Keeping his breathing slow and even, Sarge swung his barrel under Hannibal’s bed. Treading lightly he yanked the bathroom door open and swept the area with his shotgun. Nothing.
He reached the kitchen without seeing any sign of Timothy. Frustrated, he went into the hall and met Virgil at the front door.
“He’s nowhere in that apartment.” Virgil’s voice was more gravelly than usual. “Must be hiding upstairs somewhere.”
“That nut case is going to do something stupid,” Sarge said. “I can feel it. If we don’t find him real soon, I think we better get Ray and Quaker in on the search. This is a big place with too many nice, dark hidey holes.”
Sarge’s head turned at the creak of a stair from above. Ronzini and Hannibal were striding down the stairs side by side. They moved slowly, but in step. Sarge imagined this was what it looked like when a guard marched his prisoner to the execution table. The question was, who was the guard and who the prisoner?
As the two approached from above, Sarge and Virgil stood aside. Hannibal unlocked the door and moved away. Ronzini grasped the knob, but before turning it he turned to Hannibal.
“However this goes, it ends here,” Ronzini said. “No unfinished business after tonight, no matter how this goes.” Under his gaze, Hannibal closed his eyes and nodded slowly.
As Ronzini stepped out the door, Sarge tapped Virgil’s arm and said, “Upstairs, man. Quick.”
Hannibal heard the clatter of feet on the stairs behind him, but he could not spare the attention to whatever was happening there. He joined Ronzini on the stoop.
Hannibal scanned the area as he and Ronzini walked slowly down the sandstone steps in front of the building. Black men of every size, shade and description lined the sidewalk he was about to step onto. They paced up and down, sometimes crossing paths, but not staying too near each other. A grim determination showed in their faces. Armed with improvised weapons, they were ready for a fight.
The other side of the street was thick with white faces. These men were cooler, because they fought for a living, not for fun. He spotted the telltale bulges from guns under waistbands and in pockets. These were the professionals, smugly confident that they were more than a match for any unruly mob of disorganized troublemakers. They were prepared to strike on cue, a light brigade facing the Zulu nation.
They hadn’t a clue.
Three men sat in low chairs on the porch directly across the street now. A command post, Hannibal guessed. Salvatore’s field commander would be there, but he could not see any faces. He hoped Ronzini could make eye contact. Surprisingly, Ronzini turned his attention on a man standing to the left of the porch across the street.
“Hey, Charlie!” Ronzini called, in a strong voice that turned all heads toward him. “Charlie, you know me?”
“Mister Ronzini,” Charlie replied. “You okay?”
“Here I am,” Ronzini said. “I’m fine. Nobody’s holding me. It’s over.”
A stunned silence flowed over the street, as white men and black looked at each other in as much surprise as disappointment.
“You hear me Charlie?” Ronzini asked. Then he spotted another familiar face. “Dennis. Get me a ride home, would you?” That man turned and started up the block at a trot. “The rest of you just go home before we start something here.”
Smart, Hannibal thought. Rather than challenge Sal’s lieutenants, Ronzini had spoken directly to men he must know well. Men he knew would follow his instructions over anyone else’s. Behind Ronzini, he saw a subtle transformation in the street. He was aware of the grins on his neighbors’ faces as mob muscle started fading away. The smiles meant the tension was drained. The powder keg crisis had passed. He even had a few seconds to think about how powerful Ronzini was in his way. That was when the other man ran off the porch across the street.
“No!” Sal Ronzini shouted, momentum carrying him halfway across the street. “You guys grab that nigger right there. He’s the one. Get him.”
Petey and Ox trotted down the steps behind their boss. Hannibal reflexively dropped into a ready stance, and men with knives and pipes and baseball bats seemed to shrink in around him and Ronzini.
“No Salvatore,” Ronzini said, not loud but strong. The gang fighters who had moved in hesitated. “This is not the place. No more of this in the street.”
“No, Papa,” Sal shouted. “You don’t know. Me and this cock sucker, we got business.”
“I do know,” Ronzini said, a bit more sternly. “But these men you have with you, they do not.” He turned his voice out toward the crowd. “You men, you go home now. You do not belong here.” Then to Sal, “What is between you and this man is personal, Salvatore. It is not for all of these to settle.”
“No, you come back here,” Sal called behind him, to either side. Despite his urging, the men who had come at his command now faded slowly away. In less than a minute, the street’s population thinned by more than half. Sal stood alone in the street for a moment, but for the two mismatched giants backing him. Then a long black Lincoln rolled slowly down the street, making them step back. The man Ronzini had called Dennis drove up to the curb, directly between Sal and Hannibal.
With a smile, Ronzini walked carefully around the front of the car, not toward his son but rather, his black bodyguard.
“I commend your loyalty, old friend,” Ronzini told Ox. “It must have been difficult to protect my Salvatore under these circumstances.”
“That’s what you pay me for,” Ox said.
“Yes. Now I want you and Petey to bring Salvatore to Dominic’s. Take about ten minutes longer than you need to. And come in the back way.”
Surprise stole Sal’s voice when his father turned away. Ronzini faced Hannibal, but looked past him. Hannibal looked over his own shoulder as Cindy appeared on the stoop and started slowly down the steps. Ray and Quaker followed, blending in with the neighbors. A general air of celebration shot through the block. Men congratulated each other and slapped each other’s backs, threatening to turn the evening’s excitement into a spontaneous block party.
Timothy took in a deep breath, rose to his full height, and gently pushed the basement door open. He had listened a long time and he was sure the first floor was empty. Clutching his weapon to his chest with both hands, he crept down the hall toward the front door. Outside it seemed quieter than he thought it should be. He was willing to bet Jones had made a deal, some compromise to avoid a real fight. Ronzini, that fat son of a bitch, Ronzini would get away clean.
But not if Timothy could help it.
Crouching against the front door, Timothy could feel his moment at hand. He was the engine of Justice. In seconds he would be a hero. And he would have revenge for the beating he got at the hands of Ronzini’s men in a darkened parking garage. With his left hand, he turned the doorknob and eased the door open an inch. Just enough for a snub nosed thirty-eight’s barrel.
Outside, all eyes were on Jones and Ronzini, who stood beside a big black car, looking like best friends. Nobody was fighting, but a few of the brothers looked like they were still ready. Good.
Timothy’s face was pressed against the door so he could see through the narrow space. He turned his revolver until it was pointing at Ronzini. At this distance, he could hardly miss his target, and when Ronzini fell, someone was sure to get his son too. Anticipating the sweet shock Ronzini would feel in death, Timothy wrapped his index finger around the gun’s trigger.
A roar behind him froze Timothy for a brief instant. His head spun in time to see Sarge bursting from the left apartment’s front door, rushing toward him. Then Sarge’s bulk, led by the shotgun barrel he held in both hands, crashed into Timothy’s ribs and he was swept forward, past the door and into the wall beyond. The long gun was crushed into his chest, his head pushed through the plaster and slats in the wall, and darkness gathered.
“I knew you had to be down here.” Sarge grabbed the pistol and tossed it down the hall. “With that puny piece you couldn’t hope to hit any
body from a window, even on the second floor. I sent Virgil upstairs to be sure but, hell, I knew it.”
Sal’s two bodyguards had hustled their charge into his car already. When they drove away it was as if someone had pulled the plug on the machine that had been generating megawatts of enmity in the streets. Unmoving in a sea of human activity, Hannibal waited. Ronzini walked imperiously around the Lincoln again, stopped at its side and opened the back door. When he looked at Hannibal, it was a look of invitation.
“What the hell is this?” a burly black man asked. He cocked back his car antenna, showing his willingness to fight. Ronzini spoke to him, but his eyes stayed on Hannibal the whole time.
“It’s all right,” Ronzini said, waving his hand like Obi-Wan Kenobi at a checkpoint. “Mister Jones has agreed to come with me. Isn’t that right, Mister Jones?”
“No!” Cindy cried, running the last few steps and wrapping her arms around Hannibal’s waist. He understood her fear, but he could also see how quickly the crowd’s mood could turn around. The brothers could overwhelm Ronzini and his few followers still on the street. Seeing no good alternative, he mustered a smile and aimed it at Ronzini.
“Yes, that’s right,” Hannibal said. “Mister Ronzini’s just giving me a ride. We have, um, some unfinished business.” He gently pried Cindy’s arms loose, feeling her shake. Leaning close, he lightly kissed her ear and whispered “If I don’t go, this won’t be over. It’s got to end tonight. Besides, I made a deal.” With his woman at arms’ length, Hannibal finally released her. Some of the faces around him looked unsure, and he had to correct that. Looking up, he spotted Sarge in the door, his shotgun in plain sight. He lifted his right arm, waving a sloppy salute.
“Take care of the lady.” He spoke to Sarge, but he made sure everyone heard him. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back before sunup.” With that he stepped past Ronzini into the car. Once settled, he leaned back, rubbing sweat soaked hands down the length of his thighs. Ronzini boarded beside him, and Dennis pulled away from the curb.
-40-
THURSDAY
Nerve shattering in the stillness, a steeple bell tolled the stroke of midnight. With each peal, the bell seemed to be calling Hannibal down into hell. Right now he appeared to be in purgatory.
Actually, he was in an Italian restaurant Ronzini had called Dominic’s. It was a fairly small, rectangular area, its long side running parallel to a dark, narrow street. The front wall was glass panels from the ceiling down to just four feet from the floor. Tables for four stood in carefully random order around the room. A long wooden bar spanned the back wall. Ronzini chose to stand behind the bar, while Dennis chose a chair at one of the tables.
In some ways, Hannibal had no idea where he was. He had paid no attention during the drive, so he could be almost anywhere in the Washington D.C. area. That church in the background could be any house of worship with a bell. His body vibrated sympathetically with its final tone.
He also did not know where he stood with Ronzini. He only knew he had a debt to pay. He had made a deal with the devil, after all, but he had not agreed to sell his soul. And this place could not be the devil’s home base. Not hell, perhaps, but certainly not heaven. Purgatory, then.
“You are a man of honor, Hannibal Jones,” Ronzini said from behind the bar. “My son, my Salvatore, he needs a lesson in honor. Perhaps you can deliver that lesson for me. And maybe some humility too.”
Pleasant smells hung in the room. Garlic. Onions. Parmesan. Oregano. Smells of happy times. Hannibal slid onto a barstool and said, “I’m not sure I follow you, Tony.” To his surprise, Dennis pulled a revolver from his back.
“You call me Mister Ronzini,” the gangster said. “I’m prepared to end your business with me and my son right here, tonight.”
For Hannibal it had been a long day. After being up late at the hospital with Balor the night before, he had gotten up early enough to beat Mick Denton to his office by an hour. On the move all day, he had been drained by the tension of a kidnapping, the fear of a riot and the emotional shock of having to kill a man. He wanted an end to it.
“I’m with that,” he said, “but how?”
Ronzini poured himself a shot of scotch, its pungent scent stinging Hannibal’s nose. “You settle it between you. One on one.”
“Quit pushing on me you big ape,” Sal said, his voice preceding him from the kitchen. He came around the end of the bar with Ox and Petey gently prodding him. As he sighted Hannibal, he stopped, building a slow smile. Ronzini turned to his son, as if no one else existed in the room.
“Salvatore, Salvatore, Salvatore,” Ronzini moaned, shaking his head. “You almost caused a riot tonight with your stupidity and your drugs.”
“Like you care about those people.” Sal pulled out a chair. “You said the drug operation in that area belonged to me. Then you come in and undermine me with my own men. Why Papa?”
“First, you had the arrogance to tell me no,” Ronzini said. “This I might have forgiven. But I cannot forgive bad business. You make too many enemies, Salvatore. And you let business become personal.”
“Okay, so it’s personal,” Sal said. He sat down with his massive guards towering above him, glaring at Hannibal. “So let me take care of it.”
“I’m going to give you your wish,” Ronzini said. He turned his eyes to Hannibal, but everyone understood he was still addressing his son. “You two will settle your differences now. After this it is over. Mister Jones is here to have an end to this bad blood.” Then he tapped an index finger on the bar. Hannibal understood, and slid his left hand slowly under his jacket.
“I win, I walk?” Hannibal asked very quietly. Ronzini nodded. Hannibal slid his Sig Sauer 229 out of its holster and placed it on the dark hardwood beside Ronzini’s hand. Then he stepped away from the bar, tugging at his gloves to tighten them.
“All right.” Sal raised his clenched fists. “Come on boys. Let’s get that dick head.”
“No,” Ronzini said sternly. “Ox, you stand over there by the door to the kitchen. Petey, that far corner.” After a brief hesitation, both big men moved to the positions Ronzini indicated. Sal stopped half way to Hannibal, his face reddening as he turned.
“Hey! Come on,” Sal Shouted. “Who you guys work for, huh?” Sal stared at his bodyguards in disbelief. Petey stared stonily ahead without reaction. Ox looked at Sal apologetically and rolled his massive shoulders in a shrug. But he did not move.
“This is between you and him.” Ronzini pointed first at his son, then at Hannibal. “Now you will settle this. You beat him, you have your crack house back. Otherwise, you close the book on that enterprise and move on to another place.”
“You don’t make deals for me, Papa,” Sal said, louder than necessary. He advanced toward his father menacingly. Ronzini looked up from pouring himself another drink and froze Sal with an icy stare.
“You take away the federal squatters and the Washington that’s left is just a small town, Salvatore. I make deals for everybody in that town.” Ronzini’s eyes never even blinked. “You think you are bigger than everybody? You are not even bigger than me. You lack humility, a sense of your own place in this big machine. You need to learn. Your problem with this man is just your problem. This you will do yourself.”
Hannibal watched Sal’s self-esteem rising and falling in his father’s eyes. He knew Sal saw it too and realized what he must do. When he turned, Hannibal faced him on the other side of a square table, his fists held loosely in front of him. Sal curled his hands into new, tighter fists and pulled himself into a martial arts attack stance.
“All right, boy,” Sal hissed, closing in on Hannibal. “Guess it’s time for your ass whipping. I been studying Tae kwon Do since I’m seven. You want to quit now?”
Hannibal walked in a slow ark to Sal’s left. “You think you want some of this? Then come on. Bring it. Time for talk is past, boy.”
“You got that shit right,” Sal answered. Then he leaped forward quickly. One foot l
anded on a table. The other lashed out in a wide arc that caught the side of Hannibal’s head. Spinning away from his enemy, Hannibal felt his ribs grate against the table’s edge before he regained his balance. When he stood straight, blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
The light of victory shone prematurely in Sal’s face. From a standing start on the table he leaped forward. His flying stamp kick tore across the forearms Hannibal raised to block it. Hannibal staggered back. Sal launched forward in a flying stamp kick into Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal’s feet left the ground momentarily and he crashed down in the center of a table, shattering it around him as he drove through to the floor.
Sal stopped to scan the impassive faces of his father and the other three men in the room, as if he expected these experts in violence to be impressed. Substituting viciousness for technique, he snapped a foot into Hannibal’s ribs.
“Shouldn’t have got in my way, you dumb nigger.” Sal’s words focused Hannibal past the pain. He rolled onto his side, curling up, and suddenly lashed out with a stamp kick into Sal’s abdomen hard enough to shove him back against the bar.
Sal shouted, “You son of a bitch,” springing forward from the bar. Hannibal barely got to his feet before Sal smashed a hard right into his jaw. He caught the follow up left cross on a forearm and counter punched, a snappy jab that caught Sal just over his right eye.
“It ain’t free, boy,” Hannibal rasped as they stood face to face, their fists hiding them from each other.
Except their eyes.
Sal’s gave him away. Hannibal saw a reverse punch coming and accepted it against his cheek for a chance at Sal’s ribs. His left hook rocked the Italian boy back. Sal responded with a wheel kick, but Hannibal leaned quickly enough to take it on his right shoulder. Sal took a step back, then forward with a front stamp kick. Hannibal blocked the heel on crossed forearms. It hurt him, but he stayed on his feet.
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