Dead End Fix (12 page)

Kashawn tapped in the final nail and stepped back to admire his wall hanging. He'd seen it in the window of a store over on Wescott Avenue. The one selling everything for grabbing a gonzo high, having something fun to look at once you got your buzz on, or deodorizing the room after your weed ran its course. Kashawn didn't use that store often, even now that he had a few bucks in his pocket. He wasn't above taking a hit every now and again from somebody else's stash, and when it came time for celebrating he didn't mind getting fried, but he figured there was always something better to spend money on than marijuana. But he sure admired that tiger. Lady inside the store called it a tapestry. Kashawn thought it looked like a blanket. All fuzzy and thick. He liked the way the tiger's fur felt real and the way the big cat's eyes peered out from behind tall green grass. All of it against a black background that made him think of the jungle. He thought about buying it for his bed. The idea of sleeping with a tiger lying on top of him sounded good. But the lady at the store said a person was supposed to hang it on a wall. Stand and admire it, she said. Seventy-five dollars for something to hang on the wall sounded pretty steep to Kashawn, and he told the lady as much. She must have taken a shine to him because she waved Kashawn closer. Told him he looked like a good man. Batted her eyes and told him he was handsome, too. Said something about what she'd like to do if she were twenty years younger. Then she giggled, offered to take fifteen dollars off the price so long as Kashawn promised not to tell anybody, and had the thing wrapped up before he could give it another thought. Now that he had it hung up in his bedroom, Kashawn was glad she had.

Look at that, Ettie,
he thought wonderingly.
Your boy's got a genuine piece of art. You got anything like this hanging on your wall, Mama? You got a tiger looking out for you?

A knock interrupted his thoughts about the mother he'd never met.

“Green K?” A familiar voice called from outside his closed bedroom door. “You in there, boy? Get your ass out here. Slow Time and Turk just drop by.”

Kashawn opened the door to D'Loco.

“They holding pizza, man. You want a slice, you best get downstairs before your brothers get it gone.” D'Loco looked over Kashawn's shoulder. “You gonna invite me in or what? I ain't seen the place since you took over.”

Kashawn had never expected his leader to come to his room. It was rare enough for D'Loco to come to the clubhouse. Every 97 knew he had three apartments where he kept his ladies. Big Cheeks had told Kashawn once that D'Loco even had a house over in West Seattle. Said it had a lawn and everything. White folks for neighbors, even. The woman who lived in that house had a couple of D'Loco's kids. Kashawn remembered Big Cheeks saying no 97 was ever going to know any of D'Loco's children. The boss kept his family as far away from his business as he could.

Kashawn stepped aside and let his leader enter.

D'Loco stood in the center of the room, hands on hips, taking it all in. “You neat as a woman, boy. I like that. Tells me you have respect for yourself. Respect for 97 property, too.”

D'Loco walked past Kashawn's neatly made bed and peered into the bathroom. He inhaled sharply. “Damn, son. Smells like perfume in there.” He turned around and winked at Kashawn. “You got some jelly up in here right now? Cuz say the word and I'm gone. D'Loco don't want to cramp nobody's style.”

A heat wave rose in him at D'Loco's suggestion he had a girl in his room. He would never bring any of the chippies who hung out downstairs up into his space. If any girl ever came into his room, it would be LaTonya. And she wasn't the kind of girl to ever step foot in a 97 clubhouse.

“Nobody's here,” he said. “Just me.” He pointed to the tiger on the wall. “I got this today. Just finished hanging it.”

D'Loco walked over to the tapestry. He rubbed his hand over the silky fur and nodded. “This here some fancy shit. You got taste, Green K. Classy.” He walked to the bed. D'Loco smoothed his hand over the blanket before sitting on the corner of the mattress. “You get that tiger for tomorrow?”

Kashawn didn't understand.

“The driver test, man. Don't go tellin' me you forgettin' about what's about to go down at the DMV. That tiger there. He the early celebration of you gettin' your license? Or maybe he your inspiration. You gonna stare into those eyes and imagine you like him? King of the jungle or some such?”

Kashawn's mind flashed on a time he'd once stood close enough to LaTonya's locker to hear her talking to her girlfriends. Telling them about some movie her parents had shown her. All about how some lion was king of the jungle. Maybe he'd never had a parent to show him a movie, but someday he'd be able to tell her she was wrong. D'Loco had just told him the tiger was king. That would be nice, him teaching LaTonya something.

“Maybe I shoulda waited,” Kashawn said. “This would be a mighty reward, wouldn't it?”

“Don't need to worry about that, son. That test tomorrow ain't no thing. You go on in there and pass. Then you bring your license to me and I'ma make sure you get paid.”

Kashawn nodded. He forced his face to stay calm. It wouldn't be cool to let D'Loco see his pride at knowing his leader believed he would pass his driver's test.

“That was some shit today, wa'n it?” D'Loco asked. “Rollin' up on that Pico like that. I'ma come up here myself and tell you I like the way you handle yourself. Shit gets real, I'm always gonna know you a man I can count on.”

Kashawn bit the inside of his cheek. It was the only way he could think to keep a grin from busting out.

“I got you, D'Loco. Don't ever doubt that.”

“I don't, son. I know I can count on Green K, come what will.” D'Loco looked at him long enough for Kashawn to wonder if he was supposed to say something. He counted it a great blessing when D'Loco spoke again.

“I shoulda knowed you'd be just fine. What's the matter with me? I'm forgettin' the way you come to us. Takin' out that Pico the way you did. Bringin' in that piece of shit's badge all on your own.” D'Loco kept his eyes locked on Kashawn. “You and me never had a sit-down about that. I ain't never learned details about how that whole thing came to be.”

A bead of sweat formed on Kashawn's neck. It tickled as it rolled down his spine. He knew better than to reach back to brush it away.

“Ain't much to tell. I'm out that day. Saw that no-good Pico walking like he didn't have a care. Too close to 97 territory for my way of things. I did what I had to do.”

D'Loco's stare held him in place. Kashawn struggled to stay standing on legs that seemed to want the night off.

“You were carryin'?” D'Loco asked. “Just happen to have your piece with you?”

Kashawn's breathing was fast. Still he wasn't getting enough air into his lungs.

He nodded.

“Where that piece now? You got the one me and the boys give you. But what ever came of the piece you used on that stinkin' Pico?”

Kashawn felt no control over his mouth. Yet somehow it opened and a lie tumbled out. “Got rid of it. Took it down to the water. Threw it in.”

D'Loco nodded. “Smart. Where?”

“What?”

“Where you ditch the piece? What water?”

Kashawn could barely hear over the clamor of his own pulse pounding like a hammer on steel in his ears.

“What was it?” D'Loco pressed. “River? Lake? Where you throw that gun?”

“I threw it into one of them blue shacks.” Kashawn had two minds now. One spinning the lie on the spot, the other wondering how the hell this was happening. “Them temporary toilets for the construction workers down by Prescott. I threw the piece in there.”

“By the freeway build? That what you talkin' about?”

Kashawn nodded once. Then twice. Again his mouth opened all on its own while he clenched his fists and listened to the story his own voice told. “At least a hundred guys work that site. They use them shitters day in, day out. Truck come twice a week. Take the old ones out, bring in replacements. I figure anybody stupid enough to get hisself a job pumping out a holding tank full of shit and piss ain't gonna notice if something goes clunk. Even if he notice, he gonna put his hand shoulder deep into the pit to see what made the noise?”

D'Loco held his stare. Kashawn took a look around his room. He wanted to remember every detail so he could call it to his mind while he shivered under some bridge. Maybe D'Loco would let him keep the tiger. He could use it for a blanket after all.

D'Loco's smile was slow. He pointed at Kashawn. “You know what you are, Green K? You a genius, that what you are. Dumpin' your piece in the porta-shitter. That's a piece of smart-ass thinkin' if ever I heard one.” He stood up from the bed, crossed over to Kashawn, and laid a heavy hand on the shoulder of the 97s' newest member.

“So you didn't do nothin' to pick this Pico out? Didn't do no scoutin'? No…what they call it on them TV shows? Profilin'. You didn't do none of that on this Pico?”

Kashawn shook his head. “Like I said. Pico walkin' too close to 97 turf. I ain't gonna lie. I was lookin' for a way to get your notice. I saw my opportunity and I took it.”

D'Loco squeezed Kashawn's shoulder and nodded.

“You know this Pico's name?”

Kashawn shook his head again.

“You know his rank in the Pico Underground? Any shit like that?”

“No, sir, I don't.”

“So if you was to learn this shot you took found its way into somebody other than an honest-to-God Pico, that would be news to you?”

Kashawn looked his leader in the eye. He wanted this to be over. The rumble in his bowels was so loud he was certain D'Loco could hear it. Again he listened to words he didn't consciously form come out of his mouth.

“I killed me a Pico. I give you badge, didn't I?”

D'Loco squeezed Kashawn's shoulder again. This time hard enough to force Kashawn's concentration against a wince. Then D'Loco released his grip and gave him a playful slap upside the head.

“You one tough sumbitch, you know that, Green K?” D'Loco pointed again to the tiger on the wall. “That's you up there. In the grass. Ready to jump out. That's you, all right.” D'Loco took a step to the door. “You comin' down or what? Pizza like to gone cold by now, but if they any left you can heat it up.”

Kashawn forced a deep breath.

“I be down in a few. You don't mind, maybe you could tell them brothers hold me a piece or two. I'ma go over that driver test one more time before I come down.”

D'Loco nodded. “There be somethin' for you to eat. I'ma see to it. And like I say, you bring me that license and I'ma take care of the reward.”

Kashawn counted to five after D'Loco closed his bedroom door.

Then he sprinted for the toilet.

“It sounds like things are back to normal there.” Mort smiled at the background noise of two rowdy seven-year-olds getting their morning started. He'd called Robbie wanting to check in after his dinner with Lydia. “What are those two rascals fighting over now?”

“What else?” Robbie sounded more relaxed than Mort had heard him in weeks. “Their mother's attention. I know it was my idea to keep the girls out of school until Monday. But I'll tell you what, there are times I regret that decision.”

The humor in Robbie's voice assured Mort that shipping his kids off for a day at school was the last thing his son wanted. The relief of having his reunited family trumped any chaos born of sibling rivalry.

“Just load 'em up with pancakes and sausage,” Mort said. “Get their bellies full. They'll settle right down.”

“Claire's on that project even as we speak.” Robbie's voice grew serious. “Special Agent Garrison called. He's coming by around ten this morning. I think he's going to ask me again about this Sheila who brought Hadley home. I don't know what to tell him.”

Tim Garrison was a superb agent, and his dogged determination to wrap up every loose end of a case might lead him to ask questions that could result in both Mort and Lydia being locked in a federal penitentiary.

“Tell him the truth. You have no idea who Sheila is. I told you she was a friend of mine. Garrison will come to me. I'll deal with it.”

“And you don't want to give me a clue as to whom Claire and I need to thank for bringing our girl back?”

Like Garrison, Robbie could smell a lie a mile away. And the reporter in him wouldn't allow him to walk away from any mystery until he was satisfied he'd answered every question.

“Can you let Hadley being home be enough?”

Robbie was silent for a moment.

“Of course,” Robbie said. “Of course it's enough. But we've got to meet. You, me, Claire…We've got to come up with a plan. Allie's not done with us, Dad. You know that.”

Mort thought about the killer Allie had sent to Lydia's door.

“Soon,” he promised. “Allie's smart. She's going to bide her time. Let things simmer down.”

“Maybe. Claire and I are meeting with the girls' school. Nobody gets access to them but the three of us. It's going to be a while before we let them play at friends' houses. When we do, we'll make sure the parents know what's going on.”

What is going on?
Mort wondered.
What's happened to my family that my grandchildren need protection from my own daughter?

“Go eat your pancakes. Hug your womenfolk tight. I'll talk with you soon. I love you, son.”

Robbie sent his own love and ended the call. As much as Mort hated the thought, there was nothing he could do about Allie until she made her move. He leaned back and studied the whiteboard chronicling Benji Jackson's murder. He shoved his concerns for his family to the side and got back to work.

Mort walked into the two-story brick building with wide street-facing windows a little before ten o'clock. In the old days the structure had been home to a butcher shop. That was back when immigrants from Sweden and Norway had settled in this area to work the logging trade. Back when the streets bustled with the promise of the American dream. A couple of generations later, those Scandinavians had settled elsewhere, selling their homes to Poles and Italians and working-class GIs fresh from saving the world from Hitler and his henchmen, lured by the manufacturing jobs in Seattle's fledgling aeronautics industry. The building then served as a neighborhood library. Mothers brought their children for story hours and book clubs, assuring them an education was the first rung on the ladder of success. When Boeing crashed, so did the neighborhood. The workers moved on. The library closed. The abandoned houses were bought by the government to be used as subsidized housing and the former library became Our Joint, a nonprofit community center providing support for families living in an area short on hopes or dreams.

The reception room smelled of disinfectant. Mismatched office chairs, upholstery worn thin and legs gouged and scratched, was lined up against pea green walls covered with flyers for the various programs the center offered. The floor was brown linoleum, worn and scuffed but buffed to brilliance. The curtainless windows were just as clean, letting in the light from a rare sunny October morning. Two women sat by the windows, speaking rapid-fire Spanish and cooing over a very fat baby resting in a portable car seat at their feet. They paid no attention when Mort walked up to the reception desk.

“I'm looking for Lincoln Lane.” Mort smiled at the African American girl staffing the phones. She looked to be somewhere south of twenty, carrying at least sixty pounds more weight than was healthy. Giant gold hoops in her ears, and fingernails painted red, white, and blue.

“He in the gym. He 'specting you?”

“No. He's a colleague. I thought I'd drop by and have a word or two with him.”

“You a cop too?” The young woman's voice rose an octave. “I swear, we got more cops volunteer in this place than we got workin' the streets. Why you not out there? Makin' this place safe? Servin' and protectin'? Why you ain't out there doin' that? Read your car door. It's right there.”

Mort stifled a smile. “Yeah, I'm a cop. But I'm not here to volunteer, I promise. I thought I'd catch Lincoln here is all.”

She gave him a long, disapproving stare. “I guess it's okay, then. Like I say, he in the gym. His brother with him too. Two of them settin' up for wrestlin' practice. Kids come by after school. My shift's over by then. I don't need to be around no screamin' kids.” She looked over to the two women in the corner. “No offense intended, ladies. Your baby makin' no noise whatsoever. That's the way I like children. Quiet. Them kids come in for wrestlin' be gruntin' and snortin' like they some kind of pigs. Always with the sticky fingers from they juice boxes, too.” She turned her attention back to Mort. “I keep this place clean. Every morning I have to get out the rag and the mop. Clean up the mess them kids left from the night before.”

Mort pointed down the hallway running off to the left. “Gym this way?”

“Mm-hmm. Go to the end of the hall. When you can't go no further, you turn right. Don't turn left cuz that takes you to the kitchen. You gonna smell them church ladies making mac and cheese for the after-school, but don't pay no mind to that. Go left to the gym. Gym got added on long time ago. Been here long as I been alive. Don't ask me who built it because I don't know.” The phone on her desk rang. She reached for it, still looking at Mort. “Go on, now. I got my work, you got yours. I can't be sitting here talkin' to any old body come off the street.” She turned away from him and spoke into the receiver. “This here's Our Joint. You talkin' to Vanessa. Why you callin'?”

Mort headed down the hall. Vanessa was right. The warm aroma of melted cheese tempted him. He was sure he smelled fresh cornbread too. But the hallway ended and he turned right, down another, shorter hallway with open double doors exposing the shining gloss of a polished gym floor. Lincoln Lane was over in the corner, talking to his brother, Franklin. Franklin was two years younger than Lincoln, but if not for the fact Franklin wore his dark hair a few inches longer than his brother's tight cut, it would have been difficult to tell the two apart.

“Well, will you look what the cat dragged in?” Lincoln called out in response to the click of Mort's shoes across the hardwood. “Franklin, hide the booze. The cops are here.”

Lincoln offered Mort a strong handshake and a warm smile. The three of them spent a few minutes in small talk, mostly about the prospects of Our Joint's wrestling team this season. Lincoln worried the boys from St. Alphonse would hand his team their heads.

“But if we get past them, we should be looking okay for All City Champs.”

“We'll make it through Alphonse,” Franklin promised. “That is, if we can keep the kids focused on keeping their moves on the mats.”

Lincoln shot his brother a look Mort couldn't decipher.

“There a problem?” Mort asked.

Lincoln slapped a heavy hand on his brother's shoulder. “Franklin's a worrier. It's tough for these kids. Too many distractions coming at 'em from the streets.”

“Yeah,” Franklin said. “Try to convince some high schooler it's better to practice takedowns and escapes three hours a day instead of running crud for the local boss.”

“Gangs have a strong pull on your kids?”

“Depends on the kid,” Lincoln answered. “Depends on the family. On whether or not they believe there might be something else that can get them out of these dead-end streets. Whether they have a full enough belly to practice hard. Depends on a lot of things.”

“How about Benji Jackson? Was he able to keep himself distracted enough? I heard he was a hell of a ballplayer.”

“You back on that case? I told you, it's going cold. I know these people, Mort. Nobody's going to talk. Banjo was a good kid. And a round-ball natural. He had the touch. The size. The moves. That kid could wiggle out of a three-man defense, scoot downcourt, and shoot for three anytime he wanted. Isn't that right, Franklin?”

Lincoln's brother was busy laying out mats for the afternoon practice, out of earshot of his brother's question.

“Benji interested in wrestling at all?” Mort asked. “His father told us he spent a lot of time here.”

“He did,” Lincoln said. “But he was a one-sport kid. Much as we tried to convince him, he never wanted to come out for wrestling.”

“I wasn't aware you had that much contact with Benji.”

“I told you about his brother, didn't I?” Lane's eyes narrowed. “And I told you Banjo had nothing to do with any gang. Three Pop made sure Banjo steered clear.”

“What if whoever shot Benji was aiming for his brother?” Mort recapped his conversation with Bayonne Jackson.

“Three Pop told you he thought he was the target?” Franklin Lane asked.

“Bayonne didn't tell me much of anything. I gave him Benji's belongings…including the clothes he wore when he was killed.”

“This leading to something?” Lincoln asked. His brother walked over and rejoined the conversation.

Mort told them about the jacket. “It had one sleeve sliced off. Officers on the scene didn't think much of it at first. But I saw something in Bayonne's eyes. I think he knew exactly why that sleeve was missing. I watched him leave the station. First thing he did was pull out that jacket.”

“And?” Franklin asked.

“It fit.” Mort looked at Lincoln. “Bayonne Jackson is number two in the Pico Underground. What if someone was hunting Bayonne and got Benji by mistake?”

“Kind of hard to mistake a twelve-year-old for a grown man,” Lincoln said.

“Benji was wearing his brother's colors. What if the shooter wasn't looking too close? Or nervous? Eager to do the deed and split. I could see a mistake being made.”

The two Lane brothers exchanged a glance.

“You're thinking it was a 97?” Franklin asked. “Killed Banjo thinking it was Three Pop and grabbed the Pico insignia to prove his kill? Is that where you're going with this?”

“It makes sense.” Mort focused again on Lincoln. “You're the expert. If it was a 97, who would you put your money on?”

“Don't bark up that tree, Grant.” Lincoln Lane fixed a determined glare on Mort. “We got a nice patch of quiet working between those two gangs. You go to the 97s pointing fingers…things are going to get real ugly real fast.”

“Meaning?”

“I told you, these guys are animals. Wounded, scared, rabid animals. Rage walking around in human skin. Looking for any reason to erupt. You so much as hint you're looking at them for something they didn't do—or even if they did do this—you're going to see bodies start dropping faster than Volkswagen stock. There's not enough overtime in the world to cover the hours you and your team are going to be putting in trying to figure out who killed who. And you can count on a few civilians getting caught in the crossfire. You up for that?”

“A twelve-year-old kid was killed!” Mort's voice rose in frustration. “I saw Bayonne put on that jacket. This is gang activity and the department's specialist is telling me to
drop this
?”

“What's going on in here?” a female voice called out from across the gym. “I can hear you out in the hall.” A middle-aged woman stormed toward them. “My kids hear enough yelling in their lives. They don't need more of it at Our Joint.” She stopped in front of Mort.

“Who are you? And why are you yelling at my wrestling coaches?”

She was a five-foot-four cylinder of a woman, equally round from shoulder to knee. Linebacker arms strained against the magenta jacket she wore. Her black skirt ended just below the knee, exposing thick calves that led straight to a pair of rubber-soled walking shoes. Her hair was piled on top of a jowly, square head, giving Mort the overall impression of a sensibly dressed oatmeal tube.

“I'm sorry, Gigi,” Lincoln Lane said. “This here's Mort Grant. Chief of detectives, Seattle PD. Mort, this is Gigi Vinings. She runs things here.”

Mort held out his hand. Gigi looked down at it with disgust.

“And why is the chief of detectives yelling at my volunteers?” She turned to Lincoln and Franklin. “You two steal cookies from the church ladies this afternoon?”

The Lane boys shook their heads. “No, ma'am,” they said in unison.

Gigi Vinings turned back toward Mort. “Then you must be here looking for one of our members. If that's the case, you come to me. Who are you suggesting did what?”

Everything about her, from her appearance to her tone, indicated that if, indeed, Mort was here to investigate one of the people using Our Joint as a respite from the mean streets, Gigi Vinings would handle things herself. And if it turned out one of her members
had
violated a law, there was no doubt in his mind the perpetrator would suffer far more harshly with Gigi's consequences than any the local judge might dole out.