Killing a Snitch: The first of the Christopher Aiden Mysteries

by Brian Bradford

  “What’s the charge?” Aiden asked. The smile was gone.

  Blinds inhaled. “I got caught with two bricks at National Airport.”

  Aiden opened the door and the three entered the restaurant.

  “So, like, what if I know the dude and can help y’all out on this? Can you help me on my other thing?” Blinds said.

  “Who did the coke belong to?”

  “That’s what the state is askin’ me. I thought maybe you could offer me a better deal than what they’re saying.”

  “What did they offer you?”

  “Two years in Lewisburg if I rat. Five to ten in every Fed joint across the country if I don’t,” Blinds said.

  “Three?” the hostess asked.

  “Yes,” Aiden answered.

  They were led to a booth against the wall. Blinds searched the room for a different table. He saw an open booth along the same wall, just a few feet behind them. “Can we have that one in the corner?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  Aiden looked Blinds over before following the waitress. At the new booth Aiden and Taylor slid in and accepted a menu from the waitress.

  “Um, can we switch?” Blinds asked.

  “What?”

  “I don’t like sittin’ wit’ my back to the room,” Blinds said. He shifted his weight, looked around, looked at Taylor and added, “I got teased a lot in school.”

  Taylor moved quickly. She motioned for Aiden to follow and he did.

  The waitress gave them menus and Aiden forced a smile when saying, “Thank you.” Without looking up from his menu he asked Blinds, “You go to church today?”

  “Yeah. First time in a long time.”

  “Prison has that effect on some men,” Aiden said.

  “Some.”

  Blinds flipped the menu over and put it up close to his face. Aiden looked up at the framed newspaper mounted to the wall over their table. It was the March 30, 1981, edition of the Washington Post. The big headline read, “Reagan Shot.” Aiden shook his head. “Lucky.”

  “Who?” Taylor asked.

  “Reagan,” Aiden said.

  Blinds put the menu down, but never looked at the newspaper.

  “Why?” said Taylor.

  “Shit, he was seventy years old. I mean, he was in good shape, I’ll give him that. But still, he was lucky it was just a .22 and not a .38 or a .45.”

  “Guess so.”

  Blinds looked at the table next to them. Two octogenarians were eating in silence. They were brothers. One had Down syndrome. They both wore Nationals ball caps. He looked at Aiden. He noticed his good posture and then went back to studying the menu.

  Aiden kept staring at the newspaper framed on the wall. Blinds squinted at the menu. “I got called in that day,” Aiden said to Taylor. “The scene was taped off all night and I was one of the officers that had to stand guard.”

  “So, you missed the game,” Blinds said

  “What game?”

  “Bobby Knight beat Dean Smith in the tournament that night.” Blinds never looked up from the menu. He kept frowning at it as if he didn’t recognize any of the items on it.

  Aiden looked back at the newspaper. “Are you sure?”

  “I lost $20 on that game. I thought Perkins and dem boys were gon’ kill Indiana,” Blinds said. “But Isaiah tore they ass up.”

  Aiden frowned. Blinds was still reading the menu. Aiden looked at Taylor, then back at the newspaper. In the bottom right corner was a sidebar about the Hoosier’s beating the Tar Heels 63 - 50.

  “You know why they call this restaurant The Front Page?”

  “Nah. Why?” Blinds squirmed and adjusted the Windsor knot of his necktie. Then he untied it and put it in his pocket.

  “You ever been here before?”

  “Hell no.” Blinds looked around at the omelet station and shook his head.

  “They don't have Sunday brunches in Lewisburg,” Aiden said.

  “Well, I’m hopin I won’t have to go to Lewisburg.”

  Aiden laughed.

  “Y’all need this one. Look,” Blinds said, nodding his head to a television monitor nearby. “It’ll be on Sportscenter in a few minutes. It’s the top story. Can y’all help me on this coke thing or not?”

  “We need to know if you’re a dealer or a mule,” Taylor said.

  “A mule?”

  “Was the shit yours or somebody else’s?” Aiden asked.

  “Somebody else’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Look, I’m tryna cooperate on this barbershop thing and walk on the coke thing,” Blinds said. “What’s up with that?”

  “I have a sketch of the shooter from an eyewitness,” Aiden said. He slid his folder across the table. “Do you know this guy?”

  Blinds slid the folder back across the table unopened. “Of course, I do,” he said. “I know who he is right now.”

  Taylor raised her eyebrows.

  “Will you be able to stand up in court against cross-examination?” Aiden asked. “If a fancy lawyer tries to trip you up, will you get scared and look shaky in front of a jury?”

  Blinds looked at Aiden incredulously. “Reagan was shot on March 30, 1981. Isiah Thomas was the MVP that night,” Blinds said. “He had 24 points.”

  Aiden looked up at the framed Post.

  “I don’t forget anything,” Blinds said.

  “What about your nerves?” Taylor asked.

  “My nerves? I smuggle drugs for a living.”

  “Good point. What’s the name of your prosecutor?” Aiden asked.

  * * * * * *

  Aiden called Deputy Chief Gillespie, who got the Assistant US Attorney to offer a deal through his prosecutor. It took a half hour for the men to meet Aiden, Taylor, and Blinds at The Front Page. The detectives were finishing seconds of Belgian waffles, Western omelets, and slices of ham and roast beef with their new snitch when they arrived.

  Blinds recognized the power brokers. One was the white shirt who was at the scene of the shooting talking to the councilman and the nerd was the prosecutor Blinds had become all too familiar with. This was Blinds’s first time seeing the lawyer without his expensive suits. He wore a running outfit and new running shoes.

  They both spoke to the detectives. Gillespie spoke to Blinds and offered him a handshake. The prosecutor did not. He made it obvious that he didn’t want to enjoy the company of a criminal.

  The waitress reappeared and asked the men if they wanted to eat. Gillespie ordered coffee. The lawyer waved his hand and shook his head. “Y’all not eatin’?” Blinds smiled.

  “Not this time, Mr…” Gillespie said.

  “Coles. Yeah, Mr. Coles, but, my friends call me Blinds” he said. Looking at his prosecutor he added, “How about you? You eatin wit’ me?”

  “I’m gonna need a run after this, Mr. Coles.”

  “You don’t look like you exercise often,” Blinds said.

  “I don’t need to often.”

  “You got my deal?”

  Taylor’s phone rang. She stepped away to take the call. The prosecutor handed over the paperwork. “You took your glasses off,” Blinds said. “Wearin contacts while you jog?”

  “Obviously.”

  “My vision is too bad for contacts.”

  “I’m not interested in small talk.”

  “Sign the deal and tell us where to find this guy. And if you’re wrong the deal’s off,” Gillespie said.

  “I know how it works,” Blinds said. He opened the folder and started reading.

  Chapter 18: Loose ends

  K nuckles Boxing Gym was open from 6 to 10am on Sundays. Dave had Detective Brooks meet him there at noon to see his “evidence.” Dave was impatient and emotional over the death of his friend. He was pacing and cursing the government’s bureaucracy when Brooks walked into the smelly gym.

  He all but hugged him. The gym was empty and mostly dark.

  Dave hustled him back to his office and closed the door. A television sat on top of a
cabinet. Dave queued up news footage of the prior night’s candlelight vigil. Brooks looked from the small monitor to the drunk unimpressed.

  “You know how they say the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime?”

  “I’ve heard the saying.”

  “Well, there he is.” Dave paused the video and pointed his finger at Blinds. “That’s Fats Harrington’s man and I know he had something to do with this.”

  There was Blinds sitting on top of a mailbox.

  “Wait a minute…”

  Brooks wasn’t looking at Blinds. He was focused on someone else. He squinted and leaned in closer to the television. “Hit play.”

  “Pause it!” Brooks walked up to the screen and nodded. He recognized Fats Harrington talking to Moochie. He saw someone familiar, but he couldn’t place him. “Who is this?”

  “That’s Petey Paul,” Dave said. “He’s a hustler in Baltimore. He and Fats are friends.”

  “He just bumped into me in Big Boys, on purpose,” Brooks said. “I was tailing Fats Harrington and that guy made me. He broke my tail.”

  Brooks pointed to someone else. “Who is that talking to Fats Harrington?”

  Dave squinted. “Oh shit, that’s Six Hands’ brother Melvin,” Dave said. “He musta just came home.”

  “Nobody important. Who is that? I’ve seen him before, too,” Brooks said.

  “That’s Blinds, he used to try to box when he was a kid. Now he’s just a thug.” Dave pointed to someone else and said, “that’s Moochie. He tried boxing, too. He got shot in the hand and now he’s a one-hand barber”.

  “Moochie was a boxer?”

  “Oh yeah, he was better than ‘Six Hands,’ Dave laughed. Dave walked out of the office. Brooks followed him to a poster on the wall. A picture of a younger “Southpaw Moochie Miller” advertised an amateur match.

  “A lefty?”

  “Yeah, he was. When his boss caught him stealing he shot Moochie in his left hand. The nerve damage ended his boxing career, but he can still cut hair with his right hand.”

  “You think Moochie could've been jealous of Six Hands?”

  “Yeah, they grew up homies, so I guess a little jealousy is natural. Six Hands gave him some money for that barbershop.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Man, you see how nice that joint is? You ever seen a barbershop that plush?’

  “So Moochie owed Six Hands money?”

  “I don't know. I mean, I know Six put some money in there because he was trying to help his man. Moochie’s hand is fucked up and he can't box no more so, maybe it was a gift. Or a loan. I dunno. I know when you try to help a nigga you get burned more often than not. And I know Fats Harrington had something to do with this murder.

  I don't know what, but that skinny motherfucker had something to do with this. You’re not hearing me.”

  “I believe you,” Brooks said. “I do, but I have to convince the lead detective, the deputy chief, and the mayor.”

  “You’re not the lead detective?”

  “Nah, this asshole named Christopher Aiden. Matter of fact, instead of calling him--” Brooks pulled out his phone and hit a button. To himself he said, “I’m gonna tell Taylor instead of Aiden. She’ll listen to me.”

  * * * * *

  The screen read, “Private Caller.”. She answered, “Detective Taylor.”

  “Hi. Um, I was calling in regards to da shooting at the barbershop this morning.”

  Taylor remembered but didn’t recognize the voice. She flipped through her reporter’s pad until he got to the page of notes on Candace Holmes’ account of events. She stood up and walked away from the table. “Okay, you know something?”

  “Well, yeah. Detective…this is Candace Holmes,” she said.

  “I know,”she said.

  She could hear a man in the background say, “What the--”

  “Did you remember something that you didn’t tell me this morning?”

  “Yes. No, I mean, I didn’t know who he was right then, you know,” she said. “Like when he shot him, he looked like somebody I knew, but I couldn’t tell where I knew him from. Then I just thought he looked like a lot of DC dudes. But when I came home and I saw him on television, and I realized that’s where I seen him before. In a rap video.”

  “Him who? The victim? Or the shooter?”

  “The shooter. I had seen him in a rap video.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Actually, it was my son who seen him first, then I seen him.”

  “What rap video?”

  “Lieutenant, I mean, Detective…”

  “They don’t pay me that much.”

  “Sorry. Can you hold on?”

  “Wait” Taylor tried.

  “Yea, hold on.”

  “Hello?”

  She had put the phone on mute. Taylor turned holding the phone to her ear. She watched Gillespie and the lawyer tolerate Blinds for a few seconds before Candace came back on the line. Aiden frowned at her.

  “Hello?”

  “Yes, I’m here,” she said.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  Taylor’s line clicked. When she looked down, she saw “Brooks.” She ignored it. “No problem,” she told Candace Holmes.

  “Um, by telling you this information, does that make me a snitch?” she asked.

  “Uh, I don’t know. Did you have something to do with the shooting?”

  “Nah, no way. I jus’ was there when it happened. Then I seen him on tv,” she said.

  “Ok, then I guess that just makes you a witness,” she said. “Not a snitch.”

  “Hmm. Can witnesses get reward money for information?”

  The other line clicked again. Taylor hesitated. “Sure. You said something about a rap video?”

  “Do I have to testify?”

  “I don’t know. I do know that bullet could have easily ricocheted and killed your son,” she said. “I do know a man was killed in cold blood today.” She began to pour it on a little. “I know his sick mother is heartbroken.” Brooks hung up. Then Taylor wrapped up. “I know you have to be super dumb to still be thinking. You were standing right next to the person getting shot. That could've been you. Imagine somebody saw who killed you but didn’t want to snitch. What rap video did you see the shooter in?”

  “Killer Ty’s joint, ‘“I’ll Kill You and Your Momma”’. Taylor heard the man in the background again. “What the…?”

  Taylor smiled and thanked her. Right before she hung up she heard Candace ask, “Do I get the reward money?”

  “How long will this take?” Gillespie asked.

  “As long as I need,” Blinds answered.

  Taylor returned to the table and snatched the folder out of Blinds hands. “Don’t need you anymore,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Funny how yesterday your timing was great, saved your life. Today…not so much,” Taylor said.

  “What just happened?” Blinds asked.

  “Another eyewitness just called and told me exactly who our shooter is,” Taylor said.

  The prosecutor smiled. Gillespie got up and put his cap on his head.

  “Wait. How?” Blinds said.

  “I think I’ll have that drink after all,” the prosecutor said.

  * * * * *

  Fats lived on the Gold Coast. Not the one in West Africa, where the majority of slaves were bought and traded, but rather a completely residential neighborhood three miles north of the White House. The Gold Coast was home to DC’s most imputent bourgeois Blacks and Fats Harrington.

  Black professionals moved into the neighborhood when Jews didn’t want it anymore. Before Dr. King’s assassination, 16th Street separated the Whites from the Blacks. But after the riots, Jews got out of dodge. Lawyers, doctors, and Howard University professors snatched up the land and proudly proclaimed themselves Black Washington’s elite families. Fats Harrington’s money got him a home in their neighborhood, but he wasn’t entirely welcome.

&n
bsp; He sat in the sunroom of his Tudor reading the Post. Sunday was the only day he could read the articles in the paper in their entirety. His three cell phones were dormant as most people who knew him well knew better than to interrupt him on Sunday unless it was important. The kids changed out of their church clothes, then stayed out of his way.

  There was an article on the front page about an Black actor who was attacked the night before in Chicago. Jossie Smollet claimed two White men attacked him, put a noose around his neck, called him racial and homophobic slurs and doused him with bleach. Fats frowned.

  “Why’d he do this doing Black History Month?”

  Then he saw the article about Six Hands. He sat up straight. The Post ran a picture of the champ smiling right after he won the belts. Fats remembered the moment the picture was snapped. He looked at each muscle ripping through Six’s pecs and biceps and thought about how hard the kid worked. He felt guilty when he imagined his friend’s surprise and confusion while being shot. He thought about the pain that ripped his through his chest and the trauma it caused. Fats felt awful for being responsible. He dropped the news in his lap and looked away, out of his front window.

  He saw the Widow James pull into her driveway across the street. Mrs. James was such a small woman that only her crown was visible behind the wheel of the Cadillac Seville. The brake lights dimmed. The engine shut off. The trunk popped open. Fats figured she had stopped at the grocery store after church. He slipped on his shoes and headed for the front door. She inspected her begonias while waiting on him to come carry her groceries into the house. He knew the old lady had come to expect his chivalry. And he had come to expect her invitations to enjoy the soul food dinners he wasn’t getting at home.

  Mrs. James was a national officer of her sorority, a deaconess at 19th Street Baptist, vice president of the local Links chapter and the chair of the Jack and Jill annual cotillion. The southern belle was always prim and proper except for when talking about “that team in Dallas.” Fats wasn’t in the mood to hear her talk about that Jack and Jill bullshit and he was sure she was about to hit him up for a donation to the scholarship fund, but he was desperate for pork chops.