Extreme Justice (22 page)

“Perish the thought.” Ben decided to try another tack. “How long have you known Earl?”

“ ’Bout a year. Since he opened the club.”

“Not before?”

He shook his head. “I’d heard his name, mind you. I was playing some clubs down in Dallas and Oklahoma City. Of course, whenever people started talking jazz sax, someone would mention Earl Bonner. Earl Bonner and the great Professor Hoodoo. They’d tell the whole story. You know, how they were the best of friends and played together like magic, but then they fell in love with the same woman, and Earl blew the Professor away. It’s almost a legend now. Like Frankie and Johnny.”

“So you knew Earl had done time for that murder.”

“Oh, sure.”

“And you assumed he was guilty.”

“I think everyone assumed he was guilty, Ben. It, like, went without saying, you know?”

“And that didn’t bother you?”

Denny grinned. “What, like, he might come after me next?” He chuckled softly. “I don’t think so. I wouldn’t cross the man. Covet not another dude’s squeeze. That’s my motto.”

Words to live by, Ben thought. “Still, if he lost his temper once …”

“Hey, everyone’s got a temper, okay?” For the first time Denny was showing a trace of his. “You just have to learn to keep it under control. And Earl’s had twenty-two long years to practice, okay? Next question.”

Ben squinted. What had he triggered? “Did you ever hear Earl talk about … what happened before?”

“Of course not, man. That’s not somethin’ a man drops into casual conversation.”

“Can you think of anything else you know about the murder?”

“Which one? You seem to be investigating both.”

Ben paused. He supposed he was at that. But that grisly smile told him that the two killings were connected. Or that someone wanted it believed they were, at any rate. “Either one.”

“Well, the expert on Professor Hoodoo would be Scat. Scat goes back further than Earl or the Professor combined. He’s been playin’ forever, man. Word is he taught Gabriel how to blow.”

“And he was with them at the time of the first murder?”

“I think so. They were thick as thieves. Played together, worked together. Inseparable. Till they were separated by the law, that is. And the grim reaper.” He smiled. “But Scat’s the expert on Professor Hoodoo. I’d talk to him if you’re really interested in this whole big back-story thing.”

Given the circumstances, Ben thought, that seemed like pretty good advice.

“For that matter, didn’t Hoodoo have a brother?”

Ben snapped his fingers. “That’s right—Grady Armstrong. I met him at the club.”

“He might have some light to shed on the situation.”

Ben made a mental note. Maybe he would at that.

He glanced up at the front of the arena. The preacher was still bellowing away, raising his fist, giving the call to action—without a single reference to the fact that he wasn’t wearing any clothing.

“How long have you been a member of this group?” Ben asked.

Denny shrugged. “ ’Bout three years now.”

“Mind if I ask how you got into it?”

Denny hesitated a moment. “A few years back … I was pretty messed up. You know, drugs and all. I was taking uppers before I played, downers to sleep. Coke for a good time. Almost all the musicians I knew did it. Difference was, they could handle it. I couldn’t. Pretty soon, I was so screwed up, I didn’t know night from day. Didn’t know when I was on and when I was off. Used to be the music was all I needed to get me through, you know? But after a while, that wasn’t enough. I needed the junk. I needed the bright lights. Truth is, I was about one short step from a pine box. And I knew it.” He inhaled slowly. “I knew it, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.”

He paused before looking up again. “And then Rona Harris introduced me to this place. Now, it’s not like everything changed all at once. I was a junkie; I had to dry out. But they helped me, you know? They got me through it. I felt for the first time like someone really cared.”

“I know how important that is,” Ben said.

“Once I had my head clear, I took to this place like a duck to water. I believed what the preachers had to say. And this whole business of taking your clothes off—it may sound like nothing to you, but I found it liberating. Like I didn’t have to hide anymore. Like the real me was set free.” He smiled. “I still play the music, as well you know. But I don’t feel like I have to. It’s something I do, but it doesn’t own me. It doesn’t control me. It’s part of my life, but it’s not my life. Am I making any sense?”

Ben nodded. “I’m glad it worked out for you.”

“Hey, it’s not just me. It could work out for you, too.”

“Well …”

“If you don’t mind me saying so, Ben, you seem a little tight, you know? All locked away. If you started coming out here, you could feel a little … freer.”

“I don’t think I want to be that free.”

“What’s the big deal? People make such a fuss about nudity—it’s not like we’re having some big orgy out here. It seems strange, but it’s almost a totally asexual experience.”

“Asexual,” Ben echoed.

“Right. We’re all so used to it, we hardly even notice.”

“I would notice,” Ben said emphatically.

“Maybe at first, but that would pass. You’d forget about the need to hide and start to just—well, be who you really are.”

Good grief, Ben thought, are we back to that again? “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“You should.” He glanced over Ben’s shoulder and saw Kerrie waiting in the background. “Like I said, it could be a meaningful spiritual experience.”

“That’s what you said.”

“And, if it turns out I’m wrong, hey—that Kerrie is a hot chick.”

Ben tried not to smile. “In a totally asexual way.”

Denny winked. “My thoughts exactly.”

T
YRONE THREADED HIS
way through the mazelike alleyways of the condemned Rockwood section of North Tulsa. It was already dark, and the streetlights had all been broken out a long time ago. No one bothered to replace them. After all, no one lived out here anymore, right? No one was supposed to, anyway.

He tried to remember the path that took him where he needed to go. All of these buildings were crumbling, barely enough remained to be called ruins. They were just worthless piles of rubble waiting for someone to care enough to bring in a wrecking ball and lay it all flat. He felt like Theseus trailing his way through the Minotaur’s labyrinth, something he’d read about in one of Earl’s books. ’Cept he didn’t have any string with him at the moment; he would have to rely on memory. And make sure he didn’t bump into the Minotaur.

He hadn’t warned anyone he was coming. It seemed safer that way. Most boys who left the gang moved to parts far away and unknown. But not Tyrone. He’d stayed right here in town. That must’ve really bugged Momo, and bugging Momo was something you definitely didn’t want to do.

He crisscrossed through a street corner and brought himself to the north edge of the Rockwood area. You could see the Broken Arrow Expressway from here. You could also see a huge crater in the middle of the alley. What had happened—lightning? A bomb? Tyrone tended to favor unnatural causes, given where he was.

He leaped into the air, grabbed a rusted fire escape ladder that was hanging off the side of the nearest building, and swung himself over the crater. He dropped onto the other side, slapping his hands together. Nothing like a little physical activity to get the adrenaline pumping. He needed that, needed to be at the top of his form. If he was gonna survive this next bit of business.

He rounded the corner, took a few steps into the dark alley, then froze.

Someone else was here. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he knew. Maybe he heard something too soft to register except with his subconscious. Maybe he saw something—a shadow, a reflection. Maybe he could just feel another set of eyes on him.

He laughed nervously, then took a step across the gravel ground. The echo came just a beat late.

Right the first time. He was not alone.

“So who is it?” he said, using his loudest and boldest voice. “I’m coming your way, anyway. There’s no need for bein’ so goddamned mysterious.”

Brave words, he thought to himself. But he didn’t feel that brave. He didn’t feel brave at all.

“C’mon already,” Tyrone repeated. Damn—there was just the slightest tremble in his voice. Slight, but plenty enough to be heard. He cranked up the volume a notch. “Show yourself or I’m gonna start shootin’ into the shadows!”

“You never carried a gun before,” the voice behind him said.

Tyrone whirled around. It was pitch black; he couldn’t see a thing.

“And I seriously doubt you’ve started now. Too risky in your line of work. If you get picked up carryin’, your sentence is gonna double, maybe triple.” The voice laughed. “ ’Sides, I don’t think you’ve got the cojones.”

“Bulldog,” Tyrone murmured. “What the hell do you want?”

The man at the end of the alley stepped out of the shadows. It was Bulldog, all right, and one look at his face reminded Tyrone how he came by his colorful nickname. He was wearing a long overcoat and had both hands tucked into his pockets. And Tyrone felt certain that Bulldog, unlike him, really did have a gun firmly clenched in each hand.

“The question,” Bulldog said smoothly, “is what do you want?”

“I want to be left alone.”

“Evidently not.” He stepped closer—closer, to be sure, than Tyrone would have preferred. “Nobody what wants to be left alone comes strollin’ in our territory.”

“I need to see Momo,” Tyrone said. He tried to keep his knees from knocking. Never let them know you’re afraid.

“The only thing you need is to get out of here before I have to take an extreme sanction.”

“Shouldn’t you ask Momo about that? Word on the street is that he wants to see me.”

“He does. But that doesn’t mean you want to see him.” A thin smile curled up on Bulldog’s face. “Momo says you owe him.”

“Momo’s delusional. I don’t owe nothin’ to nobody. I paid all my debts before I got out.”

“Momo says different.”

“Momo is wrong.”

“Momo is our leader. Ergo, Momo is never wrong.” He paused, moving even closer to Tyrone. “Momo was displeased when you left us.”

“Yeah? Well, tell Momo I wanted to live to see my twenty-second birthday, and the way things were going, I didn’t think my prospects were very good.”

“Momo says he put years into your training and development. He says he didn’t get an adequate return on his investment.”

“That doesn’t entitle him to put a price on my head.”

“He thinks it does.”

“Well, he’s wrong. I got enough problems with two warrants hanging over me. I might become fairly high profile pretty soon, and I can’t do that thinkin’ some asshole punk gangster might take the opportunity to blow my face off. If Momo doesn’t call off the heat, I’m not gonna be able to help a friend of mine.”

Bulldog pressed his lips together. “You’re talkin’ about Earl Bonner.”

“Maybe.”

“We know Earl. We respect him. Momo was not happy when that shootout happened so close to Earl’s place. He figures we owe Earl one.”

“Then Momo needs to call off the dogs.”

Bulldog stood so close to Tyrone he could feel the man’s breath on his face, and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. Tyrone’s knees were trembling; his teeth wouldn’t stay still.

“You set a bad example for the troops, T-Dog. You cut out without so much as a word to no one. You don’t even have the good grace to leave town. What would happen if all the boys did that?”

“The world would be a better place,” Tyrone said, immediately regretting it. That was stupid—but it was too late to will the words back. “Look, Bulldog, help me out here. We’re homeboys. We grew up together.”

“That was before you cut out. Now we’re nothin.”

“There must be something you can do. Talk to Momo for me.”

“Momo will not discuss this matter with me. He says he’ll only talk to you.

So that was how it was. Momo wanted a meeting on his turf—a meeting Tyrone might never walk away from. But if he didn’t take the chance, he’d never be free.

“When does he want to meet?”

Bulldog pressed his hands against the sides of his coat from inside the pockets. “No time like the present.”

“I’ve got another meeting tonight. Shouldn’t take long, though. How about in half an hour?”

Bulldog shrugged. “I’ll propose it to Momo. I can’t promise he’ll be here.”

“You can make it happen, Bulldog.”

He shook his head. “You overestimate me.”

“Please, Bulldog. Do it for me. Or do it for Earl. Whatever. Just do it, okay?”

“I’ll do what I can.” He took a few short steps back and disappeared into the shadows.

Tyrone raised a hand and wiped his forehead. He was dripping with sweat. He leaned against the brick wall, using it for the support he could no longer give himself.

He’d forgotten how hard all this gang crap could be, how terrifying. How badly he’d wanted out. Momo had to give him his walking papers, once and for all. He had to do this for him.

Tyrone pressed his hand against his temple, trying to slow his breathing, to calm himself. When he finally felt certain he had himself back together again, he started retracing his steps back through the labyrinth. He had another meeting to make now, with Earl. To plan out the future. And after that—

After that, he would return here and find out if he had a future.

B
EN MET EARL
at Nelsons Buffeteria, Tulsa’s most famous downtown eatery. This restaurant was such an established landmark it had been written up in
National Geographic
. Nelson’s had been around for a million and one years, and it still retained its Depression-era ambience. Most of the menu was carbo heaven—chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes, everything smothered in gravy. It was Earl’s favorite dining experience.

Ben told Earl what he had learned during the course of his interviews. “I still need to talk to Scat. He’s the only member of the band I haven’t spoken to individually.”

“Scat don’t have nothin’ to do with no murder,” Earl said as he terminated his apple pie. “I can tell you that right now.”