Dead End Fix (20 page)

“I wanted to give you this.” He handed her the bag. “I wish I had said somethin' to you back in Ms. Bolton's class. But you was out of my league and I knew it.”

“Kashawn, don't say things like that.”

“But that's then and this is now. Things are. Nothin' truer than that. But time bein' what it is and all, I didn't want to waste none of it gettin' this to you. I hope you like it.”

She reached into the bag and pulled out a folded fabric. “It's so soft.” She shook it and draped it across her lap. “It's a tiger!”

“I had it hanging on my wall. Art.”

“It's beautiful. But I don't understand.”

Kashawn reached across the table and petted the fabric. “This here's real important to me. I can't take it where I'm headed. I'm wantin' someone special to have it. Special to me, that is. I watched you all them days in school. You're not like them other girls. You hold yourself strong and sure. Like that tiger on that art there. You're smart. Gonna go to college and make yourself into a teacher. Gonna have a day your mama cry tears of joy when you get that cap and gown.”

“And your mother will cry too. When you graduate from basic training, they pin something on you. My uncle did that. He was in the navy. But my dad went down and took video. It's a big deal. Your mom's going to cry buckets. You can believe that.”

Did you cry buckets, Ettie? When they took me from you, did you cry buckets?

Teenagers stood up from tables and booths all around them.

“Looks like it's time for you to go back to school,” he said.

She folded the fabric and put it back in the bag.

“I can't take this, Kashawn. It's too important to you.”

He shook his head. “You keep it. Hang it on your wall and think of me from time to time.”

She stood, put on her coat, and hugged Kashawn's gift against her chest. “How about this? I'll keep this safe until you get back. Then you give me a call and we'll meet back here. I'll bring it and you'll see I've taken good care of it.”

Kashawn swallowed hard. He stayed seated, staring up at her. Memorizing her chocolate skin and sweet brown eyes. “That's a plan. You hang on to it. Till you hear from me.”

“Are you sure I can't pay for my lunch?”

He waved his hand. “Like I said. Money's no bother to me. Go on, now. Get back to school. You tell Ms. Bolton old Kashawn sends his greetings.”

LaTonya nodded. She thanked him and took two steps toward the door before she turned around and walked back to him. She leaned down and kissed the top of his freshly barbered head.

“You should have talked to me back then,” she whispered.

And then she was gone.

“You payin' for the two of you?” Kashawn hadn't noticed the waitress returning. “Because I can't have any more of you kids running out on your checks. Boss takes it out of our pay, you know. I got a three-year-old at home and it's nobody but me payin' the bills.”

Kashawn looked up at her. For the first time he noticed the waitress couldn't have been more than a year or two older than he was.

“I'ma pay. No need for worry.”

The waitress looked skeptical as she put his bill on the table and walked away.

Kashawn stood and reached into his pocket. He laid five hundred-dollar bills under the check and called out to the woman to keep the change.

Vanessa didn't break conversation with whomever it was she had on the phone when Mort walked into Our Joint. She raised one perfectly arched eyebrow and nodded her head toward the hall, as if to bless his access to Gigi Vinings's office. Mort saluted and headed back. His affection for the place was growing. As he walked down the long hall, he passed rooms filled with kids. Some were quietly clustered around computers. Others laughed while up to their elbows in art projects. In one particular room six teenaged girls, each with a belly swollen by advanced pregnancy, held yoga poses, lost in a world of quiet behind closed eyes. Mort paused to watch. He inhaled deeply, caught the aroma of frying onions, and tried to guess what the church ladies were making for lunch. The girls switched to another pose. Mort wondered what kind of life awaited these children having children.

Who's to say?
he thought.
Edie and I tried our damnedest to do right by our kids. Look how that turned out.

He sent a silent wish into the universe for the yoga girls to have easier days ahead and continued on to Gigi's office.

“You're late,” Gigi said when he knocked on her door. “Punctuality counts, Mort. It's disrespectful to keep someone waiting.”

Mort looked at his watch. It was two minutes past the hour she had agreed to see him. “I'm sorry. Won't happen again.”

“See that it doesn't.” She waved him in and motioned for him to sit. “Word on the street is things have quieted down.”

“Thirty-one hours without a new body to process,” he said. “Either they're running out of bullets or they're hiding the bones better.”

“Or maybe there's been some kind of truce.”

“You an expert on gangland diplomacy, Gigi?”

She didn't look like she was in the mood for silly questions. “Last time you were here you said Lincoln Lane told you to let the gangs keep killing until they'd wiped each other out.”

“His brother was right there echoing his sentiments. As I recall, you didn't seem to think that was such a bad idea.”

“Come sit in my chair for a month, Mort. Talk to a mother whose fourteen-year-old is dropping out of school because he can make two hundred dollars a week running errands for some pusher. She's upset, of course. But she also knows the money her kid's earning goes to put food on the table. Keeps the family in their apartment another month. Or sit in my spot and track down that sixteen-year-old beauty who's suddenly stopped coming to homework club. What are you going to do when you learn she's out on the streets now, selling her precious body to support her mother and three siblings after her mother's food card got cut off?”

“There has to be another way. Programs. Subsidies.”

“What year you living in, Mort?” Gigi's voice rose an octave. “LBJ's Great Society was fifty years ago. Tax dollars go to billionaires now. There's no programs. Government money goes to building giant sports arenas. The suburbs get new parks and libraries.”

“There's always jobs.”

Gigi huffed out a disgusted grunt. “Where? Where are those jobs? You tell me what company is going to expand in these neighborhoods. Hell, the nearest grocery store is four miles away. And how are my people supposed to get to the neighborhoods where there
are
jobs? City budgets get lean and bus service gets cut. Guess which lines get dropped first? There are no jobs here. Gangs keep the companies away. There's no plan B here. The gangs are the only option most of these people have. Things aren't going to change until the gangs are gone.” Gigi leaned back in her chair, looking exhausted at having to explain to yet another white person the troubles on these streets. “I say let the gangs kill one another. Banjo was just…If I…”

“If you what, Gigi?”

The urban warrior sat behind her battered desk, staring at Mort through a teary veil. Finally she reached for a tissue, dabbed her eyes, and shook her head. “You'll have to forgive me, Mort. I get a little weary with this fight.”

“You don't sound weary. You sound desperate.”

She looked at him again. This time with no tears. “Maybe. But these streets have taught me that desperate often gives birth to determined.”

Lydia craned her neck, first left, then right, checking the damage in her bedroom mirror. The scratches on her neck from being dragged through the underbrush weren't as bad as yesterday. She'd continue to wear scarves to hide them from her patients, but probably no longer than another day or two. It was her shoulder and ankle that still bothered her. She opened her robe, turned her back to the mirror, and saw the deep purple abrasion stretching across her back, shoulder to shoulder. The Cockney who had pinned her to the forest floor had used his entire weight to hold her in place. The bruising was ugly. But she had full range of movement in her arms. No bones were broken. Even her swollen right ankle was improving.

She pulled her hair up into a clip, went into her bathroom, and stepped into a steaming Epsom-salt tub.

How long can this continue?
she wondered as she let the hot water soothe her muscles.
Allie has an endless supply of henchmen to send my way. When will she send the one who will finish me?

Lydia saw no reason to inform Mort of his daughter's latest assault. He needed to keep his attention on his family. They both knew Allie would be back, looking for a reconnection to the Grants. In Allie's twisted mind the bond of a warm and loving family was her birthright…despite her crimes. Mort believed Allie would lay low for a while, hoping the havoc of Hadley's kidnapping would fade into an impulsive gesture that somehow the family could come to understand.

But Lydia had a keener understanding of Allie's vendetta. There would be no laying low in the hopes of future rapprochement. The incident in Burfoot Park proved that. Allie viewed Lydia as the interloper taking her place in the Grant family. By Allie's calculations, everything she wanted would be hers the moment Lydia was out of the way.

She closed her eyes and redirected her concentration. Worry wouldn't save her. Regaining her strength would. She reminded herself she was safe in her home. Every monitor and security device was in place. This was her fortress.

But my fortress has been invaded twice by Allie. Because of her I've been forced to kill here.

Lydia shifted her thoughts to her patients, calling to mind their faces and voices. She inhaled the fragrance of her bathwater and held her breath for a slow count of four. Then she exhaled long and slow, and with the expulsion of her breath she sent out a wish for the well-being of each and every person who had trusted her with their care.

But that didn't help.

Allie will kill me.
The unwelcome thought charged into her consciousness. Lydia opened her eyes, listening for any sound indicating the security of her home had been violated, but she heard nothing.
Careful. Paranoia isn't going to help. I'm safe. I'm in charge. Nothing can hurt me.

She closed her eyes and tried again to clear her mind, using an old trick she learned in grad school. Pick a letter; any one would do. Name as many objects as possible that begin with that letter. Hold one thought in your conscious mind and there'll be no room for worry. No place for fear. She chose
R.

Rabbit, rice, riot, ridicule, remorse, raft, rumpus, run, ruin, ravage, rape, revenge…

Her eyes snapped open, her senses on high alert. Everything was as it had been. Her body was submerged in hot, fragrant water. White towels rested on the marble vanity. The walls of her bathroom were still the palest gray.

Allie will kill me.

“Stop it!” The echo of her voice reverberated off the walls. She rose out of the water, realizing she needed something more substantial to engage her mind. She toweled off, glad of the increased flexibility the hot soak afforded, pulled on her robe, and headed to her kitchen. She poured herself a glass of merlot and settled onto her living room sofa.

November was settling in, bringing a near-constant chilly rain. Lydia's beloved evenings on her deck would be set aside for six months, but her wide windows offered her full access to the beauty and activity of her own backyard. The sun was setting, turning the Olympic Mountains purple against a cherry red sky. The islands of Dana Passage were dark dragons floating in bottomless blue water. Her lawn was deep, ending in a sheer drop high above the shore. Two giant Douglas firs stood at the cliff's edge. An eagle kept its nest high in the branches. Lydia sipped her wine and focused on the aerie, hoping to catch sight of the majestic bird as it came home with its dinner.

Allie will kill me.

She shook her head against the insistent intrusive thought and concentrated on the monumental trees standing sentinel on her property. A sudden surge of wind barreled down the passage, blowing their branches into a frenzied dance. She saw the eagle. It was approaching from the west, flapping its massive wings in the face of the turbulence, struggling to make it to the nest. Lydia saw it blown back, but it tried again to make it to its home. It swooped down, below the cliff and out of Lydia's sight. A draft brought it back up into the maelstrom. For a moment the eagle appeared to be suspended, motionless high above the water. Helpless to make it to the safety of its nest. But with two powerful flaps of its wings, the eagle soared above the vortex. Lydia rose, crossed to the window, and kept her eye on the massive bird. It circled, high above the windy turmoil.

As suddenly as it had appeared, the locomotive of air moved on. The branches settled. The eagle drifted effortlessly down, landing in its nest without another flap of its wings.

Allie will kill me.

Lydia crossed back to the sofa and took another sip of wine.

Bayonne Jackson, aka Three Pop, made his way through the Sixteenth Street Pool House. It was eight o'clock. The place should have been filled with people chalking up cues and drinking. But only two tables had any action. He glanced toward the bar. That particular spot was always jumping with white folks ordering smoke, cocaine, or whatever the current pharmaceutical of choice was. Five people sat on the stools, looking like they weren't interested in anything more potent than the beer in front of them. Bayonne nodded to the bartender and kept walking until he passed through the door marked
PRIVATE
.

Sweet Jimmy, Bomber, and Low Down were right where they always were, playing cards in the outer office. They offered greetings and asked if he wanted to join the game.

“Bomber here dedicated to losing everything he got in his pocket tonight.” The wooden matchstick in Sweet Jimmy's mouth bobbed as he spoke. “Likely you could make more green off him right now than out in them streets.”

“How 'bout you deal them cards and save your tongue the flappin'?” Bomber asked.

A fourth man was there.

“Who's this, now?” Bayonne asked, nodding to the person he'd never seen before.

“This here's Tank,” Low Down answered. “He up from Cali.”

The new man stood, offering Bayonne a fist bump and shoulder in greeting.

“They call me Three Pop.” Bayonne eyed the man, figuring his broad shoulders and short stature had earned him his street name. “Where'bouts you from?”

“Like the song says. Straight outta Compton.”

Bayonne narrowed his eyes. “That s'posed to be funny?”

Tank squared his shoulders and stared back. “Ain't nothin' funny 'bout them streets. But home is home.”

Neither man broke his stare.

“You girls gonna play nice or we gonna have a catfight up in here?” Sweet Jimmy asked. “Careful now. Don't want nobody losin' a weave.”

Bomber and Low Down laughed at Sweet Jimmy's attempt at levity. Bayonne shook his head and turned away from the new guy.

“He in?” he asked.

“He is,” Sweet Jimmy answered.

Bayonne gave Tank one last long look, then went through the door leading to Spice's inner office.

“Three Pop! Come on in here.” Spice sat behind his makeshift desk. Four stacks of money, each as high as a man's hand, were in front of him. “Take a seat. I'm drinkin' whiskey straight up tonight. Got one ready for you if you care.”

Bayonne shook his head. “New guy out front. Say he up from Cali.”

Spice glanced toward the closed door. “Tank's good people. Pico from the word go. Hell, I think he been wearin' red longer than me.”

“What's his reason?” Bayonne took a seat.

“I gotta remind you we lost six of our own? This war cost us.”

“We in a truce now.”

“Two more days. No tellin' what might happen. You know well's I do you can't trust no lying 97. They don't bring us who killed Banjo, we right back to fightin'.”

“We got men.”

“And like I said, we down six.” Spice leaned back in his chair. “And when it comes to war? You gotta have brothers who know the play. Battle tested. Tank's seen it. He been there.”

“Compton. He told me.”

Spice nodded. “That's right. Brother can do.”

Bayonne said nothing.

“There a problem here?” Spice asked.

“This the first I heard of you bringin' in outside help. Surprises me, that's all.”

Spice stood. He crossed over and laid a heavy hand on Bayonne's shoulder. “This time's tough on you, man. Just buryin' Banjo and all. You need to be focusin' on family.”

“Pico is my family.”

Spice patted him twice and headed back to his desk. “You know that. We stand by you.”

“Seems like decisions getting made round here. Things I used to be part of. Makes me wonder maybe my position is gettin' shifted.”

Spice settled back in his chair. “You talkin' about this truce? Fuck, man. You want who killed Banjo or not?”

“I do.”

“You think it best we keep on killin' 97s until they all gone? That your plan?”

Bayonne said nothing.

“This war's bad for us. Don't get me wrong. Banjo got to be avenged. You got to know there was no slowness in my step when you told me Banjo got hisself killed by some punk 97 thinkin' it was you walkin' down that street.”

Bayonne nodded. “You was quick. I know that.”

“This war cost us six brothers. Six good Picos are in the ground for you. Now, we could keep killin'. No doubt we could. But for each 97 gets it, could be maybe we gonna lose one of ours, too. And this war's bad for business.” Spice nodded toward the front. “You seen it out there? White folks hear what's goin' on, they stop comin'. How long you want that to go? Cuz I'ma tell you. White folks need what they need. They don't feel safe gettin' their product here at Sixteenth Street, they gonna find someplace else. The Picos and the 97s so busy killin' one another off, some other gang gonna step in. That what you want? You want the Mexicans gettin' our business? The Chinese? That your play?”

Bayonne held up one hand. “I got no problem with the truce. We gonna see what the 97s do.”

“Besides, these decisions are
mine
to make. You gonna get all little girl about it…cryin' to me I don't involve you…maybe I
do
gotta think about makin' some changes. But this here is the fastest way I know of to get the name of the fucker who killed Banjo.”

Bayonne was quiet for several seconds. He didn't want to offend his leader. “What about the other?”

Spice pulled a shoe box from under his desk and began stacking the cash inside. “What other is that, now?”

“Gettin' who killed Banjo is what I thought the truce was about.”

“That's right.” Spice put the box of money on top of several boxes just like it.

“But at the meeting you told that 97 leader you wanted the kid's block. Take the business out from under them.”

Spice tapped his fingertips together and stared at Bayonne.

“You don't think Banjo deserves them 97s payin' a penalty for takin' him out?” he finally asked.

“I'ma kill the motherfucker got my brother. That's what Banjo deserves.”

“Damn straight. But maybe I see somethin' a bit more. Somethin' make them 97s think long and hard if they ever get a mind to take out another Pico. That's a mighty sweet corner that kid's runnin'. Lotsa folks buyin' what he sellin'. That spot's not far off our own. Picos can expand.”

Bayonne shook his head. “Nobody ever talked 'bout that. That sound like 97 shit to me. They all about the money. Picos s'posed to be different.”

Spice placed his hands palms down on the door serving as his desk. His voice was tightly controlled when he spoke. “You wanna tell this leader of the Picos exactly how what I did sounded like 97 shit to you?”

Bayonne swallowed hard. He forced his tone to sound conciliatory. “Them old stories, you know? Back in 97. When the split happened. I always been told it was cuz they wanted nothin' but money. Picos are more than that. When you told that 97 you wanted that kid's block, sounded like maybe we were losing some of the differences between our two gangs. We're better than the money. That's all I meant.”

Spice gave him a humorless chuckle. “That soft heart of yours gonna get you one of these days, son. You always thinkin' 'bout them good old days. Fightin' me on my business plans. Times change. Business change. Folks who don't change with 'em die off. We still a brotherhood. No doubt 'bout that. But we a business, too. And the first rule of business is starve the competition. You feel me? Now I'm sorry you took all that like I was takin' advantage of Banjo's situation to take that territory. But I didn't get to be sittin' in this chair right here by walking away from what's best for the Picos.”

Bayonne nodded.

“And I don't need my number two out there talkin' against my plans. That make sense to you, son?”

Bayonne nodded again.

“Here's what you gonna do next. You gonna go on back to your daddy's place. Why not grab hold of Rodisha? Take her with you. Ladies always good for knowin' what to do at a time like this. You stay close to your family for the next two days. Lean on one another. Then we gonna meet again with them 97s. See what they have to say 'bout comin' up with Banjo's killer. After that we gonna decide our next move. You and me together. How's that?”

Bayonne stood. He had many other questions, but knew he was being dismissed. And he knew Spice well enough to understand that enough lines had been crossed for one evening. His leader wouldn't take kindly to any further questioning of his authority or motives. He told Spice to call him if he was needed. Spice promised he would.

“Oh,” Spice added as Bayonne walked to the door, “you mind sendin' Tank in?”

Bayonne hesitated.

Then he nodded one last time.