COLD MEDINA
GARY HARDWICK
Gary Hardwick
Copyright © Gary Hardwick, 1996 All rights reserved
Published by HardBooks Publishing at Smashwords
ISBN 978-0-9724804-4-4
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
ALSO BY GARY HARDWICK
DOUBLE DEAD
SUPREME JUSTICE
COLOR OF JUSTICE
EXECUTIONER’S GAME
SEX LIFE
DARK TOWN REDEMPTION
For Susan
Cities rob men of eyes and hands and feet,
Patching one hole of many incomplete.
-James Russell Lowell, The Pioneer (1847)
Human blood is heavy; the man
who has shed it cannot run away.
-African Proverb
Prejudice is like a hair across your cheek
... you keep brushing at it because the feel of it is irritating.
-Marian Anderson
PART 1: CHOCOLATE CITY
1
Rollin' on the River
The island was packed.
A night breeze came from the west, carrying the scent of the river to the shore. The park pulsated with the energy of the crowd jammed inside it.
The crowd was young and mostly black, but white faces could be seen here and there, cruising the drive for action.
Music blared out of vehicles parked along a circular drive. Rap music. Thumping bass lines, funky rhythms, and throaty, angry vocals. The differing beats rose like thunder, a defiant imbalance of sounds.
The air smelled of the river, fast food, marijuana, and beer. Within the darkness, small pipes were lit, their flames flickering for an instant then disappearing like fireflies.
It was ten-thirty on Belle Isle Park in Detroit. Prime time. The long concrete drive called the Strip was filled with young folks hanging out, cruising, and getting high.
The police drove through occasionally, keeping an eye on events. They were booed, cursed, and generally disrespected in the process.
Beyond the party on the Strip, further into the park, a young black man sat on a picnic bench in an old gazebo, oblivious to the celebration half a mile away. A large flashlight sat next to him on the end of the table, its beacon cutting a passage of light. In the light, the man counted a huge wad of cash. It had been a good night.
He'd made the rounds in record time and he was pleased with his success. He was good, he thought, but you had to be good to run the action on the island. There was a police station on Belle Isle, and a dealer had to be smart to move the product and evade detection. The cops were big, mean bastards and you couldn't tell which ones were tight with the crew. And if you got caught by one who wasn't, he might not bother to arrest you. He might just take you somewhere and beat the shit out of you-or worse.
Times were good for Floyd Turner, called Big Money Grip on the street. He got the nickname because he always packed a large wad of cash. He was the best roller in his crew of dealers.
His crew didn't really have a name, but they were unofficially called the Union. They ran most of the drugs in the city. The lesser crews and independent rollers stayed out of their way and took the leftovers.
Grip didn't take no shit and minded his own business. That's how you survived. The crews had their own code of honor and he never violated it. Most of the rollers were fools, he thought. Just punks with a little money waiting to get shot by a cop, another roller, or some bitch they couldn't handle.
He had ten young rollers working the island. They ranged in ages from twelve to twenty-one. They were smart and ambitious. Some he even called friends, but he never liked anyone to be around when he counted the take. He always counted his money first, then checked on the others. This way, only he would know exactly how much he had, and if he was in need of cash, he would skim a little off the top and no one would know.
Tonight business was good. The black folk were buying in volume. The white suburban boys and their pale girlfriends who cruised the island were shelling out the cash, too. The white kids usually just came to buy, then headed back to suburbia with its green lawns, and station wagons.
Many of the white kids were what they called wiggers, or white niggers. They adopted the cultural trappings of inner city blacks, the clothes, the music, and hairstyles. They rejected their parents' middle-class values and sought the edginess of being black.
The wiggers loved to come to the city on their little adventures. They could buy the stuff out where they lived, but that was boring. Better to come to the city, where the animals live. Grip didn't mind, though. They paid in cash.
He finished counting his take and stuffed it into a large leather pouch. The Belle Isle crowd was really putting the shit away tonight, he thought.
Grip sold crack which was called base, rock, juice, or the ever popular shit. He also dealt a little weed called indo, chronic, or just plain smoke. The names were always changing in drug culture. Currently, he was a roller, because a drug dealer was said to be rolling out the product, or rolling in the money. Dealers were called slangers, ballers out west, or clockers on the East Coast. As the culture embraced different themes and icons, everything changed. Except the job. The occupation of dealing drugs could never change.
It was ten forty-five. Grip decided to wait an hour before going back out. Then he would go for the big time score-midnight. There was something about the witching hour that made people crazy for getting high.
Grip was too smart for the pitfalls of drug dealing. He had ten years in the game and counting. He didn't even break the time the cops busted him. They beat him silly, then stole all his money and drugs. He was praised by his peers for his strength and honor. He knew then that he'd move up eventually to manager. That's the way it was in the drug business. You roll the product, don't talk to cops, and you get rewarded. At the ripe old age of twenty-three, Big Money Grip was looking for a promotion.
Something moved. The sound was sharp, cutting through the silence. Grip sprang to attention. He searched the area; hand on the gun in his waistband. He couldn't tell exactly where the sound had come from and the noise from the Strip was too distant to be heard.
Grip took out his gun. He stepped from the concrete gazebo to the grass. The earth felt good under his new basketball shoes. He followed the flashlight beam, walking toward his truck.
Maybe it was just an animal, he thought. But he didn't like taking chances. Nobody knew where he was, not even his own rollers. The light cut through the darkness, but revealed nothing.
“If somebody out there, you don't wanna be fuckin' with me!” Grip yelled. He flicked the flashlight back and forth around the truck. ''I'll bust a cap in yo' ass, as sure as I'm standin' here!”
Silence. Grip took another step. You had to intimidate when you were in danger. That was one of the first things he'd learned in the business. He moved slowly; his muscles tense. He brought the light to the side of his truck. Its cherry red body gleamed.
He wasn't afraid to shoot whoever it was. He'd killed before. Grip guessed that if someone was out there, it couldn't be a cop. They never came this far into the picnic area at this time of night. They knew all the sales took place on the drives. It might be one o
f those undercover bastards, but they wouldn't be out this far either. No, it wasn't the Hook, as the police were sometimes caned. They wouldn't play games like this.
Grip traced his steps back to the gazebo. It was probably somebody's mutt-ass dog or a raccoon, he reasoned. He sat and stretched his arms upward, yawning. He was beginning to feel a little tired. He didn't sleep much. Rollers never did. Selling drugs was a twenty-four hour-a-day job.
Grip placed the gun on the table with the leather pouch of money. He had a lot of time before he had to get back out there. Grip took out his pipe and pulled his private stash from his hip pocket. The small white rocks briefly caught the beam of the flashlight in their plastic container as he placed them next to the crack pipe. He picked out a nice fat one.
Grip did not see the man crouched beyond the gazebo on the far side of the wooden picnic tables. Hidden behind a series of large steel trashcans, he was only a few feet away
The crouching man was dressed in black and knelt as if praying. Silent and motionless, he could have been a large rock or a mound of dirt. His pulse was slow and steady, his breathing thin, noiseless. He'd been following the drug dealer all night, watching him sell death along the Strip.
As Floyd Turner dropped a rock of crack into his glass pipe, he heard a rumble at the end of the table and saw the shadowy figure spring to its full height, winding upwards, like a thick, black spider.
Grip stood and reached for the gun. He had to take his eyes from the shadow to locate the weapon, and in that instant, the man was upon him, springing across the tabletop in a fluid motion. Grip was knocked to the ground.
Grip saw a reddish flash as the force of a blow hit him squarely in the face. Strong hands grabbed his throat and pulled him up to his feet. Grip's body stiffened at the hot pain of a knee in his groin. The wind flew from his body and he fell back on the ground in a sorry lump, holding his balls.
The killer stood above Grip breathing hard, heart pumping. The killer removed a large knife from his clothing and stepped closer to the man on the ground. Grip sensed him coming and tried to roll away. The killer kicked him hard in the ribs. Grip grunted loudly and rolled over, grabbing his side.
The knife struck. Grip howled in pain, trying desperately to crawl away. But the killer followed. With a quick jab, the knife was in Grip's face. Grip tried to cover with his hands, but the killer's strokes were too quick, darting between Grip's bloody fingers. Grip rolled over, hiding his face.
The killer pulled back, then braced his foot in the small of Grip's back and plunged the knife deep into the dying man. Grip's mouth opened in a wide, soundless scream, straining the skin at the corners.
The killer watched a moment, then removed the knife. He braced himself over Grip then struck with the blade again and again. Finally, the killer paused, breathing heavily. He brushed sweat from his forehead.
“Dirty hands,” the killer whispered, then cut Grip's throat.
The killer watched the life flow from the trash beneath him. A breeze flared up and the killer briefly smelled the scent of the river.
He jerked himself back into the moment, removed another tool from his jacket and knelt by Grip's corpse.
He finished his work and walked off into the night.
2
Wake Up Call
He is in a large room, a pen of some type. His limbs are heavy. He struggles and hears chains clanking together. It's a sick, filthy sound. His vision is obscured by a dirty, tattered cloth wrapped around his face, but he can see shadows moving in the room and insects scurrying on the edges of the fabric.
Suddenly, he's aware that the pen is filled with bodies writhing, dark figures moaning and calling out in pain and despair. He moves his head, struggling to loosen the cloth. It recedes a little and then he is rushed by a flood of smells: urine, sweat, excrement-blood. With his toes he feels the thick wetness of the dirt floor and creatures, rats maybe, running over it.
He can see an opening in the room. It is a door, and a dim, gray light comes through. Each time it opens, tall figures come through, grab a dark body from the floor, and take it out. The victims scream an ungodly sound each time.
Beyond the opening, he hears the shouts of a crowd, but their words are muffled. Again and again the tall men come and remove bodies, each time coming closer to him.
He tries to wake himself. He knows it's only a dream. He tries to shake his own consciousness to force the dream to break. He searches for memories of reality, proof of his other existence. But he can remember nothing of his life. And no power he can muster will break the fabric of reality. He has always been here. It is real. He is here, in chains, lying in his own feces. He begins to cry, and struggles while the chains sing their awful song.
The door opens again. They have come for him this time. He watches the tall figures come through the doorway. He cannot see their faces, but knows they are smiling, laughing at him. He is struck again by the smell of the place. Something gnaws into his leg; the pain is sharp and hot.
He screams, a last desperate attempt to escape, and something crawls into his mouth. He chokes on it. He spits it out and faintly tastes its coarse flavor.
When he recovers, the men are upon him. They grab him and lift. The chains sing again. Something falls from his leg and he hears it plop onto the ground.
The men drag him toward the door and the dim light in the doorway is frightening, pulsing with life. Voices yell on the other side of the door, shouting numbers.
“Five hundred!”
“Six hundred!”
He knows where he is and despairs. At the edge of the hideous door, he hears someone whisper to him, but he is not sure if it is one of the captors. The voice is cruel, and familiar.
“End of the line, nigger.”
He is pushed into the light....
**********
Tony Hill sprang up in bed, his mouth open in a soundless yell. His heart raced and he was wet with sweating. He checked the room as he always did after the nightmare, looking for specters.
He was home in bed, his wife Nikki sleeping next to him and his son, Moe, wedged between them like an intruder. The Sight of his family drew him slowly into reality and calmed his heart.
He had never been a slave and yet the nightmare seemed real, as if from some past life. Bondage, vermin, chains, the clarity of the moment was frightening. And strangely, it was the light in the doorway, with its awful, glowing hatred that was the most hideous sight.
Tony had tried desperately to stop having The Dream, as be called it, but it kept coming back, breaking free of each mental barrier he created, like a freight train hitting a picket fence.
The phone rang. Tony caught it in mid-ring, trying not to wake his family. He was surprised at how quickly he had grabbed the receiver.
He scanned the room again and caught the clock radio. The red numbers glowed 4: 10 A.M.
“Hello? ... Yeah, this is Inspector Hill,” he said.
The voice on the other end was not familiar, but it possessed a timbre of dread and urgency that he had heard a thousand times. And before the words were out, he knew someone had been murdered.
The flashing lights of the police cruisers danced on dark trees as Tony pulled his car into the area on Belle Isle where Floyd Turner's body had been found.
Tony got out of his car, and for a moment he felt he was walking through ripples of time as the grim faces of uniformed officers and coroner's aides blended into a hundred memories of a hundred crimes past.
Tony had been notified that there had been a death and the police were in a standoff with the probable killer. He walked up to the scene and a tall black man broke off from a group of officers and intercepted him.
“You in charge here, brother?” asked the tail man.
Tony smiled a little at the sight of his partner. Jim was a black lieutenant assigned as an assistant to Tony. They were supposed to function independently, but their friendship had melded the relationship into the traditional partnership. Cops could
n't break old habits.
“What we got here, man?” Tony asked. He walked with Jim toward the line of police cars forming a barricade. Tony took out his Beretta 92FS. There was no immediate danger, but it was another old habit.
“We got a stiff and the perp,” said Jim. “Two officers got here while he was robbing the corpse. He pulled out a gun and the uniforms backed off. The perp got caught before he could get back to his car. He's hiding behind that row of metal garbage cans.”
“Any shots fired?” Tony asked.
“Nope. He's saving 'em I guess.”
“How long he been holed up?”
“Uniforms got here about two hours ago.” Jim said.
“Hostages?” Tony asked.
“No, it's just him back there.”
“Any use talking to him, you think?”
“You 'know these young boys nowadays ain't got no heart,” Jim said. “We'll have to go hard on his ass.”
“But if he didn't fire on the uniforms, maybe he didn't kill the guy there. “ “Look, this is drug related,” Jim said. “And I bet this guy has been through the system before. He's got nothing to lose.”
“You a mind reader now, Jim?”
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”
“It means, we can't suppose any of that. If he killed the man, why was he still here? He could have popped him and took off....”
Cold Medina Page 1
