“Where’s all that from?” he asked suspiciously.
“You got your light with you?” Linc said, ignoring his question.
Henry felt his pockets and shook his head. Linc peered under the stove again, then got up quickly and went across the room and grabbed the broom. He knelt and racked the end of the handle under the stove several times. Another cigar box came out. This one had the rest of the money, jewelry, papers, and a bank book in it. He peered under the stove again, then, after racking the broom handle a few more times, he stood up and angrily flung it across the kitchen. His uncle was staring at him, eyes narrowed almost to slits, with a sidelong-type look. Finally, he said, “You wanna tell me just what the fuck you is into?”
Linc looked at the floor. His mind was racing trying to figure out where Diane could have hidden that tape.
“I asked you a question, boy,” Henry said, his voice raising to a brassy rumble. “What kinda shit you into? Drugs? Cause if it is, I’m gonna kick your fuckin’ ass, ex-marine, or not.” The veins were starting to stand out on his expansive forehead. Linc looked at him for a moment, then put an arm on his shoulder.
“Uncle Henry,” he said slowly. “I’m sorry. I can’t tell you everything right now, not because I don’t want to—”
“Bullshit” Henry said, grabbing the front of Linc’s shirt with his big hands. “You tell me right now. I got a right to know.”
Linc just stared at him, then said, “Yeah, you do. It ain’t drugs. But I can’t tell you everything because there’s things I don’t know myself.” He gently tried to remove his uncle’s hands, but the fists drew him in tighter. “I’m gonna need your help, that’s why I called you, but I also need you to trust me on this. Right now I have to do two things. Call Rick, and search this house. Will you help me?”
He stared into Uncle Henry’s loam-colored eyes, then felt the tension on his shirt front go slack.
Linc walked over and sat down in one of the kitchen chairs. He took a deep breath, and then let it out slowly.
Better get it over with, he thought.
Looking up at his uncle he began, “You see, it all started with Diane seeing this dude at the bank.”
6:15 P.M.
When Tony and Ray got back to District Five they had the buy money, a beat-up old car from the narcotics division, and a black officer from Gang Crimes South. Ray also had a half-pint of Seagram’s Seven in his jacket pocket. After pulling Booker out, they prepared the I-Bond and Ray gave him a cigarette while he signed the bond slip and began putting on his jewelry.
“Before you do that,” Tony said as Booker was bending forward to put in his shoelaces.
Booker looked up, then grinned. He stood and kicked off his shoes.
“I gotta strip, right?” he asked.
Tony nodded. It was standard procedure when an informant made a buy to have him strip down prior to conducting the transaction. The reason had to do with courtroom testimony, so some smart-ass defense attorney couldn’t grill you by asking, “Officer, isn’t it possible that this informant could have had the contraband concealed on his person before he made this so-called buy?”
Booker stripped off his pants and shirt. His underwear had that dingy, unwashed look. The T-shirt was a sallow color. “You wants me to drop my drawers too?” he asked.
“Just take ‘em down to your knees,” Ray said.
He did, then, without being asked, turned around, bent over at the waist, and spread the cheeks of his buttocks with his hands. This guy had been in the joint before, that was for sure. He lit up another cigarette while he was getting dressed. When he was finished, they went over the plan with him briefly. Booker licked his lips.
“You gonna let me drive, or what?” he said.
“I’m driving,” the black undercover-cop said.
Ray pulled out the half-pint and handed it to Booker, who nodded a thank-you, and unscrewed the lid. He raised the bottle to his lips and drained about a quarter of it.
“You gonna give me a little tip for this, ain’t ya?” he asked, a warm grin spreading over his face.
“First we gotta get it done,” Tony said. He’d been against giving Booker a drink before the buy, but Ray said it would make him seem more natural. Booker made the call, and Jem Dandy told him to meet him in the abandoned parking garage behind the old Gately’s People’s Store in ten minutes. Tony and Ray left immediately to find a place to set up a surveillance. Booker and the Under Cover Officer, whose name was Jerome Terry, went out to the beaten up old Chevy and got in.
“You sure he don’t know this car?” Booker asked nervously. “I mean, this cat smell a rat, he shoot you first and say he sorry later.”
“Relax, brother,” Jerome said. “I don’t even work ‘round here.”
They took 111th Street down to Michigan and turned left. The block was starting to buzz with the usual evening traffic. Various small shops had already flipped on their lights anticipating the darkness that was just beginning to descend. Crowds of people milled about in front of the liquor stores and a group was listening to a boom-box in front of the twenty-four-hour currency exchange. All had their hats cocked ominously to the left, signifying gang affiliation. Jerome glanced over at them momentarily.
“This next street up here,” Booker said, unscrewing the lid of the half-pint and taking another quick sip.
“I know where it is,” Jerome said.
They went down a sloping hill and Booker pointed to the alleyway. An overhang was suspended between the front building and the immense parking garage that once provided parking for the entire business district, due to the narrow width of the side streets. The People’s Store had gone out of business, and for a while, the massive building sat empty. Then, with the resurgence of small businesses in the area, mostly clothing, jewelry, and wig shops owned by enterprising Koreans, the avenue had come to life again. But instead of one large department store, the old Gately’s had been subdivided into several smaller shops. The second floor was still empty, as was the parking garage. The only exception was a furniture outlet that did periodic business in one side of the structure.
Jerome hung a right and went slowly down the block. The tan brick wall had been defaced numerous times by graffiti artists, who sought to advertise their gang’s dominance. But one of the drawings depicted the figure of a man in a red, black, and green shirt. The caption alongside it read, RED BLOOD, BLACK PEOPLE, GREEN EARTH. As they passed the parking garage, which bore a No Trespassing sign on the front, the inside seemed dark and foreboding.
“Go down to the corner and make another right,” Booker told him.
“You sure he’s in there?” Jerome asked. “I didn’t see nobody when we drove past.”
“He in there,” Booker said with a smile. “We got to pull around and come by the back way.”
Jerome turned right at the corner and right again at the mouth of the alley. The houses to his left were all set up higher than usual because of the slope. It gave the alley a cavernous appearance. Dodging a big metal dumpster, he let the car creep slowly down toward the overhang. When they finally were parallel to the beginning of the parking garage they saw a guy in an old OD field jacket leaning against the wall smoking a cigarette. He wore a black “‘do-rag” over his hair, and had tight black-leather driving gloves on. Booker said, “That’s him.”
Jerome stopped and cut his lights off. Booker was already out of the car and walking up to Jem Dandy. The other man’s stare went from Booker, to the car, to Jerome, and then back to Booker.
“Who’s that?” he said, nodding at Jerome.
“A friend of mine,” Booker said. “Gave me a ride.”
Jerome came up and grinned at Jem Dandy. “You can call me Jay,” he said, extending his hand.
Jem Dandy ignored the outstretched hand.
“I don’t call you nothing if I don’t know you,” he said. Then, to Booker, “What the fuck, man, you know I don’t deal with people I don’t know.”
“He cool, h
omey,” Booker said. “Besides, I’m the one you’s dealing with.”
Jem Dandy looked coldly at Jerome for a moment more, then said to Booker, “You got the bread?”
“Sure do,” said Booker. “You wanna see?” He took the roll of bills that Tony had given him and flashed it flamboyantly.
“Cut that shit out, man,” Jem Dandy said, grabbing Booker’s arm. “You want everybody in the fucking world to see?” For a second Booker thought it was all going to unravel, but then the other man seemed to relax a little. Maybe he smell the booze on my breath, Booker thought.
“Come on.” Jem Dandy stepped through the opening into the darkened garage. He looked at Jerome. “You can wait there.” Booker followed him into the shadows. The structure was multi-tiered and without lights, so the first level was almost totally dark a few feet beyond the edge. Jerome got back inside the car and started it up
Booker trailed along behind Jem Dandy until they got to the stairwell. The metal stairs had once been painted green, but most of the paint had long since peeled off. Jem Dandy went up the stairs and made the turn. He paused on the second landing and withdrew a small silver gun from the lower left pocket of his field jacket. Booker moved up beside him and stared down at it.
“That the baby-nine?”
Jem Dandy nodded, locked back the slide, and handed it to Booker. “It’s a H & K. Holds seven-and-one. Sweet shooting little thing. Lemme count the bread while you looking.”
Booker handed him the roll of bills and held the gun up. He stretched out his arm and pretended to fire at some imaginary opponents. Jem Dandy smirked as he busily counted.
“Where you know that dude from?” he asked.
“Who, Jay?” Booker said, still practicing his aim. “He cool. I been knowing him for a long time.”
“He from the ‘hood?” Jem Dandy asked.
“He been cribbin’ with some chick over on the west side,” Booker said. “Least that’s what he told me.”
“Heard you got busted,” Jem Dandy said. He pocketed the bills and Booker suddenly realized he didn’t have any magazine or bullets for the nine. But he was sure that Jem Dandy had some for his.
“Aaa, yeah,” Booker said. “Got me an I-Bond courtesy of the sheriff. Met up with Jay when I was down at the county. You gonna give me some bullets for this motherfucker?”
“Oh, yeah,” Jem Dandy said, reaching into his pocket again. He withdrew a magazine and seven bullets. Booker held out his hand.
“So who you dealin’ with now?” Booker asked. “People or Folks?”
“People, Folks, it don’t matter to me none, as long as they got the green.” Jem Dandy smiled as he patted the pocket with the money. “Say, I wanted to ask you something,” he said, before giving him the ammunition. “You know Henry Bartwell, right? That big dude that runs that construction company over on State.”
“Yeah, I know him,” Booker said. He shook out a cigarette from the pack and lighted it. “Why you asking?”
“Is he cool?”
“What you mean?”
Jem Dandy handed him the magazine and the bullets.
“He called me a little while ago,” Jem Dandy said. “Him and his nephew bought a Glock from me.” He started to say something else, but held back.
Booker raised his eyebrows.
Jem Dandy continued: “I been knowing Henry for a long time from the neighborhood, and all. Sold him a .38 snub some time back. But his nephew I ain’t seen around much. He okay too?”
Booker grinned as he fitted the bullets into the magazine. This was going to work out better than he’d thought.
“They bought a Glock, huh?” he said. “That’s one of them German guns, ain’t it?”
“Austrian.”
“Yeah, they cool. What they want a gun for?”
“I don’t know,” Jem Dandy said. “But they want some specialized stuff in a hurry. That’s why I asked you about ‘em.”
Booker took the half-pint from his jacket pocket and unscrewed the top. “Here’s to good deals,” he said, and took a sip. He held the bottle out to Jem Dandy, who took it and raised it to his lips. He smiled and handed it back to Booker.
“What you mean by specialized?” Booker asked. “I don’t want to go over there messing with them.”
Jem Dandy laughed.
“They want me to get them an H & K Mac-Ten or an M-16. Something fully au-to-ma-tic,” he said, intentionally hitting each syllable of the word.
Booker gave a low whistle. “You can get that kind of shit?”
“Fuck yeah,” Jem Dandy said. Booker offered him another swig, but shrugged and pocketed the half-pint when the other man shook his head.
“The nephew just got out of the Marines, or something,” Booker said. They started back down the stairs. “He been working for Big Henry, but he cool, as far as I know.”
This seemed to satisfy Jem Dandy, who, when they reached the first level, slapped Booker on the back. “My ride’s that way,” he said, nodding toward the street. They did the “brother handshake,” and Jem Dandy turned and walked toward the front of the structure. “Catch you later.” Booker stood alone in the shadows grinning, knowing he had the baby-nine in his right pocket, the half-pint in his left, and the knowledge that was gonna stick it right up that motherfucking Linc’s tight, black ass.
CHAPTER 11
Wednesday, April 15, 1992
7:08 P.M.
Linc sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs and put his head in his hands, feeling the frustration burning in his gut. Uncle Henry sat across from him looking equally haggard, and Rick leaned against the wall near the door-frame After Rick had gotten to Diane’s, Linc and Henry had gone out and purchased the Glock. When they’d returned, the three of them made a systematic search of the entire house, but failed to turn up the tape. Henry, whose reaction to hearing the whole story, had been the old shake of the head and accompanying disgusted frown, told Linc to go over it again in his mind.
“Where would Diane hide something like that?” he asked.
“I can’t figure it,” Linc said. “She always kept things under the stove. That was her hiding place. Her special safety deposit box, she called it.”
“Then we must’ve missed something,” Rick said. He went back to the stove and knelt down again, shining the flashlight under it. Finding nothing, he went to the cigar boxes that Linc had found under there earlier. One held the money, the other an assortment of jewelry and papers.
“The real important stuff she kept in her lock box at the bank,” Linc said. When he mentioned the bank, he caught Henry’s baleful stare and looked away. Rick started sorting through the papers again.
“Hey, look at this,” he said. He held up a single flat key with a number on it. “This looks almost like a safety-deposit-box key, but it’s not. More like a locker key of some sort.”
Linc leaned forward and took it. It wasn’t familiar at all, but that didn’t really mean anything. But, somehow, the more he looked at it, the more it reminded him of something. He held it out to his uncle, who took the key in his massive fingers.
“Looks like it’s from that rent-a-box place over on 113th,” he said. The three of them looked at each other, then Linc started to get up. “No, you stay here,” Henry said. “I’ll go over there and check. Nobody be looking for me.”
“Be careful, Uncle Henry,” Linc said.
Henry just smiled and patted his ample gut, where the butt of a thirty-eight snub-nose was sticking out from his pants. He slipped on his jacket to cover the gun. He hadn’t been gone more than five minutes when the phone rang. Anticipating a call from his uncle, Linc grabbed it quickly.
“Linc?” It was Diane’s voice. She sounded scared.
“Baby, are you all right?”
Rick immediately went for the extension phone in the living room.
“I’m okay. Linc,” she said hesitantly. “Listen, I need you to go pick something up for me, okay?”
“Yeah,” he said, letting hi
s voice sort of hang there.
“It’s in box 1412 at that rental place on 113th,” she said.
Linc nodded to Rick to see if he’d gotten that.
“Where are you, baby?” Linc said.
“I’m. . .” her voice trailed off. Then, her tone reflecting some kind of pain or pressure, she said, “Never mind that now. I need you to get this for me right away. The key is—”
“I know where the key is,” Linc said, cutting her off. “In fact, we already got the tape, so let me talk to the motherfucker that’s holding you right now.”
There was silence on the line, then some obvious scuffling and it sounded as if a hand was slipped over the receiver.
“I’m waiting,” Linc said.
“Hello, Linc,” a strange voice said over the phone. It sounded like some cracker.
“You one of the motherfuckers that was here this afternoon?” Linc demanded.
“No,” the voice said. “But I am the person who’s sitting next to your lady love here.”
Linc said nothing. He just waited. Finally the voice continued.
“I understand that you have something that we’re interested in.”
“The tape?” Linc said, trying to cover his nervousness with bravado. “Yeah, I got it. You let Diane go and we’ll talk about you getting it back.”
The voice chuckled softly, then said, “I think we both know that’s not how it works.”
“That’s the only way it’s gonna work,” Linc shot back. “You let her go or else.”
“Or else what, Linc? You going to run to the cops and tell them you broke into a bank vault and stole a tape and an unspecified amount of cash?” He laughed again. “Get serious, son. That’s what your girlfriend tried before, and look how that turned out.”
Frustrated, Linc told him again to let Diane go and arrangements could be made to give him the tape. “Otherwise it’s no deal.”
“Linc,” the voice said, seeming slightly strained this time. “I am a very busy man and have several things on my agenda. I’m going to expedite this conversation with a little demonstration. Are you listening?”
The Heist Page 15