Slipping (17 page)

Winters took another sip of the scalding, sugary coffee. “The poor bastard thought I could get him off a federal drug beef. He wasn't even smart enough to realize that homicide can't stop an ongoing federal narcotics investigation. I had to make it sound real convincing so this fish would jump into my boat. And you can keep your little smart-ass remarks about me marrying beneath me. You know I'm saving myself for you, big fella.”

Carson laughed at his partner's Mae West impression.

“Sorry you had to miss my evil-cop routine.”

“Evil-cop routine?”

“That's like the advanced version of the bad-cop routine. It's not for amateurs like you. You have to give yourself over to the dark side. The only problem is inexperienced guys like you can't make it back.”

“Get the hell out of here. What next?”

As she blew on her cup of coffee, Winters said, “I was thinking that we should go see if the ballistics have come back on the gun we found with Lonnie's prints. If I'm right his gun is the one that killed Sajak, and if I'm right you owe me dinner. And I'm not talking about Budweisers and pretzels. I want a real dinner. Something with meat and vegetables.”

“Why you always got to treat me like I'm a redneck?”

“ 'Cause you know you got some redneck in you. I
would have offered to let you have me for dinner, but I know you don't eat dark meat.”

They laughed all the way to their unmarked Ford. Carson was still laughing as he pulled out of the parking lot, showing the attendant his badge in lieu of money. As they left, a black Toyota 4Runner pulled into the parking lot.

Three young men emerged from the vehicle. Timberland boots and AirJordan shoes adorned their feet and their expensive jewelry was displayed for all to see. They walked into the hospital and headed straight for the elevators.

On the seventh floor the three boys entered Lonnie's room. One of the boys locked the door while the other two approached the bed. The short, dark leader of the boys swept his dreadlocks out of his face and pulled a 9-millimeter from under his jean jacket. Holding the pistol sideways, he tapped Lonnie's forehead with the tempered steel of the barrel.

Lonnie opened his eyes and winced at the sight of the pistol to his head.

“Let me introduce myself,” the boy with the gun said. “I'm Domino of the East Side Apostles. These two niggas here is my rappees. This right here in my hand is a Taurus. I know that may sound cliché, but it's actually a real nice pistol. And you know what they say 'bout fucking with the bull and you get the horns. Now if you don't want to tell me who killed my cousin, Imma make you lose yo memory permanently.”

“Who-who is y-y-yo cousin?” Lonnie stuttered.

“Nigga, Sajak was my motherfuckin’ cousin! First cousin.”

“I didn't know that man. I'm sorry 'bout that shit. Sh-sh-shorty was a good little homie.”

Domino emphasized his words by putting the pistol barrel in Lonnie's ear. “Nigga, save the drama fo yo mama. I don't want to hear that shit. I ain't here to hear about his sterling personal qualities. I came here to find out who killed my family, stud. If I have to ask you again it's gone be one less bullet in this motherfucking heater.”

Lonnie rapid-fired, “The nigga name is Don. He live on 64th and Langley. He got a girlfriend named Juanita.”

Satisfied that Lonnie was too scared to lie, Domino took the pistol from Lonnie's head and stuck it back inside his jacket. He nodded to his homie to unlock the door and they left Lonnie in bad need of a bedpan.

In the hospital parking lot, Domino climbed behind the wheel of his SUV and waited for his boys to get in. The moment their respective doors slammed closed he threw the truck into gear and sped to the attendant's booth. Disregarding the price of his parking stub, Domino threw a twenty-dollar bill into the attendant's face and swerved under the parking-lot stick. Tears trickled from Domino's eyes and wove their way down his face.

“Listen up, niggas!” Domino barked. “We gone find this stud that killed my baby cousin. I personally want to off this punk. We gone squeeze these motherfucking streets until
somebody give this nigga up. He got to die for killing one of mine.”

Both boys knew Domino was deadly serious. There would be hell to pay for killing a family member of an Apostle. The price was blood; innocent or otherwise really didn't matter.

DON WAS GOING STIR-CRAZY. HE HAD BEEN COOPED UP IN
the motel room for five days, leaving only to go to the vending machines and to pay the manager every day. The maid that came to clean the room was becoming suspicious about a young boy holed up for so long. While she was making the bed and emptying the garbage cans she would sneak glances at Don as he watched television or slept. Whatever her suspicions were she must have spoken to the manager because he tried to enter Don's room using the passkey. The security chain was the only thing that stopped him and he sputtered and stuttered when Don questioned his motives.

The damage was done, though—the manager had gotten a good look at his face. Spooked, Don checked out. He had
nowhere to go, plus he craved female companionship. He had to admit that he was getting lonely and bored.

He hoped that some of the heat on the streets had died down. Maybe not much, but enough for it to be reasonably safe to find a woman and another room. Small, cheap motels were plentiful in this neighborhood, if not he could take a chance and venture farther south past 79th on Stony Island. There were a million cheap motels lining the huge boulevard there, so that wouldn't be a problem. Right now he wanted a decent-looking girl. She could even be a crackhead if she wasn't too far gone. Crack would definitely give them a common thread and she wouldn't ask too many questions if he let her get as high as she wanted.

It was close to dusk and Don walked briskly down the streets looking over his shoulder every few steps. His pistol felt heavy in the waistband of his pants. In his back pocket he could hear the jiggling sound of extra rounds of ammunition. First he had to think where he could find a girl. He had decided it would be pushing his luck to look for a woman on 63rd Street. He had been hanging out on that street for most of his young life and he was just too well known for that. He decided his best bet would be the Ida B. Wells projects.

He knew from experience that the girls there didn't have a lot of the inhibitions regular city girls might. In the Wells, sex was a trading commodity instead of an act of love. It wouldn't prove too hard for him to find a willing prospect there.

Don hopped on the bus, which deposited him on the southwest corner of the Wells. The Wells looked deceptively peaceful to blissfully ignorant tourists, but veterans of Chicago's streets knew it was one of the most infamous housing projects in the city. It had seen its share of notoriously rich drug dealers, murderous street gangs, and people capable of behavior that society classified as immoral.

Life was cheap here. Don had been to the Wells many times and it never ceased to amaze him just how wild it was. Drug peddlers shamelessly hawked their wares in hallways. Scantily clad females fought, cursed, and drank on the stoops and corners. Young gang members roamed in bloodthirsty packs ready to defend their homeland at the sound of a shot. Their street-warped minds couldn't comprehend life outside of the Wells or growing old.

Don was a youthful veteran of the streets, so it was a simple matter for him to blend in with his surroundings. He ignored the drug dealers trying to get his attention. He ignored the crackhead and dope-fiend hoes as they called and whistled at him. Don knew they wouldn't hesitate to slit his throat for ten dollars.

The prostitutes rained insults on him when they saw he wasn't shopping. To get away from them, Don ducked around a corner and bumped into a tall, slim, pock-faced man. Don tried to apologize and continue on his way, but the man grabbed his arm.

“Hey, motherfucka!” the man said. “Pussy-ass nigga, you stepped on my goddamn shoe!”

Don looked the tall man up and down. He was dressed in an expensive-looking suit and wore a beautiful pair of dress shoes. The dull glow and dark spots in the man's face alerted Don he was a dope fiend. Don knew he didn't need any trouble so he tried to back down gracefully.

“My fault, my man,” Don said apologetically. “I ain't mean to step on yo shoes and shit, but you ain't got to be calling me all out my name.”

The tall dope fiend bent over and wiped his shoes. “Little pussy-ass nigga, I'm 'bout to go play for some major paper and yo ho ass done fucked up the shine on my damn shoes. I should slap the shit out yo bitch …”

That was all the dope fiend managed to say. Quickly, Don stepped close to him before he could stand up and rocketed a nasty uppercut into the dope fiend's jaw. Don followed the uppercut with a left hook that put the man on his ass. He thought the man was down for the count.

Holding his nose, the man fished a hunting knife with a serrated blade out of his sock. Rocking all the while, he climbed to his feet. “You young-ass street punk, you got problems now. I'm 'bout to put you where yo mama can't kiss you and yo loved ones gone miss you.”

Don backpedaled in barely enough time to prevent himself from being gutted like a fish. His hands were sweating as he pulled his pistol from his waistband.

“Bitch nigga,” the dope fiend said, as he advanced on Don. “You think 'cause you got a missile I'm sposed to be scared. You better use it, bitch!”

Smiling, Don shot the man in his left thigh.

As he fell to the ground, Don heard someone call out, “That's what yo dope-fiend ass get, Cannon Charlie!”

Someone else joined in. “Yeah, nigga! You always trying to bully some shorty! Shorty right there done put a hole in you ass!”

To the people of the Wells, violence was an everyday way of life—something to break up the monotony and boredom. None of the witnesses of the shooting blamed Don or even cared enough to call the paramedics or police.

Don left the dope fiend on the ground howling and holding his thigh. Two blocks away he found what he thought he was looking for in a companion. As he stopped to remove the spent shell from his burner, he looked up and saw a fine young girl standing on the porch of one of the Wells’ numerous apartments. She couldn't have been more than sixteen or seventeen. She looked like a beautiful slice of chocolate cake. Mini-micro braids were piled into a ponytail on her head. A skintight pair of jeans hugged her lower curves while a baby T-shirt smothered her upper curves. Every detail of her body, from her pouting glossed lips to her shapely thighs, screamed sex.

Before he could take one step toward her a flaming red Monte Carlo whipped into the parking space in front of the girl's porch. A short, yellow man hopped out of the car, ran around it, and ran up to the girl. The look of fear on the girl's face let Don know this was someone she wasn't happy to see. Harshly, the man grabbed the girl's arm and began
shouting in her face. She was a few inches taller than the man so the scene looked comical. She tried to pull away and he slapped her face.

The girl burst into tears.

The man tried to herd her into his car; she resisted and received another slap for her troubles.

Don had seen enough. He didn't care who the yellow nigga was to her. Don knew he had to have this girl. He crossed the street at a brisk pace and got right in the middle of the fray.

The little man tried to slap the girl again, but Don grabbed his wrist and held it firmly in a vise-like grip. Don's actions stunned the short fellow—this newcomer was out of pocket.

“Nigga, who the fuck is you?” the short man screeched as he tried to free himself from Don's grip.

“I'm Don-Don, nigga. Who the fuck is you?”

“Shorty Rob, fool! Nigga, I don't even know you. Why the fuck you got yo nose in my fucking business?”

Before Don answered, he took his first close look at the girl Shorty Rob had been slapping around. He thought she looked good from across the street, but up close, she looked like a beauty queen. She stopped crying and curiously looked her Samaritan up and down. Obviously she liked what she saw because she smiled at Don.

That was all Don needed to see. Shorty Rob was just a minor obstacle in his path. As good as this girl looked, Don would slay Shorty Rob right here if need be.

Don ignored Shorty Rob still struggling in his grasp. “Baby girl, what's yo name? And is this yo man?”

“Yeah, that's my girl,” Shorty Rob answered.

He received a chilling glance from Don.

“My name is Rena,” the girl said. “And this sorry-ass nigga used to be my man. That is until I caught him giving my friend a rim job in my fucking house. Now he mad 'cause I don't want to fuck with him no more. Shit-breath nigga.”

“So now the nigga want to come round and gorilla you, huh?” Don asked, looking at Shorty Rob.

“Nall, it ain't like that,” Shorty Rob explained. “I just done invested a lot of time and money in this young bitch and now she trying to front on me.”

Shorty Rob was playing for time. It had just dawned on him that the name Don-Don sounded familiar. This was the nigga everybody was trying to get their hands on. The East Side Apostles had a nice reward out for anybody that could help them find this boy. The police were also looking for him as a suspect in a multiple homicide. Now that Shorty Rob took a good look at the boy holding his arm, Don did have the eyes of a killer—cold, dark, and soulless. A glance at Don's waist let Rob know he was packing heat. Whatever Shorty Rob may have been, he wasn't a fool; he knew better than to tangle with a ghetto killer.

Don was so preoccupied with Rena he almost forgot he was still holding Shorty Rob's wrist. All the fight seemed to be gone from the little man so he released his grip. If the little
nigga wanted to walk away like a player that was cool, but if he wanted to act crazy Don had no qualms about hurting him.

“So Rena, what's up, boo?” Don asked.

“Fuck that nigga, Don-Don. I'm with you.”

“You heard her, player, beat it,” Don said smoothly to Shorty Rob.

Shorty Rob held his breath and kept his hands in clear view until he was behind the steering wheel of his car.