Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  Mort stifled a smile. “Yeah, I’m a cop. But I’m not here to volunteer, I promise. I thought I’d catch Lincoln here is all.”

  She gave him a long, disapproving stare. “I guess it’s okay, then. Like I say, he in the gym. His brother with him too. Two of them settin’ up for wrestlin’ practice. Kids come by after school. My shift’s over by then. I don’t need to be around no screamin’ kids.” She looked over to the two women in the corner. “No offense intended, ladies. Your baby makin’ no noise whatsoever. That’s the way I like children. Quiet. Them kids come in for wrestlin’ be gruntin’ and snortin’ like they some kind of pigs. Always with the sticky fingers from they juice boxes, too.” She turned her attention back to Mort. “I keep this place clean. Every morning I have to get out the rag and the mop. Clean up the mess them kids left from the night before.”

  Mort pointed down the hallway running off to the left. “Gym this way?”

  “Mm-hmm. Go to the end of the hall. When you can’t go no further, you turn right. Don’t turn left cuz that takes you to the kitchen. You gonna smell them church ladies making mac and cheese for the after-school, but don’t pay no mind to that. Go left to the gym. Gym got added on long time ago. Been here long as I been alive. Don’t ask me who built it because I don’t know.” The phone on her desk rang. She reached for it, still looking at Mort. “Go on, now. I got my work, you got yours. I can’t be sitting here talkin’ to any old body come off the street.” She turned away from him and spoke into the receiver. “This here’s Our Joint. You talkin’ to Vanessa. Why you callin’?”

  Mort headed down the hall. Vanessa was right. The warm aroma of melted cheese tempted him. He was sure he smelled fresh cornbread too. But the hallway ended and he turned right, down another, shorter hallway with open double doors exposing the shining gloss of a polished gym floor. Lincoln Lane was over in the corner, talking to his brother, Franklin. Franklin was two years younger than Lincoln, but if not for the fact Franklin wore his dark hair a few inches longer than his brother’s tight cut, it would have been difficult to tell the two apart.

  “Well, will you look what the cat dragged in?” Lincoln called out in response to the click of Mort’s shoes across the hardwood. “Franklin, hide the booze. The cops are here.”

  Lincoln offered Mort a strong handshake and a warm smile. The three of them spent a few minutes in small talk, mostly about the prospects of Our Joint’s wrestling team this season. Lincoln worried the boys from St. Alphonse would hand his team their heads.

  “But if we get past them, we should be looking okay for All City Champs.”

  “We’ll make it through Alphonse,” Franklin promised. “That is, if we can keep the kids focused on keeping their moves on the mats.”

  Lincoln shot his brother a look Mort couldn’t decipher.

  “There a problem?” Mort asked.

  Lincoln slapped a heavy hand on his brother’s shoulder. “Franklin’s a worrier. It’s tough for these kids. Too many distractions coming at ’em from the streets.”

  “Yeah,” Franklin said. “Try to convince some high schooler it’s better to practice takedowns and escapes three hours a day instead of running crud for the local boss.”

  “Gangs have a strong pull on your kids?”

  “Depends on the kid,” Lincoln answered. “Depends on the family. On whether or not they believe there might be something else that can get them out of these dead-end streets. Whether they have a full enough belly to practice hard. Depends on a lot of things.”

  “How about Benji Jackson? Was he able to keep himself distracted enough? I heard he was a hell of a ballplayer.”

  “You back on that case? I told you, it’s going cold. I know these people, Mort. Nobody’s going to talk. Banjo was a good kid. And a round-ball natural. He had the touch. The size. The moves. That kid could wiggle out of a three-man defense, scoot downcourt, and shoot for three anytime he wanted. Isn’t that right, Franklin?”

  Lincoln’s brother was busy laying out mats for the afternoon practice, out of earshot of his brother’s question.

  “Benji interested in wrestling at all?” Mort asked. “His father told us he spent a lot of time here.”

  “He did,” Lincoln said. “But he was a one-sport kid. Much as we tried to convince him, he never wanted to come out for wrestling.”

  “I wasn’t aware you had that much contact with Benji.”

  “I told you about his brother, didn’t I?” Lane’s eyes narrowed. “And I told you Banjo had nothing to do with any gang. Three Pop made sure Banjo steered clear.”

  “What if whoever shot Benji was aiming for his brother?” Mort recapped his conversation with Bayonne Jackson.

  “Three Pop told you he thought he was the target?” Franklin Lane asked.

  “Bayonne didn’t tell me much of anything. I gave him Benji’s belongings…including the clothes he wore when he was killed.”

  “This leading to something?” Lincoln asked. His brother walked over and rejoined the conversation.

  Mort told them about the jacket. “It had one sleeve sliced off. Officers on the scene didn’t think much of it at first. But I saw something in Bayonne’s eyes. I think he knew exactly why that sleeve was missing. I watched him leave the station. First thing he did was pull out that jacket.”

  “And?” Franklin asked.

  “It fit.” Mort looked at Lincoln. “Bayonne Jackson is number two in the Pico Underground. What if someone was hunting Bayonne and got Benji by mistake?”

  “Kind of hard to mistake a twelve-year-old for a grown man,” Lincoln said.

  “Benji was wearing his brother’s colors. What if the shooter wasn’t looking too close? Or nervous? Eager to do the deed and split. I could see a mistake being made.”

  The two Lane brothers exchanged a glance.

  “You’re thinking it was a 97?” Franklin asked. “Killed Banjo thinking it was Three Pop and grabbed the Pico insignia to prove his kill? Is that where you’re going with this?”

  “It makes sense.” Mort focused again on Lincoln. “You’re the expert. If it was a 97, who would you put your money on?”

  “Don’t bark up that tree, Grant.” Lincoln Lane fixed a determined glare on Mort. “We got a nice patch of quiet working between those two gangs. You go to the 97s pointing fingers…things are going to get real ugly real fast.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I told you, these guys are animals. Wounded, scared, rabid animals. Rage walking around in human skin. Looking for any reason to erupt. You so much as hint you’re looking at them for something they didn’t do—or even if they did do this—you’re going to see bodies start dropping faster than Volkswagen stock. There’s not enough overtime in the world to cover the hours you and your team are going to be putting in trying to figure out who killed who. And you can count on a few civilians getting caught in the crossfire. You up for that?”

  “A twelve-year-old kid was killed!” Mort’s voice rose in frustration. “I saw Bayonne put on that jacket. This is gang activity and the department’s specialist is telling me to drop this?”

  “What’s going on in here?” a female voice called out from across the gym. “I can hear you out in the hall.” A middle-aged woman stormed toward them. “My kids hear enough yelling in their lives. They don’t need more of it at Our Joint.” She stopped in front of Mort.

  “Who are you? And why are you yelling at my wrestling coaches?”

  She was a five-foot-four cylinder of a woman, equally round from shoulder to knee. Linebacker arms strained against the magenta jacket she wore. Her black skirt ended just below the knee, exposing thick calves that led straight to a pair of rubber-soled walking shoes. Her hair was piled on top of a jowly, square head, giving Mort the overall impression of a sensibly dressed oatmeal tube.

  “I’m sorry, Gigi,” Lincoln Lane said. “This here’s Mort Grant. Chief of detectives, Seattle PD. Mort, this is Gigi Vinings. She runs things here.”

  Mort held out his hand. Gig
i looked down at it with disgust.

  “And why is the chief of detectives yelling at my volunteers?” She turned to Lincoln and Franklin. “You two steal cookies from the church ladies this afternoon?”

  The Lane boys shook their heads. “No, ma’am,” they said in unison.

  Gigi Vinings turned back toward Mort. “Then you must be here looking for one of our members. If that’s the case, you come to me. Who are you suggesting did what?”

  Everything about her, from her appearance to her tone, indicated that if, indeed, Mort was here to investigate one of the people using Our Joint as a respite from the mean streets, Gigi Vinings would handle things herself. And if it turned out one of her members had violated a law, there was no doubt in his mind the perpetrator would suffer far more harshly with Gigi’s consequences than any the local judge might dole out.

  “I’m here consulting with Lincoln, ma’am. Things got loud. I apologize.”

  Gigi looked skeptical. “Consult about what?”

  “Grant’s a homicide detective,” Lincoln explained. “He’s got some theories about Banjo Jackson’s murder.”

  Gigi Vinings’s face softened. Mort saw a sadness fill her eyes that immediately erased the fearsome presence she had projected seconds earlier. She rested her right hand on her ample bosom.

  “Banjo.” Gigi’s voice was choked with grief. “I loved that boy. He came by here nearly every day. He’d sit with the children. Read to them. Play board games with them. Share a snack.” She pulled a tissue from her pocket and caught the tear rolling down her cheek. “You know who his brother is.”

  “I do, ma’am.”

  “Banjo was the opposite. Don’t get me wrong. That boy worshipped his brother.” She tucked her tissue back in her pocket and resumed her imperious stance. “But Banjo was different, Detective Grant. Remember that. And while I’m impressed Banjo’s murder is being taken seriously enough that the chief of detectives has been assigned, also remember you’re on my turf.” She fixed her steely gaze on the three men standing in front of her. “And unless you’re cheering for one of our teams, there is no yelling here.”

  Gigi Vinings turned and left the gym.

  “That is one impressive woman,” Mort said when Gigi had disappeared.

  Lincoln Lane nodded in agreement. “I always feel the need to check my shorts whenever she leaves a room. Make sure she left me with my balls.” He took a loud breath. “Listen, Mort. If I thought there was a chance in hell to make some headway on this Banjo thing, I’d be right behind you. Don’t make this whole city sorry. Let this one go cold.”

  Chapter 21

  Seattle

  Bayonne Jackson walked past the eight pool tables that were the secondary attraction of the Sixteenth Street Pool House. The primary draw ran the length of the front half of the century-old brick building: a bar supported by a row of wooden rice barrels. Legend had it the barrels were used during Prohibition to smuggle in whiskey and rye from Canada. Bayonne didn’t consider himself a scholarly man, but he knew enough to wonder why anyone would believe rice was being imported from Canada. People believe what they want to, he figured. Just like all the white folks shooting pool on an afternoon when they ought to be working in their little cubicles…designing video games or apps to track the activities of their stay-at-home dogs or whatever the hell it was white people did to earn money. Bayonne figured those fools could tell themselves they were down with the struggle because they hung out in this type of place on this side of town. They could bump fists with the black folk behind the bar, slip an extra fifty onto the tip line of their credit card slip in exchange for a plastic envelope filled with blow, and feel like they knew the real gritty. He felt the fear behind the hipster poses of the Brads and the Autumns as he strutted past, but he knew they appreciated his presence. While the Garretts and the Amandas were quick to complain if the restroom toilet paper ran low, they damn near collapsed from the thrill they got watching a genuine gangster stroll though.

  Someday I’ma stop. Right in the middle of the pool hall. I’ma turn real slow, pick out one of ’em, and stare. Watch ’em run on out of here like ticks off a wet dog. Get this place back to what it was.

  But Spice had two rules about the Sixteenth. Only come when it was an emergency, and never, ever break stride. Don’t bother the paying customers. Leave the white folk alone.

  Bayonne focused his eyes straight ahead and walked through the door to the back room. The one marked PRIVATE.

  Stupid white folk. Put a KEEP OUT sign on the door and that’s all you need for security. Could be all the free candy in the world sitting right on the other side. But them folks gonna stay away because the sign told ’em to.

  He entered a twelve-by-twelve room. Sweet Jimmy, Hawk, and the Ref were playing poker. Looked like Hawk was winning, from the stack of bills in front of him. From the sound of his grumbling, Bayonne figured most of those dollars had come from the Ref’s pocket. Both men greeted Bayonne. Sweet Jimmy just nodded, too lost in whatever was playing over his headset to be bothered with talking. Automatic rifles rested against the wall behind them. Bayonne knew each man would also have at least two additional weapons on his person.

  “He busy right now?” Bayonne asked Hawk.

  “Had somebody in a while ago. He alone now, though. Gotta say we wasn’t expectin’ you, man. Figured you’d be takin’ care of yours for a few days. Your daddy get our flowers?”

  “Yeah, man. Meant a lot. So did the envelope. You all didn’t need to do nothin’ like that. I’m takin’ care. Still, I appreciate it.”

  The Ref stopped complaining about Hawk’s luck long enough to offer his condolences. “We all loved Banjo, you know that. We gonna find the sumbitch did this. Spice put out the word soon as he heard. I’m figuring it was one of those Puerto Rican motherfuckers. They always doin’ bad.”

  Sweet Jimmy pulled his headset down around his neck. “Could be them new guys startin’ their shit over by Renton. White-power pricks, tryin’ to rile something up. Make a name. Spice say we gotta be sure. But once we know, whoever took out Banjo gonna get got, Spice says.”

  Bayonne knew the power of Pico payback. And he was eager to get started.

  “Get back to the game,” he said. “I’ma go see the man.”

  The three of them lifted cans of root beer in salute. Spice didn’t allow alcohol while Picos were on the job.

  Bayonne knocked twice before opening the door leading to another room.

  “Three Pop!” Antwan Nevers, aka Spice, rose to his feet behind a desk fashioned from two sawhorses and a door. “Why you here? You should be with yours.” The head of the Pico Underground, thirty years old, six foot two, 190 pounds, stepped toward him with open arms. Spice wore his dreadlocks long, always tied with a ribbon. Red. The Picos’ color.

  Bayonne welcomed Spice’s embrace. Bayonne was only eight years younger than his leader, but he loved him more than he loved his own father. Spice was the master of his world. Vester Jackson was a servant in his. Unable to keep his own wife and son alive. Trotting off to work every morning. Driving his fish truck. Acting like the five hundred dollars he brought home on Friday was worth the effort.

  Bayonne made three times that every day doing nothing more than standing by Spice’s side.

  Spice released him. Asked him if he wanted a drink. Bayonne shook his head, walked to his leader’s desk, and dropped the bag he carried on it.

  “What’s this, now?” Spice asked.

  “Went to the police today. Detective wanted to talk to me about Banjo.”

  “We’ll take care of it. Won’t need no cops.”

  Bayonne nodded. “He sees I’m not tellin’ him shit and calls it a day. Gives me Banjo’s possessions. What he had with him when he died.”

  Spice pointed toward the bag. “That them?”

  Bayonne reached inside, letting his hand linger on the first item. “I still expect that boy to come runnin’ after me. Beggin’ for some time on the court.” He shook his head
. “I promised some piece I’d take her for seafood that night. She wanted to go somewhere nice.”

  “You talkin’ about Rodisha, right? Yeah, I know her. Fine piece of horseflesh.”

  Bayonne bristled at the thought of his leader knowing the details of his private life, but somehow Spice knew everything there was to know about each member of his crew.

  “I pick her up all dressed in a suit. Ladies like that.”

  “They do, indeed. You take ’em to a place they can show off their clothes to the other ladies and you’re gonna get laid the best way you ever got laid. What’s this got to do with Banjo, now?”

  “Brother wanted help with his fadeaway. I told him I couldn’t make it. Told him I’d take him to the park the next day, work him long as he like.” Bayonne paused until his grief wouldn’t color his voice. “But we talkin’ Banjo. That brother want somethin’, ain’t nothin’ gonna get in his way. Tells me he’ll work around the date. It’s gotta be right now. So I take my suit to his house. We head down to the court and I work that boy till he got a fade make Stephen Curry come take lessons.”

  “That boy was a natural. Everybody said so.”

  Bayonne swallowed hard. “When we done, I take a shower at his place. Dad was still at work. Leavin’ Banjo alone like he always do.” He took several long moments before he spoke again. “You shoulda heard Banjo when I come downstairs. Hootin’ and whistlin’ like I was some kind of movie star.”

  He was quiet again. And grateful Spice didn’t push him.

  “I told him I be back for my stuff next day. We’d practice that fadeaway some more. Brother give me a hug before I leave. Tells me he love me and thanks me for takin’ time. That’s all he ever wanted. Time.”

  “And you gave it to him, Three Pop. Ain’t a Pico out there don’t know how much you love your brother.”