Rankin looked at him in amazement. “You’ve been paying protection money to officers in my department?”
The leader leered back at him. “I sure as hell ain’t been payin‘ it to the United Way!”
“Who are they? I want their names!”
“Whoa now, I tell you that, I’m breakin‘ my word, and all that money I spent on protection goes down the drain.”
“If you’re not going to name names, why are we here then? What’s the point?”
“The point is, I want to stay in business. Most black folks leave us alone and most white folks do the same. Some of ‘em get in our way, and we kill ’em, but most of ‘em leave us alone, and that’s cool, man. That’s good for business. Except now, everybody’s thinkin’ we did this murder thing, that we killed Ben Weston and all those little kids.”
He paused and snapped his finger. “Ben Weston? I coulda smoked that mother in a minute, but I didn’t-not him, not his woman, and not those kids, neither.”
For the first time, he looked away from Rankin and stared hard at me. “I give orders. I say shoot to kill. They kill. I say scare the shit out of ‘em. The bullet hits the mirror. Understand?”
I understood all right. It was as blatant a confession as I’ve ever been given, yet I knew there wasn’t a damn thing I’d ever be able to do about it. Still, it wasn’t a time to back off.
“Who were you trying to scare?” I asked. “Ben Weston or me?”
“Ben Weston busts my homeys. I been paying One-Time for protection so me and my boys don’t go down, but he’s doin‘ it anyways, hidin’ ‘em, makin’ ‘em forget what they’s s’posed to do. So I’m gonna scare Ben Weston, scare him real good, excepten he’s dead already and my homey’s too damn dumb to figure it out.”
Lucille came into the room and delivered the food, studiously ignoring Chief Rankin. By mutual unspoken agreement, all discussion ceased until she went out, once more closing the door behind her. When she left, Rankin resolutely picked up his knife and began attacking the cold ham steak solidifying on his plate. When no one else spoke, I finally put in my own two cents’ worth.
“You said you were going to help us,” I said quietly. “Do you know who killed Ben Weston?”
My counterpart lifted his hand and the young man nearest the briefcase hefted it onto the table. My heart skipped a beat as I wondered if now was when the guns would come out and the shooting would start, but no one made a move to open it.
“You know a homey named Knuckles Russell?” the speaker asked.
I nodded. “I know him.”
“You see this case here? It’s his, but somebody stole it. Been gone two maybe three months, and Knuckles is all pissed off ‘cause it’s from his mother. Then yesterday morning it shows back up at the place where Knuckles use’ to live. Like magic, now you see it now you don’t.”
“He must have brought it back.”
My opponent shook his head. “That motherfucker walks on my turf, I’d smoke him, and he knows it. But it’s his all right. His bag and his shit.” He shoved the case down the tabletop, stopping it when it was directly in front of me.
“Open it, One-Time,” he said to me. “Open it and see for yourself.”
I flipped the latches on the case and lifted the lid. The only thing visible inside was a pair of sweats, red sweats, that had been crammed into it. But there was something else in there as well. It came out and wafted heavily through the room. Homicide cops smell that smell all the time-the sickeningly overpowering odor of rotting dried blood.
In a roomful of menacing Bloods, Crips, and BGD, there are some words you don’t say if you want to leave the room alive. “Blood” is one of those words. Keeping my mouth shut, I closed the lid on the briefcase and looked back at the spokesman, who was regarding me levelly across the table. When I didn’t look away, he picked up his Bob’s Burger and took a huge bite.
“You say the briefcase showed up where Russell used to live. Does that mean he doesn’t live there anymore?”
“That’s right.”
“Where does he live now?”
The leader shrugged. “Who knows? Ask Ben Weston.”
“Ben Weston’s dead,” I pointed out. “Did Knuckles Russell kill him?”
“Knuckles didn’t dis Ben Weston.”
“So who did?”
“That’s your job, One-Time. You find that out, ”cause most folks thinks we did it, and that makes it tough to do business. Understand?“
And then I understood why the gangs had called for a meeting. It all boiled down to public relations. Most of the time they operated with impunity, without direct, active, or vocal opposition from the African-American community at large. The slaughter of Ben Western’s family, with the accompanying media presumption that street gang activity was somehow ultimately responsible, had galvanized the black silent majority into being not nearly so silent.
“May we take the case?”
“Yo, man. Take the case if it’ll help you do your funky job. That’s what we all want.”
Just then, Chief Rankin’s pager went off. He excused himself and hurried out of the room to answer it, leaving me alone with our six guests. He wasn’t gone long. When he came back and stopped in the doorway, I could see from the look on his face that something was terribly wrong.
“Come on,” he said. “There’s a problem. Grab that bag. We’ve gotta go. I’ve got the check.”
He dashed away again while I picked up the bag, aware that my every action was being studied by six separate people, five of whom, other than ordering their food, had not spoken a word since entering the room. Only the single representative had acted as spokesman for the entire group.
It amazed me to think how the idea of arousing the ire of the entire African-American community had posed enough of a threat to force these young toughs into an unprecedented show of solidarity, but there was no hint that the truce would last any longer than the time it took to vacate the room.
Six pairs of cold eyes stared at me, and I stared back, examining each face in turn, knowing that some of them would show up on the fifth floor eventually, coming under the scrutiny of Homicide either as perpetrator or victim. I didn’t want to say thank-you to this bunch of murderous thugs. The very word would have stuck in my throat, yet I owed them something.
“Somebody here knows someone who has himself a late-model Lexus,” I said quietly. “The driver is wanted in connection with the attempted murder of a Seattle police officer. I’d get rid of them both, if I were you, send them back where they came from.”
With that, I turned and walked out of the room carrying the briefcase with me. I found Chief Rankin at the counter, dancing from foot to foot, arguing heatedly with the cashier.
“What seems to be the matter?” I asked.
“They don’t take plastic here,” he protested, waving his credit card in the air. “Not even the city credit card. There are eight meals on this bill. I don’t carry around that kind of cash, and I don’t have my checkbook with me, either.”
“How much is it?”
I took out my wallet and extracted the hundred-dollar bill I’ve taken to carrying there in case of emergencies. I paid the bill, including a double tip for Lucille, and wrote the entire amount at the bottom of the receipt.
“This is going to show up on my expense account,” I said. “And nobody better question it.”
“They won’t. Come on. Hurry.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There’s been a shooting on Beacon Hill. Officer down.”
“Where on Beacon Hill?” I asked as we raced for my car, but I didn’t have to listen for an answer. Before he told me, I already knew. The location was the home of Reverend Homer Walters, and the downed officer had to be Big Al Lindstrom.
