The Apostles (3 page)

The Apostles didn't do business like that. They knew how to treat the customers. You didn't have to worry about being attacked without provocation. Things like selling dummy bags and sticking up customers were strictly prohibited on Apostle land.

Running his fingers over the double sawbuck in his pocket made Odell feel good. Fifteen, twenty minutes tops he would be
back at his girlfriend's apartment with a twenty of that good yam. Her kids were at school so they would have the whole place to themselves. He would strip down to his boxers and make Monique do the same. It was always better like that. There was nothing in the world like some freaky sex while you were smoking some good crack.

That thought made him walk a little quicker, though he never stopped scanning the ground. Not once did he look behind him— only down and side to side. If he would have looked back he could have easily spotted the two detectives in the cream-colored Crown Victoria shadowing him. There was nothing discreet about the tail they had on Odell.

Gang Crimes Unit Detective Spenser “Grove” Hargrove was the driver. In the seat beside him sat Anthony “Bull” Thensen. The hefty detective wore a bored expression. Bull always looked bored. When his wife of seven years left him she attributed it to his jaded attitude about everything but police work. The only time that Grove had ever seen his partner animated was during one of the many “jump-outs” they performed during their stint in the Gang Crimes Unit. At those times Bull's eyes would take on an evil glint and he would even smile as they kicked in doors, conducted field interviews of suspected gang members, or gave chase to the “rabbits” who thought they could outrun a car and radios. Both of them loved being assigned to the GCU. Not only did it mean a pay raise, but it garnered a certain amount of notoriety in the department.

The GCU was assembled in the late ‘80s to try to stem the tide of crack cocaine, and slim the profit margins of the street gangs that were growing rich off the distribution of the controlled substance. The federal government allotted the city's government unheard-of sums to fund its private war on drugs—thus, the GCU was born. They were better equipped than the regular city cops, had a bigger budget, and had free rein to operate just within the laws of the land. Initially the unit was comprised of all white cops. They were sent
into the heart of Chicago's ghettos with the mission of being the frontline warriors in the administration-sponsored war on drugs. Big mistake. Some of the good ole boys thought that they were down in the land of cotton the way they took to busting heads. Lack of direct supervision and the close-knit ties of the GCU made them as similar to a street gang as they could come without crossing over into blatant lawlessness. Under the advisement of the city's lawyers, the first Black mayor of Chicago decided to get a tighter rein on the Gang Crimes Unit. First he had to integrate the squad. Several high-profile wrongful-death lawsuits against the municipality involving members of the GCU gave the mayor the ammunition he needed. They would no longer be allowed to operate with impunity. The first Black and Hispanic officers who were assigned to the GCU were handpicked by a commission made up of civilians, politicians, and police officials. Bull and Grove were in the first batch of officers slated to join the GCU. They met all of the qualifications—hard-nosed, with questionable ethics, and Black.

Hargrove and Thensen took to their GCU assignments heartily and even turned out to be quite adept at working the streets. They could go where their white counterparts couldn't, plus neither of them was a stranger to the slums of Chicago.

It was Grove's idea to follow Odell. He didn't know the man personally, but he recognized him. He was just another one of the countless cluckers in the city. Since the beginning of their shift, they had been shaking down crackheads and dope fiends. Something big was brewing in Chicago's gangland and something big meant big money. Not that they were dirty cops, but hey, everybody took a little cream off the top of the bucket. It was considered one of the fringe benefits of being in the GCU. Payoffs were a thing of the past. Whenever you bumped into a large amount of illegal money you could take some, if you made sure that enough was logged in to evidence so that the case would stick. There were members of the GCU who grossed their yearly salary in a couple of drug house
raids. Lucky bastards. The higher-ups turned their heads, knowing that the more money that was at stake, the harder the troops would work.

Grove and Bull were looking for a big payday today. Lately they had only had slim pickings. What they needed was a big bust. Some stash house apartment filled with money and drugs was the only thing that could satiate their appetites right now. They knew there was money to be had; they just had to find out where it was. Grove was confident they would be able to score. After all, the streets were full of people who were willing to tell on anybody, just so they wouldn't have to go jail.

Bull said, “Grove, slow this motherfucker down. You right on this nigga's ass. He gone fuck around and spot us.”

Grove laughed. “This crackhead motherfucker wouldn't notice us if we was following him in a 747. He ain't looked up but one time since we been following him. He so busy looking on the damn ground, we could walk down the street behind him and he wouldn't notice us. Shit, he too busy doing the ‘cop walk.’ “

“The cop walk?”

“Yeah, when crackheads is about to cop some shit they got this walk. Hands jammed in the pocket, holding on to the money. Making sure they don't lose that shit. Shoulders all tense and shit. The look on they face be like, I hope these niggas is working. Walking all fast and shit. Hold up, this nigga is stopping.”

Odell walked up to a youth leaning on a fence in the middle of the block. The Black youth was sporting a black Avirex jacket. On his head was a white do-rag covered with a black fitted baseball cap. A large
A
was emblazoned on his hat. Black baggy jeans and black Timberland boots completed the young gangster's outfit. Nonchalantly he leaned against the fence smoking a blunt.

“Is y'all working?” Odell asked the youth.

“Nall we ain't, but they is,” the youth answered, blowing smoke past Odell. “Them fucking twisters in that Ford is working.”

Odell looked down the block and spied the Crown Victoria for the first time.

“Fuck, where did they come from?”

“I don't know, homie, why don't you ask them. I'm outta here.”

Calmly the young Apostle stepped inside the gate and walked down the concrete stairs leading into the gangway. Once he made it to the gangway, he grabbed the back of his pants to hold them up and broke out running.

“Fifty-one's, fifty-one's on the block!” he shouted as he disappeared into the alley between two garages.

“Damn, that fucking lookout peeped us,” Bull said. “That's yo no-driving ass.”

Not sure what to do, Odell stood in the middle of the block. As the youth dipped in the gangway he had felt his hopes dashed to the ground. There would be no half-sixteenth, not with the people sitting on the block. He decided to walk it off. He walked to the corner and looked for a stoop that he could chill on until the police left and the Apostles opened up shop again.

The detective car swooped down the block and came to a screeching halt in the street next to Odell. Almost before the car came to a complete stop, Bull was out of it and running toward the crackhead with his pistol brandished.

“Get yo fucking hands out of yo goddamn pockets!” Bull yelled.

Odell complied quickly.

Grove took his time joining his partner after seeing that he had the situation under complete control. He left the Crown Victoria in the middle of the street with its lights flashing. Walking straight up to Odell, Grove grabbed him by the collar, spun him around, and slammed him into the brick wall behind him. With the speed born of constant practice, he searched the trembling man. He took Odell's twenty-dollar bill and stuck it in his own pocket, then spun Odell around to face him.

“What's your name, shithead?” Grove inquired.

“Odell Walker, sir.”

“What are you doing around here?”

“Nothing, sir. I was just out for a walk. I got into an argument with my girlfriend and I needed to take a long walk to cool down, sir.”

Grove couldn't help but laugh. “That's a good one, ain't it, Bull?”

Bull's bored look had returned to his face. “It's all right. I've heard better. Really it sounds like this asshole is trying to be funny.”

Grove grabbed Odell by the collar again. “Motherfucker, you ain't trying to be a comedian, is you?”

“No, sir.”

“Bull, this motherfucker think he the next goddamn Chris Tucker, I think.”

“No, sir. I wasn't trying to be funny, sir.”

Grove pulled Odell in close. “Motherfucker, we know that you was finta cop a bag from that little bastard that ran. I've got your money.”

Odell was unperturbed. “That's not true at all, sir. I just stopped to ask that guy for a cigarette. All of a sudden he just ran off. That's all it was.”

With a wicked smile on his face, Grove released Odell's jacket. He smoothed out the wrinkled fabric with his hand. “Bull, you know what? I like this dude. Odell. It is Odell, right?”

Fearfully, Odell nodded.

“Odell, you seem like a smart enough dude. We can use a dude like you on the streets. Nothing big, just some extra eyes and ears for us. If not … Show him, Bull.”

Bull reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sandwich bag full of dime bags of crack.

Grove never took his eyes off Odell. “That's about a fifty pack. Not a lot of shit, but if we put it on you and write in our report that we picked you up on school grounds, shit, that's six to forty-five easy if you've got any priors in your background. All we need you to do is tell us a few things.”

“I don't know nothing,” Odell pleaded. “Man, that type of shit could get me killed.”

“C'mon now, Odell, nobody would know. Plus we could make it worth your while. Bull, throw me that bundle.”

Bull tossed Grove the bag of crack. Grove untied the knot in the bag and pulled out ten dime bags. He tied the bag up and threw it back to Bull.

“See, Odell, I've been worried about the gangs around here. It's been too gotdamn quiet lately. We ain't really be having no chance to lock motherfuckers up. We want to know just what the hell these motherfuckers is up to. If it's something off the meter we'll make sure that we tighten you up for helping us out. Plus I'll consider it a personal favor and maybe one day I can return that favor. You know, if you get busted snatching purses or something I can be your get-out-of-jail-free card. Now if you decide not to help us …”

With a lightning-fast sucker punch to the midriff, Grove folded Odell up. The unlucky crack consumer fell to the ground holding his stomach. As he tried to suck some air back into his lungs, Grove stooped down beside him.

“Look, man. Don't think of it as being a snitch. It's more like you're doing your civil duty by cooperating with the police.”

Grove rose. He laughed at Odell, as he removed a business card and the twenty-dollar bill from his pocket. He dropped the card and the bill by Odell's face on the concrete.

“Give us a call. Don't try and be cute neither, because if we don't hear from you, next time we kicking yo ass and locking you up.” The detective laughed as he sprinkled the ten dime bags onto Odell. “Consider this a down payment.”

Odell lay there as the gang crimes dicks pulled off. More than anything he was thankful that he didn't piss his pants when Grove hit him. That would have made the walk home a long, wet one. He rose up to a sitting position and collected his money, the business card, and the crack bags. By his foot was a half-smoked Kool cigarette. He reeled it in and scooted over so that his back was against
the brick wall behind him. He lit the cigarette and it wasn't too stale, so he inhaled deeply. The card the GCU detectives had given him just might come in handy, he thought. It wouldn't hurt to keep his eyes and ears open. In the ghetto, information was a commodity.

Or maybe I just might sell them chumps a few dead ends
, he thought.

Odell laughed as he pictured the two detectives kicking in the door of Mrs. Freeman's house because he'd sold them a bullshit lead. It would serve her right for being so goddamn cheap.

T
HIRTY-FOUR GANG MEMBERS STOOD SHOULDER TO SHOULDER
in the small residential garage. The limited space was packed. Different aromas blended to make a collage of smells. There was the scent of motor oil, rubber, cigarette tobacco, the musty smell of rank armpits, and the stink of Wayne's sweat.

Of all the men and boys waiting for the proceedings to begin, Wayne was easily the most discomfited. Jokes were being cracked, cigarettes were being smoked, but Wayne just stood there, sweating. It wouldn't have taken a particularly astute observer to notice that he was terrified. The moment that he feared was at hand.

Wayne was a twenty-four-year-old member of the Governors, a street gang that forever lived in the shadow of the more organized Apostles. He had been a member for about five years. It all started as a way for him to sell his work and not be taxed by the wild young gangsters who ran his neighborhood. If you were a small-timer and not plugged with the gang from your set, you would never be able to make much money, plus you were vulnerable to robberies. If the gang that controlled your neighborhood didn't particularly care for you, they would let you work for a while to get things moving. Then they would push you out of your spot and take over. Your clientele would become their customers. The Governors were especially good at these hostile takeovers; they were parasitic by nature and cruel by design.