by Boo Walker
Cooke threw me to the ground in the living room. I lay flat on my back and looked around. The walls were brown. Some spider webs dangled from the ceiling. Two large glass doors half-covered by a ragged blue curtain led to the backyard.
As they stood over me, the man in the Adidas made a call. “We got him…yep. A’ight.” He looked at Cooke as he closed the phone and withdrew the .38 from his waist. “Change of plans.”
I didn’t know what that meant but I had a feeling it had to do with me dying. Was it Tux on the other end of that phone call? Had he planned on beating me up some before killing me and then thought better of it?
I started talking, just to kill the tension. Buy some time. “You gonna tell me why I’m here? I don’t have all day.”
No answer.
“Tux wasn’t man enough to show up? Doesn’t surprise me.”
Cooke went to the glass doors and looked out. “Where you wanna do it?” he asked. Obviously not speaking to me.
“The garage,” the one in the track suit said as he started to pace. He stopped, dangerously close to me.
Cooke went out the doors to the backyard.
This was the only chance I had. Still on my back, I kicked my captor in the balls with my heel, hard. He nearly collapsed. I jumped up into a squat and thrust my head into his chin. His jawbone cracked and he screamed in pain, dropping to his knees as he clutched his face. You can’t beat a good head butt.
Cooke ran back inside but I pivoted around and was on him before he had time to get over the shock of the action. I pulled my bound hands to my chest and ran right into him with a shoulder. His back hit the curtain and then smashed into the glass door. The curtain ripped from the wall, and the door exploded around us as we tumbled down the brick steps into the grass.
I stood quickly, knowing I wasn’t even close to being free. I kicked his head with my boot just like the old UVA days, trying to knock it into the goal. I didn’t score but his lights went out.
I went back up the steps. The Adidas guy was still on the ground, screaming in pain. As I reached the broken door, I started to saw the zip tie with a sharp edge of glass sticking out of the doorframe. Then Adidas looked up. With one hand still holding his face, he eyed his gun on the ground and went for it. My hands still bound, I backed away and darted toward the chain-link fence at the end of the yard. I had to get out of there.
He began firing.
The bullets whizzed by me, giving me a shot of adrenaline. I increased my speed. I reached the fence and leapt into the air. My feet grazed the top but I made it over. I tucked a shoulder and rolled. Coming back up, I didn’t even look back. The bullets were flying by, tearing into the house in front of me.
As I rounded the corner, I felt one hit me in the side. A familiar feeling. Icy and hot at the same time. I could feel the warm blood dripping down my side. As long as I could run, it didn’t matter. Couldn’t be that bad of a wound or I would have been flopping around on the ground. I kept pushing with everything I had, staying close to the houses as I ran. Finally, the zip tie gave way and I got my hands back.
I spotted some signs of life in the distance and began to head that way. Breathing like I was dying, I reached the parking lot of a Piggly Wiggly. An older woman was pushing a grocery cart to her car. She was yapping away on a cell phone. I went right for her, mumbling that I’d return it as I snatched it from her hand. I ran toward the store. Didn’t see Adidas behind me. “Call the cops!” I yelled to the first clerk I saw, a teenage girl.
The clerk stalled. Someone else screamed.
“I’m DEA. Call the cops. Okay?”
The clerk went for the phone.
“Is there a security guard here?”
With a phone to her ear, she shook her head. I wanted a gun. I had no idea if Adidas was still coming. I dialed Chester’s number with the woman from the parking lot’s cell, then walked back outside and scanned the area. No signs of trouble.
Chester picked up and I said, “I’m at the Piggly Wiggly off Rivers. I need you here now. Tux sent some guys after me.”
“On it. You all right?”
“I took a bullet. I think I’m okay, though. Jeff Cooke was one of them. Black jeans and a white polo. The other one, same age, has on a blue Adidas warm-up suit. White stripes up and down. Probably in an old tan Chevy sedan. Get an APB out.”
“Done. On my way.”
***
After getting patched up by one of the paramedics, I climbed into Chester’s g-car. The bullet had only grazed my side. Another scar to remind me of what’s important.
A crime scene unit was at the house where they’d taken me. Both men were gone. Lots of good DNA, though. They hadn’t had time to clean up. The whole county was looking for them.
Chester and I only knew one way to fix this problem. Something we should have done earlier. We had both logged hours dealing with gangs in L.A. and Miami, and sometimes you have to treat them like businessmen. They appreciate it and it prevents trouble. Even when we did catch my attackers, they wouldn’t finger Tux. I had a feeling he already knew about the botched attempt, and that he was expecting me.
We drove to his place, only five miles away. He owned a little white house in a neighborhood that had begun its leap into gentrification. He paid the mortgage on it with income from a legitimate landscaping business that he had owned for five or six years. Tux knew how to be careful and cover his ass.
He was on the porch, looking like he was waiting for us, just like I’d thought. His feet were propped up on a table, not a worry on his mind. An older BMW sat in the driveway. I was going to let Chester do the talking, but seeing Tux there got me excited. I stepped out of the car and said, “I don’t think we’ve been formally introduced.” I slammed my door and pounded up the steps.
Tux had a well-groomed appearance complimented by some gold jewelry around his wrist and neck. No visible tats. Dark skin. He had on jeans and a white muscle shirt. Very broad shoulders. Clearly had a thing for lifting. Looked like he’d be a hell of a lot of work to beat down.
“Who are you?” he asked.
“You know exactly who I am.” I pulled the table out from under him and his feet hit the floor.
“I’m guessin’ you’re a cop,” he said, all tough and badass. “I could smell you coming ‘round the corner.”
“You’ve been looking for me. Now you got me.”
“All I know is I have two pigs in my yard.”
Chester came up the steps. “I’m Agent Benton. You know who my partner is. We’re looking for some resolution. You don’t need to admit to anything.”
“You can get back in your car and ride out. I didn’t do nothing wrong.”
“Such eloquent speech,” I said. “No Ivy League for you, huh? Very surprising.”
“Don’t you come into my neighborhood insulting me.”
“You threatening me? Is that a good idea?” I got in his face. “That’s what your cousin did.” I stood back and lifted up my shirt and ripped off the bandage covering my wound. “I owe you one for this anyway.”
Chester pulled me back and said, “Tux, I know you aren’t gonna come clean, but I want you to hear us out. You don’t fuck with us. I know you feel like you got to, but don’t do it, man. We won’t let up. I know Agent Reddick messed up your cousin Jesse, but I doubt you’re gonna get an apology out of him.”
My partner stepped towards Tux and lowered his voice. “You know he had no idea who Jesse was. He robbed a bank, took a baby hostage, and shot his mama. He had it coming. But because I want you to owe me, I can help Jesse out. We can make sure the prosecutor goes easy. That is, if you wanna back off Agent Reddick. We’re still gonna track down the boys who grabbed him.”
My turn. “Or you can try again. I’ll dance with you every night, sunshine. We could go right here. You’re the least of my worries.”
Ches waved his hand, trying to shut me up. “He’s a hot head. You both are. Leave this one alone, Tux. I’ll look out for Jesse.”
Ches started to walk back down the stairs backwards. “Then we’re cool?”
“We’re cool.” Tux put his feet back up on the table. “Just get this muthafucka off my porch.”
I threw up my middle finger and started down the steps. “You know where to find me.”
As we drove away, Chester said, “You know, Reddick, I’m startin’ to like you. You don’t take shit from anybody, do you?”
I barely heard what Ches said. My head was still humming with fury. “I wanna know who gave him my name.”
CHAPTER 10
In the early hours the next morning, a Folly Beach cop pulled over a drunk driver. The license plate was one our surveillance team had taken down while watching Jack Riley, the man who’d been with Tela the night of Chad Rourke’s death. We’d circulated it through law enforcement. Because of the hit, they did a search of his vehicle and found twelve ounces of cocaine and a firearm. Finally, we were getting somewhere. We wanted to find out what this guy knew.
Folly Beach was only about a fifteen-minute drive from my house. Chester waited for me on Center Street, the main drag leading to the beach. He had two cups of coffee from The Lost Dog. I took one of them. “Thanks, podna.”
“Reddick, what is this ‘podna’ shit?”
“I don’t know where it came from. You don’t like it?” I took a sip of the coffee, one of my favorite blends in the South.
He shook his head. “I hate it. How you feelin’? You look like hell.”
“A little sore. Not bad.” I touched my black eye.
Ches and I headed up the stairs of the government building housing the courthouse and the police department. White paint peeling from the walls. The echo of footsteps. Through a door, two officers sat at their desks. The closer one read the newspaper. His duty belt, with cuffs and holster on the side, was way too big for his skinny frame. He hadn’t said a word, and I already didn’t like him. I don’t usually form opinions so quickly, but something about him bothered me.
“The D…E…A,” he said. “You know what that stands for, don’t you?” His mustache looked like a fuzzy caterpillar had crawled onto his face. I tend to judge a man by his ‘stache. It bounced up and down as he spoke.
“Don’t Expect Anything,” he continued, “especially after five. It was real kind of you suits to come. I’s needin’ somebody to show me how to do my job.”
“You called us,” I said.
“Not by choice. Chief said we had to.”
Chester is more patient than I am with numbskulls. He said, “We aren’t trying to show anybody how to do their job. We appreciate you calling. It’s been hard finding a lead on this uncut.”
“I’m bustin’ your balls. We’re all professionals here.” He stuck out his hand. “Name’s Darby Long.” We all shook and introduced ourselves. He continued, “As long as my boy stays behind bars, you can interrogate him ‘til he’s blue in the face. I’m sure you boys are just scrambling to cover your asses after that Chad Rourke fiasco.”
Chester acknowledged his impressive assertion with a smirk. “The last thing we want is to let him go. How’d you nab him?”
“I’s on late shift lookin’ for DUIs. He come cross the Folly Bridge runnin’ about fifty. He was swervin’ like a buck with a bullet in him. I ran the plates and saw there was a watch on him, so I threw him in the backseat of my cruiser. Asked him if I could search his vehicle, and he let me. I about gave up after a few but had a feelin’ in my gut he was carryin’. You know how you get that sometimes?”
Chester nodded.
“He was drivin’ one of those old Ford Explorers. I noticed a Philips screwdriver in the back on the floor, and I recalled how you can unscrew them Explorer consoles. I opened it and—” he stuck a finger in the air, “bingo. A loaded nine-millimeter and under that, twelve ounces of uncut, smilin’ at me. Tested it soon as I got back, ninety percent pure. Found a damn Walgreen’s in there, too. Xanex, Lytocaine, Valium, et cetra… ”
Chester nodded, impressed. “That’s good policin’—”
“It ain’t my first run.”
“What’s his name?” Chester asked.
“George Kadopholous. I think he’s a Dago.”
“Must be,” I said and then to Chester under my breath, “or not.”
Chester asked, “The lawyer in there with him?”
“Sure is. He was here before I could finish the paperwork. Name’s Frick. Big-city type. Dressed like he’s going to church.”
***
Officer Long walked the lanky Greek into the interrogation room. George Kadopholous, Kado for short. He had hazel eyes, thick eyebrows, and dark shaggy hair. Probably could have made it as a male model if he wanted to. Both of his eyes were swollen but the left had bruised up.
The lawyer followed him. A bent nose, like he’d injured it when he was young. Coat and tie. Briefcase. Walking in like he’d done this before. Many times.
The four of us sat down, and Officer Long stood by the door. I started with the lawyer. “You’re moving early, Mr. Frick.”
“I’m not a sleeper.”
“Me neither. How did your relationship with Mr. Kadopholous come about? You mobilized quickly this morning.”
“A lucky chain of events.”
“Right.” I nodded and looked up at Officer Long. “Officer, you wanna take these cuffs off the poor guy? He’s not going anywhere.” Long hesitated but I gave him the eye, and he walked over and removed the cuffs. As he returned to his station against the wall, I said to him, “Can you give us a few minutes? We don’t want to scare Mr. Kadopholous with too much blue.” Officer Long didn’t like that either, but he walked out before I had to embarrass him. As he shut the door, I said, “We’ll yell if we need you.”
Kado grinned, and I hoped I had him from that point forward. I touched my face. “Looks like both of us had bad nights last night.” He forced a little smile. Really white teeth. I had brought a minidisc player from the Jeep, and I held it up in the air. “You mind?”
Kado looked at his lawyer. “Agent Reddick,” Frick said, “My client will not go on the record until we all come to terms with exactly what we are trying to accomplish here. He may have information that would interest you, but I want to talk to the DA first.”
It was Chester’s turn. “I have authority to speak on behalf of Assistant United States Attorney (AUSA) Cannon on this matter. I talked with him on the way down here, and he has already spoken with the DA. I can have a signed statement here in a few minutes.”
Frick nodded. “All right.”
“What type of information could you provide?”
“Let’s say he could share names with you.”
“What kind of names?”
“For the sake of this discussion, hypothetically speaking, let’s say my client could deliver the names of persons involved in the importation of cocaine into Charleston.”
We did the hypothetical dance for a while, then I said, “Carrying a weapon, twelve ounces of cocaine, an array of pharmaceuticals, a DUI, and a PWID, Possession With Intent to Distribute. The officer pulled you over near a school, so we could also tag on a proximity charge no problem. I’d hate to be you right now, Mr. Kadopholous.”
Kado placed his hands in his lap. Miserable, angry, afraid.
“What is your proposition?” Frick asked.
“If your client will answer our questions and deliver the names of the two men directly in charge of the drug wire, we’ll drop the cocaine charge—including the PWID and proximity—leaving you with a DUI, the weapons charge, the pharmaceutical possession, and an open container.”
Frick said, “The DUI and weapons charge have to go—”
“Absolutely not,” Chester said. “We’ll give you a few minutes.” We walked out before he even tried to argue further.
Kado eventually signed the agreement, and in minutes, I was machine-gunning him with questions. Where’s your famil
y? What do your mom and dad do? Brothers and sisters? Will they care about the arrest? What do you do for a living?
His dark skin didn’t give away his upbringing, but his slow Southern drawl certainly did. From Savannah. Rich family. He owned a restaurant downtown called Morph; I’d heard Beau and Cindy talk about it. It’s a dangerous game trying to wedge your way into the uber-competitive Charleston culinary scene; his restaurant had been open two years, so he was obviously doing something right.
More questions. Where did you go to school? Where did you grow up? We bounced back and forth for a while, and then I got to the good stuff.
“The names you promised us,” I said.
I felt like I was Kado’s psychiatrist, and we had just reached a major breakthrough. He didn’t even hesitate. “Jack Riley and Ronnie Downs.”
Chester and I looked at each other, probably thinking the same thing. Who was in charge? Who was at the center of the circle? What did they have to do with James King from the Mazyck Hotel?
“What’s your role?” I asked, sitting back and crossing my legs.
“We’re all tight friends. Have been since college. But I guess you could say Ronnie and I work for Jack. We deliver coke to most of his buyers, and, in return, he gives us a deal on more quantity. Ronnie and I both have our own clientele that we work separately. Jack’s got the connection, keeps it to himself. We don’t know where he’s getting it. I think Atlanta, but I really don’t know for sure.”
“Why Atlanta?”
“He mentioned I-20 one time, talking about a traffic accident. I-20 takes you right into Atlanta. He makes the drive in the morning and calls us on the way back. It takes him about ten hours, which is about right if he’s going to Atlanta. He’s also been talking about something new, like he’s got something in the works. He wants to up the scale.”
“How does he deliver the coke to you?”
