Death List (10 page)

Eight men got up to leave. "Who we goin' leave to watch the pad?" Big-Time asked when they reached the door.

The Kingfisher stared around in surprise. "Is this all the help I got?" he asked sharply. "Two of you guys stay. That still leaves seven of us, counting myself."

It was left up to Big-Time to appoint two men to stay and watch the place. "Make sure," he ordered sharply, more for his boss' benefit than for the men, "to check on every fuckin' thing that comes near the place. We won't be gone but a short time."

"Should we take both cars?" Big-Time inquired as they reached the downstairs floor. The elevator deposited them in the plush lobby. As they got out, one of Kingfisher's men stuck a key into the lock of the elevator so that nobody would use it until they came back. If the apartment caught on fire, the few people up there would have to use the escape route, taking the stairway, which was closed by a heavy iron door. Other than that, there was no way into the penthouse.

Before the group of men left the plush lobby, a young bellboy made his way to the pay phone. He dialed quickly and spoke quietly into the telephone. He hung up and went back to his work.

"Just bring around the Caddy," Kingfisher ordered before leaving the lobby. With one hand, Big-Time made a sign to the chauffeur, who stayed downstairs for just such an occasion. The man rushed outside so that, by the time the rest of the party was reaching the street, the long Cadillac was pulling up in front of the apartment building.

All three of the cars were kept parked outside under the supervision of the man who stayed in the lobby. It was his job to make sure none of the cars were ever tampered with. He was also one of the drivers. Generally, they took along two cars. Kingfisher didn't like to be crowded. But today he didn't seem to mind the thought of all seven men squeezing into the car.

As the men walked towards the long car, a black Ford turned the corner swiftly and bore down on the group of men. It didn't take a man with a lot of imagination to know what was going on. Even as the car hurled toward them, they could see the windows rolling down and the snouts of the short-barreled guns sticking out of the windows.

The Kingfisher let out a high-pitched scream that would have done a woman justice. Then the tall, tancomplexioned man began to scramble toward the waiting car. He had to shove some of his bodyguards out of the way, but he managed to throw himself through the front door of the waiting Cadillac before the Ford reached them. Some of his gunmen, made out of better stuff, held their ground, pulling guns from under their coats. But the pistols were no match for the bursts from the submachine guns as the car roared past. All the bullets that struck the Cadillac bounced off because the car was bulletproof. But the men standing on the sidewalk weren't. They fell as if someone had cut them down with a mowing machine.

As the Kingfisher huddled down on the floor of his car, he could feel a weight on his back. He glanced up and saw the frightened face of Big-Time.

"They're gone," the driver, Jack, stated as coldly as he could. He glanced over his shoulder at the men lying on the sidewalk, then glanced down at the two big men lying on the floor. He gritted his teeth. "They knocked off at least three of the boys," he said, his voice not revealing the contempt he felt for both of the men who were on the floor. He could understand running for your life, but he had seen them both push men out of the way who were only trying to get their guns out so that they could defend the two cowards who ran so quickly.

"You still want to make that trip?" Big-Time asked from where he lay huddled on the floor.

Jack had to grin when Kingfisher answered sharply, ""The only thing I want, nigger, is for you to get your big ass off of me so I can get the hell out of this goddamn car and get back into the apartment. We goin' have to think on this shit a little more deeper."

Kingfisher climbed out of the car, glancing both ways to make sure there was no chance of his getting caught in the open as he made his dash for the doorway. He didn't bother to pay any attention to his men, whose bodies lay sprawled out on the sidewalk. He had only one thought, and that was to get to the protection of his penthouse, which now had become for him a prison.

THE DETECTIVES ARRIVED and the Kingfisher was ready for them. His white lawyer, Mr. Booth, was there to answer all the questions for him. He had only to lie back on his couch and nod his head.

Benson stood on the sidelines and watched. So this was the big man he had heard so much about. The sonofabitch is so scared he's damn near shittin' in his pants, the detective reflected coldly.

"So, you say," Nelson asked for what seemed like the twentieth time, "that you saw this car come hurdling around the corner and you knew at once it had hit men in it? Now, you don't really expect us to believe this crap that you didn't recognize any of these so-called hit men, do you?"

The Kingfisher just shrugged his shoulders. "I don't give a flying fuck what you believe," he stated harshly. "I done told you what happened, what I saw, now you can take it from there."

Nelson shrugged his shoulders. He wasn't used to black men talking that way to him. "We could take you downtown, you know. Then maybe you'd feel like cooperating with us."

Benson had to glance away to keep the smile from coming to his lips, but he didn't look away fast enough. His partner, Ryan, recognized the look, and hid his own smile. Taking the Kingfisher downtown on some bullshit would be like sticking your head in a lion's mouth to see if he had a toothache.

Ryan walked over to his partner. "What do you think about all this shit?" he asked seriously.

Benson shrugged. "If the guy really knew anything, he'd talk. Three of his boys got knocked off, one was hurt seriously enough to go to the hospital, plus he's scared so bad he's damn near ready to shit on himself every time somebody comes through that door. He'd talk, all right. You can bet on it."

Ryan nodded. "That's the same way I got it figured, but I think he knows something. I don't know what it is, but he's got a damn good idea who's trying to knock him off."

"We'll see," Benson said as he walked over toward the man on the couch. For some reason, he derived a joyous warmth from seeing the fear in the man. This was the bastard who supplied the whole fuckin' city with dope, and yet none of them could touch him. In fact, they had to handle him with kid gloves, or they would have their asses in a sling by the next day.

It was easy to see from the frowns on Nelson's and Steward's faces that they didn't like the idea of the older detective moving in while they were interrogating the gangster.

"When you finish talking with these boys, King, I'd like to have a private little conversation with you if it's possible," Benson inquired quietly.

The Kingfisher didn't waste any time. He just got up off the couch, ignoring the two young detectives who had been talking to him. "Let's step back in my bedroom. Maybe we can find some kind of privacy there," he said after tossing a look at his lawyer.

Benson shook his head. "It's not necessary for him to come along, but if you want him, it's up to you," Benson said softly.

Before opening the door that led into the bedroom, the Kingfisher stopped and stared silently at the officer. He waved his lawyer off. Neither man spoke until after the door was closed. Benson glanced around the well-furnished bedroom. Everything inside it was expensive. The king-sized bed had a deep red bedspread on it and the carpet on the floor was black, mixed with a dark red strain that matched the rest of the room.

"I might as well come straight to the point," Benson began. "I believe you and I both know who's responsible for this shit. I know you don't want any kind of gang war, but this young bastard I'm thinking about wouldn't care one way or the other." It was a shot in the dark for Benson. He didn't know for sure who was behind the killings.

"You're goddamn right," Kingfisher roared. 'That fuckin' Kenyatta ain't got enough sense to pour pee out of a boot!"

So there it was, Benson reflected. After all was said and done, it really was Kenyatta behind it all. "How the hell would a guy like Kenyatta go about gettin' the kind of information he'd need to knock off some of these dagos he's hit?" Benson inquired. "I mean, I can understand him gettin' a fix on you but not on some of them white boys."

Kingfisher tossed his hands in the air. "That's the goddamn problem right there. For a minute some of the big guys thought I was responsible for it, but he's made a hit on one guy that I didn't know shit about." Kingfisher fell silent for a minute, then continued. "After the big boys stopped and put their thinking caps on, they realized that it wouldn't make sense for me to be in on this kind of shit. Why? I mean, I'd have everything to lose and nothing to gain." The Kingfisher shook his head. "Naw, they realize it couldn't be me. I've told them everything I know about this creep, too."

As the Kingfisher talked, Benson realized that the man was trying to sell the idea to himself that the big boys really believed him when he said he didn't have anything to do with it. He must be in the middle of it, Benson reasoned as he watched the bigtime dope pusher try to make sense out of what was happening.

The Kingfisher continued to talk. "Them was black dudes that tried to make that hit on us today; there ain't no doubt about that. I got a good peep at them, even if I can't pick none of them out of a lineup." The man was really talking to himself, trying to figure out what was happening to the world he lived in.

"These punks came out of nowhere, it seemed," he continued. "It was like something out of the roaring twenties. I mean, guys don't go in for this kind of shit no more. It don't pay off. It hurts where it shouldn't, in the pocketbook!"

Benson didn't cut him off. He just let the big man talk. This was the best information he had come up with yet.

"The only problem is where could this punk have gotten the information he's got? If I knew the answer to that one, I'd be able to bust this shit wide open."

All at once Benson changed the conversation. "Where do you suppose a guy like that could come up with the weapons he's gettin', man? I know you could get your hands on a chopper or two, but for the average nigger in the ghetto, buying a submachine gun is like trying to catch a ride to the moon."

Benson watched his face as he asked the question. He knew he was giving out something, but he honestly didn't know where Kenyatta was coming up with the heavy guns.

All at once Kingfisher snapped his fingers. "It ain't many places, I can tell you. Offhand, I couldn't come up with but two or three people...." Suddenly he stopped talking and a light came into his eyes. He smiled coldly and stood up from the edge of the bed. "Our interview is over with, copper. I got business to take care of," he said and opened the bedroom door.

Kingfisher didn't even bother to look back to see if the detective was following him. He walked straight over to his lawyer and spoke in a voice that could be heard all over the room. "How long have we got to put up with this shit? Can't you get rid of some of these people? I got business to take care of."

Benson didn't even bother to wait to see how the little fat lawyer would go about trying to get rid of the policemen crowding the apartment. He went to his partner and whispered something in his ear. Both men left immediately.

Neither man bothered to speak until they reached the sidewalk. "I think that's the key, Ryan," Benson said to his partner as they hurried toward the car. "When I mentioned the gun connect, he almost jumped out of his skin. It dawned on him then, just as it did me. The person supplying the information is the same one Kenyatta gets his guns from. It can't be any different."

Ryan got behind the steering wheel, listening to his partner. "I don't know why we didn't see it before. Now all we got to do is find out who the hell is big enough to supply the kind of guns Kenyatta is using and we got our man."

"We already got a damn good idea of who that is," Ryan stated as he pulled out into the traffic. He didn't bother to look at the surprised expression on his partner's face.

"Like hell you say!" Benson exploded. "If we knew that much, we'd have come down on these bastards long before now."

"Well, we can't prove it, but just stop and think. You ain't forgot the day we seen that fat bastard coming out of Kenyatta's place, have you? Well, we checked out the license number and that took us up into a dead end. But don't forget, we also checked out the ownership of the place and found out it was owned by a black man, so whoever fat boy was, I kind of think he was our man."

Ryan fell silent for a minute, then added, "You and I have been doing some piss-poor police work, Ben. We've had this clue and haven't taken advantage of it. Why? Because we weren't sure. But now, we've got to turn up every fuckin' thing."

Ryan watched his partner struggle with the dilemma.

"Okay, Ryan, what now? We didn't see the guy well enough to really recognize him in the mug books." Benson sat up straight and grinned from ear to ear like a kid. "But now that we know the bastard probably handles guns, all we got to do is check out the mug books for bigtime gunrunners, and the first sonofabitch that even resembles that fat bastard will have a hell of a lot of questions to answer."