by T. E. Woods
Jim shook his head. “Not directly. Kid was squeaky clean. No involvement with his brother’s posse at all. Says it was probably some wannabe gangster making his name. Lincoln says it could have been anybody catching those bullets.” Jim paused. “But that doesn’t mean the Picos aren’t going to make it their business.”
“Meaning?” Mort asked.
“When Three Pop and his father came by to meet, I noticed a couple of tats on Three Pop’s cheek. Teardrops. I figure one’s for his mother. She died of cancer. That tat’s gonna remain an outline forever. The second teardrop was fresh. For his little brother.”
“A gangster has a loss, he outlines a teardrop,” Micki explained. “One for every loved one lost.”
“Once a death is avenged, the teardrop gets filled in,” Jim added. “I’m betting all I got Three Pop and his gang are going out looking for whoever took out Banjo.”
Mort looked again at the photo of his young murder victim. “These Picos…They have any natural predators in the area?”
“They do indeed,” Jim said. “Like I told you, Pico Underground’s been operating here since the mideighties. Small operation, but things are working out for them. According to Lane, some disagreements inside the gang reared up a while back. You know how it is; there’s always gonna be some people who never have enough. People who think more money, more drugs, more crime, that’s the way to go. One thing leads to another and a civil war breaks out. Picos split down the middle. One side wants to keep the status quo, the other wants to expand the criminal enterprise. Things got pretty bloody. Hatred runs deep to this day. To minimize the body count, the group agreed to split in two. Each with its own area.”
“This second gang have a name?” Mort asked.
“They’re called the 97s,” Micki answered. “Named for the year of the breakup.” She pulled a city map out of her bag, walked to the whiteboard, and taped it to the wall. “Lane gave Jim the boundaries of each gang’s turf. I marked the Pico Underground’s area in red. That’s their colors. The 97s use blue to identify themselves.” She pointed to an area on the map highlighted in that color. “This is their territory.”
Mort saw a whole lot of his city delineated by one color or the other. “And the areas not covered?”
“Depends,” Micki replied. “There’s any number of start-up gangs claiming turf. Usually they spring up along ethnic lines. Lane says they’re kept under control by either the Picos or the 97s. Long as they stay small and don’t cut into anybody’s profits, they’re tolerated. But if any of the smaller gangs got the idea to grow, Picos or 97s would shut them down. It’s likely one of those gunned down Benji.”
Mort walked over to the map. He pointed to the spot where Benji had died. “This street doesn’t have a color.”
“Think of it as a DMZ,” Jim said. “A buffer between the two turfs. There’s a whole lot of restaurants and shops in that four-block area. That brings in tourists, and gangs don’t like tourists. Lane says there are pockets like that all over the city. Places neither gang has been able to establish control.”
“Why was Benji there that day?” Mort asked.
“Field trip with his church.” Micki flipped through her notebook. “According to his father, his pastor, and a few others, Benji was part of a youth group where members earned volunteer hours doing odd jobs at houses of elderly or disabled people who couldn’t afford to have the work done any other way. Benji spent a couple of hours doing fall cleanup in the garden of Mrs. June Rillets. A few others from his church were working at other people’s homes. Everybody was due to meet back at the church van by four o’clock. Benji was headed there when he was killed.”
You never know, do you? Mort wondered. You wake up and head off on your day. You got it all planned. Do a good deed in the name of the church, then head back for a game of basketball with your buddies. Except a bullet comes crashing into you and the next thing is, you’re dead.
“And Lane’s sure this isn’t 97 or Pico related?” Mort asked. “What if this Three Pop goon did something to piss off a 97? Or maybe somebody wanted to send a message.”
“Lane says he can’t figure someone going after the kid. If anybody had a beef with Three Pop, they’d take it straight to him.”
“Lane says that minimizes police involvement,” Micki added. “Nobody cares much if one gangbanger takes out another. But once a civilian gets popped? My guess is Benji was a wrong-place-wrong-time kind of thing. Random.”
“Either that,” Jim said, “or there’s more to this Banjo kid than we’re being told.”
“C’mon,” Mort said, “the kid was twelve.”
Jim stood. Bruiser scrambled to his feet and waited for his master to give him direction. “Do yourself a favor, Mort. Talk to Lane. You’d be surprised what some twelve-year-olds are up to. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a consult with the Tukwila PD. You get any ideas of what you want me to do next on Benji’s case, let me know. Till something new turns up, I’m afraid Benji’s case is in limbo.”
Mort looked again at the photograph of the young dead boy.
I’ll find who killed you, son. I promise.
“You need me for anything more?” Micki asked.
Mort turned to face his two colleagues and the giant dog. “No. Let me go through Benji’s case files. I’ll let you know what I need.” He called Bruiser over for a goodbye ear scratch. “What’s doing in Tukwila?” he asked Jim.
Jim DeVilla rocked on his heels and smiled. “That’s the thing about this job, Mort. Every day it’s something fun and new from the land of murderous mayhem.”
“Fill me in. I could use a laugh.”
When Jim finished explaining what the boys in Tukwila had in their laps, laughing was the last activity on Mort’s mind.
Chapter 16
Seattle
“So this guy here decides he’s not done.” J-Fox had everyone in D’Loco’s Escalade laughing. Everyone except Kashawn. He liked making D’Loco smile, but Kashawn didn’t like being the reason J-Fox, D’Loco, and Big Cheeks were laughing so loud. “Even though he be driving around that parking lot for two hours. Two hours! Brother here tells me he needin’ to do more. I explain to the boy I got better things to do than watch his sorry ass do forward and reverse all damn day, but he say no.”
“I bet he get that look on his face, too.” Big Cheeks was riding shotgun, but from Kashawn’s seat behind the driver, he could see him scrunching his fat face, imitating Kashawn. “That boy has a look of determination when his mind sets to. You ever seen it?”
J-Fox leaned back against the driver seat, arms straight out on the steering wheel. “Ever? Brother, I see it in my sleep! Green K get so focused. Like this.” Now it was J-Fox making a face. “Like little brother here got a six-pound turd wantin’ to come out but it all stuck crosswise in his ass.”
D’Loco let out a yelp at that one, slapping his hand against J-Fox’s headrest and doubling over in laughter.
“Y’all stop your laughin’ when I walk outta that DMV with my license.” Kashawn tried to sound tougher than he felt. “Then I’ma see who’s the best driver. We all gonna see that.”
The three of them whooped at the challenge.
“You gonna outdrive me, Green K?” J-Fox asked. “Me driving D’Loco around all these times and you wantin’ to take me on?”
D’Loco reached out and laid a hand on Kashawn’s shoulder. He hadn’t been a 97 long, yet already the seating arrangement was set when D’Loco needed to roll. J-Fox drove. Shotgun changed depending on D’Loco’s mission. But in the backseat it had become standard for Kashawn to sit with D’Loco. Kashawn loved being there behind J-Fox. Rolling with D’Loco was an honor.
“I’ma set it up,” D’Loco said. “Maybe get a film crew, some shit like that. We have our own 97 road rally, how’s that?” D’Loco patted Kashawn on the back and smiled. “And I’ma tell you what. I’ma lay ten large on my man Green K here. This brother say he gonna do something, shee-it, it get done. Ain’t that
right, Green K?”
Kashawn grinned and nodded. Any irritation or embarrassment at the group’s teasing disappeared. D’Loco believed in him. “Ask J-Fox about my parking.”
“I give it to the boy,” J-Fox said. “Brother’s a natural. Zip, zap, zooey. He park that car like nobody’s business.” J-Fox caught Kashawn’s eye in the rearview mirror. “We just funnin’ with you, boy. You all right. But damn, when a brother says leave it be, leave it be.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Two hours!”
The laughter started again. This time Kashawn joined in. They drove down Orchard Avenue. D’Loco was on what he called a “roll-by.” Every couple of days he loaded a posse in his Escalade, cranked up the hip-hop loud enough folks could hear him coming two blocks away, and patrolled his turf. D’Loco had explained it was important people never forget he was there.
“Peasants need to see their king,” D’Loco had told him. “Remind ’em I’m always watchin’. Keep their toes to the line.”
Kashawn’s days were full now. He woke up early every morning. Sometimes he lay in his bed for five, maybe ten minutes, looking around his room. His room. Nobody came in without knocking. Nobody messed with his stuff. Kashawn liked to notice each new thing he’d brought in to make his space better. There was his sound system, sitting on top of a chest of drawers he’d gotten three days before. Paid cash at a store that sold nothing but furniture. Brand-new. Woman who helped him called it a bureau. He had to force himself to put away the new clothes he purchased. He couldn’t see them when they were in the drawers.
Kashawn would look at each new addition, marveling at his new home, planning his next purchase. When his bladder was screaming for release, he’d throw the covers back and sprint into a bathroom he shared with no one. Despite the fact D’Loco had ladies who came in to clean, Kashawn always wiped the toothpaste out of the sink. Always put his towel in the hamper. And he took the Comet and the brush to the toilet every time he used it.
Then he’d head down to breakfast. There was no telling how many of his brothers would be there. Sometimes it was just the six 97s D’Loco let live in the clubhouse. Other times there were as many as twenty people gathered in the main rooms. Kashawn ate his eggs and bacon, or his cereal and juice, or his pancakes and sausages. Whatever the brother assigned cooking duties that morning had to offer. Coffee by the gallon if he wanted it. Toast with real butter. One time he even had something he didn’t know what the hell it was. His brothers jeered and explained it was an omelet.
Tasted like scrambled eggs to him.
Kashawn always listened as he ate. Brothers would talk about news from the street. How business was doing. What plans were coming up. What they thought those damn Picos were up to. He would get uneasy whenever one of his brothers slapped him on the shoulder.
“Green K here,” they’d say, “he know what to do, he see a Pico. Ain’t that right, K?”
Kashawn would force a smile, nod, and shove another piece of buttery toast down his throat, hoping to calm the sour feeling in his stomach.
He rode his bike to shadow Turk as he learned all that was involved with running his own corner. Whenever he could, he practiced driving with J-Fox. He knew he would be more valuable to D’Loco once he had his license. A couple of times one of the brothers sent him on an errand. He was always happy to oblige, so long as D’Loco didn’t need him for anything.
Then D’Loco would show up. Kashawn still got a flutter deep inside him when his leader walked into the clubhouse, greeting each of the brothers by name, stopping every step or two to bend down and whisper in someone’s ear or to grab someone by the neck and tease him about the woman D’Loco had seen him with.
Kashawn was happiest when D’Loco pointed toward him and said, “Let’s roll.” There hadn’t been anything again like that night with Ax Man, and Kashawn had convinced himself that kind of business was over. Now it was just riding alongside the leader of the 97s. Feeling the people’s respect. Whenever D’Loco wanted him in the car, it was Kashawn’s ticket to heaven.
He kept an eye open for LaTonya during the roll-bys. Especially when they traveled past the high school. He saw her once. LaTonya had a certain style about her. Wearing dresses that covered her up good and the kind of shoes she could walk steady in, never wobbling like the girls who wore those stacked heels. Hugging her books against her like they were precious jewels. He lowered the window, but she never looked his way.
Maybe he’d see her again today.
Kashawn didn’t like today’s ride. He wished they’d turn. Orchard Avenue was in the no-man’s zone. Any right could take them three blocks up and put them back in 97 territory. Orchard was filled with traffic. People used this corridor to get from one end of the city to the other. If anybody on Orchard stopped to look at the Escalade, he figured it would be to pass judgment on whatever punk ass was blasting the music so loud. Nobody on Orchard had a clue who was riding in the back. Nobody gave the respect D’Loco deserved.
“Where we off to, anyway?” Kashawn asked.
J-Fox caught his eye again in the rearview. This time his look was stern. “We want you to know, we tell you.”
Kashawn glanced toward D’Loco, hoping he hadn’t offended his leader. But D’Loco seemed unconcerned. His eyes were glued to the passing scenery, as if he was looking for something.
“Lotsa folks come and go down Orchard,” D’Loco said. “It’s eleven in the morning and we still catching traffic.”
“Like I told you,” Big Cheeks said, “since construction fuckin’ up the north-south, lots of people traveling this way. Most of ’em white, too. I got a gal works down city hall. Filing building permits and such. She tell me two restaurants and three bars getting built right along here.”
“Mm-hmm.” D’Loco kept his eyes on the area. “I see that sign there. Vacant lot.”
“That’s the one I’m talkin’ about.” Big Cheeks turned toward the backseat. “Really two lots. Right on the corner. Folks could come in either street.”
“Why no one else bought it yet?” D’Loco asked.
“My lady tells me she hear the city was plannin’ on buyin’ it. Makin’ it some kind of park or some such.”
Kashawn thought about the territory he was about to take over from Turk. It was in an abandoned warehouse area, with plenty of run-down rentals housing customers within walking distance. Was D’Loco thinking about using the park as a new place to sell drugs? Right here on Orchard, with all this traffic?
“What’s goin’ on now?” D’Loco asked.
“She say the city lettin’ it go. No money in the budget or some shit like that. She say a couple of big guys looking to post some plans, but her boss say the mayor want minority folk come in and buy it. That’s good press for her.”
“Uh-huh.” D’Loco kept staring. “And you want to what now?”
Big Cheeks waved a hand. “Look at these cars. Think about all them white folk going to those new restaurants and bars. You know how it goes. Once they get hold of a place, the whole thing turns. In two years, maybe three, this place gonna be ass deep in sidewalk tables and dessert joints. And all them cars gonna need a place to park. You think some Becky’s gonna hoof it six blocks just to go to dinner? We build us a parking garage. Cost a pretty penny, to be sure. But once it up, there’s nothing to keepin’ it goin’. Pure concrete, baby. No wear, no tear. Zero upkeep. I did some checkin’.”
“Looky here,” J-Fox said. “We got ourselves a black Donald Trump.”
“Let him talk,” D’Loco said.
Big Cheeks tossed a glance toward J-Fox before continuing. “Parking downtown get fifteen an hour for every stall. You figure with what’s goin’ on round here, restaurants and them fancy boutiques the ladies love, figure each car’s gonna be here three hours minimum. The stores keep the stalls filled during daylight. Nighttime come and the bars and restaurants fill ’em up. If we build a five-hundred-stall garage, keep it full fifteen hours a day, seven days a week, that’s over a hundred and ten thousan
d dollars a day. A day!”
Kashawn leaned back against his seat. D’Loco offered him 15 percent of every dollar he brought in from his new territory. Did Big Cheeks make that same cut? His mind couldn’t calculate it exactly, but he knew any piece of a hundred large a day would be something to stop and make a man think.
“Uh-huh,” D’Loco said. “And you supposin’…what? We just walk our black asses up and the city’s gonna sell it to the 97s?”
“I got that covered.” Big Cheeks always seemed to have everything all thought out. “I got me a guy. Owns a couple of dry cleaner shops in town. Doin’ okay. He’s a head guy with that outfit always trying to make things right for the kids. Men Helping Brothers or something like that.”
“I know that outfit. Go on.”
Big Cheeks grinned. “Turns out my guy interested in kids for more reasons than keepin’ ’em from droppin’ outta school. He like his ladies on the young side. I hook him up. He satisfied. But I take my insurance. Figure a respectable dude like that might come in handy someday. I take some pictures. He don’t know it, of course. Get the girls in on it. Capture a moment or two he won’t want the wife or city council to see.”
D’Loco nodded. “And this respectable black guy gonna be our front? He put together some sort of crew?”
“That’s it,” Big Cheeks said. “He and his are the face. We’re the wallet. Get us a legit source of money comin’ day in, day out.”
“And what if all them white folk don’t take to parking their cars in our garage?” J-Fox asked.
D’Loco smiled at Big Cheeks. “Don’t matter if one stall get filled, J-Fox. We build that garage, we got a big concrete washing machine, make our street money nice and clean. You done good, my man. What you need?”
“Gonna have to bring in the suits. Once I show my guy the pictures, he on board. He gonna need to get close to some lawyers. And some of them people who draw those things up.”
“Architects,” Kashawn said. “Architects and engineers. The architects draw. Engineers tell you if it’s gonna work.”
