I Kill Monsters: The Revenants (Book 2)

by Tony Monchinski

  “The balls on this guy…” Bianchi settling back down, Werner already turned and walking off.

  “Fuckin’ jamook,” Carlucci threw his cards down, disgusted.

  “Fuckin’ guy’s a mortadella,” offered Nicky.

  “I don’t like that guy,” said the Scal. “He’s bad news.”

  “Cheeks,” Dickie looked in the direction the screw had walked off in, “Who they talking about?” He meant Werner just now, Renfeld the other day.

  “Nothing. No one. Strunz. Some piece of shit we don’t go near.”

  “Oh, yeah? Don’t sound like it.”

  21.

  7:15 P.M.

  Mitchell Givens had grown up in the Moses houses. He’d started out on the quad steering for the Rock Steady Boys when he was eight years old, got himself a job inside the crack house before he was twelve. By fifteen he was out of school and pulling security full time in the kitchen for Little Ringo, helping to keep an eye on the cooks, oversee the bricks and triple beams. Somewhere along the way he figured out he could string words together and started earning a name for himself as an MC, travelling to cyphers all over the city, coming to the attention of an older rap legend who took him under his wing, got him signed.

  Four albums later Busta Nutz was an overnight success on the back of his single, An East Side Thang, featuring G-Funk-style deep bass and melodic synthesizers over a cacophonic hook with a sample from Gambino mobster John Gotti. This past summer, with the music establishment questioning his staying power, his single Lines (Way Back) dropped, propelling him to the top of the urban and R&B charts once again. When Mitchell Givens came back to the Moses houses he was treated like a celebrity, which, as Busta Nutz, he was. He visited once or twice a year, rolling in like some kind of dignitary in a flashy new whip, his posse with him.

  This morning he’d rolled in with his crew in a dark red 98 Lincoln Navigator, tricked out with chrome from the grill to the rims, the system booming Way Back. Folks had heard him coming and kids started pointing, following in the street. Givens got out of the SUV with his boys and greeted his people, dapping them up, hugging some, flashing his grillz at the ladies.

  The Rock Steady crew had fallen apart years ago, Little Ringo drawing federal time out in Ohio. A number of individuals and crews stepped up in an attempt to fill the vacuum left behind, but dominance over the drug trade at the Moses houses wasn’t cemented until a pair of young brothers, James and David Conyers, moved in and moved up. Busta Nutz had maintained friendly relations with everyone involved and found himself welcomed by all parties on his biannual returns.

  By seven o’clock, Busta-Nutz was done pressing the flesh. The men his production team had hired with the moving van had come and set up the speakers and equipment. A DJ was spinning discs, rocking beats that filled the quad, his rotation heavy with Busta’s joints. Noticeably absent from the mix was anything from Gangsta Khan: Khan had the number one single in the city and was all over the news following his shooting. Men and women filled the quad, mostly young, some old timers standing back on the sidelines, drawn out of their apartments by all the noise. Busta’s people pulled security with Conyer’s men. Days Busta Nutz came back to the hood were days people in the Moses houses could count on as safe, look forward to a good time.

  Seated in the rec room of building 4, Mitchell Givens was content to act out his role as visiting emissary. He remembered the stories he’d heard as a kid about Howard Beach and John Gotti. On the table before him a bottle of champagne and a collection of mix tapes neighborhood hopefuls brought to him. In front of the table, a steady stream of Moses people, coming in to ask favors, to thank him for favors granted. Busta’s man Malik at the door ushering them in one at a time. Trey standing behind him with his man bag and what was in it, just in case. Busta was respected around here but he wasn’t stupid. He was from Moses, knew you couldn’t trust it.

  Dodd stood in front of the table with the kid, Luther, who liked to be called Luke. Dodd in one of his denim suits, checking out his boy Mitchell. Busta with his sweats-worn low, boxers prominent. A 32” heavy gold rope chain over his wife beater, like something out of the 80s. Busta had his Nike visor off his head and on the table next to the mix tapes, some kind of matching sneakers on his feet. Dodd didn’t recognize the kicks but he figured Luke did.

  The rap game had been good to Dodd’s old friend, a fact Busta wasn’t shy about advertising. An iced out fourteen-karat gold watch on his wrist. The rings on his fingers worth more than his ride outside.

  Trey stood behind Givens, looking disinterested or stoned. Trey was a tall man with a short beard. He wasn’t as wide as he was tall, but wide he was. Busta’s bodyguard wore a diamond Jesus pendant over his throwback Brooklyn Dodgers jersey, Jesus wearing shades. Had a man purse hanging from a leather strap over his jersey, like one of them bags the couriers on the bikes in the city wore.

  Dodd be damned if he’d ever be caught wearing one.

  “Heard you done good the other night, kid,” Busta was talking to Luke.

  Luke nodded, quiet for once. Talking to Busta Nutz, rap superstar. He couldn’t get over it. Wait till he told Marquis and Yuri. Busta Nuts had summoned him. Busta sitting there in his Nike Air Foamposite Maxes, silver and black. Tim Duncan’s shoe. Luke knew those sneakers went for a couple hundred bucks.

  “Heard you can keep your mouth shut,” Busta said to the kid, and Dodd cast a side-long glance at Luke because that wasn’t what he’d been hearing and it concerned him some. But Dodd kept his mouth shut; knew Givens was really here to talk with him, not the kid. Even had some idea what Mitch was going to say when he got around to it.

  “Just want to let you know I’m thankful, aight?”

  “Aight.” A broad smile broke over Luke’s face, the kid basking in the approval. He’d self-consciously tucked his shiny new link chain under his t-shirt when he’d come in the rec room. No way he could compete with Busta’s gold rope, with any of the bling.

  “Might could use you again down the road, ya n’meen?”

  “Aight!” Enthusiasm is Luke’s reply, the kid already picturing him and Dodd pulling more jobs, like Duncan and David Robinson together on the Spurs, the Twin Towers. A force to be reckoned with.

  “Go on then.” Busta motioned with the champagne bottle. “Get outside, get yourself some hootchie.”

  The kid left, fairly glowing, Givens turning his undivided attention to his old friend. “Double-D.” Dodd smiled in spite of himself, in spite of the fact that the business that brought Mitch here wasn’t anything to smile about. Double-D was Dodd’s nickname from a long time ago, for a variety of reasons, partly because of his first name, Darius.

  Darius, which nobody but his grandma used to call him, and then only when she was angry.

  Darius Dodd.

  Double-D.

  “Not like you to choke.” Givens put it out there, cutting to the chase.

  “I put half a dozen in him, more,” Dodd related, not nervous, stating the facts. “I shot that nigga in the head.”

  “You’re tellin’ me what?” Givens drank straight from the bottle. “He’s indestructible? And sit down, nigga. Don’t stand in front of me like that. You my boy.”

  Dodd pulled a chair over, saying as he sat down, “Man ain’t indestructible. He just dies hard.”

  “Another thing I’m wondering,” Givens put the flat bottomed bottle down. “Why’d you kill Turner?” The slight man on the elevator. Their man inside, had set it all up.

  “That’s the thing. I didn’t.”

  “Wasn’t easy explainin’ that to his brother.” Givens picked up one of the cassette tapes from in front of him, turned it over in his hand absently.

  “Like I said, I popped him in the shoulder. Nigga was fine when I walked out of there.”

  This was the part where, with someone else, Trey would step up in his throwback jersey and Jesus pendant and say something intimidating. But Trey didn’t say anything, because this was Dodd, some kind of Busta’s
boy since way back.

  “You want,” offered Dodd, “I finish it.”

  “What you gonna do—walk into that hospital, disguise yourself as a doctor?”

  “You and me done crazier shit than that for Ringo we were kids.” And Givens had to grin because he remembered it well, remembered some of the shit he and Dodd had walked away from. Dodd saying it could be done, “I figure out the angles.”

  “Nah.” Givens tapped the cassette in his hand on the table. “Nigga might not make it as it is.” He tossed the cassette back on the piles with the others. “We wait, let nature take its course, ya n’meen?”

  “Go see my man, Styles.” Malik was at the door, redirecting a crack head in the hall. “He hook you up.”

  “How you like being back?” Givens changed the subject, asking Dodd how it felt to be out of prison.

  Dodd shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  “I appreciate what you done for me. You want, there gonna be more work comin’ up.”

  “I’m in.”

  “My man, Double-D. Trey, you know why they call Dodd here Double-D?”

  “He like big titites?”

  Givens laughed, “Who don’t?” and Dodd scoffed good-naturedly, Givens asking, “Yo, you remember those parties we used to have right here?”

  Dodd’s smile was genuine, things were cool between him and Mitch, even if the Khan wasn’t past tense. Yet. “Man, how’m I forget that?”

  “Trey,” Busta spoke to his bodyguard without looking at him. “My boy Dodd right here, let me tell you, this boy could get his swerve on.” Busta reclaimed the Cristal bottle. “Dodd could move. Yes, he could. Taught me to cabbage patch—you remember that?” Drinking from the bottle. “That was some back-in-the-day shit right there. You should have seen him.” The bottle back on the table.

  “Could he moon walk?” Trey asked Busta like Dodd wasn’t sitting right there.

  “Moonwalk wasn’t shit, a man with footwork like him.”

  “Let me see.” Trey said it to Dodd like he expected Dodd was going to get up and dance for him right there. But Dodd and Busta were both looking at him, Busta having turned around in his seat. Trey took a step back.

  “Don’t mind Trey,” Givens put his back to the standing man again, looking down at the bottle. “He lacks the social graces sometimes is all. Trey, give my man some stacks.”

  Trey unzipped the bag he wore, reaching in to whatever was inside, his hand emerging with a stack of banded cash an inch thick. He stepped forward, asking hesitantly, “How much of it?”

  “The whole thing, dammit.” Busta answered without looking back, giving Dodd a look like: the help these days…

  Trey dropped the cash on the table in front of Dodd.

  “Nigga—pick that up and hand it to him.”

  Trey, used to throwing money at strippers and Busta’s underlings, did as he was told.

  “This,” Dodd took it from him, his eyes on Givens, “is a lot of money.” He didn’t say it was too much.

  “Consider it a retainer.”

  Dodd slipped the money inside his jean jacket.

  “Yo, Busta.” Malik was standing there in his Ecko Unlimited shirt over Boss jeans, some kind of funky Addidas sneakers Dodd didn’t recognize on his feet. Had two girls with him. “Busta, these young ladies want to make your acquaintance.”

  “Hey, baby girl. Hey there darlin’. How’s it goin’?” Givens raised the bottle to the women, winking at them, flashing his grillz. “We done,” he told Dodd. “Want to hang around, party like we used to?”

  “Nah, I’m good. Thanks.”

  Dodd stood up from the chair, looked once at Trey—the bodyguard still looking indifferent or high, wearing some kind of purse, damn—and turned to leave, the girls coming into the room, talking fast, their voices high. Givens called out behind him, “Yo, Dodd.”

  Dodd turned.

  “Good seein’ youse all, man. Ya n’meen?”

  Dodd held his fist up high in the air like they used to do when they were kids—black power—and Busta laughed as his friend left the rec room.

  “S’up, Dodd.” Luke tried to greet him as Dodd came out of tower four, the music from the speakers booming here on the quad. Luke on the steps with his boys Marquis and Yuri, some little girls. Luke had his chain back outside his shirt, his hand up at his neck, fingering the links.

  Dodd walked by him, like he hadn’t heard him. It stung Luke, because Luke was here with his friends and Dodd was going to play him like that. Dodd, who hadn’t ignored Busta’s guy outside the door there but had ignored him. Dodd, whose ass would still be walking home if Luke hadn’t driven him home.

  “My boy’s quiet like that,” Luke told the others, fooling with his chain. “Likes to keep to himself.” He turned his attention back to his group, his head already reeling from the weed Marquis was passing around. “You should have seen him when we walked in there—that Khan nigga like, oh shit! Me and Dodd just lightin’ them up like, like—” the weed messing with his head, Luke couldn’t find the word.

  Busta’s man outside the door was staring over at them, interested.

  “Like, yo click-click-clack on that nigga,” Marquis volunteered, all enthusiastic. The bruises on his face fading but still apparent.

  Yuri was whispering in the ear of a girl who looked ten years old.

  “Eggs-actly!” Luke high, already putting Dodd’s snub behind him. “Dodd like blat-blat-blat. Me, I’m like: so what nigga? Buck-buck!” Luke stabbed the air with two index fingers, thumbs raised, like a kid playing cowboy. “What? You want some too nigga? Buck-buck!”

  “Yo—Luke, I been meanin’ to tell you, yo,” Marquis handed the weed off to one of the girls, “know I seen the other day?”

  Something Yuri said elicited a laugh from his pre-teen.

  Luke was high, thinking of the wealth that had been on display, seated across from him inside the rec center. Even Busta’s man in the hallway with Addidas Harputs on his feet, Luke knowin’ the man must have ordered them from San Francisco, fag town.

  Marquis said, “The fat lady, yo,” and Luke’s mind abruptly left shoes.

  The fat lady.

  Luke’s hand was frozen on his chain.

  They all knew who the fat lady was.

  Who her son was.

  Her son had ripped a chain off Luke’s neck, swatted Marquis in the head without warning. They’d told everyone they’d been jumped by some Latins from Manhattan. Truth was, the three friends were waiting for the punk to show himself ever since but he hadn’t. Dude was either layin’ low or who knew what.

  But the man’s mother, man, that bitch was so fat you couldn’t hide her. Circus side-show fat, Yuri persisted in describing her, though neither he, Marquis nor Luke had ever been to a circus.

  And Luke, whose real name was Luther and had a hard time keeping his mouth shut himself, had the good sense to say to his boy Marquis, “We talk on that shit, later,” already hatching a plan, rubbing his new chain between his fingers.

  22.

  8:08 P.M.

  The day of, Gritz wasn’t sure he was even going to go to the lecture to begin with. The Mercury and the men in it pulling him over like that, could be someone in the department fucking with him. He’d been on the force twenty-five years. His fiftieth birthday was past him. There were no other major milestones he could think of, nothing they’d go to such elaborate lengths to get him somewhere to celebrate. Not that he really thought a surprise party was in the cards. Still, Gritz knew it didn’t mean someone wasn’t fucking with him.

  Or warning him.

  He’d considered inviting Cath, thought better of that too. On the one hand, maybe it’d be good to bring her along, make her think there was more to Gritz than drinking and being married to his work. On the other hand, he couldn’t imagine some kind of lecture like this was going to be too interesting. Better to look up that band from the other night, find out where they were playing next, invite her to that. He figured he could do
that online somehow.

  He parked the Crown Vic on 33rd street, down the block from Jim Hanley’s Universe, the comic shop he used to take the boys to when they were younger. Either that or Forbidden Planet downtown. The kids loved both places. Gritz left his badge on the dash so no one would tow the car. He started walking, the Empire State Building stretching into the sky next to him.

  As he walked he consulted his mental rolodex, considering the local bars, thinking the Playwright was all right and only a block or two away, noting it for later reference.

  Gritz turned up 5th Avenue and crossed the street. An enormous side-walk shed with nets hugged the Grad Center, some kind of construction work going on higher up. Some graduate students were standing outside the building, smoking cigarettes. Gritz walked in, wanting to flash his badge at the security guards, resisting the urge. This wasn’t police business of any sort. And, he remembered, his badge was back in the car.

  The Proshansky Auditorium sat around four hundred and it was a standing room crowd when Gritz walked in. The lecturer was already doing his thing and the crowd was quiet, attentive. Gritz found some room towards the rear and stood next to a behemoth of a man. His site line to the stage was blocked by a column and he couldn’t get a good look at the speaker.

  “Myth, if we allow ourselves to paint its definition with broad strokes,” The man was saying. He sounded distinguished, sounded like an older gentleman, older than Gritz at least. “…here is meant to include religion and the prejudices people attribute to themselves and their societies. As such, myth can be used in the service of idealist or materialist philosophy, as an instrument of oppression or a means of liberation…”

  Gritz unfolded the flier to get a look at the guy’s name. Dr. something-something. Gritz had never heard of him. The title of the lecture: The Promise of Prometheus—Myth in the Service of Truth.

  “Burke employed a much more catholic definition of prejudice than we conceive the word. As no less a distinguished authority than Andrew Hacker puts it, in Burke’s terms, prejudice ‘is the whole accumulation of untaught sentiments which resides in every member of society.’ We ‘cherish our prejudices’ because they are prejudices that have persisted over time…”