Dead End Fix (17 page)

“An eye for an eye, you mean.”

Gigi considered her response so long Mort wondered what she was holding back.

“Lincoln Lane tells me I'm to blame for the war,” Mort said. “Says if I'd stayed out of things, the gangs would have handled Benji's killer all on their own.”

Finally Gigi answered. “I suppose he's right.”

“But don't we owe our kids better? Is tribal justice really what we're looking for here?”

Once again Gigi didn't reply.

“He also tells me I need to back off. Let the Picos and the 97s kill one another off.”

The mood on Gigi's face shifted. A hardness came to her eyes. Her lips tightened. She leaned forward. “Maybe there are times sin serves a greater good.”

Kashawn Meadows was nervous. More than nervous. He was scared. Actually, he knew there had to be a better word.

I could ask LaTonya,
he thought as he stood on his corner.
I'm bettin' she knows least ten words for how I'm feelin'.

It had been nearly a week since D'Loco had declared war on the Picos after Six Pack, Clash, and D'Andre were gunned down. The 97s had struck back hard. D'Loco was staying at the clubhouse these days, and Kashawn was part of his war council. He was up to date on what was happening out on the streets. Six Picos were dead. D'Loco had been especially happy two nights ago when Mouse and Turk came back with news they'd taken out the Pico who ran a twelve-block area down by the docks.

Yes, sir. Those two made D'Loco smile that day. They got themselves a big reward. You can bet on that for sure.

But Kashawn knew that if the 97s could hit one of the Picos while he was running his corner, the Picos could do the same to him. Still, he was determined to keep his business running. Kashawn had been a 97 just over a month, and he wanted to keep showing D'Loco he could produce. He might be just learning about running a war, but he knew damn straight what to do on his corner: take the customers' money and bring it back to the family.

Business wasn't as good as it had been a week ago. Word traveled fast on these streets. Folks around here knew Picos and 97s were taking each other out. The customers using his product for a good-time high had stopped coming. Only the folks who needed what he was selling to draw their next breath took the risk. The troubles kept Jay Jay and the twins away too. Kashawn was a one-man show now. Customers gave him the money and he handed them the goods himself.

Any squad drivin' by could see what I'm doin'. Cop put his hands in my pockets, I'ma go away for a long time.

The Picos and the police weren't the only reasons Kashawn was on such high alert that drizzly November afternoon. His customers, strung out as they were, knew he was working the street alone. Any desperate addict could decide the time was right to stick a knife in his ribs. Take his money and his goods.

D'Loco knew it too. He had increased his patrols, rolling up about five times a day. Brothers would drive by too. Checking to make sure he was all right. But there were only so many 97s. And with D'Loco dispatching teams to take out the Picos, Kashawn had to protect himself. He kept his eyes moving, scanning the traffic all around him.

And he kept his right hand in his pocket, resting on his gun.

One of his regulars made her way toward him now, pushing a dented stroller carrying a baby who was always awake but never moved. Kashawn knew her order. Same thing every day. Two rocks of crack. Despite her daily visits, the customer had spoken to him only once. It had been Kashawn's second day running the turf on his own, after Turk declared him ready. She asked if she could give him a blow job in exchange for her candy. Right there. In broad daylight, with her kid lying in that sorry push buggy. When Kashawn turned her down, she just shrugged her skinny shoulders, handed him a few crumpled bills, and walked toward Twin Two. She'd not uttered a single word to him since.

Kashawn pulled his hand off his gun and reached into the inside pocket of his Seahawks jacket. He had a system now that the runners were gone. Gun in the right side pocket. Bags of weed in the left. Crack he kept tucked inside. He didn't have enough pockets for the pills. They were off the inventory list until the twins came back.

He held out the rocks when the woman reached him.

“I'ma take six today.”

Kashawn's eyes widened. She shoved a hand toward him. The bills she gave him were crisp. Kashawn took the money and reached into his pocket for four additional rocks.

“You got extra money, maybe you best spend some on your baby.”

The woman glanced down into the stroller. She grabbed her product, bent down, and pulled an envelope from under the baby's worn blanket. She tucked her six rocks of crack cocaine next to her child and pulled the blanket over everything.

“I'm s'posed to give you this.” She handed him the envelope. “You s'posed to read it and then I point.”

Kashawn scanned the streets. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Traffic moved at a steady clip, heavier on the road he faced than on the two side streets. Folks on the sidewalk covered their heads against the rain as best they could. He looked at the woman again. She stared into middle space and swayed in a way that made Kashawn wonder if she was dizzy or hearing music no one else could. He opened the envelope, pulled out the one sheet of paper, and read it.

BANG! BANG! YOU'RE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER!

Below was a phone number Kashawn didn't recognize.

Kashawn's breath caught. His heart pounded as he spun completely around, checking his environment. He pulled out his gun, trying to steady it in his shaking hand.

“Who gave you this?” he shouted at the woman.

“I'm s'posed to point now.” The woman's expression and voice were unchanged. “Watch.”

She pointed to the northwest corner. When she did, a car screeched from the curb and sped away, narrowly avoiding a collision with the flowing traffic. Then she pointed to the side street on Kashawn's right, and another car pulled out from its parking spot and raced away. Finally she pointed to the abandoned parking lot, where the twins used to play basketball while they waited for his signals. At first he saw nothing. But a heartbeat later a motorcycle vroomed across the cracked asphalt and disappeared into traffic. The driver was dressed entirely in black, with the exception of his helmet.

That was red.

Kashawn's knees threatened to give way. The cars had been no more than fifty feet from where he stood, the motorcycle even closer. The Picos had targeted him.

And there were three of them! Why am I still standing?

He turned back toward the woman, but she was already halfway down the block, pushing her stroller as quickly as thin legs and broken sidewalks would allow.

He put his gun back in his pocket, scanned the area, and wondered what to do next. His question was answered when a black Escalade roared toward him. The car came across the same parking lot the motorcycle had left not two minutes before. Kashawn recognized the vehicle and ran toward it. J-Fox had the car stopped and the rear door open when he got there. Kashawn threw himself into the backseat, crashing into Everclear, whose stony face revealed none of the terror Kashawn felt.

“Picos were here!” Kashawn blurted as J-Fox raced away.

“We know.” J-Fox kept his eyes forward as he sped through the streets. “They hit Blue Man about an hour ago.”

“He dead?” Kashawn wondered why he was still alive.

“Four bullets to the head and neck, you tell me. D'Loco gets the news no sooner than Big Cheeks come running into the clubhouse. Got hisself a letter. Hand-delivered by one of his customers.”

“Same thing just happened to me!” Kashawn braced himself as J-Fox made a hard right turn that would take them back to the clubhouse. He turned to Everclear. “You get one?”

Everclear shook his head. “I got no such thing. I'm on my corner, takin' care, when J-Fox pulls up barkin' orders.”

“D'Loco wants every brother off the streets. Picos are plannin' something. Just sit tight. D'Loco know what to do.”

They were less than six blocks from the clubhouse. Kashawn used the time to force his fingers to stop trembling.

“Three brothers got the same letter.” D'Loco stood in front of the 97s gathered in the main room of the clubhouse. “They took out Blue Man to get our attention, let us know they serious. Then they set forth these letters. Lettin' us know today coulda gone another way. We might be putting four brothers in the ground 'steada just one.”

Kashawn wondered why, but he waited for another of his brothers to ask.

“Show of strength,” D'Loco said. “And they signalin' they want to talk. It's a tool from the old days. I remember Jazz tellin' me tales back when I was a new 97. He was old by then, but 97 from the get.”

“I ain't talkin' to no motherfuckin' Pico.” Kashawn didn't recognize the brother speaking. “Pico got somethin' to say, he can say it to my piece.”

The brothers around him added their support to his sentiment. Kashawn kept his eyes on D'Loco.

“Hold on, now.” The leader raised his hands to quiet them down. “We got three brothers right here. Slow Time, Big Cheeks, and Green K. They standin' next to y'all right now 'stead of on some cold slab downtown.”

Kashawn leaned against the wall, hoping he looked casual, praying it would keep him upright.

“We don't least listen to what these fuckin' Picos have to say, they gonna up the ante. And y'all know damned well they ain't ever gonna run outta bullets.”

“We got our own bullets.” The same brother challenged D'Loco again. “You tell me where a Pico is right now and I'ma go get him. Then you tell me where the next one is and I'ma go get
him
too.”

This time the brothers were less vocal in their support. Kashawn figured they were thinking the same thing he was. If the Picos wanted to talk, they had no choice but to listen.

“I'ma call the number on those letters,” D'Loco announced. “I'ma set up a meeting.”

“And then we gonna take out any damned Pico stupid enough to show up!” This time Kashawn's brothers shouted down the rebel in their midst.

“It's all safe,” D'Loco continued. “Jazz taught me how these things go. Public place. Two from each side. No guns. We listen to what they got to say. They listen to us. Things go bad, we lost nothing. It's how it's done.” D'Loco took his time looking each of his men in the eye. “And we gonna do it.”

The rebel brother mumbled under his breath, then pushed his way out of the room. Kashawn didn't think the other brothers were sorry to see him go.

“When?” Big Cheeks asked.

“I'ma call that number right now. Sooner's better, I guess.”

“Who you takin' with you?” J-Fox asked.

D'Loco inhaled long and slow. When he exhaled, Kashawn felt the room go cold.

“I'ma take Green K with me.”

Kashawn parked the car in the lot next to McDonald's on Spring Street. They were in the center of the city, a place Kashawn had been at least ten times. Each had been for some sort of court appearance that had ended with him in another foster facility. He'd long ago formed an opinion of the area. It was filled with too many white people not giving one care about what happened to a young black kid. He'd made himself a promise to avoid downtown whenever possible. But this was the first time D'Loco had him drive, and he was going anywhere his leader wanted.

“You really leavin' your piece?” he asked before switching off the ignition.

“Like I said, this is how it's done. You leave yours behind too, hear me?” D'Loco's eyes scanned the parking lot. It was nearly six o'clock. Already dark but still early enough that the restaurant was filled with people grabbing a quick dinner.

“You know this place?” he asked.

D'Loco kept surveying the area. “No. That's the plan. Public place. Nobody's turf.”

Kashawn looked at the Subarus, Volvos, and Volkswagens in the parking lot. He watched the people coming and leaving the fast-food joint. Whites and Asians.

If you were lookin' for alien turf,
he thought,
this is it.

“All right, then.” D'Loco opened the door of the Escalade and stepped out. “Let's go get us some nuggets.”

Two black men sat at a corner booth. Kashawn and D'Loco walked toward them. Kashawn thought they looked enough alike to be brothers. Same height, same build. But the one with the dreadlocks seemed older.

“People call me D'Loco.” He nodded toward Kashawn. “This here is Green K.”

The man with the dreadlocks fixed them with a long stare. “I'm Spice. Then again, you already knowed that. With me is Three Pop. He my man. Been with me more than ten years now.”

Kashawn wondered if he was supposed to speak. But Spice's man hadn't said a word, so he figured he'd stay shut too. He was relieved when Spice pointed toward two chairs and they sat down.

“Get right down to it,” Spice said. “We got a full-on war workin', ain't that right?”

“Not of my doin'.” D'Loco's voice rumbled with authority. “Was a Pico struck the first blow. Can't let that go unchallenged.”

Spice looked to his man. Kashawn mimicked the move and looked toward D'Loco. But his leader kept his eyes on the two Picos sitting across the table.

“We get to who struck who later.” Spice tapped a red fingernail against the white Formica. Kashawn noticed Three Pop had one red nail too. “We saved three of yours today.”

“After you took one of my best. Blue Man been with me awhile.”

Spice nodded. “Stuff like that counts. No doubt. 97s take six of my men. My count has us takin' four of yours.”

“No doubt, then, is there?” D'Loco sounded so certain. “97s stronger than Pico Underground.”

Spice huffed out a breath. “Take those three we dropped the love note on this day, and we one ahead. You wanna keep playin' this? How long you figure till we got just one man standin'? And how much you willin' to bet that last one won't be you or me?”

D'Loco stared at the man.

“This war bad all the way around,” Spice said. “Bad for blood. Bad for business. Cops come in, start scaring away the customers.”

“A truce? That what you want?” D'Loco turned to look at Kashawn, who held his gaze but didn't have a clue as to what D'Loco was signaling.

“Like I say.” D'Loco returned his attention to Spice. “Wasn't no 97 started this war.”