Black Gangster (23 page)

She smiled at his words, and some of the worry left her face. Slowly, she moved into his arms, enjoying the feel of his muscles tightening around her. As he kissed her on the neck and shoulders, she squirmed in his arms, then pressed her body tightly against his, feeling his manhood pushing against her thigh. They fell over on the king-size bed and lost their anxiety in each other's arms.

THE WINTER WIND had run most of the night people off the streets and into the bars and after-hours spots, poolrooms and greasy spoon restaurants. The neon lights beckoned them to the dim-lit places of entertainment that were their very existence. Many had been victimized, but still they returned, night after night, in search of fugitive pleasures. The dopefiends, whores, muggers, and other parasites who earned their income off of them moved with them through the shadows.

Frankie, a tall, brown-skinned lesbian, walked from one end of the Silver Dollar Bar to the other, cursing fluently. "I'm not going to pay no goddamn protec tion dues so that my whores can work," she yelled in her masculine voice.

A short, slim Negro spoke up from the bar. "You must not have seen what happened to Chico's girls, did you?" he asked, glad of a chance to put this arrogant dyke on the spot.

"That's because they had a punk for a man," Frankie replied harshly. "You didn't see it happen to any of my girls, did you?"

A fat prostitute sitting in the rear of the bar remarked drily, "It might be because you've been paying your dues these past few weeks just like the rest of us."

"You're telling a goddamn lie," Frankie said, glaring at the girl. "If I was you, bitch, I'd think twice before telling that goddamn lie again!" She stared at the other people in the bar. "I ain't paying a damn penny and ain't planning on paying one either."

Fatdaddy, Apeman, and Brute entered the bar on the last of the conversation. Before Frankie had got all the words out of her mouth, Apeman had grabbed her by her shoulders and swung her around. He slapped her twice across the mouth.

"Bitch," he yelled, "just 'cause you look like a man, don't be trying to fill a man's shoes, because you may find yourself in more damn trouble than you know how to handle."

With the speed born of long experience, Frankie pulled a knife and lunged at Apeman. The move was so swift that it caught Apeman unprepared. He threw up his arms as Fatdaddy moved in, catching Frankie's right arm in mid-air. He grabbed her other arm and twisted it behind her back until she had to stand on her tiptoes. The knife dropped slowly from her fist.

He slammed her to the floor, and Brute stepped in and kicked her in the stomach. As she lay squirming, Apeman leaned down and snatched back her head, twisting his fingers around in her hair.

"Have you got the money for them six whores you got workin', Frankie?" he asked harshly, then slapped her across the face.

Frankie managed to prop herself up on one of her elbows. She stared at Apeman. "You dirty black sonofabitch!" she screamed. "I'll see that you pay for this." She spit straight into his face.

Apeman stood up and wiped the spit from his face with the back of his hand. Then he drew back his foot and kicked her in the side.

Before he could kick her again, a heavyset Negro woman ran up with some money in her hand. "Here, man," she yelled, pushing the money towards him. "Here's twenty-eight dollars; ain't but five of us girls working tonight and whatever I'm short of you can pick up later, just leave our man alone."

Apeman slowly stuck the money into his pocket and watched Frankie trying to get to her feet. As soon as she reached her knees, he kicked her brutally on the side of the head. "Next time, bitch, don't be telling people what you're going to do. If you got any kind of sense, you won't be late with your payments, 'cause if you are, I'm goin' knock all the gribbers off your ass."

Two young boys, notebooks in their hands, moved up and down the bar collecting money from the pimps and whores, while the "fearsome threesome" watched closely.

With the help of three of her girls, Frankie made her way out of the bar. One of the girls waved down a cab. At her apartment building, Frankie paused on the steps and waited for one of the girls to open the door. After they entered the apartment, she spoke to the girls. "You bitches get in the bedroom and stay there until I tell you to come out."

She picked up the phone and dialed long distance. "I want to speak to either Black Pete or Tommie Hall," she demanded when a masculine voice answered on the other end.

"This is Tommie speaking," the voice replied.

"This is Frankie, baby. I'm having a whole lot of trouble over here in this funky city, Tommie."

"Anytime a black bitch is as dirty as you, Frankie, she's supposed to have a lot of trouble, baby."

"I'm not bullshittin', Tommie. I'm in trouble and I need your help."

"How much money have you got, Frankie?"

"I got five hundred dollars I can put my hands on in the next five minutes."

"It's goin' cost you more than that, Frankie."

"Wait a minute, Tommie, this is me, baby. You don't even know what I want you to do yet."

"It don't make any difference, honey," he said coldly. "I know what's going on over there and I don't want no part of it."

"You mean you wouldn't come over here for an old friend like me?" she asked slowly.

"As much money as we got floating around Chicago right now, baby, I don't see why you don't just pack up and bring your ladies here. It would save you some money, besides the cash you'd have to pay me if I made the trip."

"I'm not worried about saving money. All I want to know is how much are you going to charge to make a hit on a punk over here for me?"

After a long pause, he replied. "For you, baby, I'd do it for fifteen hundred."

"What!" Frankie yelled. "How in the hell are you going to charge me like that? It ain't but one guy, baby. I don't want you to hit J. Edgar Hoover. Just one small-time punk, that's all."

"Listen, Frankie, and I'm not trying to snow you. If you wasn't such a good friend, I wouldn't take the job unless it paid three grand or more."

Tommie waited for a moment, listening to the silence on the other end of the line, then continued. "Dig, baby, I told you I knew what was going on over there. Alphonso showed up here two weeks ago and gave us the rundown on what Prince is doing, and I don't want no part of that stud if I can possibly help it."

"Okay, Tommie, when will you be here?"

"What about the money, when will I get it?"

"This ain't no game I'm playing; you'll get your money as soon as the job is done."

"All right, girl, me and a couple of the boys will drive over tonight, so have my money ready. I don't plan on being there no longer than a few hours."

Frankie held the receiver in her hands for a moment after Tommie had hung up. Then she walked over to the bedroom door and called her girls out. "All of you go back to work now. After you finish, stay with each other. I don't want none of you coming back here before this time tomorrow night, is that understood?"

"Okay, Frankie," one of the girls answered. "You sure you ain't goin' need anything before the morning?"

"Just do as I say," Frankie replied softly. After the last girl had gone out, she leaned on the door for a brief second, then walked over to the couch and stretched out, waiting patiently for the arrival of her friends.

Across town in another apartment, Prince listened quietly to his lieutenants. Preacher continued to argue his point. "I don't care what Danny says, Prince," he said loudly. "We catch pure hell trying to collect money from them whores in black bottom."

"That's bullshit," Danny snapped back. "Them whores on your turf pay off better than the welfare."

Preacher laughed, but his eyes were black chips. "You just don't understand, Danny. Last night some bulldyker tried to stab Apeman when he tried to collect."

"At least he can catch up with his whores and try and collect. Them fat bitches in my district change locations so much I don't know where to look for them most of the time." Danny spoke to Prince, seeking sympathy.

Prince walked over to the far end of the room and removed the cover from a large wall map. "Here's something that's goin' really make you holler, Danny. If you think you got troubles now...." He removed a pencil from his pocket and drew a line on the map. "You know that warehouse down by the waterfront that all those trucks pull in and out of?"

"You ain't talking about that big trucking company about a block from the waterfront, are you?" Danny asked

"That's right, Danny. Right around the corner from where Fatdaddy picks up his waterfront collections," Prince replied.

Danny stopped and stared at Prince for a moment. He seemed to be stifling an outburst. "Prince, if you're thinking what I'm thinking, it ain't goin' be nothing but trouble, man."

Prince smiled coldly. "You might be right, man. What I got on my mind is that you won't have far to send Fatdaddy to pick up the contributions from the trucking company."

"What you mean is that I won't have far to go to bury our pickup men, Prince. Stop and think on this, Prince," Danny urged desperately. "What you're talking about is going up against the Mafia. It ain't that them truckers is all that tough, Prince. It's the backing behind them. They ain't goin' stand still for no shakedown. Remember, man, we ain't goin' be shaking no truckin' company down, man, we goin' be shaking the Mafia down, and they ain't goin' for it."

He was saying what Prince had already thought about, but it didn't change his mind. He didn't believe anyone in his right mind would turn down his request. If the truckers wanted to keep their trucks rolling, they would pay up. It was impossible for them to refuse his demands and hope to stay in business. Prince walked over and picked his sports jacket up off a chair. "Don't worry about a thing," he said, appearing more confident than he actually was. "I've taken care of everything. By this time tomorrow night, we'll have one of the largest trucking companies in the city paying us protection dues."

"Have you heard from them yet?" Danny snorted.

Prince made his favorite motion of impatience. "Tomorrow night at the club, while we're paying off the other members, I'll personally show you the money that came from this big bunch of so-called gangsters." He stared at his men, unyielding, selfish, indomitable. He had chosen a path for them to follow, and they would follow, no matter what.

The next morning, Fatdaddy and Brute stood in the outer office of the trucking company waiting for the receptionist to come back and usher them in. "Damn," Brute exclaimed. "I wish we could have found Apeman."

The same thought was running through Fatdaddy's mind. He tried not to reveal his slight fear though, as he replied, "I believe the sonofabitch was in his room shacking up with some bitch."

"If he was, I'll make sure Prince racks his ass up for it," Brute answered, a bit nervously.

"I done got about just enough of this waiting shit," Fatdaddy snapped, more from fear than anger. At that instant, a small fat man came into the office. He nodded at the two young blacks, walked across the room, and entered a door marked "Private," without knocking.

"Shit!" Brute exclaimed. "If he can do that, so can we! Come on, Fatdaddy, ain't no sense in us waiting no goddamn longer!"

Fatdaddy grabbed Brute by the arm. He could feel his heart beating wildly. "Wait a minute, Brute. Maybe we ought to run over to the Roost and get a few more guys first."

Seeing his partner's fear, Brute gained courage from it. Had he mentioned getting help earlier, Brute would have quickly taken him up on it. Now, he wanted to show that he wasn't afraid.

"What the hell are you worried about, Fatdaddy? You got your pistol, besides a pair of brass knuckles, ain't you?"

Before they could decide on what to do, the inner office door opened and the secretary stepped out. She walked over to the coat rack and removed her coat. With a shake of her head, she motioned to the men to go in.

"You don't believe in being polite, do you?" Brute asked.

"Not to scum," she replied over her shoulder as she walked out the door.

"Bitch!" Brute yelled after her. They entered the inner office and stood near the door.

"Come over here," the small fat man ordered sharply. "We want to get a better look at you."

Sitting behind the desk was a tall slim man with a pencil-line mustache. As the two men moved to the middle of the room, he laughed. "Where's the other guy who's generally with you boys?" he asked in a heavy voice that was surprising from so thin a man.

The fat man pulled a notebook from his pocket. He thumbed through the pages, then pulled three pictures out. "He's asking about the big black one," he said, staring down at the pictures. "These punks call themselves `the big three,' Ed." He laughed harshly.

Brute and Fatdaddy stared at each other in amazement. "How in the hell did you know?" Brute asked, his voice belligerent.

The man called Ed stood up from behind the desk. "There is very little we don't know about you punks," he said drily, then added, "except what brings you here to my office."