The Corner III (No Way Out) (4 page)

Camila frowned then said, “It’s your party, baby, so whatever you say.”

After setting the candle and lighter on the dresser, Camila knew not to hesitate. Jimmie was handcuffed, but just in case her text hadn’t made it she had to keep everything on the up and up, so she began stroking Jimmie. He was rather large, but she had no problem taking him into her mouth. She didn’t have to perform the sex act on him too long, maybe only two minutes had passed when she heard a voice.

“Happy birthday, Jimmie, I’m glad you invited me to the party,” Chavez said as he stood at the foot of the bed.

Jimmie’s torso rose from the bed, and he jerked at the cuffs that were on his ankles and wrists, keeping him from attempting an escape. He knew the man that stood before him, and he was immediately consumed with fear.

Jimmie glanced at Camila who was sliding into her jeans. Her breasts bounced as she hurried into her clothes, but Jimmie was no longer interested in the well put together woman. “Bitch, you set me up.”

Chavez grinned, and his voice sounded eerily sinister when he said, “Jimmie, that’s no way to talk to a lady.” He kept his eyes on Jimmie, but spoke to Camila, “Me pondré en contacto más tarde y le pagaremos. Deja nosotros.”

Chavez told Camila to leave them, that he’d contact her later to pay her.

“Si,” she said as she left the first floor hotel room.

Jimmie began to sweat profusely, and Chavez walked closer to him. “Now, Jimmie. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way.” Chavez looked into Jimmie’s eyes so that he’d understand the seriousness of the situation. Chavez sat on the bed next to the cuffed man. “Now, I’m not going to lie to you. You are going to die. I assure you of that. Now whether it is a quick death or a long, drawn out painful death is up to you.”

“Man, Chavez, I’m just a corner hustler. I ain’t got no paper,” Jimmie begged.

“Nah, puta. This ain’t about ya paper. I got plenty of that. It’s about revenge. My hija and hijo are without a momma. She was a civilian and died at the hands of the game. Rules were broken. The game ain’t supposed to call for civilians to be killed, so I must avenge my babies’ momma’s death.”

Camila left the room. Moments later, two young men entered—Petey and Rafael. Petey, the older of the two, carried a bag. Once the door was closed, he reached inside. He handed Chavez a bottle of chloroform and a rag. Chavez poured some of the drug onto the rag then turned toward Jimmie who was squirming violently in a futile attempt to escape from his restraints.

Chavez grabbed Jimmie by the throat with his left hand. His grip was powerful and any more pressure would surely crush Jimmie’s windpipe.

Chavez forcefully placed the rag over Jimmie’s mouth and nose. The slimly built man tried to wiggle his head free. It went side to side, but the strong Chavez kept the rag in place, ensuring that Jimmie breathed in the sweet smelling dense liquid. Eventually, Jimmie went limp. He was out of it.

Chavez told Petey and Juan, “Make sure you gather all of his things. Better yet, I’ll get them. Carry him to the truck and put him in the back.”

“I got you, bro,” Petey said. His voice was young, but full of confidence.

“First make sure no one is outside,” Chavez warned.

The coast was clear, and the two young Mexicans carried Jimmie’s cuffed, naked body out of the first floor hotel room to the Durango and tossed Jimmie in the back like a rag doll.

Chavez stepped out carrying Jimmie’s belongings. Camila would return tomorrow at checkout time to return the key. Chavez stepped into the passenger’s side of the SUV. The moonlight shone through the front window, and the late May night was a clear one. The stars shone brightly, and Chavez stole a quick glance at them. He knew Victoria was looking down at them from heaven. She was a woman who never harmed a soul. She and Chavez were opposites. Two people from different sides of the tracks who shared two things in common—a young girl and boy. Two children who are now living with their grandmother because their mother was senselessly gunned down while leaving work. Now was the beginning of her death being avenged.

*     *     *

Detective Styles drove the triple black Dodge Charger faster than the posted speed limit on Chicago Avenue. It was after eleven, and darkness had fallen hours earlier. He turned off the major street, slowing his speed as he cruised toward his destination.

Styles neared a city park and when he came to a halt at a stop sign, he finger combed his long goatee and smiled as he watched the group of Hispanic men, who were shooting hoops and the shit, stop to see what he was doing in their Humboldt Park neighborhood.

Styles was born, bred and fed on the south side, but had no fear of cruising in the northwest side neighborhood. He was the police and that gave him that right. If he weren’t a lawman, he might have had a problem. The shiny twenty-inch rims came to a halt, and the haze of the orange streetlights shone off them. The car was clean as a whistle—seized from a drug dealer from the southeast side of the city. The youngsters didn’t know that, and why should they? There was nothing about the car or Styles that screamed police. They threw up their gang signs to let the black man know where he was and what danger he could be in. Styles grinned at the teenagers as he slid his hand to his cup holder, grabbed his shield and held it up. The teenagers called him a pig, gave him the finger and flashed their gang signs again. Styles smiled then gave the supercharged car gas and cruised off.

Five minutes later, Styles brought the car to a halt at a large house that had been converted to three apartments. An elderly Spanish woman, the occupant of the front apartment, was sitting on the porch knitting a shirt. It’s not the first time Styles has seen the woman. He exits the car and walks to the woman. She’s heavyset with short grey hair.

Styles speaks, she nods. He hands her a shopping bag.

She says nothing. Sets the bag on the ground and Styles smiles as he walks away down the gangway to the back. The wooden door to the rear apartment is open, but the screen door is locked. He knocks on it.      “Trish,” he calls.

Walking toward the door is a sexy woman of Brazilian and Black descent. She’s smiling and appears to be happy to see Styles. She isn’t. It’s a front. Trish has been dealing with Styles ever since he had some charges pending against her dropped. Charges that were false. But Trish had always been a bit naïve since she was young. Her mother Anna, who had become strung out on heroin was soon forced to prostitution when there was no room left at shelters for her and a young child. A child who knew no English because her mother rarely spoke it and never sent her daughter to school, but Trish learned the language by watching PBS, Sesame Street, School House Rock and the Electric Company, and all the lonely days sitting in the living room of their one bedroom apartment watching the shows while her mother turned tricks had paid off. Sometimes she would stand by the door and listen to her mother moan and speak words in English and Spanish. She can recall most of the men asking her to speak in her native tongue when they were in the room with her. After the men moaned and spoke a few curse words, but sounding happy when they did, the room would get quiet so Trish would tiptoe back to the raggedy couch where she would sit staring at the television.

Trish had been in America for two years and never let on to her mother that she was becoming fluent in English—and the ways of life. Television and friends in the neighborhood helped to teach her the language, but her mother and her pimp who hung at the apartment on a regular, taught her the game of life.

“You want something to eat?” she asked as she headed for the refrigerator without waiting for a response.

“What’cha got?” Styles asked as he sat at the small wooden kitchen table that was worn and had many chips in it.

Trish pulled a plate that was covered with plastic wrap from the refrigerator. “Brazilian steak and yellow rice.”

She stuck the plate in the microwave, set the time for two minutes then grabbed the bottle of Hennessey and a glass that was on the counter. After putting a couple of ice cubes in the glass, she poured the cognac then handed it to Styles.

He took a couple of hefty swigs, almost emptying the glass, then as he was about to reach for Trish, the microwave chimed. She turned and retrieved his plate of food. She was relieved. She knew Styles wanted to have sex, but she didn’t. There were times when she didn’t mind and actually enjoyed his company, but lately she began to want more. She was taking classes at the community college and while at libraries studying, she would see couples full of life, relishing in the company of each other. While jogging in the park, she would see couples holding hands, smiling and laughing—something she’d never done in her life. She wanted that and hoped to get to that point some day.

Styles finished only half of his meal. While eating and talking on the phone, he watched Trish’s heart-shaped ass shift with every move she made as she washed dishes. He became hungry for her sex and that was the reason he was there, along with letting her know what she had to do to help him on a case he was working.

“Come here,” he said.

She wiped her hands dry then stepped to him.

He guided her to sit on his lap. He placed a hand on her breast and it felt good even through the fabric of her t-shirt.

He was heading in for a kiss when his cell rang. The ringtone was one of the narcotics offic, so he answered and was pissed when his commander called him to report to a crime scene.

When Styles stood, she kissed him making it seem as if she wanted him to stay.

“I know, baby, but I gotta go. We’ll finish this later.”

Trish frowned then said, “Okay, call me.”

Styles walked up the gangway. When he got to the front of the house, he noticed the old woman. She was still sitting in the rocking chair, knitting. She’d started on something new. She also had new yarn and was working it with a new pair of knitting needles.

 “
Gracias por el señor que hace punto suministros,”
the
old
woman said.

She was thanking Styles for knitting
supplies
.

He responded with a simple nod, like he always did after bringing the old woman something. He got inside the Charger then sped off. As he was traveling up Chicago Avenue, he blasted rap loudly.
Can I Live
by Jay-Z pumped through his speakers. He came to a halt at a stoplight. At the opposite side of him was an SUV. The passenger of the Suburban recognized Styles, and Styles recognized the Mexican.

The light changed to green, and the driver of the Suburban hadn’t noticed. He was looking at Chavez.

“Drive, Petey,” Chavez said as he kept his eyes fixed on the man inside the Charger.

Styles gave the Charger gas and simply nodded as the two vehicles passed one another.

“Damn, that was close,” Petey said relieved. The two shorties in the back had no idea who the black man in the sports car was, but he and Chavez did.

Nevertheless, it was all good, but Chavez wondered what Styles was doing in his neck of the woods. He turned and through the SUV’s rear window Chavez saw Styles’ taillights fade. He then looked down at the man who was tied up and out cold. “That was the police from your hood, dog. That narc name Styles, I know you know him. He must be on some other shit, or he would’ve stopped us.” He turned back around then shook his head. “This just ain’t your fucking day, dog.”

*     *     *

When Jimmie came out of his state of unconsciousness, he realized that his life was about to end. He blinked a few times so his eyes could focus. As Chavez set several knives on a table, Jimmie visually searched the room. He was stretched out on a pool table that was covered with a sheet of thick plastic. He came to the realization that this was where he was going to die. In a basement and then his body dumped somewhere. This wasn’t the way he’d figured his birthday to end. He was supposed to be lying up with the Dominican chick with the fat ass.

Gutter bitch!
 He thought of the woman who’d set him up.