Murder in Germantown (9 page)

"Gibson." He came on the line as if I had interrupted a meal consisting of carbs, protein, and creatine. He was a man as stiff as a Rodin bust who wore slim suits to showcase a steroid-induced physique. Word around was that he was a terrible ladies man who needed to be spaded.

"Ravonne Lemmelle, here--"

"What the hell do you want?" he said, recognizing that I was that new barrister in town that reduced him to squash the only time that I had the honor of battling him during a mock trial at Germantown High School.

I was a freshman and he was a junior and that made it all the more devastating.

"I tried reaching you a few times. Left a couple of messages, to no avail."

"I am on a big case. What you want?"

"I know. The Dave and Buster robbery."

"If you're thinking of defending that case, I will bury you alive, Lemmelle, I swear."

"I love being threatened, Quadir--"

"Agent Gibson. I have earned that."

That guy was a study in egoism, but I let him relish in his glory without rebuttal.

"Agent Gibson at exactly 12:09 this afternoon, I received an anonymous call informing me that I should tune in to the midday news."

He did not reply for what seemed like an eon.

"Funny how you could nail down the exact minute of the call. Would you happen to have the seconds, too?"

I didn't tell the asshole that as an attorney I paid attention to small things like that.

"Listen, the time was displayed on the goddamn screen during the news along with the temperature. It was 32-degrees. I was a little concerned that I'd received a crank call on my home number, which is unlisted."

"You have resources. Find out. I do not handle pranks."

"You're the resource and despite us being on different sides of the fence, don't ever forget that. If I receive any other calls telling me to tune into a broadcast of a crime like I did for the Dave and Buster's caper, I'll be sure to use the media as a resource and start a whole shit storm over there. I'm sure SAC Lemeux will love that. Chow, China!"

I hung up and was pissed. I know he hated being called China in those days, having left the hood and all that jazz.

Dajuan stood in the bedroom doorway.

"Let me guess. No one cares about the call because you're a defense attorney, as if you're not a citizen."

"This is very crazy," I said. "Take him to his room."

Dajuan tossed Brandon over his shoulder, and took him to his room. He quickly returned.

He said, "Tomorrow we are getting guns." Dajuan sat next to me. He turned on the TV to Sports Center as if what he said was logical and normal conversation.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"We need precaution protection, PP," he said and smiled.

He made a gun with his hand.

"No guns in the house. So Brandon can play with it. Hell no!"

"Man, Brandon is not going to play with a gun. Carry it when you're out. Keep it in the trunk when you park in the garage here and at work."

"I can defend myself, Dajuan."

"Dawg, Judo black belts and boxing do not stop bullets."

"You're jumping the gun," I said and chuckled. "This may all be a mistake," I said and leaned on his shoulder.

"Aiight. You're right. Maybe. But. Okay, not yet. One more incident of any kind and we're handling business. I'm itching to bust a clown’s ass for playing on my phone. Yup, that small."

"Yeah!"

"And you better tell me. In fact, promise."

"Why?"

"Promise."

He then stacked on top of that, "I know you'd try to save the day on your own not to worry about me. You have priors."

"Okay, I promise, dammit!"

"Why didn't I get a prank call?" he asked and huffed.

"You could get one," I said and rolled on top of him. I lay between his legs.

"Really!"

"They'll be obscene," I said kissing down his chest.

When I reached his belly button, he asked, "When do I get the first call?"

I licked along the waistline of his boxers and used my teeth to pull them down his legs and over his feet. They landed on the floor, and I then said, "Right now," and began to place my call.

CHAPTER 21

Anyone who missed that party would go mad. One-hundred-seven of Philadelphia's finest converged center stage, dressed to impress. Quite a few were stoned out of their minds like any party goer who had been drinking, smoking, and snorting at that hour of a Saturday night. The crowd was busy eating, laughing, two-stepping, and spitting game to get themselves into someone's bed.

The guests had many things in common. They were all mutual acquaintances and professionals of the same trade. The party could have been happening in Chicago, New York, or St. Louis. It happened that that ghetto-fabulous event took place in Shannon McKeithan's pad in a Chestnut Hill expansive tudor. Chestnut Hill was an area next to Germantown and the northernmost point in Philadelphia before entering Montgomery County.

Suspect--Shannon's street moniker, given to him for his brushes with the law--had only one reason to host this highly anticipated mansion party. Like many street pharmacists, Suspect liked to pack his pad with men of the same cloth to verify the distinct difference between them and his self. At that moment he was glad. He had chilled in the kitchen with Low-Down and a voluptuous vixen at that fortunate moment. Both men wanted to awake to her in the afternoon.

Lawrence Miller--better known as Low Down--had his undivided attention on the slender, expertly built, Dominique Dorsey. Otherwise, he might have noticed the suspicious activity happening around his homey's pad. Of all the drug dealers gathered in the home, Low Down was most qualified to get a handle on the conundrum before it commenced. But, Dr. Lawrence Miller, too, had had as much fun as the other men chasing the cat.

Standing in the kitchen with an unmolested bottle of Courvoisier, Suspect grinned at the string that the tasty Dominique dangled in his comrade’s face. Her tawny-yellowish complexion and ample tits must have been enhanced in his drunken state, that illusion of playboyism which got him through Germantown High School and catapulted him through UCLA undergrad, Georgetown Law and U of Penn Law School to his corrupt post as chief legal advisor for the thriving Philadelphia illegal narcotics circle. If Low Down did get the pussy, at least it would be kept in the family. Suspect and Low Down were cousins. Suspect was by no means jealous of Low Down for having Dominique's attention. When she first stepped into the pad, very fashionably late and noticeable, like most of the blood hounds had tried his game. He must have acquired his game from Milt & Bradley. It looked like the attorney was about to interrogate the woman in the bedroom.

The hip-hop blasted from the stereo speakers and drowned all of the chatter. Holding bottle and glass up in the air, Suspect glided into the living room and sank into an armchair, which was snuggly perched in the alcove by the bay window. The bevy of youngsters was amazingly animated. Suspect admired his work. He gestured at the bottle and one of the kids happily helped himself. Unselfishly, he poured rounds about the room until the bottle was empty. Ideas of his next business endeavor was more intoxicating than the booze, it seemed. Astonishingly, Suspect uncapped a bottle of Dom Perignon.

The "kids" weren't young, they were seven or eight years short of Suspect's 30. At 30 he couldn't count the miles he had traveled pushing his product. He had many experiences through his life and was wholly dedicated to his current status. On the contrary, as time progressed, he became more and more aware of the truth of the king-pin credo that the game was to be played thoroughly until the end, and it must end. It consoled him that, however dull his love life, there would always be new business to invest, new stocks to buy low and sell high, and crack houses where street pharmacists and their brothers grind to eat. He had vastly set himself aside from the masses. He was regarded as a High Priest in the game, despite some rivals’ suspicion that he had to be a rat, to keep getting off. But professional paranoia did not affect his drive to conquer poverty.

"Suspect, lil buddy," Low Down said, smiling. "Just what the fuck do you want now?"

"Don of the Century."

"You have the conceit, Shannon, but you don't have the looks."

That was not a lie. He was not as handsome as Low Down. Thirty years of occupying his lanky body, and carrying his drop-dead ugly face was no longer one of his concerns. Money had introduced him to more vaginas close up than a life-long gynecologist.

Suspect took the Dom P. to the head, and relaxed to get a bar of the dialogue probing between the young ballers. The
street dealers were talking about where cooking the product, running game on women and managing a corner met, that road of "ghetto significance." Suspect slumped lower in his recliner, stretched out his legs, and sipped Don Perignon appreciatively.

* * *

Across the street from the party sat another large home. It too was set back from the sidewalk. Many windows faced the street side of the house. From the second story balcony overlooking the circular driveway, Suspect's party was clearly visible.

The man sat in a porch chair, peering across the street at the assholes partying. It was too cold for anyone to be roaming about outside. That was excellent. He had had plenty of time setting up. The home owners of the balcony were not at home. He lighted a Newport and then crossed the balcony and retrieved the rifle against the wall.

The rifle was a target rifle, which he had sawed off. It was crafted to exceed all requirements for long range, high power target shooting at miniature game. He had shaved off a few inches to reduce the weight and size. It had a large butt, but he had large hands. A telescopic eye was mounted to the gun. He focused the sight on Suspect's party, so that the crosshairs were on the alcove which gave a beautiful view of the party goers. Some of them would be going someplace, but not another party.

* * *

The party had been hot as usual. Everyone had a hunger for networking and intimacy and lively appetites. The best of the southern buffet was gone. Weed induced hunger pangs had already cleaned two bowls of jerk chicken that a local Jamaican caterer provided. Chocolate, creamy cupcakes--food for chocolate, creamy babes--had been destroyed, too. Regiments of empty champagne bottles, wine bottles, and beer bottles were lined militarily along the bar table. The sharpened aroma of drugs seeped in the air. No doubt, the bedrooms were being occupied by some young buck rocking some diva’s boots. Now that Suspect had slung the door wide open to all, he was cured of his need to be sociable and drifted smoothly into chill mood in hopes that they would start to leave.

At that instant, the bullet of a rifle split the arm chair an inch from Suspect's brain and chopped deep into the upholstery. The next bullet did not miss Suspect's occipital.

Low Down reached out for Dominique. Astonishment froze on the face of a boy next to Low Down as the bullet sliced through his chest. Blood spurted from Pooh onto Dominique and she grabbed Low Down tightly. Two down, one to go. That happened quickly. Low Down received a shot in the back of his head and regurgitated blood onto Dominique's silky hair. Now that was low down.

Amazingly, the hip hop was silenced by terrified screams.

Sunday, January 7, 2007

CHAPTER 22

The annoying ring pelted me like being stoned to death in Times Square by the New Year's Eve crowd. I emoted, turned over and decided to ignore the caller. Then I had an epiphany. I heard Brandon’s electric toothbrush whirling and I knew he would answer the phone. What if the caller was...
Fuck
! I groaned and angrily snatched up the phone from the cradle.

"What?" I asked the caller, groggily.

"Ravonne Lemmelle!"

Oh
shit
! I was suddenly alive and clear headed. "Granny?"

"Who you whatting? I know you have caller ID." I imagined her in her Sunday's best on her way to Sunday school at New Inspirational Baptist Church.

"Nobody. It's seven-thirty, though, Granny."