Deadly Assets (28 page)

The real trouble was that he saw the black guy—he stood by a group of white people—aim and fire at him. Which had been why he automatically dropped to the stage.

He'd seen that Reverend Cross had done the same, and as Hooks tried to think quickly about what to do next—how to get the hell away from what he expected to be more bullets aimed at him—he suddenly felt a big hand roughly grabbing the back of his hoodie and dragging him from the stage.

Once on the sidewalk, his heart feeling as if it could beat through his chest at any second, he struggled to get to his feet. When Hooks looked up, he saw DiAndre Pringle pulling Reverend Cross from the stage and then dodging those rushing past as he tugged Cross toward the red doors of the ministry.

Pringle looked back over his shoulder.

“This way, Ty! C'mon! Move your ass!” he called to Hooks.

Hooks felt a hand on the small of his back pushing him toward the doorway.

—

Once they were all inside, and the red door was slammed shut, Hooks followed Cross and Pringle across the big room and to the staircase at the back of the row house.

Outside, the police sirens, more and more of them, were getting louder.

“Keep up, Ty,” Pringle said, and led them quickly down the wooden steps into the basement.

At the bottom, behind the back staircase, was a heavy wooden panel with shelving, made to look like the rest of the wood paneling of the basement. It was about the size of a narrow door—and, Hooks saw, for a reason.

Pringle gave a hard push on the left end of the panel, and it slid to the right, revealing a passageway with a raw earthen floor, walls reinforced by wooden beams, and a ceiling of chipped stone.

“Here, Rev,” Pringle said, handing Cross a small flashlight.

“What the hell is this?” Hooks said as he looked at where the dim beam lit the darkened hole.

“It began as an escape route, Ty,” Pringle said, “and it stored homemade moonshine and beer during Prohibition.”

“Escape from what?”

“From the cops, man!” Pringle said. “Just like now. Now stop fucking talking and get going!”

He shoved Hooks through the opening and slid shut the panel door.

Hooks looked down into the tunnel.

Cross, the dim flashlight beam bouncing off the rough-cut rock and the wooden beams, was leaving him behind.

Damn it!

Tyrone Hooks then noticed a familiar sickly sweet smell, and about the time he realized what it was, he sensed a very warm, moist spot in the back of his briefs.

Oh, man! I don't remember doing that!

But . . . I almost died!

Pulling out his cell phone, he lit up the screen, cursed that he had no service, then held the phone out before him, its light casting a green glow down into the tunnel.

He tried opening the panel door behind him. It did not budge.

Damn. Locked . . .

Carefully, awkwardly, he rushed to catch up with Cross.

—

Five minutes later, Tyrone Hooks and Josiah Cross were standing before a wooden wall—what looked like a dead end—with empty plastic milk crates stacked next to it.

“Now what?” Hooks said. “We're trapped?”

“No,” Cross said.

Hooks tapped his phone to light up the screen again.

“And there's still no signal down here,” Hooks added.

He waved the screen light of the phone around at the stack of crates and then the wood panel that capped off the tunnel.

“What is this place?”

“What DiAndre said. An escape route back when booze was illegal. For when the cops cracked down on the market selling moonshine—at least the cops who didn't take an envelope of cash, and maybe a bottle or two, to look the other way.”

“What market?”

“It's now a bodega, but same thing then. Selling whatever people wanted, legal or not.”

Cross shone his flashlight on the plastic crates and reached down. Hooks saw that not all the crates were empty. Cross removed a large blanket from one and handed it to Hooks.

“We'll be here a little while, so better wrap up,” Cross said.

As Hooks did so, Cross sniffed once, then again, and added, “What's that stink from? Is it that blanket?”

Cross pulled out another blanket, sniffed it, and said, “This one's okay.”

Hooks did not say anything.

After a long, quiet moment, Cross began chuckling.

“Oh, man, don't tell me . . .” he said.

“I ain't ever been shot at before,” Hooks said quietly. He sounded deeply embarrassed.

“Shot at!” Cross parroted, then could not contain himself. He laughed so loud it echoed down the tunnel.

“What's . . . what's so damn funny? Those bullets went right past me!”

After a moment, Cross forced himself to stop laughing.

He said: “It's just that the big badass rapper singing about capping the police hears a gun go off and shits his pants!”

“Fuck you,” Hooks said meekly.

“And I shouldn't say . . .” he began, chuckling again. “Oh, this is funny . . . but it wasn't . . . it wasn't . . .”

“It wasn't what?” Hooks said.

“He was shooting blanks!”

—

Nearly three hours later, a grinding sound startled them. The wooden wall that had looked like it could be a dead end started moving, sliding to the side like the one under the ministry's row house.

Light flooded into the dark tunnel.

Hooks squinted as his eyes adjusted enough to see Cross quickly get up from the plastic crate and then slip through the opening.

Hooks heard DiAndre Pringle's voice: “What was so funny, Rev? The guys said they heard you all the way upstairs.
Ugh.
And what the hell is that smell?”

“Tell you later,” Cross replied. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah, Rev.”

“Then let's get upstairs.”

“C'mon, Ty,” Pringle called.

Hooks paused a moment to let them get a head start, then went through the opening.

On the other side of the panel was another basement, packed with shelving and cardboard boxes carrying everything from potato chips to Tastykakes to cases imprinted with
VIKTOR VODKA—SIX (6) 750-MILLILITER BOTTLES
in large red Cyrillic-like lettering. Hooks, who drunk cheap liquor, knew that, despite the genuine-looking “Imported Russian Spirits,” the small print on the back of the clear plastic bottles, also in red Cyrillic-like lettering, stated that the cheap booze had been made in a Kensington distillery.

There were also cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans stacked next to cases of forty-ounce bottles of Colt 45 malt liquor. The latter was a favorite of Hooks's—he liked to call it “liquid crack”—because it was beer brewed with more sugar to create six percent alcohol for a stiffer, and cheaper, kick.

He watched Pringle and Cross disappear up the back stairs.

As Hooks passed one stack, and no one could see, he grabbed a bottle and stuffed it in the belly pocket of his hoodie.

Need this to help me calm down.

—

The back stairs led up to the street-level floor that was the bodega.

The top of the stairs opened into the back storeroom, which Hooks saw had a half-bath with a filthy toilet and sink—its door was open, the light burning—and on the opposite side of the room a second staircase leading up to the next level.

Hooks started to head for the half-bath, but Cross pointed to the staircase.

“No, use the one upstairs,” he said. “Follow me. But be quiet!”

After ascending the second set of stairs, Hooks saw that the next level was a full two-bedroom apartment. It had a living room area with a dirty gray fabric couch and a fairly new flat-screen television, a small kitchen with a wooden table and four chairs, and a single full bathroom.

“In there!” Cross said, pointing into the bathroom as he headed for one of the two windows that overlooked North Twenty-ninth Street.

Cross, standing to the side of the window, carefully pulled back the outer edge of the curtain and scanned the street.

A single marked police cruiser was parked in front of the mission, its overhead red-and-blue lights pulsing. Maybe a dozen uniformed police officers were milling about.

“There's only the one car,” Pringle said. “That Sergeant Payne said there'd be one there until you turned up. Dead or alive, he said.”

“Really? We can use that,” Cross said, turning to look at him. “And what did you tell our Public Enemy Number One about what happened?”

“Like you said: not a thing. Let them have a look around—they said they were going to even if I didn't—but then I didn't say anything. And they found nothing.”

“Good job. You bring your computer pad?”

“Yeah, and I already got the next one set up—
asterisk-MarchForRevCross—
with the Liberty Bell labeled B
EAT
D
OWN
T
HE
M
AN
on the
Philly News Now
website
.
” He paused. “But there's something you got to know about the rally. Here. Wait. Hear it from Smitty, Rev.”

Pringle pulled out his phone, and a moment later said into it, “Tell Rev what you said.”

Cross took the phone.

“Smitty,” he said, “what the hell is going on?”

“Hey, Lenny, look,” Smitty Jones began, “I did what I was told to. But I thought I was the only one.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I was in the crowd, right where I was supposed to be in front of the stage, and waiting for you to finish your speech, before, you know, before shooting those blanks I got at the sporting goods store Chester.” He paused, and chuckled, then said, “You know, when I was buying them, the kid behind the counter asked me if I was getting them for horses or dogs, and I said, ‘What?' and he said, you know, there's small blanks—ones that don't make too loud a bang—for training a horse or hunting dog, to get used to hearing a gun going off—”

“Smitty—” Cross said, trying to interrupt.

“—I said I wanted the louder blanks. You believe that, Lenny? That's what those rich folks do. Shoot fake bullets to get used to the sound. I about said just come on in to Philly, 'cause we're used to lots of shooting going on—”

“Smitty!” Cross snapped. “Tell me what the hell happened in the damn crowd!”

“Oh, yeah,” Jones said after a moment. “Sorry. So, like I said, I was doing what I was told, waiting for you to finish your speech—gonna shoot when you said, ‘I won't be stopped'—but then King Two-One-Five jumped up on the stage and started getting the crowd chanting. I was afraid I missed when I was supposed to shoot, so I got out the gun and—
BAM! BAM! BAM!
—some bastard starts shooting next to me. Couldn't see who—bunch of white folks there holding posters. So I aimed at King and started squeezing the trigger.”

“Someone else was shooting?” Cross said slowly.

Cross's eyes shifted to DiAndre Pringle, who was shaking his head.

“It was just supposed to be Smitty alone,” Pringle said.

“Yeah, it was someone,” Jones said, “but I dunno . . .”

“I'll call you back, Smitty,” Cross said, then broke off the call and handed the phone back to Pringle.

“Who you think it was?” Cross said.

“No idea, Rev,” Pringle said, shaking his head. “Except it could be anyone.”

Cross glanced at Hooks, who was thumbing a message on his cellular telephone.

So,
Cross thought,
he didn't shit himself? No, he did do that. He said he saw the gun.

But they were shooting at him?

Or me, too?

[ THREE ]

Queens Club Resort

George Town, Grand Cayman Islands

Saturday, December 15, 7:35
P.M.

“Here's Illana now, right on time,” Mike Santos announced as the stunning tanned blonde appeared through the white canvas flaps of the Jolly Mon Cabana.

Rapp Badde saw that she carried a stack of manila folders. He also noted, appreciatively, that she had changed from the nautical-themed outfit of tight navy shorts and sheer white captain's shirt into a melon-colored linen sundress.

Illana put the folders on the table between Badde and Janelle Harper.

Santos looked at Jan and said, “These you'll of course recognize as the contracts that I sent up for your review last week.

“Rapp,” Santos then said, “if you're ready to sign, we can move forward to more important things. Like celebrating.”

As if on cue, the white cotton flap of the cabana was pushed aside again, and two very attractive females who looked like younger versions of Illana carried in a polished stainless steel insulated tub containing three bottles of champagne on ice and a serving tray holding champagne stems and an assortment of sushi, sashimi, and raw oysters on the half-shell.

“A little something to celebrate with while the ink is drying,” Santos said, smiling broadly. “It's a tradition for us. And after we celebrate, tomorrow I will show you the plans for the casino.”

“I like it,” Badde said, and turned to Janelle. “You want to hand me a pen, so I can get this done?”

—

Illana popped open the first bottle of champagne and poured everyone a full stem. After Santos had made a toast—“To the success of Philly's newest and finest luxury hotel and its developers”—and they touched glasses, Santos reached into the pocket of his shirt. He came out with a small cell phone, looked at its screen, thumbed it, then looked up at Rapp Badde and Jan Harper.

“You'll excuse me a moment, please,” Santos said, standing.

He put the phone to his head as he carried the champagne stem out of the cabana.

Rapp and Jan exchanged glances when they heard Santos say, “Talk to me, Bobby. What the hell is going on?”