The Plantation paj-1

by Chris Kuzneski

  Before leaving the safety of their Mustang, Payne, Jones, and Greene gazed at the terrain like antelopes surveying a water hole. They carefully searched the shadows of the land, looking for predators that lay in wait, hunting for a clear passage to their intended destination. When they were satisfied, they crept cautiously from their vehicle.

  “If I’m not mistaken,” Greene stated, “the tattoo shop should be right ahead of us.”

  The men continued their walk in silence until they found a small shop with a flickering neon sign that said

  Sam’s Tattoos

  in the window. Like most tattoo parlors, this one stayed open after midnight to cater to the bar crowd. Glancing at a historical plaque that was fastened to the building’s front, Greene pushed the door aside. Chimes from a small bell announced their presence.

  A tall white man, dressed in an elaborately tie-dyed shirt and baggy denim shorts, emerged from behind a wall of dangling beads and greeted his customers with a nod of his head. As he did, his braided orange hair fell across his pale green eyes while his shaggy beard bunched up in the folds of his neck. Tattoos covered the tanned flesh of his arms and legs.

  “What can I do for you dudes?” he asked in the syntax of a stoner.

  As Payne studied the employee, he realized it looked like a box of Skittles had thrown up on the guy. “We’re looking for a man named Jamaican Sam. Can you tell us where to find him?”

  “Dude! You’re in luck. Sam, I am!”

  The three men looked at each other in confusion. They were expecting their contact be a little more Jamaican and a little less Dr. Seuss.

  “You mean you’re the owner?” Payne asked. “You don’t look like I pictured you.”

  “Is it the nickname, dude? People always get thrown by my nickname.” The three men nodded at the walking rainbow. “Damn! I gotta get me a new nickname.”

  Jones knew he was going to regret asking it, but for the sake of curiosity, he had to know. “How did you get the name Jamaican Sam?”

  “Well, dude, the Sam part was easy because, you see, that’s my name. But the Jamaican part, well, that’s a little more complex. A couple years ago, a bro from the islands came in to get some ink done. I did this bitchin’ drawing of a naked hottie and put it on his back. Once I was finished, he was pretty stoked. In a heavily accented voice, the dude said, ‘Ja makin’ Sam’s name known t’roughout da city, mon!’ Well, some customers overheard it, and they lumped

  ja makin’

  with the

  Sam

  , so people started calling me Jamaican Sam.” He punctuated his story with a huge grin. “Pretty sweet, eh?”

  As fascinating as the story was, Payne didn’t come to this part of town to learn Sam’s history. He had more important things to find out-things that could possibly save his girlfriend. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I was hoping you could give us some help.”

  With his left hand, Sam brushed his braided orange locks from his eyes. “Like I said in the beginning, what can I do for you dudes?”

  “Actually, you can help me with a tattoo. I recently saw an elaborate design on this guy on the bus. The moment I saw it, I knew I wanted to have it. I just knew it! Unfortunately, before I had a chance to ask him where he got it done, we arrived at his stop and he disappeared. Do you think you could tell me who drew it for him?”

  Sam shook his head violently, trying to clear his head. “Hold up. Let me see if I understand your quandary. You spotted a slammin’ tat, and you expect me, even though I’ve never seen it, to picture it in my mind and tell you who did it? That’s some challenge, dude.”

  “But can you do it?” Payne demanded.

  It took thirty seconds for Sam to reply, but he finally shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see why not. But it’ll cost ya twenty bucks.” Payne handed him the money, and Sam quickly stuffed the bill into his multicolored boxers, which could be seen above the waistline of his shorts. “What did this Picasso look like?”

  “It was in the shape of the letter

  P

  . The straight part of the

  P

  was a dagger, and-”

  “Whoa!” Sam gasped, sounding like Keanu Reeves. “Was there, like, blood dripping from the dagger?”

  Payne stared at the guy-he couldn’t have been older than twenty-two-and nodded. “So, you’re familiar with it?”

  Sam walked over to his counter and flipped through a picture album of some of his most impressive designs. When he reached the page he was looking for, he handed the book to Payne. “The tat you’re looking for is one of mine. How cool is that? Kind of a small globe, eh?”

  “Yeah,” Jones grunted, who suddenly didn’t like the precision of Terrell Murray’s off-the-cuff recommendation. “Way too small for my taste.”

  Payne picked up on Jones’s tone and instinctively touched the gun that he’d concealed under the flap of his shirt. “What can you tell me about its design?”

  Sam scratched his bright orange beard for a moment, pondering his position, then shook his head from side to side. “It just ain’t worth it, dude.” He reached into his boxer shorts and withdrew Payne’s twenty dollars. “You can take your money back. I’ve got nothing for ya.”

  Payne looked at the money with disapproval. He wasn’t willing to touch something that had been stored in Sam’s underwear. Nor was he about to let him off the hook that easily. “A deal’s a deal. You accepted the cash, now it’s time to give me some info.”

  “Sorry, dude, but I just can’t do that!” Sam laid the money on the counter and slowly backed away. “I made a previous deal with a group of brothers that requested my work for that particular job. I told them my lips were

  el sealed-o

  if anyone asked me about that tat.”

  “How many people were in the group?” Jones asked.

  Sam shrugged, then let out a weaselly little laugh. “Sorry, bro. I don’t remember getting any money from you, so I don’t owe you any info. You dig?”

  Payne grinned at Sam and waited for the orange-haired freak to return his smile. When he did, Payne pulled his firearm into view and nestled it under the artist’s hairy chin. “First, you referred to a bunch of black men as ‘brothers,’ and then you referred to my friend as your ‘bro.’ Now you’re going to test my patience even further by refusing to answer a simple question? Sorry, bro, that’s not the way my friends and I operate.”

  “Wait a second,” Sam gulped, as the color drained from his face. “Did you guys come in together? Oh, dude, I didn’t know that! If I had known that, I wouldn’t have been so shady!”

  Payne nodded, but refused to lower his gun. “Tell us about this group, Sam, before my finger gets a twitch and I add some red to your obnoxious shirt.”

  “Well, a bunch of brothers . . . uh, I mean, Africans came here a couple weeks ago-”

  Jones quickly corrected him. “The appropriate term is African Americans.”

  “No, dude, not in this case. These dudes were African.”

  Payne raised an eyebrow. “Continue.”

  “Anyways,” Sam stuttered, “they were looking for a Holotat. They told me the name of their gang and what they were looking for, then left the rest up to me. They gave me some cash and told me to have a tat design by the next day.” Sam pointed to the picture in the album. “This is what I came up with, dude. Honest!”

  “What was the name of the gang?” Payne demanded.

  “Dude, I can’t tell ya that. I just can’t.”

  Payne pushed the barrel of his gun even harder against Sam’s throat, and as he did, he noticed Sam start to tremble with fear. “Sammy? I have a policy that prevents me from killing the mentally challenged, but since we’re in a hurry, I might be willing to make an exception.”

  Sam took a trouble-filled breath, then answered. “I’ve got a problem, dude. When the group got their tats, they threatened to kill me if I told anyone about their posse. Now, here you are, and you’re threatening to kill me i
f I

  don’t

  tell you about their posse. Well, you don’t have to be Alex Trebek to see that I’m in jeopardy.”

  “Jeez,” Payne said. “That jeopardy comment was pretty funny.”

  “Did you like that?” Sam asked, hoping to lighten the mood. “I just made that up.”

  “You did?” Payne grunted. “Well, unless you want it to be the last clever thing you say, I think you should start talking. What’s the name of the gang?”

  Sam closed his eyes in thought. After thinking about all of the consequences, he figured it was better to possibly die later than to definitely die now. “The Plantation Posse.”

  Payne lowered his weapon. “And what can you tell us about this Posse?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam mumbled. “They were young, black, and very athletic-looking.”

  “Wow,” Greene remarked. “You just described every team in the NBA. You gotta do better than that.”

  “And some of the guys had thick African accents.”

  “Come on!” he objected. “My NBA comment is still accurate.”

  Sam glared at the ex-football star. After a moment, a flash of recognition crossed his face. “Whoa, dude, I know you. I know who you are!”

  Greene cursed under his breath. He knew going into this partnership that there was a good chance that he was going to be recognized. Now it was just a matter of how he was going to handle it. “Who I am is not important, you box-of-crayons-looking motherfucker! What

  is

  important is my boy’s question. What did these guys look like?”

  The rage in Greene’s voice was enough to silence Sam. There was no way he wanted to piss off the Buffalo Soldier. “Okay, dude, I’ll tell you anything you want to know, just don’t hurt me! I’ve got a low threshold for pain.”

  Greene nodded. “I appreciate your honesty. In return, I promise not to test that threshold. But instead of talking to me, I want you to talk to my friends. Okay? And while you’re telling them everything that they need to know, I’m gonna go in the back and use your bathroom.” He turned toward Payne and Jones, looking for permission. “That is, if you guys can handle things alone for a couple of minutes.”

  Payne patted Greene on his shoulder. “Thanks, I think we can take over from here.”

  “While you’re back there,” Jones added quietly, “check to see if anybody is hiding or if there’s another way into this place. I’m not in the mood for any surprises.”

  Greene hustled into the back and did what was requested. “Things look fine,” he yelled to Payne and Jones. “There’s nothing back here that can hurt you.”

  Payne grinned as he leaned against the counter. “Sorry, Sam. Since you’re all out of allies, it appears that you’re kind of stuck. You have no choice but to tell us about the Posse.”

  “Dude, I swear, I can’t describe them any better than I have. The only thing in my brain is their black clothes and the large roll of bills they were toting. Other than that, nothing!”

  Payne nodded, beginning to believe Sam’s claim. He realized that it would be tough for anyone to remember specific details about a group of men who had visited him several weeks ago, especially if they were foreigners. One face would blend in with the next. “Fine, let’s get off their appearance. Why don’t you tell me about the tattoo? What did the image symbolize?”

  Sam scratched his beard while studying the picture from his album. “Well, dude, the

  P

  obviously stands for

  Plantation Posse

  , but I bet you figured that out, huh?”

  “Come on,” Payne mumbled. “Tell us something that might actually be useful.”

  “Fine!” Sam growled. “I’ll tell you what you want to know, but I’m warning you dudes, you’re forcing me to sign my own death warrant. My blood’s gonna be on your hands!”

  And in a blink of an eye, Sam’s words became prophetic.

  CHAPTER 21

  THUNDER

  echoed from across the street as the sniper pulled the trigger on his rifle. His first shot shattered the window of the tattoo shop, sending thousands of knifelike shards in every direction. As they fell to the floor in a melodic song, the bullet entered the right eye of its victim, obliterating Sam’s brain and skull in a single flash.

  Without pausing to think, Payne and Jones reacted to the situation like it was an everyday occurrence. Their experiences with the MANIACs had prepared them for far worse. Payne dashed for cover in the front corner of the shop, which was away from the broken window and allowed him to take a clean shot at anyone who entered the front door. Meanwhile, Jones headed in the opposite direction, taking refuge behind the front counter.

  “Are you all right?” Jones yelled as he pulled out his Glock.

  “I’m not perfect, but I’m better than Sam.”

  Jones glanced around the corner and stared at the near-headless victim. Crimson gushed from the gaping hole where his face used to be. Hair, brain, and bone clung to the back wall like chunky spaghetti sauce.

  “We’re dealing with a serious weapon, Jon. Whatever it is tore right through his skull.”

  Payne surveyed the scene before offering his summation of the kill. “From the looks of it, the shooter has an elevated position.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at the window if you can. The top is the only part that’s broken, and the only way a bullet can do that and hit a man in the head is if it was discharged from above.”

  Jones nodded in agreement. “If that’s the case, this wasn’t a drive-by. The bastard’s probably on a roof or in a tree. No way we’ll be able to nail him from this angle.”

  “You’re probably right. That’s why we’re going to have to go outside and get him.”

  Jones put his finger in his ear and tried to unclog it. “Sorry, I must’ve misheard you. Did you say we should go out there and get him?”

  “Yes, princess, that’s what I said.”

  The statement didn’t sit well with Jones. “But we don’t know what we’re up against! Hell, we don’t know a damn thing, and you want us to go outside with our weapons blazing? Am I Butch or Sundance?”

  Payne chuckled at Jones’s reaction. He expected something more soldierly from an ex-MANIAC. “Wow, wait until I tell the fellas about this at our next squad reunion. They won’t believe how quickly you’ve lost your nerve!”

  “I haven’t lost my nerve, Jon. I’ve gained common sense. What good is it to go outside and face a sniper?”

  “What good? Going out there could save Ariane’s life!”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Think about it! Why was Sam killed? What purpose could that have served?”

  Jones shrugged. “I don’t know. Somebody wanted to keep him quiet.”

  “Exactly! Sam must’ve known something, and it must’ve been pretty damn important.”

  “Like what?”

  “I have no idea. Maybe he could identify someone, or has a billing address in his files, or maybe, just maybe, he knew something about Ariane. Truthfully, I don’t know. But if we don’t go outside, our odds of getting an answer go down considerably. And you know it!”

  “Shit,” Jones grumbled, realizing what Payne had in mind. “You’re hoping to take this guy alive, aren’t you?”

  Payne nodded. “How else is he going to be useful?”

  Jones knew that Payne was right, that they needed to talk to the guy, but he also realized the level of danger that would be involved. If the sniper was still outside, he was probably waiting for them to make a move. And the moment they did-

  bang!

  Because that’s how snipers operated. They patiently waited for their targets to do something stupid, then they took full advantage.

  “So, are you coming or not?” Payne asked in a less than pleasant tone. “ ’Cause if you aren’t, I gotta start looking for a new best friend.”

  “Ah, man, why did you have to go there? Anytime you need a
favor, you always pull out the best-friend card. Fine, I’ll help you out, but I’m not doing this because of your stupid threat. I’m doing this because I need the exercise.”

  Payne grinned in appreciation. “The first thing we need to do is figure out how we’re going to get out of here. Since the door is glass, he’ll pick us off before we even open it. We’ll need to find a different exit.”

  “How about the window? If I knock out the bottom half, we could slip behind one of the cars outside with little exposure time. Plus, it’ll let this guy know we’re armed.”

  “Sounds good. But before we go, let me get the lights. The less this guy sees, the better.”

  Jones liked the idea. Darkness would improve their odds even more. “Can you reach ’em from there, or are you going to have to shoot ’em out?”

  Payne leaned out from his hiding place and stared at the small panel of switches near the door. It would take some doing, but he felt he could reach the buttons without risking his life.

  “No problem,” he lied. “Piece of cake.”

  Moving quickly, Payne dropped to his hands and stomach and crawled across the vinyl floor. He did his best to avoid the broken glass, but since there were chunks of it everywhere, he found himself bleeding immediately.

  “Looking good,” Jones whispered as he peered out from behind the counter. “In about two feet, you’ll be directly under the switch. Okay, stop.”

  Payne tilted his head back and tried to reach the metal panel above him, but the damn thing was a foot too high. That meant he’d have to leave the safety of the floor to reach it. Of course, the advantage he’d gain with darkness outweighed the risk of going for the lights. While keeping his torso parallel to the floor, he stretched his bloody hand upward, inching it slowly along the wall until he felt the cold surface of the switch.