“I think so,” Gunner said.
“Then you have seen it?”
“Yes.”
“And do you know where I might find it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is it in your possession, or does someone else have it?”
“I’ve got it.”
“But not here, of course.”
“No. I’m not nearly as stupid as they say, remember?”
“Certainly.”
Jenkins stopped his circular pacing for a moment. “Now. The obvious question is forthcoming, I promise you. But before we go any further—I’d like to ask a rather embarrassing one, instead. I hope you won’t laugh.”
Gunner shrugged again. “It can’t be any funnier than Mouse looks with a silk scarf over his head, and I haven’t laughed at that, yet. Give it a shot.”
Jenkins continued to hesitate, then said, “I’d like to know what it is, exactly, that you have. Photographs, a tape recording, documents of some kind? What?”
“You mean you don’t know?”
“No. I have no idea.” He was genuinely red-faced. “I only know what it supposedly proves.”
Gunner contemplated laughing, but remembered his promise to refrain. “It’s a tape,” he said, seeing no point in withholding the information. “The video variety. Shot on location in Manhattan Beach, on a street named Agnes Road. Stewart and your boy Price here are the featured performers. The plot’s a little thin, but I think it has something to do with twenty-five thousand dollars going from a Lincoln to a BMW.”
“He’s lying,” Price said. His eyes were on Jenkins, and he looked worried.
“You dumb shit,” Mouse said. “Buddy followed you!”
“That’s not possible,” Price said, shaking his head at Jenkins. “I would have noticed something …”
“It’s those tinted windows,” Gunner suggested. “Very hard on the eyes.”
“What’s done is done,” Jenkins said, dismissing the hysteria of his subordinates with a wave of his hand, while masking his own agitation commendably. “Why or how it happened isn’t important.” He turned to Gunner again. “I presume there’s no mistaking the identity of either man?”
Gunner shook his head. “Afraid not. This is a Grade-A piece of cinema.”
“Shit,” Mouse said.
“In that case, I’ll ask that obvious question now, Gunner,” Jenkins said gravely. “And I’ll only ask it once.” He stepped back to give Price a clearer shot at the detective.
“Where is the tape?” Jenkins asked.
Gunner used his head to indicate someone behind Jenkins and said, “He has it.”
Only Jenkins turned, but that was good enough. His face led Price and Mouse to follow his gaze shortly after.
Jamaal Amir Hill stood only twenty feet away, one of the Navy’s beloved MK760s in hand, complete with full magazine. He didn’t look like somebody who would have any difficulty, or reservations, about firing it.
“What the fuck you doin’ here, Jamaal?” Mouse demanded, his fat man’s voice in fine form.
“Put the gun down, Brother Price,” Brother Jamaal said, glaring at him. It was as if Mouse had never spoken. “Very carefully please.”
“I’d do what he says, Jim,” Gunner said. “Nine millimeters, thirty-six rounds, and all that. You’d better tell him again, Lou.”
Price suffered a brief moment of indecision, furious, then let the Browning dangle limp from his hand before tossing it to the floor a good distance away. Gunner walked over and picked it up.
“You’re makin’ a mistake, Jamaal,” Mouse said, watching his fellow Brother of Volition move to Gunner’s side with the gaze of a crazed animal. A“ big mistake.”
“Shut up, Mouse,” Hill said, annoyed.
“So the man has friends,” Jenkins said, trying to smile. “How convenient.”
“You can zip it too, Lou,” Gunner told him, training the Browning on his heart. “Unless you’re going to do something predictable like offer me the sun and the moon to let you all go.”
Jenkins shook his head effortlessly. “Not that I don’t believe you can be bought. I just don’t think you’re worth owning.”
“Here, here,” Price said, having a hard time keeping still.
“I suppose you intend to turn us over to the police now?” Jenkins asked.
“In time,” Gunner said. “You in a hurry?”
His expression had hardened, grown dark in the shadow of a sudden anger. He turned to Brother Jamaal and said, “Go kill the camera.”
Only after Hill stepped behind the broken display case standing several feet before them did the three men see it: the official camcorder of the Brothers of Volition, mounted on its tripod, peering through a forest of carefully placed debris to spy upon them. Hill fingered its controls and a red eye near the lens went black, unceremoniously.
“I’ve had some trouble lately getting the police to take what I say seriously, so I thought a little visual aid might come in handy,” Gunner said. “I hope you gentlemen don’t mind.”
Finally, Price came at him, as he had been threatening to for some time. Jenkins and Mouse, however, did not move, content for now to watch.
“You take another step and I’m going to have to end this thing a lot faster than I planned to, Price,” Gunner told him, pulling the hammer back sharply on the lawyer’s chrome Browning, turning its nose to point directly at his chest.
Price froze in midstride at the sound, glared into the black pit of the weapon’s barrel, and retreated, reluctantly. His face was a mask of hatred, accented by eyes that said he would try Gunner again, given the chance.
Hill returned to the detective’s side and said, “Now what?” Clearly, he, too, was getting edgy.
Gunner reached for the MK760 and swiftly traded the Browning for it, giving Jenkins and the others no time to react before the business end of the automatic rifle was staring back at them again.
“Now we play a game,” he said, to no one and everyone, his attention turned to Mouse and Price, exclusively. “Tell him how it’s played, Mouse. Or do I have to do it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about,” the little man said, his eyes on the gun staring him down.
Gunner tipped his head toward the Browning in Brother Jamaal’s hand and said, “Empty the clip of all but one round and let him have it. Then give Price the Ruger.”
“Gunner. Wait a minute,” Jenkins said, uneasily. The man who never lost his cool was suddenly perspiring heavily, ruining his clothes. He seemed to know what was coming.
“Shut up, Lou. You’ll get your turn,” Gunner said.
“You’re not thinking. Jesus, man, what the hell is this going to get you?”
“He’s crazy,” Price said.
“Goddamn right he’s crazy, he thinks I’m gonna play this shit,” Mouse said, bouncing on the balls of his feet, heady from a runaway adrenaline high. “No way, Gunner. Uh-uh.”
“Shut up,” Gunner said again, meaning it. Hill was almost finished emptying the Browning’s clip.
“All things are negotiable, Gunner,” Jenkins said, trying to keep some semblance of dignity in his voice. “A smart man makes money when he holds the upper hand, not enemies. We can work something out, I promise you.”
“Get fucked, Jenkins. This is supposed to be fun, the way I remember it. Tell your boss what a kick it is, Price. Tell him what a howling good time you and your little boyfriend here had the last time we all played. Or can’t you still see the stupid look on Ferris’s face when he realized his gun was empty? I sure as hell can.”
Price didn’t answer.
“Ready,” Brother Jamaal said. He was holding the weapons out for Gunner’s inspection, Price’s Browning in his right hand, Little Pete’s old .38 Ruger Security Six in his left.
“Hand ’em out,” Gunner told him.
“What the fuck’s wrong with you, Jamaal?” Mouse bellowed, as Hill came toward him. “You’re a Brother, man! We only did what we
had to do to get Roland and the boys the guns! Can’t you see that?”
“I can see you’re just as ignorant a fool as I always thought you were,” Hill said, passively. “And an even bigger sissy.”
“You’re going to regret this later, Gunner,” Jenkins said, backpedaling casually out of harm’s way.
Gunner grinned at him sardonically. “I’ve had regrets before. One more’s not going to kill me.”
Mouse had the Browning in his right hand now, down at his side. He was obviously struggling with the question of what to do with it, and when.
Price, meanwhile, wouldn’t take the Ruger from Hill. Roland Mayes’s cameraman turned to Gunner, exasperated, and made a face of helplessness.
“Take the gun, Price,” Gunner said.
“Fuck you. I’m not your boy.” Price laughed. “Let Lou play.”
Jenkins whirled, stunned.
“Next round,” Gunner said flatly. “Take the gun and spin the wheel. Test your luck. I admit it’s not much, but it’s a chance to get out of here alive. Which is more than you gave Ferris, now isn’t it?”
Price studied his face in silence for a long time, defiantly motionless. His rage was like something alive, radiant and withering. When at last he was convinced that Gunner wasn’t bluffing, he took the Ruger from Brother Jamaal’s grasp, with care and deliberation, and turned to face Mouse squarely, the pistol at his side.
“Don’t do it, Jimmy,” Mouse said.
Brother Jamaal backed away.
“Thanks for the hand, Jamaal,” Gunner said. “You take the tape and get lost now—all right?”
Hill didn’t move. “You sure you’re going to be okay? If you want—”
Gunner shook his head, said, “Some other time. Just leave the tape where we agreed and go home. I can handle things from here.”
Hill went over to the camcorder and retrieved the cassette. He zipped the front of his jacket up over it and started for the door.
“Good luck, brother,” he said, and ran off.
When he was sure they were alone, Gunner spoke again. “Game time,” he told Price and Mouse.
Mouse started shaking his head, his eyes shut tight.
“That means you, Mouse,” Gunner said. The two unwilling duelists were positioned only ten feet away from one another as he held the MK760 steady, ready for any sign of mutiny.
“Either one of you tries anything stupid, I’ll cut you both down. In pieces.”
“Don’t do it, Gunner,” Jenkins said, eyeing the investigator imploringly.
“On three,” Gunner said, ignoring him. “One.”
Mouse still had his eyes closed.
“Two—”
Price’s right arm shot up and the Ruger fired once, aimed at Mouse’s face. An imperfect hole appeared over the little man’s left eye and the back of his head broke up, flesh and bone converted into a small, damp cloud of pink and red. The chrome Browning automatic was still pinned to his side as his body fell, surprise leaving the same mark on his features it had left on Stanley Ferris’s.
“Christ,” Jenkins said, grimacing.
Price turned smartly on his heels to face Gunner again and threw the spent Ruger to the ground, his face entirely devoid of expression.
“Sorry to jump the gun, hero,” he said, “but I trust you feel better now.”
Gunner frowned and shook his head, his jaw clamped tight and aching. “Not yet,” he said.
The MK760 came alive in his hands and breathed fire, barking with restraint. Price took the blast of nine-millimeter rounds full in the chest and became airborne, like a marionette tossed by its strings. He landed in a heap nearly ten yards away, another corpse ready for burial.
Jenkins stood in mute amazement, staring at the young man’s body. He brought his eyes around to Gunner slowly and waited, resigned to the fact that his fate was no longer his own to control.
“Tell me what you saw,” Gunner said, calmly.
Jenkins merely shook his head and smiled the thinnest of smiles, ever the cold realist.
“Not a fucking thing,” he said.
ust when everyone thought it was safe to abandon the shade, Los Angeles had another record-breaking fall day in the high nineties, but the headline story in all the newspapers was the search for Roland Mayes.
Sweet Lou Jenkins hadn’t done much to help, but the LAPD had used Gunner’s deposition and video double feature to put together a fairly clear picture of the circumstances surrounding Buddy Dorris’s death, and now the only major piece of the puzzle missing was Mayes—Mayes and one case of MK760s that, according to Jenkins, was unaccounted for.
Larry Stewart had confessed to everything, once the state police had pulled him off a late-arriving Delta airliner in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida, fourteen hours after Jenkins’s arrest. He had swung some kind of deal with the District Attorney’s office involving immunity. It helped Lewis Henshaw some that he had apparently known nothing about his aide’s bold attempt to scare up a few thousand more votes for him within the district he was vying to represent, but not much. Rumor had it the Far Right’s favorite son was going to spare himself the indignity of being ravaged at the polls by withdrawing his candidacy, and soon.
Gunner, meanwhile, was suspended in an awkward limbo of sorts. The media had built him up to be no less than a hero, the rogue star of a by now famous videotape who had almost single-handedly staved off whatever nameless bloodshed Mayes and the Brothers of Volition would likely have wrought with Jenkins’s arsenal, and the police could hardly do anything but agree, at least for the record. But his latest adventure had cost two more lives, and the story he had told this time by way of explanation was flimsier than the last, Jenkins’s wholly concurring version notwithstanding. Despite his freedom and Ziggy’s encouragement that no new charges against him would be filed, the detective still couldn’t decide whether his status had greatly improved or had diminished, and no one within the department—Matt Poole included—was talking.
In Mayes’s absence, Jamaal Amir Hill was keeping the lid on the boiling pot that was the Brothers of Volition as best he could, but he seemed to be overmatched. For the moment, their headquarter doors were still open, as no one could prove that anyone but Mayes, Mouse, and Buddy Dorris knew anything about the guns Mayes had made arrangements to buy, or what his plans for their use may or may not have been. But the scrutiny of the world was upon them, and the weight of that much attention was stifling. The police were everywhere, waiting for Mayes to make some kind of contact with his people, and their presence was a constant annoyance. Despite Brother Jamaal’s feverish efforts to direct them, to make them recognize how destructive Mayes’s intent could have been to their cause in the long run, many Brothers were abandoning ship, breaking off in varied numbers to illustrate their commitment to Mayes, and their tenuous impatience with America’s status quo. Some were prepared only to make noise; others were not. These few were ready and hungry for something more, as were millions of others outside their ranks, black men and women nationwide who were following the Brothers’ story with keen interest, waiting anxiously to see which way the winds of change were eventually going to blow.
The smoldering flame of racial unrest, only recently believed to be dying with October’s oppressive heat, was glowing white hot anew.
Amid all this, little or no attention was paid to Verna Gail. The police questioned her quickly and elected not to hold her, satisfied that she had played no integral part in either the murder of Denny Townsend or the Jenkins-Stewart-Mayes conspiracy. It was possible she knew where Mayes might be hiding, but hardly probable; by all accounts, they were two people who from day one had cared very little for each other. Verna Gail was just a peripheral character in a convoluted plot, the authorities reasoned, a bit player of no significance. So they let her go home and forgot about her. As did Gunner.
For a while.
It took four rings to get her attention, but Verna Gail’s voice finally rattled in answer over the intercom system of her
apartment building. She sounded half-asleep, but in another five minutes it would be three in the afternoon on a clear-skied Sunday.
“Yes? Who is it?”
Gunner moved closer to the speaker on the wall and in a loud voice identified himself. He wasn’t surprised when she took a full minute to answer back.
“Come on in,” she said.
Gunner gave the blue, plain-vanilla Ford sedan parked across the street one final look. The plainclothesmen inside appeared to be dozing off. Poole’s boys really had lost interest in Verna Gail.
A solenoid buzzed to release the lock on the apartment building’s front security door and Gunner stepped inside, only casually noting that the door would have opened regardless: someone had pried it open the hard way and destroyed the jam. He found apartment 104 on the ground level, to the left of the courtyard entrance, but Verna wasn’t waiting at the door. He punched the little chime button below the peephole and she finally appeared, looking not a good deal better than she had the day he stumbled upon her rooting through the carnage of her brother Buddy’s ransacked apartment. But that was understandable.
Roland Mayes was standing behind her, pressing the lethal end of a sawed-off Remington 1100 twelve-gauge shotgun into the base of her neck.
“Welcome to the party, Cop,” he said, grinning. “Glad you could make it.”
He motioned Gunner inside and closed the door after him.
Verna’s apartment was small and dark, an above-ground bomb shelter insulated from the outside world by drapes drawn tightly together, granting no passage to sunlight. The air conditioner was on, whining evenly. A short, stocky table lamp burned atop a dining-room table near the kitchen, casting odd shadows over three grim-faced black men scattered throughout the living room. They all wore the colors of the Brothers of Volition, as did Mayes, and each had one of Lou Jenkins’s familiar MK760s either in hand or nearby, within easy reach. The Brothers’ doorman, the big kid with the archaic Afro Gunner had met earlier, was among them, as was one of the giants who had given Mouse a hand in his fistfight with Gunner that same day.
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