The Executioner's Game (10 page)

They'd landed at Metro Airport and picked up a new vehicle, another Ford Explorer. A little smile worked its way across Luther's face. Home. After ten years he was back home. Luther sped down 1-94 as the sun was setting. They'd flown into Detroit from New York, hoping to make up some time on Alex. The wolf would not use the airport because of security, but they could.

“Detroit,” said Hampton. “I spent a week here one night.”

“You didn't like it?” asked Luther.

“No. It has a weird vibe, and everybody seems so separated. Haven't you people learned to get along yet?”

“Apparently not,” said Luther.

Luther and Kilmer had had a conversation after the bomb incident in New York. Kilmer had been intense before, but during their conversation he was back to his usual unreadable self.

Luther didn't tell him he suspected that the wolf was trying to communicate with him through the mission. What he did
tell him was that Alex had left a clue that led them to Detroit. Kilmer had been silent about this and inquired no further. If Luther knew the director, Kilmer was thinking about replacing him on the mission. He had to get to Alex before Kilmer made that decision.

Luther took the Lodge Freeway to Warren, then exited and drove to Cass Avenue, a place notorious for criminal activities. Although the area was making a comeback, many parts of it still resembled a ghost town, a place where people didn't go unless they were on their way to the grave. This was a good place to start hunting for Alex.

Luther looked out at the bleakness of the neighborhood and remembered how he had been told by his parents never to come here. “People die there,” his mother had said.

“Alex knows I'm from Detroit,” said Luther. “He brought me here intentionally.”

“Rule 35?” asked Hampton.

Luther remembered E-1 Rule 35, the personal-contact rule. It allowed an agent to use the personal contacts of a target if it would help complete his mission. Rule 35's wording clearly set it forth as a last-ditch measure, but Luther was certain that Alex would consider whatever mission he was on critical and invoke the rule against him.

“I imagine so,” said Luther.

They drove off toward the east side. He knew that Alex was holed up somewhere in the poorest part of the city. He was sorry to say that in his hometown, that could be many places.

After nightfall Luther and Hampton nestled themselves into the safe house just off the east side of the city. It was a nice two-bedroom home in a forgettable neighborhood.

When Luther's Ion rang, he answered it, making sure that the proper code was being received.

“Hello,” he said.

“What happened in New York can never happen again,” said Kilmer flatly, with a finality that was a little frightening.

“Yes, sir,” said Luther. He put the phone on speaker. “He's led me to my hometown.”

“I know,” said Kilmer with a measured concern. “I thought about bringing you in for that reason.” Luther detected an edge in the director's voice. After Luther's defiance in New York, Kilmer wanted Luther to remember that he had the power to end this mission.

“Alex obviously wants to weaken your position on this,” said Kilmer.

“I agree, sir,” said Hampton. “So far the wolf has been operating as if he's got a plan. Coming here is part of it.”

“I haven't been home in over ten years,” said Luther. “No one's looking for me.”

“Not the point, and you know it,” said Kilmer. “The presence of personal contacts weakens you.”

“Yes, sir,” said Luther. As usual, Kilmer was right.

“You may request to remove yourself, if you wish,” said Kilmer calmly.

“No, sir,” said Luther.

“Acknowledged,” said Kilmer.

“Sir,” said Luther, wanting to get past this inquiry, “we believe that Alex is collecting information in each of the cities he's been in. We don't know what this info is, but he's risking his life for it.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Kilmer. “Deavers is obviously under
the impression that he's acting on some order. Whatever he's collecting, I want you to secure it after he's neutralized.”

“Yes, sir,” said Luther and Hampton, almost as one.

“I think the wolf is functionally insane, sir,” said Hampton, “retaining all his practical faculties but living in a state of delusion.”

“Interesting,” said Kilmer. “Is there anything else?”

“No, sir,” said Luther, with Hampton echoing.

“Are you sure?”

Luther and Hampton were mildly shocked. Kilmer almost never repeated himself.

“Yes, sir, I'm sure,” said Luther.

Kilmer terminated the call. It was by far the strangest conversation Luther had ever had with the director.

“If I didn't know any better, I'd think Kilmer was worried about something,” said Hampton.

“He is,” said Luther. “The question is, what? Kilmer has always been cool when it comes to missions. Remember when they blew that hit in Salvador and it caused a little three-day civil war? He was as calm as could be, even as he ordered the deaths of ten men.”

Luther ended this line of thinking out loud, but inside he was thinking that Kilmer seemed very afraid of something on this mission, and given the history of E-1, it had to be something terrible.

Hampton hooked his mobile informational unit to the phone line, which in turn was hooked to a transmission booster. After working a few minutes, he was into E-1's database. He needed to do some research. Maybe he'd find something that would help them in locating their prey.

“I'm looking at crime stats,” said Hampton. “There are a lot of bad sectors in Detroit. But this one here, adjacent to downtown, seems to be one of the worst.”

“Let's go out and find him,” said Luther. “Get a lock on the area, and let's canvass it.”

“It's gonna be a big area,” said Hampton.

“We're big men,” said Luther, and he smiled at his friend.

“You want me, a little white dude, to go out asking questions in a black neighborhood?”

“Yes, and don't kill anybody,” said Luther.

Luther got ready to hit the streets, dressing in jeans, an old hooded sweatshirt, and sneakers. He glanced at himself in the mirror. He was looking as he had long ago, before he left. Which man was he, the international government assassin or the home-boy who'd come home at last?

He checked Hampton's outfit. He was similarly dressed down. Luther approved, then watched as Hampton loaded the Baby Eagle and stuck it into his waistband.

They both set out and then split up after Hampton acquired his own vehicle from the local CIA field office. Luther drove the Ford into the city. His heart sank at the sight of Tiger Stadium abandoned and then soared when he saw the new Comerica Park with its fierce stone tigers chewing baseballs.

The Fox Theatre looked as it had in days of old, the Detroit Opera House was beautifully restored, and Ford Field, a spectacular state-of-the-art indoor football stadium, was open for business and boasted a sign heralding a coming Super Bowl.

Luther drove to the near east side, just a few miles from downtown, and parked. He then set off on foot. There were many bad areas in the city, but this was perhaps the worst. In most big
cities, the downtown area had the poor relations of prosperity close by.

Luther combed the neighborhood, asking every shady character he saw about a disfigured white man who might be spreading money around. He got many offers to buy drugs and one offer for sex, but no information. Still, he was sure the news would spread that he was looking for Alex and that it would get back to him.

“Yo, yo, yo,” said a dark, thin man to Luther as he was preparing to call it a day. “I got what you need, brutha.”

Luther surveyed the man. He had dyed-blond hair, which only made his dark skin look darker. He was wearing a Pistons warm-up jacket and black jeans.

“What you got?” asked Luther, coming closer.

“You name it,” said the man. “Ask anybody. Sharpie is the man on the street. Like I always say, if you want it, Sharpie can get it for ya.”

Luther had to suppress a smile. A criminal with a marketing plan and a motto struck him funny.

“I'm looking for a man,” said Luther.

“Damn,” said Sharpie. “You don't look like the type for that. Okay, cool, I know this young boy over on—”

“Not like that,” said Luther. “The man I'm looking for owes me money on a deal, and I need to find him.”

“Black or white?”

“White.”

“Cop or cool?”

“He's not a cop. He's tall and has some old wounds on his face. And you do not want to fuck with him.”

Sharpie looked into the air, thinking. He scratched his long
chin and rubbed his eye once. “Can't say I've heard anything about a man like that, but I'll keep an ear open for you. So you sure you don't want anything? I got ecstasy, weed, and ludes—shit, I even got some blue boys. It's a cooled-out version of that shit they used to call cold medina.”

“No thanks,” said Luther.

“Well, damn,” said Sharpie. “You gotta be the straightest muthafucka in Detroit.”

“Just tryin' to get my money. Who's the man on the street these days?”

“Shit, that could be a lot of people,” said Sharpie, looking a little disappointed that he wasn't going to make some kind of sale. “Lynch, Crazy-G, Pitch Black, Nappy, Brenda Cream—I hate that bitch—and there's this new boy they all call Damn!”

“Who's the smartest of those men?”

“They all dumb-asses, if you ask me. Be dead inside a year and replaced by niggas just like 'em. Except Brenda and Nappy. They pretty smart.”

It had occurred to Luther that for Alex to operate in Detroit, he would have to make a street ally. He could just kill anyone who got in his way, but in the end a white man in this town would be taken out by sheer numbers if he tried to maintain power like that. And Alex would not assume leadership of a criminal enterprise. It was too dangerous. He needed someone who was smart and resourceful, essentially a subagent.

“What's Brenda into?” asked Luther, taking the least obvious one first.

“That bitch? Man, she into everything. Drugs, robbery, car-jackin'. That female even put her own cousin to work as a ho.”

“What about Nappy?”

“Well, he's a class act as they go. He's older, been in the joint and lived to tell. He tries to run a little newspaper, but everybody knows what his real bid'ness is, you know? He's a smart nigga, for real, but I wouldn't mess with him. Folks got a funny-ass way of just disappearin' around him.”

That was his man, thought Luther. This Nappy sounded like just the right fit for a domestic urban mission. Hell, from the sound of it, Luther wished he'd found Nappy first. Alex would never take on a woman, even if she was as tough as Brenda sounded.

“Thanks. I'm gonna be in touch with you.” Luther handed Sharpie some money and squeezed his hand hard to let him know that they now had a relationship.

“Cool,” said Sharpie, looking happier that his talk had just become profitable. “What's your name?”

“Ain't got one right now, and you can't find me. I'll find you.”

Luther walked off and got the feeling that Sharpie was boring a hole into the back of his head. He'd planted many seeds in the street community tonight. When Alex heard that someone was looking for him, he'd react. Luther just hoped it wouldn't be a reaction with fatal consequences.

Tevin knew that someone was going to die. No reason to be doing something like this, he thought. There were bad things in the city, terrible things, and God knows he'd seen and caused a lot of them, but this, this was just
wrong
. Violence was a medium of exchange on the street, like money. You gave up the mayhem, and in return an enemy was gone or a treasure won. But violence for no reason was foolish if not crazy, and that was what they were doing this day. They were giving away money. He'd made it a long time on the street, and one of the reasons he had was that he didn't do this kind of shit.

Tevin Williams stood in the middle of the living room of a vacant house on the east side of Detroit. He and his partner were waiting for their boss, and he was getting impatient.

“I don't get this,” Tevin said to Jimon, a thick-necked thug he rode with these days. “Why he wanna do some shit like that?”

“Man say we gotta,” said Jimon, chomping on a hamburger he'd just bought from Burger King. He ate it with an abandon
that suggested that it was his last meal, a common trait among those who aren't sure whether any meal will be their last. Jimon was not too bright, but he was tough, big, and ruthless—all good qualities on the street.

“Yo, here come the man,” said Tevin. He looked out the dirty window.

The black car rolled smoothly down the street, the sun gleaming off its polished hood, throwing light into the air. It was a classic, a 1972 Buick Electra 225, known in the inner city as a Deuce and a Quarter. It rode on wide, low-profile tires and looked as though its chrome had been buffed just seconds earlier. It was a bad-ass ride, from its modified fins to its evil, smiling grille.

The door of the Buick opened, and out stepped a tall, angular man in his forties. He stood about six foot two and seemed to unfold as he got out of the car, rising to his full height. He was dressed in a long black coat that covered a crisp, spotless white shirt and jeans, his standard uniform. To a passerby he would have appeared to be a man on some kind of mission—an undercover cop, a street soldier, a guardian against some unseen enemy. He had a menace about him, a look that let anyone know he was not to be dismissed as ordinary.

Nappy jingled his keys in his left hand and shut the door to the Buick. His hands were large, with long, knobby fingers and manicured nails. He wore no jewelry save a gold band on his left index finger. His face was angular like the rest of him, spare and tight. His eyes were deep set, and the shadows from his brow made them seem black. They were actually light brown, and they held within them the hardness and horror of a lifetime on the street. His goatee, trimmed to perfection, completed his intimidating appearance, which was crowned by a shining bald head.

Nappy walked into the house. He went past the two men without saying a word and turned his back on them.

The three men stood unmoving for a while. Tevin and Jimon knew not to speak first to their boss. He sometimes disliked that. Fear filled the room. Their employer and their occupation made Tevin and Jimon worry about injury and death. Tevin was already starting to sweat.

“I suppose you've been wondering about your mission of last night, why I'd ask you to do something like that,” Nappy said in a voice that was measured and precise.

“Naw, Nappy, we wasn't,” said Jimon too quickly.

“I was talking to Tevin,” said Nappy. “I know you don't question me, Jimon, correct?”

“No, sir,” said Jimon immediately.

“Tevin?” asked Nappy. “Don't you think this is some bullshit?”

Tevin swallowed hard and then opened his mouth to speak. Beside him Jimon had unconsciously taken a step back.

Tevin considered his answer carefully. Nappy never asked a question that he didn't already know the answer to. It was never good to try to lie your way around him.

“Yes,” said Tevin. “It ain't about business, you know.” Tevin's last words almost ran out of breath, as if he were forcing them out past his fear.

Nappy waited a moment, a long moment—an eternity, it seemed to the two men behind him.

“You're right,” said Nappy, still with his back turned. “It's some bullshit, but it does have a purpose…to me. Unfortunately, my purpose provides that I can't have anyone know what we did last night. I can't afford to have two weak-ass men with knowledge of it. So I can't let the two of you leave here alive.”

For a moment Jimon and Tevin just stood there as the words hit their ears, a heavy batch of sound. Nappy didn't move. He stood resolute in what he had just said, a dark statue of confidence.

Tevin pulled his gun.

“Not today, muthafucka,” said Tevin. He raised the gun at Nappy's back and held it steady.

“What the fuck?” said Jimon, alarm in his voice.

“You heard what he said!” said Tevin. “He brought us here to kill us!”

“Nigga, stop trippin',” said Jimon. “Why would he do that and turn his back on us like that? We could just shoot him. He's testing us, and your dumb ass failed.”

“Bullshit,” said Tevin. “He ain't playin'. He don't ever bullshit about canceling somebody. No, he for real, but he the one who ain't leaving this house.” Tevin cocked the weapon.

Jimon's feeble mind tried to grasp the situation he was in. Nappy was the man, but Tevin did have a point. Nappy never kidded about murder. But if this was one of his tests, it was just the kind Nappy would give. When you passed one of Nappy's tests, there were often great rewards—money, power, women. Jimon was not about to let Tevin's foolishness keep him from those riches.

Jimon pulled his gun and then put it to Tevin's head.

“What the hell you doin', fool?” asked Tevin.

“Gimme yo' gun,” said Jimon. “I got it, boss,” he said to Nappy. “It's cool.”

“Don't be stupid,” said Tevin. “He's-”

“Not gonna ask you again,” said Jimon, pressing the gun harder into Tevin's temple.

Tevin dropped his arm a little, as if to hand over the weapon,
then quickly swung his weapon back up and around toward Jimon's head. Jimon saw Tevin's arm go up, and immediately he fired. The shot blew into Tevin's head. Tevin jerked and sent off a shot that caught Jimon in the neck, severing his jugular. Both men fell to the floor, dropping their respective weapons. Tevin didn't move. He was dead. The bullet had torn through his brain, and he was gone before he hit the cracked floor.

Jimon was hit but still alive. He squirmed and wiggled as he tried to stop the blood that rushed out of the wound between his clasped fingers.

Nappy turned and surveyed the destruction. He thought that Jimon, being the brute he was, would shoot Tevin, and then Nappy in turn would take Jimon out himself. But it seemed fate had another plan. This was even better, Nappy thought. The fact that they'd killed each other made him guilt-free in two deaths.

Nappy walked over and knelt next to Jimon, careful not to step in the blood.

“Help,” Jimon managed to say, blood spurting from his mouth. His voice was already weak. He was slipping away.

“Loyalty is a good quality,” said Nappy. “But it's not everything a man needs to survive.”

Nappy got up and strolled out of the house. Behind him he heard Jimon struggle and choke until he fell silent.

Nappy walked into the hazy sunshine of the day and headed toward the Buick. He got into the car and settled into the plush new leather seats he'd installed. He bought new seats every two years for the vintage car. The smell of African incense filled the interior. He started the car, and the big V-8 roared to life. Nappy pulled away from the little house, rolling down the dismal street.

He didn't worry about the gunfire. In this neighborhood no one would call the police, and even if they did, what had he really
just done? No crime in talking two men to death. That would be a great case, he thought. Let's see the system try to convict him of that.

Nappy pushed a button on his sound system and Al Green came on singing “Let's Stay Together.”

Chokwe Muhammad had gotten his nickname in the hospital the night he was born. The thick black hair he'd been born with was tightly wound into curls that separated nicely on his head. They looked like kinks, or naps, as they say. His father had called him Nappy as a joke, and the name stuck.

Nappy hid his criminal activities by starting an organization called Black Truth that published a newspaper he dubbed
The Radical
. It was his way of merging his past and his future. Black Truth was his way of remembering his father, a former sixties radical, and it provided an excellent cover for his business.

Black Truth was popular in the neighborhoods. It was regularly raided by the police and had been put on the FBI's subversive list, which only made him proud.

Nappy reasoned that his criminal activities were just a resource. The black man had been left the drug trade as the only means of support for his efforts.

Nappy's Black Truth was dedicated to exposing government conspiracies and oppression. He was pleased to learn that there were many people like him in the country who questioned the essence of government purity.

Nappy turned down a residential street, parked, and approached his mother's house. He'd been planning to go to his office but remembered that he had not made his weekly check on his family.

He walked up to the little house on Maine. Unlike the other houses on the block, this one was pretty. It was nestled between a vacant lot and another house that looked like something had fallen on it. There was prosperity in this little home.

Nappy climbed the steps and pressed the doorbell. The door opened, and an old black woman peered out. She was sixty or so and very round. She had a headful of gray hair that was cut into a neat Afro. She looked at Nappy from behind thick glasses, her face hard and unsmiling.

“You got a gun?” asked the woman.

“Why do we gotta go through this every time?” said Nappy. “I ain't giving up my—”

The door slammed in Nappy's face, and he heard the sound of receding footsteps and the old woman's curses.

“Rita!” yelled Nappy. “Open this damned door!”

A moment passed, and Nappy hissed, cursing to himself about the old woman. Soon he heard approaching footsteps, accompanied by Rita's complaining voice.

The door opened, this time by another woman. She was about the same age as the other, but much thinner and sporting black-and-gray dreadlocks. She smiled at Nappy.

“I'm gon' kill her, Mama,” said Nappy. “I swear.”

He hated Rita, but she was his mother's best friend and had nursed her through an illness some years back. Rita was a strong and very religious woman who now shared the home with his mother, serving as cook, maid, and protector. She didn't like Nappy for very obvious reasons.

“No threats in my house,” said Tawanna Muhammad, Nappy's mother. “Come on in.”

A half hour later, they were sitting at the kitchen table eating.
Nappy wasn't hungry, but when your mother wanted to feed you, you didn't dare say no.

He sat with his mother and his niece Jewel, a young girl of sixteen. She was dark brown, with glowing skin and big brown eyes that pierced your heart even from a distance. She was a magnificent young woman, and he was determined not to let the city snuff out her light.

After his sister died leaving young Jewel, Nappy had begged his mother to move the child out of Detroit, but Tawanna didn't want to leave the city. And so Nappy had to settle for the protection he bought with fear.

After dinner Rita and Tawanna left. As soon as they were gone, Nappy spoke to his niece.

“I do a lot of things I'm not proud of, but in the end I'm trying to be a good man. You got to remember that.” He thought about his action in Dearborn and the trouble that was to come. And then Nappy handed Jewel a wad of cash under the table. “Don't let Mama or Rita know you got that.”

“I never do,” said Jewel.

Nappy's concern about his niece was more than paternal. One day Jewel would assume his position and carry on his work at
The Radical
, but when she did, the paper would be legitimate. He'd make it so with the money he'd been saving and the big stories he was getting from Wolf.

He was too smart to think he'd ever see the dream turn into reality himself. He was too old and too tainted. He'd give Jewel the dream, and he'd share it through her. By the time she got out of college, he'd be giving her the
New York Times
of alternative newspapers.

Nappy said good-bye to his mother. He offered her money, and
she said no, insisting that she had enough for right now. He looked outside and found the thugs across the street gone, out for their night's work. He worried about his family living here in the danger of this lost place. But his mother was still a tough old bird, and she was
not
going anywhere.

Nappy kissed his niece good-bye in the doorway, then got into his car and rode off.

He traveled the city for a while checking on his street dealers and making sure the money was flowing the right way. Business was good, and so he eagerly headed off to his place of business to close the deal on the day's activities in Dearborn.

Nappy drove the Buick onto Linwood Avenue and was soon in front of the offices of Black Truth. The red, black, and green sign proclaimed the organization to be
THE LIGHT OF THE PEOPLE
. Armed guards kept watch on the place.

The Black Truth offices occupied almost the entire block, sharing shared space with a soul-food joint and a small printing company that Nappy also owned part of.

He walked inside, not lingering with his people. Ten workers buzzed about the office. Nappy's criminal organization was much bigger, but the street dealers were not allowed to come close to this place. The FBI would have liked nothing better than to catch him on another drug charge.