My home is south of Cardozo High School’s football field. I take Florida Avenue to the narrow alley west of 12th and hang a left, then drive a short distance to the back of my house on the east side of the alley. I squeeze close to the tiny cut at the back of my house and the privacy fence of my backyard. The alley’s so narrow a bicycle would have a tough time getting around me.
It’s quiet around this time of the afternoon. Only a few old-timers live on this block, some new families, too, mostly white, who bought up a lot of the homes in this area. Then you got 12th Place, at the rear of the homes on the east side of this alley. Most of them are good people. Some of the kids in the homes on that block are not so good. I even locked up a few back in the day. It’s all about business, so no hard feelings. As far as they know, I’m still a working cop, so they stay clear. Nowadays, I stay clear of them, too. It’s the furthest thing from my mind to hit one of their homes, even when I am desperate, like before the hit on Kenyon.
This neighborhood is gentrifying, and it’s all good. The young and ignorant and upwardly mobile can take over most of this city as far as I care. I don’t have a problem with that. My property value has gone up a bit.
Before I exit the car I scan the area to make sure there are no prying eyes. When I feel good, I grab my pack and the garbage bag filled with money and step out. I tap the lock button on my key fob and unlatch the gate that leads to a tiny courtyard area at the back of my house. What plant life exists there now mostly consists of overgrown weeds. The autumn ferns and snapdragons managed to survive, growing along the fence line on either side.
I key in the security code on the side of my door, then unlock the door and step into a small mudroom that leads into the kitchen. I drop my backpack and the money and then move quickly back outside to the car, coding and locking the back door again. I take the car around the block, take another left onto 12th, and find a parking spot across from my house. I lock the car door when I exit and then double-tap the key fob so I can hear the horn signaling that it’s secure.
I have to enter the code again at the front door before I enter. Once inside, I make my way to the kitchen, where I retrieve the backpack and money and then return to the living room, opening the blackout curtains just enough so I can easily peer out at my vehicle. It isn’t the first time I’ve had to leave a body, stuffed in a suitcase, in the back of my car.
It won’t be there for long.
I don’t bother to empty the bag of money. I pull out a roll of twenties, pull off the rubber band, and count it.
Seven twenties and a ten.
I pull out another roll with tens and count.
Fifteen of them.
Looks like they wrapped everything in hundred-and-fifty-dollar increments. Probably something that makes it easier for them to distribute later. They’ll owe someone, maybe even Cordell, a lot of money. Who the fuck knows. Just estimating the amount of rolled-up bills in there, I figure it’s gotta be in the neighborhood of fifty grand. I fold the bills I unrolled together and pocket them.
I don’t bother to go through everything I have stuffed in the backpack. I pull out the cocaine. Then I grab a small plastic vial used to test cocaine and crack out of another pocket and uncap it. I flip open my tactical knife and take a tiny sample with the tip of the knife. I tap the powder into the vial and close the vial back up with the cap.
I squeeze the vial between two fingers until a little capsule contained within it breaks open to release the mixture. I shake it up and watch it turn a wonderful fluorescent blue. Exactly what I like to see. In fact, I haven’t seen it turn that bright for some time. I wipe what little is left from the tip of the knife with my index finger and rub it on my gums.
I put about three grams of the powder from the bag into another pill container I carry and then slip that, along with my knife, back into my pocket. I grab the pack and the bag of money and head to the laundry room.
In the hallway before the entrance to the kitchen, there’s a small room with a washer and dryer and my HVAC system for the house. The washer and dryer sit against the back wall between two walls. The wall on the left and the wall on the back are a part of the foundation. The one on the right is drywall. Everything is trimmed with wood molding. The molding that trims the drywall on the right side has a phantom hinge. I slide it open.
Pulling open the molding, I take hold of the edge of drywall and slide it out just like a sliding door to another room. The bottom edge of the drywall has aluminum edge trim, so it doesn’t wear down. When I pull it out, it opens up to a wall from the floor to the ceiling, five feet wide and ten inches deep, with built-in hidden shelves.