Without Fear or Favor

by Robert K. Tanenbaum

Nat X stepped back and nodded. “That’s good. That’s real good. Someday soon, you may be asked to prove it. Are you going to be ready?”

  “Yes, sir,” they’d replied, which earned them a handshake from Nat X and a smile from Big George.

  As the weeks passed, Lakes and Watts noticed that there were fewer familiar faces at each meeting. “He’s weeding out the weak and those he doesn’t trust,” explained Maurice, who seemed increasingly caught up in Nat X’s rhetoric. “He thinks you two got promise.”

  The secondhand praise had done wonders for their self-esteem. A black activist, someone who was trying to protect their people from an oppressive culture, thought they had promise. Respect was a powerful drug, and it had nudged them farther into the fold.

  Still, it all seemed like mostly talk until the evening they got a call from Maurice, who told them someone shot a cop and his little brother saw the whole thing. In Marcus Garvey Park. When Lakes asked who did it, Maurice suggested it was Nat X, Big George, and Ny-Lee. He swore them to secrecy. Soon enough the story was on the news, and the boys were shocked. It didn’t seem like that cop was doing anything wrong. “He was just playing some basketball with some kids,” Lakes insisted.

  “WHERE’S MAURICE?” NAT X asked suspiciously. The boys were standing outside a tenement building where Nat X had told them to meet him. They shrugged. Watts said, “He said his grandmother was watching him like a hawk. I guess his little brother was there when . . . when . . . well, you know. They had to go talk to the district attorney and everything.”

  Nat X’s eyebrows rose and he looked over at Big George. “Is that so? What he tell the DA?”

  “He said he refused to talk and he was only there because his grandma made him go,” Lakes said, leaving out any mention of Tyrone Greene answering questions.

  Nat X smiled. “Yeah, well that’s good. Can’t have traitors among us, can we?” He reached around and pulled out a gun from underneath his sweatshirt. Both boys had seen guns before, but this one was something special. Silver with a shiny white handle.

  “That’s mother-of-pearl,” Nat X said with pride as he pointed at the grip. He held it out to Lakes. “Go ahead. Take it.”

  Lakes tried to act like holding a large handgun was nothing new to him. Then he passed it to Watts, who seemed even more impressed as he sighted down the barrel.

  “Yeah,” Nat X said. “You like that? That’s power. The only kind of power the white man understands.” He winked. “That there is a cop killer. Those bullets? They go right through a Kevlar vest like it was butter.”

  The teens looked at the gun with renewed awe. This was the gun. Watts returned the gun to its owner.

  “So let me ask you a serious question,” Nat X said. “Are you ready to strike a blow for your people? You going to be heroes of the revolution? Or are you going to be house niggers?”

  The teens looked at each other. They were scared and also felt backed into a corner. In some small way, both were tired of being bullied, and they saw this as their chance to become neighborhood heroes to those same kids who ridiculed them daily. They looked at Nat X. “We’re ready,” they said in unison.

  Nat X grinned. “That’s good. That’s real good. See, I told you,” Nat X said to his companion. “These two are straight-up soldiers in the Nat Turner Revolutionary Brigade.” His eyes narrowed.

  “Let’s go.”

  “Where we going?” Lakes asked.

  “You’ll find out when we get there.”

  The four hadn’t made it more than a few blocks when a car pulled over to the curb just ahead of them. A large man, almost the size of Big George, got out.

  “DeShawn, what the hell are you doing out here? You’re supposed to be home studying,” the man said.

  “Who the hell are you?” Nat X said with a scowl.

  “Who am I?” the man replied. “The name’s Jonas Lakes, Reverend Jonas Lakes. I’m this boy’s father. Now who the hell are you?”

  Nat X held out his hand. “Just a friend—call me Nat.”

  Reverend Lakes ignored his hand. “You ain’t no friend of mine. And what do you want with these two boys here? I see you, Ricky Watts. Your mom isn’t going to be happy hearing you’re walking around with this sort of trash.”

  “Hey, watch what you’re saying, old man,” Big George growled and started to advance. But Nat X grabbed him by an arm.

  “I don’t appreciate that,” he said to the reverend. “But I ain’t got time to deal with you now.” He turned to DeShawn. “Looks like you need to go home and study like a good little house nigger.”

  “Watch your mouth, trash,” Reverend Lakes warned, but he stopped and his eyes narrowed when Nat X reached menacingly behind his back. “Oh, I see how it is, tough guy. Well, come on, DeShawn, and you, too, Ricky. I’ll drive you home.”

  DeShawn left the group and walked toward his father. But Ricky hung back. “I’m staying,” he said.

  “That’s right, he’s his own man,” Nat X said. “DeShawn, you and your daddy just run along.”

  “Yeah, run along, old man,” Big George repeated.

  Reverend Lakes hesitated, then shook his head. “Get in the car,” he told his son.

  As they drove away, Nat X turned to Watts. “I’m real proud of you standing up for the cause.”

  Watts blushed and smiled. “I’m all in.”

  A few minutes later, the three men were standing at the entrance to an alley next to a tenement building. Nat X looked around, but there was nothing much to see, just a Dumpster about twenty feet down the alley, but no people. He nodded at the building.

  “I’ve been watching this place for a while. And every night about this time, two cops start at the top of the building and walk down the stairs.” He pulled out the silver revolver and wiped it off with a handkerchief. “They won’t be expecting you,” he said, and held out the gun to Ricky, using the cloth to avoid leaving his fingerprints.

  “You . . . you . . . you want me to shoot them?” he said, blinking hard behind his thick glasses.

  “You said you were ready,” Nat X replied, his voice firm. “Did I make a mistake and pick a boy to do a man’s job?”

  “No, I’ll do it,” Watts said. He swallowed hard as he held out his hand and took the gun. The weight of it seemed to give him courage.

  Nat X smiled. “Good. I knew I could count on you. Just go in that door over there and up a couple of flights and set yourself up on one of the landings. Be ready, and when they come around the corner, they won’t be expecting you . . . that’s when you do it. Boom boom and it’s over. If they’re still moving, shoot them in the head. Then get your ass out of there and we’ll meet you.”

  Watts nodded and tucked the gun under his shirt. He walked resolutely to the entrance.

  6

  AS THE TWO OFFICERS EMERGED from the hallway onto the ninth-floor landing, the older one stumbled. “Ah, damn,” Liam Conway said. “Bum knee. I should be riding a desk, not doing sweeps in a piece-of-shit tenement in Harlem with a rookie.”

  An obese man whose prodigious belly folded itself over his equipment belt, Conway looked around the stairwell with distaste, making a face as if he’d swallowed something particularly loathsome. The only light was supplied by a small grimy window four feet above the floor, but it was enough to see the graffiti-covered walls and the trash on the floor. He sniffed. “Bah, smells like every junkie in the building pissed in here. Bunch of fucking animals.”

  The “rookie,” Officer Bryce Kim, didn’t say what he was thinking. His partner was a racist who had nothing good to say about anybody who wasn’t white. He even made little remarks about Kim’s Korean ancestry and didn’t hesitate to use “gooks” and “slants” to refer to Asians. He was also a lousy cop who’d never made it past patrolman due to his tendency to rough up suspects, and a history of “minor” transgressions like being on the take and demanding sex from hookers. Each time Conway had landed in hot water, though, the police union had saved him.

  N
ow the brass were trying to get him to take early retirement by giving him lousy assignments. Such as walking a beat in one of the most crime-ridden neighborhoods in the city with a rookie partner he obviously disliked based on his race, and the fact that Kim took the job seriously.

  “Come on, Conway,” Kim said. “Let’s get this over with.”

  In response, Conway bent over and winced as he rubbed his knee. “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up as soon as I work this kink out.”

  Kim knew that the delay had nothing to do with Conway’s knee. In addition to all of his other foibles, his partner couldn’t make it through a shift without draining a pint flask of bourbon. He usually showed up for work with alcohol already on his breath, and when they first started working together he’d made a joke of his frequent nips “for medicinal purposes.” After Kim complained to the desk sergeant, who happened to be a friend of Conway’s, the boozy officer was more circumspect when he took his “medicine,” but he hadn’t stopped.

  Kim knew Conway wanted him to go elsewhere so he could have a drink. He shook his head and shrugged before starting down the poorly lit stairs. The sounds of the residents emanated from behind the apartment doors. Children laughing or crying. Adults arguing. Doors slamming. Loud music blaring. But still he was conscious of his own heavy breathing, aware that if anything happened, he had no real backup.

  Not every hallway had a working lightbulb. Most of the light from nearby streetlamps was blocked by surrounding buildings. The gloom that enveloped the hallways and stairwell got to Kim.

  Every cop working in the city, especially Harlem, was on edge after the Cippio shooting. This guy, Nat X, who’d claimed responsibility, was still out there, threatening more executions. There was no way of knowing whom he’d target next.

  Kim unfastened his holster and drew his 9 mm despite knowing it was against departmental policy. His nerves almost got the best of him as he came to the top of the flight of stairs above the fourth-floor landing and was surprised by a sudden movement. A woman smoking a cigarette near the open window gave a little cry when she saw him and scuttled back through a door that had been left ajar. He realized that he’d raised his gun.

  No wonder she was frightened, he thought. He was about to reholster when there was more movement at the bottom of the next flight of stairs. It took him a moment to realize what he was seeing. In the shadows stood a young black man. He was short, pear-shaped, wearing round, wire-rimmed glasses, and he looked scared. Only then did the police officer see the silver-colored gun in the young man’s hand.

  There was a flash and a deafening roar when the youth pulled the trigger. And almost on top of that, a second blast when, reacting defensively, Kim raised and fired his weapon. For a moment, both young men stood there as if surprised by the sudden violence that had erupted between them.

  Kim ducked back up the stairs. In shock, it took him a moment to realize that his assailant had missed. He listened. There was the sound of someone stumbling down the stairs below him and shouts from other parts of the building. One of those shouting was his partner.

  “Kim! Are you okay?” Conway called down.

  “Yeah, I’m good,” Kim responded. “Suspect’s heading for the street.”

  Up above, Conway called it in on his radio. “This is a ten-thirteen. Officer in distress. Shots fired. We need backup NOW!” Kim could hear him laboring down the stairs, and then his florid face poked around the corner. He was holding his gun out, his hand shaking. “Jesus Christ, Kim, what the hell happened?”

  “I . . . uh . . . I came around the corner and this kid, he had a gun. He tried to shoot me.”

  Down below they heard the heavy door leading out onto the streets burst open. “He’s getting away,” Kim said. He stood up and began moving down the stairs.

  “Wait for backup,” Conway insisted.

  “There’s blood here,” Kim replied. “I think I got him. I’m going down.”

  “Dammit, wait,” Conway replied, but his partner was gone.

  Kim went cautiously, following the trail of blood. He paused briefly at each floor, half expecting to see the gunman waiting, before pressing on. On the second floor, an older black woman and several children stood with the door open to the stairwell.

  “Get back inside,” Kim ordered before proceeding. They retreated, slamming the door behind them.

  Reaching the ground floor, Kim hesitated. The gunman was obviously wounded, but he didn’t know how badly. He might be waiting for you, his brain cautioned him. But he steeled himself and kicked open the door.

  Whatever he expected to see, he wasn’t prepared for what he found. A trail of blood across the sidewalk led to the prone body of the shooter. He wasn’t moving.

  An extremely large black man knelt at the suspect’s side and looked up as Kim approached. “You killed an unarmed boy,” he said loudly.

  “Back away,” Kim told him, his gun trained on the body on the ground.

  “He ain’t got no gun!” the large man shouted as he stood up.

  People were starting to gather, so the man repeated himself. “This cop just shot a black kid who ain’t got no gun!”

  “That’s not true,” Kim replied, frowning. “He had a gun.”

  “Liar,” the man shouted again and held up his hands, which were covered in blood. “There ain’t no gun.”

  The crowd began to murmur and tried to move closer. “You’re right,” a woman yelled, “there ain’t no gun!”

  Conway appeared from the doorway, his gun drawn. “Back off,” he shouted at the gathering group of onlookers. He walked over to the figure on the ground and felt for a pulse.

  Meanwhile, Kim radioed for help. “I need an ambulance!”

  “Won’t do any good,” Conway said. “He’s dead.” He looked at Kim. “What the hell?”

  “He had a gun. He shot at me!”

  Looking back down at the body, Conway’s lips twisted. “There’s no gun now.”

  “Murderers!” screamed the large black man. “The cops murdered this boy!”

  Others in the crowd took up the cry. “Murderers!”

  Conway looked at the mob that was growing and getting angrier by the moment. “Better call again for backup,” he said. “This ain’t going to be pretty.”

  7

  KARP SMELLED THE GIANT BEFORE he saw him. He was talking to Dirty Warren, who owned the newsstand in front of the Criminal Courts Building, when he was assailed by the odor of a body that had not experienced a shower in months, if not years, and breath that hadn’t been exposed to toothpaste in that time, either. It nearly made him gag, but then he smiled.

  “Good morning, Jacob,” Karp said as he turned to greet the bear-like man who stood behind him with one large grimy finger inserted half its length up his nose.

  “ ’ood aper-oon, ’ister ’arp,” the Walking Booger replied with a small bow.

  Although Karp could understand the impaired speech from years of experience with the local sidewalk denizen, he knew his large friend struggled with a speech impediment exacerbated by rotten and missing teeth. This man was possibly the largest human Karp (who at six-foot-five was no slouch himself) had ever seen. The Walking Booger was swaddled in a makeshift array of soiled, unwashed layers of clothing, including several coats, despite the already rising heat index. In fact, very little skin was showing except on his extremely filthy hands. A dark mane of hair covered his head, neck, and most of his face so that only his small, beady, bright eyes could be seen twinkling through the fur.

  “Hi, Booger . . . fucking twat whoop whoop,” said Dirty Warren, who suffered from Tourette’s syndrome. “Everything . . . whoop“okay you know where? . . . Piss shit!”

  “Eber-ree-ting is ’kay,” the giant replied without removing his finger.

  “Good. David asked me to . . . butthole bitch oh boy ohhhhh boy . . . keep you company tonight,” Warren said. “Because of the . . . whoop whoooop . . . riots.”

  “ ’ood,” Booger said. The hair on his
face moved in such a way that Karp assumed he’d smiled. “I ’ike ’ompany. Bye, ’arren, bye, ’ister ’arp.” With that, the giant shuffled off, the crowd on the sidewalk parting like a school of herring trying to avoid close contact with a shark.

  “Well, that was short and interesting,” Karp said. “By David, I don’t suppose you mean David Grale?”

  Warren arched an eyebrow. Former Catholic social worker–turned–serial killer, David Grale lived in the tunnels and warrens beneath the city of New York. He was the acknowledged King of the Mole People, thousands of homeless people who scavenged a living on the surface but lived in darkness with several million New Yorkers above them largely oblivious of their existence.

  If there was a redeeming feature to Grale’s murderous ways, it was that he killed only vicious criminals—murderers, rapists, and terrorists. He’d once been a co-worker at a soup kitchen for the poor with Karp’s daughter, Lucy, which was how they’d all initially become acquainted. In the years since, Grale had appointed himself guardian of Karp’s family and was especially close to Marlene and Lucy.

  Despite his reservations about vigilante justice, Karp couldn’t help but be grateful for the several occasions when Grale had saved not just his wife and children from killers but also the inhabitants of Gotham—even if they never knew his role in preventing terrorist attacks. But the last few times Karp had met him, Grale seemed to be sinking farther into madness, convinced that he was fighting a battle between good and evil. The madness and his lifestyle appeared also to be taking their physical toll on him; he looked haggard, his skin pale and waxy, his eyes sunken, and his chest consumed by a wet cough that Karp thought might be tubercular. Still, he commanded a network of street people—like Dirty Warren and the Walking Booger—that had better communications than the NYPD.

  “Maybe,” Warren said with a grin. “But aren’t you . . . oh boy whoop whoop . . . the top law dog in New York County?”

  “Technically, yes,” Karp replied. “Why?”

  “Well, you think I’m going to . . . bastard ass . . . admit to hanging around a maniacal killer like . . . whoop . . . David Grale?”