Dead End Fix

by T. E. Woods

D’Loco hadn’t spoken to him since they got back from that meeting with those two people from the Picos.

  How’m I s’posed to know it wasn’t a real Pico walkin’ down that street in that jacket? What kid stands that tall?

  Kashawn tried to justify things. Any kid stupid enough to pull on a Pico jacket and go strolling through a 97 neighborhood deserved what he got. But it wasn’t working. Those Picos said the kid was just twelve years old. Said he was walking back from doing something with his church.

  Then why somebody drive up and shoot his ass? Kid musta been up to somethin’.

  That wasn’t working either. Kashawn tried to remember what life was like for him when he was twelve. It was only five years ago. He ought to be able to remember. Where was he living? What school was he going to? Try as he might, he couldn’t place himself as a twelve-year-old.

  One thing’s for sure, though. Wasn’t nobody takin’ me to do somethin’ good at no church. And for damned sure wasn’t nobody give a fuck somebody in a car roll by and shoot me.

  Kashawn looked toward the blank space on the wall and recalled his lunch with LaTonya. She seemed to like the tiger art. Said she’d take good care of that soft blanket until he got back.

  I ain’t comin’ back. Truce is gonna be over. D’Loco gonna hafta give me up. That’s gonna be that. Can’t have brothers dying in a war ain’t ever gonna end.

  A tear slipped down his cheek. Kashawn heard a knock on his door and wiped it away.

  “Hold on.” He stood and straightened the covers on his bed. He looked at the clock; 8:02 glowed against deep blue neon. “Come on in.”

  J-Fox opened the door and leaned in. “Why it so dark in here? You sleepin’ already? Get on downstairs. D’Loco waitin’ for you.”

  Kashawn was suddenly cold. He didn’t think his legs would work, but when he took a step forward they supported him just fine. He took one long look around his room before following J-Fox down the stairs. D’Loco was in a small room off the main living area, talking with Big Cheeks and Mouse. The leader of the 97s looked up, locking eyes with Kashawn.

  “Y’all leave us now,” D’Loco said to the men in the room. “Green K and me got some discussing to do.”

  The door closed and Kashawn was alone with the man he’d sworn to follow into the grave.

  “Take a seat.” D’Loco pointed to a chair across from his. “You have somethin’ to eat already?”

  Kashawn nodded. “There’s chili in the kitchen. Cornbread, too. It’s good. You should try it.”

  D’Loco held his stare. “That was some talk last night. The Picos, I mean.”

  Kashawn nodded again.

  “You had time to do some thinkin’ on what they said?”

  Kashawn didn’t tell him that except during his time with LaTonya, the meeting between the two leaders was all that had occupied his mind.

  “I guess you only got one option.”

  “A man always got more options than he thinks,” D’Loco said. “What you figure I’ma do?”

  Kashawn’s heart pounded so loud he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear his own whisper. “You gotta give me up. You gotta stop this war.”

  D’Loco looked down at his hands, waiting a few seconds before responding. “This war gotta end. Can’t be having more 97 blood in the street.”

  “You gonna give up my block? Business be good there. You ain’t gonna give them Pico shits my territory, are you?”

  D’Loco slapped Kashawn hard across the cheek. “Your territory? Who give that block to you? Who said you got anything to say about anything?”

  Kashawn rubbed the side of his face. “I didn’t mean mine. It’s yours. I know that.”

  D’Loco slapped him hard again. “You learn nothin’ from our time together?” he roared. “That’s not my block. Ain’t your block, either. That block belong to the 97s. That somethin’ bigger than you. Bigger than me.”

  Kashawn looked down. His cheeks stung. He waited to see if any blood would drip onto his hands from where D’Loco had struck him.

  None did.

  “Now we gonna get this straight,” D’Loco said. “Them Picos want who killed that kid.”

  “I know that. You gotta give me up. I’m ready.”

  D’Loco leaned back. “Tell me again how you killed that kid…that twelve-year-old you mistook for a Pico.”

  Kashawn wished he could keep himself from breathing so hard. He didn’t want to look scared. “It was like I said. I see this Pico walkin’ bright as day down a 97 block.”

  “ ’Cept it wasn’t no 97 block, was it?”

  “Close enough for me. I didn’t know exactly what was where at the time. And he didn’t look like no kid. Tall as shit. Wearin’ their colors. Seemed like an insult to me.”

  “Mm-hmm.” D’Loco’s voice was calmer now. “So you just happen to see this kid. And you just happen to be carrying.”

  Kashawn nodded.

  “That piece you took down to the construction site and tossed in the porta-pot.”

  Kashawn nodded again.

  “Then you cut off his sleeve and bring it to me as a trophy. Enter the brotherhood then and there.”

  “That’s right.”

  D’Loco stared at him in silence.

  “You killed that kid,” he finally said.

  Kashawn felt like one of those bobblehead dolls they show on television. Nodding up and down with some dumb-ass look on his face.

  D’Loco ran a hand over his face. He stretched his neck to the right, then the left. Kashawn could feel the anger radiating from his leader. He braced himself for another hit.

  “Where’d you get the car?”

  “What, now?” Kashawn asked.

  “The car. Them Picos said witnesses told the police a car pulled up. Shots fired. Kid goes down. Somebody run up and hover over the body. Next thing, that somebody take off runnin’. Where’d you get the car? You don’t know how to drive before J-Fox schooled you. And if you in the car, how’d you get that sleeve cut off? Tough thing to do, what with you squealin’ after you fired your shots.”

  Kashawn’s chest hurt. One second it felt ice cold, the next it was hot as the time he stood too close to a fire some guy had built in an old steel barrel on the corner.

  “Witnesses got it wrong,” he said. “Wasn’t no car. It was just me.”

  “All them witness. All of them got it wrong. Wasn’t no car. Wasn’t no drive-by they all swear they seen. All them witness lied to the police.”

  Kashawn’s stomach rumbled. He tasted chili in the back of his throat.

  “I don’t know what them witnesses said. Alls I know is what I did. I shot that Pico.”

  “Why?”

  “I told you. That damn Pico was walkin’ too close to 97 territory.”

  “Why you bring that sleeve to me?”

  “I dunno. Proud, I guess.”

  “Proud of what?”

  “What I did. Send a message to them Picos to stay away.”

  “Why not just leave that Pico on the concrete? Let the street folk talk? Why bring that sleeve to me?”

  Kashawn’s anxiety climbed. His words tumbled out. “I dunno. I dunno what I was thinkin’ in the moment. Actin’ on impulse is all.”

  “And you brought it to me.”

  “I wanted to show you.”

  “Show me what?”

  “The sleeve. I wanted to show you I got me a Pico.”

  “So I’d what? Give you a dollar or somethin’? You think this is the wild west and there some kind of bounty out on Picos? Wanted dead or alive? Some shit like that?”

  “I wanted to show you I belong here!” Kashawn yelled. He started to sob, hating himself for the weakness. “I belong here. These are my brothers. I wanted to show you.”

  D’Loco sat quietly. It took several minutes, but Kashawn was finally able to calm himself.

  “I’ma have to tell them Picos something, boy. They gonna be expectin’ an answer.”

  “You give them me. I killed
that Pico.”

  “No you didn’t. Now you best tell me who did. You tell me what you saw, let me take care of this.” His voice was stern. “There ain’t no other option, Kashawn.”

  Kashawn felt the stab of his leader calling him by his given name. He was no longer Green K. His leader had abandoned him.

  “I killed that Pico,” he whispered.

  “Tell me what you saw. Me and my boys take it from there.”

  “It was me! I killed that Pico! I’m a 97!” Kashawn dared to lift his eyes to meet D’Loco’s. He couldn’t identify the emotions his leader displayed, but he knew this wasn’t a day he made D’Loco smile.

  “Get on out of here.” D’Loco’s voice was low and calm. “Stay off the corner till we meet with the Picos.”

  Kashawn pushed himself up out of the chair. He took a moment to steady himself.

  “I said get on out of here.” D’Loco turned away.

  Kashawn wondered if his god would ever speak to him again.

  Chapter 34

  Seattle

  “This becomin’ a regular thing.” Vanessa looked up when Mort walked into Our Joint. “Folks start seein’ so many Caucasians up in here, they gonna be mistakin’ us for a Starbucks.”

  “You want me to bring you a coffee, all you have to do is ask.”

  “That’s all I need.” Vanessa nodded toward a group of women and children seated in the waiting area. “You come in here bearin’ gifts, folks start talkin’. Next thing you know they have me datin’ some old white cop. I got a position to maintain, know what I mean?”

  “That be so bad?” He decided to show her he could give as good as he got. “People could call us ‘Mortessa.’ We could get all the tongues flapping.”

  Vanessa shook her head. Her eyes glistened with good humor, but he knew she wasn’t about to grace him with even a whisper of a smile. “Them tongues take a notion to flap, I guarantee it won’t be ’bout me and your sorry behind. Gigi in the gym.” She tossed a handful of her tiny braids behind her shoulder. “She’s talkin’ with them other cops. I swear, there’s enough of you around we needin’ our own precinct number.”

  “I’ll see what I can do about that.” Mort turned to make the now-familiar walk. He smelled ginger and cinnamon as he walked past the kitchen and was surprised when he made the turn at the end of the hall. At least a dozen people leaned against the walls, focusing on what was happening inside the gym. Mort excused himself as he passed and stood against the closed back bleachers.

  Lincoln Lane stood behind a long table at the opposite end of the gym. Mort estimated at least seventy-five people, mostly women, sat on folding chairs, listening to what the Seattle Police Department’s gang specialist had to say. Gigi Vinings sat to Lincoln’s left. To his right was his brother, Franklin.

  “So that’s about the size of it,” Lincoln summed up. “These gangs seem hell-bent on doing one another in. We have no idea what this war is about, but typically it’s turf. Best thing you can do is stay clear of known trouble spots.” He pointed to a map of Seattle projected onto a screen behind him. “These areas in red. We know them to be active gang turf. Picos, 97s. For the sake of what’s happening now, we’re not making a distinction as to who’s got what territory. But if you can, stay clear of these red zones until things cool down. If you live in one of these red zones, keep your kids inside.”

  There was a rumble of discontent from the crowd. Lincoln held up his hands.

  “Until this war settles down. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “How long that gonna take?” a woman called out from the middle of the room. “I got four kids. Kids gotta burn off energy. Gotta play. I tell them stay inside, they not gonna take it well.”

  Lincoln nodded in sympathy. “I got kids of my own. I know. And for what it’s worth, these turf wars typically don’t last longer than a few weeks. These guys only got so many soldiers. It doesn’t take long for them to realize body counts aren’t good for either side.”

  A man near the back of the crowd stood. “What about school? My kids pick up the bus on the corner. I know other folks have kids who walk to school. What we s’posed to do? Keep ’em truant?”

  The crowd murmured its discontent.

  “The department will increase its presence during pre- and postschool hours. Extra squad cars will patrol the main bus and walking routes around every elementary, middle, and high school,” Lincoln promised.

  Gigi Vinings stood. “And we recommend every parent, no matter what age their children are, encourage their kids to come directly here after school. We’ve got volunteers at most crosswalks ready to escort your kids. We could use more, of course. So if you’ve got the time and would like to help, come see me.”

  “My girls have schoolwork and chores,” a woman toward the front called out. “I don’t get home from work till close to seven at night. What they supposed to do?”

  “We’re prepared for that,” Gigi assured her. “We’ll have supervised homework rooms as well as recreational activities. Our kitchen will provide after-school snacks, and until these gangs calm down, we’re prepared to provide your children with a simple meal. You can come by here and pick your kids up after work.”

  “Then what?” the woman asked. She pointed toward the projected map. “My house is right in the middle of the red zone. How many cops you gonna have after dark?”

  Lincoln looked toward his brother. Franklin shrugged.

  “Like I said, ma’am,” Lincoln continued, “keep your kids inside. Stay away from windows. Pull your beds into the middle of the room, away from the walls. These bangers are aiming at each other, but sometimes bullets stray.”

  The room erupted in agitated reaction to Lincoln’s warning. The Lane brothers and Gigi all stood, calling for calm. Mort walked up the center aisle, hoping the presence of another police officer might reassure the concerned citizens. He nodded to Gigi and the Lanes and stood between the brothers behind the table. Before he made the decision to add his own voice to the call for order, the situation took care of itself.

  A giant of a man strolled into the gym. Mort put him at least six foot five. His shoulders were massive, but his waist was trim. He wore basketball warm-ups that did little to hide the man’s chiseled physique. His hair was closely cropped. The man glanced neither right nor left as he made his way toward the head table. As he passed, row after row of citizens fell silent.

  “Well, looky, looky,” Lane whispered as the man approached.

  The man stopped two feet in front of the table. He stared first at Lincoln Lane, nodding in recognition. Then he did the same to Franklin Lane. He offered Gigi Vinings a slight bow. When he brought his stare back to Mort, his eyes were cold.

  Mort shifted his right hand to his holster.

  The man noted the move, shook his head in dismissal, and turned to face the silent audience.

  “Most of you know who I am. I’m here to say you good folks got nothin’ to fear from me.”

  Mort scanned the crowd. Some men slipped a protective arm around the woman standing next to them. Some women shook their heads in disgust. Others held nervous hands to their necks.

  No one said a word.

  “Some weeks back a boy was killed,” the man said. “Shot dead in the street not far from here. Name of Benji. Folks called him Banjo.”

  Out of the corner of his eye, Mort saw Gigi weave forward, then back. She took a seat behind the table. Mort kept his attention on the giant intruder.

  “I’m here to tell you anybody come to me, give me what they know about who did this, I’ma give them ten thousand dollars.”

  There was subtle movement in the crowd as people looked at one another. Still no one said a word.

  “You know I’m good for it. You know where to find me.”

  “Hold on.” Mort stepped from behind the desk, stood next to the man, and spoke loudly enough for the entire room to hear. “I’m Mort Grant. Chief of Detectives for the SPD. If anyone here has any information that can help u
s with this investigation, I want you to contact me first.” Mort turned toward the man standing next to him. “Your reward is generous. But it’s got to be run through the proper channels. People need to come to us first.”

  The man stared straight ahead. He waited a few moments before speaking. Mort had the impression he was waiting to see if the nuisance beside him had anything more to say.

  “Policeman here got a point,” he finally said. “Gotta do things proper. Anybody take their information to the police gonna get ten thousand direct from me.” The man glanced toward Mort, as if placating a willful child, before he addressed the room again. “Anybody bring information straight to me ’bout who killed Banjo gonna get five times that.”

  Finally there was sound from the crowd. Mort glanced back to Lincoln and Franklin Lane, who both were looking toward Gigi.

  “Today’s good,” the man spoke to the murmuring throng. “Spread the word.”

  The man strolled down the center aisle without a backward glance. Everyone stood in place. But three minutes after he disappeared from the gym, so did the crowd.

  Mort turned to Lincoln Lane. “You wanna tell me why the head of the 97s strolls in here and you didn’t slap the cuffs on him?”

  Lane glanced toward his brother. “We’ve been tracking him for years. Bring him in time to time when we think we’ve got something. He arrives with his lawyers and things fall off him like he’s coated in Teflon. Guy’s got no warrants. This was a neighborhood meeting. Folks are free to come say their piece.”

  Mort turned to where Gigi, visibly shaken, sat with her head in her hands. When she looked up, Mort read the look in her eyes from ten feet away.

  Fear.

  Chapter 35

  Olympia

  Lydia sat at her dining room table and watched the skies darken as the unseen sun, hidden by low clouds, set behind the Olympic Mountains. It wouldn’t be long before another November rain began to fall. Night came earlier each day. But the prancing flames in her fireplace stemmed the chill in the early-evening air.

  She opened the file in front of her, a duplicate of what her attorney held, and reviewed the first document. Her last will and testament. Drawn in her own name and covering the assets and holdings one would expect of a woman at her career stage. Her home carried a modest mortgage. She owed less than a thousand dollars on her Volvo. Her years as the Fixer had been lucrative and she had invested well. But she needed to leave a legacy that wouldn’t raise suspicions, so the estate of Lydia Justine Corriger carried liabilities and assets befitting a thirty-nine-year-old clinical psychologist with a thriving private practice. After satisfying outstanding debts, there would be enough to provide a modest donation to the local humane society.