Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

  As suddenly as it had appeared, the locomotive of air moved on. The branches settled. The eagle drifted effortlessly down, landing in its nest without another flap of its wings.

  Allie will kill me.

  Lydia crossed back to the sofa and took another sip of wine.

  Chapter 31

  Seattle

  Bayonne Jackson, aka Three Pop, made his way through the Sixteenth Street Pool House. It was eight o’clock. The place should have been filled with people chalking up cues and drinking. But only two tables had any action. He glanced toward the bar. That particular spot was always jumping with white folks ordering smoke, cocaine, or whatever the current pharmaceutical of choice was. Five people sat on the stools, looking like they weren’t interested in anything more potent than the beer in front of them. Bayonne nodded to the bartender and kept walking until he passed through the door marked PRIVATE.

  Sweet Jimmy, Bomber, and Low Down were right where they always were, playing cards in the outer office. They offered greetings and asked if he wanted to join the game.

  “Bomber here dedicated to losing everything he got in his pocket tonight.” The wooden matchstick in Sweet Jimmy’s mouth bobbed as he spoke. “Likely you could make more green off him right now than out in them streets.”

  “How ’bout you deal them cards and save your tongue the flappin’?” Bomber asked.

  A fourth man was there.

  “Who’s this, now?” Bayonne asked, nodding to the person he’d never seen before.

  “This here’s Tank,” Low Down answered. “He up from Cali.”

  The new man stood, offering Bayonne a fist bump and shoulder in greeting.

  “They call me Three Pop.” Bayonne eyed the man, figuring his broad shoulders and short stature had earned him his street name. “Where’bouts you from?”

  “Like the song says. Straight outta Compton.”

  Bayonne narrowed his eyes. “That s’posed to be funny?”

  Tank squared his shoulders and stared back. “Ain’t nothin’ funny ’bout them streets. But home is home.”

  Neither man broke his stare.

  “You girls gonna play nice or we gonna have a catfight up in here?” Sweet Jimmy asked. “Careful now. Don’t want nobody losin’ a weave.”

  Bomber and Low Down laughed at Sweet Jimmy’s attempt at levity. Bayonne shook his head and turned away from the new guy.

  “He in?” he asked.

  “He is,” Sweet Jimmy answered.

  Bayonne gave Tank one last long look, then went through the door leading to Spice’s inner office.

  “Three Pop! Come on in here.” Spice sat behind his makeshift desk. Four stacks of money, each as high as a man’s hand, were in front of him. “Take a seat. I’m drinkin’ whiskey straight up tonight. Got one ready for you if you care.”

  Bayonne shook his head. “New guy out front. Say he up from Cali.”

  Spice glanced toward the closed door. “Tank’s good people. Pico from the word go. Hell, I think he been wearin’ red longer than me.”

  “What’s his reason?” Bayonne took a seat.

  “I gotta remind you we lost six of our own? This war cost us.”

  “We in a truce now.”

  “Two more days. No tellin’ what might happen. You know well’s I do you can’t trust no lying 97. They don’t bring us who killed Banjo, we right back to fightin’.”

  “We got men.”

  “And like I said, we down six.” Spice leaned back in his chair. “And when it comes to war? You gotta have brothers who know the play. Battle tested. Tank’s seen it. He been there.”

  “Compton. He told me.”

  Spice nodded. “That’s right. Brother can do.”

  Bayonne said nothing.

  “There a problem here?” Spice asked.

  “This the first I heard of you bringin’ in outside help. Surprises me, that’s all.”

  Spice stood. He crossed over and laid a heavy hand on Bayonne’s shoulder. “This time’s tough on you, man. Just buryin’ Banjo and all. You need to be focusin’ on family.”

  “Pico is my family.”

  Spice patted him twice and headed back to his desk. “You know that. We stand by you.”

  “Seems like decisions getting made round here. Things I used to be part of. Makes me wonder maybe my position is gettin’ shifted.”

  Spice settled back in his chair. “You talkin’ about this truce? Fuck, man. You want who killed Banjo or not?”

  “I do.”

  “You think it best we keep on killin’ 97s until they all gone? That your plan?”

  Bayonne said nothing.

  “This war’s bad for us. Don’t get me wrong. Banjo got to be avenged. You got to know there was no slowness in my step when you told me Banjo got hisself killed by some punk 97 thinkin’ it was you walkin’ down that street.”

  Bayonne nodded. “You was quick. I know that.”

  “This war cost us six brothers. Six good Picos are in the ground for you. Now, we could keep killin’. No doubt we could. But for each 97 gets it, could be maybe we gonna lose one of ours, too. And this war’s bad for business.” Spice nodded toward the front. “You seen it out there? White folks hear what’s goin’ on, they stop comin’. How long you want that to go? Cuz I’ma tell you. White folks need what they need. They don’t feel safe gettin’ their product here at Sixteenth Street, they gonna find someplace else. The Picos and the 97s so busy killin’ one another off, some other gang gonna step in. That what you want? You want the Mexicans gettin’ our business? The Chinese? That your play?”

  Bayonne held up one hand. “I got no problem with the truce. We gonna see what the 97s do.”

  “Besides, these decisions are mine to make. You gonna get all little girl about it…cryin’ to me I don’t involve you…maybe I do gotta think about makin’ some changes. But this here is the fastest way I know of to get the name of the fucker who killed Banjo.”

  Bayonne was quiet for several seconds. He didn’t want to offend his leader. “What about the other?”

  Spice pulled a shoe box from under his desk and began stacking the cash inside. “What other is that, now?”

  “Gettin’ who killed Banjo is what I thought the truce was about.”

  “That’s right.” Spice put the box of money on top of several boxes just like it.

  “But at the meeting you told that 97 leader you wanted the kid’s block. Take the business out from under them.”

  Spice tapped his fingertips together and stared at Bayonne.

  “You don’t think Banjo deserves them 97s payin’ a penalty for takin’ him out?” he finally asked.

  “I’ma kill the motherfucker got my brother. That’s what Banjo deserves.”

  “Damn straight. But maybe I see somethin’ a bit more. Somethin’ make them 97s think long and hard if they ever get a mind to take out another Pico. That’s a mighty sweet corner that kid’s runnin’. Lotsa folks buyin’ what he sellin’. That spot’s not far off our own. Picos can expand.”

  Bayonne shook his head. “Nobody ever talked ’bout that. That sound like 97 shit to me. They all about the money. Picos s’posed to be different.”

  Spice placed his hands palms down on the door serving as his desk. His voice was tightly controlled when he spoke. “You wanna tell this leader of the Picos exactly how what I did sounded like 97 shit to you?”

  Bayonne swallowed hard. He forced his tone to sound conciliatory. “Them old stories, you know? Back in 97. When the split happened. I always been told it was cuz they wanted nothin’ but money. Picos are more than that. When you told that 97 you wanted that kid’s block, sounded like maybe we were losing some of the differences between our two gangs. We’re better than the money. That’s all I meant.”

  Spice gave him a humorless chuckle. “That soft heart of yours gonna get you one of these days, son. You always thinkin’ ’bout them good old days. Fightin’ me on my business plans. Times change. Business change. Folks who don’t cha
nge with ’em die off. We still a brotherhood. No doubt ’bout that. But we a business, too. And the first rule of business is starve the competition. You feel me? Now I’m sorry you took all that like I was takin’ advantage of Banjo’s situation to take that territory. But I didn’t get to be sittin’ in this chair right here by walking away from what’s best for the Picos.”

  Bayonne nodded.

  “And I don’t need my number two out there talkin’ against my plans. That make sense to you, son?”

  Bayonne nodded again.

  “Here’s what you gonna do next. You gonna go on back to your daddy’s place. Why not grab hold of Rodisha? Take her with you. Ladies always good for knowin’ what to do at a time like this. You stay close to your family for the next two days. Lean on one another. Then we gonna meet again with them 97s. See what they have to say ’bout comin’ up with Banjo’s killer. After that we gonna decide our next move. You and me together. How’s that?”

  Bayonne stood. He had many other questions, but knew he was being dismissed. And he knew Spice well enough to understand that enough lines had been crossed for one evening. His leader wouldn’t take kindly to any further questioning of his authority or motives. He told Spice to call him if he was needed. Spice promised he would.

  “Oh,” Spice added as Bayonne walked to the door, “you mind sendin’ Tank in?”

  Bayonne hesitated.

  Then he nodded one last time.

  Chapter 32

  Moscow

  “What time was your last communication with the pilot?” Allie used Russian as she spoke to the man standing in front of the tall windows of her living room.

  “Less than ninety minutes ago, czarina. The two men you sent should have returned to the airstrip yesterday. We have heard nothing from them.” The man’s face conveyed his hesitancy. “Perhaps it is time to declare the mission a failure. Allow our pilot to return.”

  “These decisions are the czarina’s to make!” Fyodor Ratchikov roared at the man.

  Allie turned toward her lieutenant. The brocade divan he occupied offended her eyes, as did every stick of ridiculously ornate furniture in this middle-of-nowhere dacha.

  But Allie had vowed never to stand second to anyone. And while she’d prefer nothing more than to leave this rococo palace in the Moscow woods, never again to be offended by its velvet drapes, gold-leafed icons, and Versailles-scale mirrors, she knew it was important to maintain the illusion.

  “Fyodor,” Allie cooed in English to keep her remarks private. “The boy is only a messenger. There’s no need to bark.”

  Fyodor Ratchikov had been her fiercest ally since that night in Yemen. Another man might have been driven to madness after killing his own nephew. But Ratchikov was a Russian. A man who understood the unflinching power Allie had demonstrated when she took command of a small Yemeni army. Ratchikov now gave her the same unquestioning devotion he had once reserved for Vadim Tokarev alone.

  Ratchikov had come today to take possession of Lydia Corriger. He was to have transported her to Abu Al Fared as a final demonstration of Allie’s ability to supply the Middle Eastern shahs and potentates whatever they needed to satisfy their darker tastes. Allie would lock in that market, securing over a billion dollars annually for her enterprise and extending her global influence.

  But Rick and Johnny had failed her. She had sent the two Englishmen on a one-goal mission. Travel to the small town of Olympia, Washington. Track down Lydia Corriger and bring her back in one piece. Allie had supplied them with all she knew. The men had had the addresses of Lydia’s home and office. She had warned them about Lydia’s security systems and home arsenal. She had admonished them not to underestimate their target. She had told them how Staz’s efforts to capture Lydia had resulted in his death.

  Both men had assured her one woman would be no match for them.

  “She’ll never see us coming,” Johnny had promised her. “Fixer or no, she’s no match for old Rick and me. We’ll ’ave ’er standin’ in front of you soon as you can say ‘Bob’s your uncle.’ ”

  Yet there had been no word from them in more than twenty-four hours.

  “What shall I say to Al Fared?” Ratchikov asked in English. “He was impressed with what he saw in Yemen. But he is an Arab. One show of might is not enough to convince him to continue doing business with a woman.”

  Unlike you and your Russians? Allie thought. Have you all transformed into renaissance men? Is it my intelligent approach to leadership you recognize? Or my iron hand?

  “Is he asking?”

  “No, czarina.” Ratchikov sounded like a man who was choosing his words carefully. “But I have reason to suspect he is an impatient man.”

  Allie thought about the five women Al Fared had taken to his yacht that night. They might be enough distraction to buy her some time. She looked toward the man standing and awaiting her orders.

  “Call our pilot back home,” she commanded in Russian. “Route him through London. He’ll pick up Cranston. Once they land in Moscow, have them prep the plane to be ready for departure immediately.”

  Ratchikov lowered his head. Allie knew he didn’t trust her English pilot. He thought of her as one of his own now and believed any important matter was best served by a Russian. But Allie needed a fresh aviator.

  “Yes, czarina.” The man bowed and left the room. Allie waited until she heard the creaking of the massive oak front door to speak again to Ratchikov.

  “Abu Al Fared will have his Fixer,” she said.

  Ratchikov nodded. “The Arab is intrigued. His blood runs high when he speaks of her beauty. The idea of possessing his own personal assassin is like an aphrodisiac to him. He senses the power he would wield.” He added cautiously, “But must it be this particular woman we deliver?”

  “I gave him my word.”

  “Yes, czarina. You did. And the world will soon know what your faithful already do. What you speak becomes true. But this woman. This Fixer. She has eluded you—us—twice. First Staz. Now the two English. Three men dead.”

  Allie didn’t care about losing Rick and Johnny. They were a pair of cocky braggarts, reliant more on testosterone than on wit. If Lydia had disposed of them, as all evidence indicated, it meant nothing to her beyond the annoyance of having to train two more men as her personal guards. But losing Staz, the one man who had risked the rage of Vadim Tokarev to care for her while Tokarev held her captive, left her with a rage needing to be avenged.

  “Perhaps there is another way,” Ratchikov continued. “If it is a beautiful woman Al Fared wants, there is a limitless supply available. If he desires his own assassin, we can provide that as well. I’m thinking of Taras Volkov. He is good with both gun and knife. Vadim used him often. Or perhaps Spartak Egorov. He’s young, but he is hungry. Both men, I know, would welcome a chance to serve you. They could be your eyes within Abu Al Fared’s business.”

  Allie shook her head. Abu Al Fared was a man of sophistication and style. Necessity dictated she tolerate the knuckle-dragging, heavy-browed, vodka-swilling clan of Russians she had inherited from Tokarev. There was no way Al Fared would accept a similar fate.

  “You don’t understand,” she said. “Al Fared wants an assassin he can bed. It must be one woman.” And I am owed. I’ve been robbed. My family. My Staz. That woman has taken what is mine. “It must be Lydia Corriger.”

  “What, then, do you suggest?”

  “The goal remains the same. We get the Fixer. We bring her back and we hand her off to Al Fared. From there she is his to deal with.”

  “And whom shall we send this time? How many?”

  Allie looked out the tall windows, running her mind over a list of her most effective men. An overnight storm had left the forest blanketed in a heavy November snow. She imagined there were those who might find the landscape beautiful. But the isolation of the dacha left her as cold as the frigid Russian air.

  She watched a rabbit hop across fallen logs. It stopped in a clearing, rearing up on hind le
gs to catch a scent.

  In an instant a flash of brown and red appeared. A fox was on the rabbit. In less than a heartbeat a stain of crimson scarred the carpet of white. The fox looked up and for a moment seemed to lock eyes with Allie. Then it trotted off, the dead rabbit between its bloody jaws.

  “Two is still the most effective number. But a better two this time.” Allie paused. “You and I, Fyodor. You and I.”

  Chapter 33

  Seattle

  Kashawn sat on his bed thinking about what he would miss most. Probably the bed, he figured. It had been nice having those clean sheets and warm blankets. Having a real pillow instead of a balled-up jacket to hold his head while he slept.

  No, he thought. I’ma miss that bathroom more. Toilet available anytime a person wants it. Take a shower each and every morning. That been nice. Them towels the cleaning ladies leave. Smelling like somethin’ sweet for a man to start his day.

  His thoughts went to breakfasts at the clubhouse. It wasn’t just the food, though he was getting used to eating his fill. He’d miss his brothers sitting around first thing in the morning as much as he’d miss the eggs and flapjacks. Talking business. Sports. Teasing and making jokes with him like he belonged there.

  I wonder if you miss things when you’re dead. Is it like them church folks talk about? Does a body look down from someplace after they died and miss the smells and tastes they left behind?

  Somebody had once told Kashawn all that heaven and hell stuff was just a bunch of stories to make a person follow the rules. Promised him there was nothing but nothing after a body’s lights went out. Said a person didn’t even know they were dead.

  Maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Leastwise I wouldn’t hafta think ’bout all I’m leavin’.

  He glanced at the clock on the shelf he’d brought back from that furniture store. It was silver and the numbers glowed against a background of colored lights that changed every few seconds. Right now it read 7:49. Black numbers against bright orange.