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Authors: Victor McGlothin

BOOK: Sleep Don't Come Easy
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Fifteen
R
esidential traffic began to thicken as Vera exited the freeway at Ledbetter Road on the south side. She took a left and headed east, traveling deeper into a vastly minority populated area which forty years earlier was relegated to “Whites Only.” Rows of small wood-framed homes littered the landscape as far as the eye could see, with a few old and bewildered apartment complexes dotting the busy thoroughfare every other mile or so. Vera tried to imagine a time when Blacks and Hispanics were beating at the gates with aspirations of moving into the community but couldn't. The same neighborhood, now infested with prostitution, teen-aged pregnancies and rampant drug abuse featured scores of their offspring clawing for the chance to get out.
Sinton Johnson was partly responsible for the colossal decline of the once inspired community. For a time, he managed a notorious band of drug dealers, pushing crack to working class parents and school children alike. Oddly enough, Sinton was revered by those whose lives he ruined and dreams he stole. When Vera considered that, she thought long and hard about what she'd do if she found him. Men like him were brazen wolves who deserved to be hunted down and disposed of. How Sinton Johnson escaped that fate was beyond her. Lord knows he deserved it.
Per Vendetta's directions, Vera located the Fat Man's Pizzeria where Sinton supposedly ordered the same unusual pizza pie combination at least twice a week. It would take some posturing to get what she needed from the manager and Vera was prepared to shake it out of him if push came to shove. “Hey, tell the manager someone wants to see him,” she requested boldly, in her best sister-from-downtown business voice. A young man standing behind the register finally acknowledged her.
“Yes, ma'am,” the teenager answered quickly, with a resounding amount of respect in his voice.
Vera surveyed the restaurant's dining room, salad bar and an employee dealing dime bags of marijuana near the restrooms. She smirked when the young man saw her. He alerted his customer to move along when she continued to stare him down. Vera didn't usually give a flip about small time pushers, but there she was, getting angrier by the second over a gateway pot transaction. It was as if nobody cared for the great promise which was lost and the repercussions that reverberated throughout because of it. From that moment on, Vera was determined to find Sinton.
“Yes, I'm the manager here—Lester Parish,” said the squat-built black man, with a receding hair line and dread locks dangling from the back of his head like stringy doll hair. He studied Vera while trying to bluff his way out of whatever stress she was bringing to his door. Vera remained quiet as she faced him, his arms folded, his demeanor surly and hesitant.
“And I'm Vera Miles,” she offered eventually. “I received a tip that some of your employees are using this restaurant to push narcotics.”
His eyes narrowed because of the way she phrased her words. “You're not a cop,” the man said, uncertain of his statement.
“I'm investigating something bigger than you got going on here. If I get what I need from you, I'm a memory,” Vera answered without addressing his question. The power of suggestion worked from time to time. Her bluff was stronger than his.
“I could deny any wrong goes on with my knowledge. Besides, it's just weed, you know.”
“You sound like a man who should be read his rights. How much time do you think you'll get when these young punks roll on you? After they've been in the hole for one night without video games and cell phones, they'll be fighting each other over who'll give you up first.”
It didn't take the manager a split second to decide which route to take. “Come into my office,” he offered immediately. Vera followed the round-headed man down the corridor to a small alcove barely big enough to fit a desk and chair inside. He motioned for her to enter behind him. “Shut the door,” he told her evenly.
“You're smarter than you look, Lester,” Vera scoffed. She didn't have anything against him particularly, other than his use of under aged employees as drug distributors. “Do yourself a favor and keep up the act. Tell me where you deliver pizzas to Sinton Johnson.”
“Sin . . . Johnson,” Lester muttered solemnly, like it was the name of a beloved warrior killed in battle. “Sistah, you must be doing dope yourself. Ain't nobody around here been near Sin. He's in too deep with the law and that makes him invisible. I don't have time for games. Now if you're here to shake me down, just say so. I ain't with the runaround.” The manager had grown more mad than scared. Vera knew then he was telling the truth.
“Let me see your order receipts for the last two weeks,” she said, going on Vendetta's tip. When the manager paused to figure out where she was headed with his receipts, Vera pulled her jacket back to reveal her .38. “Go on now, pull 'em down off that shelf.” He nodded apprehensively then grabbed a black plastic three-ring binder.
“What kind of cop are you anyway?”
“The best kind, one that was never here if I find what I'm looking for,” was her response. It must've sounded good to Lester, because he took a seat then shrugged his shoulders, waiting on instructions.
“All right, tell me what to do.”
Vera separated two bundles of pink-colored delivery tickets. “Check those and I'll rummage through this set. You've been making chicken and pineapple pizzas for a man who lives in the area. Unless you have more than one customer who orders it at least twice a week, they've all been called in by none other than,” she started to say before being cut off.
“Sin Johnson, I'll be damned,” he said awkwardly. “Wow, lady, I can't believe it. I'd have remembered that name.”
“Just check your stack. If anything else jumps out at you, tell me. I'll be out of your hair as quick as I can.” Vera watched the stumpy man thumb through the thin sheets of paper like a bank teller counting money. Obviously he'd sorted through them often and kept the delivery copies on hand to discourage thefts by his drivers, explaining how they'd been jacked after selling the pies wholesale to their friends and family.
“Miss, ain't no Sin Johnson here at all,” Lester informed her. “I took out the orders for chicken and pineapple, all phoned in by the same customer. Hmmm,” he grunted. “This fella's got three different addresses, though. Says the name is Warren Sikes.”
Vera dropped her bundle on the desk when she heard the name of the slain police officer. She almost smiled when it occurred to her that Sinton still had his legendary sense of humor, using the name of the man whose death he'd caused. No one would ever think to go traipsing in a black ghetto for a white man who'd been dead for two years. Vendetta said Sinton was hiding, that explained why he jumped apartments periodically. Now she had three places to search, three good places. She thanked the manager for his assistance and assured him that if he did get busted, the call wouldn't come from her. With a heavy dose of gratitude, Lester sent her off holding a special pizza pie with his compliments.
The sun was setting as Vera parked by the curb near a run-down building on the main drag. Since no one had answered when she knocked at one of the other two addresses on her list, Vera had a fifty-fifty chance to fall in on Sinton without someone tipping him off. The problem was both of the remaining apartments faced one another across a narrow courtyard and he could have looked out of the window to see her if she made the wrong selection. She caught a break when a woman scantily clad in a short sweater dress two sizes two small and over the knee boots exited the staircase near the end of the hall. “You on the stroll?” Vera asked, to be certain she was approaching a prostitute and not just some resident with bad fashion sense.
“That depends on who's asking?” the dark-skinned lady asked, with a curious expression.
“I'm asking,” Vera replied, while holding the pizza box as if it were a tray of gourmet delights. “Are you working or not? I ain't got all day.”
The woman sucked her gold teeth then adjusted the dress riding up her full thighs. “I ain't either. Time is money after all.” That was her way of admitting to the oldest profession known to man. “What you got in mind? I can get with some girl-on-girl action.”
“Well, I can't, so you need to back that up. How about you tell me something I don't know and I pay you for your time nonetheless? What do you charge for a date?”
The woman scratched at her red wig then gave Vera another once-over. “Sure you don't want to talk things over up at my place?”
“Hell, yeah, I'm sure. It's nothing personal but I'm running late as it is.” Vera smiled cordially as not to offend the hooker. The lengths to which she had to go to get an answer for Rags had come to this, flirting with a streetwalker.
“I usually get thirty bucks to lockup with females. Paid in advance,” she added, with her hand out. Begrudgingly, Vera slapped forty in her palm. “Cool, what you want to know?”
“Which of those apartments is Sinton Johnson staying in? And don't lie because don't nothing go down in the hood without working girls knowing about it.”
“You're right, we keeps the four-one-one on things. He's been staying in that one over yonder,” she answered politely. “How about you drop that box off and come see me about your change from this forty?”
Vera waved her off and pulled her gun. “Uh-uh, you should get gone. This might get ugly.” Before Vera crossed the dirt courtyard, the prostitute was in the wind. Poised with a pizza box in her left hand and a pistol in the right one, she tapped the barrel of the gun lightly against the door with 2G stenciled on it. Vera held the box in front of the window when someone peeped out of the crease in some of the filthiest drapes she'd ever seen.
“What you want?” someone asked, while purposely staying out of sight.
“Got a pizza, man,” she barked rudely, “Say here it's for Warren Sikes.”
There was a string of silence on the other side of that door before the knob turned to open it. “I don't 'member calling for no pizza,” came the answer from what appeared to be a disease riddled old man on his last leg. “It's right on time though. I didn't want to get out in the cold tonight.”
Vera stared at him, a shell of a man too sickly to be a detriment to anyone but himself. She nearly apologized for barging in on the wrong apartment until something in the frail man's eyes spoke to her. “Sinton Johnson?” she called out, in a sorrowfully subdued tone. “Sinton Johnson, that is you.” She couldn't believe her eyes. His once smooth skin was dry and ashy; all of his appeal had faded away. The ostentatious drug dealer who often boasted of having been in more women than a retired gynecologist had diminished into a diseased cripple. Vera hadn't seen a great deal of AIDS victims although the toll it had taken on Sinton seemed uncharacteristically devastating. Her heart sank into her stomach. All of the vile insults she wanted to level him with vanished into thin air. The flamboyant, good-looking ladies man she despised had become a humbled weak skeleton afraid of his own shadow. His dark sunken eyes dimmed even more when it finally occurred to him that Vera wasn't the pizza delivery lady.
Sinton took a deep breath then gazed at Vera's hand holding the gun. “You come here to kill me? Go on ahead and get it done.” After Vera holstered her weapon, he lowered his head and shuffled back inside the poorly furnished hovel he camped in for the time being. Vera stood at the open door uncertain which way to proceed. “If you ain't gonna shoot me, bring that pizza in here. I'm hungrier than a hostage.” Vera entered the small one-bedroom rental, holding her breath as much as she could. The stench of urine was overwhelming. “Put that box on the coffee table and tell me why you came after me. I hurt lots of people. You one of 'em?” He puttered around in the kitchen area, in a pair of brown run-over house slippers for a moment before returning with paper plates. Vera passed on dinner, respectfully.
“Sinton, I didn't know about the . . .” she uttered compassionately, feeling that his nickname seemed cruel at this point in his life.
“The bug,” he said for her. “Yeah, I got it bad. I probably passed on worse than I got. Most of my old friends is gone.” He slowly reached in the box for a slice. His eyes brightened when discovering it was his favorite combination. “How'd you know what I liked?”
“Sinton, look, I'm sorry to impose. I'm a PI and I looked you up because of the brick wall I'm against concerning a shooting from a couple of years back.” Vera still couldn't believe how low on the ghetto totem pole he'd fallen. Mixed emotions circled in her head about going forward with her questioning. However, she had jumped through hoops getting to this point. “Sinton, you were an informant for Frank Draper and Warren Sikes, the man whose name you're using.”
He steadied his paper plate on his knees and wiped at his mouth with a dirty napkin. “Yep, I snitched for 'em. Sikes is dead though.”
“Did you kill him, Sinton?” Vera queried, softly. He took his eyes from hers, shook his head then nibbled at the corner of the slice like a baby bird. “You know who did, though?”

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