The Corner III (No Way Out) Read online

  After Slim ended the call, he made another to Trish.

  “Hey you. Is everything okay?” Trish asked. Her voice had a harmonious tune to it that made Slim feel good.

  “I’m fine. Do you remember how to get to my place?” Slim asked. His voice was lower than normal, but Reese was ear hustling hard.

  “I sure do, you need your car?”

  “And you. See you around eleven?”

  “I’ll be there,” she said. Slim could hear the excitement in her voice.

  They ended the call, and Slim relaxed by closing his eyes and resting his head on the headrest. They were almost at his condo when he said, “Make sure you call Greg. Tell him I want Feet at the station turning himself in by midnight.

  “Will do,” Reese said trying not to show his disapproval of Slim’s decision. He was beginning to think that his mind was being clouded by the woman he was seeing and the thoughts he was having of getting out of the game. Reese figured that it was up to him to keep this straight. And that meant he had to play the role of gangster since Slim wasn’t—and also of boss if need be.

  Trish had taken a hot shower, and Bath and Body Works had her smelling good. She couldn’t wait to see Slim and hurried out of her apartment to the Caddy. She was going to stop by the store to pick up a few items to make a light dish for Slim. She knew what he did for a living and figured he was out taking care of business and probably hadn’t eaten. She was walking down her gangway when her cell rang. She stopped to take a look at it and saw Detective Style’s name. She frowned and dropped the phone back in her purse. Within seconds she was in the car, and Styles was a distant memory. She was on her way to see the man who respected her.

  A shadow was cast in the gangway from the moonlight. Styles walked from the rear of the gangway to the front where he walked up the porch and to the woman who was sitting on the chair. He handed her a bag. She looked in it and smiled.

  The old woman said, “She was picked up earlier by a man. Negro, nice build and ’round your height. Good looking, I might add. She returned in his car. Now she’s gone. I bet to see him. She looks happy.” The woman laughed, and it pissed Styles off, but not enough for him to take back the brown bag he’d given her.

  “Just keep your eyes open, old woman.”

  She pulled the items out of the bag. A lime and a fifth of Jose Cuervo tequila. “I will,” she said as she cracked open the liquor and took a swallow. “I will.”

  Styles walked back to his car and tried his best to keep calm, but he was pissed. His fine piece of ass was stepping out and with the very man he’d been chasing for years. He smiled as he thought about the damage he could do to the both of them, and he would in due time.

  * * *

  Greg and Feet stepped inside Greg’s Suburban. It was 3:33a.m. and they were on their way to the station for Feet to turn himself in. Red had stopped by to see his friend, and he felt bad. Felt as if he should have done something. Red had also brought Feet’s girl who had been worried. She’d sexed Feet for what would be their last time doing it. She swore she’d wait for Feet, but he knew those were words of the moment. Greg had made it possible for them to stop by and figured that it couldn’t hurt.

  Greg asked, “Are you ready, nephew?” He never called Feet nephew, but the reality of Feet being gone a long time has him feeling like family.

  Feet responded, “Greg thanks for everything, but let’s keep our shit gansta like it always had. Call me Feet. I’ma do this time, and I’ll be back on the bricks. Ten or fifteen, I’ll still be young when I get out. It’s all in the game.”

  Greg pressed the button to the garage door opener that was clipped to his trucks sun visor and as the door rose he turned the key in the ignition of the Suburban. He was about to put the truck in gear and pull out of the garage, that’s when Greg yelled, “Oh shit!”

  There was nothing the two men could do. A couple of men dressed in all black sprayed Greg’s SUV with bullets. The machine pistols sent a volley of over thirty rounds into the truck. Several rounds hit Feet, and Greg was hit three times. The men dropped the stolen weapons and ran to the edge of the driveway to an awaiting car that sped off once they were inside.

  Once the rounds started going off, Red ran to the living room and was carefully edging to the window with his pistol clutched in his hand to lend assistance to his friends, but it was too late. The men were already to their escape vehicle. Feet’s girlfriend was screaming frantically, and Red was trying to calm her. He eased into the garage and found Feet leaning against the door, dead. On the other side was a moaning and wounded Greg. Red dialed 9-1-1.

  Down the street, two men were in a car. They turned on their lights and did a u-turn and left the area. “Shit had to be done,” Reese told E-Double, one of his soldiers.

  “We’re behind you, boss,” E Double said knowing that Reese had planned to take over if Slim decided to get out.

  It was a decision he’d been wrestling with for months because of the decisions Slim was making. A lot of the moves Slim made were to help everyone get out of the game, but what Slim failed to understand that it wasn’t all about money for some of the men, but the hustle. The letters s-t-r-e-e-t-s were letters that made up the DNA of a lot of the hustlers and that is where they were going to stay. In the streets, and Reese was one of those men.

  7

  “You street motherfuckers just don’t know the difference. It’s Detective, not officer.”—STYLES

  Lieutenant LaDonna Dixon walked into the detectives’ office with a Chicago Sun-Times and Tribune under her arm. Clutched in her hand was a white paper bag that held her breakfast—a large cinnamon bagel and a small tub of strawberry cream cheese. The detectives, who weren’t doing anything, pretended to be working. It was Monday morning the start of a new workweek, and usually the detectives were slow moving on Mondays, but not when the workaholic, Lt. Dixon, was around. Her pit bull mentality kept the detectives on point.

  Lt. Dixon stopped in front of the detectives’ secretary’s desk. “Anything for me, Tiajuana?”

  “Nothing, how was your weekend, Lieutenant?” Tiajuana asked.

  “The same as usual, nothing spectacular. She scanned the bureau and didn’t see her sergeant. “Where is Styles?”

  “Umm, he hasn’t come in yet. I think he and Spivey were meeting with an informant,” the young secretary said to cover for the detective.

  “Call him, and tell him I want him in my office like yesterday.”

  Tiajuana picked up the phone and dialed Styles’ phone. Lt. Dixon walked to her office and noticed Detective Rivera with his cell phone to his ear. Without looking at him or breaking stride, she said, “When you reach Styles, Rivera, tell him to get his ass in my office. That he’s late.”

  Rivera, who was calling Styles, gave his supervisor the finger behind her back as she closed the door and placed her items on her desk. She had a routine she ate her bagel, sipped orange juice and read through both of the city’s major papers to see if there was any pertinent information in it.

  Rivera reached Styles. He asked, “Man, where are you? Dixon is looking for your ass.”

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. I had to take care of some business,” Styles lied.

  “Alright, holla,” Rivera said as he watched Spivey roll in with some folders of data.

  Truth is Styles was up all night. He wanted so badly to be inside Trish, but she hadn’t come home and didn’t answer his calls, so he met up with another one of his ladies, a cop from another district. Styles didn’t care for the woman too much because all she talked about was the job. What happened on a traffic stop, the domestic call she went to, the pursuit she had of a bank robber or the arrest of some gang banger. Styles would drink with her and listen to the stories as long as it took for her to give it up, which was usually after a couple of hours. She was a pain in the ass, but the sista had some good sex so it was worth the trouble. He just took her like medicine—in doses.

  When Styles entered the office, he headed
to his desk and Spivey met him there. He handed him a couple of files. One was Slim’s and the other was Lucky’s. Lt. Dixon stuck her head out of her office. “Sergeant,” she called.

  Styles told Spivey, Raise the boys and tell them to meet us at the strip club tonight. I got something for us.”

  “Good, I could use some cash,” Spivey told him in a hushed tone.

  Styles entered Dixon’s office and closed the door. Her office was at the back of the bureau and was enclosed by glass. She liked it that way because she could keep a watchful eye on all the detectives, and if she didn’t want to see them, all she had to do was close the blinds.

  “You’re late, sergeant,” she told Styles as he sat.

  “Working on a case. That’s why Spivey was late also. We were collecting some data on a drug crew,” he told her nonchalantly.

  “Well, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I don’t think you have your people pushing hard to get at the Fuentes’ and Marcellus Smith’s crews,” she said as she tossed an open Sun-Times to him.

  “What’s this?” he asked as he picked up the paper.

  Lt. Dixon had highlighted an article. She sipped her orange juice and watched Styles as he read the article. As he read Feet’s real name and then his street name, he knew him to be the man his cousin, Parker, worked for. The same man Parker had set up, and his detective intuition kicked in. He had been a detective too long not to know that one thing had to do with another. He checked the rest of the metro section, but didn’t find anything. He saw the Tribune on Dixon’s desk.

  “Let me see that,” he said.

  She handed him the paper and said, “You look concerned, detective.”

  Styles shook off the comment telling her, “Doing a little police work is all.”

  Styles immediately found what he was looking for, the article on Parker being shot at Harold’s Chicken. Parker had no family in the city, like Styles, since they were from St. Louis. Styles knew he was going to have the task of calling his aunt. He also knew he had to go to the morgue and identify the body. He would do that and find out what the hell happened.

  “Styles, what’s the deal?”

  “The guy in the article you showed me. He’s a part of Slim’s crew. Low-level, but he ran an area.”

  Dixon said, “Well, where he was killed was the same street where an alderman lives. A nice neighborhood, so as you can see I need something done about this shit.”

  “Shit hitting close to the politicians, so they want some action, huh?” Styles said with a hint of sarcasm.

  “Yes.”

  “Well, you know I love you so much, boss, and I know you have aspirations to move up the ladder, so tell your alderman that you will have something for them in a couple of days. Something big enough to satisfy voters,” Styles assured her.

  Dixon tried to hold back her smile, but couldn’t. She knew Styles did things his way, and she didn’t mind as long as he didn’t get out of control. He got things done and produced, and with his assurance, she couldn’t wait to get on the phone to the alderman and let the prominent politician know that justice was going to be served for bringing violence six houses down the street from his.

  Styles stood, told his supervisor that he had to go and hit the streets and police. She had no objections and told him to call her if he needed anything. He said that he would, and after he walked out and closed the door to her office, LaDonna smiled and picked up the phone to call the alderman so she could assure him that things were being taken care of and that he could expect results soon. As she dialed, she thought about how she was going to be an area commander sooner than she had anticipated.

  Styles collected all the data he needed and put the folders under his arm. He grabbed a doughnut from the box that was on the table and poured some coffee in a cup that was in his desk. He screwed on the travel lid and was on his way. Rivera watched as he left the squad room and didn’t bother his partner. He knew something was bothering Styles, but knew he’d tell him when he was good and ready.

  * * *

  Noonie was nodding in and out of sleep. He had been by Greg’s side for a couple of days, only taking the time to go home and shower. He assumed that someone close to Parker had killed Feet and put Greg in a coma because Feet had killed Parker. But it didn’t seem right to Noonie. The house Noonie was at was one of Greg’s properties he was selling, and no one in the streets knew about Greg’s real estate. Noonie didn’t like to see his friend lying in bed with tubes hooked up to his body and machines. At times he said a prayer and asked God, why? But in reality, he knew the answer. His friend was in the game and the game has no loyalty, secrets or friends. Hustling was the grimiest of all grime, and Noonie was stuck in the midst of it all.

  Noonie had awakened when the nurse came in the room to change Greg’s catheter. He was in a coma but bodily functions moved on, so Noonie excused himself to the hallway. The slim built Puerto Rican needed to stretch anyway. He was serving as security for Greg until he was safe, so he was only going as far as the door.

  “Tired, huh? You want me to give you a break? I’ll watch your man for ya,” a strongly built bald-headed man said as he walked to up to Noonie.

  Noonie knew who the light-skinned man wearing jeans and a button-down was. “Officer Styles, what’s up?”

  “Nothing much just checking to see how…” he opened a brown folder he had tucked under his arm and checked it. “Greg Johnson is doing.”

  “As best he can, considering he—”

  Styles cut Noonie off. “Got shot up trying to hide his boy out from a murder.”

  “He wasn’t hiding him. He was turning him in, officer.”

  “That’s detective, Detective Styles, young blood. I haven’t been an officer in years. I’m not in a uniform. I dress how I please and have the latitude to do what the fuck I want. Understand me?” Styles said as he got a little closer to Noonie. So close that Noonie could smell the mixture of cigarettes and breath mints.

  Not in the mood to deal with the detective, Noonie said, “My boy is in there in a coma, and you’re here on some bullshit. So what’s up, what do you want?”

  Styles grinned slyly then said, “Your boy is laying in there on some shit about the young man, Parker, who was gunned down by your other boy, Feet.” Styles looked in the folder. “Says here he was part of your crew. So my question is why would Feet kill Parker which it seems got Feet killed? Your boss, Slim, must’ve had something to do with it.”

  There it was. Styles should have left that part out. Noonie remembered when they were in the club weeks ago when Slim was talking to the waitress. Noonie was there to celebrate the birth of his son and even though he was drinking good getting a good buzz and woman-watching, he as always, was focused on what was going on around him. He remembered when Styles and the other narcotic cops came into the establishment. He kept a watchful eye on the men and saw the pissed look on Styles’ face when he saw Slim talking to the waitress.

  Noonie’s face was inquisitive when he said, “I wouldn’t think that you would have to come and ask me those questions. Wasn’t Parker your informant? I also did a little digging and found out he was your cousin. Now go and figure that.”

  Styles ginned. “Why did Feet kill him?”

  “You tell me. You’re the one who said you’re a detective,” Noonie said smartly.

  The nurse exited the room and told Noonie that he could go back in. She smiled at Styles then continued on to her next patient.

  Noonie, who was tired of Styles, glared at him and said, “Look, I’m about to go back in there with my boy, so unless you got some type of warrant, I’m through playing your fucking games.”

  There was a pause as the men stared at each other.

  Style grinned then said, “Go check in on your boy. I’d hate for him to keel over and you weren’t by his side.”

  Noonie wanted to punch the well-built detective in his nose, but simply used his better judgment, turned and went back inside the room.

>   Styles, on the other hand, was pissed, but didn’t let it show. He walked off, and as he searched for Rivera’s number in his cell phone he mumbled, “I got your mothafuckin’ games, you little bitch.”

  Rivera answered, “Yeah, boss.”

  “That motherfucker ain’t got shit to say so it’s a go, do your thang and hit me back before you make the move,” Styles told the detective.

  “We’re on it,” Rivera said.

  Styles walked out of the hospital and was as pissed off as he was when he had walked in. He really didn’t have reason to show up at Greg’s room, but he wanted Noonie to know that he wasn’t going to sit by and do nothing about his cousin getting killed, and Noonie picked up on that. But Noonie also realized that Styles was shitty over the fact that Slim was kicking it with Trish.

  * * *

  Lucky shook his head as he loosened his tie. “They say that boy was a firecracker,” he said.

  “Live wire,” Slim said as he fixed them a drink. “We call ’em live wires.”

  Lucky and Slim were in Lucky’s bar in the Bronzeville section of the city. Lucky was sitting at the bar, and Slim was behind it pouring himself and Lucky a glass of Martell Cordon Bleu on the rocks. They had just left Feet’s funeral. Lucky had given Red the money to bury the young man. Feet’s closest relatives that could be found were grandparents and they were very poor. Feet’s drug money was their main source of income, and they had no idea that it was illegal money. Feet had told them that he was working construction twelve hours a day. They were proud their grandson was working and knew construction paid well, so they had no reason to question his nice car or the money he gave them weekly.