“No!”
“Antoinetta was first, and you’ll be next if you walk out of here without me. You can take that to the bank. Is that what you want?”
It took her a few seconds to admit it, but eventually she realized it wasn’t. She’d come here because she already knew that what he’d just told her was true, and she didn’t have the strength to go on running from the fact anymore.
Living with AIDS was as close to death as Felicia White ever wanted to come.
e i g h t e e n
THEY HAD TO THROW A FEW You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kiddin’ me’s and I don’t fuckin’ believe it’s around beforehand, but the Culver City PD detectives working the Antoinetta Aames homicide case eventually came around to buying the story Gunner and Felicia White had to tell them. White was a cooperative witness, and her testimony was generally consistent, and it soon became obvious that she wasn’t the murdering kind, just as her former pimp, Rocket, had assured Gunner earlier that day.
Still, like Gunner, the detectives were initially loath to believe that one man would try to kill another by using an unsuspecting AIDS sufferer as a murder weapon. It just didn’t seem possible that anyone could be that twisted.
Gunner had been allowed to observe White’s interrogation, and was greatly relieved to hear her tell the authorities exactly what she’d told him, except in greater detail. White was by no means a complete innocent, but the way Aames—and whoever had put her up to it—had attempted to use White like a disposable syringe had moved Gunner to pity her, and he hadn’t wanted to see her say or do anything now to prove him a sucker for feeling that way.
Afterward, the cops had looked to Gunner to make sense of it all, and the investigator was only of marginal help; his own account of things was in its own way as incomplete as White’s. He was, however, able to clarify one point for them that was of critical importance to their case: 2DaddyLarge was probably not the man they were looking for.
If anyone could have had a motive to commission Antoinetta Aames to make the bizarre attempt on C.E. Digga Jones’s life that Gunner and White were alleging she had, it was 2Daddy; Gunner had heard enough people say it over the last five days to know that the rapper had indeed hated his chief rival and desired his woman. Furthermore, had he used Aames in this manner, it also followed that 2Daddy might have preferred to see her dead than capable of someday testifying against him in a conspiracy-to-commit-murder trial.
But Wednesday afternoon, back at his hotel room at the Century City Marriott, 2Daddy had admitted to Gunner that Aames had been with the Digga the night he died. Surely he would never have volunteered this information knowing she would only turn the investigator’s attentions back around to him, providing Gunner could find her. He could have been planning to silence Aames first, but that didn’t add up either, because Aames had not been killed until Thursday evening, in her own apartment, and 2Daddy would not have waited over twenty-four hours to deal with her.
Luckily, though, Gunner thought he knew who might have.
He asked the Culver City PD detectives if they knew yet what kind of weapon had been used on Aames, and when he heard their answer, his hunch was confirmed: they weren’t sure, the cops said, but they thought it had been a 45 auto of some kind.
The very handgun of choice of 2Daddy’s not so bright errand boy, Teepee.
As Gunner explained it to his interrogators, the pair’s relationship was such that anyone 2Daddy hated, Teepee almost certainly hated as well. They were both East Coast to the bone, and as hardened by the streets as young black men could become. It wasn’t much of a stretch to envision the gangsta rapper’s loyal yet dim-witted handyman not only sharing his jealousy of the Digga but possessing the initiative to try and murder him on 2Daddy’s behalf. Gunner felt relatively confident that Teepee was both that stupid and that bold.
Predictably, neither 2Daddy nor his henchman could be found at the Century City Marriott when the Culver City PD called asking for them. According to the hotel staff, both men had returned to New York that morning, just in time to escape any fallout from Aames’s murder. Neither Gunner nor the cops took this to be a coincidence.
The at-large status of Teepee notwithstanding, then, Ray Crumley’s homicide was now a closed book, and Gunner no longer had to wonder if Crumley’s death had somehow been connected to that of Carlton Elbridge. It hadn’t. The individual orbits of the security man’s murder and the rapper’s suicide had merely intersected, they weren’t one and the same.
Gunner was finally free to get off the Elbridge case merry-go-round.
As soon as the Culver City PD released him, he called Benny Elbridge and asked for an early-evening meeting at the Deuce, in lieu of the telephone call he’d promised but never made the day before. Next, Gunner called Mickey to ask if he’d received any calls from Jolly, and was happy to have his pessimism shattered when Mickey said yes, he had.
“So where are they?” Gunner asked his landlord.
“He didn’t say,” Mickey said.
“But I told you—”
“I know what you told me. But the man wouldn’t answer me. He only wanted to talk to you.”
“What about the Feds? You tell him to call them like I said?”
“I told ’im.”
“And?”
“He acted like he took the number down, but he didn’t say if he was gonna call or not. He just grunted, said to tell you he’d call back again in an hour, then hung up.”
“Damn! How long ago was this, Mick?”
“’Bout fifteen minutes ago. Right after your boy from the FBI called. Agent Smith.”
This last meant that Smith, and probably Wally Browne as well, still didn’t know where Jolly and Sparkle Johnson were, unless Jolly had done as Mickey instructed and called Smith at FBI headquarters. Gunner glanced at his watch, saw that it was well past two o’clock. If Jolly hadn’t made the call to Smith, both the federal agent and Browne would have to be foaming at the mouth with worry by this point.
“Listen to me, Mickey. I’m coming in now, but if he calls back before I get there, don’t let him hang up without getting at least a phone number from him. Do you understand? I’ve got to find out where he is.”
“I hear you. But if he don’t wanna tell me …”
Gunner made the drive from Culver City to his office in South Central—one which normally took thirty minutes—in a little over fifteen, shunning the unpredictable flow of freeway traffic for the less stressful access of the surface streets. Mickey had the TV on when he arrived at the shop, tuned as usual in the afternoon hours during the week to the Classic Sports channel, and Mickey, Winnie, and a small group of customers were cheering Muhammad Ali on like they didn’t know the butt-whipping they were watching him lay on Joe Frazier was on tape. It was all Gunner could do to hear his own voice as he asked the barber if Jolly had called back yet. Mickey just shook his head, went right back to encouraging the champ to victory.
Gunner went back to his office and closed the door he almost always kept open behind him, seeking some shelter from all the racket out front he knew a beaded curtain alone would never grant him. He walked through the suddenly pitch black room to his desk, turned on his desk lamp …
… and nothing happened.
Thinking the bulb was out, he went to get a fresh one from the bottom drawer of his desk, caught some movement just behind him as he pulled the drawer open. He tried to turn, but too late: something that felt more like a medieval battering ram than a human fist hit him on the right side of his face, sent him crashing to the floor with breakneck speed. He remained conscious for several seconds, just long enough to see that the back door to Mickey’s shop was letting more light into the room than any locked door had a right to.
Then he let the pain and darkness take him where they would.
“Where are we, Jolly?” Gunner asked.
“Somebody’s house. I don’t know who.”
Gunner had awakened to find himself lying on the carpeted floor of
what looked like a dark, empty bedroom, his hands bound behind his back, Jolly sitting on an aluminum folding chair before him. They appeared to be alone.
“Somebody’s house where?”
“I ain’t supposed to tell you. I ain’t even supposed to be talkin’ to you.”
“The silver Chrysler with the fucked-up bumper. That was yours?”
Jolly nodded after a long pause.
“Where’s Ms. Johnson?”
“Hey, man, I told you—”
“It’s okay to talk to me, Jolly. Your friends have their way, I’m not gonna be around to repeat what you tell me later. You understand that, don’t you?”
“They ain’t my friends. They ain’t nothin’ but instruments of the Devil, every one of ’em.”
“You’re not a Defender yourself?”
“No. Hell no!”
“Then what is this?”
Jolly didn’t say anything.
“Where’s Ms. Johnson?” Gunner asked again.
“In the other room. Same as you.”
“You haven’t hurt her?”
The big man shook his head. “No.”
“Good. How’d you get her here?”
“Why you wanna know that?”
“Just tell me, Jolly.”
After another pause, Jolly said, “She tried to sneak off this mornin’, but I followed her. She went somewheres down by the beach, I think she was gonna go shoppin’. Anyway, I caught her gettin’ outa her car in the parkin’ lot, used this stuff they give me to put her to sleep. Then I brung her over here, like I done you.”
“The stuff you used on her. You talking about chloroform?”
“I think that was it, yeah. They said put it on a rag and cover her mouth with it, and that’s what I did.”
“Who’s ‘they,’ Jolly? These Defenders have names?”
“I don’t know nobody’s name. I don’t wanna know nobody’s name. Only reason I even know what they look like’s ’cause I owe somebody a favor.”
“Yeah? Who’s that?”
“Man what saved my life back in the joint once. Couple Aryan Nation boys was beatin’ on me pretty good, prob’ly woulda killed me if he hadn’t jumped in to help. I told ’im I could ever do somethin’ for him, all he had to do was ask.” He shrugged. “So just ‘fore they sprung me, he did.”
“He told you to keep an eye on me.”
“Yeah. That was all I was supposed to do. He said you was messin’ in Defenders bus’ness again, and they needed somebody to watch you.”
“Then all that talk about you being born again …”
“Was the truth. I wouldn’t lie about nothin’ like that, man. Thing is … I owed the brother, like I said. And he wasn’t askin’ me to do nothin’ to hurt nobody. Least—”
“Not at first.”
Jolly nodded. “But then you went and put me to work watchin’ Ms. Johnson, and everything got all messed up. My man’s friends started tellin’ me I had to help ’em to kill her, or else they was gonna tell you I was workin’ with ’em, get me locked down again.”
Gunner strained to glance about, asked, “So where are these brothers now? Are any of them here?”
“No. Ain’t nobody here right now but us.” Jolly stood up. “I was supposed to kill both of you today, but I couldn’t. I done killed somebody once, not countin’ all the gooks I done in ‘Nam, and I ain’t never gonna do it again. So I just brung you here. I didn’t know what else to do. They give me this address and told me where they keep the key out front, said I should hang in here if I ever needed somewhere to hide.”
“Do they know we’re here, Jolly?” Gunner asked, hoping to God the big man would say no.
But Jolly nodded again, said, “I called ’em and told ’em. They’re on the way now.”
“How long ago did you call?”
“I don’t know. ‘Bout fifteen, twenty minutes ago, maybe.”
Gunner felt his stomach begin to churn. Twenty minutes was probably ten more than they would need.
“Cut me loose, Jolly. We don’t have much time,” the investigator said.
Jolly shook his head. “I can’t, Gunner. I wish I could.”
“You can. Get your ass over here and cut me loose before they make you an accessory to a goddamn multiple homicide!”
“I ain’t gettin’ locked down again. I can’t. I’d rather be dead than go back inside.”
“Jolly, for Chrissake—you’ve already got the blood of one innocent woman on your hands! You wanna be responsible for two now?”
Jolly just stared at him.
“You can’t do this. You’re a different man than you used to be. You have God on your side now. Your Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, remember?”
Still, Jolly remained silent. Gunner watched his face, saw it slowly soften. The big man started to step forward…
And then they both heard the sound of a key being jiggled in a lock out in another room.
Jolly froze as an unseen door opened, closed behind a series of footsteps announcing the arrival of visitors. Gunner listened intently as they approached, guessed it was two people at least, maybe as many as four.
It turned out to be three.
They were all men, black, two in their twenties and one at least thirty. The older man was fair-skinned and wore a beard; his companions were darker-complexioned and clean-shaven. Gunner knew all this because the trio’s only form of disguise was gloved hands, which was the most clear-cut indication yet that the investigator’s fate was sealed. Jolly’s and Sparkle Johnson’s, as well. The Defenders occasionally showed someone their faces without killing them afterward, but it wasn’t something they made a habit of.
The bearded man, who had led the others into the room, looked Jolly and Gunner over for a long time before he spoke, the very picture of parental disapproval. “What’s going on here, Jolly?” he asked.
And Gunner immediately knew he’d heard his voice before, while sitting in a chair secured to the floor of an unidentified room, a strip of duct tape covering his eyes.
“I ain’t gonna kill ’em,” Jolly said with admirable backbone. “So I brung ’em here. What you wanna do with ’em now is your bus’ness.”
The Defender glanced around, said, “Ms. Johnson is here too?”
“In the other room.”
The bearded man turned his head, nodded over his shoulder at one of the men standing behind him, who slipped quietly out of the room. Gunner could only pray he was leaving simply to see if Johnson was there, not to execute her.
Finally, the elder Defender turned his attention to Gunner and smiled; “You should have a gag in your mouth, Mr. Gunner. Please forgive your friend Jolly here for neglecting to provide you with one.”
“It’s not the gag I miss as much as the chair bolted to the floor. I don’t suppose you brought that along with you?”
“Ah. Recognized the voice, did you?”
“Of course. Some things you never forget.”
“Good. Then you’ll also recall we gave you fair warning that something like this might happen to you, if you ever sought to impede the will of Allah again.”
“You boys don’t work for Allah. Wake up and smell the coffee. You’re homicidal ideologues, nothing more. Hiding behind Allah will never change that.”
The younger, darker-skinned Defender who had gone to check on Johnson reentered the room, nodded at the man who had given him the order.
“I will not debate with you the sanctity of our mission,” the bearded man said to Gunner, his smile a thing of the past. “I tried that once, and failed. I will say only that our people will be rid of the self-loathing, assimilation-promoting serpents in our midst, whether you choose to see that as Allah’s command or not.”
“Oh, that’s right. Allah speaks to you personally, doesn’t he? Did you know that, Jolly? That the boss man here is divinely inspired?”
Jolly didn’t answer him, placed in an awkward position, but his expression made it clear that he found the quest
ion troubling.
“You wanna kill me, kill me,” Gunner said to the elder Defender. “But let Johnson go. She’s a radio talk-show host, for God’s sake. Only thing she’s guilty of is voting with her tax bracket in mind, not conspiring to commit genocide.”
“She professes to be a black woman, yet she broadcasts her advocacy of all things white to millions of Americans daily. That is vile and shameless treason, Mr. Gunner, and it must not be allowed to go unpunished.” He looked at Jolly again. “I expect he had a weapon when you brought him here. Give it to me, please.” He held his right hand out toward the big man, palm up, and waited.
Jolly turned to Gunner, already grieving over what he was being forced to do, and lifted the front of his shirttail up to draw the investigator’s Ruger cautiously out of his belt.
After that, his right hand was a blur.
The first shot he fired hit the man with the beard point-blank in the chest; the next four went to the men behind him, two rounds for each. It was five rounds in rapid succession, so close together they almost rang in Gunner’s ears as one. One of the younger Defenders had managed to get his own nine-millimeter out before going down, but that was as close as any of them got to saving themselves. The younger men died instantly, while the oldest lay on his back and coughed up blood, struggling in vain to move something other than his spasming left leg.
“God Almighty,” Gunner said, when his heart finally decided to start beating again.
The Ruger fell from Jolly’s grip without the big man ever noticing, so engrossed was he in the crimson-spattered battlefield he had just created. He stumbled more than stepped over to the aluminum chair nearby, dropped himself onto the seat like his legs wouldn’t hold his weight anymore.
“Damn, Jolly. What in hell you gonna do now?” he asked himself.
n i n e t e e n
THE HOUSE GUNNER ALMOST DIED IN WAS IN LONG Beach. It was a single-story, two-bedroom ranch-style that had been vacant and on the market for seven weeks. The realtor to whom it was registered told the Long Beach Police Department its owners now lived somewhere in Florida, and she didn’t know how or where the Defenders could have gotten a set of keys to the front door.
All the Lucky Ones Are Dead Page 21
