by Shelly Ellis
“She’s a cop, Ricky. I know that you’re mad, but you can’t go after—”
“I can and I will! The moment I get my hands on her, I’m fuckin’ killing her! I don’t care if it’s the last thing I do before they lock me up. I’m killin’ her ass! If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have lost my restaurant or Club Majesty. If it wasn’t for her, my ass wouldn’t be facing jail time. If it wasn’t for her and the fucked-up situation she’s put me in, I wouldn’t have to . . . to . . .” His voice drifted off.
“Have to what?”
“Never mind,” Ricky spat. He turned back toward the entrance. “Come on. Let’s get out of here. I can’t take it anymore. It fuckin’ stinks in here!”
Derrick, unsure of how to help Ricky out of his present dilemma, watched as his friend trudged past him, back toward the glass doors.
Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I can’t even figure out my own shit, he thought as he followed him.
Chapter 5
Ricky
“Raise your shirt.”
“Huh?”
“I said to raise . . . your . . . shirt,” the man enunciated slowly.
Ricky let out a loud sigh, then begrudgingly tugged the hem of his shirt out of his jeans. He watched as the tech taped a dime-sized mike to his chest.
“There aren’t gonna be a lot of wires, right?” Ricky asked anxiously as he watched the tech wind a black wire around his torso and kneel behind him, snaking it to his belt, where a two-and-a-half-inch battery pack was taped to his lower back, tucked into the waistband of his boxers. “I told y’all I can’t walk around with all this shit hanging from—”
“We know! Jesus! We heard you the first five hundred fuckin’ times,” Detective Dominguez barked from his perch on the windowsill.
Ricky eyed him threateningly.
He’d had just about enough of Detective Dominguez and his mouth, and if he wasn’t facing twenty to thirty years for his criminal charges, he might take a swing and try to silence the gruff detective. But he had to play the good boy, according to his lawyer. That was the only way the deal he had settled with the prosecutors would work.
If someone had said a year ago that Ricky Reynaud would become a police informant, he would’ve called them a damn liar. He hated cops—and he hated snitches even more. Derrick wouldn’t have believed it either, which was one of the reasons why he couldn’t tell even his best friend that he was now working with the Metropolitan Police Department, that at this very moment he was getting miked in the back room of a vacant office building before his scheduled meeting with Dolla Dolla, who had been released from jail earlier that week.
“Are you out of your damn mind?” Derrick would ask him.
Probably, Ricky now thought as the tech rose from his knees and Ricky lowered his shirt back into place. No, I’m definitely out of my damn mind!
Here he was, putting his life on the line yet again and working with the police because he knew what would happen if Dolla Dolla found out he had betrayed him. Death would be inevitable, but he knew Dolla Dolla wouldn’t make it quick and painless. Whatever he did to Ricky, it would also have to set an example to all those who even thought about betraying him. It would have to be something for the streets to remember. Ricky just hoped Dolla Dolla never found out and exacted his punishment.
“All right,” the tech said before walking to a laptop that sat open on a nearby table. He held a set of headphones up to one of his ears as he squinted down at the screen. “We need to test this. Can you say ‘Testing one, two, three,’ please?”
Ricky rolled his eyes. “Testing one, two, three,” he grumbled.
The tech nodded and gave a thumbs-up.
“Okay, Ricky,” Detective Ramsey said, stepping forward and adjusting his tie, “here are the ground rules. We need you to ask him about—”
“Nah,” Ricky said, shaking his head, “there are no ‘ground rules.’ To hell with that shit! I’ll give y’all the info you’re looking for, but I gotta do it the way I do it.”
He knew that though the police had enough information on Dolla Dolla to put him in jail for a long time, it seemed they also wanted to use the drug kingpin to ensnare his partners: those who were supplying him with not only drugs, but also the young women who seemed to be part of a prostitution ring that went beyond just Dolla Dolla himself. For years, Ricky had made it his job not to know those names. He wasn’t interested in the criminal side of Dolla Dolla’s enterprise; he was happy to be the legit public face of his business, Club Majesty. Now he had to stick his nose into shit that wasn’t his business and more importantly, do it on the low. He didn’t trust whatever advice these detectives had to offer; they’d likely blow his cover.
“Yeah, well, don’t waste our fuckin’ time,” Dominguez said as he rose from the windowsill and strolled toward Ricky. “Because if we find out you have no intention of holding up your end of the bargain, then we’ll just dump your ass back in jail.” He slowly looked him up and down and snickered. “Nice-looking guy like you is bound to make a lot of friends in prison. A lot of good cell buddies, I’d imagine. You don’t have a gag reflex, do you, Ricky?”
Once again, Ricky felt the overwhelming urge to knock the smile right off the detective’s face, to knock out his crooked teeth, and leave him bleeding and begging for mercy. But he knew what was at stake. He had already made several bad decisions in the past few months. There was no reason to add yet another bad decision to the list.
“We done here?” he snapped, turning away from the detective and walking across the room.
“Yeah, we’re done!” Ramsey shouted after him before side-eying his partner. “We’ll be tailing you there and listening outside. Just make sure you don’t get too far out of range. We need to hear what you guys are saying. Okay, Ricky?”
“That means nothing over a thousand feet,” the tech called out to him.
“Meet us back here when you’re done,” Ramsey said. “We’ll go over—”
Ricky didn’t give him a chance to finish. Instead, he grabbed his wool coat from the back of a chair and walked out the door, leaving the police officers and the technician to scramble after him.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Ricky pulled up to a stoplight. He glanced in his rearview mirror and saw a van idling in the right lane, two cars behind him.
Though the side panel of the navy-blue van advertised a plumbing company—even displaying a business number where you could call for “24-Hour Service, Day or Night”—he knew it was fake. Instead of two burly plumbers sitting in the front seats, the detectives and technicians were inside the van, setting up their equipment. They were following him to Dolla Dolla’s place in the Kalorama neighborhood.
Ricky tried to focus on the road in front of him, but he couldn’t. Every mile that he drew closer to his destination, his anxiety got worse. He was starting to sweat beneath his coat. The battery pack tucked in his belt seemed to jab into his back, making him shift uncomfortably in the driver’s seat.
“Stupid,” he muttered, not caring if the eavesdropping detectives heard him. “This is so goddamn stupid.”
It was not just stupid; it was also incredibly dangerous. If Dolla Dolla realized he was wearing a wire, he was a dead man.
The light finally turned green again and Ricky accelerated through the intersection. As he drove, he had to resist the urge to turn the wheel, make a U-turn, and head in the opposite direction, to floor the accelerator again and go speeding down the roadway, dodging around cars and running red lights. He had to fight the urge to drive straight to Simone’s apartment and start pounding on her door.
After all, she was the one who had gotten him into this mess, who had put him in such a precarious position.
He’d meant what he’d told Derrick a few days ago: Whenever he finally got his hands on Officer Simone Fuller, he was going to kill her—or at least come damn near close to it. He didn’t care what deal he had worked out with the prosecutor. If her murder added more
years to his sentence, so be it.
Unfortunately, that bitch was nowhere to be found. He had gone to her place multiple times in the past week or so, pounding on her front door, only to get no answer. He had sat in front of the townhouse where she rented her basement apartment, staking it out, waiting to catch a glimpse of her and confront her on the street if he had to. But she never showed up. He’d waited until late at night, snuck around the back of the townhouse, and peered through the windowpanes, only to see that her place was empty.
All her furniture was gone. Random wires protruded from the walls and a few empty boxes sat abandoned on the floor. Her efficiency apartment looked as if she’d left in a hurry, and he bet he knew the reason why. Simone knew he’d be looking for her. She had to know the threat he’d given her on the night of his arrest wasn’t an idle one.
Your ass can run, but you can’t hide, baby, he now thought as he pulled to a stop in front of Dolla Dolla’s apartment building. Not from me.
He’d find Simone eventually, but for now, he had to focus on entrapping his business partner instead—and surviving long enough to do it.
Ricky watched in his rearview mirror as the navy-blue plumbing van pulled up to the curb on the opposite side of the roadway. He unbuckled his seat belt, took a deep breath, climbed out of his Mercedes, and shut the door behind him. He slowly walked toward the gilded doors, feeling his feet grow heavier with each step. He walked through the lobby toward the elevators, wondering if he looked conspicuous with the battery pack at his back and wires taped on his chest.
Nobody can see it, he told himself. You’re just being paranoid.
He pressed the up button and waited for the elevator to arrive. When the elevator finally dinged, signaling its arrival, he almost jumped out of his Nikes. An elderly white woman wearing a sable hat and a camel wool coat stepped out, wrinkling her nose at Ricky and pulling her Marc Jacobs handbag closer to her side as she passed him. He was too distracted to be offended. He’d barely noticed her at all since he was too busy cursing under his breath, telling himself that he was making a huge mistake.
He boarded and pressed the button to the top floor. The doors closed and he watched as the elevator ascended, as the numbers ticked away on the digital screen above.
He’s going to find that mike, the voice of panic in his head insisted. He’s going to find that battery pack. You’re stupid to walk around carrying that thing.
He closed his eyes.
Take it off. Take that shit off before you get caught, the voice urged.
Ricky opened his eyes again and stared at the digital display, feeling his stomach turn.
TAKE IT OFF! TAKE IT OFF WHILE YOU STILL HAVE A CHANCE!
As the elevator neared the penthouse level, Ricky quickly lifted his T-shirt and ripped the mike from his chest, wincing as the tape took a few chest hairs along with it. He then reached around and yanked the battery pack from his jeans. He just barely managed to shove them both into his coat pocket as the elevator doors opened.
He stepped into the penthouse lobby and frantically looked around him. He spotted a trash can sitting several feet away from the elevator. He shoved the mike and battery pack inside it, then turned and headed to Dolla Dolla’s apartment.
He didn’t know if he’d made the right decision by dumping the surveillance device, but at least his heart wasn’t racing anymore. A few seconds later, he knocked on Dolla Dolla’s door.
Melvin, one of Dolla Dolla’s bodyguards, swung it open seconds later.
“What’s up, Mel?” Ricky said.
Instead of responding with a greeting or a joke, like he usually did, Melvin only nodded. His expression was indecipherable. He was a three-hundred-pound sphinx guarding the door to Dolla Dolla’s home.
Ricky wasn’t offended by Melvin’s silence; he knew Melvin’s boss probably was in a dark mood and might be taking it out on his staff.
Melvin stepped aside to let Ricky inside the penthouse apartment. Ricky stepped through the doorway and started to head to the living room, where he assumed Dolla Dolla was waiting for him, but he was stopped short by Melvin, who shut the door behind him and placed his hand on his chest.
“Nah, man,” Melvin said, shaking his head. “Take off your coat and face the wall.”
Ricky blinked, wondering if he’d heard Melvin correctly. He gave a nervous laugh. “What?”
“You heard me, nigga,” Melvin said, his voice sounding harder than steel. “I said take off your coat, and turn and face the wall. Put your hands up. I gotta search you.”
“But I’m not carrying.”
“Just turn and face the damn wall! I’m not gonna tell you again.”
Ricky gritted his teeth. He shrugged out of his coat. Melvin yanked it out of his hands, tossed it onto a nearby console table, and began to dig through the pockets. He took out his cell and his wallet, and set them both on the foyer table on top of his coat.
“You’ll get all these back after,” he said, then motioned to the foyer wall.
Ricky slowly turned and faced the wall like Melvin ordered, bracing his hands on the textured wallpaper. Melvin then began running his hands along his chest, where the mike had been only a minute earlier, and his back, where the battery pack had been. He then patted down his legs and inner thighs, running his hands along his crotch. Gradually, he made his way down to his ankles, lifting the hems of his jeans to see if he had anything tucked inside his socks. When he was done he rose back to his feet.
“Okay, you done,” Melvin said.
Ricky was badly shaken by the whole exercise, but he tried his best to mask it. He took a steadying breath and turned back around to face Melvin.
“Want me to open my mouth and raise my tongue too?” he asked with a sneer. “I’m surprised you didn’t do a full cavity search.”
Melvin sucked his teeth. “Don’t take this shit personal, Ricky. I gotta do it to everybody now.”
Ricky didn’t reply, but he was very grateful he’d dumped the mike, wire, and battery pack when he had the chance. Turns out his voice of panic wasn’t that paranoid after all.
He walked toward the living room, where Dolla Dolla sat at the center of his sectional, looking dark and massive against the white leather. Behind him stood two of his bodyguards. Flanking him to his right and left were a half dozen of his men, including his prized emissary, T. J., who looked as sullen as ever. When Ricky walked into the room, Dolla Dolla’s eyes zeroed in on him.
“What’s up, Ricky?” he said, tugging a cigar from his thick lips. “How you been?”
Ricky shrugged. “Probably about as good as you. Just got out about a week ago.” He glanced over his shoulder at Melvin, who stood a few feet behind him with his hands linked in front of him. “That little pat-down at the door brought back some memories though,” he said sarcastically.
“Yeah, well, I can’t be too careful no more,” Dolla Dolla said, clamping his cigar between his teeth. “Gotta make sure nobody got any shady shit on them . . . a recorder or somethin’. That shit that went down at my house . . . at Club Majesty, only could’ve happened if I had a snitch around here, someone who’s been talkin’ to the police.” He glanced menacingly around his living room at the men assembled. “And I’mma find out who the fuck it is.”
“It wasn’t me!” T. J. cried, adjusting his jeans at his waist. “Shit! You won’t catch me talkin’ to no police!”
“I know it wasn’t you, T. You loyal. But I think I know who did do it,” Dolla Dolla said before taking a puff from his cigar.
Ricky could’ve sworn Dolla Dolla’s dark eyes shifted to him again through the haze of smoke. Ricky took a step back, then another, ready to shove Melvin aside or punch him in the face and bolt for the front door, though he knew he would probably never make it there before he felt the bullet in his back.
“I let those bitches in my house and the next thing I know the cops rain down on me!” Dolla Dolla boomed, stopping Ricky in his tracks.
Ricky knew what “bitc
hes” Dolla Dolla was referring to. He meant the harem of girls he used to keep for his own pleasure and then eventually pimped out. One of those girls had been Simone’s little sister, Skylar.
“Never had a problem with no po-po until they came along. Now every one of them bitches is gone. They got rounded up with the rest of them. One of them bitches talked to the police to set the ball rollin’. Maybe more than one. I don’t know! But I’m fittin’ to find out who, and make sure they don’t talk no more. And I’m gonna need y’all help.”
Several of the men nodded. Ricky mimicked them and nodded too.
“We gonna track these bitches down. We gonna find each and every one of them. And if they talked, find out what the fuck they said. I don’t care how y’all do it.” Dolla Dolla yanked the cigar from his mouth and stamped it into the glass ash tray sitting in front of him, sending up a plume of smoke and ash. “Y’all feel me?”
All of the other men in attendance nodded, and again, Ricky was the last to nod.
“All right. That’s it,” Dolla Dolla said, waving his hand dismissively. “Y’all can get the fuck on outta here.”
The men slowly rose to their feet and made their way back toward the door.
“Hey, Ricky!” Dolla Dolla called out, making Ricky pause in his steps. He turned to find Dolla Dolla beckoning him forward. “Come over here.”
Ricky slowly walked toward him.
“Have a seat, bruh,” Dolla Dolla said, leaning back on the sofa sectional.
Ricky sat down, taking a cushion across from him.
“I heard what those cops did to your restaurant. Sorry they shut that shit down. The food was good too. Better than my grandmama’s, and she can throw down in the kitchen.”
Ricky exhaled and gradually nodded. “Yeah, it was . . . it was fucked up.”
Dolla Dolla leaned over and slapped Ricky’s knee. “Don’t worry, bruh. I’m gonna take care of that shit for you.”
“Uh, thanks, Dolla.”
“Whoever did this is gonna pay. We ain’t goin’ down without a fight.”
“No doubt,” Ricky said, trying his best to sound earnest and not scared.