They were both sixteen but hardly ever went to school. There was too much money to be made. They laughed at all those other stupid asses studying, joining clubs, and slaving at the local Burger King. They, on the other hand, were getting paid. That's what it was all about.
“Damn, this beat is phat!” said Jonnel, rocking to the tune.
“Hell, yeah,” said Derek, waving one hand.
They bounced along for half a mile, when Derek leaned over and turned down the music. “So, man, what you think they gonna do 'bout Grip?” he asked.
“They gone find out who did it and fuck his shit up,” said Jonnel. “Grip was da man.”
“Yeah, he was cool people.”
“You know, they gone need somebody to take his place, know what I'm sayin?”
“I heard that,” said Derek. ''And it's gonna be me.”
“You?” laughed Jonnel. “It's gone be me. They wouldn't trust the Strip to yo sorry ass. You be in jail so fast, it wouldn't even be funny.”
“You gotta be the most jealous muthafucka I know. You know I'm tight with Traylor and it's fuckin' with you,” Derek said.
“Right. Only thang tight is yo imagination.”
“You know I'm his boy. He gave me a gold watch last week.”
“Don't mean shit,” Jonnel said.
''All right, man, anything you say. May the best nigga win.”
They bumped fists. Jonnel was mad but he didn't want his friend to know it. He wanted Grip's job and he was going to get it, despite Derek's relationship with David Traylor, who was one of the Union's Big Three. Jonnel was determined to do it, even if he had to go through Derek.
Derek made a sharp left turn onto Outer Drive. They were going to his brother's house. He lived just a few blocks from Livernois with his girlfriend, Sharon Borders. Rolan Nelson was a retired roller turned distribution chief. He had hung out with all the big-time guys when he was younger. Rolan would still have been on the street if he hadn't gotten shot and lost his nerve. Now, he was just a storage man, but very well connected.
The house was the main northwest distribution point. The neighborhood was respectable, filled with single-family homes. The lawns were well kept and the street clean. Neighborhood Watch signs hung from telephone poles and trees. Derek and his brother had set up the house with Traylor's help. The Union made distribution runs during the day and took in coke shipments three times a week. For the last year, they had supplied most of the north end of Detroit. That's why Derek knew he had an inside track to Grip's job; things were going well.
Derek turned down Shalon Street and parked in front of his brother's house on the corner.
Jonnel removed a nylon bag from under his seat. It bulged with the currency it held. He took an Uzi pistol out of its hiding place under a panel in the back of the Jeep. Inc gun was his baby. They were expensive and damned hard to come by. It was totally wrong to carry it in a vehicle, but he couldn't help it. He liked to flash it in front of the young kids and girls. They got a charge out of it. The two young men got out and walked up to the front door. Derek stopped at the door, looking for the right key.
They entered the house. The living room was small and well kept. A long staircase rose from the back, leading upstairs. The dining room was off to the left. It was dark and the light from the upstairs faintly glowed from the top of the stairs.
“Damn, it's dark. Turn the lights on, man,” said Jonnel. “Hey, Rolan!” Derek yelled. “It's us, man.” Derek fumbled for the light switch and found it.
The instant the lights came on, both men were blinded for a split second. When their eyes focused, they clearly saw the bodies in the corner. They were naked and twisted as if they had been played with, like dolls. Sharon had a bullet hole in the front of her head. There was a spray of blood on the wall behind her. Rolan's hands. were cut off and his throat was a tangle. There was blood everywhere. It looked fresh.
“Sh-, shit! Shit!!” Derek yelled. He began walking toward the corpses.
Jonnel pulled up the Uzi and put the money bag around his shoulder. He pulled Derek back toward the stairway. Jonnel was thinking fast. Derek was out of it and had to be handled. “Call Traylor on his car phone and tell him what happened!” Jonnel said.
There was a phone on a small wooden stand next to a closet at the foot of the stairs. Derek was in a daze. He couldn't take his eyes from his dead brother. “Wake the fuck up, man, and do it!” Jonnel said. 'Tm gone check upstairs and then we'll go in the basement to see if any of the coke is missing.”
Jonnel turned to go up the stairs when the closet door opened. The creaking of the door was like an eruption. Derek and Jonnel had their backs to the door and Jonnel was thinking in the instant that he should have checked it.
All they saw was the flash of a hand as it went across their faces. Something like sand hit them and their eyes burned like fire. Jonnel dropped the gun, but not before his finger hit the trigger and sent a quick spray of bullets into Derek's side. Derek screamed and fell into the phone table.
Jonnel dropped to the floor. Tears ran from his burning eyes. His mind worked like a whirlwind. He had to find the gun. His vision was blurry and his eyes exploded with pain. He dropped one hand to the floor and felt around. A hard kick slammed into the side of his head. The one to his balls came next. Jonnel could faintly hear Derek crying next to him and screaming his brother's name. Through his burning eyes, Jonnel saw the tall figure cutting his friend's throat. He tried to move away as he heard the gurgle of Derek's life leaving him. He scrambled away, going in the general direction of the door. He didn't make it.
The killer finished off Jonnel then stopped to savor the moment. Rage filled him. More gone. More trophies. He took himself from these pleasant thoughts, knowing he had to leave soon. He'd used a silencer on his gun, but someone had surely heard the other shots and the commotion. He had to move quickly. There was much unfinished business.
He took the money off Jonnel and took Derek's hands, then went upstairs into the master bedroom. There had to be more money somewhere.
In a baby's bed slept a seven-month-old boy named Brian. The killer stared a moment at the infant. He bent over, placing his face close to the child's.
**********
“Detergent?” asked Tony with more than a little surprise. He stared in disbelief at Ralph Neward, the assistant coroner. Neward nodded his head, a blank expression on his face.
The crime scene in the house on Shalon was full of activity. The bodies had been removed and a search of the house had found a mountain of cocaine in the basement. It had probably been cut with something, but it was still worth a lot of money on the street. This house had to be the north end distribution point, Tony thought. The house supplied Detroit's crackhouses with diluted coke. The Narcotics Unit and the feds had been looking for it for about a year. They were in the process of getting a warrant on this and several other houses, but the Handyman had found it first.
This was all he needed in his life, a serial killer. This guy had a thing for drug dealers. Was he a vigilante? A rival pusher? Was he even a he? When Tony arrived and saw the missing hands, he knew it was going to be a long summer.
“He threw soap in their eyes?” Tony asked again.
“Yes sir,” said Neward. “Just plain laundry soap. At least that's what it seems to be. The soapbox is still in the hall closet and there's soap on the floor, in the eyes, and on the bodies of the victims. We think that they were killed at different times. The naked man and woman died at about eleven o'clock. The other two men were killed about an hour later.”
“Why the hell would he stick around for an hour?” Tony thought out loud. “Maybe he knew the other two were coming,” said Neward, a little surprised at his own insight.
“Yeah,” said Tony. “Yeah, maybe.”
“And one of the men,” Neward said. “The one named uh Jonnel Washington, and the woman, still have their hands.”
“Why didn't he cut them off, too?” Tony said to himself.
<
br /> “Maybe he didn't have time,” said Neward, hoping that Tony would be pleased at the idea. But he just looked through Neward, immersed in thought.
Tony left Neward and went out to the front porch. A crowd of neighbors was standing across the street. Tony remembered when he used to see looks of terror in the eyes of the onlookers. Now, he only saw sadness or anger in their faces. They were getting used to it.
Tony had his own fears about this crime. He lived only several miles from this house and it was probably distributing drugs to all of the crackhouses on the northwest side. But that was the least of his fears. A second killing by the same nut meant that the media would really get in on it. That goddamned Salinsky had slipped by some green rookie and gotten a look into the house. She had already hinted on television that the police were covering up evidence, talking about the people's right to know and all that shit.
And what would the mayor do? The crime rate was a major campaign issue. In a strange way, Tony thought, this killer was doing the city a favor. Taking out the trash, you might say.
Was the killer an Angel or Satan himself? Whatever the answer, Tony understood that his ass would be the first one kicked if the murderer wasn't caught soon.
“Inspector, would you like to question our witness to this terrible crime?” Jim asked. Jim and Tony had both crawled out of bed to come to the call.
Jim had been with a woman, but was in a surprisingly good mood considering the circumstances.
“Yes,” Tony said, letting a small grin creep onto his lips. “Bring the culprit here.”
Jim and a young female paramedic climbed the stairs together. She was holding a baby in her arms, the child of Rolan Nelson and Sharon Borders.
Tony guessed that the killer wasn't a complete psycho. He hadn't killed the kid. They were all elated to find the child still alive. At a murder scene, any survivor was a blessing.
“You saw it all didn't you?” Tony asked. He smiled at the young boy. “If only you were a little older.”
“He wouldn't be here,” Jim said. “And you know it.”
The paramedic excused herself and took the child away.
“What's the deal on this guy? Is he trying to be a one-man drug enforcement team?” Jim said. “You know how much coke they found downstairs?”
“I know, but again, no money. This must be a rival gang. The Southend Crew has been gaining power lately, according to our sources. Both hits have been on Union people. Their territory is small, they need to expand-”
“Naw,” said Jim. “I know you have the same feeling that I have about this. It's too weird. They left the damned cocaine. Besides, gangs shoot, they don't cut throats.”
“The girl was shot,” Tony said.
“Yes, but the men were not. It's a separate statement, see. It's like--”
“Like shooting was too good for the men.”
“Right. And her hands were left on. She was just in the way and unlike the little boy, she could make a positive ID,” Jim said.
“But why did he only take the hands off two of the men and not the third?” Tony said.
“Maybe the, excuse the term, Handyman is trying to confuse us, throw us off of something else,” Jim said.
“Well, it's working.”
Tony looked distant again. This time, there was no evidence of sexual violence. No one had gotten a sharp ride up the ass. Maybe the Handyman was just excited when he did Grip. It looked as though he brought the couple downstairs naked and killed them, probably so he wouldn't have to do it in front of the kid. What a prince. The bastard had taken out three drug dealers without leaving a clue. No prints, nothing.
Jim and Tony were a little surprised when Chief Puller and Roberts showed up. The throng parted to let them through. Cameras went on, throwing light into their faces. Fuller ignored the questions shot at him. He gave Salinsky a nasty look and got a smile in return.
Tony had seen the Chief come out on a call when it was of the utmost importance. Vincent Roberts, however, never came out on night calls. Roberts was the type to be in bed by nine.
As Fuller approached, Tony stood up straighter, like a soldier coming to attention. Fuller was, to Tony; a great cop in the old tradition. Fuller was also, unfortunately; a mayoral appointee and Yancy's official scapegoat. Fuller could be kind of an ass-kisser, but he was still one hell of a guy, ex-Green Beret, president of the National Police Council for three years straight. It was sad to sec him on the mayor's string. Tony guessed that Fuller was just too tired to fight anymore. He had the look of a very old man in a younger man's body. A look that came with too much time staring up the city's asshole.
Fuller walked up to Tony and Jim. He looked even worse up close. Fuller was definitely not used to being out of bed at two o'clock in the morning. Before Tony could answer, Roberts brushed by; grabbed Neward and took him away. Neward looked relieved and Roberts began talking to him urgently.
Tony and Jim both turned to watch them. Roberts stared straight into Neward's eyes and barked at him. Tony was moving in their direction when Puller spoke.
“What we got here, fellas?”
“Well, it's definitely our boy again,” said Tony; snapping back to the moment.
“With a few new wrinkles,” Jim added.
“Before you start,” said Fuller holding up a beefy hand, “I want you to know that this is a top priority for your department. Reassign the other shit. The mayor is deeply concerned. The press will be all over this case and you know how he feels about that. Now, what's the story here?”
Tony and Jim began to give Fuller the story as they knew it. Tony was only half-concerned about communicating the events and his theories of the case to Fuller. Politics was responsible for Fuller's presence. That was totally understandable.
But what the hell was Roberts doing there?
**********
In the crowd on the other side of the street, a tall, thin black man with reddish hair watched with more than shock or fear in his eyes. He was angry. David Traylor stayed toward the back of the gawkers, making sure that no cops saw him. He was cruising on his regular rounds, checking out the houses and supply points, when he heard the call on his police band radio.
He'd driven to the Shalon house, parking his car on a side street, then called T-Bone on his car phone on the way over. Actually, he'd done what they called shaking the tree. Traylor called an unknown person on a beeper who made another call and so on, finally someone would call T-Bone. It took at least a half hour for T-Bone to call back.
T-Bone had not been happy. He had cursed and yelled and Traylor could hear things being thrown in the background.
Traylor watched as they brought the bodies out of the house. A hush fell over the crowd. He hoped that his boy Derek had taken a piece out of whoever did it. Derek was hard, a real man, he thought.
Traylor felt someone watching him. He looked to his right and saw a young girl, about six, looking at his hand. He instinctively put his hand into his pocket. His right hand was missing the two middle fingers and must have looked frightening to the young girl. He usually cursed anyone who stared, but this was just a child and he didn't want to attract attention.
Traylor moved through the crowd. He heard a television reporter say in her report that two of the bodies had no hands and that the police had found drugs, but no money. He immediately went back to his car and told T-Bone. It was the same guy that took out Grip. T-Bone had exploded with anger again. They had lost four men in less than two weeks and that was unheard of for the Union.
T-Bone thought it was the Southend Crew but he wasn't sure. Traylor knew that it didn't make any difference. Somebody had to pay and he was willing to go along with any plan T-Bone had because he owed the man his life. .
Traylor checked his watch. It was after two in the morning. He had to get going. He frowned as he saw the cops carry the cocaine out of the house. How much money had they lost? He walked back toward his car. T-Bone had called an emergency meeting at a motel.
&
nbsp; Just like the police, they had work to do.
12
T·Bone Makes a Plan
The Big Three waited. None of them had seen the other two in many months. Union operation dictated that even on the street, they were to maintain their distance. No one spoke
as they stood in the dingy motel room in northeast Detroit.
Robert Campbell twisted a long dreadlock, David Traylor twirled his keys on the three fingers of his right hand and Steve Mayo, the last of the Big Three, just sat on the old bed staring at the door.
Mayo was a short, thickly muscled man with a bald head. He wore an earring in each ear. One a gold hoop and the other a diamond stud. Mayo ran the trade out of midtown and the east side. He was the newest of the Big Three.
There was a knock on the door. Campbell walked over to get it, placing one hand on his gun.
T-Bone entered the small room carrying a black leather case and talking on the phone. He put the case on an old desk as he continued his conversation in a low voice.
Walking in behind T-Bone was a boy of about fourteen. The boy was horribly disfigured and looked somewhat like a dog.
The boy's name was K-9 for obvious reasons. He was T-Bone's companion, though no one knew why. Some guessed that he was T-Bone's son, born with birth defects to a drug-addicted mother. Others theorized that T-Bone felt sorry for the kid, that he did indeed have a heart. Whatever the connection, K-9 was a constant fixture in the Union and no one was going to question it.
K-9 walked to a corner where a coat rack stood and leaned against the wall. T-Bone never looked at his lieutenants as he ended the phone conversation.
T-Bone put the phone away and took out the shotgun. He had brought it as a test. He wasn't sure if any of his Big Three were involved in the killings. He wanted to see their reaction to the weapon. If any of them became nervous, he would know something was up. T-Bone watched them as he pulled out the big weapon and began loading it. Traylor and Campbell did nothing. Mayo calmly leaned to one side on the bed, bringing his gun closer to his hand.
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