Dead End Fix (13 page)

“I'm here consulting with Lincoln, ma'am. Things got loud. I apologize.”

Gigi looked skeptical. “Consult about what?”

“Grant's a homicide detective,” Lincoln explained. “He's got some theories about Banjo Jackson's murder.”

Gigi Vinings's face softened. Mort saw a sadness fill her eyes that immediately erased the fearsome presence she had projected seconds earlier. She rested her right hand on her ample bosom.

“Banjo.” Gigi's voice was choked with grief. “I loved that boy. He came by here nearly every day. He'd sit with the children. Read to them. Play board games with them. Share a snack.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and caught the tear rolling down her cheek. “You know who his brother is.”

“I do, ma'am.”

“Banjo was the opposite. Don't get me wrong. That boy worshipped his brother.” She tucked her tissue back in her pocket and resumed her imperious stance. “But Banjo was different, Detective Grant. Remember that. And while I'm impressed Banjo's murder is being taken seriously enough that the chief of detectives has been assigned, also remember you're on my turf.” She fixed her steely gaze on the three men standing in front of her. “And unless you're cheering for one of our teams, there is no yelling here.”

Gigi Vinings turned and left the gym.

“That is one impressive woman,” Mort said when Gigi had disappeared.

Lincoln Lane nodded in agreement. “I always feel the need to check my shorts whenever she leaves a room. Make sure she left me with my balls.” He took a loud breath. “Listen, Mort. If I thought there was a chance in hell to make some headway on this Banjo thing, I'd be right behind you. Don't make this whole city sorry. Let this one go cold.”

Bayonne Jackson walked past the eight pool tables that were the secondary attraction of the Sixteenth Street Pool House. The primary draw ran the length of the front half of the century-old brick building: a bar supported by a row of wooden rice barrels. Legend had it the barrels were used during Prohibition to smuggle in whiskey and rye from Canada. Bayonne didn't consider himself a scholarly man, but he knew enough to wonder why anyone would believe rice was being imported from Canada. People believe what they want to, he figured. Just like all the white folks shooting pool on an afternoon when they ought to be working in their little cubicles…designing video games or apps to track the activities of their stay-at-home dogs or whatever the hell it was white people did to earn money. Bayonne figured those fools could tell themselves they were down with the struggle because they hung out in this type of place on this side of town. They could bump fists with the black folk behind the bar, slip an extra fifty onto the tip line of their credit card slip in exchange for a plastic envelope filled with blow, and feel like they knew the real gritty. He felt the fear behind the hipster poses of the Brads and the Autumns as he strutted past, but he knew they appreciated his presence. While the Garretts and the Amandas were quick to complain if the restroom toilet paper ran low, they damn near collapsed from the thrill they got watching a genuine gangster stroll though.

Someday I'ma stop. Right in the middle of the pool hall. I'ma turn real slow, pick out one of 'em, and stare. Watch 'em run on out of here like ticks off a wet dog. Get this place back to what it was.

But Spice had two rules about the Sixteenth. Only come when it was an emergency, and never, ever break stride. Don't bother the paying customers. Leave the white folk alone.

Bayonne focused his eyes straight ahead and walked through the door to the back room. The one marked
PRIVATE
.

Stupid white folk. Put a
KEEP OUT
sign on the door and that's all you need for security. Could be all the free candy in the world sitting right on the other side. But them folks gonna stay away because the sign told 'em to.

He entered a twelve-by-twelve room. Sweet Jimmy, Hawk, and the Ref were playing poker. Looked like Hawk was winning, from the stack of bills in front of him. From the sound of his grumbling, Bayonne figured most of those dollars had come from the Ref's pocket. Both men greeted Bayonne. Sweet Jimmy just nodded, too lost in whatever was playing over his headset to be bothered with talking. Automatic rifles rested against the wall behind them. Bayonne knew each man would also have at least two additional weapons on his person.

“He busy right now?” Bayonne asked Hawk.

“Had somebody in a while ago. He alone now, though. Gotta say we wasn't expectin' you, man. Figured you'd be takin' care of yours for a few days. Your daddy get our flowers?”

“Yeah, man. Meant a lot. So did the envelope. You all didn't need to do nothin' like that. I'm takin' care. Still, I appreciate it.”

The Ref stopped complaining about Hawk's luck long enough to offer his condolences. “We all loved Banjo, you know that. We gonna find the sumbitch did this. Spice put out the word soon as he heard. I'm figuring it was one of those Puerto Rican motherfuckers. They always doin' bad.”

Sweet Jimmy pulled his headset down around his neck. “Could be them new guys startin' their shit over by Renton. White-power pricks, tryin' to rile something up. Make a name. Spice say we gotta be sure. But once we know, whoever took out Banjo gonna get got, Spice says.”

Bayonne knew the power of Pico payback. And he was eager to get started.

“Get back to the game,” he said. “I'ma go see the man.”

The three of them lifted cans of root beer in salute. Spice didn't allow alcohol while Picos were on the job.

Bayonne knocked twice before opening the door leading to another room.

“Three Pop!” Antwan Nevers, aka Spice, rose to his feet behind a desk fashioned from two sawhorses and a door. “Why you here? You should be with yours.” The head of the Pico Underground, thirty years old, six foot two, 190 pounds, stepped toward him with open arms. Spice wore his dreadlocks long, always tied with a ribbon. Red. The Picos' color.

Bayonne welcomed Spice's embrace. Bayonne was only eight years younger than his leader, but he loved him more than he loved his own father. Spice was the master of his world. Vester Jackson was a servant in his. Unable to keep his own wife and son alive. Trotting off to work every morning. Driving his fish truck. Acting like the five hundred dollars he brought home on Friday was worth the effort.

Bayonne made three times that every day doing nothing more than standing by Spice's side.

Spice released him. Asked him if he wanted a drink. Bayonne shook his head, walked to his leader's desk, and dropped the bag he carried on it.

“What's this, now?” Spice asked.

“Went to the police today. Detective wanted to talk to me about Banjo.”

“We'll take care of it. Won't need no cops.”

Bayonne nodded. “He sees I'm not tellin' him shit and calls it a day. Gives me Banjo's possessions. What he had with him when he died.”

Spice pointed toward the bag. “That them?”

Bayonne reached inside, letting his hand linger on the first item. “I still expect that boy to come runnin' after me. Beggin' for some time on the court.” He shook his head. “I promised some piece I'd take her for seafood that night. She wanted to go somewhere nice.”

“You talkin' about Rodisha, right? Yeah, I know her. Fine piece of horseflesh.”

Bayonne bristled at the thought of his leader knowing the details of his private life, but somehow Spice knew everything there was to know about each member of his crew.

“I pick her up all dressed in a suit. Ladies like that.”

“They do, indeed. You take 'em to a place they can show off their clothes to the other ladies and you're gonna get laid the best way you
ever
got laid. What's this got to do with Banjo, now?”

“Brother wanted help with his fadeaway. I told him I couldn't make it. Told him I'd take him to the park the next day, work him long as he like.” Bayonne paused until his grief wouldn't color his voice. “But we talkin' Banjo. That brother want somethin', ain't nothin' gonna get in his way. Tells me he'll work around the date. It's gotta be right now. So I take my suit to his house. We head down to the court and I work that boy till he got a fade make Stephen Curry come take lessons.”

“That boy was a natural. Everybody said so.”

Bayonne swallowed hard. “When we done, I take a shower at his place. Dad was still at work. Leavin' Banjo alone like he always do.” He took several long moments before he spoke again. “You shoulda heard Banjo when I come downstairs. Hootin' and whistlin' like I was some kind of movie star.”

He was quiet again. And grateful Spice didn't push him.

“I told him I be back for my stuff next day. We'd practice that fadeaway some more. Brother give me a hug before I leave. Tells me he love me and thanks me for takin' time. That's all he ever wanted. Time.”

“And you gave it to him, Three Pop. Ain't a Pico out there don't know how much you love your brother.”

Bayonne reached into his bag. “I left my jacket at his house. Banjo wore it. Probably wanted to show off for me when we met up later at the park. Or maybe he wanted to play big. Maybe he wanted to impress some folks wearing the Pico colors. Hell, I don't know. I just know the police said Banjo had it on when he was shot. Wanted to get it back to me.” He held the jacket by the collar. “Only one thing missing.”

Spice grabbed the jacket. “Your patch.
That damn motherfucker cut off your patch!
This wasn't a hit against Banjo. This was somebody looking for
you
! Son of a bitch!”

“Could be he was thinkin' any Pico would do.”

“I don't give a fuck what was goin' through his mind. Fucker killed Banjo. We're gonna find him, Three Pop. We gonna find that motherfucker thought he could earn his stripes takin' out a Pico. Then he's gonna die. Real slow. And I'ma let you do it.” Spice reached to touch the outlined tear on Bayonne's cheek. “We're gonna fill that one in, Three Pop. Fast as we can.”

“We gonna start today.” Bayonne reached into the bag again. “Boys out front think it's the Ricans or those Aryan Nation fools down by Renton.”

“Could be.” Spice looked skeptical. “You see either those groups with the balls to walk into our zone?”

“I do not. The Puerto Ricans got nothin' but popguns and them white boys more interested in dressin' up and makin' parades than gettin' involved with any heavy shit. I got me a thought, though.”

“Whazzat?”

“I keep my eye on things. You know that. Long before Banjo got hit.”

“That's part of being number two. You keep me informed on what's in the street. You good at it, too.”

Bayonne wasn't interested in compliments. “Short bit ago I hear tell 'bout the 97s takin' on new blood. Big doin's down at the clubhouse. New guy bein' trained on the corner. I drive by a few times to get a look at him. Not much to see.”

“No 97 is.”

“I put it out of my mind. Got enough to deal with, Banjo bein' dead. Then Mr. Detective Man give me my jacket. My colors missin'. I start piecin' things together.”

Spice looked at the item. His jaw locked.

Spice laid a hand on Bayonne's shoulder. “Easy, now. This is big, what we're about to do. It gotta be right. I gotta know for sure.”

“What more you got to know after hearin' Banjo got hit wearin' my colors? Them colors get cut off and next thing we know there's a new 97 working the corner. What more you need me to tell you?”

“Take a time, now. Let's think this thing through. We gotta be right.” Spice rubbed his chin. “This kicks my mind back to the split. That was long ago. A fucked-up group of Picos didn't think they were getting paid enough. More money. More territory. Didn't matter what. All they wanted was more.”

“Can't say there's no feelin' like that in the Picos now'days, either.”

Spice glared at him. “Ain't no similarities between now and then. Now'days competition tough. A body got to eat or be eaten. Wasn't like that then.”

“Picos are more than money, Spice. That's all I'm sayin'.”

“I know. You'da fit right in with them old-school Picos. Back in the day, powers that be knew there had to be a peaceable way of doin' things. Keep it steady. Like we do here at the Sixteenth. Them white folk out there are worth twenty times what they give us. We could pull our guns and have it all. Right now. Today. But that's playing a short game. Takin' too much brings the cops. Picos are smart. Know to find that sweet spot. Keep the customers happy so they don't complain. Keep the money comin' in steady. But those rebel Picos, back in the day, they didn't see things that way. It was all about hittin' the big pay. There was turmoil in the family. A group dancin' to greed broke off and declared war on their own. Called themselves the 97s.”

Spice was quiet again, looking like a man who was running his options but always coming up with the same conclusion.

“This is 97 shit, Spice. Can't be nothin' other.”

Spice fixed Bayonne with a steady gaze. “You ready for this?”

Bayonne thought of his little brother. Walking home in the middle of the day. Showing off his pride in his older brother.

Bleeding in the street. Dying all alone.

“I am.”

Spice pulled a box off the shelf. “Sit.”

Bayonne pulled a chair to the side of his leader's desk.

Spice rifled through the box and pulled out a bottle of red polish. He sat and slowly painted the nail of his trigger finger, glancing up after every stroke to make sure Bayonne was watching. When he was finished he blew on it, waiting for the enamel to harden.

“Give me yours.”

Bayonne laid his trigger finger on the desk. He felt the power of generations of Picos surge into him each time Spice drew the brush across the nail. When Spice lowered his head to blow it dry, Bayonne felt his leader's determination transfer to his very soul. Then Spice stood and every muscle in Bayonne's body ached for vengeance.

Spice walked over and opened the door to his private office. The poker game stopped immediately. The three men scrambled to their feet. Sweet Jimmy pulled off his headset.

“I want the three of you,” Spice told them. “Get Bomber and Low Down, too.”

“What are we doin', Spice?” Hawk asked.

“We going to war.” Spice pointed to the automatic rifles against the wall. “You tell me what you need and I'ma get it to you. First man to bring me a 97 gets twenty large.”

The three men reached for their weapons.

“Make sure you tag them sumbitches.” Spice reached up and pulled off the long red ribbon tying his hair at the nape of his neck. “Use this. Wrap my colors around every dead fuckin' 97 you can find. We doin' this for Banjo.”