Fourteen
ROMEO BROCK AND Conrad Gaskins were parked at the entrance to a court, one of the tree-and-flower streets uptown off Georgia in Shepherd Park. This was not the high-end side of the neighborhood, but rather the less-fashionable section, east of the avenue. The court held a group of two-story splits and colonials with faded siding and bars on the first-floor windows and doors.
The house of Tommy Broadus was more heavily fortified than the rest, with bars on the storm door and the upper-floor windows as well. Contact lights, positioned to activate on movement at the center of the sidewalk, were mounted high above the front door. The front yard had been paved to accommodate two cars, leaving only a small strip of grass. A black Cadillac CTS and a red Solara convertible sat side by side in the driveway.
“His woman’s with him,” said Brock.
“ ’Cause the convertible would be her car.”
“A man wouldn’t drive a So-lara. ’Less he the type of man to suck on another man’s dick. That’s a girl’s idea of a sports car right there.”
“Okay. But the Caddy must be his.” Gaskins squinted. “He got the V version, too.”
“That ain’t no Caddy,” said Brock. “A seventy-four El-D is a Cadillac. That thing there, I don’t know what that is.”
Gaskins almost smiled. His cousin thought the world had stopped turning in the ’70s. That’s when cats like Red Fury in D.C. and a dude name Mad Dog out of Baltimore were legends in the streets. And there were businessmen like Frank Matthews, too, in New York, a black man who beat the Italians at their own game, cut and dealt out of an armed fortress known as the Ponderosa, and owned an estate on Long Island. Romeo would have given a nut to have lived in those days and run with any of them. He dressed in tight slacks and synthetic shirts. He even smoked Kools in tribute to that time. He would have worn a natural, too, if he could. But he had a large bald spot on the top of his dome, and a blowout wouldn’t come full. So he wore his head shaved clean.
“Tired of waitin,” said Gaskins.
“Just got dark,” said Brock. “If the mule coming, he coming now. Like Fishhead said, those boys like to run after sundown, but not too late so they stand out.”
“Fishhead said.”
“Man got a stupid name, don’t mean he can’t be right.”
A little while later, a car came down the street and slowed as it approached the court. Brock and Gaskins made themselves low as the car passed them and parked, as many other vehicles had done, head-in to the curb. It was a Mercury Sable, the sister to the Ford Taurus.
“What I tell you?” said Brock. “Fishhead gave us gold so far.”
Brock put his hand to the door handle.
“What you doin?”
“Gonna rush him and bull on in.”
“He might be packing. Then you got nothin but a gun battle in the street.”
“So we do what?”
“Think, boy. If he comin out with cash, we let him come out. Brace his ass then.”
“He still gonna have a gun if he got one now.”
“But then he got something worth taking.”
A young man, cleanly but not loudly dressed, got out of the Mercury and walked toward the house, talking on a cell and looking around as he went along. He did not see the men in the Impala, as their heads were barely above the windshield line and their car was parked far back at the head of the court. The security lights on the house were activated as he moved up the sidewalk. The barred storm door opened as he neared. Then the main door opened as well. The man went into the house.
“You see it?” said Gaskins.
“Wasn’t nobody pulling that door open.”
“Right. He called in and it opened by itself. Automatic.”
“I smell money,” said Brock.
“Wait.”
They sat there for another half hour. When the front door to the house opened again, it was not the man who had arrived in the Mercury leaving, but a woman, tall and full up top and in the back, with curls on her head. She carried a small purse in one hand and a cell in the other.
“Uh,” said Brock.
“We ain’t here for that.”
“I know, but damn.”
They watched her get into the red Solara, fire it up, and back it out of the driveway.
“Don’t tell me to hold up, neither,” said Brock. “That girl’s gonna get us in.”
Gaskins didn’t object. When the Solara passed them, Brock turned the key on the SS. He powered the headlights, swung the car around, and followed the woman to the intersection at 8th, staying close to her taillights. As she slowed for the stop sign there, he gave the Impala gas, swerved around her, cut in front of her abruptly, and threw the trans into park. Brock jumped out and went around the rear of the Chevy, pulling his Colt as he moved. Her window came down, and he could hear her giving him attitude already as he stepped up to the Toyota and pointed the gun at her face. Her big, pretty brown eyes went wide but only in surprise. She did not seem afraid.
“What’s your name, baby?”
“Chantel.”
“Sounds French. Where you off to, Chantel?”
“To buy cigarettes.”
“That won’t be necessary. I got plenty.”
“You fixin to rob me?”
“Not you. Your man.”
“Then let me be on my way.”
“You ain’t goin no goddamn where but back in that house.” Brock made a motion with the barrel of the gun. “Now, get out the car.”
“You got no reason to take that tone.”
“Please… get out the motherfuckin car.”
She killed the engine and stepped out of the Toyota. She handed the keys to Brock, who tossed them to Gaskins, walking their way. Gaskins held a roll of duct tape in his free hand.
“My partner will drive it back,” said Brock. “You come with me.”
“Look, if you gonna kill me, kill me now. I don’t want no tape around my head.”
Brock smiled. “I got the feelin we gonna get along.”
The woman’s eyes appraised him. “You look like a devil. Anyone ever tell you that?”
“Once or twice,” said Brock.