“Man, Gimmick was into some heavy shit,” Turtle said.
“Yeah, I know. I came from his storage spot in Maryland.”
“So you know about the guns?”
“You tell me what you know.”
“I don’t know much more than that. Gimmick didn’t like to talk about it. He said that the people he worked for had eyes and ears everywhere. He always had stacks of paper on him and when I tried to get out of him how he was making the money, he seemed nervous.”
“So how’d you know about the guns?”
“Didn’t take long to put two and two together. I knew he wasn’t selling dope. He wasn’t pimping, robbing or stealing, so guns was the next logical thing. When I asked him about it, he said, yeah, he was running guns. But he didn’t want me getting involved.”
“What are you hearing about Hector Gomez?”
“That’s one crazy son of a bitch. But if you’re asking could Gimmick have been working for him, I’d have to say I doubt it.”
“Maybe not for him, but for his family?”
Turtle paused before answering and I could almost feel his mind turning for the answer.
“Now that could be possible. Them Mexicans are starting to take over a lot of the guns and dope that come into the city. I mean my sales have–”
“What’s that?” I quickly cut him off.
“Ah, naw, I was saying that I heard my man say that his sales have been declining ever since them Mexicans have been here.”
“Turtle, don’t make me come over there and raid your house. You’re smarter than that.”
“Of course, come on, man, I don’t get down like that. It was my man, he’s the one who told me.”
“Uh huh, just remember who I am and how I can make your life miserable.”
“For sure, for sure.”
“You know what kind of car Hector Gomez drives?”
“I think it’s a Mercedes.”
I looked across the seat to Charlie and mouthed “Bingo.”
“You’ve been a big help, man. What you got planned for the rest of the day? And don’t say nothing because you need to be out looking for a job.”
“In this economy? Come on, you know they ain’t giving no jobs to brothas. Especially ones like me.”
“Well that should tell you something then. Maybe you need to do something so you can get a job.”
Suddenly, I started to hear static on the other end of the line. “…you’re breaking up,” Turtle said.
“Don’t give me that bullshit, Turtle.”
“What? I can’t… hear you. I’ll…keep my ears…open.”
The line went dead.
Damn kids.
“What’d he say?” Charlie asked.
“He said that he thinks Hector Gomez owns a Mercedes.”
“Ah ha,” Charlie said, pointing his index finger in the air. “And the hunt begins.”
Eight
HECTOR GOMEZ SAT AT a kitchen table in an apartment in the Adams Morgan neighborhood in D.C. In front of him on the table was a square mirror with white powder cocaine. He took a razor and separated the cocaine into five rows, then picked up a straw and put it in front of one of the rows, leaned over and sniffed. The cocaine hit his nose and the familiar burning was soon followed by a mild sense of euphoria, which soon turned into panic.
It wasn’t warm in the apartment, but Hector was sweating profusely. His hands were shaking and he felt jittery and afraid. Hector’s thoughts raced. Where’s the bad man? He was there a few minutes ago standing behind the couch. Hector leaned down and took another snort from the second row of cocaine. When he lifted his head, white residue was on the tip of his nose.
He heard a man’s voice laughing.
His eyes frantically shifted back and forth across the room, but no one was there.
Hector had been snorting coke off and on all day before the bad man came. How’d he get in here? Where’d he go? Next to the cocaine was a black .22 caliber Beretta. He was going to shoot the bad man when he first saw him, but the man vanished before Hector had a chance to shoot. Now all he heard was this insanely creepy laugh over and over again.
He leaned down again and took another snort. Then he heard the laughing again.
Hector lurched from his chair and grabbed the gun.
“Where are you, you fucker?”
The apartment was just a little over six hundred fifty square feet. The kitchen opened to the living room, where an L-shaped brown leather sofa sat in front of a wall-mounted forty-two-inch flat screen. Directly behind Hector was a glass sliding door that led to the back patio. The apartment was on the ground floor, and the large patio space was premium real estate for the city. The kitchen was modern, with sleek grey countertops, cherry wood cabinets and stainless steel appliances.
Hector had come to the apartment hours ago to meet up with a girl he’d been seeing who lived there. She left for work shortly after he arrived, and he’d been alone in the apartment ever since. So where’d the bad man come from? In his panicked state, his mind cleared just enough to realize that he must be hallucinating. But he still felt nervous. He started doubting himself and wondered if maybe there really was a bad man in the apartment.
Then the flat screen flicked on. Hector jumped because he hadn’t turned it on. The channels began surfing by themselves until a channel came on that displayed the apartment. The flat screen showed him standing next to the kitchen table, looking at the TV.
“What the fuck is going on?” Hector was scared. The gun in his hand began to shake as sweat poured from every inch of his body.
He moved toward the flat screen and watched his own movements. Then the flat screen showed a man with his face blurred out wearing a dark trench coat standing next to him. Hector jumped back and looked to his right but no one was there.
“Who the fuck is here?” Hector yelled, looking around the room, aiming the gun in every direction.
Then the flat screen went blank again. With each second, Hector grew more paranoid that someone was in the apartment with him. Every creak of the floor or outside noise caused Hector to jump. He moved back to the kitchen table, looked down at the coke and wanted to sniff another row.
“This shit’s got me trippin.”
He started to see white spots dance across the apartment and he wasn’t sure what was real anymore. Drenched in sweat, he walked to the couch and sat, his leg jumping up and down while his eyes continued darting over the room.
The laughing voice came back. Hector quickly raised the gun, stood and aimed it around the room. The room began to pulsate like the fast rhythmic beating of his heart. He felt like he was about to pop, but held back the vomit that quickly formed in his throat.
Air. He needed air. He rushed to the back door and opened it, allowing the night air to enter. The room suddenly stopped pulsating. He took a deep breath and began to control his nerves, but then the bad man showed up and this time he didn’t leave. Standing near the kitchen table, his heart quickened and adrenaline rushed through his veins. The bad man with the blurred-out face took a step closer to him.
“What the fuck do you want?” Hector screamed.
He held up the shaking Beretta and was about to squeeze the trigger when a loud pounding came from the front door. Hector’s eyes quickly glanced at the front door and then back to the bad man, but he was gone, disappeared like a ghost.
“Jesus.”
Then an amplified voice called his name. “Hector.” The voice didn’t sound like the laughing voice, but was much louder. His name was being drawn out in slow motion as it was being called, H—e—c—t—o—r.
More pounding came from the front door, but this time, it came in loud, amplified succession, thunk, thunk, thunk.
Hector covered his ears with his hands to drown out the noise. Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“H—e—c—t—o—r G—o—m—e—z.”
The bad man knows my name. He’s going to knock down the door and take me away.
Thunk, thunk, thunk.
“Leave me alone!”
Hector couldn’t take it anymore. He aimed the gun at the door and squeezed off three shots.
Nine
IT HAD TAKEN CHARLIE and me nearly all day to track down Hector Gomez. We finally found out that besides the Puerto Rican girlfriend he had who lived in the Columbia Heights neighborhood that bordered Adams Morgan, he also had another girl he was seeing who lived directly in Adams Morgan. We went to the girlfriend’s apartment and learned he wasn’t there, so we hoped that his trail ended at the second girlfriend’s apartment. When we got there, we weren’t expecting the kind of greeting we received.
I knocked on the door and thought that I heard movement coming from inside the apartment. I knocked again and called Hector’s name.
Charlie stood to the left of the door and, instinctively, I stood to the right. We heard a man’s voice scream “Leave me alone,” and then, without warning, three shots hit the front door, leaving three tiny holes in the wood.
“Jesus Christ!” Charlie screamed.
“Shit!” I cursed.
Seconds later, we both had our guns drawn.
“Hector Gomez, this is D.C. Police!” I barked.
At the same time, Charlie reached for his radio and called in for backup.
“Fuck you!” Hector screamed. “You’re not going to take me away!”
“Hector Gomez, put down your weapon. This is D.C. Police!” I yelled again.
Hector didn’t scream back or shoot. Everything became silent.
“Hector Gomez, again, this is the police. Put your weapon down!”
No response.
Suddenly, I had an eerie feeling that Hector might try to shoot himself or his girlfriend if she were inside. I caught Charlie’s eyes and motioned to the doorknob. Since I had the better angle, I reached for the knob and found that it wasn’t locked. My heart was pounding a mile a minute. This kind of thing doesn’t happen much, but when it does, we must be prepared.
I quickly twisted the knob and pushed the door open, and we moved back away from the door. No bullets came flying out.
“Hector,” I yelled again.
I quickly moved closer and glanced inside. There was a straight view to the back of the apartment and I saw that the rear sliding glass door was open.
“Shit. I think he went out the back.”
Just then, I heard a woman scream, which sounded like it had come from behind the apartment building.
“Go around the building, I’ll cut through the apartment,” I said in a hurried voice.
Charlie took off and I cautiously entered the apartment with my gun drawn and aimed in front of me. My eyes were wide open and I barely blinked as I looked around the room. My breaths came in short, quick intervals. I took silent steps across the living room and into the kitchen and finally out onto the back porch. The back porch was surrounded by a six-foot-high cement wall.
I quickly noticed that a green oval deck table had been slid to the far wall, which I assumed Hector used to climb the wall. I did the same. Once I was street level, to my right I saw that Charlie was a block down, sprinting across the street, and then I heard more screams from pedestrians.
I took off like a trained sprinter, extending my legs and arms as far as they would go to gain maximum speed. I caught up to Charlie in a matter of seconds and we ended up on 18th Street, Adams Morgan’s main strip. The nightlife was in full effect. People were filling the sidewalks, hanging and talking. No doubt most were waiting to get into the bars and lounges. To my left, I heard more screams from pedestrians and saw Hector running down the middle of 18th Street towards Florida Avenue with a handgun in his hand.
Charlie and I took off after Hector and I could see that I was gaining ground with each step.
“Hector, police!” I yelled. “Stop.”
Now I was running in the middle of 18th Street, passing slow-moving cars on either side of the yellow lines. Police sirens screamed in the distance and would be upon us in seconds. But I immediately saw a problem. The intersection of 18th Street and Florida Avenue was two blocks ahead, and the light for 18th Street was red. Hector wasn’t showing any signs of slowing down for the light, nor was he moving to either side of the street. He continued running right down the middle yellow lines. I looked at the intersection and saw cars on Florida Avenue flowing in either direction, as their light was green.
“Shit, he’s going to run right into the intersection and kill himself. Hector, stop!”
I tried to gain more speed, but my legs were extended to their fullest length. I continued pushing and pumping, hoping, praying that I could get to Hector before he dashed into the intersection.
We passed the final block before the intersection and Hector showed no signs of stopping.
“Goddammit, Hector, stop. It’s the police for Christ’s sake!”
Like a crazed man, Hector darted into the intersection and flew by one car that had to slam on its brakes and skid to a stop. But the next car, a black SUV, caught Hector square on and knocked him clear off his feet about twenty yards.
“Jesus Christ!” I yelled.
The black SUV skidded to a stop. I finally caught up to Hector, but quickly looked away, as part of his body was crushed beyond recognition.
“Shiiiitttt!” I screamed.
Charlie finally caught up and his eyes widened when he saw Hector.
“Dear God.”
Within seconds, three squad cars stopped in the intersection and uniformed officers hopped out.
Later that night, I learned that Hector was high on cocaine, which probably caused him to see things and be in a state of panic. That would explain why he ran. As far as the Melvin Johnson case was concerned, I was now back to square one.
Just as Charlie and I finished searching the apartment, my cell phone rang. I looked at the caller ID and saw that it was Turtle.
“Not a good time, Turtle.”
“Damn, Jacob, I heard what went down with Hector.”
“News travels fast on the streets.”
“So do other things. Look, we need to meet up. I’ve got some serious stuff to throw at you.”
Part Two: The Sniper
Ten
The Next Day
THE SUN WAS BRIGHT in the middle of the afternoon. The sky couldn’t have be any clearer, almost like an oil painting of a perfect hue of sapphire blue. The temperature was steady at eighty-eight degrees with very little humidity. A nearly perfect day to be outside.
I sat on a bench under a tree in Dupont Circle’s park, eyeing my wristwatch every two minutes. I had agreed to meet Turtle in the park at 1 o’clock, but it was almost 1:30 and Turtle hadn’t shown. The day was too nice to be annoyed, but that was the attitude I started to feel.
“Five more minutes.”
When Turtle had called me the night before, I was tired and wasn’t in the mood. Turtle said that he had something important to talk about, and implied that it could possibly be related to Melvin Johnson’s murder. That was all he would say over the phone. No matter how hard I pushed him to talk, he wouldn’t do it. He said that it was something we’d have to talk about face-to-face. Reluctantly, I agreed to meet in Dupont Circle. There was more. Turtle sounded a little nervous. Whatever was on Turtle’s mind must be important, and that was the only reason I’d been waiting as long as I had.
The Dupont Circle park connected Massachusetts Avenue, Connecticut Avenue, New Hampshire Avenue, P Street and 19th Street in a circle – in the middle of which was the park. In the middle of the park was a large fountain with a base was made up of three classical nudes, symbolizing the sea, stars and wind. The top of the fountain was an oval bowl where water streamed off into a surrounding pool around the fountain. I watched as people came up to the fountain and threw quarters into the pool, probably wishing for good luck.
The park was crowded around this time of day as people milled around during lunchtime. Some carried picnic baskets and blankets and found nice spots o
n the grass to eat. Others sat on the surrounding benches with carry-out food and Styrofoam cartons, trying not to get their business clothes messy. Then there were the homeless who walked around the park asking for spare change. I handed a bearded man who looked like he’d been living on the streets for years a five-dollar bill and wished him well. I wondered if the man was truly going to use the money for food like he said he would.
I looked at my watch again and noticed that five minutes had passed. I was about to get up and leave when I saw Turtle walking past the fountain with a look of “sorry, man” on his face.
I pointed to my watch, and Turtle double-stepped to reach me quicker.
“Sorry, man, it took a little longer for me to get away than I expected.”
“Get away from where? It’s not like you have a job.”
“That’s cold, man.”
“No, it’s called common courtesy. You don’t make someone wait for you for a half an hour. Especially when I’ve got other things I could be doing.” I was clearly annoyed and wanted him to know it.
Turtle lowered his head, apparently realizing his mistake.
The twenty-one-year old kept himself well groomed, even though he wore his pants halfway down his waist, like many of the young kids do. His goatee was freshly trimmed and his hair was short and neat. His dark brown skin hid any blemishes on his face. He was tall and lean and could have been a pretty good track runner had he kept his grades up.
I extended my hand and slapped him five. “Just trying to keep you on the up and up.”
“Sorry, Jacob, I’ll be on time next time.”
We both took a seat on the bench.
“So what’s this about anyways? Why couldn’t you just talk to me on the phone last night?”
Turtle looked around like he was making sure no one was listening.
“Okay, what I’m about to tell you is big. I mean really big. I mean witness protection big.”
The Avenged Page 3
