He also ran a protection racket on the side. At six three and two hundred twenty pounds of shredded muscle, Levon cut an imposing figure walking into other stores on the block. They immediately went quiet when he came in. When he told them he’d graduated from the U of M, they got even quieter. This kid was brutal and smart, they knew.
Today, however, Levon had run into an apparent snag.
It happened every so often, usually with one of the older folks who didn’t want to pay him. He’d usually head over to their shops and casually inform them that while he appreciated their situation, the last thing they wanted was an unexpected fire striking in the near future. He’d shrug, smile, and turn to leave. More often than not, they’d immediately open the cash register. On rare occasions, when that cash register didn’t open, an unexpected fire would turn the business into a smoking husk by morning.
This time was different. The old man in question, Timothy Gardner, had seemed like every other holdover from the 1950s. But Gardner was connected, it turned out. He counted among his myriad cousins the Reverend Jim Crawford. Big Jim. Community leader. Talk show host. Friend to the street.
And now Reverend Jim was standing in Levon’s shop, grinning his million-dollar grin, wearing his thousand-dollar suit, shaking his five hundred-dollar haircut. He sat in one of the swivel chairs. The shop was empty. Levon stood before him, arms crossed, biceps flexed.
“Mr. Washington,” said the reverend, “I understand that my cousin has been causing you some distress.”
Levon nodded.
“Because he is living in your neighborhood?”
Levon nodded again.
“Well, what can we do to rectify this situation?” Big Jim’s grin grew.
Levon pretended to think. He’d known the answer to this question the minute he heard about Gardner’s relationship with Big Jim. Actually, it’s why he had targeted Gardner’s shop.
Slowly, he approached Big Jim’s chair, saw the fear creep into Big Jim’s eyes, the way it did with everyone when he gave them the dead stare—that blank look he could wash over his pupils to cloud his intent. He put his hands on the back of Big Jim’s chair.
Suddenly, he reached into the cabinet next to the chair, whipped out a barber shawl, and wrapped it around Big Jim’s neck. Then, like lightning, he reclined Big Jim’s chair. Before the famous rabble-rouser could react, Levon grabbed a can of Barbasol, foamed it in his thick, uncalloused hands, and covered Big Jim’s neck and face.
Then he took out a razor and a strop. Slowly, he began sharpening it as he looked down at Big Jim.
“I want in.”
Big Jim laughed, and Levon found himself admiring the man’s rich baritone. “You’re an uppity one, ain’t you?”
Levon gave him the blank stare again. Sklop. He sharpened the razor. “I want in,” he repeated.
Big Jim looked up at him comfortably. “And what if I tell you I don’t have any jobs available for such as you?”
Levon shrugged. Sklop. “Well, then, your cousin might need a job. Can never tell what’s gonna happen to his shop. And he’s older than I am. And less educated.”
“What can you do for me? I don’t run rackets on our own people.”
Levon moved behind Crawford and slowly began shaving him. His stare never stopped. “I have an idea. But you’ll have to trust me.”
Crawford’s eyes narrowed. “But I don’t trust you now, brother. That’s why I’m here.”
Levon’s eyes suddenly cleared. He smiled wide. “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so,” he said.
Now Crawford looked confused.
Levon’s smile never faltered. “It’s Shakespeare,” he said. “It means you’ll learn to trust me.”
Crawford laughed. Loudly this time. Then he looked at Levon curiously. “Quoting dead honkies,” he twinkled. “You might be useful yet.”
Two hours to the end of the shift. Ricky O’Sullivan looked down at his watch. Two hours. He hated this beat. The only white boy working the zombieland near the abandoned Packard plant. The plant, which once turned out luxury cars for the upper class, now covered forty acres of dead zone. Now it looked like something out of Mad Max, with shattered windows, rusted beams, and graffitied walls covering block after block. The city had tried to rehabilitate the site dozens of times. They’d failed every time.
Now it was a known drug hangout. There had been a dozen killings in the nearby area recently, and the new mayor insisted that police presence in the area increase. That, at least, was the right idea—or would have been, if it weren’t for the department’s use-of-force policies, which made it nearly impossible to do proper police work. Morale in the department had never been lower, and for good reason. After the latest consent decree with President Prescott’s Department of Justice, every cop on the force walked gingerly.
O’Sullivan rubbed his hands together in the car for warmth. He was low on gas and didn’t want to leave the engine running—his shift was almost over, given that it was nearly midnight. He couldn’t wait to get home, back to his apartment, far away from the cold and the dark.
He’d joined the force just a year before. He wasn’t a Detroit native, but he’d seen the recruitment ads. High pay, chances for advancement. On the force, he was a newbie. But in Detroit, that was as good as being a veteran, given the turnover.
The radio clogged with static.
“10-31, handle the 459 in progress, Iowa and Van Dyke.”
O’Sullivan sighed. Nobody responded.
“10-31, handle the 459 in progress, Iowa and Van Dyke,” the dispatcher repeated.
“10-4,” O’Sullivan said into his radio. He turned the engine over, flipped on the lights. The siren sounded. He still got a thrill in his legs every time it did. Burglary in progress at the gas station. That sounded about right. He hit the gas, shot forward on East Grand. From the radio, he figured there should be a couple other cops on the way soon, but he’d be there first.
First. Response time in this city was awful.
He breathed heavily out of his mouth. “Calm down, boy,” he said to himself. “Keep cool.”
Still, he could feel the sweat popping on his brow. This wasn’t his first robbery, but it was his first solo response. No senior partner to help out this time. Short-staffing and budget cuts.
The gas station looked empty when he pulled up. Grass had pushed its way through the cement of the lot. Graffiti marked the station—illiterate bubble letters; O’Sullivan had given up on trying to decode that shit long ago—and the lights on the street flickered eerily. Rows of broken-down townhouses marked the surrounding side streets. Across the Earle Memorial Highway, there was an abandoned church, covered in graffiti, a couple boarded-up brick buildings. An open field bordered the gas station to the east.
He didn’t see anybody on the street as he pulled up next to the quick mart. A couple of those windows were boarded up, too. He peeked through the window—nobody was behind the counter. The place looked closed. But he couldn’t be sure from the car.
The car door creaked as he pushed it open with his foot. O’Sullivan reached out for the secure feeling of the gun on his hip—it was warm to the touch, comforting. He took his hand off the butt of the pistol and pulled his flashlight from his belt, turned it on.
Nothing. Just dark and quiet.
He looked through the glass door, saw the racks of Funyuns and Doritos. The cashier’s counter lay behind a thick pane of double-plexiglass. Nobody sat behind it.