Rhozier Brown - DC Noir 2 - The Classics

“What do you need me for? You seem to know everything.”

“That I do, Lafonzo. I know that Lufer steals a car when he’s gonna whack someone. He’s got a driver he trusts. He cruises the streets till he finds his target, then he jumps out, which is why we call him ‘Johnny-Jump-Out.’ No pussy bullshit drive-bys for our Johnny, no, he jumps out, calls the target by name, pulls his piece and does it right there, trading gunfire on the street, broad daylight, then back in the car and he’s gone. Cool customer, our Lufer, drawing down on a man telling him you’re gonna kill him and then doing it. Nice gun he uses, too, 44 Magnum. Holds on to it. Does he wear a holster, Lafonzo?”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about it.”

“What for?”

“Because I want to know, Lafonzo.”

“It’s on his left hip, facing the other way.”

“A cross-draw, how elegant. And so cocky. Most guys just shoot and throw down. He doesn’t think he’s gonna get caught. I know he wears armor because one guy hit him right in the chest before Lufer put one between his eyes.”

“So how come you know so much, you ain’t got him yet?”

“All we had was an M.O. No pattern to his killings. Now, I know that there isn’t one. Lufer gets hot, you get shot. Now I’ve got a name, a description, and some places to look for him. He got a name for himself? All the great ones had nicknames. What about Lufer?”

“Fuck, man, he don’t need no nickname. You hear Lufer Timmons looking for you, that’s like hearing the Terminator wants you.”

Bitterman pocketed his photograph and smiled at Lafonzo. “I guess you’ll be wanting to spend some time indoors, right?”

Lafonzo sat up straight. “Don’t you be putting me out there, now. That motherfucker’ll kill me.”

“Relax. I’m not gonna screw around with you. I’ll make sure you’re papered and held, maybe get you a nice high bond you can’t post. How’s that sound?”

“Great. Fuckin’ great. Thanks.”

No other city in the world had as much of its population behind bars. Even the bad guys prefer to be in jail rather than on the streets. Bitterman was optimistic about nailing Timmons. A guy so caught up in building a reputation wouldn’t be able to wait for it to be bestowed upon him. He’d help it along with plenty of boasting. All they had to do was find the right pair of ears. Secondly, he liked his gun too much. Holding on to that was a mistake. If they found that, they’d match it to bullets in his six victims. Once he was off the streets, they’d go back and talk to the deaf, dumb, and blind who’d seen and heard everything and convince just one of them to talk. Once gone he would not be coming back.

Bitterman left the detention center to get an arrest warrant from a judge. If he got it soon, it’d make the 3 p.m. roll call for the next shift. By tomorrow morning, every active duty officer on the streets would be looking for Lufer Timmons. A Christmas present to the city.

Dantreya Watkins had been going about this all wrong. He’d approached the “gangstas” on the street looking for a piece and received the short course on urban economics: Desperation drives the price up, not down. Once his ignorance of makes and models was established, his “brothers” tried to sell him.25-caliber purse guns for four hundred bucks. Poverty only served to delay his fleecing. After three unsuccessful tries, he knew enough to ask for a .380 Walther. That seemed to be a respectable gun. He found a kindly gentleman who sold him such a gun and a full clip of ammo for three hundred bucks, which was all the money he could steal from his mother.

It wasn’t until later, in an abandoned warehouse when Dantreya squeezed off a practice round and saw the cartridge roll out of the end of the barrel, that he learned that the clip was full of .32-caliber ammo and completely useless. Dantreya was now armed with a three-hundred-dollar hammer.

Dantreya’s descent into the all-too-real world, far from the comics he read, rewrote, and illustrated in his room, was now complete. He was waiting nervously at the side of his friend TerrAnce’s house for TerrAnce to get his father’s gun for him. In exchange, Dantreya had offered TerrAnce his entire collection of X-Men comics, which they would go get as soon as TerrAnce lifted the gun from his father’s holster in the closet.

TerrAnce pushed open the ripped screen door with his shoulder and, holding the gun carefully in both hands, took the steps, one at a time. He walked around the side of the house and approached Dantreya, both hands grasping the trigger and pointing the gun at him. Dantreya stepped aside as gracefully as any matador and took the gun out of his friend’s hands.

“Thanks man,” he said, as he spun the chambers of the revolver. The bullets looked like the right size. Now, all he had to do was find Lufer Timmons. His older friends could help with that.

TerrAnce looked at him expectantly. Dantreya slipped the gun into his jacket and shrugged, “Hey man, I gotta go. I’ll get your stuff and bring it right back.”

That said, he took off across the street and ran up the alley away from his friend TerrAnce, now crying with all the disappointment an eight-year-old has.

Bitterman pulled up to the corner of 6th and O. He got out and put the cherry on the roof to simplify things for the locals. Up here, a white man with an attitude had to be crazy or a cop. Bitterman wanted to make sure they made the right choices.

Fats Taylor was poured over a folding chair.

“The fuck you doin’ up here, Bitterman?” Fats asked, his chest heaving with the effort of speech.

“Just came up to hear myself talk, Fats. You bein’ such a good listener and all.”

“I hear everything, sees everything, and knows everything.” Fats chuckled and smiled.

And eats everything, Bitterman thought.

“I’m looking for a faggoty little nigger, name of Lufer Timmons, you know him?”

Fats’s face sealed over, as smooth and black as asphalt in August.

“Well, you listen, Fats, and I’ll talk myself. This little queer thinks he’s a real pistolero, a gunslinger. Well, I think he’s a coward. I know who he’s shot, where, when, and why. Pretty tough with kids, and cripples, spaced-out druggies, welshing gamblers that don’t carry. You tell him I’m looking for him, Fats. And you know who I’ve put in the ground.”

Bitterman closed his show, went back to his car and drove away. Fats could be counted on to spread the word, emphasizing every insult. A punk like Timmons, to whom respect was fear and fear was all, wouldn’t let this pass. Bitterman was already wearing armor and would until Lufer was taken in. Although facing a.44 Magnum he might just as well be wearing sun block.

Bitterman repeated his performance in Nairobi Jones and the Southeaster.

For fun, in Nairobi Jones, he told them he was Charlie Siringo, the Pinkerton who single-handedly tracked the Wild Bunch until they fled to South America. In the Southeaster he was Heck Thomas, one of the legendary “Oklahoma Guardsmen.”

Bitterman wanted Lufer to stay put, and challenging him would do that. He wanted him angry and impulsive, so he insulted him. He wanted him confused, so he multiplied his pursuers.

Bitterman drove over to Langtry’s via all the “cupcake corners” in the first district. His latest ex-partner had suggested that the politically correct term for these young ladies was “vertically challenged,” and they should be so described in all police reports. Bitterman got himself a new partner. He’d seen only a few working girls out on the sidewalks. Cold weather and the new law that allowed the city to confiscate the cars of the johns caught soliciting had forced one more evolution in the pursuit of reckless abandon. Now the girls drove endlessly around the block until they pulled up alongside a likely customer. The negotiations had more feeling than the foreplay to follow. Then a quick sprint to lose a police pursuit and the happy couple was free to lay down together, take aim and miss each other at point-blank range.