The Vigilantes

by W. E. B Griffin

  “Maybe. Just don’t say anything to him. He has a mean goddamn temper.”

  “Guess that’s how you get to be a billionaire,” Jan said as she pulled the large sheets of architectural drawings from the cardboard tube.

  Badde got up from the chair and walked around the marble-topped table. As he stood behind Jan, looking over her shoulder at the architect’s renderings for Volks Haus, his hands slipped down to her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder as he squeezed her hips.

  “Pay attention,” she said.

  “I am paying attention,” he said as he buried his nose in her neck and inhaled her lightly scented perfume. “Attention to you. I’ll pay even better attention with this fancy outfit of yours off. . . .”

  She giggled, then let her head drop back toward his. Just as she said, “I surrender,” Badde’s Go To Hell cell phone started ringing.

  “Dammit!” Badde said, grabbing it and quickly checking the caller ID. It read UNKNOWN CALLER. “Dammit!”

  He stepped back from Jan and started walking toward the sliding glass door to the balcony. “Yes?” he said into the phone.

  The caller was yelling so loudly that Badde had to hold the phone away from his ear.

  Jan could almost clearly hear what the caller was telling Badde: “Reggie’s dead! They’re coming after me!”

  VI

  [ONE]

  5550 Ridgewood Street, Philadelphia Sunday, November 1, 12:45 P.M.

  Javier Iglesia parked his silver Dodge Avenger across the street from the Bazelon row house.

  He counted at least a dozen teenagers and slightly older thuggish types milling about on the sidewalk—a handful of whom he’d seen earlier—and almost that many teens, mostly girls, sitting on the wooden porch and steps. Sasha Bazelon sat in the same rocker she’d been in when he’d wheeled away her grandmother three hours earlier.

  At first glance, he mused, someone could easily think that a crowd of troublemakers had swooped in to take advantage of a poor teenage girl right after the death of her only kin.

  But Javier now knew they weren’t troublemakers, at least not all of them, because he was very well acquainted with at least one person on the porch—his baby sister, nineteen-year-old Yvette—and was familiar with a handful of the others, including Keesha Cook, who was sitting between Sasha and Yvette.

  They’re here supporting Sasha, is what they’re doing.

  And not trying to take advantage of her during this dreadful time.

  Even these punks, who are looking at me suspiciously.

  Javier got out of the car and made eye contact with Yvette. As he started walking across the street, she popped up out of her chair and went quickly down the steps toward him.

  He was surprised. What the hell is up with her?

  But knowing his baby sister as well as he did, nothing she did should ever have come as a surprise to Javier Iglesia.

  What the very petite Yvette Iglesia lacked in physical height—she stood four-feet-ten—she more than made up for with a bubbly, oversize personality. She spoke almost nonstop, mostly in rapid-fire bursts, gesturing wildly with her hands to make her points. She had straight black shoulder-length hair framing a pretty face that clearly showed her Puerto Rican heritage. Her dark eyes were full of life. And her small mouth was impressive not only for its dazzling smile, but also for the raw expletives that came out of it when she was angry, ones that Javier said “would embarrass a Port of Philly longshoreman.”

  “Don’t forget,” Yvette often said with a smile, almost as a provocation, “that dynamite comes in small packages.”

  Three hours earlier, just as Javier had backed up the van carrying Principal Bazelon’s body to the Medical Examiner’s Office, his cell phone had pinged, alerting him to a new text message.

  When he had looked at the phone’s screen, the message surprised him:

  YVETTE

  HEY, BIG BRO . . . SO SAD ABOUT PRINCIPAL BAZELON

  MUST BE VERY UPSETTING FOR YOU TO HAVE PICKED HER UP

  YOU’RE IN MY THOUGHTS & PRAYERS

  LOVE YOU!

  His first thought: What a sweetheart.

  Then: How the hell did she find out so fast?

  After processing the body of Mrs. Joelle Bazelon into the system that was the Medical Examiner’s Office—putting the body bag in one of the stainless-steel refrigerator compartments, then entering the report and photographs taken at the scene into the computer filing system—Javier had called his sister.

  “Hey, I got your text. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” she said, her usual bubbly tone gone. “It’s . . . it’s all just so awful. . . .”

  “Yeah. She was a terrific lady. How’d you find out so fast? And that it was me? I mean, I’d barely left the scene”—he paused and thought, Wrong word—“that is, Principal Bazelon’s house, when you sent that.”

  “Some guys walking around the neighborhood saw the ME van and stopped to watch.”

  She knows those thugs watching from across the street?

  Maybe Kim Soo was right. They were wannabe gangstas-from-the-’hood.

  “You know those guys?”

  “No, not really. They think they’re bad news. Jorge’s little brother, Paco, he hangs with them, which makes Jorge mad.”

  Then I was right and Soo was wrong.

  I knew I had that gut feeling they were up to no good. . . .

  Yvette went on: “Anyway, Paco told Jorge he saw you at the Bazelons’, and Jorge texted me about the ME van and Principal Bazelon dying and all.”

  Javier knew only vaguely of either Ramirez brother.

  “And then Keesha called crying.”

  “Keesha?”

  “Keesha Cook.”

  “Oh, that Keesha. How’s she connected?”

  “She and Sasha live on the same street. Longtime neighbors and friends. And you know Keesha used to come over and hang out.”

  “Yeah, I remember that. Okay, it all makes sense now.”

  “Word’s gotten out fast, Javier. I mean there’s already a big memorial at the middle school by the back door. People coming by and leaving flowers and stuffed animals. There’s these big white bedsheets that they’re drawing on and writing poems and memories and stuff about her. And there’s already a memorial page dedicated to her on the Internet. People from around the world—and I mean around the world, Javier, like China and shit—are writing about what an influence she was to them. Someone’s even made a page with a map of the world, and every time someone writes one of those notes or posts a photo of them, one of these red pushpins pops up on the map showing where these people are in the world—Africa, Europe, all over. Most of them are in Philly, though, real thick red here, then it gets thinner going out.”

  “That’s amazing. All in—what?—just two hours? Amazing, is what that is.”

  “I just texted Keesha, and she’s headed over to Sasha’s. I’m going to go over, too. Talk her up, you know? I remember how terrible I felt when we lost our abuela, and even then we had each other to lean on. Sasha’s so very alone now.”

  “Yvette, you know Sasha real good?”

  “Sort of. Sure. Why?”

  “Is she in any kind of trouble that you know of?”

  “Sasha? No! Never. Why?”

  “While I was there, I heard her answering questions from the police. What she told them wasn’t much. Just that she came home late last night, saw her grandmother was asleep on the couch, then went to bed. When she came down next morning, her grandmother was dead.”

  “Yeah? And?”

  “Look, I think there’s more. I know there’s more.”

  “Like what, Javier?”

  “Somebody had tied Principal Bazelon’s hands and wrists—”

  He heard Yvette gasp.

  He went on: “But when we got there, whatever they’d been tied with was gone. Just bruises left.”

  “You think Sasha did something to her? I can’t imagine—”

  “No. But I do
think something happened that she won’t tell anyone, especially the cops.”

  “Nobody talks to the man, Javier. Not if they’re smart and don’t want no trouble. No offense, big bro.”

  “I know that. Look, I’m not saying Sasha did anything wrong. But something is not right about those bruises on her grandmother, ones Dr. Mitchell is going to see and question. If he thinks the death wasn’t as simple as just an old lady going to sleep and never waking up, he’ll have to tell the police. And then Sasha might get in real trouble.”

  “Oh my God, Javier. That’s terrible!”

  “I’m not saying she did anything to hurt her. Just that she’s not telling everything that happened to her grandmother. Sasha is deeply hurt. No question she’s hurt. But there’s more than just sadness in her eyes. There’s . . . fear, is what there is.”

  “Fear of what?”

  Javier sighed loudly, then said, “I don’t know.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Maybe just keep your eyes and ears open when you go over?”

  There was a long silence. Then she said: “Okay. Sure. Anything.”

  “I’d like to stop by, too. I didn’t get a chance to tell her how sorry I was.”

  “Okay. I’m walking over now.”

  “See you shortly.”

  Yvette Iglesia ran to intercept her brother in front of the Bazelon row house. Javier glanced at the crowd of tough guys on the sidewalk and saw that they were following his every step. He recognized Paco Ramirez and thought he’d look like the nice kid next door if not for the wannabe gangsta clothing. Javier nodded at him, and Paco nodded back.

  As Javier reached the sidewalk, Yvette met him. He saw that her eyes were tearing. As she hugged him, she softly said, “You were right, big bro.”

  “About what?”

  She took a step back, crossed her arms over her chest, and looked up at Javier.

  “She’s only told Keesha,” she said, “and Keesha’s only told me.”

  “What?” he asked quietly.

  She turned her back to the boys on the sidewalk, then, keeping her voice low, practically spat out: “That fucking shit Xpress—Xavier Smith?” She paused, and after Javier nodded that he knew him, went on. “He was here last night getting revenge on Sasha’s grandmother for calling the cops on him. She saw him stealing a neighbor’s TV. He hid on the porch last night, and when Sasha got home from Keesha’s, he forced his way inside.”

  She sniffled, then wiped at her nose and cheek.

  Javier said, “What happened then?”

  “You were right about Principal Bazelon being tied up. He used the phone cord. Then he . . . then he put a gun to Sasha’s head and made her—”

  Javier saw the tears flowing faster.

  She angrily wiped them away and finished: “That fucking shit make her blow him and made her abuela watch! That’s what killed her!”

  “Jesus Christ!” Javier said softly.

  He looked over his baby sister’s head to the porch. Keesha was stroking Sasha’s hair.

  Her abuela died of a real broken heart.

  Dr. Mitchell told me about those, where stress damages the heart muscle, especially an old, weak one, to the point of triggering a deadly cardiac arrest.

  Jesus!

  Yvette added: “And he threatened Sasha, said not to tell nobody, that he could come back anytime, and that he could get her anywhere.”

  Javier shook his head and said, “No wonder she’s terrified. Now she has no family and is constantly worried that Xpress will come back.”

  She nodded. “We’re going to get her away from this. Walk over and see the memorial at the school, you know? Maybe that’ll make her feel a little better.”

  They both glanced back at the porch. Sasha was moving down the steps with Keesha Cook at her side. Everyone along the way stepped back, making a path for her.

  When Sasha and Keesha reached Yvette and Javier, Javier said, “I didn’t get a chance to say earlier how much your grandmother meant to me, Sasha. I am terribly sorry for your loss, I really am.”

  Sasha looked him in the eyes and simply said, “Thanks.”

  Javier looked at Keesha and said, “Good to see you. Glad you can be here for Sasha.”

  Keesha nodded. Then she said, “You going over to the memorial at the school?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  He gestured for them to lead the way. But when they turned to walk to Fifty-fifth Street, Sasha looked toward the intersection and froze, her wide eyes terrified.

  And from deep inside her came a gut-wrenching moan that turned into a wail.

  Coming toward them, having just turned the corner, was a medium-size black male in baggy jeans, his head covered by the hood of his black sweatshirt. When he looked up at the sound of the scream, the hard face of Xavier “Xpress” Smith was clearly visible—and, judging by its shocked expression, clearly caught off guard by the crowd at Sasha Bazelon’s house.

  Javier thought Smith’s eyes—now huge—looked particularly bloodshot.

  He’s hopped up on something. . . .

  “He’s come back!” Sasha then cried out, and she started bawling uncontrollably.

  Keesha, holding her arm, struggled to keep her from collapsing to the ground.

  Yvette, gesturing wildly at Xavier Smith, exploded: “That bastard stuck a fucking gun to Sasha’s head last night! Made her go down on him in front of her grandmother!”

  The eyes of the crowd were all on Yvette. Everyone was either not sure they’d heard what they thought they’d heard, or was processing the incredibly awful news.

  “What?” Paco Ramirez asked.

  “It’s true!” Yvette said. “Almost killed Sasha, too!”

  Then the eyes turned to Xavier Smith. He’d already started walking away from the group. Now, glancing over his shoulder—and looking guilty as hell—Xavier Smith bolted across Ridgewood.

  “And that no-good nigger just tried to get Sasha again!” Keesha screamed.

  Yvette started running. “Don’t let him get way! C’mon!”

  Oh, shit, Javier thought. “Yvette, wait!”

  When she didn’t, Javier took off after her.

  Two male teenagers ran to a small red Ford pickup truck. They got in and, tires squealing, roared up the street.

  Almost everyone else took off to follow Yvette, who was furiously sprinting.

  Everyone but Keesha, who now sat on the sidewalk consoling a sobbing Sasha.

  “See?” Sasha said. “He said he would. Anytime . . .”

  A crowd at least twenty strong closed in on Smith, who now ran down the middle of Fifty-fifth Street. Barely dodging a Chevy sedan, its horn blaring and tires squealing, he then bolted across Beaumont Avenue, looking as if he were going to take a shortcut through the asphalt parking lot of Shaw Middle School.

  There was a small group by the door to the school, looking at and adding to the makeshift memorial for Principal Joelle Bazelon. They turned and watched Smith approaching, then saw the angry mob that was chasing him—and fled the school grounds.

  Xavier Smith turned to look over his shoulder, and as he glanced back he tripped on the uneven surface of the parking lot. He went down fast and hard, hitting the asphalt face-first. It dazed him.

  The crowd, still led by Yvette Iglesia, caught up in no time.

  They circled Xavier Smith. He remained motionless.

  “Not much of a bad ass now, are you?” Yvette yelled between gasps for breath.

  “We’re sick of your shit, pendejo!” Paco Ramirez said—and suddenly, angrily, began kicking him.

  Others immediately joined in, shoes and boots striking him on his back and legs. Some of the girls were throwing their weight into their kicks, their arms swinging with the exertion.

  Smith recoiled. He pulled into the fetal position, protecting his face with his arms.

  Oh, shit! Street justice! Javier thought.

  The punk’s getting what he deserves. Bu
t . . .

  The rest of the crowd joined in, and Javier could see that the frenzy was building on itself.

  They’re going to kill him!

  And then their lives are really ruined. . . .

  Smith managed to roll over and reach underneath his sweatshirt. He pulled out a chrome-plated, snub-nosed .32-caliber revolver.

  He waved it up at the crowd. “Back off! Now!”

  The circle of angry teens instinctively took a couple steps backward.

  Two of the older males pulled out knives. And another—Javier recognized him as the driver of the pickup, which he now saw was parked close by—came up to the circle carrying a baseball bat.

  Xavier Smith jumped to his feet, but stayed in a crouch as he cradled his torso with his left hand.

  They must have fractured or broke some ribs, Javier thought.

  Smith waved the pistol at the crowd.

  Then one teenage boy in the crowd laughed. He taunted him: “Woohoo! You crazy, Xpress!”

  Smith aimed the pistol at him as the boy went on: “You got only five, maybe six bullets in that gun. There’s a whole lot more of us than that!”

  “And you ain’t getting no chance to reload,” said another teenage boy.

  Smith jerked the pistol to aim it at him.

  Then a teenage girl added, “Yeah, you can’t shoot us all!”

  He aimed the gun at her.

  Then another laughed and said: “You must be snorting too much of your own shit!”

  Suddenly, someone in the crowd behind Xavier Smith threw a broken red clay brick, one that had once been part of the old school building’s wall. It struck Smith square in the back of the skull, causing him to crumble to the cracked black asphalt. He dropped the pistol as he went down. The gun bounced twice but did not go off.

  As the circle again closed in on Smith, a lone hand reached down and grabbed the gun. The pistol disappeared into the mass of teenagers.

  Now they are going in for the kill! Javier Iglesia thought.

  “That’s enough!” Javier shouted. “Stop, or you’ll kill him!”