Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

Bayonne reached into his bag. “I left my jacket at his house. Banjo wore it. Probably wanted to show off for me when we met up later at the park. Or maybe he wanted to play big. Maybe he wanted to impress some folks wearing the Pico colors. Hell, I don’t know. I just know the police said Banjo had it on when he was shot. Wanted to get it back to me.” He held the jacket by the collar. “Only one thing missing.”

  Spice grabbed the jacket. “Your patch. That damn motherfucker cut off your patch! This wasn’t a hit against Banjo. This was somebody looking for you! Son of a bitch!”

  “Could be he was thinkin’ any Pico would do.”

  “I don’t give a fuck what was goin’ through his mind. Fucker killed Banjo. We’re gonna find him, Three Pop. We gonna find that motherfucker thought he could earn his stripes takin’ out a Pico. Then he’s gonna die. Real slow. And I’ma let you do it.” Spice reached to touch the outlined tear on Bayonne’s cheek. “We’re gonna fill that one in, Three Pop. Fast as we can.”

  “We gonna start today.” Bayonne reached into the bag again. “Boys out front think it’s the Ricans or those Aryan Nation fools down by Renton.”

  “Could be.” Spice looked skeptical. “You see either those groups with the balls to walk into our zone?”

  “I do not. The Puerto Ricans got nothin’ but popguns and them white boys more interested in dressin’ up and makin’ parades than gettin’ involved with any heavy shit. I got me a thought, though.”

  “Whazzat?”

  “I keep my eye on things. You know that. Long before Banjo got hit.”

  “That’s part of being number two. You keep me informed on what’s in the street. You good at it, too.”

  Bayonne wasn’t interested in compliments. “Short bit ago I hear tell ’bout the 97s takin’ on new blood. Big doin’s down at the clubhouse. New guy bein’ trained on the corner. I drive by a few times to get a look at him. Not much to see.”

  “No 97 is.”

  “I put it out of my mind. Got enough to deal with, Banjo bein’ dead. Then Mr. Detective Man give me my jacket. My colors missin’. I start piecin’ things together.”

  Spice looked at the item. His jaw locked.

  Spice laid a hand on Bayonne’s shoulder. “Easy, now. This is big, what we’re about to do. It gotta be right. I gotta know for sure.”

  “What more you got to know after hearin’ Banjo got hit wearin’ my colors? Them colors get cut off and next thing we know there’s a new 97 working the corner. What more you need me to tell you?”

  “Take a time, now. Let’s think this thing through. We gotta be right.” Spice rubbed his chin. “This kicks my mind back to the split. That was long ago. A fucked-up group of Picos didn’t think they were getting paid enough. More money. More territory. Didn’t matter what. All they wanted was more.”

  “Can’t say there’s no feelin’ like that in the Picos now’days, either.”

  Spice glared at him. “Ain’t no similarities between now and then. Now’days competition tough. A body got to eat or be eaten. Wasn’t like that then.”

  “Picos are more than money, Spice. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

  “I know. You’da fit right in with them old-school Picos. Back in the day, powers that be knew there had to be a peaceable way of doin’ things. Keep it steady. Like we do here at the Sixteenth. Them white folk out there are worth twenty times what they give us. We could pull our guns and have it all. Right now. Today. But that’s playing a short game. Takin’ too much brings the cops. Picos are smart. Know to find that sweet spot. Keep the customers happy so they don’t complain. Keep the money comin’ in steady. But those rebel Picos, back in the day, they didn’t see things that way. It was all about hittin’ the big pay. There was turmoil in the family. A group dancin’ to greed broke off and declared war on their own. Called themselves the 97s.”

  Spice was quiet again, looking like a man who was running his options but always coming up with the same conclusion.

  “This is 97 shit, Spice. Can’t be nothin’ other.”

  Spice fixed Bayonne with a steady gaze. “You ready for this?”

  Bayonne thought of his little brother. Walking home in the middle of the day. Showing off his pride in his older brother.

  Bleeding in the street. Dying all alone.

  “I am.”

  Spice pulled a box off the shelf. “Sit.”

  Bayonne pulled a chair to the side of his leader’s desk.

  Spice rifled through the box and pulled out a bottle of red polish. He sat and slowly painted the nail of his trigger finger, glancing up after every stroke to make sure Bayonne was watching. When he was finished he blew on it, waiting for the enamel to harden.

  “Give me yours.”

  Bayonne laid his trigger finger on the desk. He felt the power of generations of Picos surge into him each time Spice drew the brush across the nail. When Spice lowered his head to blow it dry, Bayonne felt his leader’s determination transfer to his very soul. Then Spice stood and every muscle in Bayonne’s body ached for vengeance.

  Spice walked over and opened the door to his private office. The poker game stopped immediately. The three men scrambled to their feet. Sweet Jimmy pulled off his headset.

  “I want the three of you,” Spice told them. “Get Bomber and Low Down, too.”

  “What are we doin’, Spice?” Hawk asked.

  “We going to war.” Spice pointed to the automatic rifles against the wall. “You tell me what you need and I’ma get it to you. First man to bring me a 97 gets twenty large.”

  The three men reached for their weapons.

  “Make sure you tag them sumbitches.” Spice reached up and pulled off the long red ribbon tying his hair at the nape of his neck. “Use this. Wrap my colors around every dead fuckin’ 97 you can find. We doin’ this for Banjo.”

  Chapter 22

  Olympia

  Oliver Bane stood and waved Lydia to his table when she walked into the downtown tavern.

  “Thanks for meeting me.” The place was nearly full. Nine thirty on a weeknight and every stool at the bar was occupied. “I know you’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”

  It wasn’t like Oliver not to smile. She understood. Oliver was a good man. A kind man. A man who had once offered her his heart and been rejected. Lydia had nothing to offer Oliver but pain. And if he ever discovered who she really was, any love he felt for her would instantly dissolve into disgust and loathing.

  From the guarded look in his eyes, perhaps that process had already begun.

  “You want some wine?” he asked. “I’ve got a beer coming.”

  “I don’t want to take too much of your time.”

  Oliver leaned forward. Lydia inhaled the aroma she’d come to recognize as distinctly his: coffee and sugar and steamed milk. He smelled like a long and lazy Sunday morning.

  “Then let’s not spend a minute on small talk,” he said. “I won’t tell you how pleased I am to see your bruises have disappeared and you won’t ask me how business is going. We’ll not waste one precious second on the ruse that we’re two old friends grabbing a drink to catch up. Let’s get down to it, Lydia. Tell me what you need from me.”

  “I am happy to see you, Oliver.”

  He shook his head slightly, but even that minor move was enough to set his unruly hair into motion. “Tell me, Lydia. There was a time I thought you enjoyed my company. But in case you haven’t been keeping track, the only times I hear from you these days are when you want something. So spit it out.”

  Lydia let him have his anger. There, indeed, had been a time when she’d been eager to see him. To feel his arms around her. To taste his kiss.

  “I’ve come to talk about that woman again.”

  Oliver’s eyes narrowed. He leaned back against his chair. “You mean Cassie? Did you find her? Is she all right?”

  “I did find her. The information you gave me was quite helpful. Thank you.”

  “She’s okay?”

  Allie Grant will never be o
kay.

  “We had a discussion, I’ll say that much.”

  Oliver nodded. “Patient-doctor stuff. I get it. I hope you set her straight on my not having any interest in being her tool to work out whatever drama she’s got going with her shrink.”

  “Actually, that’s why I’m here. This Cassie, as you call her, may not be pleased should she discover it was our conversation that led me to her.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “Nothing specific. But she’s a smart woman. Brilliant, truth told. With an overdeveloped sense of self.”

  “Narcissist? Is that what you’re saying?” Oliver smiled for the first time since she’d sat down. Weak and weary, but a smile nonetheless. “You can use your big-girl words, Lydia. My transitioning from attorney to coffee shop owner didn’t rob me of any IQ points.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend. This woman is complicated. Mere words are insufficient to describe her.”

  Oliver shrugged. “Okay. So I’ll assume Cassie didn’t want to be found. You found her, she’s pissed, and if she knew our conversation helped you, she might be pissed at me too. Do I have it?”

  What you don’t have, sweet Oliver, is the slightest notion of Allie’s evil.

  “I want you to be careful. This woman has resources. Her temper is not something to take lightly.”

  “I’ve dealt with angry women before, Lydia. Like a fiancée who thought marrying me was a surefire ticket to the governor’s mansion. Should have seen her when I told her I was stepping off the political circus train and opening a shop. Or more recently, when I had to tell a perfectly lovely young woman I couldn’t offer her what she wanted because I was still in love with someone else.” He brought a hand to his left cheek. “She gave me one hell of a slap. I wouldn’t have thought someone that small had it in her.”

  Lydia ached to know the pain she had caused him. “I’m sorry, Oliver.”

  He held up his hands. “I made my play and you weren’t buying. No need to worry. I can handle a broken heart and I can handle an upset Cassie.”

  “Please, Oliver. Don’t take this woman lightly.”

  His green eyes were intense. “Do I need to get the police involved?”

  “I want you to be careful.”

  “Answer my question, Lydia. And don’t hide behind doctor-patient confidentiality. If you have reason to believe a patient of yours is apt to harm someone, you have no duty to shield her. In fact, you have a responsibility to protect any potential target.”

  Lydia saw the flash of passion that had made him such an effective attorney.

  “I have no information suggesting you’re in imminent danger. I may be being overly cautious here, but when it comes to you, I want to be. Listen to me, Oliver. Do not interact with this woman. Trust me when I tell you she has no business being in Olympia. Should you see her, assume she’s up to no good.”

  “And what, exactly, do you mean by ‘no good’?”

  Oh, Oliver. I’m afraid even your significant intellect couldn’t imagine the mayhem Allie is capable of. You’re too wholesome to enter her world…my world.

  “Just stay away from her. Remember what I’m telling you.”

  Oliver’s jaw churned. Like he wanted to tell her something but needed to defend himself against his own words. Finally he drew in a deep breath.

  “I have to be over you, Lydia. I have to stop loving you. Wanting you. Hoping someday you’ll realize what we had together…what we could have together…that we could be terrific. I need to give that up. I can’t go through my life divided. Part of me going through the motions of the day while the other part hovers above me, waiting for the moment you’ll call or walk in the shop.”

  Lydia swallowed hard. She needed to let him speak. But she couldn’t let him know how much she cared.

  “I don’t want to hear from you again.” His voice was low and purposeful. “From where I sit, Cassie isn’t the danger. She means nothing to me. It’s you. You are the one who hurts me.”

  “Oliver, I—”

  “Don’t!” He caught his tone and lowered his voice. “Just don’t.”

  A tall blonde carrying an overloaded tray approached with a tired smile. “Sorry for the wait. We’re busier than we thought, and of course my manager doesn’t want to bring in fresh troops.” She set Oliver’s beer in front of him and turned to give Lydia her full attention. “What can I get you? I promise to be faster this time.”

  Oliver held Lydia’s gaze as he answered for her. “The lady’s leaving.”

  The blonde nodded her understanding and took her tray to the next table.

  “Goodbye, Lydia.”

  She stood. “I’m so sorry, Oliver. Please remember what I said.”

  His eyes telegraphed his struggle. “Goodbye, Lydia.”

  Chapter 23

  Seattle

  It was all Kashawn could do not to swagger when he walked into the clubhouse, holding up his driver’s license, just as his brothers were finishing breakfast. D’Loco was there and he hooted out loud before calling for a celebration. Brothers came up to congratulate Kashawn. J-Fox said he expected it wouldn’t be long before Kashawn took his place driving D’Loco. Everyone in the house gave him respect that morning.

  After the commotion, D’Loco tossed Kashawn a box. Told him to open it right then and there. Kashawn struggled to stay on his feet when he pulled the top off that small box. Inside was a key chain, engraved with a large “97” floating above the name “Green K.” He turned it over and swallowed hard. There was a tiger engraved on the flip side. Just like the one hanging on the wall of his room.

  “That there’s twenty-four-karat gold,” D’Loco told him. “You best treasure it. That from me to you. You made me smile today.”

  —

  A few hours later it was Kashawn’s turn to smile when Turk announced his training was over. He had shadowed Turk for more than a week, learning the rhythm, watching the runners, keeping strong when a customer wanted to shine him on about how they would get the money for the goods a little later. Kashawn had nothing to do with that. Even when Turk set up a test and sent a lovely young lady looking for credit, Kashawn held tight.

  He was ready. Turk knew it. The runners knew it. So did the customers. Most important, D’Loco knew.

  “Yes, sir!” Turk slapped him lightly on the cheek. “Today is the day. These streets yours now. I’ma hand them over to you. Which mean I’m movin’ up myself.”

  “You deserve it, Turk. D’Loco takin’ care of us all.”

  Turk nodded. “That he is, kid. That he is. Best remember that.” The smile disappeared from Turk’s face. “Remember also, if I hear one dollar not makin’ it back to D’Loco, you ain’t hafta worry about him. It’s me who trained you. I don’t train nobody to have sticky fingers. You do something to disgrace my efforts and you gonna bleed. We clear?”

  Kashawn had everything he’d ever wanted. He wasn’t going to do anything to mess up the glory he had going with the 97s.

  “We clear.” He nodded toward the Escalade rolling to a stop in front of them. “Here’s your ride now. Get on out of here and take care of your new business.”

  Turk’s grin returned. He gave one last shoulder bump to Kashawn and turned toward the car. Big Cheeks got out and opened the rear door. Kashawn looked inside, disappointed not to see D’Loco.

  “Don’t worry, Green K.” Big Cheeks must have seen his regret. “This party for Turk here. D’Loco know it’s your first day solo. He be by soon enough.”

  Turk climbed in the back and Kashawn watched them drive away. Then he stepped back and checked his crew. The twins were in position, playing basketball to his left. That kid they called Jay Jay messed with his skateboard down the block to his right. Straight ahead was a woman looking too skinny to stand. She teetered toward him. Kashawn waited. He knew what she wanted, but he needed to see her fifteen dollars before she got it. When she slipped him the money, Kashawn held up two fingers behind his back. One of the twins chased an err
ant basketball, making the drop as he ran past her.

  Kashawn Meadows was open for business.

  —

  And business was brisk. Kashawn wondered how the runners maintained an endless supply of product. But his job was to hold the money and keep the order. Maybe someday he’d learn more about the business, but for now he was content to spend his first day doing as he was told. There might have been a time or two he wished he could get out of the rain, but as his pockets grew heavy, Kashawn calculated his 15 percent and figured a little drizzle never hurt anyone. At times he got lonely. The customers never said anything beyond what was necessary to complete their transactions. Other folks walking the streets didn’t say a word. They knew he was D’Loco’s man. Those folks might not have said anything, but the respect was there.

  Kashawn occupied his mind thinking about how he might run into LaTonya some day after she left school. Maybe strike up a conversation and offer to walk with her a ways. He knew better than to offer her a ride. LaTonya wasn’t a girl to get into a brother’s car for no reason.

  A few minutes past five o’clock, D’Loco’s Escalade came speeding down the street, wheels screeching as it pulled to an abrupt stop in front of him.

  “Get in the car!” J-Fox had the windows rolled down. “Now, dammit!”

  Kashawn looked to his left. The twins were running away. To his right, Jay Jay was kicking it on his skateboard, leaving his location as fast as his wheels would carry him.

  “What’s happen—”

  “Get in the damn car!” J-Fox screamed.

  Kashawn jammed his hands in his pockets, securing the day’s receipts. He jogged six steps and pulled the rear door open. J-Fox took off before Kashawn had time to close it. Three other brothers were in the back of the Escalade.

  “What’s going on?” Kashawn asked. “Where’s D’Loco?”

  “We headin’ back to the clubhouse.” Slow Time was riding shotgun. “D’Loco says get there fast.”

  “Why?” Kashawn didn’t like what he saw on his brothers’ faces. Their looks were the same kind of angry D’Loco had when he killed Ax.