CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Go Yankees!

A Sunny October afternoon served up brilliant daylight over Yankee Stadium and its flurry of activity. Earlier than usual, ticket holders swarmed from the subways, buses and parking lots, converging on the first game of the World Series. Police presence was extra thick with trucks, cycles, squad cars and horses. Usually, their first priority might be the teams of ticket scalpers who preyed on unknowing visitors. Counterfeit tickets were always circulating, and every officer was supplied with over a hundred plastic tie-cuffs to apprehend suspects. However, the higher priority these days was terrorists. Anytime a large crowd convened in New York, there had to be that additional police presence; some extra cops in paramilitary gear; all of them strapped up with the M-16 rifle, the helmet and the added armor. Things were off the hook these days.

Wade was off duty for the game opener. But he used his police clout, regardless, enabling him to stand nearby, to listen in on the briefing held out on the sidewalk, directly across from the stadium. Sixty officers and 150 auxiliary officers were either on post or on line at the roll call. This was the event that called all of New York to its knees.

Generally, baseball fans would leave the game with memorabilia such as programs, flags, souvenir balls, bats and caps. But today, just about everyone that headed into the stadium was dressed from head to toe in their finest Yankees attire, carrying their trusty baseball gloves just in case.

Vans, buses and taxis that arrived (each vehicle loaded with fans) were also dressed and printed with team logos, and other game-related convictions. Many devoted ticket holders spent the morning at the local team diner, trading stories about each player and each home run they’d witnessed throughout the year. And once the gates opened, fans had no choice but to stand in endless lines which wrapped around the stadium in two directions on the Bronx streets. Many were waiting in separate lines to buy programs, commemoratives, or anything else tangible to remember the event by.

New York vs. Texas

The series began with explosive tempers and activity from the first inning. Mike Lewis, manager of the New York team, was ejected by the home plate umpire, just three pitches into the game against Texas. Lewis was too vulgar in response to the ball and strike calls. Five minutes later, his starting pitcher, Shane Hargrove, joined him for shouting at the same ump after a suspect home plate call. From Wade’s seat, 10 rows behind the dugout, he heard “You stupid motherfucker! Are you blind?” And then the general manager for New York stalked down onto the field to vent his frustrations. It was an early mess of poor sportsmanship, which reminded Wade why he didn’t follow sports in the first place. All of this early activity made him feel like he got more than he’d bargained for—even though he didn’t pay squat for the tickets. He was supposed to be there on business. (His business, since he’d been officially removed from the case.) And at the last minute, he was able to get a ticket before anybody (anybody, like Ken Stevens) knew that this was not an FBI case. And he was so sure coming here would give him a head start on the feebies—no way they were onto Ken this early. Such thoughts helped Wade to relax. A good seat for the game; no pressure against time; and now, all he had to wait for was the right time.

New York was behind, 2–0. They were now counting on their star pitcher to salvage the game. Ken Stevens replaced Hargrove earlier than expected. It was originally planned that he would come in after the fifth inning to bring the fireworks, whether they were necessary or not. But, now that he thought about the article he read earlier, Wade agreed that Ken’s placement in this game was just right.

Critics had suggested that some injury may have been the reason that Stevens wasn’t starting in the series opener. Others claimed that he wasn’t worth the millions that his contract promised. Talk was his only challenge, however. Because when it came to action, Ken Stevens was the prophet. And now that the game was moving along nicely, Ken was stomping the critics, holding Texas to five hits while striking out six without a walk in 7½ innings. His only blemish was a homer in the eighth, cracked by Rico Diaz. But that was after NY flexed their muscle to take a 7–3 lead. Steven’s grand slam off Texas pitcher David Kranker in the third inning, and José Clark’s two-run homer off a Texas relief pitcher in the fifth, keyed the New York comeback. New York added a run in the sixth inning with Baker’s sacrifice fly, with one out, driving in Bobbie Blue who had singled, stolen second base and advanced on a Griffey single.

New York broke the game in the eighth inning. A relief pitcher came in for Texas. Their second. He walked three batters in a row. The crowds were ecstatic with energy on the fourth batter. The stadium seemed to levitate with applause as Stevens came up to the plate. Everyone knew that he was facing a lot. Even though the team was up by 4. Point was, this game was his second time facing a grand slam. It was still crunch time, regardless of the score. This was their million-dollar man. The highest-paid player on the team. So, they expected him to deliver; to make it all official.

Crack! The bat connected dead center, driving the ball directly over the pitcher’s head. He tried to jump for it, but the ball was on an incline and still climbing, climbing, climbing some more. Now, it was in the air over center field and beginning to descend on the glide. Diaz, the centerfielder, jetted towards the wall, sure that the ball would either bounce off the wall; or maybe just barely clip the top. Still running, Diaz had to make a decision to jump or stand. He eyed the ball. It seemed to fade in and out of the sky. With cautious measure, he decided to hit the wall. He paced himself, picked up speed, and catapulted with the left foot while raising the right to climb the wall. His right cleat dug into the sponge wall and the speed, motion and drive took his body into flight. With his arm extended a few inches over the top of the wall and still airborne, Diaz timed the ball. It was falling fast and close to the glove. Feet away. Then inches.

Pop! The ball smacked the leather of his glove. Diaz came down in a tumble. He got up strong and amped. Excited. All of those emotions until . . . until he looked in his glove. No ball! In the fever, he didn’t realize the ball only hit the top of his glove—he didn’t catch it! The ball was on the other side of the wall with stadium workers already scrambling for it. Stevens had hit another grand slam smash and the stadium turned into an ocean of jubilation. A spontaneous combustion of erratic applause and uncontrollable jumping. The result was a roar that cut through the air like a rocket blast.

After the game, Wade followed a series of corridors and wings, until he felt as though he’d circled the stadium twice. Pushing his badge when necessary, he headed for the team locker room. On the way, he grabbed a small sack of peanuts from a vendor, still descending ramps. Finally, at the door marked “CLUBHOUSE,” he muscled through teams of waiting reporters, spilling some peanuts along the cement walkway, until he was able to reach and knock at the door. A uniformed guard pulled open a small slice of Plexiglas, peeking through the portal. Wade mentioned his appointment. When the guard winced, Wade took the easier method. A sign even the guard could understand. The guard immediately became a best friend and even escorted Wade through the tunnels leading to the New York Yankees locker room.

Showers were steaming in the rear. Laughter could be heard from various directions. Some players were half in and half out of uniform. Others were wrapped in towels, headed for their personal shower stalls. Soiled team jerseys were draped here and there. Rows of pinewood benches lined the areas a few feet away from similarly designed lockers. Some lockers were opened and looked lived in, while others were very neat and organized. There were centerfold posters, family portraits, neatly folded towels, shirts and hanging team uniforms. On the floor outside of most lockers were pairs of dirty cleats. Meanwhile, team attendants and players’ personal assistants were either collecting used clothes, or else setting fresh street gear out for the players in the showers. This was certainly a locker room, but it was a glamorous one. Carpet. Generous lighting. Very organized. Cell phones at the ready. Walls of sink and mirror arrangements. Towel boys. Televisions in the walls. And there was pleasing ventilation that accommodated these million-dollar men—pampering for million-dollar feet and hands.

Ken was just about to head for his shower when Wade recognized him without his team cap, wrapped in a team towel. Wade caught his attention and they agreed to meet after and leave together for a discussion over dinner. In a room which branched off of the locker room, there was a lavish lounge. Instantly darker than the fluorescent lighting in the locker room, the lounge could have been mistaken for a nightclub from what Wade could measure. Luxuries galore. Video games. Snack machines. A mini bar with stools. Waitresses, couch-side telephones and top of the line flatscreen monitors made Wade almost feel guilty as he soaked into the fine leather couch, kicking his feet up onto a coffee table. As he watched the screen in front of him, the 6 o’clock news was beginning. Ernie Anastos and Brenda Blackmon were the familiar co-anchors for the local news on channel 5.

“For our top story, today federal agents from the New Jersey Organized Crime Task Force arrested New Rochelle television producer and entertainment entrepreneur, Douglass Gilmore. They’re charging Gilmore with the murder of topless dancer Nadine Butler, known as Moet . . .” Brenda turned to a different camera. A photo of Moet showed up beside the anchor. “The murder of Miss Butler had been a mystery to New York City authorities for the past eight months. However, recently the Federal Bureau of Investigation took over the case—a case that is allegedly related to the organized criminal activities of the New Jersey-based Bianco family . . .” Video footage accompanied the anchor’s voice, showing the scene of the murder and various dancers huddled outside in the chill to be questioned by officers. The broadcast went on to detailed allegations of the link between Gilmore and his businesses being one of the many fronts for organized crime. There were mug shots on the monitor of the Bianco chain of command and known underlings. An on-location reporter fused the pieces of the story together from a position outside of Fool’s Paradise with the camera panning over to the club entrance and its sign overhead. A few seconds of video showed Douglass being led out of the courtroom, and then there was an interview with the district attorney, appearing to bring some authenticity to the story. Wade smirked at the inferences and the impressions that the newscast left viewers with. He wasn’t surprised. Typical propaganda, all pushed by the FBI. Nothing new, except that this was the first time in nearly 20 years that a case had been taken from Wade. But the TV hype did aggravate him.

Total fabrication, he thought.

Ken’s Version

Ken maneuvered his way out of the stadium garage as if the world was after his ass, moving far and away from the throng of press and waiting fans in his armored, gleaming black Lincoln Navigator. The truck was bigger than life, appropriate for the way the million-dollar player lived. The inside was clean and expertly loaded for any occasion, whether a party for eight or a cruise for two. Wade felt his body float on air as he nestled in the soft, glove-leather passenger seat, his feet planted firmly on the foot mat. The floor was as close as he could come to any hint of solid ground while Ken moved along the streets with commanding energy. When he took that first hard turn Wade held the door strap, expecting to feel gravity pull him in the opposite way. Nope. The luxury vehicle seemed to defy gravity because Wade barely budged with the seatbelt holding him so snug. He did, however, need to take a deep breath, and for the want of occupying the drive time he stared at the bronze carpet that covered the floor and matched the interior throughout the vehicle.

Must be nice.

A low volume feed of classical jazz played over the hi-fi sound system as they headed for Ken’s favorite grub spot. In the meantime, Ken was comfortable enough with Wade to freely share his background. Perhaps this satisfied the void he felt, escaping all those reporters stranded and strung-out back at the stadium. The jeep eventually rolled up to a stop in front of Jimmy’s Café. A valet stepped up to take possession of the vehicle, but quickly backed off when he recognized who it was. Apparently, Wade guessed, Ken always parked on his own. And the valet stepped aside and indicated for Ken to go and park as usual. In the rear of the lot, next to the convenient exit, Wade and Ken hopped down and out of the vehicle, then they strolled into the eatery. At the same time, a maître d’ was already waiting to seat them. The two settled, ordered food, and Ken continued to talk Wade’s ears off.

“What attracted you to Moet?” asked Wade, feeling confident enough to jump to another subject. He also needed to give Ken some direction, to stop him from wandering back into his sports-celebrity world; the shit Wade had heard enough of.

“I think it was her obsession with me. I know that might seem strange to you, knowing that I’m the one who’s always approached by fanatics. But Moet was the right kind of woman that a man, any man, would want to be obsessed . . .” Wade sipped at his coffee to save himself an expression. Since he’d seen a few videos, he already knew what Ken was saying. He even wondered himself if Moet could have affected him that way. “. . . even if we had a little spat or something,” said Ken, “she’d call me right back the next hour or the next day. Even if I was wrong.” Ken explained how he met Moet, things they did and how long or how much. She had been to his loft a few times, but it was Ken who visited her home most of the time. After a game. After dinner. After a movie. And whenever he did bring her home, she usually stayed for a few hours of gratuitous sex. No more, no less.

Ken seemed to be thrown off a bit when Wade described (more in depth) how Moet was left for dead. The only knowledge that Ken had of Moet’s death was by Wade’s initial phone call. That was what initially brought Ken closer to Wade. Close enough to confide in him. Close enough to share other things.

“I’ve never shared this with anyone . . .” Ken leaned into Wade like a weeping willow; tall as a 6’5” tower, Ken had Wade beat by almost 10 inches of height. “Once when I was out with Moet I had to put up a fight for her.”

“A fight?” Wade reached in his pocket for a pad. For a while, he didn’t think he’d be needing it anymore. Not for this case anyhow.

“Well, I dropped Moet off at her house one morning . . . it was almost noon. The whole block where she lives was like, deserted. Except for a few cars. We kissed . . . we’d spent the night together at my loft in the Village, and I turned my jeep around, heading for the airport. You know, her block is a dead end. They’re building more . . .”

Wade shook his head and acknowledged that he knew all about her block, the construction, and the house. Just get on with it, dude.

“Well, anyway, I had a game in Seattle that night. So, I had to go. But before I got to the end of her block, I peeked into the rearview mirror. I don’t know why, but I saw a guy, a white man, running up behind Moet. I thought it was curious and stopped quick. I almost hit my head on the windshield! Anyway, I backed up on her block and jumped out to see what was up. The guy was pushing her, like, right in front of her door. I ran up and snatched this dude by the collar. He flung around and popped me in the shoulder with his fist. I mean, I’m not a wimp or anything, but I never expected that. I’m no boxer or nothin’, but I moved closer to grab him or hit him or something. I’m always concerned about being put in the press for some assault stuff.” Wade yawned, visibly tired of Ken’s ranting and beating around the bush. “Got to watch my image, you know. There’s big money riding on me . . .” Wade wanted to shake Ken to get him to finish the damned story.

“. . . anyway, he was like, fuck off, jock . . . then he pushed me again . . . dude is like big, not big and tall, but wide like a freakin’ truck! He was real light in the skin. Almost all—

Ken twisted his face, trying to recall. And Wade helped.

“Yeah, that’s right. Like an albino. Anyway, the dude pushed past me, cursing at Moet like she was a prostitute or somethin’.” Wade now turned his face, knowing that Ken obviously didn’t know everything about Moet.

“He yelled something like, ‘You bitch! You wanna fuck with my girl? I’ll show you—you fuckin’ dyke!’ That’s when I was like, dude! I went to grab him again, but he ran back to his car. A Chevy or somethin’. I looked at Moet. She was okay, just out of breath and hysterical. That made me run after the guy. He already closed himself in the car and locked it. I was bangin’ on the window, but there was this sharp pain in my right shoulder. And I was like, shit, shit, shit!!! My shoulder! All I could think about was the Seattle game. Now I was really mad. I ran after the car for practically half the block. Exhaust fumes were in my face and everything. But he got away.” Wade was listening to the story in between the flubber, envisioning the scene. White guy tries to attack Moet. He’s saying Moet is messing with “his girl,” and he’s mad, he’s in a Caprice. That was the real story. Question is, who was Moet ticking off, and what girl was this guy referring to? The dyke stuff? He already knew Moet was bisexual. Nothing new there. Wade felt a little breathless himself, as if he was there. Hanging onto every word coming from Ken’s lips. Maybe Ken was Wade’s best lead, after all.

Wade and Ken both had Ken’s favorite dish. Grilled turkey salad with cheddar cheese and croutons. After the meal, Ken joined Wade for the short trip to Moet’s house. Sean Clancy, the police artist, met them there, part of Wade’s idea to prevent publicity and to help Ken with recollection of the faces and events. There was no doubt in Wade’s mind that Ken’s run-in had something to do with Moet’s murder. So once Ken was sure that the sketch fit the description of the attacker, he acknowledged Wade’s office and pager numbers, then zoomed off in a blur of black. Now, on the way back to the precinct, Wade and the police artist discussed more about the drawing; but Wade had stared at the likeness long enough to know that he hadn’t run across any suspects with this description. He also marked Ken off of his hit list, recalling that his alibi was as good as an alibi could be. On the night of the murder, Ken was stuck in a hotel room in Kansas City waiting for part 2 of a double header. Besides, his story about the skirmish fit perfectly with the shoulder injury that prevented him from playing a few games. Must have been a bad hit, thought Wade, since Ken had been through a month of rehabilitation therapy for his entire right arm.

As Wade absorbed the impact of the speed bumps at the entrance to the headquarter’s parking lot, he shared some male trivia with Sean.

“Do you know that Stevens hardly remembers the names of the women he lays?” Wade expected Sean to be more surprised.

“Really?” Sean was neither here nor there about the subject, finally swinging into the nearest parking space.

“Yeah. Since he visits quite a few different states, he’s devised a system that can prevent him from screwing up the names. He gives them ‘pet names.’ Like nicknames. It starts immediately when he meets them, so if he’s in Atlanta, and meets a girl there, her name is Atlanta. If he’s in Montreal, then that’s her nickname—Montreal, or Montey. The women adopt the name like it was their own. Coming from a sports star and all.”

“What if there’s two girls in the same state?”

“I don’t know. I never got to ask.”

“Maybe you weren’t cut out to be a detective after all,” said the artist, and the two laughed as they entered the rear of the station.

Passaic County Jail

Going to jail for the first time isn’t pretty. It’s a culture shock, to be more exact. But for Douglass, the passage into Passaic County’s Public Safety Facility was a death defying experience. To say the least, the jail was overcrowded. Something like a dog kennel, only for men. And as soon as he arrived there, Douglass was packed in with everybody else, regardless of their crime. Even if you were a petty thief, you might be grouped with an axe murderer.

Notwithstanding his current legal woes, Douglass still felt he could handle the circumstances. After all, he had already been introduced to “communal living” at age 17—even worse than jail, as far as he was concerned.

It was just after high school that he signed up and enlisted in the U.S. Marine Corps where he endured 90 days of boot camp on the infamous Parris Island training grounds in South Carolina. So, he figured if he could take 24 hours of physical torture for 90 days straight—physical training, psychological pressure and shouting—then he could certainly withstand a few days in the slammer . . . at least. He had no choice but to do that; to face the challenge.

U.S. marshals drove Douglass from the courthouse in Newark to Passaic. Detained as a federal prisoner until bail was paid or the case was decided. One way or the other, this was home for now. Escorting their prisoner through an electronically raised garage door, both marshals unstrapped their Glock MP 30s from their waists and, like a well rehearsed ritual, they stashed them; one in the glove compartment, the other in the armrest, between the seats. They raised from their seats and out of the car and moved towards the rear doors, approaching Douglass from both sides. Closest to Douglass was a female marshal. She had long, Barbie-blond hair, and the good looks to match. She reached down to help Douglass from his seat, and he instantly inhaled a dry flowery fragrance like his elementary school teachers used to wear. She was cordial, too; so far from the abrasive, bounty-hunter types that Douglass had been so far introduced to.

If this marshal thing ever falls through, you can always dance for me. It was like Douglass to think the craziest thoughts at a time like this, if only to lessen the torment. And he made the same assessment with his eyes, taking a slow, slithery evaluation of blondie’s features. In the meantime, the other marshal, stiff, with a medium build, led the way through a door into the jail until all three of them stood before an elevated, glass-enclosed operations center. Something like box office seats for a basketball game. There was an intercom system through which the marshals made their representations, sliding some papers and identifications through a slot in the wall. After the paperwork was signed, the marshals took a receipt in return, and just like that the transaction was complete; Douglass was passed and delivered to the hands of the Passaic County Sheriff’s Department.

From one facility to another, the difference was as clear as black and white. From the moment that the door closed behind the marshals, Douglass was ordered around and manhandled like a runaway slave. Actually, slave masters would have been kinder; even if wielding a stinging leather whip. Within minutes, a 9-foot tall giant began barking orders. He had the uniform and a sheriff’s badge . . . he had dark hair, was clean shaven, and there were those bigger-than-life hands. Douglass would never forget this guy, because of how he grabbed him. Douglass didn’t dare voice his disapproval, but he was surely thinking of how his father always grabbed him up when he was younger.

“TAKE OFF YOUR SNEAKERS AND BELT, AND PUT YOUR HANDS UP AGAINST THE WALL.” There was a small, plastic bin on the table nearby. A sign inside said “PUT PROPERTY HERE.” Everything was unquestionable and clear. No misunderstandings, as though this had been exercised a million times in the past.

On the wall, there were a few sets of handprints. They were large, as if the titan-sheriff was the one who buried his hands into a bucket of red paint and slapped his palms on the off-yellow wall three times in a row. There were also directions and orders (blown up and printed) and meant for anyone to understand, apparently prepared for all languages and I.Q. levels.

So tall was the giant sheriff that he had to bend down low in order to execute his procedures. He first frisked Douglass, placing his hands on his shoulders, then gliding them along the outline of his arms, torso, outer and inner thighs, and ankles. The sheriff attached a plastic wristband with the prisoner’s name and date of birth in permanent marker. It was similar to a hospital patient’s ID bracelet. From one of many cubby holes, with varying sizes of blue, laceless skips, the sheriff pulled out a 9½ pair and tossed them to the floor to be worn. Another grab from another cubby, and he flung a Ziploc bag of items on the table. Douglass still had his palms on the wall, doing whatever he was instructed to do. Still he could peek or at least sense the sheriff’s activities. Meanwhile, behind the glass there were uniformed men and women flipping switches, ruffling through papers and answering phones. Some black, some white, and some Hispanic, everybody back there was a busybody.

Douglass was asked to sign a property sheet. Then, with a copy of the same, he was handed the Ziploc bag of hygiene needs (toothpaste, toothbrush and comb) and directed down a hallway to a door. The sheriff stepped ahead of him and with one of many keys on a brass ring, unlocked the door. Douglass intuitively stepped through and the door was slammed impersonally behind him. In the room alone, Douglass was left to vegetate in an atmosphere of grimy, pissy cement walls and floors. There was no natural light, just fluorescent tubes that glared from high above. Scores of graffiti signatures and messages were either inscribed with a pencil, scratched in with a sharp object or burned in with matches all across the wall. Similar inscriptions were marked into a trail of wood benches which ran the perimeter of the room. A stainless steel toilet-sink combination, a coinless payphone and an adjacent door with a thick glass portal were the only other luxuries in the room.

A payphone!!!

“Hi, baby. Are you alright? Where are you?” Mechelle’s was the compassionate voice that Douglass longed to hear. Although she was far away, the phone made it seem that she was standing before him—a taste of the world he’d been taken from.

“I’m okay. I’m in Passaic, New Jersey. Got a pen? I’ll give you the address.” Douglass reviewed the receipt he’d been given as Mechelle scrambled for a pen and paper. Douglass relayed the information, asked for a $25 money order to be mailed out, and he left it at that. No mention of bail or the circumstances of the case. Nothing about his current enslavement.

But Mechelle had words for him.

“Douglass, everyone’s sayin’ you killed Moet.”

“Moet? And whaddaya mean, everybody?”

“I mean . . . well, it was on the TV, in the newspapers and on radio ’n stuff. People are just sayin’ stuff.” Mechelle sounded distraught and unsure.

“Mechelle, that’s not everybody. That’s the press. But at least, now I know who this Nadine Butler is.”

“Yeah. That’s Moet’s real name. I . . . uh . . . Douglass? What’s happening here? How long you think you’ll be in there? Will they let you go? Can I see you?” Mechelle was obviously upset, looking for something tangible. Douglass’s voice was her only form of hope.

“Easy, baby. Just relax. That’s the best way to handle this. With a clear mind. Let me work this out and you’ll see. Everything’ll be alright. We just have to be patient and . . . and . . . Mechelle, just look out for things for me, okay? I’ll be fine. Love ya.” Mechelle hung on to every word. Wanting more. Trying to draw a full picture. But when he hung up, all she could do was cry.

Demetrius walked into 950 North, startling Mechelle. She felt so alone and nervous that even his entrance caught her off guard. She was in tears on the living room couch at the time, thinking about Douglass, about her baby issues and about her future. She knew that she’d have to stop dancing soon, and now she couldn’t stop thinking about the worst-case scenario regarding Douglass’s arrest—she didn’t want to be a statistic; another single parent raising a child. She was sure that such a circumstance was harder than it was supposed to be, and these ideas hurt her the most. More tears.

Demetrius sat by and embraced her, consoling her as a friend. It helped, but it wouldn’t erase Mechelle’s frustrations and tensions. Mechelle; the distressed pregnant woman.

“Boss, you got my word. I ain’t had nuttin’ to do wit dat murder at da club.” Tony was wide-eyed and filled with fear. His arms were flailing as he begged for understanding from the Capo of the Bianco family. Tony’s memories of the Capo’s deeds—executions that left dismembered bodies—were the only images that he could think about. He knew just how easily and how quickly that he too could meet Doctor Death.

The Capo was a Ralph Cramden look-a-like. And, like the Honeymooner, he also had a hot temper. For now, he took a breath, as if to inhale some surplus faith for dealing with his underling.

“Well . . . I’ll tell you what. You’s been workin’ dat dare Paradise club for almost a year now. All we’s got is trouble from the joint. And all for what? A fuckin’ hoop shoot game? And now the Bianco name is all over TV again. But now we’re tied in with these . . . these . . . moolies! Who da fuck are dees Gilmore people? How we get caught up in their shit if a you’s didn’t have nuttin’ ta do wit it?” Now, the Capo was visibly red.

“Boss, I’m tellin’ ya dat this thing is all a fluke. It’s got nuttin’ ta do wit us. Plus, I put almost two years in this project. I’s close enough to get my . . . our teeth in the piggy bank. I’m startin’ to learn how dis thing ticks. I don’t think we should blow this here for . . .”

“You don’t think? You don’t think? No! You don’t fuckin’ think!” The Capo got up from the crate he was sitting on. The warehouse was dark and a hanging light bulb still cast light on him as he approached Tony. There were other shadows, many of them standing at certain points inside the cavernous facility.

“Gimme your gun.” Tony froze like stone while the Capo came closer still.

“I said gimme your fuckin’ gun!” Now Tony’s stomach quivered and his heart palpitated, almost jumping inside of his chest cavity.

“Alright, fuck it. I got my own.” And before Tony could move, the Capo reached in his belt for a pearl-handled 9-millimeter and pointed it at Tony’s head.

“Boss, please, boss!” Tony’s accent was thick as he pleaded, with pearls of sweat beginning to form on his brow.

“Lemme tell you sumptin’, Antonio . . . I made your fuckin ass. Me! You either produce, or I’ll do da job myself. Then I’ll do you!”

—the Capo was still pointing the gun at Tony’s forehead—

“Now, git the fuck outta here.” The Capo busted a shot off into the air. “Git!”

There must have been a dozen earners standing ready to carry out a Capo order. His gumbada were on balconies, ranges, and on top of freight and cargo shipments, prepared to put their firearms to use. Everyone looked forward to the chance of becoming the next made man. Tony knew this, and partially pissed himself while leaving the Jersey warehouse, back first, his eyes rolling around scared and erratic like pinballs. Once he was outside in the night air and safe from the spray of bullets, Tony leaned up against the warehouse in total relief, wiping sweat from his brow. All he could think about was how he was gonna infiltrate the Gilmore empire.

Absent Minded

Wade’s phone was buzzing and he rushed through the squad room to pick it up.

“Hey, Wade? Ken.” Wade already recognized Ken’s voice and that he was on his cell phone. What he didn’t know was how much talking Ken was going to do before he got to the point.

“How are you, Stevens? How is the series going?” Wade even knew that New York was up 2 to 1, and that they were away for the next 2 games in Texas.

“We’re almost there. I think I’m starting in Texas. My arm is working magic!”

“Okay . . . I’ll go find a bookie. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Wade had magic of his own, more than ready to move the conversation right along.

“Well, there was something else I remembered.” Wade thought to himself, remembering how the last thing Ken suddenly recalled was a damned bombshell. Maybe now Ken saw who really shot Kennedy?

“You once asked me if I knew anyone of Moet’s friends . . . Debbie? Remember?” Wade controlled his temper, sure not to shit himself.

“Uh-huh . . . and?”

“Well, I didn’t remember her name when you brought it up before because . . . well, you know how I’m not good with names . . . how I have to give them nick . . .”

“Ken . . . Ken! Yes! I know. Now, cut to the chase—” Wade had to catch himself; keeping his voice at a minimum so that nobody would be in his business; his case. “—Debbie. Please. Tell me about Debbie!”

“Well, I took her home one night when Moet brought her along to a game.”

“Took her home. You took her home? Where? Where!” Wade was answering faster than he was thinking, clumsy and desperately searching for his pen and note pad.

“Well . . . I don’t exactly know the address. But I’ll never forget the location. See, they took me in the house with them. There were all of these African things . . .”

“What? What do you mean you don’t know the address? But you do know the location? Listen, Ken. I want you to listen to me very carefully—Debbie may have been the last person to see Moet alive. Nobody knows where she lives. If you have that information we might be able to find Debbie and she may help us find Moet’s murderer. Now please. Take your time and think about this.”

“See, I never forget directions. Never. I could actually take you there.” Ken seemed a little unsure with his own words.

“How soon could we do that?”

“The game comes back to New York in three days . . .”

“That’s not soon enough. Give me your cell number again. I’ll call you back.” Wade reminded Ken not to ignore his calls like he had surely done to so many others who’d fed into his celebrity. “And, please . . . leave your cell phone on at all times.”

Wade made a call down to Audrey. She was the communications specialist at the 45^th. He had her initiate a process of elimination to hopefully find the location of the phone number left by Debbie on Moet’s answering machine.

“Audrey Starr,” answered a vibrant voice.

“Hey, Starr. It’s Wade. Any luck on the digits for the Paradise case?”

“I thought you were off of that case, Walter?”

“Yeah . . . but I, I got a hunch. Anything?”

“I tried every one of ninety-nine combinations. There were two people named Debbie. One was sixty years old, telling me her health problems and complaints about her electric bill. Another was a thirteen-year-old in Catholic school. Everyone else wasn’t home; the phone was disconnected, or they just didn’t know anyone named Debbie. I do know that the origin of the number is in Forrest Hills.”

“Yeah? Great, Starr. You’re a gem.” Wade hung up and no sooner did he pick up the receiver to dial Ken back.

“Stevens?”

“Yep.”

“It’s Wade. Does Forrest Hills ring a bell?”

“Yeah. That’s near the LaGuardia Airport, right?”

“Yes. Ken, don’t tell me you already knew she lived out near—Never mind. If I call you back on a cell from the airport, can you direct me from memory?”

“Can I? Like a homing device on a missile!”

“Okay. Look for my call at six this evening.”

“I’ll be at the game. But I’ll have my cell. Holla at me.” Wade heard the beep indicating that Ken had hung up. He imagined Ken on the pitcher’s mound, winding up for a pitch and then stalling in effort to retrieve a ringing cell phone in his back pocket. He would have laughed at his own imagery, except just as Wade was hanging up the receiver, the phone rang again.

“Detective Wade.”

“Hello, Walter. This is Brenda from Channel Five News.”

“Oh . . . hi, Bren.” Suddenly swallowing, waiting for a verbal bashing. Still picturing her pretty black hair and aerobic curves.

“Wade, don’t give me that ‘oh hi’ stuff. I have a couple of bones to pick with you.” A hint of fire in her voice, Wade puckered his lips and folded his arms, wondering what a “couple” meant. He already knew that he’d stood her up for dinner a few weeks back. Brenda Feather. The 90’s version of Jayne Kennedy’s looks and critical, investigative tact.

“You know . . . if I thought you were a scoundrel like some other men, I’d never have given you the time of day, you . . . you . . .” Wade stretched his eyelids in anticipation, but cut her off before she cut too deep.

“Wait a minute, love. This case has been kicking my ass.”

“Not since the FBI took over it hasn’t.” Brenda delivered a paper cut to get shit started, wounding his ego.

“Alright, lady. That’ll be enough of that.” Wade wrinkled his forehead in a scolding manner.

“Sorry,” she recanted. “I was hurt, Walter. All dressed up and nowhere to go. Plus, I haven’t been stood up since high school.”

“Probably because you’ve been seeing those know-nothing, do-nothing, ain’t-never-gonna-be-nothings that don’t have a life. But yet, they have enough time to run yours.”

“Okay, touché.” Brenda smirked to loosen the atmosphere between them. “Listen. You walked right past me last week at the New York game. You couldn’t have missed me. It was a bright day and before any of the major confusion started. Don’t you remember? I was across the street from the police lineup. What’s up with that?”

Wade thought about all of the fever outside of the stadium and didn’t remember her.

“Sorry, Bren. I didn’t see you.”

“Wade, what’s going on? What’s happening with Ken? There’s news footage here showing you entering the clubhouse and also jetting with Ken in his truck.” Wade smiled at himself remembering how descriptive and precise Brenda was—the reason he was attracted to her in the first place; besides her youth and beauty, that is. She continued pushing buttons.

“How come you’re his personal escort? Is he in trouble? Threats? What?” The investigator in Brenda was backing Wade up to the wall.

“Bre, don’t jump the gun. Easy, woman. There’s nothing going on with Stevens . . .”

“Then why are you with him?” Wade kept personal escort in his mind—and rode with it.

“Yeah. Personal escort. That’s it. I’m hauling players around these days, ever since I’ve been removed from certain murder cases. You know, gotta think about job security nowadays. Listen, love. I’m working on something hot . . .”

“Hot? Hot like what?” Wade could imagine Brenda’s eyes flexing to their limits. He took a deep breath, knowing he put some fire on her gasoline. Time for a damp cloth.

“I’ll let you know. You’ll be second to know. Sorry about dinner. Soon, okay. Gotta go. Bye.” Wade’s heartbeat slowed quickly. He felt like he’d escaped a croc’s bite.

While Wade was feeling relief, Brenda cringed. Wade an escort? Stevens is bigger and stronger than Wade. —Brenda’s mind was churning a million ideas. — Why the protection? Something’s up. Something-is-up. Brenda could not rest.

It was early Sunday morning and 911 emergency Control Offices were cooling from a busy Saturday night. Shots fired. Auto accidents. Family disputes. Fights and burglaries. Nuisance calls. Not to mention that in a city of 7 million residents, every real emergency brings an average of 10 calls to 911 Central. To aggregate that, close to 3,000 (so-called) emergencies take place in New York City each night. It was just about 6am, and Dawn, operator 376, was ready to head home. At 5:56 a call came in. Dawn replaced her headset over her baseball cap to answer the call and simultaneously pressed a red button to record the particulars.

“Hi, this is Holly and I’m headed up a hill, like on east Ninety-sixth Street, heading west, and, like this red Blazer is going like the opposite way. Like, towards the East River. But just like totally kept going. I mean, like, I’m pulled over now in my dad’s Lex, ya know, he let me borrow it for the weekend. But I’m, like, looking back down the hill and like this is so cool—there’s, like, this opening down near the FDR. I think that truck, like, totally went through the wall and into the water.”

Dawn had rushed to her supervisor’s office with her notes from the call and her boss reviewed the tape. Meanwhile, three other calls came in that gave similar accounts. Dawn had already taken action. EMS and NYPD were contacted with a 96^th Street location and a possible auto accident as the incident.

Down under the FDR, just a half hour after the 911 call, police units, fire trucks, EMS and news trucks were on the scene. Two tow trucks were positioned near the edge of the road with cables hooked onto the front and rear of a nearly demolished Blazer. As the wreckage emerged from the river, with water spilling from all parts of the vehicle, officers on location could see that the entire front end was destroyed. A body of a male in his 40’s was floating inside the cabin amidst his own blood and water from the East River. The front windshield was partially shattered from where the driver’s head had smashed into it. There was still hair stuck in the glass over the steering wheel. With his face full of lacerations and his body mangled and torn, even the emergency teams on duty, with their Jaws of Life tool cutting through the metal and steel, would not be able to identify him. But one bystander in particular knew exactly who it was, as he lifted a lighter to the cigarette stuck to his lip, cupped his hands and inhaled. He was celebrating a successful slaughter. Just to think, all he had to do was cut a hose here and there. And now, Bobby was gone too.

Detective Wade was revved up. He was so sure he was onto something, and he acted accordingly. After updating Chief Washington, he jumped in a newer unmarked sedan and headed for Queens.