One to Go (12 page)

He'd met Chewy during his third year teaching at Jabazz. Chewy's little brother, Jerome, was a fifth grader. Jerome was very bright and had a particularly high aptitude in math and science. Tom had taken Jerome under his wing.

Chewy, not even twenty yet, was a big-time dealer. Charismatic with a high degree of intelligence. Problem was, Chewy was Jerome's only role model, and the boy made no secret of his desire to join the family business.

One evening after a parent-teacher gathering at the school, Tom had entered his car only to discover he had a passenger in the backseat. Chewy introduced himself and instructed Tom to drive to Marion Park. When they arrived, Chewy told him to get out of the car. The park lights were out. No one was in sight.

“Let's take a walk,” said Chewy. “I know you're scared, but ain't gonna hurt you. Wanna talk about Jerome.”

Tom's fear lessened as he followed Chewy to the eastern side of the park. “Smartest student in the class.”

“Problem is, he wants to, you know, follow in my footsteps so to speak. He needs a chance, before the shit gets him. You gotta get him out.”

“Out, like out of the neighborhood?”

“I hear there's this boarding school up in Northwest, offers a few scholarships to black folk so the rich, liberal assholes can feel good 'bout all their big cars and big houses and fat bank accounts. Jerome, he needs to get one of them scholarships.”

“Carver Prep. Great idea, I'll do everything I can—”

“Maybe you didn't hear me. Jerome needs to get one of them scholarships.”

The next day, Tom filled out the scholarship application and wrote a glowing letter of recommendation. He took Jerome shopping for a navy sport coat and rep tie. He worked with the boy, honing his responses in preparation for his interview. Jerome aced
the interview, and a week after that received a letter congratulating him on his admittance to Carver Prep.

A month later, Chewy waited for him at his car after school. “Just want to let you know, I owe you, Teach. You need anything, you call me.” He handed Tom a torn slip of paper with a phone number written on it. Without waiting for a response, he got into the back of a black Escalade and his driver pulled away.

Tom had kept that slip of paper, never believing he'd ever use it. An hour earlier, he'd dug it out from inside a rolled-up pair of socks in the back of his sock drawer. He'd walked three blocks to the CIT-GO, the only place left in the neighborhood with a working pay phone, and made the call. He hadn't spoken to Chewy Lewis for almost seven years. For all he knew, the man was dead or in jail. He heard the click of the call being connected.

“Hi, this is—”

Before he could finish, Chewy responded, “Same place, eleven.”

So here he was, parked outside Marion Park. The lighting had been improved, although the lights on the eastern side still weren't working—no doubt shot out to create the dark ambiance one needed to properly conduct off-market pharmaceutical business.

Tom checked his watch. Ten past eleven. It occurred to him that by “same place,” maybe Chewy meant the shadows of the east side. He got out of the Lexus, locked the car, then strolled into the darkness.

He walked along the deserted path, but saw nobody. He was about to return to his car when he heard, “Hey, Teach.”

Tom turned and there he was. Better dressed, looking much more than seven years older.

“Hi, how's it going?” asked Tom. “How's Jerome?”

“Got a full ride to Princeton next year.” Chewy didn't attempt to hide his pride. “Princeton's in the Ivy League, like Harvard.”

“That's great.” Actually, Tom felt a sense of pride himself due to his small part in launching a kid from an at-risk neighborhood to almost certain success.

“What you need?”

“A gun. Needs to be clean, never used in any, uh, situation.”

“That's it?”

“That's it.”

Chewy nodded. “Ain't much, so my debt ain't fully paid. Case you need anything else.”

“Doubt it, but thanks. And tell Jerome I said congratulations.”

“Take the long way around the park to get back to your car.”

“Thanks. Hey, you know if Jerome becomes rich and successful, maybe you can get out of this business.”

Chewy paused before he answered. “Ain't the money, Teach. Got plenty of money to meet my needs. What I got here, no price for that.” He turned and disappeared into the darkness.

Tom followed Chewy's directions and, as he expected, by the time he got back to his car there was a crumpled brown paper bag resting on the front seat. His first thought was, why had he bothered locking the car?

He got into the Lexus, and for almost a full minute stared at the paper bag as if it were a foreign object. He rubbed his hand across the bag surface, feeling the outline of the weapon. He slipped his hand inside the bag and wrapped his fingers around the grip.

Unlike Gino's Ruger, this gun now belonged to him.

And time was running out for him to use it.

The weapon rested on Tom's kitchen table as he checked out the gun on his laptop. The Glock 30 was a .45-caliber automatic. The barrel length was only four inches long, the whole gun under seven inches. The barrel bore was much bigger than the Ruger, and the .45-caliber bullet looked like it could stop a train. Tom counted thirteen rounds in the magazine, and Chewy had included a second magazine containing another thirteen rounds. Twenty-six bullets, enough to start a small war. He only needed one.

Despite its firepower and small size, the most amazing feature of the Glock was its weight. The gun frame was constructed from a plastic polymer, reducing its weight to a bit over one pound. This feature allowed it to be carried just about anywhere on one's person without discomfort and telltale sagging clothes. The only thing missing compared to the Ruger was an external safety switch.

Tom turned off the laptop and stared at the thick, stubby .45-caliber bullets protruding from the extra magazine. Would he be able to fire one of those missiles into Reece Mackey's brain? He honestly didn't know.

The next few days he immersed himself in his new job. He tagged along with Eva throughout the workday, accompanying her to discovery meetings with AUSAs, sitting as second chair in several cases where her client plead guilty, and in several bond reduction hearings.

At the end of the day, he visited Danny the Asshole's office to get info on Mackey. He'd learned Danny's last name was O'Brian, but liked Danny the Asshole, DTA, better.

“Come on in, Newbie. Grab a chair.”

DTA's office was tiny, but as a senior member of the staff, still bigger than the workspace of most of the other PDS attorneys. DTA sat in the single, straight-back chair behind a gray metal desk that must've been issued by the government fifty years earlier. He wore his blond hair down to his shoulders, suspenders, and a constant smirk. He leaned back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk.

“So, how's it going with the Ice Queen?”

Tom pretended not to know who he was talking about. “I'm sorry?”

“The implacable Ms. Stoddard.”

Implacable. Big word, impressive. “Eva's been very helpful. I'm learning a lot from her.”

“Take my advice. Don't get too close or you'll get ice burns.”

“Thanks. Don't think that'll be a problem. So, about Reece Mackey—”

“Lyin' dirtbag. Loves the hooch. Whatever they say he did, he did.”

Music to Tom's ears. “So you think in your case there's a chance he killed the guy?”

“Not just a chance, a certainty. He admitted it to me. Hell, he bragged about it. Vic was a fellow scumbag, Mackey's partner in a string of B&Es south of the freeway. Mackey believed his partner—forget his name, may've been Jackson, Johnson, something like that—was screwin' him over. So one night the vic's walking along E street with his whore, Mackey gets out of a parked car and caps him twice in the head. Doesn't run, casually gets back in the car, and slowly drives off with nary a la-di-da.”

Nary a la-di-da?
Tom decided he might have to change Danny's name to Danny the Big Time Asshole. DTBTA.
Nah, too many letters
. “And Mackey scared away the witness?”

“Witness was a whore with kids—who isn't in that world?—so Mackey tells her he's gonna cap the babies unless she contracts a serious case of amnesia. She gets amnesia.”

“Guess I'm going to have to meet the guy, find out what happened in the bar.”

“Good luck, and Newbie, watch out for ice burns.”

Ha, ha, ha, ha. Asshole.

The good thing about working for the Public Defender Service—one of several good things, actually—was Tom could finish up at a decent hour. He'd been able to see Janie every night since he took the assignment, and now he was heading back to DC from Arlington after taking Janie and Angie to Chez Mac for burgers and fries.

He crossed into the District and headed south, caught the Southwest Freeway, which became the Southeast Freeway, and crossed the 11
^th
Street Bridge into Anacostia, one of the highest crime areas of the city. He'd called Mackey, who had to be reminded who he was. Mackey had reluctantly agreed to meet him at Bertha's, a hole-in-the wall dive on Alabama Avenue. Tom involuntarily patted his jacket pocket where Mr. Glock rested comfortably. He didn't intend to execute his plan—bad choice of words—that evening for the simple reason that he had no plan. Rather, his goal was to reconnoiter—another bad choice of words for the simple reason that it sounded so lame.

He found Bertha's easily enough. After parking directly under a streetlight, he crossed the street and entered the bar. Everything inside was dark; everybody inside was dark. The place was packed, and all eyes were on him.

He walked as slowly as he could to the bar. He hadn't had a drink since the morning of the orange puke, but he reasoned that if he ordered a soft drink his client wouldn't respect him and might not talk to him. Maybe he'd just order a beer, take a few sips to show his street cred.

The bartender—Bertha?—a huge black woman with tattoos covering every exposed part of her flesh, approached him warily. Her hair shot straight out from her head, as if she'd just stuck her finger into an electrical socket. Her cheeks were so fleshy, her eyes appeared as black slits in her face.

“We ain't want no trouble,” she said, her voice a deep rumble.

Tom was momentarily confused, then it hit him. She thought he was a cop.

“Uh, no, I ain't a cop.”
Why did he say “ain't?” He never said “ain't
.” “Supposed to meet Reece Mackey.”

The bartender nodded. “CJA.”

“Yeah. How 'bout a beer?”

She paused for a moment, then rinsed out a glass and drew a Bud from the tap. “Twenty bucks.”

Okay, he had two choices: One—tell her that was outrageous and he wasn't paying twenty bucks for a draft beer, an option that likely would result in him not escaping the establishment alive; or two—lay a twenty on the bar and thank her. After considering the matter for a nanosecond, he smiled and pulled a twenty from his wallet.

“He's over there with LaChiqua and Ball.” She pointed to the darkest corner of the bar, where Tom recognized Mackey seated at a small table with his woman and a small black man with a shaved head.

Tom made his way over to Mackey's table. Half-full glasses of straight whiskey rested in front of them.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Mackey.” Tom extended his hand.

Mackey ignored it.

Tom took a seat. He addressed the woman and the little man. “I'm Tom Booker, the attorney assigned to defend Mr. Mackey.” Both stared at him with glassy eyes. “Uh, as you know, anything Reece tells me is confidential and can't be used against him. But, if a third party also hears Reece say something to me, then—”

“She stay.” Mackey's face was devoid of expression. “She not sayin' nuthin'.”