I scanned the rest of The Block for his boys. The first was easy to spot, because he stood right on the corner-a wiry guy in a blue t-shirt. He’d be the salesman, I figured. Sure enough, within minutes a car pulled up for a short exchange and then drove off.
“Where’s his muscle?” I muttered.
“It’s just him and the skinny guy,” Andy said.
“No women or wannabes in sight,” I said. “No one to hold his guns or extra dope.”
“He holds it. No one messes with D.”
“Still, he wouldn’t want to be holding a gun or dope if the police contact him.”
“The police don’t touch him.”
I lowered my binoculars and looked over at Andy. I didn’t like the inference. “What do you mean?”
He shrugged. “The police don’t touch him,” he repeated. “That’s all I know.”
I chewed on that while watching an hour’s worth of business transactions. I couldn’t believe D was being protected by cops. Not in River City. Not if he was able to move the kind of weight Andy described.
Could he be a confidential informant?
No way. All CI contracts have a clause that forbids the CI to break any laws while working with the police. Cops have been known to look the other way for some minor violations, but not for major drug trafficking.
We watched for an hour, and then I nudged Andy. “Let’s go.”
He gave me a confused look. “Why? I thought-”
“Just come on.”
He shook his head and followed me.
When we passed through the lobby, I gave the manager a wave. He gave me two thumbs up.
“I thought you were going to help,” Andy said to me once we were outside.
“I am.” I unlocked the truck and slid behind the wheel. Andy remained on the sidewalk, staring at me. His hair hung over a sullen face. I rolled down the window. “If we’re going to do this, you’re just going to have to trust me.”
His gaze didn’t soften.
“Get in,” I told him and started the engine.
Reluctantly, he walked to passenger side and got inside.
I drove to Madison. As soon as I turned the corner, I pulled the old truck to the side of the street and parked.
“Lean back in the seat,” I instructed Andy. “And don’t move around.”
We sat in silence from over a block away and watched Wiry sell while D watched. After another twenty minutes, the pair decided to close up shop. A cab arrived at the corner and both men got inside.
I started the truck and followed them from a distance. The cab turned onto the Birch Street Bridge and headed into the West Central neighborhood. When the cab pulled to the side to let the two passengers out at a small blue house, I continued past. After two blocks, I flipped a U-turn and parked on the side of the street. I turned off the engine.
“What are we doing?” Andy asked.
“Watching.”
“For what?”
“Make sure they’re staying put.”
We sat in the car for twenty minutes before I started the engine again.
“Now what?”
I drove to Cannon Park, right in the heart of West Central. “Get out,” I told him.
“What?”
“You heard me.”
Andy shook his head. “No way. Whatever you’re going to do, I’m helping.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am. I-”
“Andy!” My voice rang out in the truck cab. He jumped in his seat.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “You scared the fuck out of me.”
I looked across the bench seat at him. I wanted to tell him I was sorry for letting his mother get away with all the lies she told. Sorry that I didn’t try harder to break through all the bullshit and be his father. Sorry for the Christmases and the birthdays and every other goddamned thing.
“Andy, you’re a junkie,” was what I said, and the coldness in my voice made me cringe.
“No, I’m not-”
“You’re no good to me. Not for what I have to do.”
His eyes brimmed with tears.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
He brushed them away in two brisk motions. “I’m not a junkie,” he said.
“Wait here.” I pointed through the windshield. “At that bench. I’ll be back soon.”
He glared at me. “I am not a junkie,” he said.
“I know,” I whispered back. “You’re my son.”
He sucked at his teeth and his mouth made a clacking noise. Then he opened the door and got out.
It wasn’t a party house. Parked a half block away with my windows open, I’d have heard the thumping of bass if a party were going on. No one else came or went while I watched and planned.
I finally decided that the longer I waited, the greater the chance people would show up. I got out of the truck and popped the seat back forward. The oversized flannel shirt was nestled into the corner. I picked it up and unwrapped the sawed-off shotgun. With the barrel cut down to eight inches and very little handgrip, it didn’t look like much, but it was deadly at close range.
I slipped on the flannel, checked to make sure both barrels were loaded and tucked the shotgun into my waistband. I used my elbow to pin the weapon to my body while I strode to the little blue house.
At the door, I listened carefully and only heard the muffled thump of heavy bass. No voices. My hands and feet tingled as the zing of adrenaline flooded my body. For a moment, I thought about what I was about to do. There were a hundred good reasons not to do it. Most of those faded, though, now that I was retired from the job. I had so much less to lose now. All that kept coming to mind was Andy’s scared, bruised face and the sucking, clacking sound he made with his teeth.
I slipped the shotgun out of my waistband and gripped it tightly in my right hand. With my left, I check the doorknob. It was locked. By force of habit, I counted to three, reared back and drove my foot into the door just below the knob.
The flimsy door flew open with a loud crack.
D and his wiry pal sat on the couch, game controllers clutched in their hands. The huge TV screen in front of them displayed video game soldiers.
“What the fu-” Wiry said, his eyes widening. He sat closest to me, perched on the edge of the couch. I took two long strides and cracked him across the jaw with the butt end of the shotgun. He grunted and collapsed forward onto the floor.
D stared at me, surprise registering in his eyes, but no fear. He lounged against the back of the couch in an exaggerated pose of relaxation.
“Who else is here?” I demanded.
D continued to stare at me. Wiry moaned and stirred.
I touched the shotgun barrels to the back of Wiry’s head. “Who else?”
“No one, man,” D answered. “Just us.”
I nudged Wiry with the shotgun. “Get up.”
Wiry groaned, but rose to a knee and then fell sideways onto the couch. He looked up at me with unfocused eyes and rubbed his swelling jaw.
D appraised me. “You all by yo’self, pig? Where’s yo backup?”
I glared at him. “I’m not a cop.”
“You look like five-oh to me,” he said. “And I done paid you motherfuckers already.”
Wiry shifted in his seat, coiling himself to spring. I pressed the barrel of the shotgun against his forehead. “Relax,” I growled.
He sighed and sank into the cushion.
I turned my attention back to D. “You sold a package of crank to a white kid last night. He paid you five large.”
D gave me a dismissive shrug. “If you say so.”
I stepped forward and smacked Wiry in the back of the head with my open hand. He yelped. My eyes never left D.
“I do say so,” I told him, “because that’s exactly what happened. But then you pulled a Compton Shuffle.”
“Say what?”
“You sent your boys to jump that white kid and his pal and you stole back the merchandise you’d just sold him. So now you’ve got the five thousand and the dope.”
“You a crazy motherfucker, man.”
I gave him a manic grin. “Not crazy. Just nothing to lose.”
A flash of fear touched his eyes and they widened. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Here’s how it’s going to work,” I said. “Wiry here is going to get the money and bring it out into the living room. If he comes back empty-handed or with anything except the money in his hand, you get the first barrel and he gets the second.”