Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  “I don’t think politics is what’s needed right now,” Micki offered.

  “This isn’t politics,” Lincoln insisted. “This is fact. Something you can never understand. When white folks see white folks, they assume the guy’s okay. White guy has to show himself to be untrustworthy before you turn away. When white folks see black folks, it’s the opposite. They see a thug. We have to prove our worthiness. Each and every day. We’re held back. We’re overlooked. We’re even shot in the street because of it. And these gangs fuel that white fear. There’s no hope for our community as long as these gangs exist. So if they want to take each other out, I say let them. Let ’em clean up their own shit one bullet at a time. I’ll look the other way if it means there’s a chance that when a white man looks he sees me and not some banger masquerading as a normal person. And sad as it is that Benji’s dead, if his death leads to these animals going extinct, well, maybe the person who shot him did some kind of twisted good deed.”

  Mort’s head pounded. A cold steel belt tightened around his chest. Breathing was hard. He wanted to toss Lane and his brother out of his office. Maybe even demand the men take a leave of absence until they rethought their priorities. But he didn’t.

  Because Lane was right.

  Benji had been killed in October. Mort’s calendar had read November for over a week now and he still had no leads as to who had pulled the trigger. He was convinced the 97s were behind it, mistaking Benji for a member of the Pico Underground. He and his team had interviewed more than twenty known members of each gang. No one had given them anything. Mort himself had interviewed the men Lane identified as leaders of the gangs. Antwan Nevers, the head of the Pico Underground, was polite and succinct in his answers, and he stuck to his story that he knew Benji Jackson through his close association with Benji’s brother but had no idea who might have orchestrated his killing. Nevers always referred to the dead preteen as Benji and always called his brother Bayonne. Not once did he slip and use their street names, Banjo and Three Pop.

  The same scenario unfolded when Mort brought in Martin Lester, aka D’Loco, alleged leader of the 97s. Lester arrived with two attorneys and assured Mort he had never met Benji, didn’t know Three Pop, and had no idea who might be responsible for Benji’s death. He insisted the 97s were nothing more than a social organization, targeted by police and made to look like something sinister. When Mort asked him how an unemployed man could afford two lawyers from one of Seattle’s most expensive firms, D’Loco let the suits earn their fees by objecting to the line of questioning and calling an end to the interview.

  And the body count kept rising.

  “Let’s not waste any effort pointing fingers, okay?” Micki exchanged stern looks with each of the men in the office. “And we’ll save the discussions on healing the racial divide for another time. We need a way out. Linc, you know these guys. What’s your suggestion?”

  “Let it play out,” Lane said. “These creeps need their thug justice. They’re smart enough to know the good citizens of Seattle aren’t going to get riled up so long as it’s banger versus banger. The last thing either of these gangs want is some civilian—God forbid some white civilian—to get caught in the crossfire. That would bring heat they don’t have guns enough to stop.”

  “Just let the war continue?” Mort asked. “That’s your suggestion as a member of this department?”

  Lincoln nodded to his brother, and both Lane brothers headed to the door. “You asked for my two cents. Let ’em play whack-a-mole with one another. Think of it as an urban renewal project.”

  —

  Two hours later Mort walked into Our Joint and greeted Vanessa.

  “Don’t they ever let you go home?” he asked. “Whenever I come here, I see you behind that desk.”

  The receptionist played with her giant hoop earrings. Her fingernails were polished deep orange and dotted with tiny black specks.

  “You comin’ so regular now, maybe we ought to make you a member or somethin’. You know we got programs for seniors, right? There’s a old man’s club meets Wednesday mornings. Doughnuts and talk is they thing. Most those folks over seventy. But you lookin’ tired enough to pass.”

  Mort smiled. Maybe he should sign up. He’d been visiting Our Joint regularly since Benji’s murder, talking to whoever wanted to say their piece.

  “She in?” he asked.

  “You got an appointment?”

  “Not really. I was kind of hoping.”

  Vanessa reached for her ringing phone. “Well, you can hope all you want. Go on back and see if she’s wantin’ to see you. But it’s rude you droppin’ in all the time.” She picked up the phone. “This here is Our Joint and I’m Vanessa. Why you callin’?”

  Mort headed back. He knew the way to Gigi Vinings’s office.

  “Mort!” She waved him into her cluttered space. Cinder-block walls covered with posters describing various programs were interspersed with photographs and artwork Mort was certain was produced by the children using Our Joint as a respite from neighborhood strain. Mort picked up a photo lying on Gigi’s desk.

  “This new?”

  Gigi nodded. “Taken day before yesterday. How do you like the company I’m keeping?”

  Mort flipped the photo around for her to view. “Seahawks’ wunderkind quarterback. Very impressive. And so is the number on that giant check the two of you are holding.”

  Gigi took the photo back, chuckling as she looked at herself standing next to the Seahawks’ star quarterback. “A wonderful man he is. His foundation gave us fifty thousand dollars.”

  “Our Joint starting a football team?”

  “Of course not. You think a man that great is just about the football? We asked him for three thousand to recarpet the kids’ reading room and buy new books. He came here last week. Toured the place. Signed autographs, talked football, and had his picture taken with some of the members. Next thing you know, he’s coming back. Giving us more than ten times what we asked. Saying he couldn’t help but notice we might want to redo the entire space!”

  “I’ve heard that about him. All-around great guy.”

  “Says if we need anything, he wants me to call him first.”

  “Tell him what you need is another Super Bowl win. How’s that?”

  She asked him if he wanted some coffee. “The church ladies made about two dozen pumpkin pies this morning.”

  He declined but asked if she had a few minutes. “Vanessa fears I’m taking advantage of you.”

  Gigi chuckled again. The sound of her laughter eased some of his tension. “Vanessa is a good girl. We’re blessed to have her. But she has…How can I say this? She’s taken ownership of her job—and this place—and of me, too.”

  “She’s protective.”

  “That she is. Have a seat. What’s eating at you today?”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  “Let’s say you look like a man who could use a few weeks on some tropical beach. Maybe sip one of those drinks out of a coconut shell.”

  “You’re following the papers?” he asked. “The gangs?”

  “Mort, folks around here know more about the day-to-day activities of those dirty creatures than any ten policemen combined. Why do you think Lincoln and Franklin hang out here? Sure, they’re doing great things for our kids. Did you hear we took All City this year?”

  “I did, indeed. Got past St. Alphonse to do it.”

  “They’re excellent coaches. The boys love them. But for all their good work, the Lanes spend their time here because our members aren’t afraid to talk about the gangs. They get information that helps them contain the danger.”

  “That’s an interesting choice of words.”

  “What’s that?”

  “ ‘Contain.’ That’s what Lincoln Lane said his goal was. Said we’re never going to stop them but that he’d be happy just to contain them.”

  Gigi took her time answering. “There has to be a way we can stop them.”

  “Lik
e this war that’s going on now?”

  “Maybe. Cowardly men with guns playing tough by shooting other cowardly men with guns. Pretending they’re avenging their turf or their brothers.” She paused. “But maybe there is some bizarre kind of tribal justice about it.”

  “An eye for an eye, you mean.”

  Gigi considered her response so long Mort wondered what she was holding back.

  “Lincoln Lane tells me I’m to blame for the war,” Mort said. “Says if I’d stayed out of things, the gangs would have handled Benji’s killer all on their own.”

  Finally Gigi answered. “I suppose he’s right.”

  “But don’t we owe our kids better? Is tribal justice really what we’re looking for here?”

  Once again Gigi didn’t reply.

  “He also tells me I need to back off. Let the Picos and the 97s kill one another off.”

  The mood on Gigi’s face shifted. A hardness came to her eyes. Her lips tightened. She leaned forward. “Maybe there are times sin serves a greater good.”

  Chapter 26

  Seattle

  Kashawn Meadows was nervous. More than nervous. He was scared. Actually, he knew there had to be a better word.

  I could ask LaTonya, he thought as he stood on his corner. I’m bettin’ she knows least ten words for how I’m feelin’.

  It had been nearly a week since D’Loco had declared war on the Picos after Six Pack, Clash, and D’Andre were gunned down. The 97s had struck back hard. D’Loco was staying at the clubhouse these days, and Kashawn was part of his war council. He was up to date on what was happening out on the streets. Six Picos were dead. D’Loco had been especially happy two nights ago when Mouse and Turk came back with news they’d taken out the Pico who ran a twelve-block area down by the docks.

  Yes, sir. Those two made D’Loco smile that day. They got themselves a big reward. You can bet on that for sure.

  But Kashawn knew that if the 97s could hit one of the Picos while he was running his corner, the Picos could do the same to him. Still, he was determined to keep his business running. Kashawn had been a 97 just over a month, and he wanted to keep showing D’Loco he could produce. He might be just learning about running a war, but he knew damn straight what to do on his corner: take the customers’ money and bring it back to the family.

  Business wasn’t as good as it had been a week ago. Word traveled fast on these streets. Folks around here knew Picos and 97s were taking each other out. The customers using his product for a good-time high had stopped coming. Only the folks who needed what he was selling to draw their next breath took the risk. The troubles kept Jay Jay and the twins away too. Kashawn was a one-man show now. Customers gave him the money and he handed them the goods himself.

  Any squad drivin’ by could see what I’m doin’. Cop put his hands in my pockets, I’ma go away for a long time.

  The Picos and the police weren’t the only reasons Kashawn was on such high alert that drizzly November afternoon. His customers, strung out as they were, knew he was working the street alone. Any desperate addict could decide the time was right to stick a knife in his ribs. Take his money and his goods.

  D’Loco knew it too. He had increased his patrols, rolling up about five times a day. Brothers would drive by too. Checking to make sure he was all right. But there were only so many 97s. And with D’Loco dispatching teams to take out the Picos, Kashawn had to protect himself. He kept his eyes moving, scanning the traffic all around him.

  And he kept his right hand in his pocket, resting on his gun.

  One of his regulars made her way toward him now, pushing a dented stroller carrying a baby who was always awake but never moved. Kashawn knew her order. Same thing every day. Two rocks of crack. Despite her daily visits, the customer had spoken to him only once. It had been Kashawn’s second day running the turf on his own, after Turk declared him ready. She asked if she could give him a blow job in exchange for her candy. Right there. In broad daylight, with her kid lying in that sorry push buggy. When Kashawn turned her down, she just shrugged her skinny shoulders, handed him a few crumpled bills, and walked toward Twin Two. She’d not uttered a single word to him since.

  Kashawn pulled his hand off his gun and reached into the inside pocket of his Seahawks jacket. He had a system now that the runners were gone. Gun in the right side pocket. Bags of weed in the left. Crack he kept tucked inside. He didn’t have enough pockets for the pills. They were off the inventory list until the twins came back.

  He held out the rocks when the woman reached him.

  “I’ma take six today.”

  Kashawn’s eyes widened. She shoved a hand toward him. The bills she gave him were crisp. Kashawn took the money and reached into his pocket for four additional rocks.

  “You got extra money, maybe you best spend some on your baby.”

  The woman glanced down into the stroller. She grabbed her product, bent down, and pulled an envelope from under the baby’s worn blanket. She tucked her six rocks of crack cocaine next to her child and pulled the blanket over everything.

  “I’m s’posed to give you this.” She handed him the envelope. “You s’posed to read it and then I point.”

  Kashawn scanned the streets. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. Traffic moved at a steady clip, heavier on the road he faced than on the two side streets. Folks on the sidewalk covered their heads against the rain as best they could. He looked at the woman again. She stared into middle space and swayed in a way that made Kashawn wonder if she was dizzy or hearing music no one else could. He opened the envelope, pulled out the one sheet of paper, and read it.

  BANG! BANG! YOU’RE DEAD, MOTHERFUCKER!

  Below was a phone number Kashawn didn’t recognize.

  Kashawn’s breath caught. His heart pounded as he spun completely around, checking his environment. He pulled out his gun, trying to steady it in his shaking hand.

  “Who gave you this?” he shouted at the woman.

  “I’m s’posed to point now.” The woman’s expression and voice were unchanged. “Watch.”

  She pointed to the northwest corner. When she did, a car screeched from the curb and sped away, narrowly avoiding a collision with the flowing traffic. Then she pointed to the side street on Kashawn’s right, and another car pulled out from its parking spot and raced away. Finally she pointed to the abandoned parking lot, where the twins used to play basketball while they waited for his signals. At first he saw nothing. But a heartbeat later a motorcycle vroomed across the cracked asphalt and disappeared into traffic. The driver was dressed entirely in black, with the exception of his helmet.

  That was red.

  Kashawn’s knees threatened to give way. The cars had been no more than fifty feet from where he stood, the motorcycle even closer. The Picos had targeted him.

  And there were three of them! Why am I still standing?

  He turned back toward the woman, but she was already halfway down the block, pushing her stroller as quickly as thin legs and broken sidewalks would allow.

  He put his gun back in his pocket, scanned the area, and wondered what to do next. His question was answered when a black Escalade roared toward him. The car came across the same parking lot the motorcycle had left not two minutes before. Kashawn recognized the vehicle and ran toward it. J-Fox had the car stopped and the rear door open when he got there. Kashawn threw himself into the backseat, crashing into Everclear, whose stony face revealed none of the terror Kashawn felt.

  “Picos were here!” Kashawn blurted as J-Fox raced away.

  “We know.” J-Fox kept his eyes forward as he sped through the streets. “They hit Blue Man about an hour ago.”

  “He dead?” Kashawn wondered why he was still alive.

  “Four bullets to the head and neck, you tell me. D’Loco gets the news no sooner than Big Cheeks come running into the clubhouse. Got hisself a letter. Hand-delivered by one of his customers.”

  “Same thing just happened to me!” Kashawn braced himself as J-Fox m
ade a hard right turn that would take them back to the clubhouse. He turned to Everclear. “You get one?”

  Everclear shook his head. “I got no such thing. I’m on my corner, takin’ care, when J-Fox pulls up barkin’ orders.”

  “D’Loco wants every brother off the streets. Picos are plannin’ something. Just sit tight. D’Loco know what to do.”

  They were less than six blocks from the clubhouse. Kashawn used the time to force his fingers to stop trembling.

  —

  “Three brothers got the same letter.” D’Loco stood in front of the 97s gathered in the main room of the clubhouse. “They took out Blue Man to get our attention, let us know they serious. Then they set forth these letters. Lettin’ us know today coulda gone another way. We might be putting four brothers in the ground ’steada just one.”

  Kashawn wondered why, but he waited for another of his brothers to ask.

  “Show of strength,” D’Loco said. “And they signalin’ they want to talk. It’s a tool from the old days. I remember Jazz tellin’ me tales back when I was a new 97. He was old by then, but 97 from the get.”

  “I ain’t talkin’ to no motherfuckin’ Pico.” Kashawn didn’t recognize the brother speaking. “Pico got somethin’ to say, he can say it to my piece.”

  The brothers around him added their support to his sentiment. Kashawn kept his eyes on D’Loco.

  “Hold on, now.” The leader raised his hands to quiet them down. “We got three brothers right here. Slow Time, Big Cheeks, and Green K. They standin’ next to y’all right now ’stead of on some cold slab downtown.”

  Kashawn leaned against the wall, hoping he looked casual, praying it would keep him upright.

  “We don’t least listen to what these fuckin’ Picos have to say, they gonna up the ante. And y’all know damned well they ain’t ever gonna run outta bullets.”

  “We got our own bullets.” The same brother challenged D’Loco again. “You tell me where a Pico is right now and I’ma go get him. Then you tell me where the next one is and I’ma go get him too.”