A Hood Legend (21 page)

“Bullet wounds ... how many times were you hit?”

He shrugged his shoulders, wishing she would shut up and finish.

“Well, my name is Lisa.” She waited for him to say his name. “And yours?”

“Menage,” he said looking at the ceiling. Lisa stopped rubbing the wounds, but her hands lay flat on his upper chest.

“Something wrong?”

“No ... uh ... the name is just ... one of a kind. It's like menage ... you know that sex thang ...” she said, but stopped short when she saw that he didn't crack a smile. She knew this couldn't be the same Menage her cousin was stressed out about. He was in a coma. But Benita said he drove an Escalade—check ... had platinum teeth—check ... and said that he was fine as hell—double check! If Benita weren't her cousin she'd run her hand down his firm stomach, follow his happy trail and see what he was packing between his legs. Hell, DJ was out cold.

Menage snapped her out of her sexual vision. “Are you 'bout finished?”

Lisa looked into his eyes and smiled. “Yes, but I'll leave you a few packs to put on yourself when it gets dry again,” she said standing up and wiping her hands on a towel that she'd brought in with her.

“No doubt, thanks,” he said getting up and following her to the door. She turned and hesitated.

“I guess I'll see you in the morning.” Menage didn't reply. Lisa was telling him on the sly that if he wanted her to come back into his room she would ... there was just something about his eyes. He shot her down when the door gently closed in her face.

Now back with DJ, she took off her uniform and got into bed. He was still asleep.
So the hero's alive and well,
she thought to herself. She knew Benita would flip out once she told her about running into Menage. She sensed that he was in a foul mood and thought that maybe in the morning she'd tell him she and Benita were cousins.
It's odd though. Circles within circles—DJ, Dwight, Tina, Menage ... oh, well ...
Lisa's thoughts eased as she curled up next to DJ and called it a night.

Sometime during the night, Menage left and went to stay on his speedboat that was tied up at Bayside. He buried his face into the pillow, murmuring Chandra's name as he cried himself to sleep. He was finally learning the true meaning of love.

* * *

Detective Covington was home in bed with his wife. There hadn't been any calls or leads about Chandra. Detective Hamilton was asleep in the guestroom. For some reason, they both knew that they'd need all the rest they could get.

 

Menage sat in the cockpit of his speedboat watching the sunrise as Vapor was curled up asleep at his feet. He had just gotten off the phone with Felix. There was still no news about Chandra and he didn't feel that there was anything good about that. He still felt helpless, but there was nothing he could do but wait. He tried to think of who would hold so much hate for him to try to kill him twice and then take his girl. DJ crossed his mind. He did blow up quick; maybe the chop shop had a good week or something.

On his way from DJ's apartment he had called Dough-Low and left a message on his voice mail. They were to meet at three, but until then he needed to be alone to think. He ran his tongue over his six platinum teeth and stared at the sun from behind his tinted Gucci shades. Spring break was already jumping off. Out on the pier, mostly white girls in skimpy bikini tops and thongs walked back and forth or rode by flashing their tits on crowded boats and jet skis. Vapor woke up just as two college girls walked up to Menage's speedboat. They were astonished by its size and appearance and he could see that they were shocked to see him—a black man—sitting in the cockpit. Vapor ran to the stern, barking and growling viciously at them. They quickly headed in another direction. Menage took off his shades, squinting his eyes from the glare of the sun. It was going to be another hot day with a high of ninety-four.

* * *

Dwight lay wide-awake in bed with Tina. Last night was hell. He had told Tina he had a headache because Menage was on his mind, but it was really the guilt he felt inside because of what happened between he and Latosha. Tina had cooked a chateaubriand, double thick beef tenderloin steak for him, but he hardly touched it. She sensed a funny vibe and started to fuss with him about how he needed to get over Menage and get on with his own life. At one point he was going to tell her what he'd done, hoping their love was strong enough for her to understand. They ended up having very intense sex and when it was over, Tina had a big smile on her face and told him he needed to come home that way more often. She didn't realize that her comment made him feel as if she wasn't happy with his sexual performance in the past. But he didn't know how to question her; he was the unfaithful one.

“Shit,” Dwight said under his breath so as not to wake Tina. He thought of how he had sex with Latosha without using protection. He thought that maybe she was on the pill ... he sure as hell hoped so. As he continued to think of Latosha, he was shocked to feel the blood starting to pump between his legs. He had to get her out of his mind but whenever he closed his eyes, he pictured her with her legs cocked open and wet dripping sex. His penis grew. He slowly got out of bed and went to the bathroom. Throwing cold water on his face, he smiled and wondered what Menage would say if he was around. He had his head down with both hands on the marble sink when Tina wrapped her arms around his waist. She licked his back as her hands slid down into his boxers. He was semi-hard, but her soft fingers quickly brought him to fullness.

“Mmm ... early bird gets the worm, huh?” she said stroking him. He let out a deep breath and closed his eyes as her thumb rubbed pre-cum over the swollen head of his penis. He tried to turn around but she stopped him and continued to please him with her hand.

“Listen, baby,” she said stroking him, “I'm sorry about snapping at you last night, okay?” She went on licking his back and smiled, knowing she was driving him wild. Dwight went to turn around again and Tina let him this time. He began rubbing her thighs and she was pleased by what stood up between her legs.

“It's okay ... let's take the day off ... just you and me,” he said. Tina took off her teddy and smiled. Pulling down his boxers, she dropped to her knees and put his stiff penis into her mouth. Dwight braced himself against the sink as Tina's tongue twirled around his shaft. She wrapped her arms around his waist and took him deeper, causing him to moan out her name.

“Ahhhh ... I love you so fucking much, Tina!”

* * *

“How the hell can we do two cases at one time!” Hamilton exclaimed sitting across from Covington's desk.

“Listen, Ham, the chief said so and I tried to get us out of it ... I couldn't,” he lied. “But four—no—five people slain at a stoplight in broad daylight—plus a kidnapping ... we'll have to split up. You stay on the shooting at Menage's house and I'll see what's up with this ... whatever the hell it is,” Covington said. He was happy that the chief allowed him to take the case; now he didn't have to worry about anyone else snooping in his uncle's affairs. He also wanted to make sure that Menage's case didn't go unsolved. Menage wanted his girl back, but maybe whoever tried to kill him had nabbed her. However, the bodyguard had said they were going for Felix's girl and it was a mix-up—a big fucking mix-up, so maybe it was no tie to the hit on Menage.

“So what leads do I have to follow up on of any real substance? I mean, all we got is DJ sleeping with all those women. By the way, did you check to see if the girl in the picture was Dwight's girl?”

“Nah, not yet,” Covington lied.

“Why the hell not, Covington? Geesh!”

Covington tapped out a Newport and lit it. “The way I see it, it's a waste of time. Just go back to Menage's place and check it out again; maybe we missed a clue or something.”

Hamilton cursed and lightly hit his desk with a balled fist. “Now we're going in circles.”

“Calm down, man. We can't and won't solve 'em all, so don't sweat it. And that means don't let it bother you,” Covington said laughing.

“Ha, ha, very funny,” Hamilton said. “So what's with the stoplight thing yesterday—got any leads or anything?”

Covington leaned back in his chair and blew out a ring of smoke. “Ever heard of Felix Marchetti?”

Hamilton's mouth dropped open. “You mean Marchetti as in the Marchetti crime family in New York and over in Spain?”

“Uh, huh.”

“I heard bits and pieces about the family. But what do they or Felix have to do with the kidnapping? Please man, don't tell me this is the Mafia ...”

“No, he didn't do it, but apparently a girl was taken. We don't know who that girl is; no one's talking to the police, as you might guess. But the limo belongs to Felix Marchetti and he hasn't given a statement. We really can't put pressure on him anyway because he wasn't there.”

“Criminal against criminal—saves us some time, huh? But good luck. Now back to Menage. After I check his place, then what?”

“Check with the lab and make sure they have all the prints ... shit, it's spring break; go down to the beach and relax ... get laid or something.”

“You can be a smart ass sometimes, Covington, but I just might consider that,” Hamilton said smiling.

“Well, Hammy,” Covington said standing up, “I'll call you later and if you come up with anything, call me first or hit me on my two-way ... I swear I'ma make you the hippest white boy at this station.” Covington left the office and Hamilton wasn't far behind. Another day's work was about to begin.

 

 

 

“So have you located Scorpion yet? asked Troublefield.

“Well,” Agent Lofton said, “I made the call like I said before, but he went ballistic and the line went dead.”

“I can recall that!” Troublefield stated firmly.

“We traced the call to a hotel room in Homestead, Florida, but when we got there he was gone and—”

“Did you send the FBI or local police?” Troublefield said cutting him off.

“I informed the FBI down in the area to check the hotel.” Seeing that Troublefield was pleased, Lofton continued. “Of course he was gone, but the room was rigged with C-4 and I lost two men, Joe. The Deputy Assistant Director of the FBI wasn't very happy about it. He's going to the Joint Chief of Staff and ask why you used us like this.”

Troublefield quickly sat up in his chair and scanned his office before refocusing his attention back on Lofton. “Lofton, I'll come clean with you. Scorpion's real name is Eugene O'Shea. He's a twenty-nine-year-old highly trained British Special Air Service Commando, but he's been working Black OPs for the CIA in the field. He's an expert in small arms, hand-to-hand combat, and a member of a secret counter terrorist team.”

Lofton slumped back in his seat. “Why did you hold this vital information from me? If I knew he was like that, I would have had my men warned. But since you and the CIA want to play Double-oh seven, two of my men are dead!”

“Now that's uncalled for.”

“No, the hell it isn't!” Lofton yelled leaning forward in his seat. “You go tell those two men's wives and kids that it's uncalled for! This whole set-up is bullshit and you know it. If the Director of the FBI pushes for a full investigation, I swear we'll get to the bottom of this.”

Troublefield glared at Lofton.

“We're on the same team, Lofton. Scorpion is the cause of our troubles, so let's not lose focus. He's a master of deep cover and that's not the only problem; he's unstable.

“Unstable how, Joe?”

“He has Dementia Praecox.”

“Dementia what! What the hell is that?”

Troublefield removed his glasses and took a sip of water. “Dementia Praecox—premature dementia. He has deterioration of his intellectual faculties and emotional disturbance ... or simply put, a brain disorder. We have a highly trained government psychotic nut on our hands and I think he may have blown his last fuse. Lofton, by order of the Joint Chief of Staff, we, the Central Intelligence Agency, have been given the go-ahead to terminate Scorpion as soon as possible.”

Lofton nodded. “Well, we'll need all the help we can get. I don't know his cover; that's the way he set it up. I guess he knew all along he was going to double cross us, but for what?”

“He's crazy.”

“Well, why in the hell did you recruit him and then set him up with the FBI for God's sake, Joe?”

“I'm sorry,” Troublefield said rubbing his temples. “My guess is that he may be after Mr. Marchetti. Why, I don't know. But we have to find him.”

“So what do you suggest?” Lofton asked.

“Call your director and have the FBI Hostage Rescue Team head to Florida. I'll also send a CIA field agent. We can cover Mr. Marchetti in the shadows and wait for Scorpion to bite. And when he does, we'll crush him.”

“Does your agency have any up-to-date pictures of him?”

“Yes, but they're no good because he had plastic surgery since then. He was once followed by our friends of the KGB. Maybe they have a more recent picture, but I doubt they'll let us see it; they'll want to know why we want it ... and how in the hell we're even aware that they were following him.”

“Wonderful!” Lofton said.

“He's smart, but he can only control his mind and actions up to a certain point, so we must act fast before the body count gets bigger.” Troublefield opened his desk and handed a thick file with Top Secret stamped on it to Lofton. “Here's his file. You can fax it down to Florida. If we can, we'll take him alive.”

“Alive? Troublefield, I'm about to send the HRT out of Quantico on a manhunt and we don't have a positive I.D. It's a mess in the making and I don't like it.” Lofton left Troublefield's office, flipped open his phone and called the Director of the FBI. He had to get the ball rolling to put the Hostage Rescue Team on standby.

* * *

Detective Hamilton knew that he was wasting his time as he walked through Menage's living room. To him everything looked the same—just as he and Covington had left it. Taking off his sport jacket and putting on a pair of latex gloves, he began his second search. First he made sure that all the bullet holes in the wall were empty by poking each one with a thin metal prong. He doubted he'd find anything, because the department had scanned the walls with a high-tech x-ray machine that could look through objects and detect metal or steel. Dried blood was still visible in parts of the mansion. He walked toward the bedroom and stopped at the open door. He couldn't recall whether or not it was open or closed before. Using his shoulder, he pushed the door further open and stepped into the bedroom. It was huge and Hamilton wondered why a man would need so much room just to sleep and have sex. He was about to step out, but he glanced across the bedroom and noticed that the door under the sink was open in the bathroom. He had searched the bathroom before and remembered finding a box of extra large rubbers. He didn't even know that they came in different sizes. Squatting down, he looked under the sink.

“What the hell ...” he said when he saw the far wall slid back. He pulled out his small penlight and aimed it at a little empty box. He knew what he was looking at and what was missing. He was aware that the place had a surveillance system, but neither he nor Covington could find the tapes—if anything at all was recorded. He knew someone had come and taken the tape and finding who and why just might bust the case wide open.

Sitting back outside in his SUV, he tapped the steering wheel. He went over his notes in a hurry, hoping he'd made a note about the bathroom sink—nothing. He grabbed his camera and rushed back toward the house. He slipped and nearly dropped the camera, and that's when he noticed fresh tire marks by the driveway. He flipped through the pictures he took on the day of the shooting and didn't notice the marks in any of the photos. This was proof beyond a doubt that someone had paid a visit to the house since then. After taking a few pictures of the tire marks, he called the station and told them to have a forensic unit come over and lift for prints. He figured that the person whose prints showed up on the device under the sink could answer a hell of a lot of questions for him—particularly about the tape and its contents. He also spoke to the lab techs and instructed them to call no one else but him as soon as possible if any prints were found. Covington put him in charge and he wanted to prove that he was no rookie.