The living room was crowded with gang members, mostly in pairs, along with Johnson’s crew. There were a lot of tattoos, plenty of cornrows and shaved heads, some skullcaps, baseball caps, and bandanas. A couple of guys wore sunglasses, though the sun wouldn’t shine for another ten hours. They drank from cans of beer that they’d taken from a big bin of ice on the floor in the center of the room. Everyone was quiet, almost polite.
Earl Johnson stood by the fireplace and explained the deal. He wanted each gang to give him a list of active members. Then, each gang member would be responsible for paying ten dollars a week and in return Johnson and his crew and anyone else they had access to in the department would leave the gang members alone as long as things didn’t get too out of hand. He said, “The first thing you’re wondering is why you’ve got to give us a list of your names.” Most of the gang reps nodded. “From our side of the bargain,” he said, “it’s simple business sense. If we don’t have the names, we don’t know if you’re ripping us off. From your side, we’ll know who to let slide. If your name’s on the list and we catch you being a bad boy, we apologize for inconveniencing you. Meantime, we spend all the extra time we’ve got hassling your competition—the guys whose names aren’t on your list.”
He paused to let the gang reps think about the plan. The look in their eyes said most of them bought it or weren’t ready to oppose it. So Johnson introduced Bob Monroe as his number two man and Raj and me as the guys who would be coming around to collect money.
“Any questions?” he asked when he was done.
“Yeah,” said a man in the back. He was a dark-skinned Latino wearing a white muscle T-shirt. “Who the fuck d’you think you are?”
Johnson smiled calmly. “You know who we are, Rafael. We’re the guys who can make life good for you.”
“Life’s already good.” He looked around the room for support. Three or four of the others nodded but no one said anything.
Johnson kept the smile. “Any other questions?”
“So, what happens?” said a guy in a sweatshirt and tattoos that reached from his collar to his chin. “Once a week you come to the neighborhood and we line up with our dollar bills?”
Johnson answered like he was talking to a smart student. “Each week you collect the money yourselves, based on the list of names you’ve given us. Then Raj and Joe come out and meet with a representative from your gang and collect it. The representative could be you or it could be someone else. There will be extra benefits for the representative.”
“Like what?” called someone else.
“Like extra protection from us and a little money back directly to you.”
Rafael, the big Latino man, said, “We don’t need protection.”
Again, Johnson smiled, though you could see that his patience was running out. “Then you just get the satisfaction of playing by the rules.”
A skinny man in jeans and a turtleneck sweater leaned back in his folding chair and looked at me. “I seen you on TV. You the cop killer.”
I shook my head. “Must’ve been someone else.”
“No, no,” he said cheerfully. “It was you. They said you also shot another cop. Didn’t kill him, though.”
It would do no good to explain that I hadn’t shot Bill Gubman, that I’d seen someone else shoot him and, depending on who you talked to, I either was responsible for allowing him to get shot or was the one who saved his life. I said, “Now would be a good time to shut up.”
He grinned. “Yeah, you the guy on TV.”
Monroe smiled. “It’s true that Joe killed a man last week and that the man was a cop,” he said, “but he hasn’t been charged and he won’t be.” I’d played my part though I hadn’t meant to. Monroe must’ve figured that a man who could shoot a cop and get away with it would worry even the toughest gang member. That’s why I was there.
Rafael, the Latino in the muscle shirt, wasn’t worried, though. He shook his head. “I’m not giving you no money.”
Johnson shook his head too. “Yes, I think you are.”
“Yeah? When’s that?”
A happy idea occurred to Johnson. “What the hell. Tonight. Before you leave, each of you will pay your first ten dollars. You’ll see how easy it is.”
The other gang members mumbled and looked at each other. Three of them fished into their pockets and pulled out a bill or two. Rafael watched them, disgusted. Then he shrugged, stood up, and made to reach into his pocket for his wallet.
He didn’t complete the action.
He spun, picked up the chair he’d been sitting on, and threw it through a plate-glass window facing the back deck.
In a flash, Johnson, Monroe, and Raj pulled out guns that they’d hidden under tables and chairs. If you’d blinked you would’ve thought they were magic. They pointed the guns at Rafael.
Rafael’s partner and three other men in the crowd pulled out guns and pointed them at Johnson, Monroe, and Raj. Not as fast but just as deadly.
I fished in the front of my pants but couldn’t get at the Ruger fast enough to make a difference.
The men with the guns faced off, no one moving, no one saying a word.
Then the door from the back deck opened.
Johnson, Monroe, Raj, and the gang members swung so their guns pointed at the two men and the woman who walked through it.
The men were Peter Finley and the other cop who’d been checking for weapons when we came in. They held the woman by the wrists and ignored the guns that were pointing at them. “We found her outside,” Finley said to Johnson. Then to everyone else, “Anyone know who she is?”
I raised my hand slowly.
“Hi, Joe,” the woman said.
“Hi, Lucinda.”
Johnson kept cool. He lowered his gun before anyone else and set it on the table in front of him, harmless for the moment but still in easy reach. Three of the gang members lowered their guns. Monroe and Raj tucked theirs away. Rafael’s partner pointed his at Johnson until the room calmed, then tipped it toward the floor but with his finger still on the trigger.
Johnson cocked his head and looked at Lucinda. “What are you doing here?”
She said nothing.
“I asked her to come,” I lied.
Johnson glared at me and turned to the crowd. “If we’d all do as we’re told, this would work a lot better.” He looked from face to face to see if everyone was listening, and added, “That’s my nice way of warning you not to ignore me.” Again, he looked at me. “We’ll talk about this later.” Then, back to the crowd, “There’s a bed in the back. Which one of you wants her?”
Uneasy laughter filled the room. A few of the gang members volunteered. Two offered to share her. Lucinda pulled against the hands that were holding her wrists. The skinny man who’d said he saw me on TV spoke to Johnson, “That ain’t funny and it ain’t cool.”
Johnson smiled at him and turned to Finley. “Would you please walk the lady to her car?”
“I’ll take her,” I said.
He turned on me. “No,” he said. “You stay here.”
Lucinda gave me a look and a nod to say it was all right.
I figured she had a better chance if she went with Finley alone than if I crossed Johnson. I said, “Whatever.”
Finley and Lucinda left and Johnson turned back to Rafael. His voice was calm but vicious. “You fucked up big. We invite you to talk and you start throwing furniture. Look around and start thinking. All these other guys are in. For a few bucks each they’re buying security and peace of mind. They’re eliminating the competition. They can do their business and we’ll leave them alone. You know what we’ll do with all that time we save when we’re not hassling them? We’ll be busting you. Six months from now, there won’t be anything left of you and your friends.”
If Johnson’s speech worried Rafael, he didn’t show it. He gestured to his partner and the two headed for the same door Lucinda and Finley had just used. As Rafael stepped outside, he flipped his middle finger at
Johnson.
Johnson laughed and said, “Hey, Rafael.”
Rafael and his partner turned.
Johnson grabbed his gun from the table and fired it. The partner’s head snapped back, struck by a piece of metal that weighed about ten grams but hit harder than a truck.
Rafael opened his mouth to scream but no sound came out. He looked down at his companion. Everyone else looked too. The man’s face was half gone. Bone, brain, and blood spilled from the broken shell that had been his skull. The skinny man who knew me from TV said, “Fuuuck!” The others said nothing but looked like they agreed with him.
Then Rafael ran. No one from Johnson’s crew stopped him or went after him.
Johnson lowered his gun, stared at me, and spoke to the crowd. “In case anyone’s wondering, that’s an example of what happens if you break the rules.” Then he asked, “Does anyone else want to drop out now?”
No one moved.
“Okay,” he said. “Ten bucks apiece tonight. Next week, Joe and Raj will want a list of active members and ten dollars for each of them. Same thing the following week and every week after it. With a little organization, life will be easy for you guys.”
“For you too,” someone called out.
“Yes,” Johnson said. “For us, too.”
We sat in the living room after the gang members left, their spinning tires spitting gravel from the driveway, their stereos blasting music. Finley had come back in and nailed a piece of plywood over the broken window. We’d picked up the empty beer cans. We’d mopped the floor and deck where Rafael’s partner fell. Three men had gone to the garage and returned with shovels. They’d carried the body of the partner to the beach and, in less than a half hour, had covered him with sand in a hole five feet deep. Deep enough to keep the smell down and the wild animals out. Deep enough to keep the winter storms from exposing the remains.
Now, Johnson and Monroe seemed thoughtful but Raj and Finley laughed easily and looked happy, like they’d escaped a bloody battle without getting wounded. So did the other guys in Johnson’s crew.
The duct tape had come loose on my thigh, so I ripped away the rest of it and took out the Ruger.
Johnson turned on me and said, “What the fuck were you thinking?”
The question sounded rhetorical so I didn’t answer.
He gestured at Finley but kept his eyes on me. “Peter could have shot your friend just as easily as bringing her in for you to identify. Then you would’ve had a dead friend and we would’ve had another mess to clean up—smaller than the one you made at Southshore but big enough. You’re making it hard for us to work with you.”
Again I said nothing. I figured that cleaning up another body when he’d just splattered one across Finley’s living room and deck wouldn’t be a lot of extra work, but telling him that seemed like a bad idea. And explaining that I’d told Lucinda not to follow me—that she must have hung back when the FBI van followed us when we shot across Congress Parkway, fallen in behind us when we’d reappeared, and come on her own—would just make him ask why I’d told her about my evening plans to begin with.
“And who told you to bring a gun?” he said.
I said, “I figured the idea for this meeting was just crazy enough that someone like Rafael would throw a chair through a window. I wanted to be ready.”
Johnson sighed. “You got the first part right, but we expected that. We were ready for it. Were you? Next time don’t disobey orders. Or if you do, do it right. If you’re going to carry a gun, make sure you can get to it. If it weren’t for me, Monroe, and Raj, you would’ve had ten holes in your body before you finished jerking off and got the gun out of your pants.”
“I could’ve gotten it out,” I said.
“You could’ve shot yourself in the balls.” He turned to Monroe. “You brought this guy in. He’s your responsibility.”
Monroe glared at him.
“No more fuckups,” Johnson said.
Raj interrupted. “You think we’ve got a problem with Rafael?”
Johnson shook his head. “He’s easy. We know where he stands. It’s the ones who stayed quiet that we’ve got to worry about.” He looked back at me. “Them and anyone we don’t know well enough to count on.”
“Why did you shoot Rafael’s partner?” I asked. “Why not Rafael himself?”
Johnson spoke slowly, like he figured I needed special help. “You don’t shoot a gang leader unless you want the rest of his gang to be gunning for you. Rafael’s partner made the point.”
Monroe nodded, then stood and set out the plans for the next three weeks. Raj would get directions from him, and the two of us would start visiting gang representatives. Finley was checking out a building site that looked almost ready for wiring, which meant almost ready for a late-night visit from the crew. At the end of three weeks, we would meet again at The Spa Club to adjust our plans—unless anything went seriously wrong in the meantime. If that happened, we would meet sooner.
When Monroe finished, Finley raised a finger and Johnson nodded to him.
“About three miles west of here, before the highway, there’s a construction site. Looks like it’ll be a processing plant of some kind. A lot of pipe. Probably a lot of wire. It looks good.”
Johnson nodded again. “When?”
“Tonight?”
“Without checking out the place first?”
“There are no guards,” Finley said. “We go in and out. Snatch and grab. Leave behind anything we can’t take in five minutes.”
Johnson thought about it, then shrugged. “Why not?”
I said, “You’re planning on bringing in thousands of dollars a day from the gangs. Why bother with this stuff?”
Johnson looked at Monroe like he couldn’t believe Monroe had brought me into the group. Then he said, like I’d missed the obvious, “This is the fun part.”
The others laughed.
Raj grinned and slapped my shoulder. “Come on. It’s playtime.”
SIXTEEN
WE DROVE IN FIVE SUVs and vans back through Pleasant Prairie, past bare farm fields, and through the industrial strip. We turned onto a dark road with a street sign that said COUNTY HIGHWAY H, drove past a bunch of single-story white-sided factories and more farm fields, then swung to the shoulder by a construction lot surrounded by a tall chain-link fence. The top of the fence was lined with barbed wire.
Lights strung around the lot showed a main building that matched the ones we’d passed—single story and white—but it had three smokestacks at one end and a tall structure next to it, connected to the main building by a series of wide pipes. A temporary aluminum storage shed stood where I figured a parking lot would be. Next to it were piles of pipe and sheet metal.
Raj pulled to the front of the line of cars but stopped short of a pole that held a video camera focused on a gated driveway onto the lot.
He reached under the driver’s seat, pulled out a pair of work gloves, and slipped them on. “There’s another pair under your seat,” he said.
He got out, took a piece of steel pipe from the back of the SUV, and walked behind the pole that held the video camera. He smashed the camera. Pieces of metal and plastic flew to the ground and when the camera stopped turning it faced toward the clouds. Raj came back and exchanged the pipe for a pair of bolt cutters, went to the gate, and clipped the chain, then swung the gate open.
He ran back to the SUV and we led the others onto the lot.
We poured out of the vehicles and spread across the lot, scavenging for copper and anything else valuable that wasn’t bolted down. “All right,” yelled Johnson. “We’ve got five minutes.”
Finley shouted for assistance. Under a plastic tarp outside the storage shed, he’d found a small store of copper piping. In two trips, we loaded it into the back of one of the vans.
“Four minutes!” Johnson shouted.
The wind had picked up and the night had gotten cold, but we took off our coats and tossed them into our vehicles. We stripp
ed the lot of everything that could be carried by hand and fit so the van and SUV doors would shut.
Raj went to the SUV and came back to the aluminum shed with a crowbar. He rammed the end into the gap between the door and the frame and threw his shoulder against the bar. The door didn’t move.
“Help me!” he said.
I stood on the other side of the crowbar and pulled as he pushed.
The door slowly pulled away from the frame until the lock bolts cleared their housings. The door swung free.
Raj dropped the crowbar and grinned. “Thanks.” He reached inside the door and flipped on a light.
“Three minutes!” Johnson shouted.
The contractors had partly finished the inside of the shed. At the back end, they’d built three small rooms complete with locked doors. The shed smelled like new lumber and a chemical I didn’t recognize. A stack of insulated cable stood near the door. A large pile of two-by-fours stood against a side wall. Other stacks of sealed cardboard boxes stood in the middle of the large room.
I went for the insulated cable.
“Leave that,” Raj said. “Get those.” He pointed at a pile of gray metal boxes.
“What are they?”
”Transformers. Worth a couple hundred apiece.”
We carried a dozen of them to the SUV.
When we finished, Raj brought the crowbar inside. He went to one of the locked doors. A sign that hung on it said WARNING—GUARD DOGS. He jammed the end of the crowbar between the door and the frame.
“What are you doing?” I said.
He cocked his head toward the door. “Listen,” he said. “No dogs.”
“So?”
“So, someone’s using the sign to keep people away from this room. That means something valuable’s inside. Could be electronics. Could be cash.” He pushed the crowbar deeper.
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