The Apostles (11 page)

Little Shawn broke loose from his uncle and bolted for his mother. “Mom, Uncle Shawn bought me a go-cart. Can I ride it, please? Please?”

“You see what you done started, Uncle Shawn?” Samantha said. “Now I'll never hear the end of this until he gets a ride.”

Solemn Shawn winked at his sister. “I'm way ahead of you, sis. I only put enough gas in that thing so that he could get a few rides. By the time the kids finish eating he'll be through. Plus you won't have to worry about all of the kids wanting a ride. A couple of rides up and down the alley and it'll be kaput. And of course he'll have on his helmet.”

With pleading eyes, Little Shawn looked up at his mother. “C'mon, Mom. You heard him. A couple of rides and I'll be back in time for the magic show. These ole hungry kids won't even miss me.”

“Okay, okay. You already know that I can't resist when you and your uncle gang up on me. Just make sure that you take it easy and wear that doggone helmet.”

In the kitchen, Solemn Shawn's mother was still rooted to her stool. As her son and grandson walked past, she asked, “What you gone teach him to do, drive-bys on that thing? Can't never teach them too early, you know.”

Solemn Shawn ignored her and the questioning look on his nephew's face. He led his nephew over to the go-cart. “Little Shawn, you need to pay attention so I can show you how this thing works. It looks like a toy but you can really get hurt on this thing if you don't know what you're doing. You see this switch here. This is the cutoff switch. You just flip it to ‘on,’ next…”

Lillian poured herself another glass of gin from the bottle she had transplanted from the bar to the living room. She set the bottle down on the island top with a loud thunk. She sneered, “Gangbanging-ass murderer up in here trying to act like you worried about my grandson's safety. You would probably kill him for a couple of dollars.”

Solemn Shawn again chose to ignore his mother's drunken ravings.

“Bitch!” she screeched. “I'm sick of you ignoring me! I'm your gotdamned mother!”

“You don't act like a mother,” Solemn Shawn countered.

“Fuck you!” Lillian screamed. She threw the gin bottle at Solemn Shawn.

Solemn Shawn straightened in time to avoid being hit with the bottle. It shattered on the wall behind him, showering him and his nephew with gin and glass. Little Shawn howled as gin splashed into his wide-open eyes. Samantha and Tabitha ran into the kitchen, followed by several of the children's mothers.

Furious and wet, Solemn Shawn took a step toward his mother.

“What happened?” Samantha asked frantically.

Lillian ran behind her twin daughters. “That drug-dealing bastard threatened me in front of my grandson. He called me a bitch and said he would slap me in the mouth.”

Solemn Shawn was astonished. “Woman, what's wrong with you? I haven't said anything to you.”

Little Shawn ran over to Samantha. He was crying and rubbing his eyes. “Mom, my eyes are burning,” he wailed.

Samantha led her son over to the sink and rinsed his eyes with cold water.

With a piteous look on her face, Lillian beseeched, “Sammy, you believe me, don't you? You know how violent your brother can be. He's just trying to mess up my only grandson's birthday party. He's crazy. He was muttering under his breath about how much he hated me. Talking about shooting me if I wasn't his mother. I bet you he has a gun with him now.”

Samantha was patting Little Shawn's face dry with a towel, but her ears perked up at the mention of the word “gun.” “Shawn, do you have a gun on you?” she asked her brother.

Solemn Shawn looked into her eyes for a moment, then averted his gaze. He looked at Tabitha and at his drunken drama-queen mother. He looked back at Samantha. For a microsecond his anger threatened to boil over, but he managed to keep it in check.

Calmly, Solemn Shawn said, “I think it's time for me to leave, Sam. Happy birthday, Little Shawn. Tell your dad I said what's up.” He turned and walked to the front door. He made it out of the house and was almost to his pickup truck when Tabitha came running out of the house.

“Shawn, slow down, big brother!”

He turned with a slight smile. “What's up, Tabby?”

“We know Mama be tripping with her drunk ass. I know you ain't said nothing to her. She just be needing the attention, you
know. That stanking-ass husband of hers don't be paying her no attention.”

Solemn Shawn unlocked the doors of his F-150 Harley-Davidson pickup truck. He already knew that Tabitha wanted something, but he didn't mind. She would always beat around the bush whenever she needed him. He didn't know why though, because he never refused her a thing.

“What you need, Tabby Cat?” he asked as he climbed into the leather interior of the pickup truck.

Tabitha sighed. “Boy, you know me. I could use a couple of bucks for clothes and shit. I'm ‘bout to do the summer semester thing so I can get out in January. Then I'll have my master's degree. Then I can start earning the big bucks and repay you some of the money I owe you. A sister want to be looking good for the summer though. I might catch me a husband or something.”

“Girl, can't no man put up with your crazy butt. Just call me in the morning. Sometime this week we'll grab some breakfast, then I'll take you shopping and put a few bucks in your pocket. Is that cool?”

“Hell yeah, big brother. I'll call you in the morning.”

“Now get back in there and help out Sammy.”

Tabitha leaned in the truck and gave Shawn a kiss on his jaw. “Small things ain't nothing to a giant, big brother,” she said. She watched as he backed the truck out of the driveway and made a left at the stop sign. Already she could hear her mother inside whining to Samantha as she stepped back up on the porch.

“Lord, give me the strength,” Tabitha said as she entered the house.

B
ULL AND GROVE PULLED UP IN THEIR GRAY CROWN VICTORIA.
Grove parked alongside the portable Chicago Police forensics lab. The GCU detectives left their vehicle and ducked under the yellow crimescene tape. They continued past a throng of police officers to a ring of suit-and-tie-wearing detectives. They were forming a wall around the open door of a late-model Buick Regal, where a police photographer was snapping pictures like crazy. Before Grove could get close to the car, a beefy homicide detective put his hand on Grove's chest.

His face was beet red even in the dim streetlight and his necktie disappeared into his jowls. It looked like it was cutting off the circulation of blood to his face. “Whoa there, Detective,” the homicide detective said. “No sightseeing. This is a homicide investigation.”

Grove looked at the hand on his bulletproof vest-covered chest. Grove looked at Bull. “Why do we have to go through this shit with every new guy that makes the homicide squad? These O'Briens drive me crazy. You would think they would tell these new cats that everybody that drops in occupied territory the GCU get a gander at.”

The overweight homicide detective's red face turned a deeper scarlet. “Hold on there, slick. My name isn't O'Brien, it's Lonihan. I've heard about you GCU guys. More like criminals with badges.”

“Fuck you very much,” Grove said with a smile. “You just jealous
‘cause the only little Black boys you get to feel on are already dead, homo-cide dick.”

“You son of a bitch!” Lonihan choked out. He looked like he was ready to charge at Grove.

“What the hell is going on, Lonihan?” an authoritative voice barked.

Lonihan turned to see Homicide Captain Matthew Hartibrig taking in the scene. As usual the captain was attired in an expensive suit. His handcrafted leather shoes reflected the streetlights like mirrors. His hair was a dirty blond with just a hint of gray at the temples.

Lonihan complained, “Cap, these GCU guys came stampeding up in here. I told them this was a homicide investigation. And that they need to get the hell out of here.”

Hartibrig straightened the knot in his tie, which was already perfect. “Lonihan, is this your crime scene?”

Lonihan hung his head. “No, sir.”

“That's right. This isn't your crime scene. In homicide we do not go out of our way to alienate other department units. We are all on the same team. The GCU is one of the most cooperative and lucrative units in the department when it comes down to homicides of this nature. Are you out here on these streets every day, Lonihan?”

“No, sir,” Lonihan mumbled.

“Well, they are. They know these guys, so when something like this happens they often can give us behind-the-scenes details that shine some light on such matters. Is that understood, Lonihan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good, Lonihan. Now why don't you see if you can scare up any eyewitnesses. It's unlikely, but you never know. Grab a couple of the guys and start canvassing the crowd and the block. And try to be polite.”

Lonihan started to protest about being assigned such a menial detail, but Captain Hartibrig was already ushering Grove and Bull closer to the Buick Regal. Grove turned to Lonihan and smoothed
down his eyebrows with his middle fingers. If the captain noticed he didn't say anything about it.

As they neared the car containing Bing's lanky body sprawled across the front seat, Grove asked, “Captain, what are you doing out here on a local body?”

Hartibrig wiped his forehead with a pearly white handkerchief, then returned it to his trouser pocket. “The body happens to be the son of an aide to our illustrious mayor. When the mayor gets woke up, he wakes up everyone down the line. I think he has a hard-on for the kid's mother. I was on my way home from a late dinner when I got the call.”

Bull inquired, “So, I guess they want you to head this thing up, Captain?”

“Unfortunately I'm the point on this one. It's been a while since I've been out here in the trenches so I'll appreciate any input the GCU can give us. Make way, fellas.”

A herd of homicide detectives parted to let Captain Hartibrig and the two GCU dicks near the car. On the ground next to the open door of the Regal was an Oakland A's hat.

Grove looked at his partner and muttered, “Apostles.”

“What was that, Hargrove?” Hartibrig asked.

“I said Apostles. Solemn Shawn's crew. Pretty big and well organized. A lot of them wear these baseball caps. Mostly the Oakland A's or Angels, any fitted cap with an
A
on it. The shooter must have dropped it.”

Bull walked past them and looked in the car. He leaned in close to the stiff figure. “Grove, check it out.”

“What is it, Bull?”

“Looks like Governor Bing. I'm guessing because this kid's face is so fucked up. But this guy is tall like him. He used to stand out like a sore thumb when he was hanging on the block because he was so damn tall.”

Hartibrig consulted his notebook. “Driver's license says James Bingham. The pregnant girl over there in the ambulance is his girlfriend.
She kept calling him Bing. What do you guys know about him?”

Grove scratched his head. “Seemed like a halfway decent kid. He used to sling a little weed. He wasn't even on our radar until one of his boys gave us his scent. We hit his crib and found a few pounds of weed. Nice haul. He jumped out the window on us and we gave his girl the case. He ran with the Governors. A lightweight crew. Not many members, but pretty vicious.”

Hartibrig was making notes. “You don't think this could be retal for the stuff you guys busted? Like maybe he was working for the Apostles?”

Bull asserted, “No way, Cap. Governors and Apostles don't mix. This looks like it may be the end of something or just the beginning.”

“Why do you say that?” Hartibrig asked.

Grove fielded the question. “Well, it's been kinda quiet on the streets lately. We got the feeling that something big is in the works. We don't have anything concrete, but there's something going on. I mean these dudes are carrying on business as usual, but there's something in the water. The Apostles especially haven't been making any noise. They're playing their cards real close to the chest. That's why if this was an Apostle and Governor thing as the hat indicates, then it doesn't make sense. What you say, Bull?” Bull simply shrugged.

One of the homicide detectives walked up to them. “Captain Hartibrig, we've got a champagne bottle in the weeds by the car. We've got prints on it, too. It's bagged and tagged, sir.”

“Thanks,” Hartibrig said to the detective, then turned to the GCU cops. “I sure could use any help you guys could give me on this body. I know you don't take orders from me, but I would consider it a real personal favor if you guys would keep your ears to the ground for me. Okay?”

Ever ready to have someone prestigious owe him a favor, Grove willingly agreed. You never knew when your fat would be in the
fire, especially when you worked the Gang Crimes Unit. It would be a definite plus to have a homicide captain ready to go to bat for him if things ever went bad.

“We'll do what we can, sir,” Grove responded.

The two GCU cops shook hands with Captain Hartibrig and headed for their car. They ducked under the yellow tape again. Grove detoured to the open doors of the ambulance. Bing's girlfriend was sitting on the gurney receiving oxygen from one of the EMTs. As the GCU detective neared her, she looked up and recognized him through her tears.