Robert started to argue, but Red cut him off. "Kenyatta asked me to be in charge to a certain degree, you know, so I felt it was my duty to see that everything went off right. You ain't forgot, have you, Robert, that I was on my way back in just to get you?"
For just a minute, Robert looked around sheepishly, then he regained his bravado. "Yeah, I know you were, but you ain't forgot either that you ordered me to stay there to the last and watch that fat-ass banker."
"Goddamn it," Charles cried out, "I meant to put a slug or two into his fat ass. I hate a whitey who looks like that bastard. I mean, you can actually tell he's a flunky motherfucker on a black nigger's ass."
"Well, you don't have to worry about him no more. That's one honky that won't be giving out any more orders, unless it's in hell."
Betty turned onto a side street. "I hope you done put them guns and money inside those shoppin' bags," she said as she pulled up beside a small compact car. Inside was a woman who looked as if she was white.
The woman glanced up and down the street anxiously as Betty parked beside her. "Hi, Arlene," Betty yelled as Red slipped out of the car and took the keys from Arlene. He went around and opened up the trunk of her car and put the shopping bags inside. When he came back, he removed the trunk key from the ring before giving the keys back to the woman.
"Well, we'll be seeing you around, honey," Betty called out sweetly as she pulled away. She watched in the mirror as Arlene drove off. "Well, that takes care of that. Arlene is so light that, if the police should stop her, she won't have no trouble because they'll think she's a white girl and let her go."
"That's sure enough cool, but what's cooler yet," Zeke said from the back, "is that we ain't got that hot shit in the car with us no more."
"Amen," Robert said. "You can sure as hell say amen to that!"
When Betty stopped at another intersection a police car cruised past them slowly. The driver gave them the once-over, but seeing a woman driving must have thrown him off because he kept on going.
"I'll say amen, amen, loud and clear now," Red said, and they all laughed. They knew now that they could really relax. They were home clear. There was no more need to fear a bust. Everything had been taken care of.
4
INSIDE THE WELL-FURNISHED six-room apartment over the club were the people who had participated in the robbery. Kenyatta counted the money for the third time, then, after removing fifteen thousand dollars, made six small piles of money. He gave each person who had been involved in the robbery two thousand dollars. Nobody complained about the way he split it up.
"I for one," he said earnestly, "am damn glad that this shit is over with." Kenyatta glanced around at the smiling faces. "I guess just about everybody is happy, huh?"
Red tossed off a shot glass of whiskey before speaking. They had been drinking and toasting each other since early that morning. "That ain't the half of it," he said, his voice sounding hard and cold. "I hope that finished it up for good. I hate robberies of any kind. That's why it's a shame Billy and Jackie ain't still around. They loved to knock over shit like that."
Kenyatta studied him closely before speaking. "You're one-hundred-percent correct about that, Red, 'cause that joint happened to be Billy's pet project. He'd been trying to talk me into knocking off that particular joint for damn near a year."
As he spoke, Kenyatta noticed Betty weaving through the living room, clutching a drink in her hand. He was momentarily surprised to see her stagger. He'd never before seen her drink enough to get loaded. She dropped into his lap, then rolled her beautiful eyes up at him. He noticed that they were bloodshot. He had a deep conviction that the past few weeks had put her under too much pressure. The only reason he'd sent her on the robbery was because he'd wanted her to do something that would take her mind off her Auntie Joy's death. There had been no way for him to foresee that the robbery would turn into a bloodbath.
He squeezed her small waist tightly. "Enjoying yourself, honey?" he inquired in what she termed his passionate bedroom voice.
Betty smiled up at him, her face lighting up and her pearly-white teeth gleaming. "You better damn well believe it. I didn't know Johnnie Walker Black could make you feel so good."
As Red stood up to go, he staggered. "I believe I'll be gettin' on down the road," he said, picking up his money. "I got a date with an angel." He attempted to sing, but Kenyatta cut him off.
"Why don't you leave some of your cash here, Red? You don't need all that money in the streets with you at one time."
It seemed as if he might comply with Kenyatta's wishes as he stood there rocking back and forth, but the alcohol got the best of him. "Hey, baby boy, why you come down on me like that? I ain't no kid, you know. I can well take care of myself, brother."
This is the kind of shit that blows everything up in a man's face, Kenyatta thought coldly as he watched the man reel.
"I can take care of myself," Red repeated. Then he reached inside his shirt and came out with a pistol. "See, Ken, I ain't going in the goddamn street without some kind of help, brother. I wish a motherfucker would try and take something away from me." He waved the gun at the couple sitting in the chairs.
Kenyatta gritted his teeth. He knew exactly what he was going to have to do. There was no sense in wasting his time trying to talk the man out of his drunken plans. Kenyatta knew from past experience that, once Red started to drink, he was bullheaded and hard to reason with. Even trying to talk him out of the pistol would be a senseless effort.
Kenyatta hated what he was about to do. He tried to make his mind a blank and stifle any thoughts, because he knew he'd be arguing with himself. Who the hell was he to try to play God? The man had earned the money, so why not let him go out and spend it any way he wanted to? His answer to himself was that the man would probably end up shooting somebody. He would have to disarm him.
Kenyatta raised up out of the chair and set Betty down on her feet. "Come on, bro," he said, friendly like, "I'll walk you to the front door. I got something I want to talk to you about anyway."
Red grinned at him foolishly, then started to put the gun away. The punch came at him swiftly. It was short and explosive. If Red had been just a little bit more sober, he would have ducked it. As it was, he almost rolled away from it, revealing how well Kenyatta had trained his people. The blow caught Red on the jaw. He dropped and slowly crumpled up on the floor, knocked completely out.
"I knew it," Charles said from where he sat. "I couldn't believe you were going to let him go in the streets like that."
"I hated to do it," Kenyatta explained to the people watching, "but we got too much to lose to allow him to run around in the streets drunk. If the police get him, no telling what he might say while under the influence of that shit, so it's better all the way around if he stays right here until he's sober."
Kenyatta stopped, reached down, and removed the pistol from the drunken man's coat pocket.
"That's a funky thing to do," Betty said as her whiskey began to talk for her. "Shit, what did Red do to deserve all that?" She glared around angrily. "I don't care if all the rest of these niggers are scared of you, Kenyatta, but I'm sure in the hell not." She belched loudly.
"Shit, Kenyatta," Zeke said from where he sat on the couch nursing his small glass of wine, "looks like you might have another one to go."
"Okay, yeah," she snarled as she staggered around the table to get a better look at Zeke. "Why don't you kill-crazy bastards just kill me, huh? Wouldn't that be the easy way out for all of you? Hell, I know too much for you to let me go on living, don't I? So just shoot me, right here in the top of the head," she said, pointing out the spot.
Her words had brought a snap of fear to most of the people in the room. They were too involved in the robbery to have someone come up with a loose lip. They glanced up at Kenyatta to see how he was taking his woman's words. This could turn into one hell of a dilemma if Kenyatta didn't get her mind right.
He raised his hand, asking for silence. "I know
what most of you are thinkin', but forget it. This is the first time any of you have ever seen her drunk, and I promise you it will be the last," he said, not realizing that he was making a promise he would not be able to keep.
"Hey, brother," Robert called out, "we know how it is, man. Just like you said, I ain't never seen Betty loaded before, I mean never. Not even close, man, so I know it's just the drinks in her talking." He spoke with conviction, because he really liked the tall black woman.
"Technically speaking," Eddie-Bee began, loaded enough himself to start trying to talk proper, which he did whenever he reached a certain point in his drinking, "I'd say we've all had a few too many, but that's why we started drinking, wasn't it? Weren't we supposed to be celebrating something or other? So what the fuck. Let's let our hair hang loose. It's exhilarating to be loaded around friends." He stopped and took a large drink from the paper cup in front of him, then continued. "I'm ready to call the ladies up from downstairs myself. Let's party, dig? We're not here to merely exist, are we?" He glared around at his friends, then spoke to Betty directly. "I really sympathize with you, Betty. It's getting increasingly boring up here." He tried to turn his back but only succeeded in knocking his cup of whiskey onto the thick brown carpet.
The other men laughed. But as Kenyatta took Betty into his arms, she started a crying jag. At first she cried softly, then the sobs came louder and louder. He glanced around at the other men nervously, then reached down and picked her up and carried her to the bedroom. Once there, he covered her lips with hot kisses, holding her tight and slowly rubbing her back as if she was a nervous filly. She settled down slowly, and he could tell she was coming around and relaxing. Her lips grew softer under his, her tongue came out to meet his until there was nothing but a strong passion between them. After undressing her with care, he took her. They made slow and tender love. Her cries of fear turned into cries of passion.
5
CAPTAIN DAVIDSON STARED over his hornrimmed glasses at the two officers in front of him. The stout, graying officer realized that it wasn't their fault that none of the officers in homicide had cracked the case yet. At least these two men had come closer to getting an arrest than any of the others. But he still had to crack the whip over their heads, just as he did with the rest of the men.
"Goddamn it, Ryan, Benson, what the hell are you two guys doing back there in your office? Playing with yourselves?" He waited for a second, then continued in a bullish voice. "I can expect nothing from these young college-ass kids I'm stuck with in this department, but you two guys, shit!" The word came out in a roar. It could be heard out front, where all the junior officers worked.
Ryan shifted nervously on his feet. He couldn't stand being yelled at. It caused his nerves to work overtime, like they were doing now.
Benson only fought down the smile that threatened to come to his lips. He realized how nervous Ryan must be by the loud yelling of their boss. That was the reason Ryan couldn't stand the interviews. The yelling just upset him until he couldn't think straight.
Davidson must have realized that he was overdoing it because he lowered his voice. "Now fellows," he began, trying another approach, "let's try and look at it from my side of the wagon, okay? The fuckin' commissioner is breathing down my neck, cops literally gettin' killed at will. And now this. Two men with their girlfriends murdered in cold blood in broad daylight, yet nobody saw anything. It's unbelievable. I mean it. We're not back in the roaring twenties. These things just don't go on in our day and age without getting solved, so what's the problem? I don't want to hear about won't nobody talk. I gave you guys a free hand, allowing you to work when you wanted to.
He raised his hand to cut off an excuse from Ryan. "Yeah, I know. You boys were going to work on your own time. I appreciate the offer, but what did I do? I said no sirree, not on your own time. Just punch in, and I'd see to it that you're paid for every fuckin' minute you put in down here, didn't I?"
Before the men could reply, he continued, and his voice rose higher. "Now, you can't beat such a boss, can you? I put my fat ass out on the limb for you guys. And now they're trying to cut the fuckin' limb off while I'm out on it. But I promise you guys one thing, if they cut it off on me, I'll make damn sure I fall on somebody's head before I hit the ground. Do I make myself clear?"
Both of the officers shook their heads in agreement, thankful that the interview was over and not really bothered by the threat. Before Davidson got rid of them, a hell of a lot of other officers would feel his heavy hand. They were the closest ones to the case. No other team of detectives was anywhere nearer to solving the murder spree than they were.
"Oh, Benson, Ryan," Davidson called out as the two men neared the door in their rush to get clear of the captain's office, "the next time I send you guys two young detectives to take along, please take them. How the hell else are these guys going to get any experience if they don't go with some of you vets?"
"That was my fault, Captain," Benson said quickly. "I....,,
The captain waved the excuse away. "I didn't ask about whose fault it was; just take them along next time. I don't see how they can get in the way by just riding in the backseat of a fuckin' police car."
"Okay, Captain, we'll take care of it," Benson replied as he opened the door.
Ryan almost ran through the open door in his haste to get away from the captain. As they made their way through the office, Benson noticed the two young detectives sitting at the desk. Both men were grinnin
The captain waved the excuse away. "I didn't ask atain had said. As Benson caught their eyes, the men glanced away, but not before he could see the look of triumph.
"Up your fuckin' ass," Benson said under his breath. He promised himself that it would be a cold day in hell before he'd allow those bastards to follow him along on any case.
"Hey, Ryan," a slim, red-faced detective called out as they passed, "you and Ben had better check and see if you've still got anything back there to sit on."
The other officers sitting nearby broke out laughing. It tickled them to see another man on the carpet, just as long as it wasn't their own asses catching the hell. To get called into the captain's office wasn't anything to be proud of. He very seldom wanted to see an officer unless it was about something important on a new case, or about someone's mistake.
Benson glared around defiantly at the white officers. It didn't take much for him to realize that they enjoyed what they thought was his being put into place. But a hell of a lot of people had been killed lately, and not only hadn't Ryan and Benson had any luck, but neither had any of the other detectives in the room.
"Let's take a quick ride," Ryan said briskly, not even waiting for his partner's answer. He kept walking until they got in the elevator, then pushed the button for the garage.
Both men remained silent, trying to make some kind of sense out of the latest murders. Ryan drove, taking the freeway until he reached the Clay Street exit. He took the ramp that led to the right and made a turn over to Oakland Avenue. He parked behind a moving van, then removed a small slip of paper from his pocket.
"Kenyatta," he said out loud. "I don't know if he's got anything to do with this shit, but everything we've got leads in his direction."
Benson nodded toward the storefront a few cars away. "Well, that's the bastard's funky-ass club. It took a hell of a lot of trouble just to get somebody to have the nerve to tell us where it was located," Benson stated, then continued. "That in itself speaks of the enormous ghetto power. Whenever people fear somebody, as it seems these people fear him, it's time we looked into it."
Ryan nodded his head in agreement. "I can't understand how this guy exploded in our midst without us ever gettin' any kind of wire on him. It's as if he came from another world. Nobody, and I mean nobody, wants to talk about him or his people."
As the two detectives sat watching the front of the club, a small black Ford pulled up. The car was tilted over towards the driver's seat, and when the driver got out, it was easy to see w
hy. A huge, fat, white man got out from the driver's side and waddled around the car, carrying a brown briefcase in his left hand. He glanced down at a piece of paper in his right hand, reading an address as he reached the sidewalk.
The three black men loitering in front of the building stared at him coldly as he pushed past them. He was breathing hard as though he had just run ten miles.
"I wonder who the hell he could be," Benson said quietly.
Ryan lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "He could be the neighborhood's friendly insurance man, you know." Even while he was talking, Ryan was writing down the license number of the late-model car.
As Benson watched his partner write down the number, he couldn't help but think how it would be if the fat white man had been black. His partner probably would have suggested that they pull him over when he came out and shake him down.
For spite, Benson started to make the suggestion himself. Why not, he thought coldly. What's good for a black man should be good for a white one, too. But he knew better. If the white man turned out to be a working businessman going about his business of robbing the black neighborhood and they shook him down, all he'd have to do would be to call downtown and make a complaint about being illegally stopped and searched. Then there would be hell to pay. They would have to come up with some kind of an excuse for why they had detained the man and put him through so much trouble.
Benson had to laugh sardonically as he thought about it: all those black men who were stopped daily, even with their wives along, and searched out on the streets for no other reason than that they were black. The officers who stopped them believed all black men did something wrong, so they had a right to stop and frisk any black man they saw. But it was so different when it came to a white man. Oh God, so much different, he moaned.
"What's wrong?" Ryan inquired slowly, studying his partner closely. "You got an idea or something?"