by Mavis Kaye
It was nearly 2:30 when she left the restaurant at 103rd Street and Broadway and walked back to her apartment. A half hour after returning home, Kim received her third call of the day. It was Ruff Daddy phoning on his cell.
“Hey, baby,” he said, “it’s me, Ruff.”
“Shelton,” she gasped, “where are you? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, of course. I’m just layin’ low till all this shit blows over.”
“I’ve been trying to contact you for over a week. What the hell is going on? I . . . I thought something had happened to you. Why did you suddenly drop out of sight and . . . well, do you know anything about these killings?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Kim. Fact is, I’m in this shit up to my ass.
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And, if my info is correct, you already know a whole lot about what’s going on. Thing is, I had to disappear to protect myself. Niggas droppin’ like flies out here—you know what I’m sayin’? I still don’t know if that Atlanta hit was intended for me or Brixton. I need your help, baby—and, well, I’m willing to help you too.”
“What exactly are you involved in, Shelton? And who’s after you and the others?”
“First tip is my involvement is between me and my lawyers. And if I knew who was poppin’ these dudes I’d a done something about it myself. Which gets us back to the real deal. I know you were in touch with Mariana Blair before she got iced and you working with this detective, Jackson, from the Twenty-eighth. But from what I hear y’all been chasin’ your tails. I’m lookin’ out for my own ass, that’s why I’m willing to help. If you’ll look out for my interests, I can point you in the right direction. Is that cool?”
“You know I can’t promise to protect you—not unless I know how deeply you’re involved in all this.”
“Yeah, well, I thought you might go that route. Always on the straight and narrow, ain’t you?”
Kim didn’t answer.
“Don’t matter, I’ll look out for myself. What I can tell you is that nobody involved in the deal—”
“What the hell is the deal?”
“C’mon, sugar, don’t be coy. I know that you and Jackson figured out that this whole thing is about diamonds.”
“Okay, that’s true. We suspected that much, but how—”
“Forget it, baby. I ain’t implicating myself, and like I said nobody knows the whole picture, except maybe Klaus Svrenson.”
“Klaus is involved then?”
“Yeah, but I don’t believe he’s the one responsible for the death of his wife and the others. Far as I could tell, he ain’t got the balls. No, it’s 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 140
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much bigger than that, and whoever’s doin’ it got real muscle behind them.”
“Shelton, how can I possibly help if you don’t tell me any more than this?”
“Like I said, I only know parts of the operation and I can point you in that direction. Everybody I know is either dead or running scared.”
“All right, I won’t ask any more questions now,” Kim said; Ruff Daddy wouldn’t be coerced. “Where should I start looking?”
“There’re a couple of things. First I don’t know what’s up with Mo; I ain’t heard from the nigga since the drive-by. Ain’t like him, he would’ve left a message unless he’s hidin’ something and duckin’ me.
I’d also have your detective friend look into the death of K. J. Hunter, that Texas businessman, and if I were you I’d check out that Atlanta detective Freddy Carmichael. Something strange about that dude. He was suppose to be on the case, protectin’ us.”
“No way, Freddy’s all right—”
“I ain’t sure about that, but it’s up to you. I do know that there’s a broad in New Orleans, Josephine St. Claire, who was at the center of everything. She wasn’t runnin’ the show, but she was key. Some of the art work she imported was more valuable than she let on. You know what I’m sayin’?”
The name sounded familiar. And, after a moment’s thought, Kim realized that though she didn’t know St. Claire, Tiffany Jones had known her and occasionally talked about her, even shown her pictures. Tiffany had been the guest of honor at a few lavish parties thrown by the woman. Kim had been invited to attend once or twice, but she’d always declined.
“How do I find her?”
“Easy, she owns a big-time art gallery down there and has connections all over Europe and Africa. And . . . well, there’s one other thing.” Ruff Daddy paused, in thought.
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“Yeah, what is it?”
“What you doin’ tonight? There’re some people I want you to see.”
“I was supposed to meet Rick at the Sugar Bar for dinner at nine, but I guess I can postpone it.”
“No need, but can you meet him at the Lenox Lounge? Then I could meet you a half hour earlier.”
“So you’re in town?”
“Back off with the detective bullshit—can you meet me there?”
“Yes, of course, but—”
“Don’t be late, and, Kim, don’t bring your cop friend with you if you want to see me, understand? And take your cellphone in case I need to call you,” Ruff Daddy said before hanging up.
She immediately called Rick Dupre and changed the site of their dinner date.
It was 8:15 when Kim stepped out of a cab in front of the Lenox Lounge. Her haute couture Joseph Abboud skirt and silk blouse were contrasted sharply with the attire of most pedestrians who traipsed between 124th and 125th Streets and with the commonplace appearance of the supper club itself. The Lounge, which opened in 1939, was a historical Harlem landmark, and the new owners had insisted on maintaining its original appearance. So outside, with its dull-red exte-rior and the large block lettering, it did not stand out from the surrounding buildings, having the faded look of a 1940s speakeasy. Inside, however, the original art deco interior had been preserved and restored to its former glory. Kim’s chic attire was perfectly suited to the decor and the upscale dress of most of the other patrons, both locals and the new influx of downtown visitors and tourists.
She quickly scanned the bar to her left and the booths to her right when she entered, hoping that Ruff Daddy had already arrived. She also looked into the Zebra Room, and at the bandstand and dining 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 142
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area in the back of the restaurant, before taking a seat at the bar to wait for him. Kim ordered a martini and politely informed two admirers that she was waiting for her date. Her cell rang fifteen minutes later. It was Ruff Daddy.
“Hey, I see you made it,” she heard him say over the buzz of conversation at the bar.
“Yes, I did. Where are you?”
“Don’t matter,” he said. “The important thing is that you’re there.
Do you have a clear view of the booths near the front window?”
Kim looked over her shoulder at lounge booths. “Yes, I’m at the bar, near the door. I can see them.”
“Okay. And is there a big, heavyset dude with a balding head sitting in the corner booth?”
“Yeeessss,” she said, becoming increasingly impatient.
“I thought he’d be there tonight. That’s Clarence Johnson, better known as Mojo, and he should be sitting with a tall African dude who usually wears a dashiki.”
“Right again, but what’s all this supposed to mean?”
“Well, that’s Ezekiel Kwabena, a businessman from Sierra Leone who’s connected all the way up to the U.S. Congress. You wanted information on this diamond deal, well, it’s sitting right in front of you.
Except for Klaus—and I don’t know where the hell he is—they’re the only two people I know in the de
al who are still breathing. They’re also the reason I didn’t show up tonight. I ain’t taking no chances until I find out who’s behind this shit.”
“I don’t know this Kwa . . . Kwabena, but isn’t Clarence Johnson the owner of a record shop up here?”
“Right, and how do you think that rat hole, secondhand store got to be so successful in the last year or so?”
Kim paused, staring at the two men who laughed heartily as they devoured the southern-style seafood dishes they had ordered.
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this as hard as you. Hot diamonds are one thing, murder is something else—particularly when the killer ain’t showin’ his face and I stand a chance of gettin’ popped.”
“Shelton, you know I can’t hide this, I mean your involvement, from Lt. Jackson, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but don’t worry, I don’t expect anything less. I don’t mind dealing with this diamond thing—shit, I was just a high-priced courier. My lawyers have me out on the street before Eminem release another one of his lame-ass CDs. But I don’t intend to go down for no murder rap that I didn’t do. I got plans, big plans. Look, if I get anything else, I’ll call. And don’t bother looking, you won’t find me,” he said before hanging up.
“Wait a minute,” she yelled, then slammed the phone shut. After a moment’s thought, she dialed the precinct. Lt. Jackson wasn’t there, but she left an urgent message for him to call her. After sliding her phone back into her bag, she turned toward the corner booth. She had to calm herself because her first impulse was to confront the pair. If Ruff Daddy had been telling the truth, she was sitting forty feet away from two felons and possible murderers. She took a sip from her barely touched martini and drew a deep breath. On the other hand, they could just as well be the next victims, or there was the possibility that Ruff Daddy was lying.
After a few moments’ thought, she settled herself. No matter what, they weren’t going anywhere and she didn’t have any real evidence. All she could really do was tell Lt. Jackson, and, if he believed Ruff Daddy’s allegations, perhaps he’d put them under surveillance. That decided, she still couldn’t resist an occasional quick glance at Mojo and Kwabena.
It was a little after nine when Rick Dupre entered but before Kim could get his attention, he spotted Mojo and walked over to the booth. She watched as Mojo greeted him as if they were old friends, then gestured toward Kwabena, introducing him to Rick. Kwabena stood and shook his hand, and the three men talked for a few minutes before Rick turned and saw Kim at the bar.
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He quickly approached her.
“Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said, bending to kiss her on the cheek.
“Couldn’t find a spot.”
“That’s okay, but who are the guys in the booth? Somebody you know?”
“Everybody knows Mojo. He owns the Old World Music Shop on 119th Street. Got the best old jams in New York. The other guy is from Africa, a business associate. Why, looking for new clients?”
“No, but they look rather interesting. Want to introduce me?”
“It’s not the best time, they’re talking business now and the African dude, Kwo-Kwabena, has an early flight back to Freetown tomorrow.
Besides, it’s been a long time. I need to talk to you.” He laughed and, taking her hand, led her back toward the dining room.
Kim hesitantly followed, nervously glancing over her shoulder as they moved through the crowded bar. When they reached the Zebra Room, she relaxed a bit despite her concern about Mojo and the African. The fabled jazz lounge had hosted performances by jazz greats ranging from Billie Holiday and Miles Davis to Branford Marsalis and Terrence Blanchard. And Harlem luminaries from Bill
“Bojangles” Robinson and Malcolm X to Representative Charles Rangel and former President Bill Clinton had listened to sounds or dined there. Kim had always felt a sense of exultation when she entered the room, and tonight was no different.
They were seated close to the bandstand and grand piano where John Hicks and his trio had just started their first set. Kim didn’t hear much of the music because Rick spent most of the set trying to explain why he had left her place on the night of Tiffany’s death and why he’d been arrested at an after-hours club. They were halfway through their meal and the set had ended when he noticed that she wasn’t really listening.
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somewhere else. What’s goin’ on, I thought we here trying to patch things up?”
“Sorry, Rick,” she said, snapping back from her own thoughts. “I’m a little preoccupied.” She reached out and touched his hand.
“Look, why don’t we get outta here and cruise by your place?” he said.
Kim had turned back toward the lounge and was peering at the two men who still sat in the corner when she felt Rick pull at her hand.
“Oh, what did you say?”
“Nothing, baby. Forget it.”
“Uh . . . how did you meet Mojo?” she asked.
“Mojo? We still on that? Look, he ain’t nothin’ but a hustler far as I know. He got the record shop and he runs some kinda self-improvement cult. Got a whole lot of niggas believing they can get in touch with the spirit and improve themselves if they join him. I think it’s some kinda voodoo or—Obeah, I think that’s what he calls it. Too much like that L. Ron Hubbard thing for me.
“Shit might work though, I know a few actors and performers who joined, and every one of them seem to get themselves together right afterward. Some couldn’t get a job no way, and suddenly they were flying off to Europe and Africa for gigs and returning with deep pockets. I thought about it, but, no, it ain’t my thing. I ain’t jettin’ to Jonestown for no wild Kool-Aid party,” he laughed.
“Rick, I’m sorry but I have to leave,” Kim said, suddenly standing and collecting her bag. “It’s not you—I . . . I have to take care of something.”
“What, you got to be kidding!”
“No, I’m not,” she said. She bent and kissed him before dropping a fifty-dollar bill on the table and walking toward the lounge. Mojo and Kwabena were gone, and, when she stepped outside, she glanced up and down Lenox Avenue but didn’t see them. A moment later, she 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 146
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hailed a livery cab. She called the precinct again from the car but Lt.
Jackson had not returned. As the cab pulled up at 99th Street, she decided that tomorrow morning she’d call Josephine St. Claire in New Orleans. Maurice would check out Mojo and Kwabena, if she ever got in touch with him. But she had to do something. Maybe this St. Claire woman in Louisiana knew something, and perhaps, if she was into this thing as deeply as Ruff Daddy said, she could help.
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ELEVEN
Warren, Ohio/Freetown, Sierra Leone—Thursday, August 2
Warren, Ohio
Fra n k N a p o l i n i kissed his wife, buttoned the jacket of his navy-blue, lightweight wool suit, and stepped out onto the portico of his family’s eight-bedroom mansion. The suit was custom made and imported from Italy, as were most of the mansion’s finer touches, including the inlaid marble tiles on which Napolini now stood. The forty-nine-year-old underboss was a traditionalist. Family and protocol were foremost in his rigidly controlled world. That is why he had insisted on moving into the large house when his father, boss of the Napolini family, moved into a somewhat smaller, more discreet home in an exclusive, gated community in nearby Howland Township. The s
prawling twenty-acre plot on which the mansion sat was his fiefdom, a tribute to the family name and a reflection of the rewards that hard work and ruthless business practices could bring. As was his custom, he scanned the manicured lawns, putting green, and Olympic-size 16470_ch02.qxd 7/12/02 4:40 PM Page 148
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pool, and smiled before walking over to the black Lincoln Town Car that awaited him in the circular driveway.
Alonzo Rizzo, his chauffeur, bodyguard, and long-time friend, greeted him. Rizzo, or Snake, as intimate associates called him, was a captain and the most trusted member of Napolini’s crew. Rizzo and Napolini had grown up together, taken the oath, and been “straightened out” at the same time. Although he was a slight, seemingly good-humored man, and weighed only 160 pounds, Rizzo was known for his vicious temper and facility with a garrote or knife. Napolini was more imposing physically. With his heavy eyebrows and bold features, older women insisted he looked like the ’60s movie star, Victor Mature. Fit, more than six feet tall, and weighing about 200 pounds, Napolini looked ten years younger than his age. Still, it was Rizzo who struck fear into those he met.
Inside the car, Napolini sat in back and lit a cigar as Rizzo guided the Lincoln out onto Hidden Lakes Drive, the semiprivate road that led to the mansion. There were two other houses on the isolated, half-mile-long road, one of them owned by a judge from nearby Youngstown who was on Napolini’s payroll. Napolini smiled broadly as he passed the judge’s home. Yes, this was his world, he thought. He controlled every bit of it, even the people he allowed to live on his street.
