royal blue double-breasted linen suit. D'Shante Jackson was a former running back for Edison High in North Philly, a steel girder of a man not yet thirty. He stood six three and weighed a trim and muscular 215 pounds.
D'Shante looked both ways up Kensington and, assessing the threat as nil, opened the rear door of the Escalade. His employer, the man who paid him a thousand dollars a week for protection, stepped out.
Trey Tarver was in his forties, a light-skinned black man who carried himself with a lithe and supple grace, despite his frame's ever-expanding bulk. Standing five eight, he had broached and passed the two-hundred- pound mark years earlier and, given his penchant for bread pudding and shoulder sandwiches, threatened to venture much higher. He wore a black Hugo Boss three-button suit and a pair of Mezlan calfskin oxfords. Each hand boasted a pair of diamond rings.
He stepped away from the Escalade and flicked the creases on his trousers. He smoothed his hair, which he wore long, Snoop Dogg style, although he was a generation-plus away from legitimately copping hip- hop fashion cues. If you asked Trey Tarver, he wore his hair like Verdine White of Earth, Wind amp; Fire.
Trey shot his cuffs and surveyed the intersection, his Serengeti. K amp;A, as this crossroads was known, had had many masters, but none as ruthless as Trey 'TNT' Tarver.
He was about to enter the club when he noticed the redhead. Her luminous hair was a beacon in the night, her long shapely legs a siren call. Trey held up a hand, then approached the woman, much to the dismay of his lieutenant. Standing on a street corner, especially this street corner, Trey Tarver was in the open, vulnerable to gunships cruising up both Kensington and Allegheny.
'Hey, baby,' Trey said.
The redhead turned to look at the man, as if noticing him for the first time. She had clearly seen him arrive. Cool indifference was part of the tango. 'Hey, yourself,' she said, finally, smiling. 'You like?'
'Do I like?' Trey stepped back, his eyes roaming her. 'Baby, if you was gravy I'd sop ya.'
The redhead laughed. 'It's all good.'
'You and me? We gonna do some bidness.'
'Let's go.'
Trey glanced at the door to the club, then at his watch: a gold Breitling. 'Gimme twenty minutes.'
'Gimme a retainer.'
Trey Tarver smiled. He was a businessman, forged by the fires of the street, schooled in the bleak and violent Richard Allen projects. He pulled his roll, peeled a Benjamin, held it out. Just as the redhead was about to take it, he snapped it back. 'Do you know who I am?' he asked.
The redhead took half a step back, hand on hip. She gave him the twice-over. She had soft brown eyes flecked with gold, full sensuous lips. 'Let me guess,' she said. 'Taye Diggs?'
Trey Tarver laughed. 'That's right.'
The redhead winked at him. 'I know who you are.'
'What's your name?'
'Scarlet.'
'Damn. For real?'
'For real.'
'Like that movie?'
'Yeah, baby.'
Trey Tarver considered it all for a moment. 'My money better not be gone with the wind, hear'm saying?'
The redhead smiled. 'I hear you.'
She took the C-note and slipped the bill into her purse. As she did this, D'Shante put a hand on Trey's arm. Trey nodded. They had business to attend to in the club. They were just about to turn and enter when something caught the headlights of a passing car, something that seemed to wink and glimmer from the area near the homeless man's right shoe. Something metallic and shiny.
D'Shante followed the light. He saw the source.
It was a pistol in an ankle holster.
'The fuck is this?' D'Shante said.
Time spun on a crazy axis, the air suddenly electric with the promise of violence. Eyes met, and understanding flowed like a raging current of water.
It was on.
The redhead in the black dress-Detective Jessica Balzano of the Philadelphia Police Department's Homicide Unit-took a step back and in one smooth, practiced motion, pulled the badge on a lanyard from inside her dress, and slipped her Glock 17 out of her purse.
Trey Tarver was wanted in connection with the murder of two men. Detectives had staked out Club Vibe-as well as three other clubs-for four straight nights, hoping for Tarver to surface. It was well known that he did business in Club Vibe. It was well known he had a weakness for tall redheads. Trey Tarver thought he was untouchable.
Tonight he got touched.
'Police!' Jessica yelled. 'Let me see your hands!'
For Jessica, everything began to move in a measured montage of sound and color. She saw the homeless man stir. Felt the weight of the Glock in her hand. Saw a flutter of bright blue-D'Shante's arm in motion. A weapon in D'Shante's hand. A Tec-9. Long magazine. Fifty rounds.
No, Jessica thought. Not my life. Not this night.
No.
The world uncoiled, shot back to speed.
'Gun!' Jessica yelled.
By this time Detective John Shepherd, the homeless man on the stoop, was on his feet. But before he could clear his weapon, D'Shante spun and slammed the butt of the Tec into his forehead, stunning him, flaying the skin over his right eye. Shepherd collapsed to the ground. Blood spurted, cascaded into his eyes, blinding him.
D'Shante raised his weapon.
'Drop it!' Jessica yelled, Glock leveled. D'Shante showed no sign of compliance.
'Drop it, now!' she repeated.
D'Shante drew down. Aimed.
Jessica fired.
The bullet slammed into D'Shante Jackson's right shoulder, exploding the muscle and flesh and bone into a thick, pink spray. The Tec flew from his hands as he spun 360 and collapsed to the ground, shrieking in surprise and agony. Jessica inched forward and kicked the Tec over to Shepherd, still training her weapon on Trey Tarver. Tarver, hands up, stood near the mouth of an alley that cut between the buildings. If their intel was accurate, he carried his.32 semi-auto in a holster at the small of his back.
Jessica looked over at John Shepherd. He was stunned, but not out. She took her eyes off Trey Tarver for only a second, but that was long enough. Tarver bolted up the alley.
'You all right?' Jessica asked Shepherd.
Shepherd wiped the blood from his eyes. 'I'm good.' 'You sure?' 'Go.'
As Jessica sidled up to the alley entrance, peering into the shadows, back on the street corner D'Shante pulled himself into a sitting position. His shoulder oozed blood between his fingers. He eyed the Tec.
Shepherd cocked his.38 Smith amp; Wesson, aiming it at D'Shante's forehead. He said: 'Give me a fucking reason.'
With his free hand, Shepherd reached into his coat pocket for his two-way. Four detectives were sitting in a van, half a block away, waiting for the call. When Shepherd saw the casing on the rover, he knew they would not be coming. When he had fallen to the ground, he smashed the radio. He keyed it. It was dead.
John Shepherd grimaced, glanced up the alley, into the darkness.
Until he could get D'Shante Jackson frisked and cuffed, Jessica was on her own. THE ALLEY WAS littered with derelict furniture, tires, rusting appliances. Halfway to the end was a T-junction, leading to the right. Her gun low, Jessica still-hunted down the alley, hugging the wall. She tore the wig from her head; her newly cut short hair was spiky and wet. A slight breeze cooled her a few degrees, clearing her thoughts.
She peered around the corner. No movement. No Trey Tarver.
