Cold Medina

by Gary Hardwick

  “The Union. It's a real gang, you know,” said Hampton.

  “But why are they poisoning their customers?”

  “I don't think they knew what they were getting into.

  Anyway, their whole operation is falling apart. They even got a special contract out on some guy.”

  “Special, what's special about it?” Tony asked.

  “It's for a hundred grand.”

  “A lot of money for some lowlife. Who is he and why do they want him killed?”

  “I don't know;” said Hampton. “I just heard the rumor. It could be anything-money, drugs, a woman. They're all over each other.”

  “If you do find out, I want you to contact me.”

  “What am I now, an informant?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  “Fuck that.”

  “Have it your way, but if I find out you've been holding out on me, I go right to IAD. I'll be leaving now. You've been a gracious host.”

  “So, that's it?” asked Hampton.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “What about the rest of it? You're not going to say anything?”

  “No.”

  “I don't believe that. I want some kind of ... assurance.”

  “You're not in a position to demand anything. You're a dirty cop. You've given up all of those rights.”

  “I should've let that Drake kid shoot your ass.”

  Tony grabbed Hampton, but Hampton managed to shake free and take a step back.

  “It's not too late for you to be a cop again,” Tony said. I’m sure it's not easy to get out, but if you don't, you'll be looking over your shoulder for the rest of your career.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Really? Well, my experience has been that this kind of thing catches up to you one way or another, sooner or later. You've got to get out before that happens and just hope for the best.”

  “So, you're not going to tell,” said Hampton. “You're going to be generous to us all, huh?”

  “I made my choice about taking money a long time ago.”

  “What about the tape?”

  “Keep it. I don't need it anymore,” Tony said.

  “Is this the only copy?” Hampton grabbed the tape.

  Tony just laughed, then left.

  Tony left the apartment and quickly got into his car. Hampton seemed to be just another stupid rookie in over his head. Hampton's interrogation hurt his theory that cops were committing the Handyman murders. But just because Hampton didn't know who was doing the killing, didn't mean some other cops weren't behind it all.

  Tony drove away, his mind still working on his damaged theory.

  Inside, Hampton put the tape in his VCR, fumbling with shaky hands. He wondered what exactly Tony had filmed. He held his breath when the picture came on screen. He looked at it and began to fast forward. He didn't believe his eyes. He went through the entire tape, determined to see everything that was on it. Once he reached the end, he stopped, turned off the television, and threw the remote against the wall.

  The entire tape was old episodes of The Cosby Show.

  6

  Boston-Edison

  The Handyman watched the red door with intensity. The houses in the historical Boston-Edison district were huge and ornate, dating back to a time when the city's elite lived there.

  The killer stood behind a row of trees at a house next to the big colonial house with the red door on Boston Street. Soon, his next target would come through that door. This one would be more difficult than the others, but he understood that the remaining targets would be the hardest to get. But he was confident. After all, he was the Handyman. He was no murderer as the newspapers said. He was an avenger, but they were too stupid to see the difference. Still, he liked the name. It was amusing.

  The killer had followed this particular one off and on for several days, watching his moves and routines. The target was careful, but he would be killed, just like the others.

  His victims were evil men, he thought. They sold poison, killed innocents, and hurt women and children. They should welcome him and the death he brought. Their sin was a hundred times worse. They had created him.

  The killer tensed as his target, a fat man in a white shirt, exited the house along with his bodyguards. One guard was huge, the other was a thin man. Their weapons bulged under their coats. They looked around, then flanked the man in the white shirt and walked down the long walkway to the Lexus at the curb.

  The Handyman flipped the knife, catching the blade in his gloved hand. He could use his gun and maybe hit one of the guards, but it would alert the other two and then he might lose his prey. He didn't care about the guards, but the white-shirted man could not be shot.

  He was about twenty-five feet away from the men. He moved closer to the three men, careful not to make any noise.

  The three men moved closer to the Lexus. The killer readied himself, waiting for an opening. The small guard checked out the inside of the car while the big guard scanned the area.

  The killer was closer now, about fifteen feet away.

  “It's OK,” the small guard said, then headed for the driver's door.

  The big bodyguard opened the door for the white-shirted man.

  The Handyman threw the knife at the big guard's head. It struck the big bodyguard in the side of the neck as the car's engine started.

  The killer raced toward the man in the white shirt, who jumped headfirst into the car, but didn't quite make it. His lower half dangled out the door, his expensive shoes hitting the curb.

  The bodyguard pulled the knife from his neck. Blood ran from the wound. He staggered in shock, but managed to reach for his gun.

  But the killer was upon him. He placed his gun in the big guard's face and pulled the trigger.

  The man in the white shirt pulled himself further into the car yelling, “Drive, goddammit!”

  The car took off, knocking the Handyman to the ground. He dropped his gun. The killer scrambled to his feet, grabbed his gun from the ground, but the car was gone.

  The killer was angry. Then he noticed lights being turned on in the darkened houses nearby.

  He ran.

  The killer moved through backyards, jumping fences and avoiding dogs, until he came to Woodward Avenue. He pulled his hood tighter in the light, making sure no one could see his face. His gloved hands were shoved in his pockets.

  He walked for a block. Pain from an old wound in his shoulder flared up. He cursed himself for failing to get his man. Now the man in the white shirt would be even more careful.

  The killer darted into an alley where his car was parked. He headed toward it, then saw a man trying to force the door. The killer gripped the gun that was still in his jacket and pointed it toward the man.

  The car thief saw the killer and walked toward him, holding a crowbar.

  “This your car, ain't it? Gimme the keys,” said the man. The thief had a haggard, angry look.

  The killer pulled the trigger inside his pocket and his jacket exploded. The man took the slug in the chest and fell backwards, hitting the car.

  The killer got into the car and pulled off over the man's body. He backed up over the corpse again, before driving into the night.

  7

  The Prince in Chi-Town

  “Yes. No problem my brotha,” said the Prince with a smile into the telephone. “We will be there tomorrow at six a.m. sharp with the product.” He hung up and turned to Donna and the Professor. “We are in. They are eager to meet with us and do business.”

  He was making a deal to distribute Medina with the local Chicago gangs, and these guys made the Detroit dealers look like schoolboys. Chicago's black gangs had a long history, stretching back before the Movement to the days of Capone.

  Recently, one of the gangs had a split in its ranks after its leader went to prison on a rape charge. Women would get you every time, thought the Prince. Now the rival gangs were trying to put each other out of business. The Prince s
miled as he thought of making deals with both of them. By the time he got to Atlanta, he would be set for life.

  Donna was dressed in a hotel robe, watching television. She was thinking about the bellboy she'd screwed in the hotel's service elevator last night. “That's good, baby,” she said offhandedly to the Prince.

  The Professor was halfway through a bottle of gin and it was only eight a.m. “I still think we are too close to Detroit,” he slurred a little. “The drug should be in full swing by now and they will have caught on.”

  “You worry too much,” said the Prince. “They don't know shit. Besides, they won't care what happens to a bunch of crackheads. When the ones they have now die off, some more will come to take their place.”

  “You got that right,” said Donna.

  “Besides, they have their hands full trying to find out who's killing their people,” said the Prince. “The Handyman.”

  “We were lucky they didn't think we were behind all that,” said the Professor. “We were a new face in the game.”

  “Hey, I'm a bizness man,” said the Prince. “I only kill somebody when it's profitable.”

  “Look, all I'm saying is this is the first time we've done this to this magnitude and dealt with these kind of people,” said the Professor.

  “Fuck 'em,” said the Prince.

  “I did,” said Donna, laughing.

  The Prince gave her a look and she stopped.

  “These Chicago gangs are dangerous,” said the Professor, taking another drink. ''I've heard that they torture their enemies before they kill them.”

  “Well, we'll just give them Donna if it comes to that.”

  ''I'm serious here,” said the Professor. “I think we should one, get further away from Detroit now and two, lay low for a while until this thing blows over.” He took another drink.

  “Fuck that,” said the Prince. “I got a plan and I'm stickin' to it.”

  “I don't want to die,” said the Professor.

  “Hey, this shit is starting to scare me,” said Donna. “Maybe he's right. Maybe we should just keep moving.”

  “What the fuck is this, a mutiny? I'll decide if and when we move on,” said the Prince.

  “That's bullshit, baby. If I think I'm in trouble, I'm outta here,” Donna said.

  “You're out when I say you are, bitch!” The Prince stepped closer to her, clenching his fists.

  Donna knew he was for real. He'd been full of himself since scoring in Detroit and he was capable of anything. She kept a razor in her purse, but had left it in the bathroom. She backed away from the Prince.

  “Let's not fight among ourselves,” said the Professor, catching the Prince's arm. “We're on the same team here. I was just trying to talk about alternatives.”

  “Yeah,” said the Prince. He turned, but gave Donna a nasty look before he did. “This is what we'll do. I'll meet with their leaders alone first and if I think anything is not right, we split. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” said the Professor.

  Donna grunted something and went into the bathroom, where she placed the razor into her robe pocket, returned, and continued to watch television. If the Prince came at her again like that, he would be putting his face back together.

  They all jumped at the knock at the hotel room door. A moment passed as they each looked at the door, dread snaking its way among them.

  “See who it is,” the Prince said to the Professor, who was in mid-swig. The Professor got up and slowly walked over to the door.

  The Professor looked out the peephole and saw the face of a shabby-looking white man. His face was obscured by the glass in the peephole. It bent his visage into that of a ghoul. It reminded him of one particularly bad, three-day binge in Kalamazoo.

  “Yes, can I help you?” The Professor asked through the door.

  “Ya’ll with the con-vention?” asked the man in a Southern drawl.

  “No. I'm sorry,” said the Professor.

  “Who is it?” asked the Prince.

  “Some guy; asking about a convention.”

  The Prince remembered vaguely that there was a convention in the city. Farm equipment salesmen or some shit like that.

  “Is he black or white?” asked Donna.

  “Hey, I'll ask the questions around here, OK? You shut up and close that robe. Your titties are hanging all over the place.”

  Donna's response was to open the robe and flash him.

  “Is he black or white?” asked the Prince.

  “White. Talks like he's from the South.”

  “Get rid of his ass. We got things to do.” The Prince walked over to the small refrigerator and grabbed a soda.

  The Professor turned to the peephole again. “Look, I'm sorry--”

  He fell silent a moment, then applied a shaky hand to the doorknob, slowly opening the door.

  The Prince had the word “wait” on his lips when the door was kicked in with such force that the Professor fell on his ass by the bed next to Donna.

  The shabby-looking white man removed his gun from near the peephole where he had threatened to shoot the Professor's eye out and entered. He was followed by a huge black man, wielding a gun. The big black man almost licked his lips at the sight of Donna in her robe. It had opened again, and one of her breasts hung lazily. The third man through the door was Mayo, followed by T-Bone himself, who motioned Pit and Nam to lower their weapons.

  “Game's over, my brotha,” he said.

  8

  Child of Chaos

  Tony kissed his son good night and dimmed the light. Moe hated to go to bed, and Tony had to read him three stories before he fell asleep.

  Tony quietly got up and left the sleeping child. He had been unable to reach Jim to tell him about the Hampton incident. Jim was practically living at 1300 now and was a tough man to find. Really, he didn't know what he would tell him. Hampton's information seemed meaningless, but another cop might see something that he'd missed. Ultimately, he felt that it could wait.

  Tony walked down the stairs into the den, where Nikki was watching television. She was in a long gown, feeding her face with microwave popcorn.

  Tony sat beside her and she leaned back into him. He felt good. Family was what life was really about and now that he was back to his family full-time, he wondered if he could ever return to the force. He stroked Nikki's hair, then kissed her. She pulled him on top of her and pulled at his clothes.

  The phone rang.

  “Touch that phone and I'll choke you,” Nikki said opening her gown.

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  Tony kissed her and began disrobing. The answering machine picked up on the fourth ring.

  “Tony, it's Blue, man ... I know you there. I heard you quit ... Tony I need your help. I found a kid and he's ... well, you gotta come and see him-- now. He's got a contract out on him--”

  Tony rose up, but Nikki pulled him back down.

  This must be the kid that Hampton had mentioned, Tony thought. He was involved in the Medina trade somehow.

  Tony rose up again. “Nikki honey, I gotta talk to him. Just for a second.” Nikki reached into his half-opened pants, took out his penis and began to rub it on her breasts.

  “Maybe tomorrow,” he said.

  Tony pulled the rest of her clothes off then got naked himself. He made love to his wife on the sofa then took her to bed and did the same. After she was asleep, he got up, put on his clothes and walked to the door.

  “Be careful,” Nikki said from the bed.

  “I will.”

  **********

  Tony drove his old Ford, his hooptie, further into the west side. He noticed that the car was pulling to one side a little. He gripped the wheel tighter and drove on.

  Tony stopped in front of the Jones Youth Center. The building was nestled between an old abandoned building and a small supermarket.

  Tony was let inside by Blue. He looked tired. His eyes were bloodshot.

  “What the hell happened to you, Tony?”

>   “I got caught up. So, where is he?”

  “In the back. He's a mess.”

  Blue took Tony to a small back room. It was dark and smelled of whiskey

  Tony scanned the area and saw K-9 in a corner. The boy stood when he saw Tony, then he lost his footing and stumbled against a wall.

  “It's OK, Earl,” Blue said. “This is the friend I told you about.” To Tony, Blue whispered, “He found the liquor bottle in my desk. He's drunk.”

  “What's wrong with him?” Tony asked.

  “He's deformed, dummy. Probably a crack baby. And he's got a price on his head. Union boys have been trying to kill him. It's all over the street. He was in an alley, eating trash when some of my people found him.”

  “I heard about the contract on him. He's connected to the new drug, Medina.”

  “Tony, he's more than that. This boy is amazing. He can do math like a computer. And his memory! He can tell you what he had for breakfast three years ago today. And, he might know who your killer is.”

  “The Handyman?”

  “Yes, but he's afraid of cops. He says they kill people for money. So, I called you. You're not technically a cop anymore, right?”

  “No, I'm not.” Tony almost didn't want to say it.

  “OK, then. His name is Earl, but they call him K-9.”

  Tony could see where the boy got the nickname. His deformity made him look like a puppy.

  Blue pulled the boy from the corner. K-9 resisted.

  “Tell him what you told me, boy,” Blue's Jamaican accent was thicker in his excitement.

  K-9 was silent.

  “Tell me or out you go. I mean it.”

  K9 looked at Tony. Tony fought the urge to look away.

  “Tryin' to kill me, gotta ... run,” said K-9. His voice was high-pitched, almost like a girl's.

  “I know. I'm here to help you,” said Tony.

  “I know everything, that's why they ... wanna kill me. It's all messed up now ... can't control it.”