A fear such as he had never confronted nearly overwhelmed him.
What if I die and find out that monster somehow found forgiveness? I’ll be in Hell while that bastard is sitting upstairs in the country club having the last laugh.
61
Congressman Tidwell was sitting at his desk in his office when the phone rang. He looked at his watch, thinking, It’s almost five on a Friday. Pam knows better than to let a call through this late. He let the phone ring. Working diligently, he continued to map out a strategy to ensure the budget committee took into consideration the extraordinary death taxes that would be paid into next year’s budget. He had it planned out in detail, right down to the congressmen with whom he would plant the idea to bring it up in committee.
Eight rings later, frustrated that he couldn’t concentrate, he shouted, “Pam, what’s with letting a call though this late?”
“I’m sorry, sir. Mr. Jones was so persuasive I couldn’t say no.”
Tidwell picked up the phone. “This is John Tidwell.”
“John, this is Ted Jones, calling about our fundraising efforts.”
“Now’s not a good time to talk. Why don’t I contact you when it’s more convenient?”
“John, I can appreciate your concern, but I wondered if you had heard about our number two fundraiser, the one who ran the campaign in Chicago. This morning a rival organization attempted to cancel his contract.”
Shocked, two thoughts collided in Tidwell’s mind: first, who had attempted to take out Gabriel? Second, had Parelli already given an order from someone to take him out?
Tidwell said slowly, “No, I wasn’t aware of any issues with that fundraiser. I’ll look into it and get right back to you.” He hung up the phone, then grabbed his dark navy pinstripe suit coat. Time for some damage control. He hurried out of his office, barely saying goodnight to his secretary.
Before leaving the building, he ducked into an unused office … he wanted some privacy with the call he needed to make.
He stepped into the office and closed the door behind him. Sweat clung to his forehead as he considered the implications of Parelli’s news, and how it might affect his plan.
He dialed the number of Parelli’s alias. “Ted Jones,” the voice answered.
“Ted, this is … It’s Jim.” Parelli wasn’t the only one who could use an alias.
Parelli chuckled, “Great, Jim,” before growing more serious. “I need to know what happened with the number two fundraiser.”
“I have no idea.”
“My guy in Chicago said he didn’t think our business rivals knew who our fundraiser was.”
“I’ll have to look into it.”
“I already have. The people who tried to cancel the fundraiser were working for our Salt Lake City correspondent.”
That meant Phil Utah. “That doesn’t seem likely, does it?”
“Does it?” Parelli growled, “I hope for your sake you’re not playing with me.”
“I’d never put the campaign in jeopardy.”
There was a brief silence. “Okay, what next?” Parelli finally asked.
“The next two big fundraisers are in Texas. Our people have already emailed the profiles and schedules of the main contributors we’re targeting to our number one fundraiser. Once he contacts those two, that’ll be numbers four and five on our list.”
“Halfway home. That’s good.”
“That will leave us about ten days to approach our last five donors.”
“Good. In the meantime, I’ll keep our number two fundraiser busy. He’s a little upset about someone trying to take him off the campaign trail.”
“Okay, I agree, let’s keep him busy.” Tidwell hung up the phone without saying goodbye.
62
The red Razr cell phone buzzed, and K-six rolled his eyes as he answered. “Yo,” he said emotionlessly.
“Is this the slob K-six?”
The large, muscular black man, sporting cornrows and gang tattoos over each arm, calmly exhaled the drag he had just taken from his one-hitter. He looked around at the three other OGs sitting in the red leather seats of his custom-refinished 1980 Coupe de Ville, wondering if one of his homies was playing a joke on him.
“Yo, turn down that music, TP,” K-six said to the driver. TP or Tiny Pete—all 250 packed pounds of him—complied.
“Is this a dirty crab?” K-six asked into the phone.
The unknown caller laughed. “Call me what you want, playa, me and my folks is gettin’ ready to move into your hood. We’ll need to carve out a little of that drug money for ourselves.”
K-six instinctually grabbed the 9mm tucked in his belt and pulled it out as he said, “Street’s hot with crabs.” The other three men in the car quickly reached for their own weapons. This part of Austin belonged to K-six and his boys. Nobody else was taking it without a fight.
Driving in one of two lanes going northbound, TP slowed the pace of the vehicle strategically, making sure vehicles from behind didn’t speed up next to their car and vehicles ahead didn’t slow down to get a shooter’s angle. He would have to be especially careful at stop signs and lights. When the car was stopped, they were the most vulnerable.
Everyone looked out their windows, intensely scrutinizing the other vehicles on the street, looking for signs of Folks in the area. They watched fast food restaurant parking lots and the endless strip malls lining both sides of the road.
As K-six looked into a gas station parking lot, a young black man pumping gas caught his attention. He was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, and a sure sign of Folks was someone dressed in blue, green, or black. Considering the call he had just received, if the kid had been wearing clothing with strong representation, like a North Carolina Tarheels jersey or a Detroit Tiger hat, K-six would have already opened fire. But seeing that the shirt was plain and the young man was alone, K-six decided he wasn’t affiliated.
“Where you at?” barked K-six into the phone again. “I’d like to pay you a visit.”
The caller had hung up.
“Rose, you believe this crab?” he asked, looking at the man sitting in the back seat next to him.
K-six’s number two was called “Rose” because if any rival crossed his path, they would be getting roses the next day at their funeral.
“Call the gutter rat back,” Rose said, his eyes hidden under a pulled-down red bandana.
K-six hit the callback option on his phone. He remained calm. His cool is what kept him alive all these years. Act before you think it through and you wind up dead.
The phone picked up, and after a confused pause, the voice said, “Tell your driver it’s pork chop eatin’ time!”
Before K-six could reply, a single bullet burst through the windshield, entered TP’s forehead, and exited through the rear of his skull, spraying fragments of bone, blood, and brains all over K-six and Rose in the back seat.
The car lurched right, jumped the curb, and then crashed into a telephone pole. Nobody was wearing their seatbelts, so on impact, everyone flew forward. K-six dropped his gun.
With his head ringing and ribs aching sharply with every breath, K-six rapidly recovered his gun, expecting to be sprayed by bullets any second.
K-six nodded to Rose, and Rose replied, “Let’s take some of them crabs down with us.”
K-six kicked the door open and waited for gunfire …
Rose pointed toward the windshield, “That crab put a slug in TJ from the front—gotta hit the poser from there!”
Then K-six’s phone rang. He looked to Rose.
“See what that crab’s got to say,” Rose hissed.
K-six answered his phone. “Folks is comin’ to take your hood, slob. My crew’ll be here in the next couple days.” The caller disconnected before K-six could say a word.
63
Gabriel bent over the motel bathroom sink, inhaling the heady fumes of the bleaching mix he had just applied to his hair. It
made his eyes burn, but he continued massaging it through his hair.
The motel was off Highway Five in Chula Vista, California, a town just south of San Diego—a crappy little place that was used to the type of clientele that rented by the hour.
The small bathroom’s outdated wallpaper was peeled, and the tacky corroded light and bathroom fixtures didn’t work reliably. Many would find the room disgusting, but for Gabriel, this was an upgrade from the dump he had just burned down.
Every twenty seconds or so, Gabriel popped his head up and looked to see if his jet-black hair had changed color yet. At first it didn’t seem to be working, but after twenty minutes had passed, he began to see results. He then took a quick shower to wash the product out. Exiting the shower, he immediately looked in the mirror and smirked, pleased with how it had turned out. Changing his hair color to a light brown, plus taking the length of his hair down to about an inch-and-a-half, had completely altered his look.
He walked into the bedroom and grabbed a bag full of new clothes and other items he had bought the day before at a big-box discount store.
He pulled out a new outfit from his bag—a nice pair of khaki pants, a collared long sleeve blue button-down shirt, a brown sweater vest with a baby-blue argyle pattern, matching socks, and boat shoes. He hated this gringo look, but he needed to blend in.
Gabriel dressed, then grabbed a smaller bag from inside the larger one and returned to the bathroom. Inside was a box containing non-prescription contacts.
Gabriel put the contacts in his right eye, followed by his left. He blinked a couple of times, to get accustomed to the lenses. He looked in the mirror approvingly; his dark brown eyes now appeared to be a deep-water ocean blue.
His finishing touch was a pair of non-prescription wire-framed glasses. He looked himself over in the mirror. Bueno. Muy bueno. He no longer looked like Gabriel Hernandez, public enemy numero uno, instead he looked like one of these gringo dorks.
He returned to the bedroom and retrieved an 8 x 11 manila envelope from the bed’s side table. He had received it yesterday when crossing the border. He sat on the bed and opened it. Inside were the details about a job from his Chicago hire. He didn’t know who that employer actually was, and he didn’t really care. But he knew they were very wealthy and powerful, because of two things: they had arranged his passage across the border without any interference from the law, and he had been paid $200,000 for the Chicago job. In Mexico, he got paid five or ten thousand for the same work. Ain’t complainin’, ain’t complainin’, he told himself.
Gabriel studied the photo of his target: a man with a strong build, tan skin, and a brown, bushy mustache. To Gabriel, he looked like someone he’d enjoy killing. Then he read the letter that came with the photo, and his nostrils flared. His target was Phil Utah—the one who had sent the SWAT team to kill him. He shredded the letter violently and dropped it into the garbage can. The picture, though, he kept.
Grabbing his duffel bag, Gabriel left the hotel room. The game was on.
64
K-six sat in an oversized chair in the darkened living room of a run-down apartment in one of the rougher areas of Austin. He tilted his head back, watching the ceiling fan circulate the cloud of smoke he and the fourteen other homeboys in the room had created. Everyone in the room was smoking. That’s what they usually did after a funeral: pack into a room with their closest friends, listen to classic rap with the volume turned down low out of respect for the dead, and get high.
K-six heard a ringtone and looked down at the rectangular glass coffee table where the phone was perched. He had been hearing imaginary rings from his phone, hoping the fool who took out Tiny Pete would have the nerve to call him.
K-six reached for it as all the reminiscing conversations about TP went silent. Everybody in the room knew the story about the crab calling.
He answered.
“How was the funeral?”
K-six immediately recognized the voice. His grip on the phone tightened. A blazing fury washed through him, sending him into a blind rage. All he could see was red.
“You dirty crab, where are you?”
“You slobs are soft. I’m bringin’ the hardcore g’s into your hood today.”
K-six’s anger ripped tears to his eyes, his fury so overwhelming he could barely get his words out. “Where are you?”
“Downtown, at the corner of North and Wells.” The caller hung up.
K-six stood. “It’s crab-killin’ time.”
65
Bic sat on the concrete sidewalk a block and a half west of the Texas Computer Corporation’s main entrance. He wrapped himself in a dirty old gray woolen blanket leaving only his head and his right hand exposed. He held a ragged cardboard sign which read Vietnam Vet in big crudely-written letters, with God bless you in smaller letters below.
Next to Bic was a cardboard box filled with ragged clothes, aluminum cans, McDonald’s bags and a couple of half-eaten rotten bananas. Wearing his dark sunglasses, he sat still as a statue and mumbled “God bless you” every time some change jingled into the old coffee can in front of him.
Directly behind him was Tina’s Flower Shop, one of the many businesses lining both sides of the four-lane road. Vehicles were jockeying for position in the downtown rat race along the road, trying to beat the rush hour traffic.
A Cadillac Escalade caught his attention. With the windows tinted dark, he couldn’t tell if a gang member was driving or not. Probably. Three other vehicles closely followed the Escalade in what looked like a pimp convoy. As they passed, he watched to see if K-six went to the suggested intersection. He kept his head down and waited.
The four vehicles pulled into the parking lot of a Walgreens. The gangsters were at the intersection between him and the main entrance of the Texas Computer Corporation. He grew slightly concerned over the number of men exiting the cars. They were all dressed like members of a basketball team: Red-and-white Bulls jerseys, sweatshirts and baggy pants, wearing red bandanas or Starter hats, the bills tilted to the right.
Bic’s watch alarm vibrated. Ten minutes to six. They were right on time.
He watched closely, trying to keep tabs on all the gang members at once. At first, they stayed in a tight group, but then they started to spread out. Five of the gangbangers crossed the street; two went east, and three came west toward him.
Bic knew that if there was a confrontation and gunshots were fired, TCC campus security wouldn’t let anyone exit the facility. They especially wouldn’t let Henry Barron’s limo leave.
The three men made their way toward Bic. He could hear them asking people, “You a crab?” as they randomly grabbed and shook people walking on the sidewalk. Finally, they noticed Bic. “Look at this big ugly hood rat,” one of the men said. His teeth glittered with gold fronts.
“May God bless you,” Bic said, as he slowly rocked his head back and forth. He stared forward at the knee level of the three men standing in front of him.
“I bet this dude ain’t even blind,” another one said.
“If he ain’t blind, I’m gonna kick his ass,” the one with the gold fronts returned.
“That’s a big black piece of meat here. He might put a big ol’ whoopin’ on your skinny ass, Fronts.”
“May God be with you,” Bic said in a soft, weak voice as he gripped his 9mm under the blanket.
“What’s a blind po’ fool need nice glasses for,” the man with the gold fronts said, reaching down and removing Bic’s glasses.
Bic looked up at the three men.
“Oh man, look at them jacked-up eyes. He’s blind as a bat.”
Without warning, the man with the gold fronts slapped Bic across the face hard. “Don’t look at me with those freaky buggin’ ghost eyes.”
“Fronts, you done pissed him off—steam’s coming from his big bald black head.”
The man slapped Bic again. “Didn’t you hear me?” He then turned to the other men, laughing, “
Fool looks at me one more time, I’m putting a bullet in his watermelon sized head.”
Bic kept his head turned from the slap. Looking down the street, he saw a black stretch Cadillac cruising through the intersection of North and Wells, coming toward him.
Bic then looked up at the man with the gold fronts and said, “You remind me of someone.”
“Who that, you blind fool?
“Clarence Green,” Bic said in a low tone, the rage of a thousand trapped tortured souls burning through his veins.
“Who’s Clarence Green? Black Santa Claus?” Fronts blustered.
“My father,” Bic said as he stood, tossing the blanket from his body. They had time to notice he was wearing a North Carolina Tarheels jersey and held a 9mm pistol in each hand, extended toward them. A special magazine holder was strapped around his waist, holding clips for the nines—and several larger clips for an M-16.
“Oh no,” said Fronts, as Bic pulled the trigger on his right-hand pistol and a slug cracked into the thug’s forehead.
The left-hand gun put a bullet into the chest of a second gangbanger, dropping him instantly. A third man tried to pull his weapon from the waistband of his pants, but Bic patiently aimed and put a slug through the man’s chest. The gangster’s eyes rolled up, and he collapsed on top of one of his buddies.
Bic unloaded his remaining bullets into traffic. Bullets shattered windows and punched holes through metal auto-bodies. Tires screeched, and the sounds of crunching metal filled the street as vehicles collided into each other from every direction.
Traffic ground to a halt. Pedestrians on both sides of the road screamed and fled for cover, trampling each other in their rush to escape.
Bic released both spent clips and reloaded his pistols. He then slid the weapons into their holsters under each armpit and dropped flat to the ground.
66
Phil Utah sat glumly in his white Ford Taurus on the fourth floor of a parking garage in downtown San Diego, head down, pressed against the wheel. He wondered how he was ever going to make it out of this mess alive. He had sent five good men, five friends, to their deaths.
Black Ghost Page 14
