The Corner III (No Way Out) Page 3

  Chavez grabbed Jimmie by the throat with his left hand. His grip was powerful and any more pressure would surely crush Jimmie’s windpipe.

  Chavez forcefully placed the rag over Jimmie’s mouth and nose. The slimly built man tried to wiggle his head free. It went side to side, but the strong Chavez kept the rag in place, ensuring that Jimmie breathed in the sweet smelling dense liquid. Eventually, Jimmie went limp. He was out of it.

  Chavez told Petey and Juan, “Make sure you gather all of his things. Better yet, I’ll get them. Carry him to the truck and put him in the back.”

  “I got you, bro,” Petey said. His voice was young, but full of confidence.

  “First make sure no one is outside,” Chavez warned.

  The coast was clear, and the two young Mexicans carried Jimmie’s cuffed, naked body out of the first floor hotel room to the Durango and tossed Jimmie in the back like a rag doll.

  Chavez stepped out carrying Jimmie’s belongings. Camila would return tomorrow at checkout time to return the key. Chavez stepped into the passenger’s side of the SUV. The moonlight shone through the front window, and the late May night was a clear one. The stars shone brightly, and Chavez stole a quick glance at them. He knew Victoria was looking down at them from heaven. She was a woman who never harmed a soul. She and Chavez were opposites. Two people from different sides of the tracks who shared two things in common—a young girl and boy. Two children who are now living with their grandmother because their mother was senselessly gunned down while leaving work. Now was the beginning of her death being avenged.

  * * *

  Detective Styles drove the triple black Dodge Charger faster than the posted speed limit on Chicago Avenue. It was after eleven, and darkness had fallen hours earlier. He turned off the major street, slowing his speed as he cruised toward his destination.

  Styles neared a city park and when he came to a halt at a stop sign, he finger combed his long goatee and smiled as he watched the group of Hispanic men, who were shooting hoops and the shit, stop to see what he was doing in their Humboldt Park neighborhood.

  Styles was born, bred and fed on the south side, but had no fear of cruising in the northwest side neighborhood. He was the police and that gave him that right. If he weren’t a lawman, he might have had a problem. The shiny twenty-inch rims came to a halt, and the haze of the orange streetlights shone off them. The car was clean as a whistle—seized from a drug dealer from the southeast side of the city. The youngsters didn’t know that, and why should they? There was nothing about the car or Styles that screamed police. They threw up their gang signs to let the black man know where he was and what danger he could be in. Styles grinned at the teenagers as he slid his hand to his cup holder, grabbed his shield and held it up. The teenagers called him a pig, gave him the finger and flashed their gang signs again. Styles smiled then gave the supercharged car gas and cruised off.

  Five minutes later, Styles brought the car to a halt at a large house that had been converted to three apartments. An elderly Spanish woman, the occupant of the front apartment, was sitting on the porch knitting a shirt. It’s not the first time Styles has seen the woman. He exits the car and walks to the woman. She’s heavyset with short grey hair.

  Styles speaks, she nods. He hands her a shopping bag.

  She says nothing. Sets the bag on the ground and Styles smiles as he walks away down the gangway to the back. The wooden door to the rear apartment is open, but the screen door is locked. He knocks on it. “Trish,” he calls.

  Walking toward the door is a sexy woman of Brazilian and Black descent. She’s smiling and appears to be happy to see Styles. She isn’t. It’s a front. Trish has been dealing with Styles ever since he had some charges pending against her dropped. Charges that were false. But Trish had always been a bit naïve since she was young. Her mother Anna, who had become strung out on heroin was soon forced to prostitution when there was no room left at shelters for her and a young child. A child who knew no English because her mother rarely spoke it and never sent her daughter to school, but Trish learned the language by watching PBS, Sesame Street, School House Rock and the Electric Company, and all the lonely days sitting in the living room of their one bedroom apartment watching the shows while her mother turned tricks had paid off. Sometimes she would stand by the door and listen to her mother moan and speak words in English and Spanish. She can recall most of the men asking her to speak in her native tongue when they were in the room with her. After the men moaned and spoke a few curse words, but sounding happy when they did, the room would get quiet so Trish would tiptoe back to the raggedy couch where she would sit staring at the television.

  Trish had been in America for two years and never let on to her mother that she was becoming fluent in English—and the ways of life. Television and friends in the neighborhood helped to teach her the language, but her mother and her pimp who hung at the apartment on a regular, taught her the game of life.

  “You want something to eat?” she asked as she headed for the refrigerator without waiting for a response.

  “What’cha got?” Styles asked as he sat at the small wooden kitchen table that was worn and had many chips in it.

  Trish pulled a plate that was covered with plastic wrap from the refrigerator. “Brazilian steak and yellow rice.”

  She stuck the plate in the microwave, set the time for two minutes then grabbed the bottle of Hennessey and a glass that was on the counter. After putting a couple of ice cubes in the glass, she poured the cognac then handed it to Styles.

  He took a couple of hefty swigs, almost emptying the glass, then as he was about to reach for Trish, the microwave chimed. She turned and retrieved his plate of food. She was relieved. She knew Styles wanted to have sex, but she didn’t. There were times when she didn’t mind and actually enjoyed his company, but lately she began to want more. She was taking classes at the community college and while at libraries studying, she would see couples full of life, relishing in the company of each other. While jogging in the park, she would see couples holding hands, smiling and laughing—something she’d never done in her life. She wanted that and hoped to get to that point some day.

  Styles finished only half of his meal. While eating and talking on the phone, he watched Trish’s heart-shaped ass shift with every move she made as she washed dishes. He became hungry for her sex and that was the reason he was there, along with letting her know what she had to do to help him on a case he was working.

  “Come here,” he said.

  She wiped her hands dry then stepped to him.

  He guided her to sit on his lap. He placed a hand on her breast and it felt good even through the fabric of her t-shirt.

  He was heading in for a kiss when his cell rang. The ringtone was one of the narcotics offic, so he answered and was pissed when his commander called him to report to a crime scene.

  When Styles stood, she kissed him making it seem as if she wanted him to stay.

  “I know, baby, but I gotta go. We’ll finish this later.”

  Trish frowned then said, “Okay, call me.”

  Styles walked up the gangway. When he got to the front of the house, he noticed the old woman. She was still sitting in the rocking chair, knitting. She’d started on something new. She also had new yarn and was working it with a new pair of knitting needles.

  “Gracias por el señor que hace punto suministros,” the old woman said.

  She was thanking Styles for knitting supplies.

  He responded with a simple nod, like he always did after bringing the old woman something. He got inside the Charger then sped off. As he was traveling up Chicago Avenue, he blasted rap loudly. Can I Live by Jay-Z pumped through his speakers. He came to a halt at a stoplight. At the opposite side of him was an SUV. The passenger of the Suburban recognized Styles, and Styles recognized the Mexican.

  The light changed to green, and the driver of the Suburban hadn’t noticed. He was looking at Chavez.

  “Drive, Petey,” Chavez sai
d as he kept his eyes fixed on the man inside the Charger.

  Styles gave the Charger gas and simply nodded as the two vehicles passed one another.

  “Damn, that was close,” Petey said relieved. The two shorties in the back had no idea who the black man in the sports car was, but he and Chavez did.

  Nevertheless, it was all good, but Chavez wondered what Styles was doing in his neck of the woods. He turned and through the SUV’s rear window Chavez saw Styles’ taillights fade. He then looked down at the man who was tied up and out cold. “That was the police from your hood, dog. That narc name Styles, I know you know him. He must be on some other shit, or he would’ve stopped us.” He turned back around then shook his head. “This just ain’t your fucking day, dog.”

  * * *

  When Jimmie came out of his state of unconsciousness, he realized that his life was about to end. He blinked a few times so his eyes could focus. As Chavez set several knives on a table, Jimmie visually searched the room. He was stretched out on a pool table that was covered with a sheet of thick plastic. He came to the realization that this was where he was going to die. In a basement and then his body dumped somewhere. This wasn’t the way he’d figured his birthday to end. He was supposed to be lying up with the Dominican chick with the fat ass.

  Gutter bitch! He thought of the woman who’d set him up.

  Chavez put the cigar to his lips. He took a cigar cutter from his pocket. Slid a quarter of an inch of the expensive cigar in the hole of the cutter and with one swift motion he cut the tip of the cigar, and it fell to the ground. He smiled at how easily the tip was cut, and Jimmie had an idea of what Chavez was thinking. Jimmie tugged at his restraints to no avail. Chavez lit the cigar with a small butane lighter. He puffed hard, and the tip glowed bright red. Smoke clouded Chavez’s face and if Jimmie didn’t know any better, it looked as if the Grim Reaper was standing before him.

  Chavez stepped out of the cloud of smoke toward Jimmie. He asked, “Who killed my babies’ momma, and who made the call?”

  “I don’t know what the fuck you are talkin’ ‘bout,” Jimmie spat.

  “A little bird told me that you do,” Chavez said calmly. “And Jimmie, take some of that fuckin’ bass out ya voice when you talk to me.

  Chavez put his cigar in his mouth, held it tightly between his lips as he grabbed Jimmie’s hand. Jimmie wanted to snatch it away, but the restraints wouldn’t let him. Chavez pulled up Jimmie’s ring finger and stuck it in the cigar cutter.

  “Ahhhh!” Jimmie howled as his finger fell on the pool table.

  Jimmie continued to scream. Chavez looked over to Petey and nodded for him to come forward. Chavez took the yellow bandanna from around Petey’s neck. He gripped Jimmie’s throat with his powerful hand, forcing Jimmie’s mouth open. He then stuffed the rag in the slim man’s mouth. Petey didn’t like the fact that Chavez stuffed his Latin King’s colors in the black man’s mouth, but dare not say anything to his boss.

  Chavez’s look was indifferent as he looked at Jimmie. “Now that you’ve shut the fuck up, listen. I’m not in the business of fucking around.” Chavez grabbed another finger. Clip. He cut another finger and the bandanna muffled Jimmie’s cries. “I would ask you again, but I’m going to wait. I need you to feel pain so you can understand the seriousness of the situation.”

  Chavez waved to one of his soldiers who was standing by the table of knives. The young Mexican, who couldn’t have been more than eighteen, wheeled the table of hardware to Chavez. Jimmie got a better look at the shiny utensils. He watched as Chavez picked up a syringe and held it to the light. Chavez tapped it and a drip fell from the tip of the needle, and to Jimmie, it looked as if it took minutes for it to hit the ground.

  Chavez grinned for the first time. “I bet you’re wondering what up with the needle. You probably think I’m gonna dope you up. Nah, bro. That would be too easy. This here is a shot of adrenaline. It’s to keep you from passing out and all your senses functioning quite well. I need you to feel all the pain I’m gonna put you through. You’re gonna tell me what I want to know.”

  Chavez pierced Jimmie’s vein that was at the bend of his elbow then slowly pressed the plunger. Jimmie squirmed, and his eyes bulged. He was now in a state to where he’d feel all the pain Chavez gave him, but he wouldn’t pass out.

  “Cut his pants off,” Chavez commanded.

  The young soldier, Juan, did as he was told. He unbuckled the belt to the baggy jeans then pulled them and Jimmie’s boxers down to his knees. He then used the shears to cut them off.

  Chavez took a couple of hard puffs on his cigar then held it between his teeth. “You wanna talk, Jimmie?” he said as he slid on a pair of rubber gloves.

  Jimmie said nothing. He simply lay on the table breathing heavily.

  “Okay,” Chavez said then grabbed Jimmie’s dick. “Damn, you would’ve given Camila a run for her money with a cock like this. Oh, well,” he shrugged.

  Chavez puffed hard then lifted Jimmie’s penis. He put the cigar to Jimmie’s genitals and began burning them.

  Jimmie screamed.

  “Who killed my babies’ momma?”

  Jimmie whimpered.

  Chavez burned.

  “Who, puta?”

  Jimmie stopped yelling but didn’t say a word.

  Petey said, “This ’fucker is tougher than I thought.”

  Chavez put the cigar out on Jimmie’s forehead then said, “Time to step it up.”

  Chavez picked up a highly polished knife that was razor sharp. He smiled then said, “Time for me to go to work.”

  Jimmie screamed as Chavez brought the knife closer to him.

  * * *

  Noonie was in a deep sleep and dreaming. It was a recurring dream that he was being arrested and dragged from his home while Chantel watched as she held a crying baby in her arms. He was being put in the back of an unmarked squad car, then the narcotics detective who was sitting in the front seat turned and smiled at him before punching him several times in the body. The punches kept coming, and there was nothing he could do about it since he was cuffed. Then suddenly he was awake. He realized he was in the comforts of his bedroom, then felt his lovely Chantel’s small fist pounding his side as she lay on her back.

  Chantel said, “Baby, it’s time.”

  “It’s time?” Noonie said then realized what she meant. “Oh, shit. It’s time!”

  Chantel, even in the moment of contractions laughed then said, “Yes, baby, it’s time. Your son is ready to come into this world.”

  Noonie glanced at the clock as he jumped out of bed. It was two in the morning. He helped Chantel up. She was sitting on the edge of the bed.

  “Grab my robe and throw, and don’t worry about any clothes. Have Tesha come to the house and get what I need. We have to go.

  Noonie slid into some jeans and a shirt then carefully helped the love of his life out the front door and into their car. Within minutes they were at the hospital. Chantel was being checked in and wheeled into a delivery room while an anxious Noonie did as he was told and called everyone. Tesha first as he was instructed by Chantel. Tesha was with Chantel when she lost her unborn child when she was shot in a gas station parking lot and was by her side during her depression. When Chantel found that she was pregnant again, with the support of Noonie and Tesha, she broke out of her funk, and now she was about to give birth to her and Noonie’s son.

  * * *

  Jimmie was breathing heavily, and his body was covered with blood. His legs had been sliced too many times to count, and he simply wanted to be put out of his misery. Chavez wasn’t having that thought. A quick death wasn’t in the cards for Jimmie for he hadn’t told Chavez what he wanted to know.

  “Okay, Jimmie, it’s time to stop playing. I’m going to dig one of your eyes out,” he said as he put a spoon up to Jimmie’s eye.

  As soon as Chavez was about to dig the eye out of its socket Jimmie whimpered, “Slim sent the order.”

  “What? Don’t fucking lie
to me!” Chavez spat.

  “I’m not lying, man. I just wanna be let go. I swear. No one knew who did it. But then one night, I was at the strip joint, and one of his boys was drunk. He got to braggin’ to this one stripper broad…” Jimmie coughed. Blood ran down the side of his mouth. “He was talkin’ about what an OG he was—”

  Chavez cut him off, “You lie, Jimmie, why would he brag to a stripper bitch about killing? Don’t make sense.”

  “Nigga was tryin’ to get some pussy. I know the broad. Been fuckin’ her for a minute now. She told me how stupid the guy was.”

  “His name.”

  Jimmie didn’t hesitate, “Reese.”

  Chavez eyes squinted, “The bitch’s name.”

  “What?”

  “The bitch who told you this. Her name.”

  Jimmie didn’t expect for Chavez to ask him her name but figured what the hell. He was trying to get out of a painful situation so he told him, “Pretzels.”

  “What, motherfucker?”

  “Serious. Her name is Pretzels. Her stage name is all I know. She works at Showstoppaz.”

  Chavez smiled. He knew the spot. He didn’t go there but knew someone who did. The place was on the east end and Petey’s cousin was a regular.

  Chavez said, “If you’re lying, I’m going to find your momma and do to her what I’m doing to you.”

  He told Petey to call his cousin, Tony. Petey pulled out his cell and did as told. Once Tony answered. Petey put the cell on speaker.

  “Tony, this Chavez.”

  “Whassup, bro?”

  “Ay, you go to that one strip joint, Showstoppaz, right?”

  “Yeah, goin’ tonight. Why, you wanna roll? You know I gots VIP up in there.”

  “Nah, but since you the man up in there, I need to know somethin’.”

  “Whassup?”

  “Do a bitch named Pretzels work there?”