City Blood

by Clark Howard

  “I’m here to talk business with you, to make a deal, not to burn you,” Kiley said. He left his coat over the back of the chair, and without being asked sat down around the corner of the table from Fraz. “What do you say we stop the bullshit?”

  A moment of contemplation by the Disciples leader, then he motioned Regent Lennox into a chair around the other corner of the table, and said, “All right, what is it you have to offer?”

  “Information that you are going to be framed for Detective Bianco’s killing.”

  “That’s absurd,” Fraz said. “I didn’t even know the man, had nothing to do with him.”

  “You were there when he was killed,” Kiley asserted. “You drove there,” he took a slip of paper from his shirt pocket, “in your Corvette Custom Eleven, license number 67RY410. I can tell you what time you got there, what time you left, and what they’re going to say happened in order to nail you for the killing.”

  “You,” Fraz pointed, “are a crazy man.” After a pause, he added, “But you’re a crazy man with some interesting information. And I would like to know how you got that information. On my car, for instance. Everything on record about me is supposed to be—” He stopped mid-sentence, apparently realizing that he was saying the wrong thing.

  “Accessible to the Street Gangs Unit only,” Kiley finished the statement for him. “But how do you know that?”

  Fraz smiled. “Friends in high places. I can find out five minutes after you leave how you got the information on my car, Mr. Detective.”

  “Maybe so. But you won’t find out how you’re going to be framed for murder unless you deal with me.”

  Fraz sat back in his chair and seemed to silently appraise Kiley. “If I ‘deal’ with you, as you put it, what will you ask in return?”

  “I want to know exactly how Nick Bianco came to be killed. I want to know why And I want to know who had a hand in it.”

  “Tall order,” Fraz said.

  “Small price,” Kiley countered, “considering the fact that it could keep you from being charged with Nick’s murder.”

  “I’d never be convicted,” Fraz said confidently.

  “I don’t think you would either,” Kiley candidly agreed. “But you’d be arrested, locked up, held in jail without bail, and you’d have to stand trial. You’d be out of commission for at least a year, probably more. What would happen to the Disciples during that time?”

  “I would still run it, with the help of my regents, from jail. It’s been done before. Gabriel Morales ran La Familia from Stateville for six years.”

  “Gabe Morales was killed by his own lieutenants a year after he was released, too. Of course, he only had lieutenants; you have ‘regents.’ They’re probably more trustworthy.”

  Fraz’s expression hardened a little. “Don’t try to handle me, Detective. It won’t work.”

  “I’m not trying to handle you. You brought up Morales, not me. Maybe your people are a hundred percent loyal: I don’t know and I don’t care. All I’m saying to you is that the department is going to eventually have to nail somebody for Bianco’s killing—and it’s not going to be Tony Touhy.”

  Fraz’s face remained stoic, but a quick fluttering of his eyelids registered the surprise of Kiley’s statement. “Well,” he said, after a quiet sigh, “you do seem to know what you’re talking about.”

  “I know just about everything I need to know,” Kiley said. “All I want from you are some specific details to flesh out the picture.”

  “And if I give you those details, you’ll give me information on certain people who are planning to frame me for the crime?”

  “Exactly.”

  “You’ll give me names?”

  “Yes.”

  “And tell me how they plan to do it?”

  “Yes.”

  Indecisive fingers drummed on the tabletop. “Even if I should listen to your story,” Fraz asked, “why should I believe it?”

  “Because you’re too smart not to,” Kiley told him. “Just like I’m too smart not to believe that you had nothing to do with Bianco’s murder—which I’m sure you’re going to tell me. I have to believe that if I’m going to believe the rest of what you say.”

  Fraz exchanged quick glances with Regent Lennox before smiling slightly at Kiley. “I’ve got to admit, Detective, I am impressed by your analysis of everything. But the one thing you haven’t told me is why all the concern on your part about Bianco? Was he a relative or something?”

  “We were partners for eight years.”

  “Oh,” Fraz said knowingly, a quick, cynical look passing over his face, “one of those white cop partnership things. I’ve heard they run pretty deep sometimes.”

  “You heard right,” Kiley said, a slight ripple of anger again rising. “And not just with white cops, with black cops too. And Latinos. And Asians.”

  “The brotherhood of the badge,” Fraz said, his tone implying that he thought it was irrational, even trivial, to feel a sense of fidelity that strongly. “Is that really what this is all about, Detective?”

  “That’s it,” Kiley assured. “It might not seem like much to you, but it’s important to me—because if the department doesn’t get my partner’s killer, I intend to.”

  Fraz stared solemnly at him for a moment. “You know something, Detective: I believe you. I truly believe you.” Sitting forward, folding his hands on the table, he said, “You have a deal. Ask your questions.”

  Kiley shifted in the chair and reached to his coat hanging behind him for his spiral notebook. Opening it, he poised with his ballpoint pen to write.

  “Who was at the Shamrock when Nick was killed?”

  “Augie Dellafranco,” Fraz said, as he began ticking off names on his fingers. “Al Morelli. Larry Morowski. Mickey O’Shea, Jocko Hennessey. Tony Touhy and Phil Touhy.” He paused a beat, then added, “And me.”

  So, Kiley thought, big brother Phil was there too. All that charming Irish song-and-dance Phil had given him in their private discussion in the stairwell at the Shop, that had been just so much blarney bullshit, one shanty Irishman trying to fool another shanty Irishman. Fast on his feet, that was Phil Touhy. But not fast enough. Not this time.

  “Who killed Nick?” Kiley asked.

  “Tony. But it was Phil’s idea.” Fraz smiled. “Tony had never killed anybody before; Phil wanted him to make his bones. You know how those mob types are: Reputation is a way of life.”

  “But the others were there when it happened—Dellafranco, Morelli, the rest?”

  “Right.”

  “Anybody else?”

  “Just me—like I said.”

  “Where was Nick killed?”

  “In the club. An office in the back, just off the alley. He walked in right after Tony got there; the back door was usually left unlocked until everybody arrived, then somebody would go lock it. We didn’t have time that night.” Fraz looked away from Kiley for a moment, contemplating. Then he said, “I want you to understand something, Detective: I wasn’t there when your partner was killed because I wanted to be. This thing went down as we were getting ready to have a business meeting. I was there for the meeting. Been up to me alone, the cop would never have been wasted. I don’t believe in unnecessary killing—and I definitely don’t advocate killing policemen. Been my call, I would have had him roughed up and thrown out into the alley, that’s all. I mean, he didn’t have anything on us: None of us were even strapped that night, so he couldn’t even get us for carrying. Wasn’t no reason to kill the man.”

  “If none of you were strapped,” Kiley asked, “where’d Tony get the piece to shoot Nick?”

  Frowning, pursing his lips, Fraz said, “Let me see now—I’m not sure of that; maybe somebody went down to the bar and got one—”

  “Did Phil and Tony come to the meeting together?”

  “No. I think Phil came in with Hennessey. I know Tony came alone, in his Jag. He was the last one to get there. Phil was a little pissed that he was late. He was t
rying to groom Tony to take on more responsibility, but Tony just didn’t have it. When it came to business, he never had both oars in the water at the same time. All he thought about was gash. Some of the people at the meeting didn’t even think he ought to be there.”

  “Why were you there?” Kiley asked bluntly. Fraz’s eyes narrowed.

  “You’re getting a little off the subject, aren’t you, Detective? The reason for the meeting had nothing to do with why your partner was offed.”

  “Oh?” Kiley challenged. “If there was nothing he could arrest you for, and you yourself said there was no reason to kill him, then why was he killed?”

  “Maybe,” Fraz replied carefully, measuring his words now, “he thought he could arrest us for something—I don’t know, maybe he overheard something before he came into the room—”

  “Something to do with the meeting?”

  “Could have been, I suppose—”

  “Then I want to know what the meeting was about.”

  Fraz Lamont’s expression contracted slightly, seeming to draw tighter defensively. “This will be your last answer, is that understood?”

  “Understood,” Kiley said.

  “The meeting was about vending machine profits in the districts that belong to the Disciples. In the past, Disciples have provided protection to the mob guys who collect the money from the vending machines, and we also put the word out that the machines themselves were under our protection too and were not to be fucked with. For our services, we were paid a flat fee. As time went on, however, because the white mob had our security, they started putting more and more machines on our turf. They were installing condom machines in every bar up and down D-Street; cigarette machines in every store that didn’t already sell cigarettes; candy machines, gum machines, trading card machines, every kind of machine you could think of. They even started putting in machines that dispensed products made specifically for black people: styling gel, hair straightener, skin bleach, things like that. So I decided to ask for a piece of the action instead of a flat fee. We negotiated the matter for a few months, then on that night we were all sitting down to conclude an agreement under which the Disciples would be co-collectors and take a percentage of the gross. That was the reason we were all there.” Fraz sat back, unfolding his hands. “End of questions,” he said flatly. “Your turn.”

  Kiley flipped his notebook closed, put it back in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the chair, and removed the single sheet of paper that Gloria Mendez had given him containing the information she had obtained on the cars Nick Bianco had seen at the Shamrock. Beside the make, model, and license number of each car, was the name of the registered owner that the motor vehicle department data base, pathed to the police department computer, had matched with it.

  “I’m going to show you a police department computer printout,” Kiley said to Fraz, “so you’ll know that I’m being straight with you. I already had the names you just gave me. The only things I didn’t know were that Phil Touhy was there, and who actually killed Nick Bianco.” Handing the sheet to Fraz, Kiley at the same time fished a small, gray Tagamet tablet from his shirt pocket. “I have to take an ulcer pill,” he said. “Can I get something to drink out of that refrigerator over there?”

  “Help yourself,” Fraz said. He motioned Regent Lennox around to his end of the table to peruse the printout with him.

  Kiley went over and opened the refrigerator. It was fully stocked with soft drinks, mineral water, beer, bottles of champagne, plastic containers of fruit juice, and other beverages. Kiley selected a medium-size green bottle of some brand of mineral water. As he bent over to take it with his right hand, his left hand went deep under his waistband, all the way to a jockstrap he wore, and withdrew the powerful little automatic pistol he had purchased from Claude Emer. As he walked back toward the table at which Fraz Lamont sat and at which Regent Lennox now stood bent over next to him, Kiley kept the automatic close to his left thigh, the bottle of mineral water held up near his waist.

  “There’s more on the back of that sheet,” he said to distract them.

  Fraz turned it over. He and Lennox found the reverse side to be blank. Both of them looked up inquiringly. By that time it was too late.

  Moving quickly, Kiley used his right hand to smash the bottle of mineral water across the bridge of Lennox’s nose, at the same time using his left hand to ram the muzzle of the automatic hard against Fraz Lamont’s neck.

  “You move, I’ll blow your fucking throat out,” he warned grimly.

  Fraz Lamont froze shock-still. Regent Lennox had plunged back against the nearest wall, both hands to his face, blood gushing from his broken nose. The bottle had fallen intact to the floor; Kiley quickly kicked it away. Bending close to Fraz Lamont’s face, he spoke in a quiet, murderous tone.

  “I’ve got six three-eighty hollow point power loads in this piece, working off a hair trigger. There’s no way I can miss getting at least two of them off. Tell your fuck-up regent to sit down on the floor and keep quiet.”

  “You honky son of a bitch,” Fraz whispered, every word moving the muscles of his neck against the muzzle of the gun. “We are supposed to have a deal.”

  “You blew the deal when you lied about who was at the Shamrock.” He glanced over at the bleeding regent. “If Lennox moves, I’m going to shoot you, Fraz—”

  “Sit down, Lennox,” the Disciples leader said crisply. His eyes fixed unblinkingly on Kiley. “No way you can make it out of here, cop.”

  “I die, you die,” Kiley said. He pressed the gun a shade harder. “There was somebody else at the Shamrock that night. He came in a Lincoln Mark VIII. Who was it?”

  Fraz did not answer. Kiley jerked the seated man’s knees from under the table, knelt, and quickly moved the gun from his neck to his crotch. The black man stiffened and sucked in his breath.

  “You want to piss through a tube the rest of your life,” Kiley said. “You’re covering for somebody: who is it?”

  There was still no response, but sweat broke out along Fraz’s hairline.

  “Okay, nigger, it’s your call,” Kiley told him evenly. “Say good-bye to your dick and balls—”

  “The arbitrator! ” Fraz said quickly. “The other person there was the arbitrator.”

  “The what?” Kiley asked. “Arbitrator?”

  “The man who made the deal. The man who worked out what percentage of the vending machine action the Disciples would get.”

  “Who is he? What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know. Everybody calls him Mr. O. He’s some kind of big shot—”

  “What kind of big shot?”

  “Just somebody important—”

  “What kind of big shot?” Kiley snarled. Fraz lowered his eyes and stared at the gun pushed up against his manhood. He sucked in his breath before blurting an answer.

  “Man, I don’t fucking know!”

  Kiley took the small automatic away from Fraz’s crotch and placed it at his throat again.

  “What does he look like, this Mr. O?”

  “Man, I don’t know—he’s just a honky—”

  Kiley pressed the gun harder again. “You can do better than that.”

  “He’s, like, average height, average weight; he’s got a little gray in his hair—the dude is like medium. That’s all I can tell you.”

  “You say he was there as an arbitrator?”

  “Not just as an arbitrator,” Fraz corrected. “He was like the main big shot, you know. I mean, it was him put the mob and the Disciples together in the first place. He set up the original meet.”

  The white mob and the black street gang. Who the fuck could possibly have brought them together? It made absolutely no sense. But Kiley did not think he was going to get the answer here. It was time to see if he could work himself out of the Disciples headquarters in one piece.

  “You want to go on living?” he calmly asked Fraz Lamont.

  “What the fuck do you think?” Fraz countered.<
br />
  “I think you do,” Kiley theorized. “I think that you want to go on living so bad that you’ll walk me right out of this fucking place. Right out to my car. Everybody being nice and polite all the way. Then we can part company with no hard feelings. And—your people never have to know what happened.”

  “What about me being set up to fall for the cop’s killing?” Fraz asked.

  “I was blowing smoke up your ass, Fraz. I just said that so I could get close to you. The only danger you’re in is from this hair trigger.” Kiley took a step back. “Get on your feet.”

  As Fraz rose, Kiley got his coat off the chair and draped it over his arm far enough so that it concealed the gun. Then he bobbed his chin at one of the photographs on the wall.

  “You see the movie they made about him?”

  “About Malcolm X? Yeah, I saw it.”

  “So did I. I watched it on HBO one night.” He motioned with the gun for Fraz to move toward the double doors that led from the office. “As we walk out, we’re going to talk about that movie. Anyone hearing us as we pass by will think it’s just a nice, casual conversation. You understand the drill?”

  “Loud and clear.”

  “Good. Tell Lennox to stay put.”

  “Regent Lennox, remain where you are,” Fraz ordered.

  “Okay, let’s go,” Kiley said. “And remember, it’s a hair trigger. You don’t want anybody even nudging me. When we get out of the office, close the door behind us. Move.”

  Fraz opened one of the double doors and he and Kiley stepped with a deliberate casualness into the reception room, Fraz pulling the door shut behind them. They moved past the two big sentries and the waiting black faces.

  “I thought the guy who played Malcolm did a very good job,” Kiley improvised. “What was his name?”

  “Denzel Washington,” Fraz replied.

  “Yeah, that was him. Do you think he did a good job playing Malcolm?”

  “Yes, I think he did a good job playing Malcolm.”

  From the reception room they walked into the much larger room that had once been the auditorium. People paused in what they were doing to watch them pass. Surprised faces followed every step they took. On out to the lobby they went, where Otis and his three men were still waiting.