by Jason Trevor
“C’mon, Le. Get ‘em to play nice. The more they stall, the less they are going to cooperate. You know that,” he said to the otherwise empty car.
The conversation dragged on for five minutes. Then ten. Then fifteen. The guys kept shaking their heads and waving their hands back and forth defensively as they paced, crisscrossing each other’s paths and circling Le. Le was cool and collected, keeping all of his body language and hand gestures below waist level to appear non-threatening. Sims fidgeted in the car impatiently. Both Franks and his LT had told him not to go with Le and to stay the heck out of Third Ward for the time being. He couldn’t help it. He was afraid that Le might need backup if things got ugly, and he was impatient to find out if Biggie would cooperate. Pedestrians were crossing the street away from his car before they passed. The unmarked Crown Vic was quite a sore thumb in this neighborhood. That also made Sims nervous and impatient. More minutes ticked by. Cody couldn’t take it anymore. He jumped out of the car and began walking toward the corner with rapid, aggressive strides. Johnny Le’s back was to him, so one of the Blood Brothers saw him first. He nodded his head up a little, threw his shoulders back, and took a step away from Le. The others caught on to Cody’s approach and responded the same. Johnny looked bewildered by their sudden change in posture for a second, looked back and saw Sims, then whirled on him as he approached.
“I told you I would see you at the office! These guys don’t want to talk to you!” He was fronting for the gang, but sincere in his tone.
“It looks to me like you need some help persuading,” retorted Cody.
“Persuading what?” asked an animated, tall, and skinny black man with no shirt on. He had a tattoo on his chest that said “Bone”.
“Is your name Bone?”
“Maybe. What’s it to you, five-oh?”
“I’m just looking for a name so we can talk, man-to-man,”
“He’s just a suit from the office,” interjected Le, trying to calm things down. “Let me send him on his way and we can talk some more,” he sighed and gave Sims a harsh look.
“Too damn bad,” said Bone. “Nigga ain’t got no friends on Travis. Don’t want to help no one from Travis. Johnny, I told you we can handle it. Don’t need your help or any stuffed suit cracker,”
One of the other Blood Brothers crept up on Cody from the side with his chest puffed and got so close that Sims could hear the air whistling in and out of his flaring nostrils as he breathed. “Name’s Tony,” he said. “Wanna bring me in for being a nigga?”
“No, but you might want to back off of me,” Cody retorted levelly. “I’m just here with Johnny to help find the guy who shot Biggie,”
“Fuck you,” snarled another one. Not knowing they were brothers, he looked like a younger version of Tony to Cody as the younger man stepped up to Le, emboldened by Tony’s maneuver. Bone folded his arms and stared at both of the detectives, knowing that the odds were three-to-two in his favor.
“Let me get him out of here, Bullet. He isn’t your problem, he’s mine,” Johnny pleaded with the young guy in his face.
“C’mon man, we’re just here to talk,” Cody said calmly.
“I said fuck you, cracker five-oh piece of shit pig!” snarled Tony as he suddenly shoved Sims. Cody stumbled to the side and bumped his shoulder into the light post that Johnny had been leaning against. Then he spotted an incoming punch in his peripheral vision and quickly ducked. The haymaker landed squarely on the light post and the cracking sound of bones breaking in Tony’s hand could be heard. “Ow, goddamn it! Motherfucker broke my hand!”
All bets were now off. Tony and Bone converged on Cody and Bullet jumped Johnny. Protect your weapon, thought Sims to himself. Don’t let them get it. He swatted punches away as he ducked and retreated into the street. Le weaved to one side to dodge a punch, then grabbed Bullet’s hair, dragged him a few feet, and used him as a barrier as he backed toward Sims. He let go and snapped out a strong push-kick with his back leg. Bullet stumbled back into Tony and Bone, just as Tony grappled at Cody’s suit coat. Fabric ripped. All three of them crashed backward into a pile in front of Sims. Le quickly whirled around with a rapid high-back-kick and connected the heel of his boot with Bone’s temple as he tried to scramble to his feet. His head jerked to one side and he momentarily fell to one knee, catching himself on a city bus sign.
“Run!” Johnny barked at Sims. They both sprinted for the Crown Vic. The three gang members collected themselves to their feet and gave chase. Cody silently thanked Jesus that he hadn’t locked the car as he and Le jumped in. Tony ran up onto the hood and began jumping up and down, thumping his bare chest with his remaining good hand and cursing at them. Bone yanked on Cody’s door handle just as he locked it, then beat on the window glass over and over with the heel of his fist. Bullet kicked the door of the car so hard that it rocked.
Cody started the engine, threw the car into reverse, and screeched away as Tony flopped onto the pavement like a ragdoll.
“I oughtta kick your ass!” Johnny admonished as Sims whipped a bootlegger turn and headed back downtown.
◆◆◆
The three Blood Brothers watched the empty street for a minute after the car was out of sight, looked at each other, and then began walking back to their corner.
“Kick a motherfucker’s ass,” Tony cursed. “Think a brother gonna snitch to the five-oh just ‘cause some white asshole tried to scare Biggie,” he continued to simmer and mutter as they got back to their corner.
“Check this shit out!” yipped Bone. He bent down and picked something up from the grass by the light pole.
“What is it?” asked Bullet.
“Cracker dropped something,” It was a small spiral notebook. The cover had the name “Foster Shayne” written on it in marker along with a strange number. He flipped through a few pages and couldn’t believe what he was looking at. “Sherlock Holmes dropped his detective book!”
Chapter 11
The suburban looked really, really good, but the Reunel bumpers, battered factory paint, and newly installed body kit were all different colors. It would need to be painted.
“You know anyone with a paint booth?” Joe asked Oscar.
“A what? I paint right here!”
“No, you aren’t going to paint a big SUV in my unventilated warehouse. If you pass out from fumes, you become a problem. I need someone with a booth,”
“I no know what that is,”
“Forget it. I’ll figure it out. Open the back roll-top door for me. I want to show you something before I pay you,”
“Si,” Oscar jogged to the back of the warehouse and yanked on the rusty chain. The door had not been opened in a long time, and he had to struggle with the creaky gears as he pulled the chain. The door groaned and squealed up to reveal shimmering heat above a concrete slab and the blue plastic barrel sitting in the tall field behind them. There were 650 acres back there that were also owned by the shell company in Barbados, ensuring privacy and appreciating in value as the suburbs and city slowly grew towards it from both directions.
Joe started the Suburban and smiled inwardly as it loped at a slow, rough idle, quieted to near-silence by his over-engineered exhaust system. The cost of the premium gasoline was going to pay off in this rig’s performance. He gently squeezed one of the paddle shifters with his right middle finger and the truck lurched forward. Joe idled it carefully through the roll-top onto the hot slab alongside Oscar, then took it out of gear and killed the engine.
“One hundred percent, and then some,” he smiled to Oscar through the open driver’s window.
“What?”
“TACP motto. Forget it. Stay there. Don’t move from that spot, no matter what,”
“Si,”
◆◆◆
Cody sat in the chair across from his Lieutenant. Lt. Lakefield was a gritty HPD veteran of thirty-plus years and a US Army MP in Vietnam before that.
Sims sat with one hand around the back of his neck rubbing a sore spot
from the fight earlier, and he stared at his other hand as he draped it limply across his knee.
Lt. Franks Stood against the wall between them, and Johnny Le stood by the other wall. Lakefield’s voice was booming.
“Franks and I both specifically told you to stay out of the way and let Le do his job. He’s been in the gang unit and working Third Ward for six years. SIX YEARS! That’s a lot of time and effort cultivating CI’s and building people’s trust. It took you ten minutes and one stupid damned decision to blow it all to hell. He can’t set foot in that ‘hood ever again without risking his life. To top it all off, you HANDED those little shits everything you have in your case against them. There is a reason I give orders and you take them!”
Cody sighed and looked from his hand to the ripped coat pocket and back.
“Actually,” Franks groaned, “You handed them the name, address, phone number, and life history of the vigilante who is after them. What was looking like a bloodbath in Third Ward now may turn into a bloodbath in a pretty little suburb. Do you think the soccer moms and prep-school kids deserve that level of violence?”
“He’s my detective, I’ll chew his ass,” Lakefield stared down Franks, but Franks didn’t blink.
“And Le is my detective. He’s a damn good one. If I’m lucky, I can put him in Sunnyside and he can start over,”
“Then you chew Le’s ass when he screws up. Sims is a good detective, so I’ll chew his ass when he screws up,”
“Whatever,” Franks rolled his eyes at the prospect of a departmental turf war.
“Not that this isn’t my idea of a good time, but what do we do about Danton?” interrupted Le. “There could be a lot of very angry gang-bangers headed to his house as we speak,”
“It’s only four o’clock. Do you think they will go after him before dark?” asked Franks.
“Doubt it, but anything is possible. I didn’t learn much before Sims showed up, but I did find out that they are sitting on a lot of rage. They are seriously hacked off,”
“Call him,” Lakefield snapped at Sims. “Now,”
Cody dug out his cell phone and dialed. “Voicemail,” Sims moaned to the others in the room, then waited for the beep. “Mr. Danton. This is Detective Sims with HPD Homicide again. It’s very important that you call me right away. We have reason to believe that there is a credible threat to your safety,” He hung up the phone and stood. “I should go find him,”
“What’s your first stop?”
“His house. He works from home,”
“Take Le. Lights and siren. Get to his house fast, and keep calling,” ordered Lakefield. Le looked at Franks, who nodded in agreement. The two ran out the door.
◆◆◆
Joe motored the electric seat all the way back and tilted the steering wheel all the way up so that he could fit his legs through, then clambered out of the seat to the back and crouched on the expanded metal floor that had been welded in at a factory some years earlier.
Dragging a heavy ammo box from the back, he snapped open the latch and peered at the minigun, perched awkwardly in its hidden vertical position. He grabbed a dirty pair of earmuffs hanging on a peg by the back door. They came with the truck and would certainly have to be replaced. They were gross. He hoped they didn’t give him some rare South American otitis as he put them on. He opened the breach of the gun and laid the end of the 3,000-round belt into it at its awkward angle, and had to hold it there as he slapped it shut again. It would be easier to load if the gun were horizontal, but time would be against him if he did that when it came time to actually use the gun. Yanking the bolt, the gun chambered smoothly. He grabbed the grips at the back of it and pushed upward hard as he stood. The turret doors swung up and to either side of him and the gun slid into its horizontal firing position above the roof of the Suburban, with Joe standing behind it. He glimpsed down at Oscar, who looked genuinely confused and was sweating from standing in the sun. He couldn’t see the gun because the turret door blocked his view. Joe got excited. Poor little Oscar had no idea what was coming, although he surely was getting a clue by this point.
“Cover your ears,” Joe warned.
“Eh?” Oscar didn’t understand.
“Cubre, um, oídos,” Joe held his hands up on either side of the earmuffs.
“Oh! Si!” Oscar pressed flattened palms against both sides of his head.
Joe lifted the safety guard from the motor switch and flipped up the toggle switch below it, then deliberately and slowly wrapped his fingers around the grips and carefully rested his index finger on the trigger.
“Range is hot!” he shouted. “Firing in tres, dos, uno!” and he squeezed the trigger.
The gun buzzed. It sounded more like a chainsaw than a machine gun. Empty shell casings cascaded out of the discharge chute at the bottom and rained down the windshield of the truck. The plastic barrel shuddered, shook, perforated, and splashed water violently.
Oscar's eyes widened and he sucked in his breath. Was this thing real? He took a step back, stumbled, and fell flat on his backside, utterly unable to take his eyes off of the barrel or his hands from his ears. The barrel shook and shuddered more as the 7.62mm bullets ripped through it at a rate of fifty rounds per second. One side of the top half of the barrel fell crookedly, and then peeled off and fell to the ground. Joe lowered his aim slightly and zig-zagged up and down the bottom half of the barrel as it disintegrated into chunks of wet plastic and water splashed everywhere. Just under 60 seconds after Joe pulled the trigger, the belt ran out. He let go of the right grip and held on to the left one as the six smoking barrels spun to a stop. Flipping off the motor switch and closing the guard, Joe shouted.
“All clear! Range is cold!” He lowered the gun back into the passenger compartment. The turret doors slammed shut above him, and he opened the rear passenger door to climb out.
Oscar was wild-eyed and speechless, getting up as Joe strolled around the truck to him. Joe dug a wad of bills out of his pocket.
“I told you we don’t know each other. Do you want to be on the business end of that gun?”
“What you mean?”
“I mean, does that gun scare you?”
“Si! It scare me a lot!”
“Good. Here’s $300 for today’s work. You’ve never met me, and you’ve never been to this warehouse. Jefe is on his own. He isn’t my problem, but I’ll be your problem if you ever mention me to him or your hermana or anyone else. Comprende?”
“Si! I leave! Right now!” Oscar ran around the corner of the warehouse and toward a rusty car by the highway as Joe caught a slight whiff of excrement. Oscar had crapped his pants!
Joe laughed as he pulled out his phone to check the time, and saw a missed call with a voicemail.
Chapter 12
Court had been canceled today for William because a prosecutor needed a continuance. That had given him a rare chance to go home before dark, even in the summer. He and Margie were cutting vegetables together in the kitchen for stew, singing old songs, and laughing at corny jokes that they hadn’t told each other for years. Billy was upstairs doing homework. It was nice to come home early for once.
“Hey, Dad?” Billy’s disembodied voice rang out from upstairs.
“Yeah, bud?”
“I think something is up!” The boy came rushing down the steps, still in his school clothes.
“How so?” William and Marge looked at him quizzically.
“I just looked out my window, and there’s smoke coming from the other side of Mr. D’s house. Is he home?”
“Are you sure it isn’t the neighbors on the other side of him barbecuing or something?”
“It’s a lot of smoke, Dad,”
“Let’s go see,” William headed out the front door, with Billy and Margie on his heels.
“Honey, that doesn’t smell like barbecue,” frowned Margie.
“It smells like a fireplace, but kind of like it did when I threw one of my toys into ours,” Billy sniffed.
&nb
sp; “It’s ninety degrees out here. No one would be lighting a fireplace. Maybe someone is burning something in their yard,” mused William. “Let’s go see,”
They all hurried across Joe’s lawn to the other side of his house and headed toward the fence, but stopped short as soon as they cleared the corner of the house. Joe’s gate was hanging open, and the entire top half of the side of the house was engulfed in flames.
“Run! Call 911! Now! Go!” barked William. Margie and Billy rushed back toward their house. William dragged a hose reel from the corner of Joe’s house and turned on the faucet it was attached to. He yanked on the sprayer to pull the hose out and began spraying the fire. It wasn’t doing much good, but he could hear embers hissing and puffs of steam were pouring up alongside the smoke everywhere that he sprayed. Billy ran back over to his father.
“Mom’s on the phone with the fire department,” he gasped. What do I do?
“Go use our hose and spray down the side of our house that faces this one and spray down that side of Mr. Danton’s house. Keep them both really wet.”
Just then, an unmarked police Crown Victoria rushed down the street toward them with lights and siren blaring. Two detectives jumped out after it screeched to the curb. They trotted up the lawn to William.
“Where’s Joe Danton?” yelped one of them.
“No idea! I don’t think he’s home,” replied William, indicating the empty carport between the garage and the house.
“Has anyone called the fire department?”
“Yes, my wife is in the house next door talking to them,” He continued to spray down the flames as best as he could, but the fire was growing. “Someone needs to call Joe,” he bellowed over his shoulder to the detective standing behind him.