George Pelecanos - DC Noir

All retirement would mean to him was biding his time, waiting to die in an empty house, trying to fill lonely evenings and sleepless nights by listening to Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, Motown showstoppers.

Retire from the force in two years? He doubted it.

He felt like the man with the shovel following circus elephants who, when asked if he couldn’t find a better job, says, “What, give up show business?”

Ice Hamilton pimp-walked up to his 1st Street, S.W. condo complex, unlocked the electronic fence of this “gated community” with a card key, and crossed the courtyard. Using a standard key, he unlocked the front door of his building and entered. A short walk to the second floor and he was at his door. He unlocked it and went inside.

Hamilton had several cribs, but this one, which was in his sister Beth’s name, was decked out entirely in Ikea shit that Danielle, one of his classy ho’s, picked out. The place was slammin’!

He tossed his keys onto the telephone table near the entrance and walked to the kitchen.

Ice took a bottle of Hpnotiq Liqueur from the fridge and poured himself a tall glass of the blue beverage. He drank deeply. Damn, that was good. He walked over to his couch, flopped down, and put his feet on the coffee table. He laughed aloud, recalling the day’s events.

That look on Detective Mayfield’s face. Priceless!

Carter “The Real Deal” Washington owed him big time, and taking the fall for Ice on the Chesapeake Street murders made them even. Of course, promising to kill Washington’s entire family if he didn’t take the fall had helped The Real Deal make the right decision. And, as usual, his baby Fanta Monroe had come through for him with the names and addresses of potential eyewitnesses, an invaluable service for which she had been well compensated, monetarily and otherwise. He’d turned Fanta out long before she’d joined the police force and was glad that she was still a-dick-ted! He laughed at his own pun, one that he had run into the ground over the years and was funny only to him, though others still laughed because they feared him.

No doubt about it, there was no substitute for having whores in all walks of life strung out on his enormous Johnson. Every woman he’d taken had come under his spell because, like Captain Kirk, he had gone where no man had gone before.

Hamilton took another swig and then got serious as he considered the fate of the punk who had dared to speak out against him. He had been ineffectual, sure, but the nerve! His power must be absolute , his reign unopposed. What Grimes had done was bad for business, and he had to pay the ultimate price so that others would know the way of the world: DON’T SNITCH ON ICE HAMILTON. As always, he’d see to it personally. Ordering murders was too risky because underlings who committed the hits might cut a deal with 5-O and rat on him. Besides, he enjoyed killing people.

And, of course, that punk muthafucka Francisco “Big Boy” Longus would get what he deserved, not only for trespassing on his turf, but also for the Chesapeake Street fiasco. Shit, it was Big Boy’s fault that he had missed him and killed that old hag and that kid. Punk-ass should have stood still.

Yeah, that fat bastard was going to get what was coming to him. Soon.

How Big Boy thought that he could get away with peddling smack on the big dog’s turf, Ice would never know. Didn’t matter. People had to know not to step on Ice Hamilton’s toes. He had a lot of turf, but he wasn’t giving up an inch. Crack, weed, crank, ecstasy, or heroin, the new drug of choice (oh, yeah, it had made a comeback with a vengeance!) — whatever, he didn’t care, he had people out there selling it. And nobody was going to take one penny of his profits out of his pocket. Nobody. At the age of only wenty-six, he could buy anything he wanted.

It was also necessary that he send a clear message to the police in general, and to Detective Mayfield in particular, that he was untouchable. He smiled. Yeah, Ice would send his message to Mayfield loud and clear. Tonight.

Breaking in to that sap Rodney Grimes’s tenth-floor apartment was simple. He knocked on the door like a policeman beforehand, to make sure no one was home, then went to work with his locksmith’s tools. He was inside and sitting on the man’s couch inside of two minutes.

To make certain that Grimes would not be alerted to his presence when he returned to the apartment building, Ice kept the lights off and simply used a penlight to maneuver around.

From what he could see of Rodney’s place, it was nice. Shit, Danielle, the ho who had hooked up his place, could have hooked up this one. True, it wasn’t Ikea shit, but it was put together well, sort of an Asian thing going on. Not too much furniture, but it was well placed, and there were lots of plants. Nice artwork on the walls. Nerd-boy had it goin’ on in here.

Ice smiled. He hoped Rodney Grimes had enjoyed this place. He also hoped that he had lived life to the fullest, but he doubted it. Whatever. Today was the last day of that geek’s life.

Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton turned off his penlight and waited in the dark for his next victim to return home.

Rodney Grimes exited the elevator and walked down the hall to his tenth-floor apartment. He unlocked the door and entered, closing it behind him.

He hit the light switch and froze. Sitting on his futon couch was Ice Hamilton.

“Welcome home,” Ice beamed. He flicked open a switch-blade. “You can run if you want to, but I bet I can catch you.”

Rodney just stood there.

“Brave, huh?” Ice chuckled.

Rodney put his gym bag on the floor.

“Been workin’ out?” Ice asked.

Rodney did not reply.

“Well,” Ice said, “let’s see if you can kick my ass.” Brandishing his stainless steel stiletto, he laughed and rose from the futon.

John Mayfield pulled into the front parking lot of the Wingate House East apartment complex at 9:45 p.m. He parked his unmarked police cruiser, a black 2000 Ford Taurus, and just as he lifted himself out of the car, the sound of breaking plate glass drew his attention upward, where he saw a man dangling from the railing of a balcony.

Sweet Jesus ,” Mayfield whispered. He bolted toward the apartment building.

Someone began pounding on the front door, yelling, “Police! Open up!”

Grimes realized it must be Detective Mayfield. He owes me a beer , he thought. Wiping his Coke-bottle glasses, he turned and headed for the door.

Detective Mayfield, gun drawn, was surprised to see him. “Who…?”

“Ice,” Grimes replied.

Detective Mayfield passed quickly through the rubble of broken furniture and stepped onto the balcony. He was awe-struck. Isaiah “Ice” Hamilton, battered and bloody, his eyes filled with an odd combination of terror and rage, was struggling to keep hold of the railing with one hand. The other, once-powerful arm, now as limp as a strand of overcooked spaghetti, merely swung back and forth like a pendulum.

“Help me, man!” Ice yelled. “Help me! My fingers is slippin’!”

While the detective considered what to do, Ice lost his grip. He screamed like a white chick in a horror flick all the way down.

Mayfield holstered his service handgun and turned back to Grimes. He was speechless. But as he looked at Grimes without his glasses, it suddenly came to him where he had seen the man before. The trophies toppled over on the bookshelves and the certificates and awards on the walls confirmed it. Rodney Grimes was a Tae Kwon Do champion, a tenth-degree black-belt. Over the past several years while lending his support to fellow officers who were involved with martial arts, Mayfield had seen Grimes compete at tournaments held at the old D.C. Convention Center. Grimes was a dynamo; Hamilton never had a chance. A Herculean effort was required for John Mayfield to conceal his amusement and deep satisfaction.