Death List

  "Maybe the guy was trying to force information from the woman and he attempted to influence her by brutalizing the children." Benson made a small gesture with his hands, then dropped them back into his lap. As he continued to speak, his words came slowly, as if it hurt him to speak.

  "Something like this, Ryan, tears me up. I've seen a lot of killings, but the way them kids were done up, it makes me sick to my stomach to even think about it."

  The traffic on the freeway was moving swiftly so it didn't take but minutes before Ryan reached his exit, the Jefferson Avenue ramp going west. He came off the freeway and made a right-hand turn.

  "I was wondering," Benson began, "if we might have gotten better information from the Feds. A guy who sells guns on this scale might be somebody the FBI would be keepin' tabs on."

  "Now you mention it!" Ryan roared. "You wait patiently until I get us back to police headquarters, then you drop this bombshell on me!" Even as he spoke, he drove past the garage where he ordinarily would have parked their car.

  As they drove through the main part of downtown, Benson grinned to himself. He could tell his partner liked the idea, even though Ryan didn't come out and say it.

  The traffic in the heart of town was congested, but Ryan moved in and out rather swiftly. He got a sharp glance from a policeman on a motorcycle as he got the jump on a crowded bus taking off from the red light from the inside lane.

  When he reached Michigan Avenue, he had trouble trying to locate a parking spot. "Why don't you just put the bastard in a no-parking zone?" Benson inquired as they circled the block.

  "Man," Benson began, "if I knew we were going to have to hitchhike all the way over to the Federal Building from our parking spot, I'd have called the dispatcher and had him send a squad car to drop us off."

  "Like hell!" Ryan answered. "It's just another one of your smart ideas coming eight hours too late, that's all."

  On the second time around the block, Ryan saw a driver climbing into his car in front of the Federal Building in a no parking zone. Ryan grinned, pulling into the spot as soon as the driver pulled away from the curb.

  "I didn't notice any ticket on his car," Ryan stated, backing up smoothly and parking. Benson got out first and waited on the sidewalk for his partner.

  Ryan joined him. "I don't give a shit, Ben, what time it is when we finish, but whatever it is, I'm going to find me some place to eat. I ain't never seen a bastard like you. You just don't believe in eating!"

  The men joked back and forth as they made their way into the building and caught the elevator up to the fifth floor. They made their inquiries, then showed their badges. A woman led them down the hall to an almost empty suite. There were two women working, one behind a huge typewriter that looked as if it had seen better days, while the other, a tall blonde, was sitting behind a rather dingy looking desk covered with papers. Both women glanced up when the threesome entered. The tall blonde got up from her desk and came to meet them before they could step behind the enclosure. "You gentlemen will have to wait here at the counter while I bring the mug books to you."

  Both men shrugged and waited patiently until she returned carrying three large books. "Well, since you fellows seem to be in good hands, I'll depart," the matronly-looking woman who had brought them to the mug files said.

  Neither man glanced up from the books they had taken and laid out on the counter. The woman put the third book next to them and returned to her desk.

  For the next hour, both men pored over the books until perspiration was running freely from their brows. The woman had come and gone with fresh books so many times that she became irritated when they called to her for more.

  After another hour, Ryan snapped his finger down on a mug shot. "I couldn't swear on it, Ben, 'cause all I got was a side view of the bastard, but this could be him. Those fuckin' double chins of his were kind of hard to hide."

  Benson glanced over his shoulder at the picture, then almost shoved his partner out of the way. He stared hard at the mug shot, while his agile mind went back to that day in front of Kenyatta's place.

  The shrill voice of the blonde interrupted his concentration. "It's my lunchtime," she stated harshly. "You men will just have to come back later today if you don't have what you want now. We close this department at lunchtime."

  Benson continued to study the mug shot in front of him, both men ignoring the woman standing there tapping her foot.

  Benson finally ended his examination of the picture. He said only two words to his partner: "That's him!"

  The statement was brief, but there was no doubt in Ryan's mind about whether or not his partner was right or wrong. If Benson said that was their man, then that was the man they were going to run down.

  As the woman reached over and tried to close the large book, Ryan coldly shoved her hand away. He read the name under the picture.

  "You think we need a picture of the guy?" Ryan asked as Benson turned away from the counter.

  Again his partner was brief and to the point. "Naw, it ain't necessary. I say we pick the fat punk up now."

  "After we eat," Ryan said, and both men laughed as they started toward the door.

  11

  THE SPRAWLING ACREAGE of the farm was shown to its best when the sun was setting behind the wooded area at the end of the riding paths. The few horses that were kept on the farm were out in the small enclosure behind the huge white barn that contained most of the hay and grain fed to the livestock.

  As Kenyatta glanced out of the upstairs bedroom window in the main farmhouse, he could see riders coming out of the wooded section and heading for the huge white barn. Scattered along their path were the many smaller cabins that surrounded the main building. As the horseback riders got closer, Kenyatta could make out his right-hand man, Ali, riding tall in the saddle. The man's name left a bitter taste in his mouth. Ali wanted all the rewards that went with big money, but he didn't want to do anything for it.

  Kenyatta finished the cigarette he was smoking and glanced around for an ashtray. His mind wandered back to the conversation he had just had on the phone. His gun connect was finished. The fat honkie was scared to death. The man hadn't been able to accept the killings Kenyatta's people had put on the big white dope pushers.

  As Kenyatta thought about it, he smiled grimly. What had the man expected when he took their money for the goddamn information? Did he think Kenyatta was paying out that kind of bread just for kicks? Whatever the bastard thought, he had come out and told Kenyatta that the gun connect was finished.

  Finished hell, Kenyatta reflected. If that fat bastard thought he was going to get out of it that easy, he had enough sense to make a jackass fly backward. No way, no fuckin' way in the world was Kenyatta going to allow Angelo's fat ass to get away with his money and the knowledge the man possessed. He was the only one who had the slightest idea of who was behind the hits. If he decided to sell that information, he wouldn't have any trouble finding buyers.

  Betty opened the bedroom door and came in carrying a small silver tray with two drinks on it. "Here, honey, I thought you might like something cool."

  As he took the offered drink, he smiled down at the tall, attractive black woman. There was something about the way she carried herself-the way she held her head high in a lofty manner. There was the mark of nobility about her. Each time she took a step, her long red gown would open up, revealing a beautiful black leg. Her hair was done up in a huge natural, and her ears were adorned with large African earrings.

  "I want you to get on the phone and start calling until you reach the Creeper for me. It's very important that I talk to him at once," Kenyatta ordered as he took the drink, then turned away from the beautiful woman. His mind was on other things at the moment, yet if he kept looking at her, he knew he would end up postponing something while he took a quick roll in the hay.

  She seemed to read his mind. "I was hopin', daddy, that you might find time to take care of a little bit of your homework. It's been neglected lately, for s
ome reason," she said in a husky voice that sent ripples up and down his spine.

  "Naw, baby, it's not enough time right now. I want you to get on that phone and take care of my business for me," he stated again, still with his back to her.

  Even though she hadn't put her hands on him, he could feel her presence. It was like an unwanted alien sending out brain waves that he couldn't cut off. The motivating forces were working, and it showed a weakness on his part. To let his woman have that much power over him was something he resented, while at the same time loving her even more for being able to cause him such a specific emotional disturbance. But it was a disturbance that he didn't want at the time because he had other things on his mind.

  She took one more glance at her man and went over to the phone. She sat down on the bed with the telephone in her lap, looking at Kenyatta's stiff back. She couldn't understand why at times she felt as if he was fighting against her, not wanting to allow himself the pleasure of really loving her. Possibly, she thought, he was afraid that he might lose some of his power over her if he were to submit to her demanding love.

  Betty dialed the number of the Twenty Grand Motel, but that came up a blank. She tried another motel, but this time she stopped and thought about the man she was trying to reach. The Creeper would probably be hiding in an out-of-the-way place, one that didn't have much traffic. Because of the crime he had committed, she figured he would want seclusion. His very soul should cry out for it, she reflected, as she remembered the news flash she had heard telling about the killing of the small children.

  She had known at once that the Creeper was behind it. From conversations she had overheard between her man and that monster, she had put the crime at his doorstep. Nobody else in the organization could or would do something that vicious. Even Kenyatta had been shocked when he heard about it. It had been uncalled for. The death of the children was something that none of them wanted.

  As she hesitated with the telephone cradled in her lap, it came to her in a flash. The dilapidated Kingsmen Motel, located over on Grand River Avenue near Davison Street, would be a good place for a man to hide. It was also one of the motels on their list of hideouts.

  It took a minute to get Information to give her the number of the motel, and then she put through her call. "Hello," she said in that musical voice of hers. "Do you have a Mr. Marcus Gregory staying there? I don't know his room number, but I'm sure he checked in there sometime this week."

  She waited a minute, then the desk man answered that he did have such a guest and put through the call. Suddenly a man's heavy voice was on the other end. "Just a minute," she replied, and held the phone out to Kenyatta, making sure she didn't use any name the switchboard operator could remember. It was bad enough making the call from the country. It could easily be traced if there was ever any need. But the Creeper kept his trail covered up so well she seriously doubted if there would ever be any need.

  "What is it?" Kenyatta yelled into the receiver, then waited to make sure he had the person he wanted to talk to. "Listen, bro, I got something important for you, so when you pull up from that joint, stop at a pay phone and give me a ring, okay? Make it as soon as possible, 'cause it's important, my man," Kenyatta stated, then hung up the receiver, not bothering to wait to see if he was understood.

  The person who didn't understand was the switchboard operator, who had kept his switchboard key open so that he could hear what was said. He was curious about the strange looking man who stayed in room 12. The man had moved like an animal. At first the operator had been frightened that the man might stick him up; then his curiosity had just got the best of him. The man in number 12 looked like a criminal to him, yet he hadn't done anything wrong. In fact, he paid his rent ahead of time and didn't bother him making silly phone calls all day long like some people.

  But the police had asked him to listen in on conversations by people who seemed suspicious. The last time they had raided a room at the motel, they had asked him to listen in on any calls by some of the occupants who rented the high-priced rooms. No black person living honestly could afford those rates anyway. At least not the daily rates. At one time the motel had been used by affluent dope pushers, until the police came through and cleaned it out. Now the police used the switchboard operator to listen in, mainly on the ones who drove the long, expensive Cadillacs. It made him mad to see them pull up in the driveway. He knew that he would never be able to buy one of the luxurious cars and resented the longhaired black men who bought them as if they were small compact cars. Half of the niggers didn't work. He could tell that after they had stayed for a week or two, flashing their huge bankrolls every time they paid their rent.

  There were two Cadillacs sitting in the driveway now, and one of the owners had two white girls with him, so the white operator knew that this was probably one of the many black pimps who came in and out. Now all he was waiting for was a chance to catch them with some white tricks in their room and he would call the vice squad immediately and bust their asses.

  As the man who was going under the name of Marcus Gregory walked out of his room, the operator was trying to decide if it was important enough to call his buddy down on the vice squad. The only thing he had to go on was the fact that the caller had asked him to go out and find a pay phone.

  He took a glance out the window just as the Creeper went by. One look at the ugly face on the man made up his mind for him. Any nigger who looked like that had to be up to something wrong. Why else would a woman first ask for him, then let a man take the phone, who then only ordered the ugly bastard to go out and find a pay phone? Yes, he reasoned, as he sat before his switchboard, something out of the ordinary was going on-he would be willing to bet his ass on it. The switchboard operator dialed police headquarters. He knew the number by heart.

  Kenyatta sat on the bed rubbing the leg of the beautiful woman who was next to him. Betty stretched out on the bed with her arms thrown back over her head. Maybe, just maybe, she wished silently. For some reason, she couldn't get enough of this man. Kenyatta was her very life.

  The telephone in their room rang shrilly. "Yeah," Kenyatta roared into the receiver. "Hang that mother- fuckin' receiver up downstairs; I got the phone upstairs here!"

  "Hey, baby boy, you at a pay phone now?" He wait ed for the reply, then continued. "Listen, brother, I got an important job for you, man. It's very important, and it's got to be taken care of immediately. Are you strapped down for business?"

  The Creeper patted the gun under his armpit as if the man he was talking to could see his action. "I'm ready and willin', bro," he answered sharply.

  "Good, then," Kenyatta replied quickly. "I want you to put a hit on this white sonofabitch Angelo. Angelo Benita will be the name he's under. The cat is staying at the Holiday Inn on Woodward in Highland Park. You know where the place is?" Again, Kenyatta waited for the Creeper's answer before continuing. "Now, dig this, bro," he said, making sure he never used the man's nickname because he sensed that the Creeper didn't like the name. "Okay, now dig this, boy. The fat honky is staying in room...." He hesitated and dug out a small piece of paper from his pocket. "In room 204-that's right, 204. Now, he should be loaded with bread, but if you ain't got the time after makin' the hit, fuck the bread. Don't even worry about it, 'cause you ain't going there after the money. I want this fat-ass bastard dead before the fuckin' night is over. And listen, bro, I got this hunch that the motherfucker is about to split."

  The Creeper asked a question and Kenyatta listened patiently before replying. "Yeah, you know him, bro; it's the same motherfucker we pick the guns up from. Yeah, well, the bastard has decided not to supply us with guns anymore, because of them hits you made on them bigshot honkies uptown. Yeah, it kind of got to Angelo so he's decided to freeze us out. That's right, bro, the honky don't want any more of our business, so I want his ass loaded up. Yeah, he's the one who sold us the motherfuckin' list; now he's gettin' an attitude because we're takin' care of business."

  Kenyatta listened t
o the Creeper's heavy voice coming back over the wires, then cut him off. "You got enough bread to hold you, haven't you?" he inquired, then added after the man answered, "Good, that's enough cash for you if something should happen. You know, enough so that you can get around until I can get some more bread to you, but there's also the chance that you might catch Angelo on full, but you had better hurry. Like I said, the peckerwood is gettin' ready to run. Yeah, I can smell it, plus the fact that I think he's going to try and sell us out to them dagos.

  "Yeah, they'd love to know who's been knockin' their buddies off, but we ain't goin' give the snitch time to sell us down the drain-not if we can reach him in time. Yeah, so baby, you had better get on the case. Each minute we stand here rappin' about it gives the motherfucker that much more time to slide out of the trap we're about to spring on his white ass."

  The telephone went dead in his ear and Kenyatta knew his instrument of death was on its way. If Angelo hadn't already run, he would not live to run tomorrow, because Creeper didn't miss. The man loved his work too much. The thought flashed through Kenyatta's mind about the children that the Creeper had knocked off, and he shrugged. It was something he hadn't foreseen. If he had, he would have given the man direct orders to leave the kids alone. They weren't old enough to hurt them, they couldn't identify him because of their age. So the man had killed them out of pleasure, and only pleasure. No one knew that better than Kenyatta.

  After setting the telephone back on the bed, he turned to the woman lying next to him. He took her in his arms and kissed her gently, until his desire became stronger and his embrace tighter. He clutched her to him, feeling her passion matching his. He could think only of what he held in his arms. He pushed the red gown off her shoulders revealing her young, hard nipples. He planted a kiss on each one, nibbling slowly and tenderly.