"Big Anthony, my nigga." The voice came from the kitchen, where Dion Williams stood with his arms braced against the doorframe.
Anthony nodded, but didn't look away from the kid on the couch. "Hello, Dion."
"This way."
He held the stare for one more moment, then turned and followed Dion. The kitchen was filthy, every surface covered with bottles and takeout containers, blunts and menthols stubbed out on the counter. A fly buzzed lazy circles over a sink piled with plates. Anthony chose his steps carefully, hands at his sides, not eager to touch anything. Dion opened a door in the back wall, and the two of them stepped into his office, a Chicago-style second bedroom with barely room for the big desk and padded chairs. Anthony always had to fight laughter at the setup, like something bought off the floor at OfficeMax.
Dion settled behind the desk, his palms out on the table, fingers drumming. The motion caused the muscles in his arms to swell and ripple. Anthony sat and stared at him. Waited a long moment. Finally said, "You fix your screwup?"
Dion's eyes narrowed. "We been over that. You brokered that through Playboy, not me."
Anthony shrugged. "Thought he could take care of business. Didn't know you let faggots on your crew, Dion."
The gangbanger's nostrils flared, but he sat silent for a moment. Then said, "First off, you're talking about my boy, so you best ease up. Second," he said, "my name is C-Note."
"Whatever." Anthony let a little contempt into his tone. "You didn't answer my question."
"I sent some of my dawgs over to the address you gave us last night."
"So it's done?" He relaxed a little, leaned back in the chair. "The kid is dead?"
"Nah." Dion fixed him with a hard stare, as if daring him to do something. "Cops came."
Anthony felt that pain in his left temple, fought the urge to rub it. Took a deep breath. "What you're saying, then, is you fucked up again."
"You got one freebie on that tone. Don't try for two." Dion's voice was low. "You in my house now."
The threat hit Anthony right in the spine, that sweet tingle, and he almost told "C-Note" to suck his ropy white dick. The man's hands were on the table and even if he were strapped, no way he could pull as fast as Anthony could, his SIG in a quick-release shoulder holster. But Dion was still useful, at least for now, and so he just smiled, and pictured a bullet taking him in the eye, tearing away half of his head.
The right half, he decided.
"So the boy is still alive."
The gangbanger nodded, then leaned back, his hands behind his head, evidently satisfied at his dominance. "Yeah. But," he drew the word out, "now I'm taking a personal interest, he ain't going to stay that way. Not if you tell me where to find him."
Anthony snorted. "What do I look like, the Yellow Pages?"
"Told us where to find him so far."
"That was before." He tried not to show it, but his mind was racing. The situation had spiral potential. He'd wanted to handle the boy personally, but there were advantages to having the bangers do it, and he'd allowed himself to be convinced. And now the little shit had gotten away – again – and might be talking to who knew which cops.
And there was only one way that could have happened. "Jason Palmer," he said.
"Who?"
"The uncle." It made sense. With his father dead, where else would the kid go? And as a former soldier, Palmer'd have the training to protect him. "The one Playboy screwed up on. You find him, you'll find the kid."
"White boy and a kid somewhere in Chicago?" Dion shrugged dismissively. "I mean, you got a picture or something? I don't even know what this dude looks like."
"Playboy does." Anthony smiled. "And I know where Palmer lives."
" 'Aight," Dion said. "I'll hook Playboy up with a couple of soldiers. Your dude won't hardly know what happened to him." He started to rise.
Anthony sat still. "I don't think you understand. You fucked up." He paused for a beat, leaned in. "You need to make it right. I'm not talking about sending a couple of retarded teenagers." He met Dion's glare, still picturing half his head gone, a raw and ragged mess. "Put everything you have on it. Scour the goddamn city. Palmer goes golfing, I want his caddy ready to draw down. I want every nigger here looking for Palmer and the kid."
C-Note's eyes narrowed at the word. But before he could respond, Anthony continued. "You're not my only client, Dion. Hell, I've got a meet tonight." He adjusted his tie. "If you mess this up, I'll hold a fire sale. Dump my supply to your enemies. Your homeboys won't know what hit them. Your crew will be a remember-when." He smiled, his lips tight. "You feel me, boy?"
For a long and happy moment, Anthony thought the jig was going to make a move. Then it passed, C-Note leaning back in his chair like an executive, his face a model of calm. "Disciples finish what they start. I'll get my club rolling."
Anthony nodded, stood up. "Good." Straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs, all business. "Find Jason Palmer and the boy, kill them both." He walked to the door, opened it, then turned. "Dion? This time get it right."
And smiled to see the hate ripple across C-Note's face.
CHAPTER 19
Jason had to admit that it was starting to feel like a bad idea.
Tactically speaking, the strongest position was the offensive. So long as your enemy was defending, they couldn't be working toward their own goals. It kept them off balance, kept them reacting to you instead of acting themselves.
That's what they, whoever they were, had been doing to him for days. But in the rainbow haze of last night's gin, Jason had thought he'd seen a chance to turn that around. With Washington watching over Billy, Jason could go on the offensive, starting with the only lead he had: Playboy. If Jason could figure out how he was involved, it might lead to the guys who killed Michael.
What he was going to do then was a little murkier. Confront them, look for regret in their eyes? Call Cruz, have her arrest them?
Pull the Beretta and waste them?
If he'd had the gun when the bangers came after Billy, no question. That was combat. He'd been at war before, walked point through alien cities. He'd called the locals Hajji and Ali Baba, same as everybody else, even as he'd tried to do good, same as everybody else. He'd sighted down the length of his M4, remembered his training – exhale, hold, squeeze – felt it kick and watched men fall.
But to hunt a man, touch a pistol to his temple, and blow his world apart? That wasn't soldiering. That was murder.
One step at a time. Right now he had to find a way to get to Playboy. Last night, when Jason had suggested he might just stake out the house until he found a chance to hijack Playboy, Ronald had only smiled. This morning, Jason understood why.
This wasn't Lincoln Park, where he could have slept on the sidewalk. It wasn't Clark and Division, a one-block melting pot where he wasn't out of place. It wasn't even the Crenwood he knew, underprivileged and ruined, but largely filled with families struggling to make a go.
It was a war zone.
They weren't all gangbangers, of course, he reassured himself. Not every kid on every corner, every shirtless man glaring at him. The hard stares, daring him to meet their eyes, daring him to look away, it wasn't about him. It was about crushing poverty and four hundred of years of repression. About patrol cars circling like the tanks of an occupying army. About a neighborhood without jobs or opportunity, where college was as accessible as the moon. He'd listened to too many of Washington's lectures, spent too long in a largely black high school not to get that.