Warpath

6

Just past midnight, Monday

South of the river.

I drive with one hand on the wheel. My .44 Magnum is in the other. Got to be ready in these parts. From the 3200 block down to the 5100 block of Bending Boulevard is exceptionally ghetto. There’s some burnt-out industrial park-type stuff that bleeds in and out as well, some strip malls that have more bars than glass in their windows, lots of pawnshops, title loan joints and skanky fast food drive-thrus.

Whores with their poor fat distribution stuffed into leopard print wander about under the street lamps, peddling STDs. Here and there, clusters of young men eyeball any car driving down the road as if any one of them will roll down a back window and open fire.

It always seems work takes me south of the river. As a cop, this is where the good crime was. As a private detective, this is where the scum flees to because no one wants to chase it down here. Most folks have serious apprehension about following vermin this deep into the nest.

Bending Boulevard transforms from a five-lane sprawling drag to a two-lane cozy street winding through old, old neighborhoods. Lanes peel off one by one as homes become more prevalent. 3917 South Bending Boulevard is tucked back around a corner. I cruise by, pretending not to be taking in every detail as I pass. I get directly parallel to the home and look without reservation at it, develop the mental picture.

The plan comes with the look. There are three males sitting on the porch, feet up, smoking. Beer bottles on the railing. If I were to get out right now I’d smell weed. I’ve been at this too long to not be right about that. The house faces north. The west side there is a small strip of grass between houses that runs clear though to the next street over.

No lights on inside the home. The houses next door to each side seem quiet as well. Only one car in the driveway. No garage. No good lighting either. Wonderful.

I drive down the block. Turn left. Turn left again. Headlamps off. Park. Leave it unlocked in case I need to clear scene in a hurry. Gun in hand. Crack my neck. Move.

Shadows are the only thing I want to be intimate with right now.

My eyes always one step ahead. Select the next bit of concealment. Someone nearby is grilling. No doubt munchies. Off in the distance a stereo is pumping hip-hop into the night. Crouch behind the topless husk of an old oak tree and see the new spot. Move. Into the strip of grass between the houses. Checking windows as I pass by. A lone, naked shrub is the only obstacle in the strip. I come up from behind 3917. The house next door has six gas meters attached to it. Rentals. 3917 only has one. Good. It’s too small to subdivide anyways. Maybe seven hundred square feet inside. One story. The porch is on my left.

There were three males. The one in the center is the one I want. Crouched low, I stalk along the house until I’m beside the porch. The male now closest to me looked the biggest; probably three hundred pounds. The one on the far outside looked young. Little brother maybe.

These jackoffs consciously organize themselves in a tiered, positions-of-power way. They idolize movies and establishments where powerful men appear as rulers. And by that I mean kings. Literal rulers. They surround themselves with their minions. That can take on a literal form when they move in groups. Or sit on a porch. I want the man surrounded by others. The central figure. The bet is he’s the most powerful among them.

If my hunch is right—and this is me we’re talking about, so it is—that also makes him the target.

Voices. The telltale long, high pitched inhale of someone dragging on a joint. Smell the ditch weed. Talking about some club. Some girl.

Blast off. Up over the rail. Fat boy sees me first. With his kicks up on the railing, he tries a full body spasm to get on his feet. Pistol whip across his mouth. Bridge of his nose. Three hundred pounds of lard and ill-fitting clothes make a deep thud on the wood of the porch. Across him. Elbow to the powerful male, who is all of twenty-five years old. It connects just above his temple and the stars he’s blinded with follow him down to the porch. The younger brother ain’t that young. Twenty-ish. He stands. Digs into his waistband. Pistol whip up side his head. Goes down to his knees. Sways; fights unconsciousness. A small gun slips out from his waistline and strikes the porch with a staccato note. A left cross snaps his head back and into the far railing. Blood everywhere. Collapses into a heap.

Younger brother’s gun goes over the side into the yard. One eye keeps to the front door. The other eye to the powerful male. I roll him over. Toss his pockets. His own firearm, a shitty 9mm goes out into the yard somewhere. A pack of smokes, a lighter. Four cell phones. Must be a drug dealer. A utility bill folded in half. I look at the return address. Andre H. Moss. 3917 S. Bending Boulevard, Saint Ansgar.

Hello, Mr. Moss.

His wallet has his government assistance debit card. I take it. Drug dealers do this: they sell their junk and all the while claim unemployment. There’s no sense in spending your poison-money on things like doctor’s visits when the taxpayers can pick up that tab for you. Better save it for things like guns and a Lexus. Dealers take that as payment as well. A welfare card. A bus ticket. Pussy.

Moss also has a non-driver’s license ID card confirming his name on the bill, ten dollars in cash—which I take because my smokes don’t buy themselves—and two baggies with meth inside.

A note on clothing: some thugwear clothing companies sew concealed pockets into their shit. A pair of jeans will have deep, deep pockets running down the legs, or little hidey holes tucked behind a normal pocket. They do this the same way potwear companies will sew in small, easy to miss pockets for a dime bag or a dug out. Stashing pockets. Drugs, a pager, a small gun.

In one of these stashing pockets Andre has a nice, antique pearl necklace. Out of place on this guy. I take it as well. It might be nothing, but my finely tuned piggy sense says it’s worth a second look.

Examine his hands, arms. Unkempt and long nails. Fake gold watch. A tattoo on the webbing between his pointer finger and thumb. Prison ink. He’s got a teardrop under his left eye. Names tattooed in cursive on both sides of his neck.

Shirt up. Some usual gang graffiti that passes as ink on these fools. One scar on the outside of his torso that might be a small caliber entry wound. He stinks like bathing just isn’t as sexy as it should be.

Amidst all this, my eyes move back and forth in a constant scan. Three hundred pound guy, front door, younger brother. Three hundred pound guy, front door, younger brother. Three hundred pound guy, front door, younger brother.

I give fleeting thought to taking Andre Moss with me somewhere else so we can talk. As I decide it’s probably better that I do, he stirs. Consciousness floods back. Eye lids flutter. Licks his lips. He comes alive with a jolt of confusion and the remainder of adrenaline. I shove his arms under his body and drop both my knees onto his chest. Pinned. Muzzle to his eyeball. We do this here, then.

I grab his neck and shove his head backwards as far as it goes. Harder for him to scream that way.

“You shout, you die. All I want is to talk.”

His non-gun eye rolls down and looks at me. He tries to speak but all it does is bare his teeth. Tries to be tough. I strike him on the forehead with the gun barrel; put it back in his eye.