by Brad Parks
“A blue panel truck just pulled up a block away,” Tommy said. “Hector tells me it’s Primo’s.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m going to put you on speakerphone. I want you to be my eyes on the street. Tell me what you see.”
“Okay,” Tommy said, his voice squelchy but distinct. “The truck is parking … It’s parked … There’s a man getting out of the driver’s side, a big black fellow … Now there’s a bald guy getting out of the passenger side. He looks South American. It guess that’s Primo, yeah?… Yeah, Hector says it’s Primo … The back door is opening up … It’s Akilah! She’s walking with the two men toward the pawnshop. She looks … She’s in pain, yeah, she’s in a lot of pain. She’s walking on her own and she’s … Oh! She stopped walking for a second and the black guy shoved her … They’re nearing the door, so I’m going to shut up now and … They’re yours.”
Just as Tommy’s narration finished, I saw three people appear on the video screen. Then the front door swung open. Primo entered.
It was my first look at the man. He was shorter than I thought he’d be, but broader-if I had to guess his dimensions, I’d say five six, 230. A regular fireplug. Even his fingers were short and thick. His bald head had a square, boxlike shape. His goatee, equal parts salt and pepper, made a neat oval around his mouth. Under a three-quarter-length black trenchcoat, he wore a black V-neck pullover and charcoal-gray slacks. His walk was quick and direct. Maybe it was because of all I already knew about him, but he moved like a killer.
Akilah stumbled in gingerly behind him. Her hair had a bedraggled, slept-in-the-gutter kind of look. Her face was a mess of snot and tears, like an infant who hadn’t been tended. Her left arm appeared to be fine. But she was holding her right arm like it was made of tissue paper and would tear at the slightest stress.
Johnny the Goon brought up the rear. He was a big chunk of black guy, but his bulk wasn’t nearly as troubling as what was bulging against the pocket of his jacket. As I said, I’m no gun expert. But whatever he was packing looked large enough to put a respectable-sized hole in anything it hit.
Primo walked up to the window and put his meaty hands on the counter. I expected to feel a rush of nerves, but it never came. I was calm, in control, anxiety-free. I was one tough hombre when I was shielded behind bulletproof glass.
“Hi, can I help you?” I said, ever the officious clerk.
“I’m looking for a jewelry box for my niece,” he said, still looking around the store, not making eye contact, trying to play nonchalant. “Something nice.”
“Aren’t you really looking for this, Primo?” I said, dangling the thumb drive in front of him.
At the mention of his name, his head snapped toward me. His body seemed to coil, and for a brief instant, I thought he was going to leap through the bulletproof glass. Instead, his eyes narrowed on the thumb drive, then on me.
“Where did you get that? Who are you?” he demanded.
“I’m just a neighborhood pawnbroker, looking to make a deal with you, Primo,” I said. “You give me the two women you’ve kidnapped, and I’ll give you this thumb drive.”
He glowered at me.
“How do I know that’s the thumb drive I need?”
“Take a good look,” I said, pressing it up against the glass. “While you were shooting Windy full of nails, I’m sure this is exactly what he described to you.”
From the way Primo was studying the thumb drive, I could see I was right. He started stroking his goatee absentmindedly, obviously a nervous habit.
“I know what you’re thinking,” I continued. “What good will the thumb drive do you if there are still two witnesses alive who can testify against you? But here’s the thing, Primo: either way, you’re going to have to make a run for it. You know that by now, right? It’s way too hot for you here. So the question you have to ask yourself is, What do you want to leave behind?
“If you leave behind these two women, all they can do is offer the authorities a vague description of a man whose name they do not know, along with a story about how they were kidnapped. Maybe the police would look for you, maybe they wouldn’t. Either way, you fall off the radar screen pretty quickly.
“But if you leave behind this?” I said, pulling the thumb drive back from the glass and waving it around. “This drive has everything. Every payoff you ever gave Wendell Byers. Every piece of land he sold you in return. You’ve got fraud, corruption, racketeering, and, oh yeah, you become the prime suspect in the murder of a city councilman. So what’s it going to be?”
Primo’s eyes darted back and forth between me and the thumb drive.
“How do I know you haven’t already copied the file somewhere else?” he asked.
I turned to Denardo. “Can you give me that receipt for a second?”
He fished it out of his wallet. I held it up against the glass.
“Because we were only a little bit ahead of you,” I said. “If you’ll look at the time on this receipt, you’ll see we bought this thumb drive no more than five minutes ago. And you’ll notice there are no computers here. There’s been no time to download this data. This is the only copy.”
“Ten thousand dollars,” he said, after he was done studying the receipt.
“Funded by your last campaign contribution to Windy Byers,” I said.
I thought the irony might sting him. But I suppose literary devices didn’t have that effect on everyone.
“Your friends are worth a lot to you, I see,” he said.
“True,” I said. “But I think we both know this thumb drive is worth a lot more to you.”
He actually chuckled slightly and petted his goatee a few more times.
“You are right, of course,” he said at last. “We have a deal.”
* * *
I pointed at Akilah, who had been watching the entire interaction with wide eyes.
“She’s the down payment,” I said. “Both of you stand against the wall over there and let her come through that door.”
Primo nodded and walked backward until he reached the far wall. He jerked his head at Johnny, who had been clutching the back of Akilah’s shirt. He released his grip and she tripped toward the door, which I buzzed open. She slid through it quickly, then ran back into the stockroom without a single word of acknowledgment. And that was fine. I needed to concentrate on getting Sweet Thang back. There would be time for hugs and thank-yous later. And I suppose I couldn’t blame her for wanting to get as far away from Primo as she could.
“Okay,” I said. “The final payment is outside in your blue panel truck. Please go get her.”
Primo and Johnny stalked out the door, and I once again saw them on the video screen, walking back up the street.
“You still there, Tommy?” I asked in the direction of my cell phone.
“Yeah, I see them coming out of the store,” Tommy said. “They’re coming back toward the truck … Man, Primo looks pissed … Now they’re getting in the truck, they’re starting the engine and … They’re on the move.”
I felt a surge of confused panic.
“They’re making a run for it?” I asked.
“No, no … They’re turning the truck around … Just turning around … They’re cutting off a Dodge Durango … The driver just made a proper Jersey gesture at them … They’re coming back toward the store … And … They’re pulling up to the corner now.”
“Okay, I’ve got visuals, thanks, Tommy,” I said, huffing a lungful of air out of my mouth as the truck appeared on my screen. I didn’t realize it, but I had been holding my breath.
Primo hopped out of the passenger side door and left it open. The truck’s engine was still running. He was evidently going for the quick exit and I wasn’t going to stop him. Bringing Primo to justice wasn’t my job. That was the responsibility of the Newark police or maybe U.S. Marshals-if they could find a nameless man with a talent for identity theft. I didn’t really care. All that mattered to me was that Sweet Thang would be able to tell h
er grandchildren about this someday.
And if, at the end of the story, the bad guy got away? Well, that would just be a good lesson for the kiddies that the world isn’t always fair.
On the screen, I could see Primo open the truck’s back door, then Sweet Thang hopped out. I felt my throat constrict a little when I saw her, looking shell-shocked but otherwise unharmed. I swallowed twice and tried to keep my composure. There would be time for emotion, hopefully in another minute or two. But not yet.
Primo grabbed Sweet Thang by the hair-the cruel bastard-and stomped to the front entrance. Sweet Thang followed awkwardly. Walking while being led by one’s curls is not a particularly graceful endeavor.
The front door to Maury’s swung open and Primo entered, dragging Sweet Thang behind him. She turned to have a look at where she was going, then saw me behind the glass.
“Carter!” she yelped.
“Just relax, honey,” I said. “It’s almost over.”
Primo faced me.
“Before I let your woman go, I have to know,” he said. “Who are you?”
“I’m a reporter with the Eagle-Examiner,” I said, then couldn’t resist adding, “I guess you’re getting a firsthand lesson in the power of the press.”
He let out a disgusted grunt.
“Here’s how we’re going to do this,” I said. “You’re going to stay against the wall over there. I’m going to place the thumb drive in this box here and spin it toward you. Then you’re going to let Sweet Thang go. As soon as she’s through the door, you can come get it.”
“No good,” Primo said. “How do I know you won’t just spin the box back as soon as she’s in?”
“Because then you and your goons out there would come in with your guns and trap us in this little box. And I have better things to do than be stuck in here all day.
“Besides,” I added. “The truth is, Primo, I want to give you this drive so you can get as far away from here as quickly as possible. Because I don’t ever want to see your ugly face again.”
Admittedly, it was a fairly juvenile thing to say. And given a little more time, I’m sure I could have done better. But he sneered at me a little bit, so I felt at least moderately fulfilled in that I had launched one quasi-decent insult before he ran out the door.
“Okay,” he said. “You first. Put the drive in the box.”
I placed the blue SanDisk thumb drive-with all its evidence-in the glass cubby.
“Now spin it,” Primo said.
I spun.
“Okay, your turn. Let the girl go.”
He released his grip, and Sweet Thang staggered toward the door. I buzzed it open. She burst through, then quickly shut it behind herself.
She was safe.
The first thing she did was kiss me. Softly. On the mouth. With her hands cupped around my face. It wasn’t exactly the kiss you’d give your cousin, but we could sort that out later.
Then she hugged me. Hard. All over. Except where the soft warmth of her breasts should have been, I felt something jabbing into me.
Apparently, it was getting her, too.
“Ouch,” she said. “Forgot about that.”
She started lifting her sweater and I turned the other way-we needed to establish these kinds of boundaries in our relationship-which only made her giggle.
“It’s okay. I just need to get my phone,” she said, reaching in between her cleavage to grab it. “Those guys took my first phone from me. They just didn’t realize I had two of them. Good thing I wore a sports bra today. It turned out to be the perfect hiding place.”
“That’s where it was the whole time I was eavesdropping on you?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of speakerphone? This was boobyphone.”
Primo, who snatched the thumb drive as soon as Sweet Thang came through the door, was in the lobby, studying his prize, as if he could read the data if he stared at it hard enough. Finally, he exited.
Not that I was paying him much attention. As I said, he was no longer my concern. I was busy trying to think up some witty, half-lascivious remark about Sweet Thang’s clever use of her cleavage.
Then I heard a loud crack. Then another. Then a third.
It was the unmistakable sound of someone firing a gun. And it came from right outside the store.
* * *
On the video screen, I could see Primo facedown on the pavement. The truck had peeled away almost as soon as the gun was fired, its passenger door still open. Davi and Johnny weren’t sticking around to defend their boss. There was nothing left of him to defend. A small-but-spreading pool of blood leaked from Primo’s head.
Sweet Thang clutched my arm as we watched the life pour out of this man whose real name we did not know.
“Is he…?” Sweet Thang began, then answered her own question.
There was no further sound coming from the street. Gunshots and squealing tires have a way of bringing life to a halt in Newark, as everyone dives for cover and waits to make sure there isn’t a retaliatory salvo.
But in this case there would be no return fire.
“Call Detective Raines and tell him Windy’s killer is dead. His number is in here,” I told Sweet Thang, handing her my phone. “I’m going to go out and have a look.”
I exited the safety of the bulletproof chamber, treading softly across Maury’s lobby. I could see Primo with my own eyes now, through the cracked glass door. He hadn’t made it very far, having fallen just beyond those crumbling steps, his arms splayed at an angle that suggested he died before he hit the ground.
Cautiously, I shoved open the door. I looked to my right, but there was nothing unusual. Then I looked to my left.
And there was Akilah Harris, gun still clenched in her left hand.
Her mouth hung open, her crazy hair blowing slightly in the wind, her battered right arm dangling limply at her side. Her eyes were fixed on Primo like she was in some kind of trance.
I hadn’t paid much attention to what she was doing back in that stockroom. But now it was obvious: she found herself a gun-Maury had plenty-dug up some matching bullets, sneaked out a back door, and waited for Primo to appear.
I hadn’t cared if Primo got away, figuring he’d eventually either get his or he wouldn’t. Akilah didn’t want to leave justice to chance.
“You okay, Akilah?” I said.
“I fired three shots,” she replied. “One for Boo. One for Alonzo. One for Antoine.”
I looked at Primo again. Only one shot had hit, at least that I could see, but it had done the job. There was a large, bloody hole on the left side of his bald head, just behind the ear. If there was an exit wound, I couldn’t tell-that side was down. Someone else could do all the forensics.
I walked slowly toward Akilah, who hadn’t relinquished the gun.
“He’s dead,” I said. “It’s okay now. You can put the gun down.”
She didn’t move. I walked a little closer. Still nothing. Soon I was next to her and gently removed the gun from her hand, laying it on the ground. She leaned against me and I wrapped one arm around her, being careful not to put any pressure on her broken side. She put her left arm around me, in a not-quite-embrace, and began a rambling explanation of why she had done what she did.
Some of it made sense. Some of it didn’t. But I was able to piece together a few items of interest. She said the whole thing started after Windy told her she had to leave the house and she told him they were through. Windy’s attempt at reconciliation, with Akilah listening, had been to call Primo and demand he do something about the mortgage-or the councilman would cut off his supply of city land.
Akilah said Primo lost his mind when he heard that, and made all kinds of threats. Windy knew he was in trouble, knew Primo was dangerous, and gave her a copy of his Excel file on a thumb drive. If anything happened to him, she was to hand it to the police.
But she wasn’t thinking about the thumb drive-or anything else-when her house burned down. And when she first met Sweet Thang and me, just
a few hours later, she was still under the misbelief the fire was an accident. She only realized otherwise after she heard about Windy’s abduction, at which point she was a woman on the run with no place to go.
We stayed in our somewhat-hug until the cops arrived. There was, naturally, a lot of explaining to do. I told them the man lying in the bloody puddle was the man who had killed Councilman Byers, which confused them. Then I told them I was a newspaper reporter, which confused them more. They weren’t sure whether to cuff me as a suspect or ask me to leave the crime scene until the public affairs officer arrived.
The explaining got a little easier when my detective pals, Pritchard and Raines, showed up. I laid out everything for them chronologically-from the illegal campaign contributions, to the falling-out between Windy and Primo; from the creation of the thumb drive to all the horrible things Primo did to find it.
And yes, I told them Akilah Harris fired the fatal shot into Primo’s skull. I wasn’t worried for her. Even if they charged her-and I doubted they would-no jury would convict a mother for killing the scumbag who torched her children, kidnapped her, and broke her arm.
About an hour later, having gone through everything a few more times, Pritch gave Sweet Thang, Tommy, and me a ride back to the newsroom. We were mobbed when we entered-everyone, by that point, had heard some version of what happened-but Tina was having none of it and immediately turned into her own crowd-control unit.
“Everyone back, back!” she shouted. “These three have work to do.”
It was, after all, coming up on deadline. I settled down to write and the words flowed quickly. Explaining it to the cops had been a useful exercise in helping me order my thoughts. And besides, I had lived a lot of it.
Sweet Thang stayed by my side the whole time, making useful suggestions here and there. Tommy wrote the section about the campaign contributions and their link to Primo’s various LLCs-after all, it was his reporting that discovered it. Then we cobbled it together in a long, hopefully coherent, narrative. By the time we were finished, I was pleased with the story. It hit all the pertinent facts. It read well.
