Slipping (9 page)

These days, his clique was gone. The only thing he had left was Juanita's crack-feigning ass and his .357 Python. It was a heavy pistol, but it was well balanced. Its chrome frame glistened like molten silver when it was polished. True, it didn't have the stopping power of the .44, but when it spoke, people listened.

The more he thought about it, the pistol was the answer to his financial problems. Desperate times called for desperate measures. He would have loved to have the luxury of trying to talk someone out of their money, but nowadays con men didn't make very much in poor communities. Being a stick-up kid seemed like his last resort. The very words—
stick-up kid
—made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. The stigma surrounding armed robbers was enough to deter all but the truly desperate. In the inner-city, people tolerated almost every kind of human animal that preyed on others except for the stick-up man. Drug dealers, flesh peddlers, thieves, and gangs were looked at as the norm, but armed robbers were despised. No matter whether they stole from hardworking people or other criminals, everyone hated them.

All of that was beside the point. Don needed money and he needed it now. In his heart he knew that without the backup of his friends, he didn't need to have an enemy as powerful as Diego. He would make getting Diego's money
his main priority. Last, but certainly not least, he needed some scratch to get high.

As he dressed in dark clothes, more and more places he could rob popped into his head. He wasn't dumb enough to rob someone from the hood. Pickings would be better farther north or south. If he remembered correctly there was a steel mill around 79th Street over east by the lakefront. Across the street from the mill was a tavern where the workers stopped to grab a cold beer or whatever when they got off of work. The steel mill paid so well that most of the time the dirty, thirsty men would have pockets full of money to drink or gamble away before going home to their wives. They got paid every week so they always had money. He had gone there to gamble with steel-mill workers on several occasions. Most of the men had been easy pickings, but inclined to get violent when the young boys won too much of their hard-earned money. Today was Wednesday. The steel mill paid its workers on Tuesdays so Don knew the mill workers would be drinking and gambling for certain. Transportation wouldn't be a problem. The 27 South Deering bus would let him off about a half block from the joint. He would worry about the return trip when the time came.

As Don ducked into his sister's bedroom and relieved her of two bus tokens, he thought about her comment that things were coming up missing in the house of late. He was high at the time so he gave her some bullshit excuse. He wasn't sure whether she bought it or not, but he knew that she wouldn't turn him in to their mother.

Back in his own room he told Juanita, “I'm 'bout to raise up outta here. I got business to tend to.”

For once she didn't start in with the questions. She had noticed that he was dressed all in black and he had his pistol with him. He left the house.

At the bus stop he had to wait only about five minutes for a bus. Once he was on the bus Don sat in the back and went over the plan in his mind. He got off the bus on 79th Street and walked to the bar.

Ben's Bar and Grill was strategically located across the street from the largest steel mill in Chicago. All a worker had to do was walk out of the mill's gate and cross about fifty feet of pavement to enter the popular watering hole. The patronage consisted of mill workers and prostitutes; there were always men willing to pay for pleasures of the flesh. On the corner of the same block sat the Lakefront Motel, a good place to rent a room by the hour to enjoy a quick roll in the sheets with a prostitute.

When he entered the smoky, dimly lit tavern, Don was disappointed to find it almost empty. Leaning against the cigarette machine he caught the attention of a tired-looking, bleached-blond hooker. Crooking his finger at her, Don signaled for her to come over. She flounced her hair, slid off the vinyl bar stool, and approached him. She tried to walk over to him sexily, but the hooker succeeded only in looking ridiculous. It was hard for him not to laugh as she drew nearer.

“Excuse me, baby, I ain't looking for no action right this minute, but I want to know if they still be gambling in the back room.”

She pulled her gum halfway out of her mouth and twirled it on her finger, trying to look sexy. Again he was forced to suppress his laughter.

“No. Everybody got tired of Ben trying to house the dice. They started renting rooms at the Lakefront on the corner to gamble in. They don't even buy his beer and whiskey. They get it from the liquor store down the street and it's cheaper.” She sucked her gum back in her mouth and licked her lips. “Is you sure that's all you want to do is gamble? I know a young stud like you could really make a girl feel good. I usually charge fifty, but for you I'll give you an around the world for half that.” She caressed his face softly, and he found it hard not to recoil in displeasure. “Forget about that old dice game. You can put that sweet meat of yours anywhere you want.” She used her other hand to grope at his crotch. “Yeah, you got a nice one. You could fill me up. I'm tired of these half-dead mill workers. They can't get it up at home or with a real woman like me. That's why they all want to play kinky games and shit. I know a young bull like you won't have them problems.”

Don had to untangle himself from her hands as politely as possible. “That sounds real good, baby, but I'll have to take a rain check. Right now I need to get to that dice game and trim a few of those pigeons. When I come back with my
pockets all nice and fat then me and you can slip off for a few hours. Shit, if you tell me what room they in we might just spend the night.”

The hooker's eyes lit up as she calculated the money he would have to spend to retain her services for the night. If she fucked him to sleep, she just might be able to make it out of there with his whole bankroll. “The manager usually give them room 303. You don't even have to stop at the desk. Just walk on up. Tell them Constance sent you. And you better come back in here and get me when you win. If you do I'll make sure that you never forget me for the rest of your life.”

“I will, boo,” he promised, as he managed to escape her clutches with only one pinch on the buttocks.

Constance stood at the window of the tavern and watched him walk down the street. A steel-mill worker opened the bar's door and stepped inside. Like a parasite Constance attached herself to his arm and followed him over to the bar.

Once Don was out of sight of Ben's, he sat on a bus-stop bench and re-thought his plans. In a way he was glad that the dice game had moved from the bar to the motel room. That lessened the chance of some cop walking in on his robbery. Plus, Ben was an ornery old fool, meaning he more than likely had some heat behind the bar. He smiled, not believing his luck. All of his pigeons were cornered in a small motel room—it should be a cinch to get the drop on them.
He wasn't really worried about them being heavily armed; they usually carried only small case knives, but he wouldn't underestimate them.

More than anything he wished he could have a quick hit off the pipe to give himself a boost. Pulling a cigarette pack from his pocket he extracted a cigarette and half of a premo. Filled with nervous energy, he held the lit tip of the cigarette to the blackened tip of the caviar joint and inhaled deeply. The laced joint didn't even begin to compare with a blast from the whistle, but it did take the edge off of his nerves. He smoked it down until the roach burned the yellowed tips of his fingers. He smoked the remainder of the cigarette, tossed the butt into the gutter, and left the bench. A half block later he was in the lobby of the motel. The young woman behind the desk filing her nails never looked up once as he strode across the worn carpet of the lobby. With Con-stance's instructions in mind he took the steps two at a time to the third floor.

He passed two doors on the third floor before he came to the one with 303 emblazoned on it. Outside the door he could make out the voices of the men gambling inside. There was no mistaking the universal language of dice. Hoping he wouldn't have to shoot anybody for trying to be a hero, Don knocked on the door.

He heard someone say, “Shut the fuck up, it sound like somebody at the door!” The silence that ensued was his cue to knock again. This time a gruff voice asked, “Who is it?”

“It's Henry,” he said trying to make his voice sound as grown up as possible, “I just came from Ben's and Constance told me I'd find the game here.”

It didn't take any more than that. The door swung open and he stepped into the room. The gamblers paused for a moment to look him over then resumed their game. He could tell from their loud voices and boisterous behavior that they were all intoxicated. As he kneeled on the floor beside them, they didn't seem to notice that he never pulled out any money or attempted to join the game. Like a vulture waiting for a man to keel over in the desert, he watched the game until he was totally sure that they were all off guard. There seemed to be a decent amount of money in the game, so Don decided that it was now or never.

Standing up quickly, he snatched his pistol from under his shirt and held it to the head of the man closest to him. “Alright! You motherfuckas know what the fuck this is! Everybody get on the fucking floor! If I gots to say that shit again this motherfucka right here gone lose his memory!”

One of the gamblers, a brash, foolhardy fellow by the name of Conrad Stevens jumped to his feet and charged head-down like a ram at Don. Sidestepping the man's football charge, he smashed the butt of the heavy pistol on the base of the man's skull. The hard blow along with his obvious intoxication rendered Conrad immobile. His chance to be a hero thwarted, Conrad passed out in the middle of what was once a lively dice game. To add insult to injury
Don viciously stomped the man in the face. Sweat rolled down his face and a mad gleam was in his eyes.

“The next motherfucka that try some hero shit is gone be in a funeral home by tonight! Now who the fuck want to be in Gatlings? You can either go home broke or go home in a box! Now make me act a fool up in here!” Don kicked Conrad in the face again. “I came here to get money, not to hurt no motherfucka! Now if the rest of y'all can act like y'all got some sense, this shit can be over quick and everybody get to go home instead of to the funeral parlor!” He reached into his back pocket, pulled out a plastic shopping bag, and tossed it into the middle of the room. “I want the closest motherfucka, that's you in the blue shirt, to pick the fucking bag up and put yo fucking money in the bag.”

The steel-mill worker, a big, burly guy, hurried forward. He was so terrified of the fierce youth with the huge, chrome revolver that he forgot to stand and moved forward on his knees. Don had to bite the inside of his bottom lip so he wouldn't crack a smile.

“Alright motherfucka, move back and pass the fucking bag! And hurry the fuck up!”

The men in the room complied quickly, dumping their money into the bag and passing it along. Don noticed that the few women in the room, obviously prostitutes, shunned the bag.

“Whoa, whoa, you motherfuckas pass that bag to them bitches too! I know these hoes got some paper—they been in
here with all you big spenders! If I got to go in one of y'all funky pussies or strip-search one of yo hoes Imma wile out in this bitch!”

The threat of a strip search prompted the women to delve into their bras and panties and remove wads of bills, grumbling all the while. With his gun leveled at his hostage's navel, Don bent over and snatched the money out of Conrad's hand. By now the bag had returned to the man in the blue shirt. Don motioned with the pistol for the man to bring it over. Quickly, the man crossed the room on his knees. He dropped the bag at Don's feet and looked up at him. He was shaking.

“Get the fuck back over there! Now two of y'all pick this hero-ass stud up and take him in the bathroom! I want everybody to get asshole naked in this motherfucka and get in the bathroom!”

Grumbles erupted all over the room. Don raised his pistol and started randomly aiming it at his victims. “I didn't ask none of you niggas to comment! I don't remember taking no vote or shit! This ain't no fuckin’ democracy! Shut the fuck up and get that shit off!”

Everyone in the room stripped noiselessly and began to crowd into the bathroom. Faced with the confines of the bathroom a few of them grew bold enough to complain again.

Don snapped, “I said this shit ain't up for discussion! Now shut the fuck up and get in there! I know it's tight! Get the fuck in the tub, stand on the sink, I don't give a shit, but you motherfuckas better get in there and hurry this shit up!”

When the last person was in, Don shut the door. He dragged a chair over to the door and propped it under the doorknob. The makeshift lock wouldn't hold them for long, but it would give him enough chance to escape. Peering into the bag, he knew he had hit the jackpot. It looked like he had more than enough to pay off Diego and to support his habit for a couple of weeks.

As he left the room Don blew a kiss in the direction of the bathroom. There was barely an audible click as he closed the door behind him. Bailing down the three flights of steps he only slowed down to cross the lobby, not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. Through the lobby's glass doors he spotted a cab pulling up to the red traffic light at the corner. He burst through the doors and sprinted to the cab. The dreadlocked cabdriver unlocked the rear door and Don climbed in with a wide grin on his face.

“Take me to Harper Court,” he said.

DON DIDN'T WAIT FOR ALL THE MONEY TO RUN OUT BE
fore he hit the streets this time. He still had a few hundred left over from the hotel-room heist and he had an idea how to use that to get more. He remembered once when he was about fourteen, he, Dre, and Carlos had caught the bus over to Jew-town to buy some shoes and they'd bumped into a guy hustling three-card monte. The guy had taken them for everything they had, but Don had paid close attention to the game knowing he would use the knowledge one day. His hands were quick so he began practicing a bit in his bedroom.