Death List

For the next five minutes Benson watched his friend and partner change expressions. "Not me, Ben. What do you want to do about it?"

  Without realizing it, Benson fingered the other bank notes in his pocket. He knew what he was going to do. This time he would come out with something if the captain should ever make good on one of his many threats to remove him from his position. Whatever Ryan decided to do with the bundle of money he had tossed to him was all right with him, but the one in his pocket was going to stay there.

  "No, Ryan, it's not my decision. If I was going to keep it for myself, you would never have known. But I wanted you up on it. It's a nice piece of money, and nobody will miss it. If you want to, we can split it up between us. If not, turn it in, but don't ask me to make the decision. That way, if you have guilty thoughts later on, I don't want you blaming me. I'll go along with you either way. I could use the money, and so could you, but it's your baby. Make up your own mind."

  "Goddamn it, Ben, why the hell do you do these kind of things to me? Ain't I got enough problems worrying about this fuckin' case without you tossin' temptation in front of me like this?"

  "We ain't gettin' no younger, Ryan. If something bad should happen to either one of us, this would go a long way towards helpin' the few people in the world who mean anything to us."

  It took a second, but finally a sheepish grin broke out over Ryan's face. "Well, I guess it ain't like being on the take. It must have been the money the bastard got for trying to make the hit on Angelo."

  The two men stared at each other, and finally Benson broke the silence. "Then I take it, you'll go along with holding back this small sum for ourselves?"

  Ryan shook his head undecidedly. "I just don't know yet, Ben. Let's sit on it for a while, okay?"

  Their eyes met, and then Ryan glanced away, but not before Benson could read the greed there. Ryan wanted the money, but just didn't know how to go about keeping it. His conscience would bother him for a while, but Benson was sure he would get over it.

  A sudden commotion in the outer room brought both detectives rushing out. To their astonishment they foundNelson and Steward there, trying to take charge.

  "Hold on, boys," Ryan said harshly. "I've already given these men their orders, so don't interfere. This is our little problem, so you guys just take a backseat."

  As the detectives dickered among themselves, Kenyatta was busy making calls from his farm. He was also making one final decision-one that involved the Kingfisher.

  "Listen, Jerry, I've tried every way possible to get this hit made without using you. But I put you in the position you're in, just in case something like this came up. Well, it's up. There is no other way out of this. Either you make the hit on the Kingfisher or the bastard gets away."

  There was silence on the other end of the line. For a minute Kenyatta wondered if the man had hung up. But then he spoke in a low voice. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

  "Do?" Kenyatta roared. "Why, I want you to assassinate the bastard. Shoot the motherfucker down like the dog that he is. If you do this, Jerry, you'll save hundreds of black lives-hundreds!" Kenyatta did not add that the man would also be giving up his own life when he followed through with the order.

  "How?" Jerry asked.

  To Kenyatta the question was too simple. It showed that the man wasn't using his head. It might benefit Jerry to act like he was a robot sometimes, but Kenyatta knew that this job required a man to use his brain.

  "How!" Kenyatta repeated loudly. "Man, you're not even trying to think, Jerry. I got you that job there in the apartment building because you were one of my best trained men, and most faithful. Remember your baby sister dying from the overdose?"

  Kenyatta knew that should be enough to convince him, but he continued anyway. "Well, I can damn near prove the dope came from the Kingfisher, but all that shit ain't necessary. Either you're going to do it or not. If you are, this is all you have to do. When the Kingfisher and his men come back downstairs, you get as close as possible and cut loose with that thirty-eight I gave you. As good a shot as you are, it shouldn't take but one shitty-ass shot, but I want you to be sure to hit him twice. You got that, Jerry? When he comes out through the lobby, you're to make your hit!"

  This time there was a long silence before the man finally spoke. "I understand, Kenyatta. This is what I've been trained for, so I'll do it. I'm as dedicated as anybody else in the organization."

  "Good. Just make sure you don't miss, Jerry. Make damn sure you don't miss. And don't forget, put two slugs in his dope-selling ass. You hear me? One for your sister and one for the rest of the kids who have died from the poison his men have been selling in our neighborhoods."

  Kenyatta waited until the man answered affirmatively. "Okay, then. When you hang up, go get your piece. You ain't got no time to waste. We want this bastard dead before he receives the new shipment of dope coming in. We can't cut the shipment off, but if we hit the Kingfisher, he won't be able to distribute that fuckin' poison!"

  After hanging up the telephone, Jerry moved as if he was under some kind of spell. First, he went down to the locker room and opened up his locker. From it he took out the still-new thirty-eight automatic. The gun shined from constant polishing. It had never been fired. He picked out six bullets from a full box, then put the rest back into his locker. He laid the gun and bullets out on the bench that he used when changing in and out of his work clothes.

  After he finished putting on his fresh bellboy uniform, Jerry had trouble figuring out where to put the gun. If he stuck it in his belt, it would make a bulge. He might be able to conceal it under his arm, but he didn't have a shoulder holster to make it stay in place. He sat down on the bench for ten minutes trying to figure out what to do with the gun.

  Suddenly he got an idea. He stood up, put the gun in his belt, next to the small part of his back, then pulled his coat down over it. It didn't seem to bulge too much, and if he kept his back turned, nobody would notice it anyway. At last Jerry was ready. At no time had he doubted that he would go through with his assignment. This was what he had been trained for, his purpose in being here. He made his way back up the steps with swiftness and certainty. He was now a dedicated man with a mission.

  It happened sooner than he hoped for. Jerry hadn't been in the lobby more than forty minutes when the private elevator that handled only the Kingfisher's penthouse began to come down. Jerry watched the dial as it moved lower and lower.

  Kingfisher stood in the elevator smiling. He had heard the news on the television and had watched the film clips of the bodies being removed from the Holiday Inn. He knew the identity of the man the Creeper had gunned down. Just a short time earlier he had put through a call and had told some big men his idea about somebody selling guns to the blacks in the ghetto, and the name "Angelo" had been one of those mentioned as the possible seller. As soon as this had been brought to the big men's attention, they had made the logical connections. Whoever supplied the guns was more than likely the same man who supplied the blacks with the list of people bringing dope into the city.

  Now that the gun runner was dead, it wouldn't take long before the men who had bought the guns would be out searching for another connect, thus exposing themselves. When they did, they would be taken care of. To celebrate, the Kingfisher was taking everybody in his place out on the town.

  Vickie, the Kingfisher's special woman, smiled broadly for the first time in what seemed like months, fussing over which expensive gown she should wear-the gold one or the navy blue one that looked good with the string of pearls Kingfisher had bought for her. She decided to wear the low-cut gold gown. It revealed more in the front and back.

  She dressed with care. It had been so long, so goddamn long since they had been anywhere. She could hear Kingfisher singing in the bedroom as he dressed. What a time they would have tonight. It seemed as if they had been living under the shadow of fear for so long that they had been tempted to run off. Just pack a few of the expensive things Kingfisher had bought for her and l
eave town. The news on the television meant that was all over now and everybody seemed happy.

  "Let's go," the Kingfisher called out happily. It had been quite a while since anyone had seen him in such a good mood.

  Vickie rushed out of the bedroom and joined the rest of the party at the elevator. They waited while one of the bodyguards used his key to open up the doors. Then the small party of five people walked in. Besides Vickie and Kingfisher, there were three bodyguards going along. It was quite a cutback from the time when the Kingfisher wouldn't go out with fewer than six bodyguards.

  As soon as the elevator door opened at the ground floor, the bodyguards got out. They didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. The bellboy standing near the door was the same one they had seen many times before.

  As Kingfisher stepped from the elevator with a big smile on his face, he noticed the youthful bellboy start towards them.

  Jerry reached behind his back, and the next thing Kingfisher saw was the long barrel of a thirty-eight automatic pointed directly at him. His heart froze. The warning yell he gave to his bodyguards was too late. He attempted to duck behind his woman. Vickie let out a scream of fear as she felt Kingfisher trying to use her for a shield. But the young gunman wouldn't be denied. He pushed the gun in Kingfisher's face and pulled the trigger.

  The roar of the thirty-eight was deafening, as were the answering shots that cut the young boy down in his tracks.

  The Kingfisher's body had slid down the wall. The bellboy had been struck from two different sides. Kingfisher's bodyguards were not slow; they had just been taken completely by surprise. The two shots fired by the bellboy had struck the Kingfisher high in the neck. He had been dead before he reached the luxurious carpet. Kingfisher didn't live long enough to know that his bodyguards had done their job, at least avenging him, if not managing to protect him.

  15

  AS THE POLICE LEFT Kenyatta's club on the north side of Detroit and headed towards the farm in the country, some of the people on the farm were making hurried efforts to leave. As soon as the club had been raided, Kenyatta had been called and duly informed. The few members inside the club hadn't stood up too long before giving out the information on Kenyatta's whereabouts, but that was something Kenyatta had expected.

  Kenyatta was well armed when he left the farm, taking four men with him. Each of the men took his woman along in one of the two cars-Jug and his girlfriend, Almeta; Eddie-Bee with his lady, and Red and Arlene, the woman who had gotten rid of the guns for them after the holdup.

  Kenyatta and Betty, with over thirty thousand dollars in a black briefcase between them, rode with Zeke and his black queen. Each couple was armed to the teeth, men and women alike, as they pulled out of the farmyard.

  The rest of the people watched them go, not knowing when their leader would return. Ali stood at the front door scratching his chin. He had been left in charge, and that was all that mattered to him, but he could feel something wrong. He couldn't know that his rule would last only a few hours.

  Ali didn't have the knowledge that Kenyatta possessed. He was uninformed about the raid on the city clubhouse, and he didn't know that an army of police were on their way to the farm at that very moment.

  When Kenyatta and his group reached the airport, they parked the cars in a no-standing zone, abandoning them. None of them had any thoughts of returning that way. It was time to get out. It was a wellthought-out plan of escape. Now was the time to put it to use.

  Everybody followed Kenyatta into the airport. As he bypassed the ticket windows, he turned and joked with his followers. "Now that sure in the hell would be a waste of money, wouldn't it?" he said as he shifted the heavy black bag around in his left hand.

  All of the women carried big, heavy shoulderbags. Each couple carried a certain amount of cash on them, in case they ran into more trouble than they could han dle and had to split up, but none of them had as much as Kenyatta carried.

  They waited about ten minutes until people started boarding a nonstop flight to California, then Kenyatta led his small group toward the loading ramp. The airport was set up in such a way that they didn't check for weapons until a person was going onto the ramp that led into the plane. Here a few guards stood around looking bored, watching the metal detector to see if anyone was possibly carrying a weapon.

  When Kenyatta's group reached them, there was no suspicion because the group was well-dressed and smiling. They came up to the ramp as if they had tickets, then all at once hell broke loose. Kenyatta pulled out an automatic. He waved it at the guards as his people came rushing up beside him. With a wave of his hand, he sent Red rushing up the ramp.

  The sight of the black men trying to commandeer the plane sent the guards into action. As Red came rushing up, one tried to reach out and stop him with his arms, while another took a step back and pulled out his gun. Neither man found success. The first one took a bullet from Red's gun right in the face. Blood flew everywhere as the white guard crumpled to the floor. There was a red gash where his face had been.

  As the second guard came out with his gun, Red's woman, who was just a step behind him, shot from the hip and took the guard by surprise. Her first shot hit him high in the chest, spinning him around. The second shot took the back of his head off. The couple ran past, not bothering to see the object of their handiwork fall to the floor.

  "Everybody stay still," Kenyatta ordered loudly, "and won't nobody get hurt." As he spoke, a guard on Kenyatta's blind side made his move. As soon as the man reached for his weapon, Betty stepped around her man and raised the sawed-off shotgun she carried in her bag. The gun was cut off so that it was almost as short as a pistol. She gave the man both barrels. The sight of what the shotgun did froze the other men in fear. There was no doubt in their minds now that the blacks meant business.

  Kenyatta backed up the ramp, using the girl who had been at the checkpoint as his shield. He stopped and waved Betty and the rest of his crowd past. They rushed up the ramp towards Red, who had the steward shaking from fear under the sight of his gun.

  Kenyatta's measured words roared out over the airport. "You honkies had better pay heed, or we'll kill everything white on the plane." A dark flush stained his lean and sallow cheeks as rage glittered in his cold black eyes.

  The sight of the terrified white girl in the tall black man's arms made the guards hesitate. There was no doubt that he would kill her. The guards held their weapons in check and allowed Kenyatta to make his way on up the ramp.

  Eddie-Bee stood at the top of the ramp waiting for him, while he pointed two thirty-eight short-nosed police specials at the white men at the bottom of the ramp.

  "That's right!" Kenyatta roared as he backed into the plane, followed by Eddie-Bee. "If you don't want any dead passengers or stewards, keep your hands off them motherfuckin' guns." His voice carried all the way through the plane, causing a near panic among the passengers.

  The members of his gang had already taken complete command of the plane. The pilot of the plane was well aware of the fact that his plane had been commandeered by a bunch of black gunmen. He reached the tower by radio and asked for information on what to do.

  "Follow their orders. Don't endanger any of the passengers!" the voice from the tower replied. "The people who have taken control of your plane are murderers. They have just killed at least four people in the terminal, so be careful."

  The co-pilot glanced over at the captain; their eyes locked for a quiet moment, but that was broken by the entry of Zeke. The tall black man stood in the cockpit with a cocked gun in his hand. He aimed it at the back of the co-pilot's head. "There won't be any trouble if you don't give us any," the black man stated harshly.

  From the way the man spoke, the pilot knew he meant business. "Where to?" the pilot asked softly.

  "When we get off the ground, I'll let you know," Zeke replied, then smiled. It had gone easier than Kenyatta had said it would. "Wherever we go," he said offhandedly, "you can bet it will be a black country. Yes ind
eed," Zeke said, speaking more to himself than the white pilots. "It's goin' sure nuff be black!"

  Donald Goines

  SPECIAL PREVIEW

  CRY

  REVENGE

  This excerpt from Cry Revenge will introduce you to Curtis Carson, a young man who doesn't really mean to rip off the Chicanos in his backyard crap games; he just rolls the dice better. But the Chicanos don't see it that way, and when one of their brothers is brutally slaughtered in a barroom shootout because of Curtis' dealings with heroin pusher Fat George, the Mexicans cry revenge on Curtis, leaving his brother with a wrecked body that will forever prevent him from being the basketball star he had always dreamed of being. Curtis swears vengeance, and the streets run red with Black-Chicano warfare!

  I

  IN THE BACKYARD of the white frame house was sand. Brown, light sand that blew in from the distant desert. New Mexico was more desert than anything else, yet it still possessed a beauty that would be hard to find elsewhere.

  Curtis Carson stood up and put his hands on his hips as he shook out the kinks in his back. He stared down at the dice that his friend Dan Lewis shook.

  "Seven!" Dan yelled as he rolled the dice out. When eight showed, he snatched them back up quickly. "Seven," he yelled again, this time taking his time and trying to roll the dice gently on the sand. Again the dice came up with eight.

  "These mothafuckers ain't got nothin' on them but eights," Dan cursed loudly. Then he shook the dice slowly, holding them back near his ear. He grinned up at Curtis, who picked up the money he had made after jumping eight. "Now," Dan yelled, "I want to see some fuckin' sevens on these mothahuppas."

  The two Mexican men kneeling in the dirt watched Dan closely as he shook the dice. The stouter of the two tossed his money down beside Dan's. "Okay, momma," he said, drawing the words out, "you're faded."