Authors: DC Noir
George Pelecanos (20 page)
He
tossed his keys onto the telephone table near the entrance and walked to the
kitchen.
Ice
took a bottle of Hpnotiq Liqueur from the fridge and poured himself a tall
glass of the blue beverage. He drank deeply. Damn, that was good. He walked
over to his couch, flopped down, and put his feet on the coffee table. He
laughed aloud, recalling the day's events.
That look
on Detective Mayfield's
face. Priceless!
Carter
"The Real Deal" Washington owed him big time, and taking the fall for Ice on
the Chesapeake Street murders made them even. Of course, promising to kill
Washington's entire family if he didn't take the fall had helped The Real Deal
make the right decision. And, as usual, his baby Fanta Monroe had come through
for him with the names and addresses of potential eyewitnesses, an invaluable
service for which she had been well compensated, monetarily and otherwise. He'd
turned Fanta out long before she'd joined the police force and was glad that
she was still a-dick-ted! He laughed at his own pun, one that he had run into
the ground over the years and was funny only to him, though others still
laughed because they feared him.
No
doubt about it, there was
no
substitute for having
whores in all walks of life strung out on his enormous Johnson. Every woman
he'd taken had come under his spell because, like Captain Kirk, he had gone
where no man had gone before.
Hamilton
took another swig and then got serious as he considered the fate of the punk
who had dared to speak out against him. He had been ineffectual, sure, but the
nerve! His power must be absolute, his reign unopposed. What Grimes had done
was bad for business, and he had to pay the ultimate price so that others would
know the way of the world: DON'T SNITCH ON ICE HAMILTON. As always, he'd see to
it personally. Ordering murders was too risky because underlings who committed
the hits might cut a deal with 5-O and rat on him. Besides, he enjoyed killing
people.
And,
of course, that punk muthafucka Francisco "Big Boy" Longus would get what he
deserved, not only for trespassing on his turf, but also for the Chesapeake
Street fiasco. Shit, it was Big Boy's fault that he had missed him and killed
that old hag and that kid. Punk-ass should have stood still.
Yeah,
that fat bastard was going to get what was coming to him.
Soon.
How
Big Boy thought that he could get away with peddling smack on the big dog's
turf, Ice would never know.
Didn't matter.
People had
to know not to step on Ice Hamilton's toes. He had a lot of turf, but he wasn't
giving up an inch. Crack, weed, crank, ecstasy, or heroin, the new drug of
choice (oh, yeah, it had made a comeback with a vengeance!)--whatever, he didn't
care,
he had people out there selling it. And nobody
was going to take one penny of his profits out of his pocket.
Nobody.
At the age of only wenty-six, he could buy anything
he wanted.
It
was also necessary that he send a clear message to the police in general, and
to Detective Mayfield in particular, that he was untouchable. He smiled. Yeah,
Ice would send his message to Mayfield loud and clear.
Tonight.
Breaking
in to that sap Rodney Grimes's tenth-floor apartment was simple. He knocked on
the door like a policeman beforehand, to make sure no one was home,
then
went to work with his locksmith's tools. He was inside
and sitting on the man's couch inside of two minutes.
To
make certain that Grimes would not be alerted to his presence when he returned
to the apartment building, Ice kept the lights off and simply used a penlight
to maneuver around.
From
what he could see of Rodney's place, it was nice. Shit, Danielle,
the ho
who had hooked up his place, could have hooked up
this one. True, it wasn't Ikea shit, but it was put together well, sort of an
Asian thing going on. Not too much furniture, but it was well placed, and there
were lots of plants. Nice artwork on the walls. Nerd-boy had it goin' on in
here.
Ice
smiled. He hoped Rodney Grimes had enjoyed this place. He also hoped that he
had lived life to the fullest, but he doubted it.
Whatever.
Today was the last day of that geek's life.
Isaiah
"Ice" Hamilton turned off his penlight and waited in the dark for his next
victim to return home.
Rodney
Grimes exited the elevator and walked down the hall to his tenth-floor
apartment. He unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind him.
He
hit the light switch and froze. Sitting on his futon couch was Ice Hamilton.
"Welcome
home," Ice beamed. He flicked open a switch-blade. "You can run if you want to,
but I bet I can catch you."
Rodney
just stood there.
"Brave,
huh?" Ice chuckled.
Rodney
put his gym bag on the floor.
"Been
workin' out?" Ice asked.
Rodney
did not reply.
"Well,"
Ice said, "let's see if you can kick my ass." Brandishing his stainless steel
stiletto, he laughed and rose from the futon.
John
Mayfield pulled into the front parking lot of the Wingate House East apartment
complex at 9:45 p.m. He parked his unmarked police cruiser, a black 2000 Ford
Taurus, and just as he lifted himself out of the car, the sound of breaking
plate glass drew his attention upward, where he saw a man dangling from the
railing of a balcony.
Sweet
Jesus," Mayfield whispered. He bolted toward the apartment building.
Someone
began pounding on the front door, yelling, "Police! Open up!"
Grimes
realized it must be Detective Mayfield. He owes me a beer, he thought. Wiping
his Coke-bottle glasses, he turned and headed for the door.
Detective
Mayfield, gun drawn, was surprised to see him. "Who...?"
"Ice,"
Grimes replied.
Detective
Mayfield passed quickly through the rubble of broken furniture and stepped onto
the balcony. He was awe-struck. Isaiah "Ice" Hamilton, battered and bloody, his
eyes filled with an odd combination of terror and rage, was struggling to keep
hold of the railing with one hand.
The other, once-powerful
arm, now as limp as a strand of overcooked spaghetti, merely swung back and
forth like a pendulum.
"Help
me, man!" Ice yelled. "Help me! My
fingers is
slippin'!"
While
the detective considered what to do, Ice lost his grip. He screamed like a
white chick in a horror flick all the way down.
Mayfield
holstered his service handgun and turned back to Grimes. He was speechless. But
as he looked at Grimes without his glasses, it suddenly came to him where he
had seen the man before. The trophies toppled over on the bookshelves and the
certificates and awards on the walls confirmed it. Rodney Grimes was a Tae Kwon
Do champion, a tenth-degree black-belt. Over the past several years while
lending his support to fellow officers who were involved with martial arts,
Mayfield had seen Grimes compete at tournaments held at the old D.C. Convention
Center. Grimes
was
a dynamo; Hamilton never had a
chance. A Herculean effort was required for John Mayfield to conceal his
amusement and deep satisfaction.
The
detective noted that Grimes was as cool as a cucumber. No. Cold
"Ice
needed someone to save the day," said Grimes. "It's too bad I couldn't help
him. But, like he said..." He slipped on his glasses and his magnified eyes
stared directly at Mayfield.
Recalling
the note Ice Hamilton had left on Rodney Grimes's car, Detective John Mayfield
nodded, a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.
The
Fantasy Nightclub used to sit on the corner of 14th and U Streets, N.W., in
what was then D.C.'s red-light district. Pimps, whores, players, drug dealers,
and every other sort of hustler swarming the deadly streets of the Chocolate
City frequented this establishment. Even a sprinkle of lawyers and local
politicians wandered through from time to time.
The
year was 1970. On a warm and pleasant Friday night in September, the folks
inside of this enclave of sinful joy were at their partying best. Drinks were
being gulped down at a rapid pace. Coke and "doogie" snorted even quicker, and
couples gyrated, cutting the rug as the fiery sounds of the Temptations' smash
hit "Ball of Confusion" heated the mood to an even higher pitch.
At
approximately 12:30 a.m. the club was filled to its maximum capacity. A
boisterous crowd of latecomers stood outside the club's front entrance pleading
with the muscular bouncers to let them in.
"Look,
muthafuckas," said Granite, one of the several mean men hired by the owner to
keep peace in the house. "There ain't no mo' muthafuckin' room in the place, so
shut the fuck up and get ta steppin',
fo
' I put a
hot-ball inside somebody's ass."
Granite
had a take-no-shit-off-nobody attitude and reputation. He also had
pay-me-for-protection partners feared by many, so certain big-time
entrepreneur/hustlers readily hired his crew to keep their businesses moving
smoothly.
While
Granite and the other bouncers were trying to quiet and disperse the crowd, two
gorgeous hookers, one black and the other white, left the dance floor and
entered the ladies' room to cool down and freshen up.
Several
minutes later, awful cries for help were heard clearly over the loud
music--screams eerily vibrating from within the ladies' room.
Inside
the rest room, the five-foot-eight curvaceous and strikingly beautiful Sarah
Ward was discovered dead. She hovered over the toilet with her head completely
submerged inside the piss-filled bowl. She had been strangled and drowned, and,
according to the pathologist who later performed an autopsy, "beaten
unmercifully moments before," as evidenced by multiple facial bone fractures.
Who
tortured and killed this beautiful woman?
My
name is Felicia "Fee-Fee" Taylor. I attended the Fantasy Club that night. I am
the sister of Raymond "Smooth" Taylor Jr., and I was once the number-one
girlfriend of the notorious Zack Amos, the flamboyant yet smart, crafty, and
feared drug kingpin of our nation's capital.
My
exman and brother play major roles in the story that
I
am about to tell you, and they are significantly linked to the murder of Sarah
Ward. I too am linked significantly to that terrible tragedy, as is undercover
police officer Ted Jenkins, who was also present that night. But before I go
into the details of that event, I desire and very much need to share some
things about myself. I was raised in the Edgewood section of Northeast D.C.
Born January 13, 1952, the youngest of two children, I was spoiled rotten by my
parents, Raymond and Patricia Taylor, and even more so by my grandma, Nanny
Johnson. Along with my older brother (by four years) Raymond Jr., we all
resided at 3618 Bryant Street. Both parents worked. My mother was a teacher at
Mott Elementary, which my brother and I both attended. My father worked two
jobs, construction four to five days a week and an evening part-time job
stacking shelves at the Safeway on the corner of 4th and Rhode Island Avenue.
We had a three-bedroom home--actually four, because my parents converted a
portion of our basement into another bedroom. That was Nanny's Queendom and she
simply loved her space.
I
wouldn't say that we were a middle-class family during that period, but we were
close, and that's saying something. It was extremely hard for black people to
move up the economic ladder in the '50s, yet we lived very comfortably in what
at the time was an integrated neighborhood.
Growing
up I idolized my older brother. I can still remember when he walked me to
school every day in kindergarten. I felt so happy, safe, and confident. Each
day when he dropped me off with my teacher, he'd tell me: "Baby sis, you hang
in there girl. I'll be right down the hall if you need me. And you better not
cry."
Even
at home I would follow him all around the place. His little shadow I was. Years
later, as I thought about our childhood, I concluded that, periodically at
least, I was a pain in his ass. Even when he had his friends over or when they
were out playing in the streets doing their boy things, I'd make it my business
to be a part of the action.
"No,
Fee-Fee, stop!" my brother would shout. "Go play with the girls...No, you can't
play stickball--get yo' butt outta here before I call Mama!"
Then
I'd start to pout and cry and cry, and when I couldn't cry no more, I'd fake
the tears until I got my way. I didn't realize it then, but my brother really
knew how to manipulate people. Where I had it in my little child's mind that I
was going to do exactly what my brother and the boys did, my brother would
always talk me into something like an "important cheerleader role." And with my
little dumb-ass self, I'd end up on the sideline shouting out some silly
"Rahrah-hip-hip-hooray-for-the-gang" bullshit as they played.
Yet still loving every moment of it.
