Did I say that?”

  “Well, what else would it be?”

  “Who were the other girls?”

  She smiled and shut the door in my face.

  * * * * *

  Little D was waiting for me in the car. “No luck on the door-to-door,” he said.

  “Why am I not surprised?”

  We spoke little as he drove me back to the office. It was rush hour and traffic inched its way northbound on Route One. I stared out the window, catching glimpses through the trees of a MARC train rattling by, heading from D.C. to Baltimore.