“Get him the fuck up out of my ride,” T-Bone said.
Campbell dragged Alonzo out of the car and dumped him on the ground. T-Bone wiped the drill clean of prints then gave it to Campbell. Campbell folded the bloody plastic and took it away.
T-Bone caught Campbell's eyes. T-Bone said nothing.
Campbell nodded then dragged Alonzo away.
T-Bone took a deep breath. He disliked dealing with street trash like Alonzo Fields. But Grip's death was important. The sooner he found out who did it, the sooner he could get back to business.
T-Bone controlled the Union, the drug-gang-that-was-not-a-gang. He had helped organize a truce among the rival gangs several years ago; showing the various crews how there was more money in organized dealing. Those who adopted the plan were soon rewarded. Those who did not, disappeared.
After the organization was complete, he naturally assumed the role of leader. But he did not want glory. He wanted cash. So, he set up the Union as a collection of three autonomous crews, each controlled by a strong leader, and then he distanced himself from the illegal activity. T-Bone only met with his most trusted lieutenants, men he called the Big Three. Robert Campbell, who was disposing of Alonzo Fields, was one of them.
T-Bone checked his watch, then pulled out his cellular phone and dialed a number.
“Room thirty-three fourteen,” he said.
T-Bone waited, then a familiar voice came on the line.
“Yes.” The man's voice was soft and rich with a South American accent.
“It's me.”
“I trust you're calling to tell me when I can have my money.”
“I’ll get you the damn money, but I need more time!” said T-Bone.
“Your time was up three weeks ago, my friend,” said the man on the other end.
“I got a problem here. One of my men was iced.” The line was silent a moment, then, “You owe me a great deal of money. That is my only concern.”
“I’ll get it. I always do, don't I?”
“I need it now. Your government is squeezing my balls.”
“I know things are bad. The shortage is fucking with everybody. That's why I need more time.”
There was a silence on the line. Only the thin static of the connection could be heard, then, “A week.”
“Cool.” T-Bone turned off the phone. “Shit,” he cursed quietly as he put the phone in the cradle under the armrest.
T-Bone turned his attention back to the shadows on the windows in the suite. The party was really jumpin' but he wouldn't be attending. He never hung out with his street-level people. Hell, most of them didn't even believe he existed anyway.
Grip's death couldn't have come at a worse time. There was a shortage of coke, thanks to the Feds. And for the last year, T-Bone had been hoarding cash to finance an important operation. Now, he had to scramble to get the money for his suppliers without the aid of Big Money Grip, his best roller.
T-Bone had been told that Grip was wasted by some nut, at least that's what someone wanted him to believe. Grip had recently been approached by several other crews about joining up. He had turned them all down. Grip was a loyal man and maybe somebody wasn't happy about it. Fields didn't know anything about Grip's murder and Campbell would find out everything he did know before he got rid of him.
T-Bone turned on the car's ignition and pulled away from the party. He had more important business than Alonzo Fields. He had to find Grip's killer, raise half a million dollars for his restless suppliers, and he needed to continue the next stage of his costly plan to get out of the business.
6
Tony
The Beretta blasted holes in the black target. Tony fired quickly. Years of training had given him a quick finger and soon the clip was empty. He pushed a large black button and brought the target to him. When it got there, he counted the holes. He had scored only one head wound, two in the heart, and the rest on the perimeter. And the worst part was there were only ten holes. Six of the shots had missed completely.
That meant six innocent bystanders were gone.
“Damn,” he said.
He slammed in another clip angrily and continued. Target practice was Tony's newest line of defense against The Dream. The nightmare was infrequent, but when it did come, it did so with a vengeance. And he could no longer deny what The Dream meant. The past was coming back to haunt him.
A newspaper reporter had started it all three months ago, when she called and asked for an interview. She was doing a story about an old case he was involved in years ago. The woman had been all over him about doing the story. Tony had turned down her every offer.
Tony's career advanced rapidly when he joined the police force. He became a rookie while Detroit's first black mayor, Coleman Young, was in office. The mayor had instituted an affirmative action program that promoted black officers quickly to achieve parity with the whites.
The mayor favored younger black officers, ones who would be loyal to him and still active in the years to come. The quick ascent of the young cops met with animosity from older black and white officers alike.
Tony enrolled in night school soon after his first promotion. He earned a degree in criminal justice. It wasn't long before he had a detective's shield.
Tony took his success with a mixture of elation and misgiving. He often wondered if he would have advanced so quickly if it weren't for the mayor's program. Tony was sure of his talent. He was intelligent, hard-working, and tough. And since he'd taken over the SCU, its capture and conviction rate had almost doubled. He'd even received a plaque from the prosecutor's office. But would his talents have been enough to earn the leadership of a division? Not knowing burned at the very core of his reason. It haunted him like a ghost, mocking his accomplishments with cruel uncertainty. Tony was confident and effective in his leadership, but part of him wondered if he had truly earned anything. Over the years, many questions of his worth came back to this same uncertainty.
Tony reasoned that whites were at fault for this weakness of spirit. If it were not for their racism and oppression, there would be no need for preference programs and the resulting mental wreckage.
Tony ended his shooting practice when he realized that he had run about a hundred and fifty rounds through the Beretta. Sadly, the practice session had not improved anything. If he read the targets correctly, he'd killed forty innocent people in the session.
He left the target range. He had a busy day. The Chief was holding a press conference on crime and Alonzo Fields's attorney had filed a motion to dismiss his case. Tony was scheduled to appear in court at three.
Tony was walking into his office when Detective Meadows approached him.
“Hey, boss.” She smiled brightly. She held a newspaper.
“Awful goddamned early to be smiling like that, detective,” Tony said.
Meadows just continued to smile as she shoved the newspaper at him. “Happy anniversary,” she said and walked away as Tony unfolded the paper. On the front page of the Metro Section, he read the headline:
TEN YEARS AGO TODAY: HERO COP SAVES HOSTAGES
Tony stared at the newspaper in his office. The black-and-white headline seemed twice as big as it really was. Images of the GM incident and The Dream mingled briefly in his mind. The article told the story of Tony Hill, still a young detective, and how he had saved several hostages from Darryl Simon, a lunatic.
Simon was a brilliant engineer for General Motors who had gone nuts one day and taken hostages on the eighteenth floor of the GM building.
The SWAT team, state troopers, and local police were all in on the show. Tony and his partner, a cop named Sam Kelly, backed up two SWAT guys on the team assigned to take Simon.
Unfortunately for them, Simon was more clever than they knew. He rigged a bomb that blew up a door and killed the SWAT men. Kelly got caught by it too, but was only knocked out.
Tony survived and made his way to the hostage area. He found Simon holding a rifle on a group of hostages, rant
ing and raving about the end of the world. Simon was a thin, balding white man of about thirty or so.
Tony also noticed several dead hostages piled in a corner. It was later reported that all the dead hostages were black.
When Simon was clear of the living hostages, Tony shot him, wounding Simon in the shoulder. After Tony evacuated the hostages, Simon got to his feet, and attacked Tony. During the fight, Simon jumped out a window to his death rather than be arrested and tried. Soon thereafter Tony became an inspector.
The news article used words like bravery, courage, honor, and hero frequently. Tony's face frowned as he read, his hands gripping the paper tightly:
“What s up, partner?”
“Tony was startled for a second. It was Jim. His voice betrayed a mild concern.
“Nothing, I was just reading,” Tony said. He put the newspaper down.
“I was just stopping by to say that if you want, I'll go to court with you today, even though Alonzo Fields's scumbag lawyer didn't think I was good enough to subpoena.”
“No, I ... uh, I want you to keep on the Big Money Grip case. The funeral's tomorrow. Could be some action.”
Jim took the newspaper. He scanned it, then looked at Tony. “Nice picture.”
“Yeah.”
“Is this why you look like someone stole your dick?”
“You know I don't-”
“Yeah, I know you don't like to talk about that GM business.”
“Then let's drop it,” Tony said.
“No, not this time.”
“Very funny. OK, I've got some--”
“I want to talk about this,” Jim said. “Ever since I've known you, you have refused to discuss the single most important thing that's happened to you as a cop.”
“It's none of your business.”
“Fuck that. If whatever's wrong with you is connected to GM, I got a right to know about it. Because sooner or later it's gonna cause you to fuck up and I don't want to catch a bullet when you do.”
“You thinking of asking for reassignment?”
“I didn't say that.”
“You're talking about getting shot because of me. It's the same thing.”
“I just want to help you.”
“Then stay the fuck out of it!”
“I can't. Been together too long. Five years in the Sewer. You breathe, I live, you fart, I shit, you fuck up ... I die. So, tell it, whatever it is, because if you don't, you're only hurting yourself.”
Tony walked over to Jim and gently took the paper from him. “OK. You want to know, all right.” He pointed to the newspaper. “This is bullshit.”
Jim was stunned. “You didn't save those people's lives?”
“No, that part is true. It's the part about how Simon died.”
“He jumped out the window, right?”
“Yes, but ... I let him do it,” Tony said. “Simon threw himself against the window three times before he broke it and I just stood there and watched.”
Tony walked back to his desk, holding the newspaper.
And you never told anyone?” Jim asked.
“How could I? Simon was a killer, but he was also a citizen and I let him die. And there were plenty of people who wanted to see him go to trial.”
“But he killed those people. Black people. No one would have blamed you.”
Tony smiled a little. “I wish it was that simple. The Penal Code says, and I quote, 'Any law enforcement officer or official who either by act or omission allows or causes a person to be killed or die by accident or by said person's own hand shall be guilty of a felony, punishable by no less than five to fifteen years in prison.”
“I take it you researched this.”
“I have a degree in criminal justice, remember?” Tony said. “It's a felony for a cop to let a person kill himself. If I admit I did it, I go to prison and you know the Prosecutor's Office loves to take down cops.”
“Yeah, those bastards. Tried to get me once on a shooting.”
''And in case you're wondering, partner, now that you know, if you don't turn me in, you're guilty of a felony too.”
“Jesus H. Christ,” Jim said. “I can see why you're so upset. But look, man, no one knows, so let's just forget about it.”
“Easier said than done, partner,” Tony said. “I just need some time to sort things out. Time will do it.”
“I hear you. I hear you.”
There was a knock at the door. Tony said, “It's open,” and in walked Orris Martin, Tony's least favorite member of the SCU. Tony and Jim stopped talking, and for a moment, they looked like kids caught in the act.
Martin was about forty. He had sandy brown hair and eyes that were a hard blue. He was a white cop from the old-school days when there were no blacks on the force. Martin had even sued and lost a reverse discrimination case. This fact made Tony dislike him, even though Martin's lack of respect was reason enough.
“Excuse me, but while I was doing my daily shit work, I got a call from that Fields kid's lawyer.”
“Right,” said Tony ignoring Martin's sarcasm. “I’ve got that motion to dismiss the hearing this afternoon, thanks.”
“You can cancel that,” Martin said. “Your witness is gone. Alonzo Fields can't be located.” There was a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“What?” Tony said. “He's in jail.”
“Nope. Somebody sprung him. Laid down five big ones.”
“Shit,” said Jim.
“Dammit. We've got to find him,” Tony said.
“Come on, you know he's dead,” said Martin.
“We don't know anything,” said Jim. “Get a team together,” he said to Martin.
Martin left without a word.
“He enjoyed that,” said Tony.
“No time to worry about him. We've got to find out what happened to Fields,” Jim said.
“I hate to say it, but Martin is probably right.”
“Let's not get ahead of ourselves.”
Tony dropped the newspaper in the wastebasket, taking a second to look at it as if it would jump back out by itself.
“Jim, I'll understand if you want to reassign yourself because of what I told you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Jim said.
“Simon. The GM thing.”
“I have no knowledge of that, your honor,” Jim said.
“Thanks, man,” Tony said. “Let's go find our witness.”
7
Fuller and Salinsky
Police Chief William Fuller walked the high-wire like a pro. The press was always out for blood and today he was the sacrifice. Mayor Yancy had issued a written report on crime to counter media accusations. Yancy then set up a press conference, lit a fire and put Fuller on the grill. But it was his job. Fuller was the top man in the Detroit Police Department and he answered directly to the mayor.
The room in the Millender Center was filled to capacity. All three local television stations were there as well as both papers and the radio journalists. These were the times when Fuller had to be at his best. He liked the challenge.
Bill Fuller was six foot four and weighed in at two-sixty. He was a big man in every sense of the word. Big body, large booming voice, and a manner that made everything he said a command.
Fuller headed toward the press conference in his dress blues, trailed by his aides, who struggled to keep up with his giant steps. Fuller led the procession, looking like a military leader.
The Chief's graying hair was barely visible under his cap. That gray was caused in part by pushing sixty and in part by Mayor Yancy.
In this election year, a lawyer named Craig Batchelor was giving Yancy a run for his money. The city's crime problem had gotten worse during the last term. Yancy had even fallen out of favor with some of the unions, and that was bad news in Detroit.
Yancy had only beaten Batchelor by eleven percent the last time and now Batchelor was four years older and ten times wiser. He had young, talented supporters and lots of mone
y. This time, he was for real.
So Fuller had to face the media hounds about the report. It was a shitty document. It contained no hope and even fewer answers for a tired and angry citizenry.
Fuller was briefed by some of the mayor's aides, but he ended the session early. He didn't need those college boys with their trendy-ass ties and red suspenders giving him any lessons in how to be a public figure. Screw the briefing. He worked without a net.
“Chief Fuller! Why was the report issued after unfavorable articles in the media?” asked a television reporter.
“Well, if you guys had given an accurate description of what's happening in this town,” said Fuller, “there would be no need for a report. We did it so that the good citizens of Detroit would know the real story.”
“Craig Batchelor says the report is an attempt to divert attention from the city's crime problem. Is that true?” asked April Lindsey, a TV reporter.
“I think that statement by Mr. Batchelor was an attempt to divert attention to himself. He's so dull, he needs us to even be noticed.”
The gallery laughed loudly.
“Wouldn't you say, Chief Fuller, that the crime problem has gotten worse since the last election?” said a reporter.
“Well, that's one point of view,” he said. As the report states, theft and robberies are up, but murder, rape, and other violent crimes are occurring below last year's totals for this time.”
Questions began to come from all directions. Then one voice rose above the others. It was Carol Salinsky from Channel Five. A good reporter, probably too good to be local. Salinsky was tenacious and always seemed to know inside information. She was beautiful, smart, and a consummate professional. Fuller hated her guts.
“But isn't it true that the statistics used don't take into account crimes committed by juveniles, those under the age of majority?” Salinsky asked. “The report deals only with adults. When you add juveniles in, my calculations say the rate of violent crime is up by...” she looked at her notes. The gallery was unusually quiet. “Fifteen percent.”
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