“Anne?”
“Huh?” She smiled, popping out of her silent contemplation. “I was just thinking that I might want to ease up next quarter.”
Her secretary recognized the expression. “Can’t get enough of him, can you?”
“No,” Anne answered. “But that’s nice in a way.”
“Yeah, it is.”
Moises Griggs walked slowly along Vermont Avenue, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jeans and his head swiveling streetward as each set of headlights passed. This was the part of town he had never hung out in. The part of town where wearing the wrong color could get you shot. Or having the wrong look on your face. It was not a pleasant place to be, but it was the place he had to be.
He slowed near the NALF storefront, the faded neon sign of the adjacent liquor store catching his attention. His fingers fumbled through the change in his pocket. Less than a buck left. The motel room, cheap as it was, had used nearly all his money for the four nights he’d been gone from his home. Food had eaten up the rest. Now, with only a few coins left to his name, Moises was craving a Coke. Just a Coke. Something that simple, that small, and it was denied him. He sniffled against the chilly wind as he wondered if this was what his life was going to be. Want. Anger. Hate. Frustration.
The storefront to his left drew his attention back. Not with them, he thought. In there was hope. Direction. A place to be, a way to fight. A car of young men, black like him, slowed as it passed, the front passenger giving him a “mad dog” stare before driving on. “Idiots,” Moises said softly. You’re killing your own people. There were better targets for one’s rage, he now realized. And the way to them was but a few steps away, a few steps that Moises took willingly.
“Brother Moises,” Roger Sanders said upon turning toward the jingling bells attached to the front door. “Welcome back.”
“Hi.” Moises immediately noticed that it wasn’t much warmer inside than out.
Darian heard the voices from the back room and came to the front. “Brother Moises. You’re back. Good. Good.”
Moises nodded nervously. “Brother Darian.”
The NALF leader held his hand out at chest height and gave a power shake to the young man. “We know about you, Brother Moises.”
The grip tightened around his hand, Moises felt clearly. “About me?”
“Your little sister,” Roger said, stepping next to Darian. “We know what happened.”
Moises looked to the floor, but a hand roughly lifted his chin up. Darian had released his grip on the youngster’s hand and was now preventing his head from dipping.
“You keep your head high, Brother Moises,” Darian told him. “Always high. Always proud. You don’t bow because of nothing. Not because you’re sad. Not because you’re in chains. Because folks don’t know the difference, and no one is ever going to think you’re bowing to them.” He pulled his hand away and tapped the boy’s cheek lightly. “You understand?”
“Yeah.”
Darian nodded. “Good. Now, you said you wanted to fight the last time you were here.”
“That’s right.”
“Right,” Darian said, noticing the rougher appearance of the youth. He was unshaven by a couple of days. The clothes were not clean, though they weren’t soiled. He was different. “Are you ready to stand up for your people?”
“Yeah,” Moises said, his trepidation of a few moments before gone completely now. Yeah, I’ll stand up. I’ll stand on some cracker’s head if you want me to. “I’m ready.”
“Are you afraid of dying?” Darian inquired.
Dying? I’m halfway there already. “No.”
“What about other folks dying?”
Moises shook his head slowly. “I won’t cry as long as they’re the right color.”
A smile now came with Darian’s nod. “You’ve got a family, right?”
“I had one.”
“You’ve got a new one,” Roger said, putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“And this family is going to do something big real soon,” Darian said. “Then we’re gonna split. You got any problem with taking off?”
“I’ve got nothing to keep me here,” Moises answered. Just a mother and father who might as well be dead. He hurt as he thought that.
“All right, Brother Moises.” Darian looked into the boy’s eyes. Yes, the eyes. He was right the first time he had seen them. You’re a fighter. And soon, he knew, Brother Moises Griggs would be a killer. “Be here Monday night, ready to go.”
“I’ll be here,” Moises said, sensing that the life he had known was over, and another was about to begin.
“His finances check out clean,” Hal Lightman reported.
Art scanned the summary sheet that covered a stack of bank and business records relating to Monte Royce and his company. “Of course they do. Why should anything even remotely related to this make any sense? Nothing happened. Nothing at all. Everyone’s innocent.”
“What about Kostin?” Frankie asked, moving beyond her partner’s frustration. “The cashier’s checks?”
“The bank that issued them says he came in with cash and had the checks made out.”
“Just for the rent?” she probed.
“Rent and for those chemicals and the equipment,” Lightman answered.
“Nikolai Kostin was not born with that money,” Art observed with some agitation. Things were moving much too slowly, even for the new and improved Art Jefferson. “He did not come here with that money. And he sure as hell didn’t make all of it in his time at Royce Pharmaceuticals.”
“We’re trying, Art,” Lightman said.
The senior agent leaned back in his chair and let out a purposeful breath. “I know.”
Frankie looked up to the bearer of bad news, hoping to lighten the moment. “Don’t mind him, Hal. He’s still trying to decide if he likes cold weather.”
“Freezing weather,” Art corrected her.
“It don’t get cold in Chicago,” Lightman joked, his voice lowering to a whisper, “It gets fucking cold.”
“Thanks for the weather report, Hal,” Art said.
“I’ll see you kids tomorrow,” Lightman said, leaving the agents to pore over the information some more.
Art looked down upon the pages, his head shaking. “Mr. Clean, huh?”
“We missed a smudge or something. I can feel it, Art.” Frankie rarely called her partner by name, and then only when she was dead serious and certain of something. “He’s dirty.”
“I know he is.” It was easy to spot someone soiled by their own actions, Art knew, and it was often a chore to keep from getting dirtied by that person. The last thought reminded him of one avenue they hadn’t taken yet. “Vorhees was mixed up with Royce, even if innocently.”
Innocent. Frankie rarely used that word when referring to politicians of Vorhees’s type. The consummate player. Mr. Backroom Dealer who would still get in your face if it was required. Guiltless, maybe. Innocent… Her head shook. “We need to talk to him.”
“Senator Crippen, too,” Art said. “Royce said he knows them both well. Let’s see how well.”
“It could shed some light,” Frankie agreed.
Art stood, his mind made up. It could shed some light, as Frankie said, but it would also certainly ruffle some feathers. The director was sure to get some calls about this one. “Pack a bag, partner.”