Death List (15 page)

"I'll say amen to that," Penny replied quickly. "He was a murdering bastard at that. There was no reason for him to kill that maid. Did you tell Kenyatta about him killin' the maid?"

"No, there was no time for that," Almeta replied softly. "As soon as I told him about Creeper gettin' cut down as he came out of the motel room, he wanted to know if the Creeper took care of his homework, to which I replied yes. I was sure of that. They carried the fat man out on a long stretcher with his face covered up. I didn't see his face, like I told him, but from the shape on that stretcher, it had to be fat boy. Couldn't nobody else have a belly stickin' up in the air like that."

Suddenly Jug made a sharp turn off Woodward. "I want to hit the freeway as soon as possible. I think we had better get out to the farm fast. Things might start jumping around town, and everybody will have to go in hiding." Jug meticulously picked his way through the evening traffic.

Almeta rolled her window up. "Damn if it ain't gettin' chilly out," she stated. "I don't know if it's all that safe at the farm. What do you think about it, Jug?"

"Well, I'm on my way out there, whether or not it's safe. We've made plans in case this kind of thing happened. If it comes down to it, we just go into what Kenyatta calls `Operation Break-Out.' We all know about it, so now will be the time to put it into actionif it comes to that."

His words brought silence to the people in the car. Each one was filled with his or her own thoughts. No one really wanted to go through with the so-called `Operation Break-Out,' but it had been planned, and everybody knew what their roles in it would be.

While the car with its four occupants fled towards the outskirts of town, two detectives back at the motel were trying to wrap up the case.

Benson walked into the room, feeling the two heavy packages of money he had removed from the dead man's body in his pockets. He was still undecided on whether or not to give one of them to his partner. "Did you get anything out of your man before he died?" he inquired of Ryan.

Ryan looked up tiredly. "I don't know, Ben. He mentioned something about a farm, but that was about it. What about your man out there? Did he have anything to say before he passed on to the hell waiting for him?"

Benson managed to grin. "Yeah, he managed to gain enough strength to spit in my face before he kicked off," Benson answered truthfully. "That bastard was mean through and through. I don't think there was a kind streak in him anywhere."

"I'm inclined to believe you there. But it looks like he made a mistake about our boy Angelo here. It turns out Angelo was a little bit rougher than he had thought." Ryan held up the little pee-shooter Angelo had used to punch two holes in the Creeper's belly. "He hit his man, didn't he?"

"Yeah," Benson answered, "it's like I told you. It wasn't just my shot that put him away. When we saw him reeling, it was from them two shots he had in his gut."

As the other policemen began pouring into the small motel room, Ryan asked his partner if he had found anything of value on the dead man.

Benson shrugged. "It depends on what you call value." He nodded his head towards the toilet. "Let's step in the men's room for a minute. I got something I'd like to show you."

Ryan followed his partner into the bathroom. Neither man spoke until Benson closed the door and leaned against it.

"Well, what is it? Did the guy give us a lead?" Ryan asked impatiently.

"Naw, it ain't no fuckin' lead," Benson replied, then removed one bundle of money from his pocket and tossed it towards his partner. "He did have that on him, so I wondered if you and I could use it, or should we turn it in for evidence that will never be used."

For the next five minutes Benson watched his friend and partner change expressions. "Not me, Ben. What do you want to do about it?"

Without realizing it, Benson fingered the other bank notes in his pocket. He knew what he was going to do. This time he would come out with something if the captain should ever make good on one of his many threats to remove him from his position. Whatever Ryan decided to do with the bundle of money he had tossed to him was all right with him, but the one in his pocket was going to stay there.

"No, Ryan, it's not my decision. If I was going to keep it for myself, you would never have known. But I wanted you up on it. It's a nice piece of money, and nobody will miss it. If you want to, we can split it up between us. If not, turn it in, but don't ask me to make the decision. That way, if you have guilty thoughts later on, I don't want you blaming me. I'll go along with you either way. I could use the money, and so could you, but it's your baby. Make up your own mind."

"Goddamn it, Ben, why the hell do you do these kind of things to me? Ain't I got enough problems worrying about this fuckin' case without you tossin' temptation in front of me like this?"

"We ain't gettin' no younger, Ryan. If something bad should happen to either one of us, this would go a long way towards helpin' the few people in the world who mean anything to us."

It took a second, but finally a sheepish grin broke out over Ryan's face. "Well, I guess it ain't like being on the take. It must have been the money the bastard got for trying to make the hit on Angelo."

The two men stared at each other, and finally Benson broke the silence. "Then I take it, you'll go along with holding back this small sum for ourselves?"

Ryan shook his head undecidedly. "I just don't know yet, Ben. Let's sit on it for a while, okay?"

Their eyes met, and then Ryan glanced away, but not before Benson could read the greed there. Ryan wanted the money, but just didn't know how to go about keeping it. His conscience would bother him for a while, but Benson was sure he would get over it.

A sudden commotion in the outer room brought both detectives rushing out. To their astonishment they foundNelson and Steward there, trying to take charge.

"Hold on, boys," Ryan said harshly. "I've already given these men their orders, so don't interfere. This is our little problem, so you guys just take a backseat."

As the detectives dickered among themselves, Kenyatta was busy making calls from his farm. He was also making one final decision-one that involved the Kingfisher.

"Listen, Jerry, I've tried every way possible to get this hit made without using you. But I put you in the position you're in, just in case something like this came up. Well, it's up. There is no other way out of this. Either you make the hit on the Kingfisher or the bastard gets away."

There was silence on the other end of the line. For a minute Kenyatta wondered if the man had hung up. But then he spoke in a low voice. "Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Do?" Kenyatta roared. "Why, I want you to assassinate the bastard. Shoot the motherfucker down like the dog that he is. If you do this, Jerry, you'll save hundreds of black lives-hundreds!" Kenyatta did not add that the man would also be giving up his own life when he followed through with the order.

"How?" Jerry asked.

To Kenyatta the question was too simple. It showed that the man wasn't using his head. It might benefit Jerry to act like he was a robot sometimes, but Kenyatta knew that this job required a man to use his brain.

"How!" Kenyatta repeated loudly. "Man, you're not even trying to think, Jerry. I got you that job there in the apartment building because you were one of my best trained men, and most faithful. Remember your baby sister dying from the overdose?"

Kenyatta knew that should be enough to convince him, but he continued anyway. "Well, I can damn near prove the dope came from the Kingfisher, but all that shit ain't necessary. Either you're going to do it or not. If you are, this is all you have to do. When the Kingfisher and his men come back downstairs, you get as close as possible and cut loose with that thirty-eight I gave you. As good a shot as you are, it shouldn't take but one shitty-ass shot, but I want you to be sure to hit him twice. You got that, Jerry? When he comes out through the lobby, you're to make your hit!"

This time there was a long silence before the man finally spoke. "I understand, Kenyatta. This is what I've been trained for, so I'll do it. I'm as dedicated as anybody else in the organization."

"Good. Just make sure you don't miss, Jerry. Make damn sure you don't miss. And don't forget, put two slugs in his dope-selling ass. You hear me? One for your sister and one for the rest of the kids who have died from the poison his men have been selling in our neighborhoods."

Kenyatta waited until the man answered affirmatively. "Okay, then. When you hang up, go get your piece. You ain't got no time to waste. We want this bastard dead before he receives the new shipment of dope coming in. We can't cut the shipment off, but if we hit the Kingfisher, he won't be able to distribute that fuckin' poison!"

After hanging up the telephone, Jerry moved as if he was under some kind of spell. First, he went down to the locker room and opened up his locker. From it he took out the still-new thirty-eight automatic. The gun shined from constant polishing. It had never been fired. He picked out six bullets from a full box, then put the rest back into his locker. He laid the gun and bullets out on the bench that he used when changing in and out of his work clothes.

After he finished putting on his fresh bellboy uniform, Jerry had trouble figuring out where to put the gun. If he stuck it in his belt, it would make a bulge. He might be able to conceal it under his arm, but he didn't have a shoulder holster to make it stay in place. He sat down on the bench for ten minutes trying to figure out what to do with the gun.

Suddenly he got an idea. He stood up, put the gun in his belt, next to the small part of his back, then pulled his coat down over it. It didn't seem to bulge too much, and if he kept his back turned, nobody would notice it anyway. At last Jerry was ready. At no time had he doubted that he would go through with his assignment. This was what he had been trained for, his purpose in being here. He made his way back up the steps with swiftness and certainty. He was now a dedicated man with a mission.

It happened sooner than he hoped for. Jerry hadn't been in the lobby more than forty minutes when the private elevator that handled only the Kingfisher's penthouse began to come down. Jerry watched the dial as it moved lower and lower.

Kingfisher stood in the elevator smiling. He had heard the news on the television and had watched the film clips of the bodies being removed from the Holiday Inn. He knew the identity of the man the Creeper had gunned down. Just a short time earlier he had put through a call and had told some big men his idea about somebody selling guns to the blacks in the ghetto, and the name "Angelo" had been one of those mentioned as the possible seller. As soon as this had been brought to the big men's attention, they had made the logical connections. Whoever supplied the guns was more than likely the same man who supplied the blacks with the list of people bringing dope into the city.

Now that the gun runner was dead, it wouldn't take long before the men who had bought the guns would be out searching for another connect, thus exposing themselves. When they did, they would be taken care of. To celebrate, the Kingfisher was taking everybody in his place out on the town.

Vickie, the Kingfisher's special woman, smiled broadly for the first time in what seemed like months, fussing over which expensive gown she should wear-the gold one or the navy blue one that looked good with the string of pearls Kingfisher had bought for her. She decided to wear the low-cut gold gown. It revealed more in the front and back.

She dressed with care. It had been so long, so goddamn long since they had been anywhere. She could hear Kingfisher singing in the bedroom as he dressed. What a time they would have tonight. It seemed as if they had been living under the shadow of fear for so long that they had been tempted to run off. Just pack a few of the expensive things Kingfisher had bought for her and leave town. The news on the television meant that was all over now and everybody seemed happy.

"Let's go," the Kingfisher called out happily. It had been quite a while since anyone had seen him in such a good mood.

Vickie rushed out of the bedroom and joined the rest of the party at the elevator. They waited while one of the bodyguards used his key to open up the doors. Then the small party of five people walked in. Besides Vickie and Kingfisher, there were three bodyguards going along. It was quite a cutback from the time when the Kingfisher wouldn't go out with fewer than six bodyguards.

As soon as the elevator door opened at the ground floor, the bodyguards got out. They didn't notice anything out of the ordinary. The bellboy standing near the door was the same one they had seen many times before.

As Kingfisher stepped from the elevator with a big smile on his face, he noticed the youthful bellboy start towards them.

Jerry reached behind his back, and the next thing Kingfisher saw was the long barrel of a thirty-eight automatic pointed directly at him. His heart froze. The warning yell he gave to his bodyguards was too late. He attempted to duck behind his woman. Vickie let out a scream of fear as she felt Kingfisher trying to use her for a shield. But the young gunman wouldn't be denied. He pushed the gun in Kingfisher's face and pulled the trigger.

The roar of the thirty-eight was deafening, as were the answering shots that cut the young boy down in his tracks.

The Kingfisher's body had slid down the wall. The bellboy had been struck from two different sides. Kingfisher's bodyguards were not slow; they had just been taken completely by surprise. The two shots fired by the bellboy had struck the Kingfisher high in the neck. He had been dead before he reached the luxurious carpet. Kingfisher didn't live long enough to know that his bodyguards had done their job, at least avenging him, if not managing to protect him.