Death List (3 page)

"You still plannin' on payin' that 'wood all that money for that list, Kenyatta?"

"Uh huh, ain't nothin' changed. Why should it?" Kenyatta turned away from the window. "You ain't never been able to accept the idea of puttin' out all that bread for them names, have you?" He waited, then continued before Ali could answer. "I don't see why it's so hard for you to understand. Ali, the first time we knock off a pusher, we ought to be able to pick up more cash than I'm settin' out for the list. Man, all these mothers on the list are big, and do I mean big. They are the bastards that supply the dope to the whole damn city, Ali. They ain't just neighborhood pushers, man. They're what you would call international dope men. Just about every name on the list will be a whitey, baby, so you can imagine the kind of dough they should have around their pads."

For a minute the men's eyes met in a clash of wills. Finally Ali had to glance down at the rug. There was something fanatical in Kenyatta's eyes. It occurred to him that the man was mad.

"Yeah, man, what you say sounds good," Ali began, "but it might just be a little more difficult than what you think. Them honkies have got guards all over the fuckin' place. If they were easy to knock off, somebody would have knocked them off before now."

"That's the goddamn problem with black men," Kenyatta stated coldly. "You big-ass bad brothers are always ready to step in and knock off another black man who's dealing, but when it comes to steppin' on them peckerwoods' toes, you start shittin' in your pants." Kenyatta walked over to Ali and looked straight into his eyes. "I know damn near what you think before you think it, Ali, and don't you ever forget it. I know you'd just love to be number one in this outfit, but it wouldn't work. They wouldn't follow you for ten minutes. You think small and you'll always be small." Kenyatta raised his voice. "If you think I'm lying just look in the mirror. When I mentioned knockin' off them rich honkies, your face damn near turned red, and that's one hell of a trick for a black-ass nigger like you!"

For the second time in less than ten minutes Ali found himself unable to look into Kenyatta's eyes. This time it was for a different reason. He stared down at the rug, ashamed of what he felt.

"It ain't like that at all, Kenyatta. I'm just lookin' at facts, man. Them honkies you're talkin' about ain't goin' be easy to reach. They don't even allow a black face out in them neighborhoods. That's why I say we don't stand a chance of knockin' them 'woods off."

"Niggers walk into banks and knock them off every motherfuckin' day, Ali, so why should it be too difficult for a black man to figure out a way to knock off some goddamn peckerwood just because he lives in a neighborhood that don't want any black people moving in? We got a few light-skinned black people in our organization, so when the time comes to stick up one of these places, we'll just use a few of them."

There was a slight knock on the door and Betty came in carrying their drinks on a tray. The men accepted them in silence.

She turned to leave, but Kenyatta stopped her. "Wait, honey, this may interest you," he stated, opening the desk drawer. "I wanted to knock the stamp place off on the first of the month, but since it's past, we'll just have to be happy with what we can get on the weekend take." He spread some blueprints out on the desk. "This is the layout of the joint. We'll send some people over to knock it off tomorrow."

Ali opened his mouth in surprise. This was the reason that people followed Kenyatta. When he made up his mind to do something, it was always done right.

THE ARMORED TRANSPORT driver cursed as he pulled up in front of the Food Stamp Collection Agency on Grand River Avenue. A tall black woman stood in front of a car with the hood up. She watched the driver closely as he pulled into a parking space two cars ahead of hers.

As soon as the truck was parked and the two guards got out, the tall woman slammed the hood of the car down. She seated herself in the car and watched the heavily armed guards as they entered the agency.

Inside the building a crowd of people seemed to be milling around, but as one's eyes became accustomed to the darkness, one realized that they were actually standing in separate lines. At the front of each line was a window with a teller behind it. There were bars over each window except at the bottom, where there was a large enough space for a man or woman to crawl through.

There was one security guard in the building and, when the two transport guards entered, he joined them.

There was a small wooden gate that led through to the other side of the windows where the women tellers worked. The guards joked with the black security guard as the trio went into the rear. The manager came out of his office and joined them.

They began at the cage farthest from the entrance door. The woman in the cage had to unlock her door from the inside to allow the men to enter. Inside it was like a small cabinet, fitted with shelves overlapping the small steel safe that contained the money. As each customer bought food stamps, the money was put in an envelope, sealed, and dropped into the safe, where it remained until the transport men picked it up twice a week.

As the manager stepped into the small cage, he removed a large key ring and inserted a key into the lock. Next, the guard stepped up and inserted his key. At this point the door swung open. Quickly the guard stuffed the money into the bag that his partner held. It didn't take long before the small safe was empty. They moved quickly to the next cage and followed the same procedure. Finally, they reached the last one.

By the time the last safe had been emptied, the guards had filled three moneybags. Sweat stood out on the forehead of the guard with the key. He was a large, red-faced man with heavy jowls, ill-fitting clothes, and a huge pot belly.

"Goddamn this heat!" he cursed, not worrying about his profanity in front of the black female worker. The fat white manager grinned at him as they worked. They were two of a kind.

"I wish I could offer you a drink, knowing how it is," the manager said as they stepped back from the cage.

From out of nowhere a black man appeared in the section behind the cages. Before anyone could react to his appearance, another one appeared at his side. Both men wore long three-quarter-length summer coats. As the stunned group of guards stared at them, the men brushed back their coats and presented the sawed-off shotguns they held in their hands.

"What the goddamn hell are you guys trying to pull?" the manager yelled angrily.

There was fear in the manager's face, but overriding that fear was anger. He became a bright red as the blood rushed to his face.

"I won't stand still for it!" the manager yelled.

Instead of useless curse words, the heavyset transport guard went into action. He couldn't allow a stickup. It would go on his record, a mark he didn't want, and one he wouldn't have. In twenty years as a guard he had never had any money taken from him. They had attempted to five years ago, three young black boys, but he and his partner had handled it. They had killed two of the kids and wounded a third one. He remembered the newspapers and all the publicity. For a few days he had been a hero to the public and his every word publicized.

Those very thoughts were running through his mind when he made his foolish move. He fell to one side, trying to make that fast draw he had practiced so much. He never got his huge pistol out of the holster.

A third black man in the front of the group stepped forward, raised the short-barreled shotgun an inch, and pulled the trigger. The distance between them was less than six feet. The shot nearly cut the guard in half. It lifted him up off his feet and blew him back almost the length of the room.

The second guard didn't fare any better. He made his move at just about the same time his partner made his. The second black man in the group shot him, and the shot hit him in the face. Blood flew everywhere. Where there had been a nose and eyes, there were only gaping holes.

It should have been enough, but it wasn't. Whether or not the black security guard acted out of fear or the desire to be a hero would never be known. He tried to clear leather with his pistol, but only managed to join the other men on the floor. He clutched at his stomach, trying to hold in his guts, which were pouring out of a huge hole in his stomach.

Whether or not he realized what was about to happen, the manager began to back up, pleading with each step he took. "Take the money," he cried, "take it all, but don't hurt me. See...." He raised his hands high in the air. "I'm unarmed, you guys don't have nothing to fear from me. See" He stretched his arms even higher in the air.

As he begged, one of the black men in the rear ran past the other men towards the back of the building. He returned almost instantly. "It takes a key to open it," he yelled.

Screams of fear came from the crowd of predominantly black people in the front of the building. The black man standing in the front door holding his shotgun on them was beginning to have trouble from some of the fear-ridden women. "Stay back," he yelled loudly at them. The sounds of the shooting had just about driven them mad with fear. They pushed and shoved from the rear, until those in front were forced to move.

The gunman made up his mind at once. He didn't want to shoot any innocent people down, so he stepped aside. "Okay," he yelled out, "get the hell on." The stampede began. The women ran out the door, fighting each other in their haste to get away.

Some of them weren't so lucky. The old ones were knocked to the floor, then trampled by the frightened women behind them. Then someone shoved a terrified woman aside. The woman fell across the small counter-like shelf that kept the people away from the window. Others followed her, until there was a jammed up group inches away from the glass. Another gunshot went off, causing more bedlam, and this time the people nearest the glass couldn't push back hard enough. The ones in front went through the plate glass. Everyone was screaming in terror.

"We need the key that opens the back door," one of the holdup men yelled at the manager.

"Here, here it is," the frightened man yelled, snatching the ring loose from the small key chain. "Take it." He tossed it in their direction.

One of the men snatched up the keys and ran towards the door. The other bandit grabbed up the moneybags and ran after him. The third stickup man was undecided. He kept his gun on the manager until the fourth man reached him.

"Watch him for a second," he ordered, then ran to the rear of the building. The fourth bandit, who had been holding the crowd back from the front door, glanced down at the dead bodies lying on the floor.

"Shit!" he cursed, raising his weapon towards the manager.

The manager saw his own death in the man's cold black eyes. "Please," he begged, "please, I got a wife and k...."

The blast of the sawed-off shotgun was muffled by the cries of the women. The female tellers were crouching in their cages, screaming at the death around them.

Pain exploded from the manager's chest. He staggered from the force of the blow that struck him, but it didn't knock him off his feet. He could feel the pain even as the enveloping blackness prevented him from screaming out like the women. The blood-spattered wall held him up for a time, but the last remaining strength in his legs gave out and he crumpled up and slid to the floor.

As the murderer ran after his partners, the women inside the cages got up off the floor and fled. They were afraid the killers might come back.

Before the killer could reach the back door, he met the man who had ordered him to stay. "What did you do with the manager?" he asked quickly.

"I killed him," came the frank answer.

"Come on, then. We've got the back door opened," he stated, turning to lead the way. The man ran past him. Now there was only fear in the killers' hearts.

"Shake the lead out of your ass, Red," the man yelled back over his shoulder. "The fuckin' police will be all over this joint in a minute."

The man called Red didn't answer but just followed on the fleeing man's heels. When they reached the alley, the same car that had been stalled in front of the building was waiting.

Betty sat behind the steering wheel impatiently. She gunned the motor as the last of the men came out. They had hardly jumped in before she had the car in motion and was pulling away. The gravel in the alley flying from under the speeding car's wheels was the only sound heard inside the car as they made their getaway. The alley ended where another alley crossed. This was where Betty made her turn, taking a left.

There was clear driving down the long, empty alleyway. Betty slowed down slightly and drove at a more moderate pace.

As they passed a vacant garage, two boys came out and put four garbage cans across the alley. If there was any pursuit, the occupants of the following cars would have to get out and clear away the cans.

Betty smiled to herself as she watched them disappear in her mirror. Kenyatta thought of everything, she reflected as she drove even slower. That slight glimpse of the boys protecting their rear filled her with a confidence she hadn't had earlier. When she had first heard the gunshots going off inside the building, her first thought had been of fleeing. She had a hard time fighting down the desire to leave. They must have gotten busted inside. What other reason for all the shooting, she'd asked herself.