Dead Man Running

by Davis, Barry

  Dead Man Running

  Barry C. Davis

  For Robert and Lena, my parents and the source of my love for words.

  PROLOGUE

  OAKLAND CALIFORNIA – OCTOBER 2010

  Tamesha Holloway, a child alone among the noise and activity of her East Oakland neighborhood, carefully threaded her way home. Home was the Altadena Arms, one of the worst projects in the city. That place, terrible and disgusting, literally consumed children like Tamesha whole. Soon her bright brown face and lively mind would be gone into a machine of hopelessness, poverty, despair and cannibalism.

  Yes, cannibalism. The residents of Altadena Arms ate their own. Residents like the group of young black males shooting 'the rock' a couple of blocks away from Altadena. Tamesha – who in her twelve years had learned to be friendly to all her neighborhood's residents – waved to the boys as she fast walked down the broken sidewalk.

  A few stopped to shout greetings at the long legged young girl with the cute face and boyish frame as she hurried down Montecito Avenue. The ones who stopped playing in order to watch her and some of those who pretended not to notice her made similar mental assessments of the girl child.

  She was still too young – nice legs in that school uniform of hers but she's not ready to have my child. Maybe next year I'll hit that, get my baby growing inside her. Make that bright smile belong to me. Drop my shit inside her then move on to the next bitch.

  Most of the black boys were thinking this for it was their objective to destroy black girls.

  If she's bleedin', she's needin' is how the ghetto puts it. The boys on the playground, noses held high in the filthy air, could not yet smell Tamesha's blood.

  If the boys didn't get Tamesha surely drugs would – either the drugs themselves or the byproduct of the drug trade, violence.

  Tamesha passed by the drug lookouts – children younger than her paid twenty dollars a day to look out for the 'po po'. She greeted these children and they smiled back at her with what was left of their youth.

  Tamesha finally reached the wrought iron gate that encircled Altadena Arms and entered. She dodged the syringes and used condoms in the courtyard. She walked to the backside of her building – Tower A – to look for 'her' dogs. She found three of the mutts nosing through plastic garbage bags that had not made it into the dumpsters that squatted behind the building. Their efforts to find food in the garbage ceased when Tamesha appeared. The three mutts ran to greet her. Tamesha pet each dog and allowed each to lick her hands and face with their garbage tinged mouths. Greetings done, the animals sat on their haunches and watched. Tamesha pulled her book bag off her back and reached inside.

  The dogs were salivating by this time. She slowly unwrapped a grilled cheese sandwich from a grease stained napkin. This was her lunch – provided by some government entity. She carefully broke the sandwich into three chunks and fed 'her' dogs. She watched the dogs wolf down the food in seconds, then turned and entered her building. After climbing the stairs to her twelfth floor apartment, she was barely winded.

  Inside, a woman who looked decades older than her forty-four years greeted Tamesha.

  Tamesha hugged her grandmother Eldina and luxuriated in the smell of collard greens and pork chops that met her nose.

  Her earring clinked against her granny's golden heart pendant, a birthday present from her granddaughter.

  Her grandmother pulled off of the embrace and looked in Tamesha's eyes. She had tears in her dark brown eyes.

  "I've seen the monsters, Tammy, and they're on their way."

  Tamesha was used to tales of her Granny's second sight so she thought nothing of this declaration. She enjoyed her dinner, did her homework and had time to watch a little TV before bed. She slept very well.

  Perhaps, if she had known that her grandmother was correct, she would have slept less well, or not at all.

  The monsters indeed were on their way and they would come for Tamesha Holloway soon enough.

  ONE

  THE CAPITAL BUILDING - WASHINGTON DC – FEBRUARY 2013

  Congressman Claude Simmons, chair of the House Special Committee on Domestic Terrorism, checked his watch. Satisfied that it was time, he banged his gavel, signaling the beginning of this 'eyes only' meeting. In attendance in the voluminous meeting room was he and the eleven members of the committee. There was no press, no staff present except for a stenographer and a videographer. Capital Police were posted at each exit. The senior congressman from Iowa cleared his throat, glanced to his left and right to assure the attention of his committee, and began his opening remarks. As he spoke, he fought to keep the excitement he felt out of his throat. Imagine, an orphan boy from Des Moines in charge of investigating America's biggest domestic terror threat since 9/11.

  "Good morning. Since our work is urgent I want to get right to today's witness. I don't have to remind anyone in this room regarding the gravity of the testimony that we are about to hear. Given the threat to our way of life, given that the threat emanated from within this august body, I cannot emphasize that there shall be no leaking details of these proceedings. Am I understood?"

  Simmons waited until each individual acknowledged his words.

  Finally, using no microphone in the empty room, he ordered the Capital Police to bring in the witness.

  In less than a minute, Congressman Elias Turnbull was escorted into the room. He wore a dark blue pinstriped suit that appeared to be two sizes too small. Always a very fit man, he looked to have hit the free weights too hard recently as the fabric strained against his wide back and shoulders.

  The former fashion plate, named one of DC's most eligible bachelors ten years running, was neither fashionable nor eligible. The suit might have come off the rack. He dressed like a guilty man, one so focused on his crimes he cared not what he wore. He might as well have walked in wearing an orange jumpsuit.

  He was escorted to the witness table opposite the committee's raised semi-circle.

  The witness sat. He laid his hands flat onto the table, met the eyes of the committee will a gaze of steel. Here was a man under threat, his very life in the balance, but there he sat cool and calm.

  "Welcome, Mr. Turnbull." The man gave the chair his attention.

  Simmons continued: "Mr. Turnbull, could you identify yourself for the record?"

  "My name is Elias James Turnbull."

  "Your occupation?"

  "Member of Congress, representing Harlem New York."

  "Mr. Turnbull, are you prepared to tell this committee about the events surrounding the 2010 New York 4th Congressional District election and its aftermath?"

  "Yes sir."

  "Please proceed."

  Elias Turnbull settled into his chair and stared straight ahead, his twenty mile gaze affixed onto the raised seal of the Congress of the United States. He forced his eyes to stay in that one place as he told his story.

  He realized that there was nowhere to run, no one in that room to whom he could turn for protection, solace or absolution. There was no understanding what he had done, the hell he had unleashed.

  He would tell, and then pray for his freedom and his life, and that of his loved one.

  It was the way it had to be.

  TWO

  SAVIOR THIS DAY BAPTIST CHURCH, HARLEM - NOVEMBER 2010

  It was a normal Sunday in the urban wonderland called Harlem.

  The church was rocking, the large band cranked up in its supersonic glory. The choir was swaying back and forth, its rich collective voice powerful enough to tickle the underside of Heaven.

  The minister, Our Most Reverend Congressman Benjamin Americus Crispus Attucks Wiley III, was swaying to the rhythms in the pulpit.

  It all started out like any other Sunday. Congressman Reverend W
iley ministered to his spiritual flock that morning. The holy man's dark face glistened in sweat, the byproduct of his near constant movement, the Spirit energizing his fifty-seven year old bones into unbound activity, so much so that he mimicked the moves of his late friend James Brown as he worked the church.

  Finally, after a performance that would have put the Godfather of Soul to shame, the reverend's tall and thick body stilled as he stood behind the pulpit. The band quieted gradually, creating a golden musical path to the door of spiritual knowledge, soon to be opened by the reverend.

  With one sharp glance the music stopped - the band and choir silently taking their seats. The man's preaching was surprisingly direct, given the thunder and glitz that led the parishioner to his words. He wasted no time informing the several hundred in attendance that God's Word today was 'evangelism'. He used the sermon as an opportunity to teach his flock about their African history, how the white man had come to the so called Dark Continent 'with a Bible in one hand and a gun in another'. Although he voiced thanks to the white man for bringing Jesus to our ancestors, he quickly castigated their methods. His address picked up steam and force as he walked the congregation into modern times, describing the ills of the present society – guns, drugs, unwed pregnancies, and black Republicans.

  His fiery closing got the congregation on its feet.

  "And I want all you to go out and heal somebody today! I say heal somebody!" the reverend thundered. "Take their hand in your own and lead them to the salvation of the Lord Jesus Christ. Bless them in the glow of the better angels, the healing waters of providence, and the soothing sands of salvation. Lay your hands upon them and strip them of their weakness. In this way, you will heal thineself. In this way, we will heal Harlem, heal this nation and redeem mankind in the patient eyes of the Lord!"

  Reverend Ben Wiley soon would take his own advice and try to heal someone. And, as was his custom, he would use more than his hands to do so.

  An hour after the service, in his room at the lowly charge by the quarter hour Harlem Arms Hotel, Wiley took the hand of a young woman and they knelt in prayer. The woman was not of his flock, her blond hair and pale skin suggesting a tribe of a different kind. True to his instincts, he would attempt to bring her closer to the Lord.

  He glanced at the young woman, who offered him a smile back. Her smile was lovely and would have been better if she were not missing several teeth.

  "Let us pray. Lord God Almighty, we supplicate ourselves in your presence. Please grant me these simple things, a stiff dick and a warm place to put it. And don't let me cum too quick. Amen."

  "Amen," the woman echoed.

  Wiley put his sermon into action, doing his best to heal this woman. She was on top, riding him as he worked furiously, the energy demonstrated during the morning sermon now concentrated at the tip of his penis, deep within her sex.

  As a man who loved to hear his own voice, Wiley couldn't help but to vocalize his pleasure.

  "Ride big daddy!"

  "That's the way baby!"

  "After I bust this nut I'll get behind you!"

  "Oh, baby, baby!"

  The woman, reprimanded in the past for being too quiet, added her voice to the din of heavy breathing and squeaking springs.

  "Heal me Rev, heal me!"

  "Bring ya momma in and I'll heal her too!" Wiley laughed in that loud bark of his.

  "Oh my God, I'm coming!" She really wasn't but she had another appointment and needed to be on her way. The reverend liked to be cuddled afterwards and she allotted time for that.

  Even so, she would just make her 3PM, a Knick who had just about the smallest penis she had ever seen. She should win an Academy Award for faking orgasms with that jerk.

  Wiley pulled her tight, shouted in her ear. "God ain't got nothing to do with it! Time to ride the white wave!"

  Reverend Wiley let out a loud grunt. Suddenly, the bed was still.

  The woman – who went by Peaches but whose Christian name was Lori Keller – smiled broadly and tilted her head to her client. Her smile disappeared as she noticed the strange expression on his face.

  "You okay, baby?"

  Wiley was not moving and his eyes were fixed upward. He was clearly dead. Once the realization dawned in Lori Keller's less than efficient brain, the woman screamed then placed a hand over her own mouth, not wanting to alert other guests. She quickly dressed and ran from the room.

  The hooker ran down the stairs and got the hotel manager and her pimp, the magnificent Mookie Sills, to come up. Once he confirmed the politician's death, Mookie calmed the woman down.

  After hearing her story he got rid of her.

  He called Elias Turnbull, Wiley's chief of staff.

  Ten minutes later Elias entered the lobby of the hotel. The hotel lobby was like the hotel itself, small, dark and filthy.

  Elias wore a custom suit from Mohan's underneath his camel's hair coat. His was a civilized, elegant style and combined with his six foot plus tall athletic frame and winning smile, Elias Turnbull had turned heads throughout the NY to DC corridor. In his mid thirties he was still a bachelor and decidedly uninterested in limiting his options as far as the fairer sex were concerned.

  He had hurried out of his private club once he received his friend's call, the membership one of the many perks of being right hand man for Harlem's premier politician.

  He walked up to the front desk, and barricaded behind six inches of Plexiglas stood the dump's owner, the entrepreneurial Mookie.

  "Hey, Mook, what was so urgent?"

  Mookie's dark eyes slowly transited the lobby. Finally, he raised his gaze to an impatient Elias. "I didn't want to tell you over the phone, you never know if The Man is listening."

  "What are you talking about? The Man don't care you're running whores outta this dump. Hell, The Man is probably banging one in 203." Elias grinned.

  "No playa, The Man is banging some man in 203." He smiled, his stained teeth looking nearly white against his dark brown skin.

  Elias made a show of breathing in deeply, letting out his breath. He placed his hands on his hips, leaned into his former classmate. "My nigga, why'd you call me here?"

  "It's your man, Wiley, he's upstairs."

  Elias' eyes drifted toward the front door. I left Isabelle Gentry for this shit? "I know he's upstairs. He's been banging some tart here, same time, same room, since Jesus was in short pants."

  "You don't get it, he up there and he ain't movin'."

  "Shit!" With a look mixed with exasperation and panic, Elias darted upstairs to Wiley's room. Mookie emerged from behind the glass partition and followed him.

  "I thought I would call you first. I didn't want the cops or the press to find him here."

  "Thanks, Mook."

  "Hey, you can thank me by speed walking that stiff outta my place."

  The men reached the room. Elias opened the door and the sight made his heart skip a beat. Wiley lay on the bed. He was buck naked. His large eyes stared upward.

  "Close the door," Elias hissed as he walked over to the corpse. He reached into his coat pocket, retrieved a pair of plastic gloves.

  "You keep a pair of those in your pocket?" Mookie asked.

  "I work for a politician. No telling when I'm going to be part of a crime or its aftermath."

  Elias snapped the gloves onto his slender hands. He checked for a pulse but it was clear that the man was dead. His hand slid from Wiley's jugular to his cheek. He gently patted the man's cheek.

  "Wiley you dumb motherfucker."

  He turned toward Mookie. "Looks like he died banging. Where's the bitch?"

  "Taken care of. I told the bitch if she talked, I would pull her tongue out."

  "You think she believed you?"

  "Damn right! Just to show her that I was serious, I took out my knife and cut her a little bit. Whip, whop, wham!"

  Mookie moved his hand like he was Zorro.

  "So, she won't talk?"

  "Nah, she's dead. I did a whip, wh
op, wham when I should have just done a whip. Her body's out back in the dumpster. I haven't had the time to chop her up and take her out to the river."

  Elias stared at his friend, opened his mouth, and closed it real slow. He shut his eyes, willing himself to wake from this nightmare. Not only was his career over but this homicidal maniac had involved him in a murder.

  He opened his eyes, instantly disappointed that Mookie and his dead boss were still there, waiting for him to do something. He intently looked over the scene.

  "Way to handle your business, brother. Listen, I need some help getting him outta here."

  "Don't look at me. I get squeamish around dead people. Plus I got a bad back."

  Elias cocked his head and looked at Mookie. It took him many long seconds to restrain his anger and frustration.

  "Did anybody ever tell you that you're one strange dude? Listen, I'm gonna call Chi. We'll throw Wiley in the back of the limo, take him home. We can say he died in bed, his own."

  A half hour later Mookie and Elias were still in the room. After a quick knock at the door they heard Chi Bright's voice.

  "Elias, you in there?"

  Elias opened the door. Standing there was Chi and an attractive young woman, Wiley's personal assistant Jan Sugerfoot. The two looked past Elias to the dead body lying on the bed. A scream came unbidden from the woman's mouth. Elias yanked the pair into the room and slammed the door closed.

  "I told you to come over here. What the hell made you bring her?" Elias pointed toward the young woman, who was backing away from the corpse.

  "Hey, you didn't tell me squat. You just told me to get down here. I thought you wanted to meet with Wiley. And I thought Jan could help so I picked her up on the way."

  "You damn well know the only thing Wiley meets here is a warm pussy. What the hell is on your mind?"

  Chi ignored the question as he walked over to the body. "What happened here?"

  "What do you think? The old man busted a nut and his heart at the same time."

  "What about the girl he was banging?"