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  “Y'all have been out there serving that shit like it was legal. I must admit it was a good operation, but you boys forgot that you were less than a thousand feet from a school. Tsk, tsk. I've seen the paperwork on this one. They are going to lose you guys in the system—the whole crew. That is except for the big mouths that they've already flipped. Yeah, that's right. It's amazing just how much the thuggiest nigga will tell when he faced with all that time. A thousand months at least is a guarantee on this one. Your boss Diego is lucky he got killed. They were going after him on a kingpin beef. That means they could execute him. The rest of you guys they just wanted to park for the rest of your natural life.”

  Suddenly Lonnie felt sick and it didn't have anything to do with his bullet wound.

  Without looking up from her game, Winters moved in for the kill. “Now before you start talking that innocent shit, think about this. You need me. I can make this thing with the feds go away. And I'm the only one that can do it. But you've got to scratch my back before I can scratch yours. If I get the name of the shooter, the feds will forget they ever heard of you. If I don't, you can look forward to life in the fed pen. But we can avoid all that if you give me a name and run down the whole scene to me. You can't incriminate yourself because we need you to testify against this asshole.”

  Lonnie was sweating. Everything Detective Winters said dropped on him like an anvil. Drug indictments of the sort she mentioned were numerous in the ghetto, but he never thought he would see the day his name was on one of those lists. It was a given he didn't want to sit in the joint for the rest of his days. The choices she gave him really weren't choices at all; no matter how cleverly she disguised them, they were ultimatums.

  “I'll tell you whatever you want,” Lonnie conceded, sensing this was one jam he couldn't bluff his way out of. “I'll give you this stud's name, but you got to hold me down. I know all about this cat—where he lay his head and all that. Just give me a minute to think this shit over.”

  “Okay,” Winters said, adjusting the straps of her shoulder holster as she left the room. It was all she could do to hide her smile of triumph.

  If Lonnie would have seen the smile on her lips, his ghetto instinct could have warned him against trusting her. It didn't take long for him to mull over the situation. He really didn't have any alternative but to tell her the truth.

  “Detective Winters!” he called out in a slightly, shaky voice.

  Winters peeked into the room. “You ready to let me know something? Or are you still wasting my time?”

  “Is you sure the feds gone forget about me?” Lonnie asked.

  Winters stepped into the room and shut the door. “As sure as my asshole points toward the ground.”

  “Alright, the nigga name is Donald Haskill. They call him Don-Don or Don. He stay over on 64th and Langley. The house number is 6417.”

  Winters pulled a small notebook and pen out of her pocket and flipped it open. “I got the name. How's about a description?”

  “He 'bout six feet, I think. Caramel complexion. No real face hair with short, wavy hair on his head. I'd say the nigga wear about 160 pounds.”

  “That's good enough. Now tell me what happened in that backyard and don't lie. We already know that it was drug related.”

  Lonnie took a sip of water. “The shit went down like this. Don called Diego and told my man he had a slab of some good shit for sale. We checked it out and the shit was super-tight, so we agreed to buy it for twenty gees. He told us to meet him at the building at twelve that night and bring the scratch. When we got there it looked like everything was straight. We made the buy and we was about to leave when Don grabbed Sajak and blew his brains out. Next he shot me in the stomach, then I guess he killed Diego.”

  “You're lying,” Winters said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  “Huh?”

  “I said you're lying. First off, we found a shotgun with Sajak's prints all over it in the garage. It hadn't been fired. The slug that we dug out of Diego and the one out of your stomach didn't match the one from Sajak. We found your gun with your prints and blood all over it. Also there was gunpowder residue on your hands. We know that either you or Diego shot Sajak. From what we could patch together it looks like you guys tried to rob this kid. All the time, you smart guys underestimated him.” Detective Winters stood, buttoned her blazer, and headed for the door. “Thanks for your cooperation. We'll be in touch.”

  “That's all!” Lonnie shouted. “I spill my motherfucking guts and that's all! How I'm gone know if you cleared my damn name! Come back here! This shit ain't right!”

  His words fell on deaf ears. As Winters walked to the elevator she could still hear Lonnie ranting and raving. In the cafeteria she purchased a cup of coffee and sat with her partner.

  Carson folded the Tribune he had been reading and waited for his partner to speak.

  Winters blew on the cup of steaming coffee. “Hold on to your shirt. The kid we're looking for about that fire is really popular. Lonnie says that Don shot him and killed our two victims. We know that's a lie. The kid had to be the one that did Diego, though. Little asshole is up there lying his ass off.”

  “Shit!” Carson exclaimed. “One kid did all that in one night. He was pretty busy. There must have been some serious money involved.”

  “Yeah, twenty thousand and a kilo of coke. It was the kid's coke. From Lonnie's story and the way it was laid out, they tried to rob the kid and he outsmarted them. He must have had some help, but Lonnie didn't mention it. Don't forget about the girl that was hit by the truck by the house fire. It was coke all over the ground. Not enough to get much of anything for the lab, but the wrapping let us know it had to be a kilo. I'm thinking that the girl had his drugs too. She gets chased out into traffic by him. He's trying to get his drugs or kill her or both. Tow truck hits her, that's the end of that kilo. I don't think it was the same kilo that they tried to rob him for. I think it was another kilo. That makes two kilos. Two kilos, twenty-thousand bucks, and Don-Don. I can see why this kid was on the warpath. It looks like he was being crossed out of his drugs from all sides.”

  Carson shook his head. “You had to do something special to get that out of the kid. What did you do, promise the little punk your hand in marriage?”

  “It didn't take all that. I simply told the little punk about the feds’ case against him and his friends. I told him I could get his name off the feds’ list.”

  Carson looked confused. “What case are you talking about?”

  “The one I made up.”

  “And he fell for that shit?” Carson asked, chuckling heartily. “Damn, Winters, I'm proud of you. You're getting downright sneaky.”

  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 offere
d 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.

  16

  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 s
hot 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.