Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  Chisholm offered a handshake. “Detective,” he said.

  Aiden had to switch his glasses from his right hand to the left, a clear indication he had not planned on greeting Chisholm with the same affection. Nonetheless, he did. “Councilman,” Aiden answered as they shook.

  “I just wanted to see how you’re coming on this barbershop case,” Chisholm said.

  “We’re following up on some leads,” Aiden said as he closed the screen on his computer.

  “Oh yeah? So you have suspects?” Chisholm asked. Other detectives on the night shift started listening. One guy started smiling and gesturing at Aiden. With a straight face Aiden continued not answering questions.

  “Sure,” he said. Aiden sat down and started reviewing folders.

  “What happened when you talked to Fats Harrington?” Chisholm asked. Aiden stopped and stared.

  “How do you know we talked to Fats Harrington?” Aiden asked.

  “Oh, I just figured you did, considering his association with the victim.”

  Aiden stood up and asked, “Is there anything else I can help you with, Councilman?”

  Chisholm put his palms up and said, “I’m just trying to help. If there’s anything my office can do, just let me know.”

  Aiden nodded his head and went back to his folders. “No offense, but I doubt there’s anything you can do to help me solve a murder.”

  Chisholm nodded his head and started walking away. After a few paces he turned around and walked back to Aiden’s cubicle. He sat down.

  Aiden studied him for a moment and then sat down across from him. Chisholm started off slow and low. He said, “I know this is a very important case…”

  “It’s no more important than the other 200 murders on that wall over there,” Aiden interrupted. He pointed to a whiteboard full of names in red and black ink. “What makes this one more important than one of my other cases? Because he was a boxer the councilman comes to my desk?”

  “Look…” Chisholm said.

  “In your ward, I got Maria Alvarez, 32, two kids, strangled to death by an unknown assailant while estranged from her husband. Michael Covert, 19 years old, shot to death while sitting in his car. Why didn’t you come down here for them?”

  “Look, I’m just trying to help you,” Chisholm said.

  “James Miller, 56 years-old, shot seven times in an alley off of Monticello.”

  “Look, if you need me, I mean, if you need my office, to help you on some of these others, I’m glad to do so. No problem.”

  “Politicians don’t solve crimes,” Aiden said.

  “I know.”

  “Politicians don’t have plans that lower murder rates.”

  “You’re right.”

  “Nerds and suits don’t understand the streets. It's cool to tell voters lies, but in here we have to deal in facts and evidence.”

  He was stuffing the sketch into a folder away from Chisholm when the man continued.

  “And I’m saying that if you are hesitating on investigating Fats Harrington because you fear retribution from the mayor then I got your back.”

  “You got my back?” Aiden smirked.

  “Yes.”

  “Who said I was afraid to investigate Fats Harrington... because of some fear of the mayor?” Aiden asked.

  “No one--”

  “So, what are you talking about…councilmember?”

  “I’m just supposing, because they’re such good friends…the mayor has his birthday party there every year, all of his major functions… I can see how someone may be leery of investigating the mayor’s good friends.”

  “So, you want me to throw mud on Fats Harrington to make the mayor look dubious?”

  “Dubious,” Chisholm chuckled. “No detective, I want you to find whoever is responsible for this crime.”

  “Right. Well, I’m busy doing that right now, so…” Aiden stood up and Chisholm took his cue.

  Chisholm said, “Thanks for your time,” as he walked away with his entourage. Aiden shook his head, exhaled, and sat back down to his desk. “Fuck that,” he said.

  He snapped pictures of the sketches and sent them to Brooks and Taylor. He texted, “Gillespie won’t let me show these to the media, but I think this is what our shooter looks like”.

  Taylor sent a text message that read, “He looks like the person Candace Holmes described.”

  Aiden made a call.

  “What’s up?”

  “You tell me? I haven’t heard from you?” You got the cash?”

  “Yeah, I had a lot of rippin and runnin to do today. Where do you live?”

  “Nah, meet me at Big Boys Nightclub in an hour.”

  “What?”

  “I have some business there and we can meet in the parking lot,” Aiden said.

  “Whatever, man”.

  Chapter 12: The party

  Saturday 10pm

  T errance parked a few streets over from the club on West Virginia Avenue. The neighborhood residents charged the clubgoers $5 to park on their street. Whoever didn’t pay, would come out of the club at the end of the night to find flat tires, broken windows or spray paint all over their car.

  The Ivy City neighborhood historically had one of the lowest voter turnouts in the city so it got stuck with nightclubs, strip joints, bus garages, warehouses, and now medical marijuana dispensaries. The residents who had jobs knew to get home before Big Boys started Happy Hour. T gave a wino a ten spot – it was the first time he had tipped anyone in his life.

  He was ready to begin a new life. DC’s polluted air smelled perfect and was cool inside his nostrils. He felt like a kid with bad eyesight wearing eyeglasses for the first time. DC didn’t look so tough anymore. He had grown up poor and always felt like an outsider in a cold city. This night, he felt like an important man in one of the world’s most important cities.

  He thought the world could tell the difference between him yesterday and today. Terrance had swagger in his stride now. Yesterday, he was watching the ground as he walked, shoulders hunched in old clothes. Tonight, he was ready for anything and everything because he had become a killer.

  He walked past a few smelly fish warehouses before turning onto a block of fine cars and finer women. It was early but the lines were long already. T walked past about 200 men and stood in front of a short but stocky thug in a “Security” t-shirt.

  “Yea, whats up?” he said.

  “Line’s back there, champ.”

  Terrance chuckled. “Where’s Fats?”

  The bouncer shrugged and looked Terrance over. “Somewhere inside, I guess.”

  “Tell him T is here,” Terrance said.

  “Look man, either you on the guest list or you ain’t.”

  “Nah, I ain’t on no guest list,” Terrance chuckled. “Just tell Fats T is here.” Terrance shook his head then looked at the line of men waiting.

  “It don’t work like that, slim.”

  “Stop disrespectin me, cuz. You know who I am?”

  “Nope.”

  “I got a name in this city. Don’t play wit’ me.”

  The bouncer took an earpiece out of his ear and put his clipboard down. “Look, I know you a flunkie for Massacre, but he ain’t here tonight. You don’t get a pass. You’re a nobody--”

  “Nigga, I bust heads. I ain’t nobody’s flunkie, muthafucker. I put in work. This muthafucker Fats owes me some bread. Call the nigga and tell him I’m out here.”

  * * * * *

  Fats was in his office counting bills. It was 10pm, twelve hours after the shooting. Someone knocked at the door. Fats answered with an annoyed, “Whaaat?”

  The knob jangled.

  “What?”

  “Hey boss, it’s a guy out at the front door that says he knows you and wants to be let in the club.”

  “Fuck him.”

  “Can you see him on the video feed?”

  Fats sighed. He put a stack of bills on the desk and used the remote to flip through images on a screen
mounted on the wall opposite him. He saw an image of the front of the club. Terrance. “The nerve of this nigga,” he said. He had half a mind to tell Bam to crush him and drag his trifling ass around to the back alley.

  Fats threw all of the money in a safe. He grabbed a .380 out of his drawer and slid it into his pants pocket. He unlocked the door to find a 6’8” employee standing there waiting for instructions.

  “Normally, I wouldn’t bother you wit’ this shit, Fats. But dude is actin’ crazy and talkin’ about you owe him money.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “I started to knock him out, but you said try to prevent problems from startin’ instead of, you know, handling dudes.”

  “Na, I got this. Thanks.”

  They took the elevator to the main floor, walked through a crowded club and passed the coat check. As soon as Fats peered out of the front door, Terrance yelled up to him.

  “Yo, Fats. Whassup, nigga?” Terrance smiled. Fats knew everyone could see him and hear him. He was trying to show off for the women watching.

  Fats didn’t want to be seen outside because he didn’t want anyone he knew to ask him to let them in free. The bouncer looked at Fats with his palms up and Fats waved Terrance in. The bouncer moved the velvet rope and Terrance strolled up the stairs and into the club.

  “What’s up, can I get some champagne?” Terrance said. “On the house?”

  “Does this look like Vegas to you?”

  Terrance laughed. Fats didn’t. “Come on, man. I know I get the VIP treatment up in this raggedy joint.”He thought Fats was less of a man than he was since he had to hire him to handle the Blinds job. He assumed Fats agreed. But Fats thought Terrance was cheap labor and a dumbass. Fats thought about how quickly Terrance would fold under interrogation for the Six Hands shooting. He vacillated over killing Blinds, but having this fool eliminated was a no-brainer. How was the only question.

  “You should be toasting a nigger. Introduce me to a freak bitch or something.” A light went off in Fats’s head.

  “Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “Go on over to the VIP and I’ll send you a bottle and a …woman. No problem.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Terrance smiled. Fats walked Terrance over to the exclusive section and escorted him in. Terrance headed straight for the Swedish meatballs.

  “This is what I’m talking about,” Terrance said as he rubbed his hands together.

  “Unbelievable,” Fats mumbled to himself on the way out.

  * * * * *

  Melvin couldn’t believe his little brother was gone. When he thought of someone shooting him in the chest he couldn’t sit still. Reporters who never met him were describing Will and making suggestions about the possible motive behind his murder. A local station described Will as a womanizer who had a different woman in every zip code. They looped pictures of Will with women on islands, at clubs, in restaurants and hotels. A national sports news show debated why Black professional athletes can’t stay out of the bad neighborhoods and away from the nefarious characters they grew up with. A talk--radio show fielded calls from fans who suggested possible suspects and motives. People implied the Mafia whacked him for not taking a dive, others said it was a jealous husband who was afraid to fight him, and another said Will owed money in the streets to drug dealers. Melvin didn’t know what to believe. But he knew where to start looking for answers.

  He used the valet parking at Big Boys and walked past the line of men waiting to get their IDs checked. He went up the stairs, through the double doors and headed for the VIP lounge. He thought about the night Will hosted a birthday party for him and invited celebrities. The bouncer at the entrance let him in and he looked around for Fats without a word.

  He was walking and looking over his shoulder when he bumped into a younger thug.

  “Watch yourself, playboy” Terrance said.

  “What?”

  “I don’t repeat myself”

  “You don’t know who you’re talking to,” Melvin said.

  “Because I’m talking to a no-name with no reputation, boy…”

  “Hey,” Fats was hustling towards Melvin and Terrance. “Hold up!” He had a girl in tow who was racing in her six-inch heels to keep up with him. They were parting their way through the crowd. When they reached Terrance, Fats stood close to his face. “Whats up?”

  “What?” Terrance was indignant.

  “You better get your man, Fats. I ain't in the mood.”

  “Nigga, fuck you!” Terrance said.

  “Shut up,” Fats said through his teeth. “Just shut up, take the girl, and go.”

  Terrance looked over Fats’s offering and grinned. “Yeah, what up wit’ my bread, though? I know you don‘t think--”

  “Yeah, I got you tomorrow. Come see me--”

  “Nah, I need that shit right now, yo. No bullshit, I need that now.”

  “Here.” Fats handed Terrance all the money he had in his right pocket. “Take him out of here,” he said to the girl.

  “It’s all here?”

  “Nah, man. I’ll give you the rest tomorrow.”

  “Yeah aiight. I think you know what happens if I don't get it tomorrow.”

  * * * * *

  Detective Brooks was watching Fats move through the club. Fats was like a celebrity inside Big Boys. Pretty women wanted him to notice them and guys wanted people to see him notice them. It was hard for Fats to get through the club for all of the people offering handshakes, hugs or introductions. Brooks had watched him make arrangements for a guy who didn’t look like much of a player. Fats escorted him to the VIP section and introduced him to the bouncer.

  Brooks watched Fats disappear upstairs. His eyes followed Fats until he was out of sight.

  Fats returned dragging a gorgeous woman behind him. Brooks stared at the woman’s perfectly toned thighs above knee--high boots and under a tight, short skirt. She had to almost run to keep up with him. Brooks was surprised when Fats gave her hand to the thug kid who was clearly a misfit.

  After the introduction, Fats headed back to the elevator with another man. Brooks watched them from across the club. He had never seen this guy in Fats Harrington’s entourage before.

  Brooks started to push his way through the crowd trying to get closer. But he had to get through a large crowd of horny adults trying to look urbane and tough. He was nearing Fats and Melvin when he was bumped by Petey. Petey spilled his drink and blamed Brooks. He instantly pushed Brooks and yelled, “What’s your problem?”

  Brooks whipped his badge out and told Petey to back up. Everyone backed up except Petey.

  “Oh, it's like that? You knock my drink out of my hand and then pull out your badge?”

  “Yes.”

  Brooks walked around him and continued through the crowd. He got through the throng just in time to see Fats and Melvin get on an elevator. Fats saw him just before the door closed.

  Brooks waved through the crowd to the front of the club. He exited and searched the parking lot for Terrance. He didn’t see him so he called Taylor.

  “I saw our shooter in the club and I saw Fats Harrington pay him.”

  “What? Where is he now?’

  “I don’t know if he’s still in the club or if he’s out here in the parking lot. He’s wearing black shirt and grey slacks, might be with a woman wearing thigh high boots and a short skirt.”

  “Ok, I’ll look for them.”

  Brooks showed all of the uniform officers in the parking lot the sketch of Terrance. He called Aiden but didn’t get an answer.

  * * * * *

  She couldn’t remember the guy’s name. He was rambling on about something or another but she wasn’t listening. He was leaning back so far he was damn near in the backseat. Black as a crow and taller than a bookshelf, what’s-his-name couldn’t pass for handsome on his best day. He was also as dumb as dishwater. She was surprised that he drove a Benz. He didn’t seem smart enough to succeed at anything to the level of owning a luxury car. And
he was wearing real diamonds.

  He went left on New York Avenue. “Where do you live?” she asked.

  “Downtown.”

  “Oh yeah, what building?” she asked.

  “The Avalon.”

  “Oh,” she smiled. “That’s a very nice place to live. And this is a nice car. You must be very important.”

  He bit his lip and grabbed his crotch. He looked her legs up and down and she regretted the decision even more. She had regretted agreeing to Fats’s deal the second the word “yes” escaped her mouth. The guy started talking about what he was going to do to her, and she immediately shut her brain down. She texted the words “Avalon” and “downtown” to the number she had been given.

  The driver put his hand on her thigh. Her mind traced a path of mistakes that led her to being in the car with such a lowlife. She started clubbing after high school. She liked men with money. She was friendly to a group of guys that were young and successful, and before she knew it, they had passed around like a Nerf ball. She had become the club hoe. She had gone from dating partners to dating lawyers to dating clients.

  The bills were paid by her male friends for years, but the end of the Crack Era was the recession of the streets. The clubs weren’t as packed anymore, and the men didn’t have much disposable income. Getting older made her hustle harder.

  The phone buzzed and vibrated. She had a message from the pretty lady she met a month ago. It read, “What are you doing tonight?”

  She typed and sent the message, “Earning my rent.” Both women send smiley face emoticons to the other.

  She liked the pretty lady. She met her at a bar one Friday night and --well, she texted a lie that she would be available later. He interrupted her thought. “What?”

  “Do you have a man?

  “Yes. Several,” she said. “Hey, can we get something to eat?”

  He was taken aback by her bluntness. “Yeah, what you want? McDonalds or something?”

  “Chinese.”

  “Cool. I know a carryout around my way.”

  “I don't eat at carryouts.” She directed him to Full Kee.

  Inside, the staff greeted her as a regular. She smiled big and bowed several times. Terrance nodded and grunted.