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as we put our guns away. “The kids these days ain’t got respect for shit. How you doing, friend? And you would be?” He grasps Vernon’s hand and shakes it.
“Mo-Mo, this here is Vernon, my partner.”
Vernon smiles at him and they shake hands and embrace. I can tell Vernon likes him by the expression and slight smile on his face.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Mo-Mo. I like the way you handled them kids.” Vernon laughs. “So, Mo-Mo stands for?”
Mo-Mo flashes his gold-toothed smile. “Damn, Joe.
You slippin’, dude. You ain’t told the man about me.
Well, Vernon, I was MVP of the Kansas City Central Blue Eagles 1960 Missouri basketball and football teams. My friends started calling me Mo-Mo ’cause I gets mo’ of what the average man gets or wants, and the ladies think I’m mo-licious, because I mo-mo-rize them.”
Vernon smiles and shakes his head.
My friend’s not lying because women would just throw themselves at the fool, and he took everything they gave and more. He had it like that and he knew it.
Mo-Mo was a nice guy and all, but he took every opportunity and favor that women offered him. They loved him and wanted to show it in more ways than one. He was just a ladies’ man and never took advantage of them, but let them share whatever they wanted with him.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, brother,” Vernon says.
“Man, y’all have a seat and rest yourselves. Let me get y’all a beer. I got some pimp steak on the grill, and if I say so myself, it’s off the chain, man.”
Mo-Mo walks to the kitchen as Vernon and I take a seat in the spacious living room. The inside of the house Vincent Alexandria
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is well kept, clean and neat. Mo-Mo and St. Louis Slim have moderate taste in furniture, and a picture of our old lip-synch group, the Time Revue, hangs on the wall. I get Vernon’s attention and show him the picture as Mo-Mo comes in with three cans of malt liquor beer and three pimp-steak sandwiches.
“Here we go. Here’s just a little something to feed your soul and wet your whistle,” Mo-Mo states as he hands us the cold beer and sandwiches.
Vernon looks at the beer before he opens it, sniffs its contents and frowns. I can tell he wants to complain about something. Then he takes the bread off the sandwich and smells and looks closely at the meat.
“Damn, Mo-Mo, I thought you said you gets mo’
than the average man. You gonna get mo’ drunk drinking this malt liquor. This stuff will kill you, brotha. I’m real thirsty and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,
’cause I am. But a beer says a lot about a man and this looks like barbecued bologna, dude.”
Mo-Mo looks at the beer can, takes a huge bite of his pimp-steak sandwich and then gazes at Vernon. “I just like it, man. Pimp steak is a bologna roll barbecued on the grill. It’s a poor man’s steak and a delicacy in India-napolis, Indiana, where my old lady was from. First time I tried it, I got hooked, brotha. It’s mo’ better than a fried bologna sandwich. It got a lot of kick to it, just like the beer, my man,” Mo-Mo explains after taking a long sip.
“It’s got kick for sure. Remember man, we’re driving.
We can’t have this beer kicking our asses and getting us killed. The pimp steak tastes good though.”
“Whatever, dude. This is some real good shit,” Mo-Mo brags.
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Vernon holds up the can like he’s doing a commercial. “Yeah, but it has a terrible bitter aftertaste.”
Mo-Mo smirks and just waves us off as he picks up the picture. “Man, those were the days. Y’all had it going on. We all got some after these dudes would do their act. I just stood by and got the overflow chicks. Joe, you know, your boy still mad about y’all breaking up the group.” He tries his best to hold a stern look and we both burst out laughing.
Those were the days. We would practice three times a week and we were very good. From the time we entered the club until the time we left we would act the part of Morris Day and the Time. The women loved us and the men envied us. We had the laughs, jokes, com-edy and arrogance down pat, but when we performed we mesmerized the crowd with precision steps and dancing. We always got standing ovations. I met Sierra after that. We broke up because St. Louis Slim wanted to go solo, go figure.
“What’s so damn funny?” St. Louis Slim asks from the doorway of his bedroom in red paisley silk boxer shorts, slippers, a matching robe and a scarf that’s wrapped around the back of his hair and tied in a knot in the front.
He is of high-yellow complexion and stands about six feet, his hair is long, processed and he is the splitting image of Morris Day of the old school R&B
group, the Time.
“Sweet St. Louis, I see you haven’t grown out of your childhood fantasy of going solo,” I tease. “Vernon, this is St. Louis Slim. Slim, this is my partner and best friend, Detective Vernon Brown.”
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Vernon goes over and shakes hands with my good-looking friend.
“Nice to meet you, brother. Chili sauce!” Vernon says as he side steps imitating the dance moves the Time performed for the song, “The Bird.”
“Oh, I can tell you’re one of Joe’s friends, ’cause you ain’t funny, either. Ha-haa!” St. Louis Slim laughs in his best Morris Day impression.
Vernon falls on the floor laughing as I buckle over in laughter, as well. I look up smiling as Mo-Mo rolls his eyes. I give him a reality check. “Dude, I can’t believe you are still caught up in that Morris Day bit. Man, we have been done with that for over fifteen years. You played a good part, but that’s over. Get a life!”
“Joe, you’re one to talk? You broke up the group, asshole. You were just jealous because I had the lead and I was getting all the women. You should know, ain’t nobody bad like me,” St. Louis Slim says as he does a 360-degree turn and comes to a dramatic stop with his hands in the air and an arrogant smirk on his face.
I walk up to Sweet St. Louis and get in his face.
“Look, dude, I created the group just for fun. For the sake of imagination, I created you. I got your wardrobe for you, taught you how to walk, dance and act like Morris Day. I definitely had my share of women, because I was the brains behind the group and the creative genius. All we did was have fun and lip-synch, so stop tripping. It was all make-believe, and you were the fool that ended it. Remember, going solo?” I start to laugh. “Who gets famous as a solo artist doing lip-synch impersonations?”
“Well, I was the star of the show. You couldn’t have the group without me,” St. Louis Slim retorts.
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“And you couldn’t go solo without a band, asshole!” I respond.
“Fuck you, Johnson. Why you here anyway?” St.
Louis questions, visibly upset, and turning redder by the minute as he checks his perfectly manicured hands.
I look at Mo-Mo and back to Slim. “Fellas, I’ve come to collect on my favors. I need some guns and some backup. I know you guys got connections. I’m taking this case that will take me to a few different cities. I can’t trust their local authorities, because they might be dirty.”
Mo-Mo’s face lights up and he smiles at me. “Joe, you got my support. We got some serious Glocks downstairs and a couple more surprises.”
“Oh, excuse me, Mr. Favors. So you just waltz on up here to Topeka and just think all’s forgiven, huh, Johnson? Well, this sounds dangerous to me. Sounds like some folk can get killed real easy. What’s in it for us?”
St. Louis Slim asks.
He takes off his scarf, flings it over his shoulder and checks his hair out in the mirror, traces his thin eyebrows and mustache with his index finger. He turns and faces me. “Damn, I look good!”
“Whatever, dude!” I say. “I can give you guys twenty thousand now and ten thousand when
we finish the case.
That should hold you over for a while.”
Vernon walks over to St. Louis Slim. “Brother, if I may, I’ve heard about you from some of Joe’s friends on the block, and I’ve seen some pictures of the group around town. Would that have happened if Joe wouldn’t have given you the chance? Look, I don’t know what’s between you guys, but Joe needs you on this one. He’s going into this case blind and don’t know who or what Vincent Alexandria
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he can count on. I thought that at least he would be able to count on his friends, especially as much as he brags on y’all. We’re trying to save the life of an FBI agent and Joe needs to end this case as quickly as possible, because his dad is dying.”
Mo-Mo comes over and embraces me. “I’m sorry to hear about Pops Johnson. You know, your dad has been very good to St. Louis and me. I remember how I didn’t have the money to get home for spring break and your dad let me stay at your house and, man, we had the bomb barbecue your father fixed for us. Man, he cooked every day, some of that Louisiana good food. You remember that, St. Louis? You were there, too, man. Your father hooked us up with the Southern hospitality. We gonna help you out, Johnson. Ain’t that right, Sweet St.
Louis Slim?”
St. Louis nods and puts his head down as he walks over to me. “Why didn’t you tell me about Pops, dude?
Yeah, we got your back, Joe. We’ll help you out. I don’t know if your father ever told you, but man, I was broke as hell, being from a single-parent household. I hated to ask my mom for money I knew she didn’t have. Your dad hooked me up with fifty bucks a month and made me promise to keep my grades up or he was gonna kick my ass and get his money back. I never forgot that and I never let him down. I don’t know if I would have finished school if it weren’t for him. I got to make a few calls. C’mon, let’s check out what you need in our munitions room, and you can fill us in on the details. I’m gonna let the group thing slide for now, but we ain’t through, Mr. Johnson.” Sweet St. Louis turns on his heel and heads downstairs.
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I roll my eyes and try to remember I’m grateful for his help. I hope I don’t regret it, knowing that he’s going to hold this over my head for a long time.
We grab our malt liquor beer, follow Sweet St. Louis Slim through the house and down a flight of stairs to the basement.
Vernon turns when we get to the bottom of the stairs and asks, “Why they call you Sweet St. Louis Slim?”
St. Louis stops in his tracks and throws out his robe for effect, as it slowly flows back to his side. He pulls out a big-toothed comb from the inside pocket of his robe and unhurriedly runs it through his permed hair. He bats his eyes at Vernon and puckers his lips. “Well, if you must know, my good man, that’s the place of my origin. Yes, I was a cool little nip, gettin’ wit’ all the pretty young thangs with the big hips, wearing my Stacy Adams wingtips, making sure my shirts and baggies were starched with creases as firm as a young girls tits.
I ate honey-glazed barbecue rib tips and I loved when they played jazz, like Georgy Porgy by the St. Louis Arch, watching river ships. Mmm-hmm, but gigolos get lonely, too. So, I moved up here with my boy and you know what? Our business grew. Ha-haa!”
St. Louis crosses his legs and does a quick 360 in front of the entrance and pulls out a key that he places in the door. Vernon, Mo-Mo and I all roll our eyes. My Morris Day look-alike friend opens the door to what looks like it’ll be a janitor’s closet.
Good Lord! The state-of-the-art computer room opens into another huge space that has assorted guns, rifles and automatic weapons encased in glass. A metal table in the middle of the room has a large flat-screen Vincent Alexandria
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computer monitor and a hologram projector that has a map locator suspended from the center in laser matrix.
St. Louis Slim and Mo-Mo grin and smile, like two proud parents.
Vernon takes out a cigar and places it in his mouth.
“Don’t light that!” Mo-Mo and St. Louis Slim scream in unison, startling Vernon and I.
“We got explosives in here,” St. Louis states more calmly.
“He never lights it, he just likes to chew on it,” I explain.
St. Louis looks Vernon up and down, shaking his head. “Must be some Freudian thang. Ha-haa! Vernon got a little freak in him, don’t you, Vernie? Yeah, Mr.
Nasty man. I knew there was something about you.
Probably like spanking asses with the wifey, huh?” St.
Louis teases winking at Vernon.
“Well, at least I don’t dress like a freak,” Vernon returns, pointing at St. Louis’s red slippers and boxer outfit. “And if you let mention of my wife slip from your lips again, I’ll staple them together,” Vernon warns.
St. Louis runs his hands over his boxers, and then looks at Vernon, blushing. “Don’t hate on me. Why you have to be all sensitive and shit? You wish you looked this good!”
“Whatever. Just show us what you got,” Vernon responds, pushing past Sweet St. Louis.
Mo-Mo goes to Vernon’s side and opens the glass case. He picks up the little orange-red balls that look like cherry-bomb firecrackers.
“Be careful with those, Vernon. They make a big bang and can do some damage. They’re filled with plastic explosives. That little ball can take out a metal 124
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door three inches thick. Take a few if you need them.
They’re activated ten seconds after making initial contact. So throw them hard and run like hell or take cover,”
Mo-Mo explains as he places five in a small black case.
I peer at the semiautomatic machine guns. “Man, these are compact for machine guns. I probably can use one or two of these.”
“These babies use snub-nose hollow-point .25 shell casings,” Sweet St. Louis says. “You shoot somebody with one of them bullets and it’s guaranteed to take them down. The bullet splatters upon contact. It can be messy, but you won’t have many people standing when the smoke clears. Let me get you one. We got these babies on back order. I’m hooking you up, even though I’m short on stock, my man.” St. Louis gives me the once-over with an attitude.
“Joe, try these night-vision goggles out,” Mo-Mo says. “You never know when these babies’ll come in handy. I’ll throw in a couple of pair, they sent us five pair too many.” Mo-Mo hands me the goggles—they’re as comfortable as sunglasses and fit like swimming gear. Vernon tries on the goggles and takes the cigar out of his mouth.
“Who’s they? ”
Mo-Mo and St. Louis Slim look at each other like Vernon has committed a cardinal sin.
Sweet St. Louis Slim sucks his teeth as he checks his perfectly manicured fingernails, “Hey, brother, do I ask you what you and your wife do in the bedroom at night?
Do I ask you who yo’ daddy is? Do I ask you why you all up in our business like that? Why you got to spoil shit and become Mr. Nosey Man? That ain’t your busi-Vincent Alexandria
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ness. Damn, see what happens when you try and help somebody. The man’s name is None-a-Yo-Damn-Business. Do you know him?” St. Louis rolls his eyes at Vernon as he and Mo-Mo give each other a high-five.
Vernon smacks his lips and frowns, “My bad, fella, but don’t ever let my daddy’s name come rolling off your pretty lips again or I’ll have to shove those red slippers up yo’ narrow ass, and I told you about my wife.” Vernon thumps him in the head. “You got that, Sweet St.
Louie?” Vernon points his stubby finger at my friend.
Sweet St. Louis raises his eyebrows with surprise, throws his hands up in the air and then starts to take off his slippers. “Aw, hell, naw! How you gonna come into my place disrespectin’ me? My name is Sweet St. Louis Slim, not Louie, asshole. Don’t let me have to slap the shit out of your old ass with these red slippers, okay?”
Mo-Mo holds Sweets back and I’m getting bored with the drama.
“Nobody is slapping nobo
dy today. Vernon, stop being so sensitive, and Sweet St. Louis, stop being so cynical.
Just show us what else you got so we can be on our way.”
“Aw right, but your partna’ better recognize, thumpin me in the head like I’m a little bitch or something. Boy, I’ll slap your ass through Christmas and back to Mardi Gras. You just don’t know. You better tell him, Joe.” St.
Louis says shaking his head and eyeing Vernon.
Vernon puts his cigar back in his mouth. “Yeah, whatever!”
My homeboy-turned-black-market-criminal friends show us the rest of their goods and we pick out a duffel bag full of ammunition, explosive devices and guns.
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get a contact number and an agreement that they’ll have my back when the time comes to get serious. They both agree and promise to contact Vernon if they hear of anything that will help in the case. Vernon picks up the duffel bag and we prepare to leave.
“Uh, Joe, what’s up, man?” Mo-Mo asks, looking at St. Louis Slim as though he’s missed something.
Vernon and I stop and turn around to face Mo-Mo.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I think my friend wants to know how you two plan on paying for the merchandise you’ve just collected.
This ain’t no blue-light special at Kmart, dawg. You got about sixty thousand in goods. How you gonna pay for that?” St. Louis questions while rubbing his dark thin hands together.
“Well, let’s see, I’m going to keep your asses out of jail by not busting up your little operation here, and turning you over to the FBI. I’m quite sure you know this is a federal offense that would bring at least twenty years in federal prison. I also have both you fools in my pocket for favors. You both owe me big-time. Don’t forget that, and this twenty thousand in cash should cover it. I’ll need you guys in Nebraska tonight. I’m gonna need backup, and it’s another ten thousand in it for you when we get our friend and the evidence to bust this Cattanno guy.” I throw them a roll of thousand-dollar bills.
I know paying for my friends’ help is unorthodox, but not being able to trust any of the cops puts us in a desperate situation. I know my friends would never cross me, but I still feel like we’re skating on ethical thin ice.
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