The Corner III (No Way Out) (20 page)

Spivey, the older of the detectives, said, “Styles said we’re to stop and hold him until he gives us a call.”

When Anthony neared his Chevy Impala, he used the keypad to unlock the trunk. He tossed the bag inside, shut it and within seconds he was driving away. After he pulled off, Bates noticed a blue SUV two car lengths away pull off and follow. “We have a trail car,” he told the other detectives.

Rivera said, “That’s to be expected. They’re not going to have him running around collecting money without some back-up.”

Bates pulled his radio from his hip.

Spivey, who was sitting in the backseat, noticed. “What the fuck are you about to do?” he asked as he reached to the passenger’s seat to grab the radio from Bates.

Surprised, Bates said, “You know they’re packing serious heat, so I was going to call for a squad car to stop them when we stop the man, Davis, with the money.”

Rivera pulled out of their parking space and followed the dealers. He then said, “Bates, we throw the strobe light on the dash, and we flash our badges. Reach in the back and put on that vest.”

Bates looked in the cargo area of the SUV and grabbed the bulletproof vest that had a badge and ‘narcotics’ embroidered on the front and ‘police’ on the back.

Rivera continued. “Them fuckers are not going to do shit when they see we are the police. If we were stick-up boys then they would be out the truck blazing. Now, let’s stop this motherfucker and get that money.”

Bates, who couldn’t wait to settle with his bookie, who he owed five grand from gambling on the NBA finals, pulled the vest over his head then said, “Let’s get this money.”

*     *     *

Styles was on Martin Luther King Drive traveling north. He’d just crossed 47
^th
Street when he received the call from Rivera. They had Anthony cuffed and sitting in the back seat of their Explorer. When they made the stop, Anthony didn’t flee. They had Barnes, who was driving a separate vehicle, stop in front of Anthony, and when they came to a stop at a red light, Rivera pulled the Explorer next to Anthony with the lights in the grill and on the dash flashing along with a few short blasts of the siren. Anthony’s security was about to jump out ready to fire until they realized it was narcotics that’d stopped him. Mike D, who was in the passenger’s seat of the security vehicle got out and headed toward where they were pulling Anthony out of the vehicle. Spivey, with an MP-5 sub-machine gun, pointed at him, ordered him to get back in his vehicle and for them to drive off, or they were going to jail. Mike D didn’t budge; he was not going to leave Anthony knowing what was in the trunk and what Reese might say about him leaving his boss. But Anthony knew Rivera and what time it was. He knew he and his security didn’t stand a chance so he ordered Mike D to leave the scene, telling him to go holla at his lawyer. Mike D, a career criminal who knew nothing but how to soldier, spit on the ground showing his disgust for the police and did as his boss said. To go notify his lawyer—meaning his father, Lucky.

Styles asked, “Everything all good?”

Rivera said, “More than we figured. What do you want us to do with this cat?”

“Keep him there. I’m almost where I need to be. Take a pic of him with your cell and send it to me. I have some business to take care of.”

Rivera looked at the small crowd of people watching what looked like an arrest then told Styles, “I think we need to get a squad here and take him to the station. There’s a crowd of people, around feel me?”

“Do what you need to do, but send me the pic. Have them put him in a holding cell. I really don’t give a fuck about him. I’m at my destination, handle it, but send me that fucking pic now,” Styles said as he parked his car.

“Will do.”

He noticed the Escalade and the STS parked in front of the small jazz club and grinned. His cell chirped and vibrated. He glanced at it and saw the message. He opened it and saw Anthony Davis sitting in the back seat of the Explorer, cuffed. Styles’ grin became a smile as he stepped out of his vehicle and headed to the club.

Slim was pouring another shot of Martell when there was a hard banging on the locked club door.

“Who the hell is banging on my door like that?” Lucky said.

Slim was about to walk to the door when Jamel came out of Lucky’s office and asked, “Lucky, do you want me to get it?”

The banging continued.

“Yeah, ask who it is first.”

Slim, who was standing behind the bar, edged the pistol grip pump that was under the bar, closer to him and clicked off the safety.

Before Jamel could ask who was on the other side of the door, Styles barked, “Open the door, Chicago PD.”

“What the fuck?” Lucky barked. He and Slim recognized the voice so he nodded his head toward the door for Jamel to open it, knowing that no illegal activities were conducted at his club, leaving him and Slim with no worries.

Jamel opened the door, and Styles walked in. The stocky detective had a smug look on his face. He walked past Jamel as if he was nothing telling him, “Close the door, young buck.”

Lucky nodded at Jamel, and he closed and locked the door. “Go to my office, and shut the door, Jamel.”

Once Jamel was inside the office and the door shut, Lucky asked, “So what can I do you for, officer?”

Styles shook his head, and his smile was condescending. He said, “You street motherfuckers just don’t know the difference. I was just at the hospital visiting that little fucker that’s clinging on to life and the spic that’s in there watching over him like a bitch.”

Slim and Lucky, who were smooth and not the type of men who could have their buttons pushed, didn’t say anything towards the disrespectful comments.

Styles continued, “The spic called me the same thing, officer, and like I told him, I’m a detective. That means I run shit and can do the fuck as I please. So getting to the point of doing as I please, I figured I’d send a message to you two.”

“And what’s that?” Slim asked.

“Parker, by now you all know, he was family. Yeah, he was in the streets working for you no doubt—”

Slim found the opportunity to give the detective a jab, so he said, “I heard he had an application in for the department, if you know what I mean.” Slim wanted the detective to know that he knew of Parker being an informant.

“That’s funny, Slim, but to get to the point, that boy had no family but me, and it cost a grip for funerals and the way you guys sent that faggot, Feet, away was real nice and fancy. Parker, I had to do his shit at the funeral home. Cheap was how he was sent away. So the way I see it, you all owe me.”

Lucky said, “Slim, go to my office to my safe and get a nice stack. I’m going to be nice to this officer and—”

“Detective, like I told your spic friend. It’s detective, and you don’t have to worry about writing that check. I already have the money, courtesy of you two mothafuckas,” Styles said while grinning.

“And how is that?” Slim asked.

“Smart having your boy make the pick-up of money right after the funeral. But when you’re the police as long as I’ve been, you know all the moves.”

“Get to the point,” Lucky said.

“I had my boys pick up your son after he picked up the last of the stash money. So I have my money that repays me for Parker’s funeral.” Styles looked at Slim. “
And
for someone fucking with what’s mine, feel me, Slim?”

Slim said nothing, trying to figure out what the detective was trying to direct toward him.

Lucky’s facial expression hadn’t changed. He was a vet in the game and knew not to let the detective see him flinch, even though the detective had struck a nerve in the old man.

Lucky said, “So you picked up my son on some bullshit, you say?”

“You two niggas heard what I said.” Styles took out his cell and showed them the picture of Anthony in cuffs. “Now, I’m going to do you two a favor and have him released since I have some money that never existed, understand me?”

“What station is my son at?” Lucky asked in a no nonsense tone.

Styles gave Lucky the information he wanted, then Lucky was ready for the detective to leave so he could go get his son. Anthony was as hard as they came, but he was still Lucky’s son, and he didn’t want him spending one night in jail.

Styles began to walk out of the club when Lucky said, “All you wanted was the money in the first place and you got that, so let me tell you a thing or two, detective, my hand reaches further than your narcotics office. If you want to jack my money, it’s all in the game. But when you fuck with my family or come at my crew over some pussy that you don’t own, shit can get funky like an old batch of collard greens. You feel me,
officer
?”

Styles had begun to walk out of the office but stopped in his tracks when Lucky spoke. He was about to turn around and comment but decided that he’d made his point. He also knew that there would be another day to deal with the hustlers, but for now, he had to meet his partners to split up the over four hundred thousand they’d stolen from Slim and Lucky’s crew.

*     *     *

Styles walked in the basement of the Calumet City home where Rivera’s girlfriend lived. Rivera had called the young white girl ahead of time telling her to leave the home. A twenty-four year old dumb blonde who did whatever Rivera told her. She was very attractive and had the body of a sista. Rivera had met her one night while partying at the Funky Buddha, a happening night club in Chicago. She was attracted to his looks, but when she found out he was a detective and when he started showering her with gifts, money and a rent free place to live, she was all in.

Sitting at a poker table were the detectives of the crew. They were busy counting the money they’d just stolen. Cigar smoke filled the air and a glass of expensive cognac was on the table. A rap by Lil Wayne was pumping through the speakers, and the men were talking shit as they clutched their spoils. Gambling, women and free spending clouded their minds.

Styles walked to the table, grabbed the bottle of cognac and took a swig straight from the bottle. “What we come up with?” he asked.

Spivey tossed a plastic bag filled with money toward him, and it landed at the edge of the table where Styles was standing. “Eighty-one thousand a piece,” he said cheerfully.

 Styles walked away without picking up the money. There was a refrigerator in the far corner and he walked to it, opened and grabbed a beer from it. His partners noticed the look on his face when his share of the money was tossed his way. It was as if he didn’t care about the money at all.

Spivey knew his partner all too well, and he knew that he was more concerned with the fact that his piece of ass had started dealing with Slim. Spivey was divorced and had a wife and daughter sucking him dry from child support, and all that came with a father trying to please and a teenage girl who cared more for her mother and her friends than she did her father.

The men at the table were drinking heavily and trying to figure out where they were going to party for the night when Styles grabbed his share of the cash and headed for the stairs, Spivey followed. Once they were outside Spivey asked, “Partner, shake that shit. You can take your ass out tonight and replace the whore. Do that shit so you can get your head right.”

Styles smiled and said, “You’re right. He hugged Spivey and smiled. “We’re some of the luckiest motherfuckers in the city. Do what we want when we want.”

*     *     *

Lucky was sitting in his office waiting on Tesha to call. He had sent her to pick up Anthony, who had been released by Chicago PD, courtesy of Detective Styles. Slim had been on the phone with Trish. He’d told her to take a cab to his place that he’d be home later that night. Trish, who was falling for Slim, didn’t notice the slight sense of urgency in his voice. She told him that she would be there waiting. Slim hung up from her and fixed another drink as his thoughts weighed heavily on his mind. He knew what Styles meant and his mind wondered what angle Trish was coming from as his heart tried to tell him that she was true, but Slim trusted the organ that pumped knowledge and not the one that pumped blood.