Cold Medina

by Gary Hardwick

  T-Bone saw that they were all cool. Mayo, forever the paranoid, made a defensive move as T-Bone had expected.

  “We have an enemy,” said T-Bone. “It's too much of a fucking coincidence that all the people killed have been Union. My police connections tell me that it's some freak, a psycho. I'm not going for that so fast. I don't know who the fuck is doing this, but I do know that I can't let it ride this time. People on the street are starting to say that we're weak, that we ain't got it no more.”

  T-Bone walked past Traylor.

  T-Bone had found Traylor when the latter was just twelve, living in a run-down, roach-infested house on the east side near Mack and Van Dyke. Traylor's father had left when he was just ten. His mother, who was half-white, drank a lot and kicked his ass when she didn't have any money to buy whiskey. He spent many nights listening to her have sex with her “boyfriends” on the living room couch.

  T-Bone changed Traylor's life when he brought him into the Union. T-Bone had taken a special interest in him. He made Traylor read things and taught him about life and the business.

  After he'd been with T-Bone for a few months, he came home to find his mother being slapped around by one of her men. Normally, he would have just gone to another room, but after seeing life in T-Bone's world, he had followed the man outside and attacked him. The man pulled a gun and shot Traylor in the hand, blowing off the two middle fingers.

  Traylor was taken to the hospital but the fingers were gone forever. A month after he got out of the hospital, Traylor and T-Bone found the man who had shot Traylor and split his head open with a baseball bat.

  Traylor worked his way up through the ranks, meeting T-Bone's challenges and overcoming them. He rolled the product and took his lumps from the police. Now, he was one of the Big Three and he was sure that he was T-Bone's favorite.

  “... so we have to make sure that our reputation is intact,” said T-Bone. “That's gonna take some hard work.” T-Bone lifted the gun to his shoulder as he walked past Campbell.

  T-Bone had discovered Campbell when he helped to take out a roller named Carlton Williams, whose nickname was Elrock. Campbell was just a kid back then. He was in a small-time gang called the Bad Boys. When the Union started, the Bad Boys, along with various other random street gangs, were absorbed into T-Bone's creation.

  But Elrock would not join the Union. He was making too much money. He had several houses and a big crew that he ran, with a number of rollers and his brother, a skinny, dumb-looking kid named Talmadge. Talmadge played tough, but was just a kid hiding behind his big brother. But Elrock was tough. When several rollers defected to join the Union, he killed them himself, strangling the last one with his bare hands.

  T-Bone recruited Campbell to join Elrock's gang then turn on him, and that's just what Campbell did.

  After setting up and abducting Elrock, T-Bone, Campbell, and the rest of the Bad Boys took the rebel dealer and his brother out to a rural area far north of the city and killed them.

  Campbell was afraid at first, but after the others drew blood he became ardent, plunging his knife into Elrock's non-vital areas as T-Bone had instructed. Killing the man wasn't enough for T-Bone. He wanted him to suffer first.

  Campbell remembered all the blood on his hands and how black it looked under the moon.

  When they finished, T-Bone had another young roller named Butchie shoot Elrock's brother. No loose ends.

  T-Bone was different back then. He was brash and more willing to take chances, to be seen with his young lieutenants. Now, they rarely saw him.

  T-Bone moved Campbell up after the Union came together. T-Bone always rewarded loyalty. And tonight, T-Bone looked like the T-Bone of old, mean and ready to kill.

  “. . . so I'm demanding more from you now because we need to stop this shit before it gets out of hand.”

  T-Bone passed by Mayo. He looked Mayo in the eye as he lowered the gun. Mayo returned the gaze and didn't move. T-Bone turned and walked away.

  Like the others, Mayo had met T-Bone as a kid. He replaced a roller named DeAndre Dixon in the Big Three after Dixon was shot by his girlfriend at one of the crackhouses. Dixon had given his woman, Sheila, a baby, and after she became fat from the pregnancy, he started dating a young girl named Tina. Sheila was a hard woman and did not take kindly to the affair. She followed DeAndre to the small apartment where Tina lived and while they were making love, she shot them both dead with a .45. She had given them one in the heart and one in the head, just like a pro.

  The police and the Union had searched for the woman, but to no avail. The cops wanted to get her to testify and expose the Union and T-Bone's people wanted her dead. But she disappeared along with the baby boy she had by Dixon and soon everyone stopped looking for her.

  Mayo was elevated about a year later. Since then, he had seen T-Bone in many moods, but never this angry.

  “... you know that I don't like to ice people over petty shit,” T-Bone said. “It's not what people say that bothers me. It's what they do. Pretty soon folks start buying someone else's rock, some muthafuckas decide that they want to break into our network of customers. It starts with a drop and pretty soon it's a storm. So we gotta make sure that none of the other rollers out there are getting any funky ideas and our customers know that we can still kick ass.

  “Traylor,” T-Bone pointed at him with the gun butt. “I want you to fix that situation on the northwest side. Without Shalon, we gotta hustle. Have you hooked up. the camper again?”

  Traylor nodded, happy that he wasn't getting blamed.

  “Mayo, I want you to pick some people who owe us money out of the houses and enforce the debt. You hear me? Enforce the fuck out of them.”

  Mayo's expression didn't change. He just nodded.

  T-Bone walked over to Campbell, standing in front of him. “I want you to keep a team of rollers on Belle Isle to cover Grip's old job. I don't want anyone person to be in that job for a while. And we gonna plan a visit on the Southend Crew. We won't use our people, though. Let's use Frank. He's the man for this type of thing.”

  Campbell nodded.

  T-Bone walked slowly to the door. He looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “This shit is gonna get real nasty. Some of us may not survive. But we all know the deal. This ain't no time for weak shit. If you can't hang, let me know now.”

  To everyone's surprise, Traylor spoke. “How do we know the Southend is hittin' our people?” He nervously rubbed his three-fingered hand on his leg.

  T-Bone was not offended. Traylor was a smart man. No one else would have thought to ask that. T-Bone smiled and eased the tension brought on by the question. “We don't,” T-Bone said. “But it don't mean shit. Everybody's already thinking it's them. It's unfortunate for them that they have a big crew.”

  “But the b-bodies was all f-f-fucked up, hands cut off and s-shit,” said Campbell, encouraged by Traylor's statement.

  “And I heard that he didn't take no coke from Grip, only his money. That's not like a roller, you know what I'm sayin'?” David Traylor said.

  T-Bone looked at Mayo, anticipating a comment, but Mayo said nothing.

  T-Bone knew that the Handyman's methods would come up sooner or later. It was not any of their concern how the rollers had died. But he had to calm them, let them know that he had knowledge in all areas.

  “Yeah, it's true,” he began. “I read the papers. This killer, this Handyman is supposed to be a psycho, crazy. Well, we can be crazy, too. Just 'cause Grip didn't get shot and they left the coke, don't mean that it ain't another crew. Matter of fact, if it was me, that's just how I'd do it, so no one would suspect, you dig? Take the money, leave the coke, cut off hands. It's not a hit. It's a nut, right? Well, what do a nut need with money? The shit ain't fooling me. I been around too long and seen too much to be fooled. We gonna shake things up a little, see what we can see.”

  The Big Three seemed pleased by the statement. K-9 just shifted in his corner. T-Bone knew he had to hold them together through th
is. He really had no idea who was killing his people. His connections had given him nothing. But his instinct told him the Handyman was big trouble. But he would find and kill him, whoever he was.

  It didn't matter who fucked with the King. The important thing was, everybody should know better.

  13

  Handyman

  The Sewer at 1300 was filled. Tony and Fuller had called a meeting of the officers to give them their assignments on the Handyman. Every day since the Shalon Street deaths, the media had run a story on the killer: MOTOR CITY HANDYMAN BAFFLES POLICE, HANDYMAN: VIGILANTE OR MANIAC? The headlines assaulted the public, causing fear, apprehension-and massive sales.

  Fuller sat at the back of the small gathering. He usually addressed the troops himself on big investigations, but this time he wanted no part of it. Fuller looked tired and troubled even though a recent news poll had given Harris Yancy a twenty-five percent lead over his challenger, Craig Batchelor. The mayor was even slated to appear on a radio talk show that night to talk about his lead in the polls. There was joy in Mudville.

  “I would like to begin by thanking the Chief,” Tony said. “We appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedule to give us support.”

  Fuller ignored the compliment. Jim's face soured. Tony knew that look. Jim hated it when he paid homage to the Chief.

  “Now for the hard part,” Tony continued. “I have assigned teams to various tasks which are designed to find the killer and simultaneously head off a major drug war on the street. Each team will have a platoon of uniforms backing it up. They will be seasoned cops for the most part, use them wisely. You will have as many backup men as you need. We are calling up the reserves to cover the routine work.”

  “Queen, Bright, and Palmer will be in charge of rousting the Union. We have tips on the location of their crackhouses and members. The regular drug teams in the other precincts will get involved, too. I have been assured by the Prosecutor's Office that the wheels of justice will turn slowly, so as to keep them off the street. Pick them up for whatever you can, and hopefully we can dilute their effectiveness on the street. A drug or weapons charge is great, but we'll take whatever we can get. And let's not have any mistakes. We don't want corpses.”

  “Hear that, Bright?” said an officer. “You don't get to kill anybody, too bad.” The laughter subsided with Tony's stern look.

  “May I continue? Thank you,” Tony said. “Lane and Meadows will be assigned to check the lesser crews. They will follow the same procedure as the Union contingent. Martin and Patrick will assist Jim and me in running down leads on the Handyman.” He paused for effect. “We can't let a war tear through this city. The schools will be letting out soon and the streets will be filled with juveniles with nothing to do but get in the way of a bullet. The mayor and city council will put a curfew in effect and I want it enforced. The ACLU will challenge it, but by the time the lawyers get done yelling at each other, the summer will be over. Let's get tough. We don't need any more weekly body count totals like the newspapers did last summer. That's it. You all have a report on the procedure. We start today.”

  “Do we have any leads?” asked Patrick. Tony could see that he was a little disappointed at not getting a street assignment.

  “Well, no,” Tony said. “No real leads. The forensic report is in, but there's nothing in it we can use. Shalon Street gave us nothing new. The killer took hands from some of the victims, so at least he's living up to his name. We do know some things, however. We believe that he is a psychopath so we are checking the department files on known crazies in all the Midwestern states and will request a national rundown from the FBI. It's not a pattern we've ever seen before. An expert is doing a psychological profile for us. That's all.”

  “He stabbed Grip in the ass, so we should be looking for a pervert, right?” asked Orris-Martin. The other officers laughed.

  “Well, yes and no,” Tony said. He tried not to show his irritation at Martin. “Yes, Grip was wounded in the rectum and no, we aren't looking for a sex offender. None of the Shalon Street wounds had any sexual overtones to them. We think that the killer tries to humiliate his victims out of anger, but I'm waiting to see what the profile turns up.”

  Tony did not like the question and his look must have showed it, because no one had any more. He dismissed the meeting and again thanked Fuller, who hobbled out the door.

  “Excuse me, Inspector.” said Orris Martin, coming over to Tony. “But I'd like a street assignment on this thing.”

  “I'm not changing the assignments right now. You'll be rotated in due time.” Tony started to walk away.

  “I been ridin' the shithouse for over three months now,” Martin said, blocking his way.

  “Forget it, man,” said Steve Patrick, a young black officer and Martin's partner. He tried to pull Martin away.

  “Let him go,” Tony commanded. Patrick did. “You got a problem, detective?” Tony asked, moving closer to Martin. Tony was much taller than Martin and looked down on him.

  “Yeah, I got a fucking problem, sir,” Martin said, sweeping his hand through his hair. I'm tired of workin' the turd assignments , round here.”

  Tony didn't need something like this to bring down the men's morale. Even though he would have liked nothing better than to floor Martin, he decided that it wasn't worth it. He had to end it now.

  “The assignments stand, Martin. Now get to it or get transferred.”

  Martin looked at Tony with contempt then walked away. Tony turned slowly; letting the tension melt away. He motioned for Jim to follow him into his office. Tony closed the door so that no one could hear what he was about to say.

  “I would have kicked his ass,” said Jim, laughing.

  “That's why you're not an inspector,” Tony said.

  “Ouch!”

  “Man, I hate that fucking Martin.”

  “He's dirty; you know,” Jim said matter-of-factly.

  “You say that about everyone but me,” Tony said.

  “That's not true. Fuller. He's as clean as they come. He's a dickhead, but a clean one.”

  “Layoff the man.”

  “You really like him, don't you?” asked Jim.

  “Yes, I think he's a fine officer and you just said so yourself.”

  “And Yancy, you like him too?”

  “No comment.”

  “Man, you are quite the politician.”

  “What are you, a reporter? You always ask me this shit. I'm not political and you know it. I just do my job.”

  “Bullshit. You may be slick, but you're political. You play the system like a pro,” Jim said.

  Tony hated it when Jim did this. He thought maybe Jim was a little jealous of him after all. “Hey, Jim,” Tony said, sounding a little upset. “Let's use some of this energy to catch our killer, OK?” He paused for a moment. As Jim looked at rim, he could almost read his mind. “I want to talk to Roberts again,” Tony said.

  “I knew it! You saw that shit too! What the fuck was he doing at Shalon Street?” Jim said.

  “I don't know, but it's been on my mind since that night. I don't get it. This is important, but Roberts being there don't compute.”

  “He's gotta be hiding something. And your boy Fuller knows what it is,” said Jim.

  Tony nodded. He hated to admit it, but it was evident. They each knew Roberts was definitely not the kind to go on midnight calls. Roberts had groomed Neward especially for that purpose. The way he had grabbed Neward and isolated him, it was just too incriminating. Something was up, but what? That was the billion-dollar question.

  “It has to be a lead, and it must have some political consequence.” Tony's brow furrowed. He was guessing.

  “Well,” said Jim. “Do we call before we go over to the Crypt, or do we surprise old Boulder Head?”

  “Let's not give him the chance to call anyone. We have to be careful here. If Fuller's involved, that means the mayor knows, too. We cannot risk stepping on their feet. Yancy will have Fuller rea
ssign us to West Hell. If the mayor is hiding something, he obviously doesn't want us to know it. Roberts may not spill his guts, but maybe he'll give us a clue.”

  “Do you wanna be the Good Cop or the Bad Cop?”

  “Good cop,” Tony said.

  Jim stood up and adjusted his gun in the shoulder strap. ''I'm gonna enjoy this,” he said.

  Tony and Jim walked out of the Sewer on the fifth floor and walked over to the elevator. Jim pushed the down button. The elevator came up slowly, creaking and sounding its age.

  “I hate these old-ass elevators,” Jim said.

  “No need to rush,” Tony said. “Roberts ain't going anywhere.”

  “Yeah, but I really want to get his big-headed ass.”

  Tony laughed as the elevator came to a stop. The doors opened, revealing a huge black man in a rumpled suit and a black fedora.

  Tony and Jim became rigid at the Sight of the big man. Jim took his hands from his pockets. Tony stared at the man in the elevator as he entered the car followed by Jim.

  The big man was Walter Nicks, leader of Mayor Yancy's team of personal bodyguards. They were nicknamed the SS, because no one knew what they did and they seemed to operate with impunity.

  “Well, well,” said Nicks. “I thought this car was going down. Guess I was wrong.”

  The elevator doors closed.

  Tony and Nicks had never liked one another. After the GM incident, Tony became a star and had left Nicks in his dust in the department. Nicks was a competitive man, a former football player and army veteran. Nicks never made any secret of the fact that he was jealous of Tony's rapid ascent in the department.

  “What brings you down here, Nicks?” asked Tony.

  “The normal things,” said Nicks. “Hear you boys got a little trouble.”