It was also necessary that he send a clear message to the police in general, and to Detective Mayfield in particular, that he was untouchable. He smiled. Yeah, Ice would send his message to Mayfield loud and clear. Tonight.
Breaking in to that sap Rodney Grimes’s tenth-floor apartment was simple. He knocked on the door like a policeman beforehand, to make sure no one was home, then went to work with his locksmith’s tools. He was inside and sitting on the man’s couch inside of two minutes.
To make certain that Grimes would not be alerted to his presence when he returned to the apartment building, Ice kept the lights off and simply used a penlight to maneuver around.
From what he could see of Rodney’s place, it was nice. Shit, Danielle, the ho who had hooked up his place, could have hooked up this one. True, it wasn’t Ikea shit, but it was put together well, sort of an Asian thing going on. Not too much furniture, but it was well placed, and there were lots of plants. Nice artwork on the walls. Nerd-boy had it goin’ on in here.
Ice smiled. He hoped Rodney Grimes had enjoyed this place. He also hoped that he had lived life to the fullest, but he doubted it. Whatever. Today was the last day of that geek’s life.
Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton turned off his penlight and waited in the dark for his next victim to return home.
Rodney Grimes exited the elevator and walked down the hall to his tenth-floor apartment. He unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind him.
He hit the light switch and froze. Sitting on his futon couch was Ice Hamilton.
“Welcome home,” Ice beamed. He flicked open a switch-blade. “You can run if you want to, but I bet I can catch you.”
Rodney just stood there.
“Brave, huh?” Ice chuckled.
Rodney put his gym bag on the floor.
“Been workin’ out?” Ice asked.
Rodney did not reply.
“Well,” Ice said, “let’s see if you can kick my ass.” Brandishing his stainless steel stiletto, he laughed and rose from the futon.
John Mayfield pulled into the front parking lot of the Wingate House East apartment complex at 9:45 p.m. He parked his unmarked police cruiser, a black 2000 Ford Taurus, and just as he lifted himself out of the car, the sound of breaking plate glass drew his attention upward, where he saw a man dangling from the railing of a balcony.
Sweet Jesus,” Mayfield whispered. He bolted toward the apartment building.
Someone began pounding on the front door, yelling, “Police! Open up!”
Grimes realized it must be Detective Mayfield. He owes me a beer, he thought. Wiping his Coke-bottle glasses, he turned and headed for the door.
Detective Mayfield, gun drawn, was surprised to see him. “Who…?”
“Ice,” Grimes replied.
Detective Mayfield passed quickly through the rubble of broken furniture and stepped onto the balcony. He was awe-struck. Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton, battered and bloody, his eyes filled with an odd combination of terror and rage, was struggling to keep hold of the railing with one hand. The other, once-powerful arm, now as limp as a strand of overcooked spaghetti, merely swung back and forth like a pendulum.
“Help me, man!” Ice yelled. “Help me! My fingers is slippin’!”
While the detective considered what to do, Ice lost his grip. He screamed like a white chick in a horror flick all the way down.
Mayfield holstered his service handgun and turned back to Grimes. He was speechless. But as he looked at Grimes without his glasses, it suddenly came to him where he had seen the man before. The trophies toppled over on the bookshelves and the certificates and awards on the walls confirmed it. Rodney Grimes was a Tae Kwon Do champion, a tenth-degree black-belt. Over the past several years while lending his support to fellow officers who were involved with martial arts, Mayfield had seen Grimes compete at tournaments held at the old D.C. Convention Center. Grimes was a dynamo; Hamilton never had a chance. A Herculean effort was required for John Mayfield to conceal his amusement and deep satisfaction.
The detective noted that Grimes was as cool as a cucumber. No. Cold
“Ice needed someone to save the day,” said Grimes. “It’s too bad I couldn’t help him. But, like he said…” He slipped on his glasses and his magnified eyes stared directly at Mayfield.
Recalling the note Ice Hamilton had left on Rodney Grimes’s car, Detective John Mayfield nodded, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
God don’t like ugly
by Lester Irby
Edgewood, N.E.
The Fantasy Nightclub used to sit on the corner of 14th and U Streets, N.W., in what was then D.C.’s red-light district. Pimps, whores, players, drug dealers, and every other sort of hustler swarming the deadly streets of the Chocolate City frequented this establishment. Even a sprinkle of lawyers and local politicians wandered through from time to time.
The year was 1970. On a warm and pleasant Friday night in September, the folks inside of this enclave of sinful joy were at their partying best. Drinks were being gulped down at a rapid pace. Coke and “doogie” snorted even quicker, and couples gyrated, cutting the rug as the fiery sounds of the Temptations’ smash hit “Ball of Confusion” heated the mood to an even higher pitch.
At approximately 12:30 a.m. the club was filled to its maximum capacity. A boisterous crowd of latecomers stood outside the club’s front entrance pleading with the muscular bouncers to let them in.
“Look, muthafuckas,” said Granite, one of the several mean men hired by the owner to keep peace in the house. “There ain’t no mo’ muthafuckin’ room in the place, so shut the fuck up and get ta steppin’, fo’ I put a hot-ball inside somebody’s ass.”
Granite had a take-no-shit-off-nobody attitude and reputation. He also had pay-me-for-protection partners feared by many, so certain big-time entrepreneur/hustlers readily hired his crew to keep their businesses moving smoothly.
While Granite and the other bouncers were trying to quiet and disperse the crowd, two gorgeous hookers, one black and the other white, left the dance floor and entered the ladies’ room to cool down and freshen up.
Several minutes later, awful cries for help were heard clearly over the loud music — screams eerily vibrating from within the ladies’ room.
Inside the rest room, the five-foot-eight curvaceous and strikingly beautiful Sarah Ward was discovered dead. She hovered over the toilet with her head completely submerged inside the piss-filled bowl. She had been strangled and drowned, and, according to the pathologist who later performed an autopsy, “beaten unmercifully moments before,” as evidenced by multiple facial bone fractures.
Who tortured and killed this beautiful woman?
My name is Felicia “Fee-Fee” Taylor. I attended the Fantasy Club that night. I am the sister of Raymond “Smooth” Taylor Jr., and I was once the number-one girlfriend of the notorious Zack Amos, the flamboyant yet smart, crafty, and feared drug kingpin of our nation’s capital.
My ex-man and brother play major roles in the story that
I am about to tell you, and they are significantly linked to the murder of Sarah Ward. I too am linked significantly to that terrible tragedy, as is undercover police officer Ted Jenkins, who was also present that night. But before I go into the details of that event, I desire and very much need to share some things about myself. I was raised in the Edgewood section of Northeast D.C. Born January 13, 1952, the youngest of two children, I was spoiled rotten by my parents, Raymond and Patricia Taylor, and even more so by my grandma, Nanny Johnson. Along with my older brother (by four years) Raymond Jr., we all resided at 3618 Bryant Street. Both parents worked. My mother was a teacher at Mott Elementary, which my brother and I both attended. My father worked two jobs, construction four to five days a week and an evening part-time job stacking shelves at the Safeway on the corner of 4th and Rhode Island Avenue. We had a three-bedroom home — actually four, because my parents converted a portion of our basement into another bedroom. That was Nanny’s Queendom and she simply loved her space.