Whistler said, “DMC . . . what do you know about them?”
“You got cash on you?” the fiend asked.
The attitude was typical. Free drinks, and these people still wanted more. Whistler wasn’t bothered by the bribe; he had enough money to go around. He handed him a twenty-dollar bill.
The man secured the cash in his fist like it was his own soul. He said to Whistler, “Dey from B-more. Nasty group of niggas if you ask me. I don’t fuck wit’ them.”
“I need a name.”
“Look for a nigga named Marty. He fucks wit’ them grimy niggas.”
It was the second time Whistler had heard the name. He felt like he was getting somewhere. He nodded, satisfied with the recent information, as he removed himself from the chair.
The fiend, his hand out, asked, “Can I get another twenty?”
“Where is Marty?”
“Don’t know.”
Whistler gave him the twenty and said, “We never had this talk, you understand? I was never here.”
The fiend nodded. Forty dollars richer, he was ready to disappear from the bar and search for his drug dealer.
Whistler continued to work the crowd. Within a half-hour, he had what he needed. Marty, a man in his mid-twenties, could sometimes be found at an abandoned warehouse near the Christina River. The area was a breeding ground for addicts, prostitutes, and drug dealers.
The foursome traveled to the area and continued their search for Marty. They grilled the fiends and the prostitutes moving up and down E. Front Street, a block littered with abandoned buildings and Christina Park, a central hub for transgressions. At dusk, the area became the devil’s playground, with drug users and prostitutes turning tricks in cars or in the park.
Whistler climbed out of the Sonata and stood on the sidewalk, not worried about trouble coming his way. Sometimes he felt he was the devil himself, ready to burn anything in his path. He examined his surroundings with a keen eye, determined to find this Marty character. What were his vices?
He looked at his thugs still seated inside the car and said, “I’m gonna travel on foot. Y’all drive off.”
“Why?” Lucky asked.
“Trust me,” he responded.
There was no resistance. The car drove off, leaving Whistler in the middle of enemy territory and armed with his 9mm. He figured four people in a car would look off and intimidating to the people. It was best to be alone, ask questions, spread some money, and find Marty from there.
He crossed the street and approached a working girl with long, stringy hair. She was thin, wore a short skirt and halter top, old high heels, and too much red lipstick.
The lady stared at Whistler and smiled. “You lookin’ fo’ a date, handsome?”
Knowing action speaks louder than words, he teased her with a hundred-dollar bill, and the C-note caught her attention. She charged not even half that for sucking dick and fucking—forty dollars at the most. A hundred dollars was platinum to her.
“What ya want?”
“Information,” he said.
She looked confused.
“Where’s Marty?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” he said. “Think harder.”
She stared at the hundred-dollar bill in Whistler’s hand. It would be a shame for her to lose so much money. She scratched at her arm and fidgeted in her old heels. She looked around her, almost appearing paranoid out of the blue.
“You need to hurry before I talk to someone else,” he said, growing impatient.
“Okay, he’s at the Enterprise.”
“The Enterprise? Where is this place?”
“A block away.” She pointed east. “Can I have my money now?”
Whistler was no fool. He said, “Take me there. If he’s there, you’ll have your payday.”
She marched toward the location, and Whistler, alert and observant, followed right behind her. His demeanor dared someone to try him. He passed dealers and fiends and walked the troubled area with no incident.
The Enterprise was a dilapidated, abandoned two-story building littered with drug paraphernalia and rubbish where many fiends went to get high. Whistler followed behind the woman into the darkened area, which reeked of excrement. Stoic to it all, Whistler moved deeper into the structure, casting his eyes on the lost souls that lounged around on the ground. Some fiends who were too weak to stand or move used the columns for support, but everyone appeared to be in a deep trance from whatever drug they were on.
Whistler’s alligator shoes trampled against the hundreds of crack vials, crack pipes, needles, and whatnot littered everywhere.
The hooker pointed to a man seated in a folding chair, in the corner of the place.
Whistler stared at him. He was tall and slim with nappy hair. He had some cash in his hand and was dressed in shorts, a T-shirt, and sneakers. Whistler deduced that Marty was a user and a dealer—an odd marriage. He gave the prostitute the hundred-dollar bill, and she left to chase her next high, leaving Whistler to approach Marty. Seconds later, Whistler called Urge and gave him the address.
***
In exchange for money, and observing that he was in a no-win situation surrounded by Whistler and his two scowling goons, Marty relented and talked. He told them everything they needed to know about DMC’s operation.
“They been ’round here fo’ two years. The main dude is Deuce. He’s a scary muthafucka that nobody fucks wit,” Marty explained. “His right-hand man is Jimmy . . . smart and mean.”
Lucky asked, “Who’s his supplier?”
“Don’t know.”
“What about his muscle?” Whistler asked.
“Jo-Jo and McCall—they his two top enforcers, an’ they ain’t no joke, man. Word on the street is, they can skin a nigga alive,” Marty said with trepidation. “And there’s Rock, Deuce’s main dealer in this city. But above all dem niggas is Detective Jones. Don’t nothin’ in this town move or take place wit’out him knowin’ ’bout it. He’s the main cop on Deuce’s payroll. You get wit’ Detective Jones if you need to know anything more.”
Whistler and Lucky were pleased with the information Marty had, so they kept their promise, and provided him with some cash.
Whistler let Marty go free, saying, “You mention any word about us to Deuce or anyone, and I’ll guarantee they’ll find your head in the fuckin’ park.”
Marty hurried from them, fearing the worst.
“We should’ve just killed him,” Lucky said.
Whistler responded, “His death might raise suspicion.”
“I don’t trust him,” she said.
“I trust his fear.”
“I don’t. Who you think he fears more, Deuce or us? He don’t know us at all, and there’s no telling what he might tell those niggas. You should never trust a fuckin’ drug addict. They’re only loyal to their addiction,” Lucky proclaimed.
Lucky was itching to find Marty again and silence him for good measure. This was her project, and she wanted nothing to go wrong. Her goal was to make tons of money for the organization, become a boss bitch, and please her father. She couldn’t and wouldn’t allow any failures. But Whistler still felt he’d made the right choice.
They exited the rundown row house and climbed into the car. It was getting late, so they went back to the hotel for some sleep and planning. The following day they would search for Detective Jones.
9
Hold him down! Hold him the fuck down!” a male’s voice boomed to two men struggling with a single man inside the dark kitchen of an empty restaurant.
The victim was a chubby, young African American man of average height named Nate. He was desperately trying to fight off his attackers. In the scuffle with the two dark individuals, he caught a glimpse of their cop badges. Fearing his own death, Nate tried to reach
for their holstered guns, but the two plainclothes cops quickly overpowered him and slammed him against the chopping table. They threw a few shots into Nate’s side and into his ribs, causing him to cry out and wince in pain.
“We told you, muthafucka, don’t fuckin’ run from us!” the taller cop screamed.
They continued punching him in the face, cracking ribs with their brass knuckles, and smashing his head against the table.
Bloody and dazed, Nate stammered, “D-don’t kill me.” His breathing was sparse, and his body ached from the attack.
The owner of the voice instructing the officers finally loomed from the shadows, and Nate stared at the detective with absolute fear on his face.
Detective Jones said, “Nate, you like fuckin’ with us, huh? You think I’m stupid?”
“I didn’t do anything,” Nate said.
Detective Jones, evil in his eyes, approached. “You steal from us, huh?”
“I didn’t, I swear. I’m not crazy enough to take anything from DMC.”
“Why you lie, nigga? Huh? You know, I respect a nigga more when he admits to his wrongdoing than for him to open his filthy fuckin’ mouth to spew a lie to me when we all know the truth,” Detective Jones proclaimed.
“Please . . . Deuce know I’m good peoples,” Nate pleaded.
“You see, when you steal from Deuce, you take from me too, you ignorant nigga. You have the audacity to take food out of my kids’ mouth, take away nice things away from the wife, and have my family go hungry?”
“C’mon, man, you eaten an’ livin’ lovely, Jones.”
“That ain’t the point, muthafucka! It’s the principle!”
Detective Jones, his badge and holstered Glock showing, stood menacingly in front of Nate. He was a tall and brutish man, standing a muscular six one with a narrow face and intense eyes. He had black skin and cropped hair with a five o’clock shadow. Detective Jones was a ruggedly handsome man with a penchant for power and control. He moved with confidence like he owned the place. Being a city detective, he was cocky and arrogant, acting like he ran the entire police force.
“Stretch out his fuckin’ arm,” Jones instructed the subordinate cops.
They did what they were told, forcing Nate’s right arm onto the chopping table. He resisted, but they held him down firmly and exposed his entire arm for Detective Jones.
“You see, Nate, your action comes with consequences. I mean, it’s how the world works, right? You do something stupid, like steal from Deuce and me, and the penalty for that is pain, maybe death. Depends on my mood.” Detective Jones chuckled.
“C’mon, Detective, not like this. I got kids, man.”
“Yeah, and so do I and every swinging dick in this damn state. You feel exempt from the consequences because of your bastard kids?”
The metal meat tenderizer was the perfect tool for the detective to use. It was meant for cooks, but tonight, it would be used for torture and pain.
Jones gripped the weapon. “I’d be lying if I told you that I didn’t enjoy this part, because I love it.”
Detective Jones went to work on Nate’s right hand, hammering away at his knuckles and fingers.
Agony shot through Nate immediately as he cried out in excruciating pain.
Detective Jones hammered away several more times until Nate’s hand looked like chopped meat. The hand turned crimson, and every bone in it had been broken.
Finally, they released Nate, and he fell to his knees in tears and in pain, clutching his bloody, contorted extremity.
Detective Jones stood over the suffering man and smirked. “Be grateful that I didn’t take your fuckin’ life.”
Nate whimpered.
Detective Jones final words to him were, “A thousand dollars paid to us within forty-eight hours, or I’ll take the hand next time, or your life. Depends on my mood.”
Detective Jones and his men left the kitchen, leaving Nate to grovel in his pain and suffering. They departed from the restaurant through the rear entry and stepped into an alley where Jones’ burgundy Cadillac Escalade was parked.
Detective Jones lit a cigarette. It felt good hurting somebody, to relay a message violently the way he did. He said to his men, “I bet fifty dollars that he doesn’t pay in two days.”
Plainclothes officer Andrew laughed. “You just wanna take our money too.”
“Hey, making money is always fun,” Jones replied.
“Well, I like my money where it is right now—in my pockets,” Andrew said.
The trio had been corrupt cops for many years and created a bond of trust between them. Collectively, they’d made hundreds of thousands of dollars for themselves and for DMC. Also on Detective Jones’ payroll were several uniformed cops. They did it all—drug dealing, extortion, bribery, protection, security, providing inside information to DMC, and occasionally, murder.
The cops shared a quick laugh in the alley and then climbed into their vehicles, Jones in his Escalade and the plainclothes detectives in the unmarked squad car, and went their separate ways.
Before going home, Jones had a few more stops to make. He collected from two more drug dealers that owed money to DMC, and his last stop was at a whorehouse, a DMC establishment under their protection. Detective Jones went to collect dues from the place and received a complimentary blowjob from one working girl there.
While seated in his truck, he counted the day’s take from the dealers and the whorehouse and came up with fifteen thousand dollars, much of which was his. He smiled. Life was good. He felt untouchable because he was collecting so much money from DMC.
***
The following morning, Detective Jones arrived to work at the police station on N. Walnut Street. At roll call, he joked with his fellow officers until their sergeant took the mic.
The sergeant expressed his concern to the officers about the growing drug problem in their city. The night before there were four overdoses and two shootings, leaving one dead.
Detective Jones frowned at the fatal shooting. He was unaware of the death and planned to find out who killed someone in his district without him knowing about it.
“Y’all ladies are dismissed. Be safe out there,” the sergeant said to his troops.
As hordes of cops left the room, Detective Jones lingered behind. On the sly, without prying eyes, he slipped the sergeant an envelope filled with cash and whispered to him, “It’s been a great week.”
The sergeant quickly took the payment and concealed it on his person.
“Who’s the stiff in the shooting?” Jones asked him.
“Some stupid local dealer that stepped on the wrong toes. Nothing to worry about,” the sergeant said. “He took one to the head. No suspects so far. It wasn’t you, right?”
“No,” Jones quickly answered.
“Okay, cool. This arrangement with Deuce is cool as long as we keep the violence and murders low.”
“Everything’s copasetic out there.”
The sergeant was appeased.
“I got runs to make,” Jones said.
“Stay safe.”
Detective Jones walked out of the police station and got into an unmarked black four-door Dodge Charger to patrol his city. Jones was everywhere in Wilmington. There wasn’t a drug dealer he didn’t know about or a situation he wasn’t connected to. If it weren’t for the badge, then he would be a bad guy—a dealer and enforcer himself for DMC. He shook down dealers, collected money, held court with major players in discreet locations, and subtly harmed the people who got out of line or didn’t know how to play ball with DMC.
***
It had been a long day, and Whistler took notes of everything, watching the detective work his charm on the streets in his black Charger. Whistler was very familiar with men like him. The badge meant nothing to them; they wanted to be cowboys and hide under the insignia of law
enforcement. Dealing with Detective Jones would be nothing new in Whistler’s world.
Lucky and Whistler followed Detective Jones from his workplace to his beautiful home in Westover Hills, where he lived with his wife of ten years and his three kids—ages ten, seven, and two. Westover Hills was an affluent area a few miles from the city, where the tree-lined streets were broad and quiet.
Detective Jones owned one of the best houses on the block. The price for his five-bedroom beauty was half a million dollars, which he couldn’t afford on a cop’s salary. He parked his police vehicle in the large driveway and got out.
Whistler and Lucky sat patiently and discreetly for two hours outside the detective’s home. While seated in the car, they talked about their future together. Lucky was deeply in love with Whistler, and he felt the same about her. But their love could never be displayed publicly. It would be a death sentence for Whistler and a downgrading for Lucky. There never was going to be a right time to tell the family, since he’d defiled Scott’s little girl.
“I love you, Whistler,” Lucky proclaimed wholeheartedly.
“I love you too.”
They kept it professional inside the car—no kissing, no holding hands, and no public display of affection.
***
Finally, Detective Jones made his departure from the home. He was dressed differently, with a black T-shirt under a light jacket, jeans, and Nike Jordan’s. He looked like he was ready to attend a ball game, and he was still flashy with his big-face diamond watch and Cuban link diamond chain. He climbed into his Escalade and drove away.
Whistler, determined to have a few words with Jones, followed him to a bar on 4th Street in a sketchy part of town. The place was popular and busy and a known DMC location. Detective Jones entered the bar like he owned the place. He greeted a few people, and the respect was evident.
Lucky and Whistler went inside, but it was hard for Lucky to remain low-key in a black hip-hugging dress and six-inch heels. The boys inside stared hard at the young temptress. Whistler remained nonchalant and readied for anything.
Mafioso [Part 1] Page 6