Dead End Fix (24 page)

“Ebonie got a mouth on her?” Three Pop asked. “Start lettin' Spice here know about me and Rodisha?”

“Yes, sir. Your lady tell Miss Ebonie all about her worries. Let her know 'bout you and Spice havin' different ideas 'bout the future ways of the Pico. But them girls…That talkin' goes both ways. Rodisha come to hear that Spice tells Ebonie don't worry. One of two things gonna happen. Says he got Tank comin' up from Cali. Maybe Tank takes Three Pop's place as number two. Or might be Three Pop gonna change his mind and be right on board with takin' over everything that belong to the 97s. Ebonie tells Rodisha Spice got a plan.”

Kashawn looked up, desperate for a break in the tension between the two men. He focused on the tiles in the ceiling, counting them one by one. He reached seventy-two before Three Pop spoke again.

“So they killed Banjo. Made me think it was a 97.”

“That sound in line with what I was told.”

“Will somebody please shoot this motherfucker 97?” Spice's voice no longer held any threat as he gasped for breath. Three Pop reached one hand over, grabbed his wounded leader by the hair, and slammed his head onto the table.

Spice went silent.

“Rodisha told Ebonie 'bout our date? Ebonie let Spice know my brother would be alone?”

“That's how she told me. Said Ebonie had no idea killing Banjo was part of the plan. She heard Tank here tellin' Spice the deed was done. Said the two of them shared a laugh when Tank told about Banjo wearing your jacket. Said Banjo was makin' the job easier, what with folks thinkin' it was you who was the target and poor Banjo got it by mistake. At the time, Ebonie didn't know Banjo was just a kid. Didn't know he was your brother.”

“How long Rodisha know 'bout this?”

“She learned about it yesterday. I knew it wasn't any 97 took out Banjo. Truce was comin' up on its expiration. I put out fifty large to anyone who give me the name of the shooter. Ebonie been hiding since she hears 'bout things and figured out it was Tank and Spice took out Banjo. Lost her attraction for OGs real fast. Ebonie hears 'bout my offer, goes to Rodisha. Tells her what's what. Rodisha come to me last night. Scared as a rabbit. Worried 'bout you. Worried 'bout her friend.”

“Where they at now?”

“Rodisha, like I say, she a good girl. You know that. She tell me give the fifty large to Ebonie. Let her go start a new life. She gotta stay and care for you.”

Three Pop's face softened with concern. “You school her?”

D'Loco nodded. “Told her word bound to get out she told me what she knew. She be as dead as Ebonie if any Pico found her. Told her to get gone. That night. She cried like a baby at the thought of leavin' you.”

Three Pop looked away.

“I give her fifty large for Ebonie. Then I give her another fifty for herself.”

Three Pop brought his attention back to D'Loco. “I'ma get that back to you.”

“No need. You call off your men. We go back to the old territories. Our tab be settled. How that sound?”

Three Pop thought for several seconds. Then he stood and walked over to where Tank lay under the weight of J-Fox's boot. Three Pop pulled his gun from his belt. Neither J-Fox nor D'Loco made a move. Kashawn grabbed the arms of his chair and focused on the tension in his fingers.

Three Pop leaned down, bringing his face within inches of Tank's.

“Straight outta Compton. That right?” Three Pop spit in his eye.

Then he stood and pumped four straight shots into the Californian's head.

The smell of gunpowder joined the stench of blood and sweat already clouding the room. Kashawn breathed deep, trying to calm the gag reflex pulling at his throat.

Three Pop nodded to J-Fox before turning to D'Loco.

“You got nothin' to worry 'bout from my men. I didn't know nothin' 'bout Spice postin' them tonight. I'ma call 'em off. This ain't the Pico way.” He looked at his former leader, faintly roused by the sound of gunshots but still bent over with his head on the table.

“It's best you all leave now.” Three Pop stared at the groggy Spice. “What come next gonna take me a while.”

“Been six days without a body.” Jim DeVilla walked into Mort's office with a smile on his face. Bruiser jogged in behind him, focused on the pink pastry box in his master's hand. “I was all ready to say the war was over. Now we find two more.”

Mort poured himself a cup of coffee from the small pot behind his desk. “You want some?”

“Don't mind if I do.” Jim placed the doughnut box on Mort's desk. “Two jelly, two cinnamon, and two frosted cake. You wanna call Mick up here or should I?”

“Mick's with Doc Conner today. We got an ID on one of the bodies found this morning, but we haven't got a bead on the other. My hunch is she'll be all day down at the morgue.”

“Ever the dutiful public servant.” Jim took a bite of his doughnut and sat across from Mort's desk. “Unless the guy's in the database, my money says it'll be two months before we know who's on the slab. Nobody's gonna report him missing when he doesn't show up at Grandma's for Sunday dinner. Our only hope is he's been arrested before.”

Mort looked at his whiteboard. It was shaping up to be the biggest gang war in Seattle history. Eleven murder victims identified only by the locations where their bodies were found. All of them African American males. All found dead within a week of one another. The latest victims had been discovered by a street-cleaning crew just past midnight the night before in a drainage ditch north of Boeing Field. Mort and Lincoln Lane had met at the coroner's office at three thirty to get a look at the bodies. Preliminary estimates suggested they'd both been dead nearly a week. One body was still unidentified. That man had four bullets in his skull.

But when Doc Conner pulled back the sheet covering the second, Lincoln Lane let out a low whistle.

“Well, will you look at this?” Lane said. “It's the end of an era.”

They both could ID the corpse as Antwan Nevers, aka Spice. Head of the Pico Underground.

Mort added Nevers's name to the whiteboard, making his only the second body with a name attached.

The other name was Benji Jackson.

“I've sent a squad over to Sixteenth Street Pool House,” Mort said. “With Spice dead, let's see if Three Pop's ascended to the throne.”

“You see that as motive?” Jim asked.

Mort glanced again at his whiteboard, filled with victims but empty of suspects.

“I see it as something. And when you got nothing, something sounds pretty good.”

Mort walked into the interview room at 9:20. Three Pop was already seated.

“You see much of Spice these days?” Mort wasted no time on pleasantries.

Three Pop shook his head. “Haven't seen him in…must be a week or so now.”

Mort took a chair across a wooden table from his guest.

“Officers caught up with you at your dad's house. I must admit, that came as a surprise.”

Three Pop shrugged.

“I got the impression last time we were all in this room that you and your dad had some bad blood between you.”

Three Pop considered the question. “No tellin' with family, I guess. Just me and him now. Mama and Banjo gone.”

Mort felt a softening inside him at the mention of Benji Jackson's name.

“Spice is dead,” Mort said. “Been dead about a week now.”

Three Pop stared straight ahead.

“I tell you your leader winds up dead in a ditch and you got nothing more than a blink for me?”

Three Pop said nothing.

“Spice didn't go easy,” Mort continued. “Doc Conner said whoever did this took their time. Spice was shot a couple of times, neither in a place that would do much damage. Nineteen broken bones would cause a heap of hurt, though. But even that wouldn't kill him. Coroner said it was a crushed windpipe that done him in. Said it had the appearance of someone stomping on his throat again and again. Like someone was working out a rage. You got any ideas about that?”

Three Pop kept his gaze fixed on something Mort couldn't see.

“That leaves a vacancy in your organization. You were Spice's number two. You taking the reins now?”

Three Pop shook his head. “Ain't nothin' like that.”

“Then what's it like?”

Mort waited for the man to answer.

“You gonna hafta speak to some other somebody if you wanna know 'bout Pico business. I'm headed in a different direction.”

Mort hadn't been expecting that.

“What? You starting your own group now? Take what you learn at Spice's knee and start your own operation? That your plan?”

Three Pop turned an expressionless face toward Mort.

“Spice never taught me nothin' worth learnin'. And I don't spend time at nobody's knee.”

“Then allow me to rephrase the question. What's your next move?”

“As relates to…?”

“Don't play dumb with me, Three Pop. You've been a Pico since long before your daddy discovered he'd lost control of you. This city's got a gang war on its hands. Picos versus 97s. The head of the Pico winds up dead and you tell me you know nothing about that?”

Three Pop's face became a blank canvas again. “If there's a war, maybe you oughta start there. Leave me out of it.”

Mort felt like the young man wanted to tell him more. He tried a different tack.

“Who's been running the Pico this past week?”

“What happen at Pico no longer any of my concern.”

Mort watched the man in front of him. Three Pop was twenty-two years old. At an age other boys were experiencing their last year or two in college, Three Pop had served as lieutenant to the leader of one of the largest gangs in the city. He had already lost his mother to cancer of the body and his little brother to the cancer of the streets.

“Talk to me, son.”

Three Pop glanced up at the clock. “I been here nearly forty minutes. I got no answers for you. You tell me Spice is dead, I got to believe it. You ask me about the Pico, I tell you I have nothin' to do with that no more. You can ask me again and I'll tell you the same. So we gonna keep sittin' here or what?”

Mort considered his options. He had nothing to hold the man on. Three Pop wasn't going to give him anything. He stood and walked to the door.

“We're going to be watching you, Three Pop.”

The young man stood, walked over, and shook Mort's hand. “I appreciate that. I'ma count on you watchin' me. Maybe that enough to keep me doin' what I need to. What I want to. But next time you talk to me, you gonna have to call me Bayonne. I'm not answering to Three Pop no more.”

Mort held his gaze. He saw a plea in the young man's eyes. A flicker of something that looked like hope. And as Bayonne Jackson turned to walk out the door, Mort saw something else.

The bottom tear tattooed on Bayonne's cheek was filled in.

It was nearly ten o'clock at night when Kashawn pulled his car into the graveled-over backyard that served as the parking lot for the 97s' clubhouse. He'd been gone all day. Hadn't even shared breakfast with his brothers. Instead he woke up, showered, shoved all his clothes—shoes, underwear, everything—into a giant black trash bag he'd grabbed from the kitchen, took the two big envelopes holding the cash he'd earned from working his corner, and left the house before the sun came up. He didn't know where he was headed. He only knew he couldn't take being cut off from D'Loco one minute longer.

It had been four days since the meeting with the Picos. Four days since D'Loco had let that Pico know it wasn't any 97 who killed his brother; it was his own leader. Spice had sent Tank to kill that kid to trick Three Pop into going to war with the 97s.

Just goes to show you,
Kashawn thought.
Ain't no good Pico nowhere on this earth. A man got to trust his brothers. Got to trust his leader most of all. Must be dogs eatin' dogs over at that Pico camp. Nothin' like what we got goin' on here at 97.

Four days since the beginning of what Kashawn had come to think of as his second life. He had been prepared to die that night. Ready to have D'Loco deliver him to Spice as the man who killed Three Pop's brother.

But D'Loco find a way to save me. I got me a leader who protects me from death. That's a man a brother could die for right there.

Four days since D'Loco had spoken to him.

They'd arrived back at the clubhouse after their meeting with Spice and Three Pop. After Kashawn watched Three Pop put four bullets into the head of that Pico from California. D'Loco and J-Fox walked into the clubhouse with grins so wide Kashawn was afraid their faces would break. D'Loco announced the war was over. Every 97 could go back to work the next morning free of worry about any harm coming to them. D'Loco joked about riding everyone's ass to make up the revenue lost during the war with the Picos. His announcement kicked off an impromptu party. The music got loud. Bottles of liquor appeared. Bowls of marijuana passed hands.

And D'Loco acted like Kashawn was the invisible man.

So this morning Kashawn got on Interstate 5 and headed south. He pulled off in Renton. Had himself some breakfast in a Denny's across from a strip mall. But the eggs were too runny and the coffee was weak as water. Nothing like the breakfasts waiting for him every morning at the clubhouse. He got back in his car and headed south again.

It was almost nine o'clock when he saw the exit signs for Tacoma. The town meant nothing to him, but when he saw a giant wooden dome painted with blue triangles, he decided to take the exit and have a look. Kashawn spent more than an hour walking around, telling himself there had to be something interesting in a town that had such a big upside-down wooden bowl.

Then he got back in his car.

About ten miles south of Olympia he saw a sign for Millersylvania State Park and decided to stretch his legs. He walked on paths littered with pine needles. He inhaled the scent of burning campfires and missed the aromas of the city. He sat on a picnic bench and watched a group of squirrels scamper across open grass before winding their circular climb up the trunks of trees.

He stopped in Centralia. White folks stared at him while he pumped his gas. He went inside to pay, and a fat guy wearing a name badge announcing he was Shift Manager Gary came to stand behind the skinny blond woman with meth-rotted teeth working the register.

“Where's a place a guy could get hisself a good meal?” Kashawn asked her.

Gary answered for her. “Portland.”

Kashawn kept driving. The sun made intermittent appearances behind high clouds. He was happy it wasn't raining. He saw a sign announcing the bridge crossing the Columbia River into Oregon was twelve miles away and realized in a few minutes he could be out of the only state he'd ever been in.

But what's waitin' for me in Oregon?

Kashawn thought of Ettie, his mother, who had held him for a few moments before letting him go. Did she ever get out of Washington? Did she have something waiting somewhere for her? He followed the signs promising a scenic overlook, parked in the lot, and watched the traffic on the mighty river from his front seat as powerful winds shook his car. He heard a knock on his window and realized he'd been there nearly an hour.

“Yes, officer?” he said when he rolled down his window.

“You got some ID?” A broad-shouldered patrolman scanned the backseat of Kashawn's car. “License? Registration for this vehicle?”

Kashawn handed the man the documents he'd requested. He kept his hands on the steering wheel, ten o'clock and six o'clock. Just like J-Fox had taught him during the driving lessons.

“Never look a cop in the eye,” J-Fox said. “Makes their trigger finger itch. Keep your hands where they can see 'em. Always. Use your church manners. ‘Yes sir.' ‘No sir.' Shit like that. You do that, worst that happens is you get arrested. That comes, call home. We got you. But you get your heat up with a cop, you likely to end up dead. And there's nothin' we can do 'bout that.”

“You're a long way from home, boy.” The officer opened Kashawn's door and asked him to step out of the car. Kashawn kept his eyes down and complied.

“There a reason you're not in school?”

Kashawn shook his head. “Takin' a day off, I guess.”

“So you decided to come all the way down from Seattle?” The policeman scanned Kashawn head to toe. “If I was to pat you down, would I find any weapons? Any sharp objects? Anything you might not want me to find?”

“No, sir.” Kashawn had left his gun back at the clubhouse. It was a gift from D'Loco, and Kashawn had packed only what he'd purchased himself.

The officer ordered Kashawn to hold his arms out and widen his stance. Kashawn obeyed and glanced to his left. A white man and woman hurried three children into their car while keeping an eye on what was happening.

“Open your trunk,” the policeman demanded.

Kashawn walked to the back of his car and did as he was told.

“What's this?”

“That's my stuff. Clothes, shoes.”

“You got a receipt for these things?” The officer rifled through the trash bag.

“A receipt? For my stuff?” Kashawn's anger clenched at his chest. But he remembered J-Fox's warning. “No, sir. This here's my clothing. My belongings. I don't have any receipts, sir. But they're all mine.”

The cop shoved aside mats and a battery charger. He picked up a blanket Kashawn had forgotten he'd put there and checked underneath. Finally the policeman closed the trunk.

“You runnin' away from home, boy?”

“No, sir. Just out for the day is all.”

The officer stood with his hands on his hips. Kashawn kept his eyes on the man's scuffed shoes.

“This here's a family place,” the policeman said. “Tourists come for the view. Folks teach their kids about erosion and salmon. Lewis and Clark. Shit like that. We don't need the likes of you making their time here less wholesome. Now, tell you what. I could run you in. Hold you until a social worker or truant officer comes for you. But that's going to take a lot of paperwork, which I frankly do not have time for. So if you get in your car, turn it around, and drive yourself back to whatever hood or crib or what-the-fuck you come from, I'll just watch you drive on. How's that?”

Kashawn felt small. Weak. Scared. All the things he'd promised himself he'd never have to feel again once he wore the 97 blue.

“Yes, sir.” He hesitated before taking a step. “Can I have my license back? Please, sir?”

The officer handed Kashawn his documents and told him his patience wouldn't last forever. Kashawn thanked him, got in his car, and headed toward the northbound highway ramp. Traffic was heavy once he passed Olympia. Kashawn had nearly four hours on the road to marinate in his humiliation before he pulled into the 97s' driveway. He grabbed his bag of belongings from his trunk and hauled them up the stairs to his room.

Forty minutes later there was a knock on the door. Kashawn pulled himself from his bed, opened the door, and staggered back a step when he saw his visitor.

D'Loco walked into Kashawn's room and closed the door behind him. “Been lookin' for you since just past noon.”

A wave of relief washed over Kashawn. “Been out drivin' is all. You want me, my cell's workin'. I'da been right here if I knew you wanted me.”

“I know that.” D'Loco looked around the room. “Where that tiger at?”

Kashawn glanced at the blank spot on the wall where his art had hung. He hoped the blanket was wrapped around LaTonya's shoulders right now. Maybe she was up studying late and was cold.

“I got rid of it. Didn't suit me no more.”

D'Loco stepped to the bathroom and looked inside. “Not feelin' like a big cat no more? That it?”

Kashawn hung his head.

“You got plans, boy?” D'Loco asked.

Kashawn's heart pounded. Fear closed his throat. An image of a doorway in an alley behind that bank down on Nineteenth flashed in his mind. He wondered if somebody new had begun to sleep there. He liked that doorway. It sat high, up out of the rain.

“I asked you a question.” D'Loco's voice was low and firm. “You lied to me when you came here. Got no time for more. Tell me the truth. Straight up. You got plans?”

Kashawn shook his head.

“You know I can't have you workin' for me no more.”

Kashawn nodded.

“You got a tongue, boy? Tell me what you understand 'bout you not bein' able to work for me.”

It took a while for Kashawn's voice to work. “I lied to you. I told you I killed that kid. Thinkin' he was a Pico. Thinkin' it could get me into the 97s. There's no trust now. You can't use somebody you can't trust. That's what I understand.”

D'Loco was quiet for a long time.

“You wrong,” he finally said. “I'm about to say
dead wrong,
but there been nuff a that these days.”

Kashawn dared to look his leader in the eye, but only for a fleeting moment.

“My reasons for you not workin' for me got nothin' to do with trust. Hell, son. I trust you. Ain't one minute since you come to us you ain't done what I told you to do or been where I told you to be. Even the last time. You thinkin'
this is the end
and I'ma offer you up to the Pico. Still you show up right on time. Do exactly what I tell you to do. You worked that corner and brought home every penny. Straight to me. Every time. No, sir. This got nothin' to do with trust.”

Kashawn blinked away a tear. Somehow knowing D'Loco saw his loyalty was enough. He'd sleep easy now. Dry doorway or no. The leader of the 97s knew Kashawn Meadows was a man of his word.

You hear that, Ettie? That some respect right there.

“I can't have you workin' for me cuz this ain't you. You ain't this. You feelin' me?”

Kashawn swallowed hard. “No. Like you said. You ask me somethin', I'ma do it. No matter what. Till blood. Till jail. Till death. I'm a 97 to the core.”

D'Loco's voice grew firmer. “No. You're not. I'm the person who decides who's 97 and who's not. From this moment, you no longer Green K. You no longer 97. That's my word.”

Kashawn looked away. He felt broken. He wondered how long he'd be able to stand up on bones that no longer seemed of service.

“You no longer 97.” D'Loco's voice was softer now. “But I know you a loyal sumbitch. And that means somethin'. You got a place you can go?”

Kashawn's voice was weak. “I'ma be fine.”

“That's not what I asked you, boy. You got a home? Maybe a mama? Foster?”

Kashawn shook his head. “But I didn't have no home before I came here. Made do all right. I'ma be fine.”

Kashawn wondered if the time D'Loco spent in silence was meant to torture him.

“I'ma do somethin' 'bout that loyalty,” D'Loco said. “You and I gonna enter into a pact. You know what I mean by that word?”

Kashawn nodded.

“Just you and me. No one knows. Not any of the brothers. Not any of the ladies. No one. You feel that?”

Kashawn nodded again.

“How long till you turn eighteen?”

Kashawn did a quick calculation. “Nine months, about. August fourteenth is my birthday.”

“Nine months, then. You gonna stay here.”

A flush of hope warmed Kashawn in an instant.

“You gonna study your ass off,” D'Loco continued. “You gonna take your high school test and pass on the first try. You hear me? You gonna pass on the
first
try. No do-overs. No excuse.”

Kashawn nodded.

“You don't pass on the first try, you out of my house that day. You understand?”

“I do.”

“I'ma tell the brothers a story. I'ma tell 'em I'm shippin' you off to the military. They gonna see you study hard and know you gettin' ready for the recruiter. I'ma tell the brothers you gonna learn all you can. Hand-to-hand combat. Navy SEAL kung fu. War plans. Shit like that. I'ma say you gonna come back and teach us everything you learn. Make 97 the leanest, meanest fightin' group in six states.”

“I can do that.”

“You can do what I tell you, that's what you can do. You got a preference?”

“For what?”

“For military, that's what. You see yourself as a sailor boy? Maybe one of them dressed-up marines, lookin' all fine?”

Kashawn thought fast. He remembered a television commercial he'd seen once. People jumping out of airplanes.

“Army. I want to be in the army.”

D'Loco nodded. “Then that's what I'ma tell the boys. You studyin' to be in the army. You gonna be the best damn army man they ever saw. You gonna come back and teach us all that stuff. You got it?”