Dead End Fix (23 page)

D'Loco sat in a corner of the clubhouse front porch watching the sky decide if it wanted to rain. J-Fox, Big Cheeks, and Mouse were out there too. The three men would never leave their leader exposed. So they donned hooded parkas and occupied themselves with a halfhearted game of poker at the top of the stairs. D'Loco had asked them to give him some space. Time was running out and he needed every minute of it to figure out his next move. This war had cost him four good men. The Picos had showed him three more 97s could easily have been in the ground too. Spice, his counterpart in the Picos, had proposed a way out. Hand over the 97 who killed the brother of Spice's top man and the killing would stop. Throw in a juicy block of business and everything would go back to normal.

Except nothing was ever that easy. D'Loco hadn't ordered a hit on any Pico. His men would never take out a rival gang member without his approval. When the kid had come to him, waving that Pico sleeve and swearing he killed a Pico to show his allegiance to the 97s, there wasn't one brother who challenged him and took credit for the kill. What was he to do but bring the kid into the fold?

Spice would hafta understand that,
he thought.
Wannabe shows his stuff. Willin' to kill for the right to wear the colors. No way Spice would turn away somebody like that. He'd do same as me. Bring the brother into the family and put him to work. Spice could even come to understand the kid's mistake. Banjo was wearin' his brother's jacket.
A man could make a case it was Three Pop's own fault his brother was dead.

But Kashawn didn't kill that boy. D'Loco had bought the story Kashawn brought to him. That he had shot the boy on impulse and disposed of the weapon. But when Spice and Three Pop told him witnesses saw Benji shot down in a drive-by, D'Loco knew it couldn't have been Kashawn who gunned that boy down.

The way D'Loco figured, it had to be some minor gang making a play. Whether it was the Chinese, the Puerto Ricans, or some other, he wasn't sure. But it made sense. Who else would benefit from inciting a war between the Picos and the 97s? With every death, each gang was weakened. Both would have fewer men on the streets to protect their territories. Blocks would become vulnerable. Ripe for some upstart group to take over.

Givin' up Green K is a fast way to make this war end. But that ain't gonna stop whatever punks is thinkin' they can take what's ours.

Since he left the community meeting after announcing his reward for the name of the real killers, D'Loco had been sitting on the porch, waiting. One man, a longtime customer asking to trade what he knew for a lifetime of free product, swore he was there when Banjo got shot. Said he knew for sure it was a white dude wearing a baseball cap driving a car with Oregon plates. Spun a tail of Portland gangs plotting a takeover of Seattle blocks. But when D'Loco pressed him for details, the junkie couldn't name the street where Banjo died. Couldn't recall the time of day the hit went down.

A man and woman came by too. Husband and wife. Strolled up the walk arm in arm, looking scared to be so close to the center of 97 activity. Said their daughter was dating some hotheaded buck. Described him as a no-good, lazy piece of worthlessness bound and determined to steer their little girl into a mess of hurt. Wanted to know if D'Loco might consider this guy as the one who took out Banjo. Told him they'd be grateful for any assistance D'Loco might offer.

“What you think this is?” D'Loco asked them. “I ain't no Don Corleone. This ain't no fuckin'
Godfather
movie. Get on out of here and take care of your own by yourself.”

Late in the afternoon a patrol car pulled up. Two uniformed policemen approached the 97s on the porch with their hands on their holsters. J-Fox, Big Cheeks, and Mouse turned to D'Loco, looking for instruction.

“Play your hand,” he told them. “This ain't no thing.”

One cop was black. He told D'Loco he'd heard about what happened at the community meeting.

“You start throwing that kind of money around, people get ideas,” the cop said.

“Ain't no laws against offerin' a reward, officer,” D'Loco said. “Folks go to you with a name, they gonna pick up a nice payday.”

“Streets have been quiet for a coupla days,” the cop said. “We'd like to keep it that way.”

D'Loco nodded. “That's just what me and my boys here were talkin'. How nice it been.”

The two cops gave the four men on the porch a long, slow once-over. They promised to increase their patrols in the area. D'Loco nodded his thanks. Told them he appreciated all their hard work.

Then he said that unless they had any other reason for being there, he'd appreciate it if they'd move on and let his boys get back to their game.

D'Loco hoped his offer of fifty thousand dollars would give him fast answers. But as the streetlights came on, signaling the end of another day in the Pico truce, he was running out of options. He thought of Kashawn, upstairs in his room, clinging to his story that he killed Banjo, prepared to die rather than admit he didn't belong in the 97 brotherhood.

I'ma stop this war
.
I'ma save my men.

D'Loco stood and stretched his arms over his head. He walked to the table and stood behind Big Cheeks as J-Fox dealt another hand.

“Watch him, now,” D'Loco teased. “Brother need one more card to be right and he's takin' all your money.”

J-Fox and Mouse started a round of trash talk, laughing and sounding relieved that their time on the damp porch might be coming to an end.

“Come on,” D'Loco said. “Let's go see what the ladies cooked up for dinner. I'm smellin' roast good enough for a Sunday.”

The three men stood, gathering their winnings and rehashing long-shot draws to winning hands. J-Fox and Big Cheeks went into the house. Mouse picked up the cards and told his leader he hoped there might be some mashed potatoes sitting next to that roast beef. D'Loco was about to second that motion when he saw a woman at the end of the walkway. She hesitated, then took a few steps forward. D'Loco thought he'd seen her before. It wasn't until she came closer, bathed now in the glow of the front porch lights, that he recognized her.

She was the last person he expected to see standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the 97 clubhouse.

“What you want?” he asked.

The woman looked over her shoulder, then pulled up the hood of her jacket. “I got something you're going to want to hear.”

D'Loco turned to Big Cheeks. “Go on inside. Grab a plate. I got nothin' to fear from this lady.” He stared back at the woman. “That's right, ain't it?”

The woman climbed up the stairs.

Well now,
D'Loco thought.
This gonna turn into somethin'.

Kashawn stepped out of the shower and rubbed himself dry with a towel that smelled like flowers. He wondered how the cleaning ladies made that happen. He remembered one of his foster families. He must have been about six, because he was in kindergarten for the few months he lived there. He'd been given an air mattress in the laundry room, right next to the litter box the woman's four cats used. He woke up every morning to the smell of cat piss. She was the one who let him color on grocery bags when he came home from school. Despite that kindness, Kashawn was relieved when he got moved. He had to share a bed with another kid in the next house he lived in. And he didn't get to go to kindergarten anymore. But it was worth it. He'd take the stink of that kid's morning breath over cat piss any day.

Kashawn opened the top drawer of his dresser.
What they gonna do with all these underpants? What was I thinkin' buyin' ten pairs of tighty whities?
He ran a hand across the neatly rolled briefs. He selected a fresh pair and shifted the remainder to close the gap. He pulled a white T-shirt from the stack.
I'm a man who has hisself ten undershirts. One of 'em gets a tear, I throw it away and buy a new one.

Kashawn never would have the need to replenish the contents of that drawer. But the notion he would have been able to walk into any store and buy himself a new stock of underwear comforted him.

Kashawn had three pairs of jeans hanging in the closet. He considered wearing the khakis he'd purchased for his lunch with LaTonya but decided against it. He already knew he'd wear the Seahawks sweatshirt he'd found waiting for him that first day he woke up in this room.

First thing I wore as a 97.

Kashawn had been relieved of his territory after that meeting between D'Loco and Spice, but he'd been allowed to stay at the clubhouse. With no responsibilities on his corner, with no need for war council meetings as long as the truce held, and with D'Loco not asking him to ride along with him anymore, he kept himself busy helping out the ladies in the kitchen. His brothers still greeted him and never hesitated to offer him beer or weed, but Kashawn sensed they knew his status was changed. Conversations stopped when he entered a room. Nobody asked him why he wasn't out earning his money. D'Loco's attitude toward him was different, and every brother took a step back as a result.

They know what's comin'. Might not know the details, but they know it's somethin'.

And when J-Fox came to his room that afternoon, telling him D'Loco wanted him ready to ride at nine o'clock sharp, Kashawn knew it was about to go down. The three-day truce was coming to an end.

Kashawn slipped his feet into the same shoes his brothers had left for him that first day. He smoothed a hand over his sweatshirt and stepped to the mirror for one last check. Only one thing was missing. He tied a strip of blue cloth around his left bicep.

I earned these colors. Could be I didn't come into this family in the way I said, but I stood on that corner. I ran my business. I brought home good money and I took care of my brothers. I'ma die a 97.

He fussed with the knot until his gang's colors hung just right.
Wish you could see me, Ettie. Wish you knew you got nothin' to worry 'bout me. Your boy made it just fine.

Kashawn looked at the clock: 8:47. He counted on his fingers, then sat on the bed and spent his last thirteen minutes memorizing every detail about the only space on earth that had ever been his alone.

J-Fox pulled the Escalade behind a row of one-story buildings. Kashawn had never been to this part of the city before. They'd driven more than forty minutes and he didn't even know if they were still in Seattle anymore. J-Fox and D'Loco hadn't said a word the entire trip. Kashawn had thought it best to do the same.

“You keep your mouth shut.” D'Loco kept his eyes straight ahead after J-Fox turned off the ignition. “You stupid enough to bring a piece with you, best you leave it here in the backseat.”

“I ain't packin'.” Kashawn's mouth was dry.

“This gonna be a hard night for you.”

Kashawn nodded, even though D'Loco couldn't see him. There were no lights in the parking lot and the fog made everything seem even darker than it was.

“You got anything to say, boy, you say it now.” D'Loco still didn't look at him.

“I know what you gotta do.” It was difficult for Kashawn to find breath for volume, but he wanted to speak loud enough for both men to hear. He hoped J-Fox would tell his brothers Kashawn took what was coming like a true 97. Not like that no-good Ax. J-Fox could tell the tale of how Kashawn saved his brothers, stopping this war by offering himself up. “And I know what I gotta do.”

“You gotta do nothin' but sit there, you hear me? What's gonna happen will reveal itself.”

Kashawn nodded again, hoping his leader knew he understood.

“Let's roll, then.”

D'Loco opened his own door this time. Then J-Fox got out of the car. Kashawn had to force his hands to open his door. Then he had to overcome his legs' unwillingness to move. He was ashamed of the fear crushing his chest. He counted his steps as he came behind the Escalade to stand beside D'Loco and J-Fox.

Eighteen times my feet touched this pavement. How many more steps I got left?

J-Fox led them through the fog to a heavy metal door. He banged four hard raps and a few seconds later the door slid open, spilling light into the alleyway.

Kashawn didn't know the man standing there, but the look on his face was pure disgust. He saw the scarf encircling the man's neck. Pico Red.

J-Fox walked through the door without a word. D'Loco followed him, nodding to the man. Then it was Kashawn's turn. He counted twenty-three steps before the group came to a halt. Spice and Three Pop sat at a circular table. Kashawn looked around.

This place musta been a restaurant once.
He saw a long counter with stools in front.
Maybe a bar.
He looked up.
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven lights.
He looked to the wall opposite the bar.
One, two, three, four, five booths.

“Three days.” Spice pointed to two empty seats at the table. “Pico keep their word. Now's time to see if 97 do the same.”

D'Loco took a seat. J-Fox stepped to the side and stood behind the Pico who had escorted them back. For the first time that evening, D'Loco looked at Kashawn, nodding toward the empty chair beside him. Kashawn counted four steps before he sat down.

Spice slid a folded newspaper across the table. “Got you a little something.”

D'Loco opened the paper. A yellow sheet was inside. Kashawn saw writing on it but couldn't read what it said from where he sat.

“That's a list of every corner you got workin' right now,” Spice said. “Well, maybe not every. Might could you got a few we don't know about, but I'ma guess this represent most your operation.”

D'Loco scanned the list before setting it aside.

“You said you wanted one block.” D'Loco tilted his head toward Kashawn. “Green K's store.”

Spice leaned back and smiled. “Maybe that was before I took full inventory of what you holdin'. Maybe we might negotiate more territory.”

“What make you think I be interested in that?” D'Loco asked.

Spice's smile vanished. “Because that list right there? That also represent where we got Pico firepower right now. Not where your men could see 'em, that for sure. But they there. Call it our insurance policy. You don't give us what we ask for, we gonna call an end to this truce. And there ain't enough room in all the morgues in Seattle for the 97s gonna need accommodations tonight.”

Three Pop snapped his head toward his leader. Then he put his eyes on Kashawn.

Kashawn looked away. If any fear showed on his face, he didn't want a no-good Pico to see it.

D'Loco spoke to Three Pop. “You wanted the name of who killed that kid. Your little brother, Banjo.”

“That's right.” Spice answered for his man, alternating his glance between J-Fox and Kashawn. “It one of these? Or you 'bout to tell me you don't have control over your men? Don't know which 97 took out that boy?”

Kashawn felt the heat radiating off D'Loco. It was an insult demanding retaliation, but D'Loco sat stone still.

“I'ma give you the name.”

Spice's smile returned. “And you gonna give us this boy's block.”

“That what you want?” D'Loco asked.

Spice looked toward the man standing in front of J-Fox. His smile grew wider, but there was no warmth in it.

“I'ma take that block for sure. Then we talk about what else I'm 'bout to take.”

Three Pop glanced again at his leader before returning his gaze to Kashawn.

Somethin's not right,
Kashawn thought. He turned to see J-Fox.
Somethin's not right.

“You want more,” D'Loco said. “Maybe that what your firepower be about. You figure you take all what 97 has right tonight.” D'Loco craned his neck to talk to Spice's man standing by J-Fox. “You go by the name of Tank, right? Up from Cali?”

The man said nothing.

“How you like it up here, boy?” D'Loco asked. “I hear it never rains down your way. This gotta be a big change for you. Then again, you had time to adjust, right? You been here near on two months now. Ain't that right?”

Kashawn watched Three Pop's face change. It was just for an instant, but it was there.
Something's not right.
He was afraid for D'Loco and J-Fox now too. For all his brothers out working their corners.

D'Loco brought his attention back to the men seated across from him. His focus landed on Three Pop. “That come as news to you? Tank bein' here all this time? Maybe you got told he here for reinforcements. Replacement for the Picos that got popped.”

“You know nothing 'bout Pico business,” Spice said. “Best we keep this discussion to matters at hand.”

D'Loco ignored him and spoke directly to Three Pop. “You go with Rodisha, that right?”

This time Kashawn had no problem reading Three Pop. It was anger clouding the man's face.

“I know you like to keep that secret,” D'Loco continued. “I get that. Ladies got no understandin' of what a man's business is. They take to worryin'. Worry lead to sassin'. Sassin' lead to arguin'. And that ain't no good for anybody lookin' for a good time. I do it myself. Keep my lady far away from my day-to-day.”

Three Pop said nothing.

“Ladies got no understandin' of this business, you say that right,” Spice growled. “So there no need to bring them up.”

“Fact is,” D'Loco kept speaking to Three Pop. “You never even told Spice here about Rodisha. She liked it that way is what I hear. Rodisha wanted nothin' to do with the Pico. That right? Wanted you to break free. Hear tell she hoped for you to join your daddy down at Smydon Fish. Two of you settle down. Start yourself a family. Live respectable like your daddy and Banjo.”

Three Pop shifted in his seat, keeping his eyes on D'Loco.

“But you not 'bout to leave the Pico, ain't that right?” D'Loco said. “Pico everything to you. Bond as strong as family. You don't care 'bout no fortunes or expansions or territories. You like them old-school Pico. All about the brotherhood. Way I hear it is you and Spice had yourself words from time to time 'bout that very topic. But you and Spice always work it out.”

“What this got to do with why we here tonight?” Spice demanded. “We got one topic to discuss. Endin' this war.” He turned to his lieutenant. “You want to learn who killed your brother, boy? Or you want to listen to this piece of 97 shit talk about stuff he don't know.”

Three Pop said nothing.

“You know a woman name of Ebonie Jones?” D'Loco asked Three Pop.

Three Pop didn't react.

Spice made a reach for his hip. D'Loco was faster and fired a bullet into the Pico leader's shoulder before Spice could make his move. At that exact moment J-Fox wrapped his powerful arms around Tank, throwing him to the floor and holding him there with a boot across Tank's throat and a gun pointed at his head.

“This here's a bunch of bullshit is what this is!” Spice roared. “Pull your piece, Three Pop. Put a bullet between this fuckin' 97's eyes. Kill all three these motherfuckers. I'ma give one word and our boys gonna jump. We get rid of all these 97s!”

Kashawn's breath left him. He was too afraid to wonder what was going on.

Three Pop and D'Loco held each other's stare as Kashawn waited to see who would die first.

It was Three Pop who finally spoke.

“I ain't ever heard of no Ebonie Jones.”

D'Loco nodded. “That's cuz Spice here like to keep his lady separate, just like we do. But Ebonie be Spice's lady. Least she was.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Spice's demands weren't as forceful as before. Blood seeped through the Pico's jacket. “Kill these motherfuckers, Three Pop. That's an order.”

Kashawn watched Three Pop and D'Loco talking to each other like what was going on around them wasn't happening. Spice continued his demands, but as his jacket grew bloodier, his voice weakened. Tank submitted to J-Fox's power, but Kashawn could feel the Californian's rage from fifteen feet away.

“Ebonie and Rodisha know each other lifelong. Their mamas is cousins or some such,” D'Loco explained. “When you start seein' Rodisha, she start tellin' Ebonie about her concerns for your way of life. You know how ladies can be. Specially when they thinkin' they might be in love.”

Three Pop slipped back into his silent stare.

“Your Rodisha, she a good girl. She wanted nothin' but for you to leave the Pico. Get yourself a family man's job. But Ebonie, that's a different story. Ebonie got a bit of wild in her. Takes an idea she might get herself hooked up with a gangster too. She gonna climb higher than her friend, though. Rodisha told her you be number two in the Pico. So Miss Ebonie set her eyes on number one.”