The Corner III (No Way Out) (18 page)

Slim stopped scrolling for the attorney’s number. He wasn’t pissed, but definitely wasn’t used to being second-guessed. “So what are you saying, big homey?”

“You never know what that nigga might say. He’s young. Facing a murder beef? Man, I know that’s Greg’s people and all, but they all know the game, and I fucking gave word not to fuck with Parker. He said fuck what I was talking about and let his emotions get in the mix. I think that nigga needs to go.”

Slim replied, “Reese, you’ve been my dog since I was folding you up in the sandbox. But it’s my call, and I think the little nigga needs to be spared.”

Reese smiled, “That’s cool. I just thought I’d bring that shit to your attention. That’s what I’m here for, and I back whatever you say. And I was the one folding
your
ass up in the sandbox.”

They both laughed.

Slim got in contact with the lawyer who told Slim there was no need for him to go with Feet while he surrendered. It was a Sunday night and all the police were going to do was lock him up, and he’d sit until he went before a judge in the morning. Wisserman said he’d be at the courthouse in the morning to meet with Feet so he’d know something was being done. He would find out what happened, and then he’d meet with the prosecutor to work out a plea agreement. Slim was fine with that and told the lawyer to keep him up on things.

After Slim ended the call, he made another to Trish.

“Hey you. Is everything okay?” Trish asked. Her voice had a harmonious tune to it that made Slim feel good.

“I’m fine. Do you remember how to get to my place?” Slim asked. His voice was lower than normal, but Reese was ear hustling hard.

“I sure do, you need your car?”

“And you. See you around eleven?”

“I’ll be there,” she said. Slim could hear the excitement in her voice.

They ended the call, and Slim relaxed by closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest. They were almost at his condo when he said, “Make sure you call Greg. Tell him I want Feet at the station turning himself in by midnight.

“Will do,” Reese said trying not to show his disapproval of Slim’s decision. He was beginning to think that his mind was being clouded by the woman he was seeing and the thoughts he was having of getting out of the game. Reese figured that it was up to him to keep this straight. And that meant he had to play the role of gangster since Slim wasn’t—and also of boss if need be.

Trish had taken a hot shower, and Bath and Body Works had her smelling good. She couldn’t wait to see Slim and hurried out of her apartment to the Caddy. She was going to stop by the store to pick up a few items to make a light dish for Slim. She knew what he did for a living and figured he was out taking care of business and probably hadn’t eaten. She was walking down her gangway when her cell rang. She stopped to take a look at it and saw Detective Style’s name. She frowned and dropped the phone back in her purse. Within seconds she was in the car, and Styles was a distant memory. She was on her way to see the man who respected her.

A shadow was cast in the gangway from the moonlight. Styles walked from the rear of the gangway to the front where he walked up the porch and to the woman who was sitting on the chair. He handed her a bag. She looked in it and smiled.

The old woman said, “She was picked up earlier by a man. Negro, nice build and ’round your height. Good looking, I might add. She returned in his car. Now she’s gone. I bet to see him. She looks happy.” The woman laughed, and it pissed Styles off, but not enough for him to take back the brown bag he’d given her.

“Just keep your eyes open, old woman.”

She pulled the items out of the bag. A lime and a fifth of Jose Cuervo tequila. “I will,” she said as she cracked open the liquor and took a swallow. “I will.”

Styles walked back to his car and tried his best to keep calm, but he was pissed. His fine piece of ass was stepping out and with the very man he’d been chasing for years. He smiled as he thought about the damage he could do to the both of them, and he would in due time.

*     *     *

Greg and Feet stepped inside Greg’s Suburban. It was 3:33a.m. and they were on their way to the station for Feet to turn himself in. Red had stopped by to see his friend, and he felt bad. Felt as if he should have done something. Red had also brought Feet’s girl who had been worried. She’d sexed Feet for what would be their last time doing it. She swore she’d wait for Feet, but he knew those were words of the moment. Greg had made it possible for them to stop by and figured that it couldn’t hurt.

Greg asked, “Are you ready, nephew?” He never called Feet nephew, but the reality of Feet being gone a long time has him feeling like family.

Feet responded, “Greg thanks for everything, but let’s keep our shit gansta like it always had. Call me Feet. I’ma do this time, and I’ll be back on the bricks. Ten or fifteen, I’ll still be young when I get out. It’s all in the game.”

Greg pressed the button to the garage door opener that was clipped to his trucks sun visor and as the door rose he turned the key in the ignition of the Suburban. He was about to put the truck in gear and pull out of the garage, that’s when Greg yelled, “Oh shit!”

There was nothing the two men could do. A couple of men dressed in all black sprayed Greg’s SUV with bullets. The machine pistols sent a volley of over thirty rounds into the truck. Several rounds hit Feet, and Greg was hit three times. The men dropped the stolen weapons and ran to the edge of the driveway to an awaiting car that sped off once they were inside.

Once the rounds started going off, Red ran to the living room and was carefully edging to the window with his pistol clutched in his hand to lend assistance to his friends, but it was too late. The men were already to their escape vehicle. Feet’s girlfriend was screaming frantically, and Red was trying to calm her. He eased into the garage and found Feet leaning against the door, dead. On the other side was a moaning and wounded Greg. Red dialed 9-1-1.

Down the street, two men were in a car. They turned on their lights and did a u-turn and left the area. “Shit had to be done,” Reese told E-Double, one of his soldiers.

“We’re behind you, boss,” E Double said knowing that Reese had planned to take over if Slim decided to get out.

It was a decision he’d been wrestling with for months because of the decisions Slim was making. A lot of the moves Slim made were to help everyone get out of the game, but what Slim failed to understand that it wasn’t all about money for some of the men, but the hustle. The letters s-t-r-e-e-t-s were letters that made up the DNA of a lot of the hustlers and that is where they were going to stay. In the streets, and Reese was one of those men.

7

“You street motherfuckers just don’t know the difference. It’s Detective, not officer.”—STYLES

Lieutenant LaDonna Dixon walked into the detectives’ office with a Chicago Sun-Times and Tribune under her arm. Clutched in her hand was a white paper bag that held her breakfast—a large cinnamon bagel and a small tub of strawberry cream cheese. The detectives, who weren’t doing anything, pretended to be working. It was Monday morning the start of a new workweek, and usually the detectives were slow moving on Mondays, but not when the workaholic, Lt. Dixon, was around. Her pit bull mentality kept the detectives on point.

Lt. Dixon stopped in front of the detectives’ secretary’s desk. “Anything for me, Tiajuana?”

“Nothing, how was your weekend, Lieutenant?” Tiajuana asked.

“The same as usual, nothing spectacular. She scanned the bureau and didn’t see her sergeant. “Where is Styles?”

“Umm, he hasn’t come in yet. I think he and Spivey were meeting with an informant,” the young secretary said to cover for the detective.

“Call him, and tell him I want him in my office like yesterday.”

Tiajuana picked up the phone and dialed Styles’ phone. Lt. Dixon walked to her office and noticed Detective Rivera with his cell phone to his ear. Without looking at him or breaking stride, she said, “When you reach Styles, Rivera, tell him to get his ass in my office. That he’s late.”

Rivera, who was calling Styles, gave his supervisor the finger behind her back as she closed the door and placed her items on her desk. She had a routine she ate her bagel, sipped orange juice and read through both of the city’s major papers to see if there was any pertinent information in it.

Rivera reached Styles. He asked, “Man, where are you? Dixon is looking for your ass.”

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. I had to take care of some business,” Styles lied.

“Alright, holla,” Rivera said as he watched Spivey roll in with some folders of data.

Truth is Styles was up all night. He wanted so badly to be inside Trish, but she hadn’t come home and didn’t answer his calls, so he met up with another one of his ladies, a cop from another district. Styles didn’t care for the woman too much because all she talked about was the job. What happened on a traffic stop, the domestic call she went to, the pursuit she had of a bank robber or the arrest of some gang banger. Styles would drink with her and listen to the stories as long as it took for her to give it up, which was usually after a couple of hours. She was a pain in the ass, but the sista had some good sex so it was worth the trouble. He just took her like medicine—in doses.

When Styles entered the office, he headed to his desk and Spivey met him there. He handed him a couple of files. One was Slim’s and the other was Lucky’s. Lt. Dixon stuck her head out of her office. “Sergeant,” she called.

Styles told Spivey, Raise the boys and tell them to meet us at the strip club tonight. I got something for us.”

“Good, I could use some cash,” Spivey told him in a hushed tone.

Styles entered Dixon’s office and closed the door. Her office was at the back of the bureau and was enclosed by glass. She liked it that way because she could keep a watchful eye on all the detectives, and if she didn’t want to see them, all she had to do was close the blinds.

“You’re late, sergeant,” she told Styles as he sat.

“Working on a case. That’s why Spivey was late also. We were collecting some data on a drug crew,” he told her nonchalantly.

“Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t think you have your people pushing hard to get at the Fuentes’ and Marcellus Smith’s crews,” she said as she tossed an open Sun-Times to him.

“What’s this?” he asked as he picked up the paper.

Lt. Dixon had highlighted an article. She sipped her orange juice and watched Styles as he read the article. As he read Feet’s real name and then his street name, he knew him to be the man his cousin, Parker, worked for. The same man Parker had set up, and his detective intuition kicked in. He had been a detective too long not to know that one thing had to do with another. He checked the rest of the metro section, but didn’t find anything. He saw the Tribune on Dixon’s desk.

“Let me see that,” he said.

She handed him the paper and said, “You look concerned, detective.”

Styles shook off the comment telling her, “Doing a little police work is all.”

Styles immediately found what he was looking for, the article on Parker being shot at Harold’s Chicken. Parker had no family in the city, like Styles, since they were from St. Louis. Styles knew he was going to have the task of calling his aunt. He also knew he had to go to the morgue and identify the body. He would do that and find out what the hell happened.