Black Gangster (7 page)

Ruby rolled back into his arms while he talked. "After you're finished with that, Roman," he continued, "you call down to the warehouse and have the boys send over five hot cars for immediate use. Make the drivers put on their jackets. I want the whole city to know that the Rulers are making this hit."

"Okay," Roman finally agreed, "but just who in hell am I going to use to fill up those five cars? There ain't enough guys in the Rulers free."

"Don't worry," Prince answered, "I've taken care of all that. Send Little Larry up to Ed's Drive-in on the Heights. Steve and that gang of rich punks he runs with will fill up one of the cars."

"Ain't you kind of leery of those white kids, Prince?" Ruby asked. "You know the first time something goes wrong, they'll tell everything they know."

"Don't worry, honey. For one thing, the people they deal with all have nicknames, plus most of the business is transacted over the phone. I'm keepin' them 'woods so far in the dark, they won't be able to bust each other."

He grinned up at Roman. "Oh, yeah, Roman, I almost forgot. I'm having fifty silk suits dropped off at the Roost tonight. The merchants on the west side sent them to us to show their appreciation for our protection, so keep somebody there to look out for them, baby."

Prince moved his arm down Ruby's back, causing the sheet to slide and leave her partly revealed. "Send two cars down to black bottom to pick up Preacher and some of his bunch," Prince ordered. He bent down and ran his tongue in and out of Ruby's mouth playfully. "Send the last two cars over to Danny," he directed, as he ran his tongue around her neck. He stopped suddenly and sat up in the bed. "Roman, are you sure this guy deals from the rear of Downbeat Poolroom?"

"He not only deals from there, Prince, but he pays guys to sit up in the front window and mash a button they got rigged up whenever trouble shows up."

"So you really think this Alfonso is going to fight, huh?" Prince asked softly.

"There ain't no doubt about that part of it," Roman replied. "Alfonso ain't scared.

Prince's voice turned harsh. "I don't give a damn if he does fight, you just have those five carloads of punks piling out and into that damn poolroom at six o'clock sharp. You'll have Fatdaddy, Apeman, and Brute leading the way, so you shouldn't have any trouble. You tell them three big bastards that I said I want them to go after Alfonso personally. You make sure there ain't no mistakes, Roman, even if you have to be there yourself."

"I'll handle everything," Roman replied uneasily. A lot would depend on what happened this evening. Even his position of second in command.

Ruby lit a cigarette for Prince. "Tell Brute for me," she said, "to carve my initials in that punk's face." She laughed harshly.

"I'll tell him," Roman answered gloomily as he walked towards the door. Prince's laughter followed him into the hall as the door closed behind him.

Prince turned and crushed Ruby's lips to his own in a brutal embrace. Nothing else mattered for the next few minutes except her body, which cried for his caressing hands, though they hurt her in the urgency of his own aroused desire. She twisted and met him halfway. Small animal sounds escaped her as he gripped her tightly. Their breathing became harsh, the sounds loud in the spacious room. With an abrupt scream, she attempted to slip from his grip, but he held her tightly until he reached his peak. Her moans of joy changed to words of endearment as he slipped from her sweaty body and stretched out beside her.

The shrill sound of the phone ringing forced Prince to move. He picked up the receiver. "Yeah, Shortman," he said as he recognized the voice. He listened silently for a minute.

"Listen, man, I put you on that job because I thought you could take care of it," Prince said sharply into the receiver. "If you got that many customers, man, you can't ignore them to take care of just one. I don't care if he does want two hundred gallons. What you got to do is split up whatever whiskey you got, Shortman. Make sure all your customers get some of it. Give the guy who wants the two hundred as much as you can, but be sure to take care of the rest of the people." Prince slammed the telephone down in disgust.

"I got to think for everybody," he sighed, then stretched out on the bed next to Ruby.

She rubbed her hand across his forehead. "Everything will work out all right, honey."

"Yeah, baby," he replied, sarcasm in his voice. "Just like it worked out when they brought me that goddamn broken-down baseball player. I asked everybody to try and find me a fuckin' man I could build an organization around, and what do they come up with?" He answered his own question. "A goddamn brokendown ballplayer."

"Okay, daddy, you ain't got to repeat yourself ten times before I get the message. The only thing I don't understand, Prince, is what was wrong with the ballplayer. He was black, intelligent, plus he'd been to college. What else could you ask for? That's what you wanted, someone with an education behind him."

Prince looked up at her as she rested on her elbows, staring at him curiously. He smiled briefly; she was so lovely that at times she almost took his breath away, with her delicate, cameo-perfect features. She returned his stare with widening brown eyes. He ran his hands over her honey-colored arms until she drew back with a laugh.

"Stop, baby. I know what that's leading up to. First, explain to me why you don't want the man."

He pulled her down and kissed her slowly. Ruby finally managed to slip out of his grip. "Is that the only answer you're going to give me?" she asked. Her voice sounded like music.

Prince laughed lightly. "Okay, baby." He released her arm. "Dig this now. First, if we used the ballplayer, we wouldn't be able to control him. The man has got too much pull, baby. He's still tight with different honkies that got pull. Just because he was in that car accident, it didn't break off his contacts. He still goes to functions that are slanted towards Whitey. He gets coverage in the newspaper whenever he opens his goddamn mouth on anything."

Prince held up his hand, cutting her off. "I know, it sounds like that's what we need, but it's not. If we could control him, yes, but since we can't, no. He gets ballplayer insurance for his accident, so he's not dependent on us for money. What we need, and what we must have, is an angry black man who needs cash money. Do you understand what I mean? If we get one dependent on us for money, we can manipulate him like we want to. Not like he wants to." His voice had risen slightly.

"Okay, I understand now," Ruby replied. "You know, Prince, I was just thinking."

"I'll bet!" he replied quickly, rubbing her arm.

Ruby pulled away. "Prince, seriously now. Have you given it any thought about being the head leader of this thing you want to get started?" She rushed on before he could answer. "You're black, tall, too, so all you'd have to do would be to let your hair grow out longer. You know what I mean, let your natural get that look that Whitey thinks all militant brothers wear." She stopped hesitantly, then continued. "You can speak in front of a crowd of people, so that ain't no problem."

Prince gave her a startled glance, but it was instantly obliterated by his usual self-contained smile. "I've got too many things to take care of now, honey. Where in the fuck would I have time to organize and lead a black militant group?"

"You could do it if you tried," she replied wryly. "Just think a minute, Prince. If you were the leader, you would always have an excuse for whatever happened."

He had already thought about it. The only trouble now was how to accept the idea without giving her too much credit for coming up with it. He had thought about taking over the leadership of his future militant organization on many occasions but had denied himself the opportunity because of the work involved. Now, since Ruby had brought the matter up, he was sure he could work out a solution just by giving her a lot of the work.

"I'll tell you what, honey. I'll let you take care of getting the hall rented for our first meeting, plus getting everybody lined up. If you have any trouble, come to me."

Ruby stared at him with respect as he began to outline her duties. She listened to him closely as he explained step by step what had to be done. As the beauty of his plan began to unfold, she had to force herself to smother a smile. Her ultimate interests were nearly as ambitious as his were, but as she listened to Prince she realized he was opening avenues she had never imagined possible.

As Roman left the apartment, his steps were uncertain and wavering. He realized that he would have to carry out Prince's plans, but of one thing he was sure. No matter what happened, he would not be one of the actual participants. There was no way for him to avoid the fact, he reasoned coldly, that he was frightened to death of some of Prince's grand schemes. There was logic in most of them, he admitted, but he wasn't fooled. Prince was using them all as though they were chess pieces. Roman was aware that he was not being used as a pawn, not even as a knight or rook. Prince had reserved a special slot for him. He was being used as the strong piece on the board, the dominating queen. Before the king could fall, which Prince considered himself, the queen would more than likely be toppled; but the fact still remained that the queen would be given up to protect the king.

Roman started the car up and drove slowly across town towards the warehouse. He glanced at his watch, still deep in thought. It would take a lot of arrests before either Prince or himself became vulnerable, but he decided to make sure there were more people than even Prince had thought about in front of him. He stopped at a phone booth. Better to deal through a phone, he decided, and called Preacher. In a matter of minutes he had given Preacher all the responsibility for the hit.

He walked back to the car, smoking nervously. He wondered what his woman was doing. He decided to drive over to his apartment and wait there for the results of the orders he had passed on. If everything went off as he planned, he had nothing to worry about. If it didn't, well, he'd worry about that when it came up. The idea of what had happened to Square Dave flashed through his mind and he shivered from a cold stab of fear.

The afternoon traffic was beginning to get heavy so he drove faster, almost running a red light. He forced himself to slow down. Dot would be there when he got home, he told himself, but he realized instantly that he didn't care if she was there or not. What he was terrified about was the thought of what he had set in motion.

The "big three," led by Brute, stepped out of a cab at the same instant as a black sedan with six young men in it pulled up to the curb. The evening sun shining in the distance seemed to grow dimmer before the formidable sight of the hoodlums. A young kid not yet in his teens stopped in front of Brute and said, "I got a bus on the phone to block up one end of this street. Which end?"

Fatdaddy grinned at the kid. "Take your boys and block up that end," he said and pointed his finger to the south. The kid waved his arm as he went down the street; in seconds he was joined by twenty more kids his age, all wearing turtleneck sweaters.

"I'll bet not one of them is thirteen yet," Fatdaddy said to no one in particular.

Apeman turned and motioned to the four cars that pulled up by the first one. "Take your bunch and block off that end, Danny, since that bunch of kids are handling the other end. You make sure don't no fuckin' cops get close enough until we get finished."

To the idle bystanders in front of the poolroom, the street seemed to erupt with tough hoodlums carrying chains and wearing brass knuckles. When the mass of thugs bore down on them, one tall, scrawny kid turned and ran into the poolroom, giving alarm to the toughs inside. The small group in the poolroom broke up and ran in different directions. Before they could fully arm themselves with pool sticks and cue balls, the mob, led by Apeman, burst through the front door. The lookout man stepped on the alarm buzzer a second before Apeman leaped the counter.

"You bastard you!" Apeman grunted. He swung and shattered the man's teeth with a handful of brass knuckles.

"Ough, ough, oh my God!" the lookout man screamed as he covered his bloody mouth with his hand. Another blow to the head sent him sprawling to the floor.

Brute and Fatdaddy fought their way to the back room, leaving in their wake a trail of human wreckage from the tire irons they swung.

Preacher fell to the floor from a blow from a cue stick. "Goddamnit!" he cursed, as he rolled under the nearest table.

The scrawny kid who had given the alarm was on the floor shrieking, his mouth a gaping, bloody hole. Apeman continued to rain blows upon him. In panic, the boy rolled under the nearest pool table, unfortunately right next to Preacher.

"Well, well," Preacher said as his hand flashed under his coat and came out with his razor. He lashed out, slashing the boy across the neck. Blood gushed from the open wound in the kid's neck, and a scream died in his throat.

At the sight of what he had done, panic welled up inside of Preacher. He stared out at the struggling forms, waiting for an opportunity to escape. He glanced at the dead kid once more.

Somewhere amid the fighting men, someone was weeping. The sound seemed to fill the small confines of the filthy poolroom. The cigar butts and cigarettes that littered the floor now had something to swim around in. Blood. Pools of it.

Preacher made his escape quickly, not bothering to look back.

Brute ran around the end pool table and kicked savagely against the back room door. Fatdaddy, running up, took the door off its hinges with a powerful lunge. Leaping across Fatdaddy's prone figure, Brute stopped and looked around the empty room.

"Don't stand there lookin' stupid," Fatdaddy roared as he jumped to his feet. "Out the back way, damn it!"

"Goddamn, there's punks lying all over the place," Brute said, glancing over Fatdaddy's shoulder. "We got to get the fuck away from here," he cried in near panic.

"Just be cool," Fatdaddy cautioned, snatching a quick look at the poolroom. "All we got to do is walk out the back door and stroll down the alley. Make sure you wipe your prints off that tire iron, Brute."