Black Gangster (12 page)

Both men laughed and left the station.

SHORTMAN PARKED IN front of a small, unpainted, two-family flat. "Donnie," he said to the husky, light-skinned man next to him, "can you reach that wrench on the backseat?"

The young man reached over and picked up the wrench. He climbed out of the car and met Shortman on the sidewalk. Both men were extremely well dressed. Earlier in the evening they had attended the meeting at the auditorium where Prince had been arrested; now they were worried about the consequences. Both men were known to the police as members of the Rulers.

"You know, Shortman," Donnie began, "it's kind of lucky Prince assigned us to this whiskey thing, man. We ain't up on none of that bullshit that been goin' down, so even if we do get picked up, ain't nothin' the man can hold us on."

They continued up the walk and onto the porch of the unpainted house. The screen door was latched, but they could see people sitting inside in the dark. The sound of loud music filled the air. From where they stood, they could see someone dancing in the living room.

Shortman knocked harder on the screen. "Come on, goddamn it," he yelled through the open doorway.

A girl who looked no older than a teenybopper came to the door. She stared out at Shortman and Donnie, then opened the door quickly.

"Hi there, Shortman. Earl, Earl, here's the big fellows, man," she yelled over her shoulder.

Someone cut on a light as the two men came in the room. The house was scantily furnished. There were two couches along the wall, while the dining room was empty except for a portable record player sitting on the floor. Beside it was a stack of 45 records and two empty album covers. Two young girls were dancing together, or rather practicing dance steps, in the dining room.

Earl came hurrying into the room. "Hey man, I didn't expect you. I been upstairs taking care of business." He was tall and thin and looked to be still in his teens. His voice was shrill.

Shortman nodded in his direction and continued towards the stairway, Donnie following closely. Earl and his partner waited until the two older men had passed, then fell in behind them. They went up the stairs single file. As soon as they reached the top, the first thing that hit them was the heat. Donnie blinked, dense smoke in his eyes. Both men continued until they reached the front room of the upstairs apartment. Sitting in the middle of the room was a whiskey still made out of two fifty-gallon barrels welded together. From the top of it a copper pipe ran across the room to the cooler. The specially made gas range under the cooker was blazing; fire leaped out and around it, climbing up halfway on the outside of the connected barrels.

Shortman coughed. "Goddamn thing puts out enough smoke to kill a motherfucker," he cursed and made his way towards one of the bedrooms. Donnie and the other two boys followed him closely.

Inside the bedroom, barrels were lined up against the walls all around the room. The drums each contained cracked corn mixed with wheat rye, plus fifty pounds of sugar.

Shortman stuck his finger down in one drum and sucked the stuff off the tip. "It's bitter. Maybe you better run this batch off tomorrow, Earl." He didn't wait for a reply. He walked out and entered the bedroom next to the first one. Again he tasted the fermenting enzyme. He removed a large paddle and dipped down into the barrel. He stirred the corn and rye and sugar up until he was sure it was well mixed.

"You been stirring this shit up regularly, Earl?" He tasted the juice again. "Damn, this bastard is still sweet. Stir them up one more time tomorrow, Earl, then leave them alone. You should be cookin' this batch off some time this weekend."

Donnie stepped over and tasted the stuff. "I like this shit just like it is," he said to an empty room, Shortman and the two boys having walked out. He followed them to the whiskey still and watched closely as Shortman took a small glass and tasted the harsh liquid as it came out of the cooler.

"Goddamn, this is some strong shit!" Shortman exclaimed, almost blowing smoke from his mouth.

"How many gallons you think you goin' run off tonight?" Donnie asked, watching his partner cough with amusement.

"I don't know." Earl hesitated. "Somewhere between fourteen or sixteen, I hope. This is the second run today, Donnie. Blue picked up fifteen gallons this afternoon, so I figure our output for today to be somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty."

"That ain't too bad," Donnie answered quietly. He removed his bankroll and peeled off six tens. "That should be enough money for you to take care of your young girls with." He held the money out towards Earl.

Earl sneered. "Don't no bitch get no money out of me."

Shortman laughed and led the way back downstairs. They sat around for a few minutes talking shit, then Shortman stood up. "I got to be running, Donnie," he said as soon as Donnie had finished dancing with one of the girls. "What you goin' do, man, stay here with that jailbait or pull up?"

"Huh, I don't see no jailbait," the teenybopper said from the dance floor. She pushed out her chest, trying to make her tits seem larger.

Shortman laughed and started for the door. "Tell me if it has any hair on it," he said and went out.

The young girl cursed. Donnie grinned and beckoned her with his finger. She came over and sat down in his lap. He put his hand under her short skirt and felt around.

"Is it hairy enough for you?" she asked, staring into his brownish-green eyes.

"Don't let the hair part worry you, honey," he replied slowly, pulling her down on the couch.

She stared up at him. "Donnie, do you know you got green eyes?" she asked huskily. She spread her legs slightly as he let himself down on her.

"In a few minutes, baby, you won't care what color they are," he said, then added, "Can you dig it?"

She smiled slightly in the dim room, then pressed her young, firm body against him. "You goin' make me your woman?" she asked naively.

Once outside, Shortman took his time about leaving. He started the car up and drove slowly away. For a minute he was tempted to go back and try out one of the teenyboppers. Young girls didn't have much fascination for him, though, so he changed his mind and went on. He decided to run by the Roost and see if there was some strange cunt hanging around. He pressed down on the gas pedal and started back across town for the west side.

Gazier and his partner passed the Roost again. It was deserted, so they continued on. The kids were getting leery of the place, so they stayed away in droves. Both officers had just about given up hope of finding one of the big fish when Shortman drove past.

"There goes one of the black bastards now," Gazier yelled. His partner made a sharp U-turn, running up and over the curb in his haste to catch the other car.

Shortman spotted the police car at the same time they saw him. He pressed down on the gas pedal as he saw them make their U-turn. His small Ford leaped away from the larger car for a minute, but he wasn't fooled. Shortman realized it was just a matter of time before the police car caught up with him. He searched the deserted street desperately for a place to park so he could run. Not finding a good place, he raced for the Roost. If he could make the front door, it would be a sanctuary.

"That bastard's looking for some place to jump out and run," the driver said harshly to his lieutenant.

Gazier laughed coldly. "I hope that black sonofabitch does run." He removed his pistol from his shoulder holster.

His partner, Fred, smiled. "You goin' pop the bastard?" he asked with unwarranted glee. Both men laughed as though there was something amusing about killing a black man.

Shortman watched the car in the mirror as it gained on him. He slammed on the brakes and pulled to the curb in front of the Roost. Before the car had completely come to a stop, he was out of it and running for the basement stairway, not knowing that one of the officers was already aiming his pistol at his back. He hadn't reached the steps when the first shot hit him. He felt a heavy blow between his shoulder blades and stumbled. Before he could regain his stride, another blow smashed into him and he fell to his knees. The sound of shots rang in his ears. He attempted to struggle to his feet, using the building in front of him for support. He turned to glare at his pursuers. As he feebly attempted to get to his feet, he realized that he was going to die.

Shortman stared at the approaching white men out of fading eyes. "You killed me," he murmured and fell over on his face.

Slowly the neighborhood came to life. Before the officers reached the body, people were starting to come towards the scene of the crime. In a matter of minutes, the street was packed with angry bystanders. Many of them had witnessed the murder from their doorsteps.

"All right, break this shit up. You ain't at no goddamn movie," Gazier barked at the crowd. He moved through the people as though herding cows. They slowly backed up at his approach. He made his way to the car and called in, reporting the incident as an act of a criminal trying to escape.

In less than five minutes, more police cars began to arrive on the scene. The police went to work dispersing the crowd. When a few people tried to explain that they were witnesses, the police ran them off.

One of the officers cursed at a stubborn woman. "We don't need no fuckin' nigger witnesses. We got two officers who saw everything that happened."

The crowd began to back up away from the police. There was an ugly murmur running through the group, but cool heads prevailed. In dingy cold-water flats, crowded apartments, well-furnished rooms, black people were busy. Already the news was spreading to every black area in the city. It was the hottest news in the ghetto. Another black man had been shot down by the police in cold blood. Black people everywhere gritted their teeth angrily at cruising police cars. Before the night would pass, six different police cars would be fired on by infuriated black men who had never even heard of Shortman.

As soon as the news reached them, Preacher and Roman got busy. Roman moved with the experience of a professional executive. He got on the phone and stayed there for an hour, ordering his gang members to get off the streets.

Preacher, on the other hand, moved with the anger of an aroused militant. His gang moved into the streets, burning and looting with a passion. Before the night ended, ten members of his personal organization were arrested.

When the news reached Ruby in front of the police station, she quickly got in touch with Dot and Blanca. They discussed the matter for a few minutes, then moved through the crowd preaching calmness and fortitude. They began slowly to send people home, breaking up the crowd of pickets.

Inside the police station, Morales paced up and down angrily. "That's just about all we needed," he muttered. "They couldn't have picked a better time to kill someone. Here we are being picketed by over a hundred people, and those ignorant bastards go out and kill one of the fuckin' leaders of the crowd."

"Hey, Lieutenant," one of the officers called from the window. "Looks like they're breaking up out there."

Morales glanced out the window. "Well, I don't know why, but I'm sure in the hell glad to see them go home."

"You think maybe they haven't heard the news yet, Lieutenant?" a young officer asked politely.

"No, no, that wouldn't be the reason. I'd be willing to bet they know about the shooting. That kind of thing has a way of traveling through the black communities like wildfire. Whoever's in command out there must be trying to keep down trouble. I'm glad they have some kind of common sense."

Watching the crowd break up in silence, he noticed Prince's lawyer talking to Ruby and idly wondered what they were talking about. The lawyer was probably telling her not to worry. There was no doubt in anyone's mind about whether or not they could hold Prince. As soon as the courts opened in the morning, they would have to release him. That trumped-up murder charge they had pulled him in on would never stand up in front of a judge. But it gave them a chance to put the pressure on Prince's ass.

Lieutenant Gazier and Fred came through the back of the station and stopped at the desk. Both men were grinning. The other white officers standing around the station patted them on the back as though they were heroes, cracking jokes with them. Two colored policemen turned away, shamefaced, and pretended they didn't hear what was going on.

Morales walked up to his partner. "What happened out there, Gazier? We heard about it over the radio but nothing really concrete on the shoot-out."

Gazier stared at his partner for a minute. "Me and Fred was just cruising around, you know, when we got this call about some black male stickin' up a grocery store and escaping in a dark-colored Ford. Well, about this time this guy speeds past us, so we took it for granted that this was the holdup man. When we turned around, the bastard speeded up. We didn't know who was in the car, but when he stopped in front of that clubhouse, I had an idea he was one of the members. You know them bastards are capable of doing anything. Well anyway, when the guy jumps out and starts to run, I yelled halt, but he didn't slow down one bit, so I shot over his head the first time. Then when he didn't slow down, I let him have it."