W. Griffin: The Vigilantes

“This Will Curtis called in sick today. His supervisor”-he looked at his notes-“a guy named Jeff Allan, said he’s in a bad way. Curtis has been out sick most of the month. And he said that, judging by the look of him, it’s the real deal. He guessed it’s something terminal. He asked, but Curtis wouldn’t own up to it.”

Payne and Harris looked at each other.

“And there’s no answer at his house on Mount Pleasant,” Payne said.

Harris’s cell phone started ringing.

He checked the caller ID, then answered the phone with: “Whatcha got, Charley?”

Payne looked at Harris and saw his expression brighten.

“How many?” Harris said. Then: “Okay, got it. Let me know if anything changes. We’re on our way.”

He looked at Matt as he broke off the call.

“Bell says two black males just entered the James place on Richmond carrying a black duffel bag.”

Payne quickly stood up. “Kerry, you and Andy run things here and call me the minute you find anything else on this Curtis guy.”

As Payne pulled on his blazer and dug in his pocket for the Crown Vic keys, he said to Harris, “Let’s roll.”

3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:45 A.M.

Allante Williams saw an open parking spot one block south of 3118. He liked it for two good reasons: It was close enough to reach if the deal went sour and he had to run, and his black Dodge Charger would be well hidden by the old PECO truck right in front of it.

He shut off the car, looked at Kenny Jones sitting in the passenger seat, then reached back and pulled the black duffel from the backseat. He unzipped it and took out a monster of a stainless-steel pistol. Even Kenny appeared impressed at the sight of the Ruger Redhawk, a double-action revolver chambered for. 44 Magnum.

“You ever shoot a wheel gun?” Allante asked. “Any gun?”

“Damn right, Big Al!”

Allante wasn’t sure if he believed him.

“This Redhawk is a cannon,” Allante said, handing it to him. “It’s mine, dude, and I want it back, so don’t get any goddamn ideas.”

“Yeah, sure, man,” Kenny said, wrapping his hand around its big black grip and aiming it out the windshield.

“Keep it down, dammit!”

“Okay,” Kenny said, putting it on his lap and swinging out the cylinder to check if all the bullets were live rounds.

“There ain’t no damn bullets in this gun!” Kenny blurted. “What the hell’s it good for if it ain’t got no bullets?”

“Calm down, dude. You saw how it looked when you first saw it. That’s all you need to do with Cicero. Door opens, you move inside with the bag of money first, then hold the tip of this badass barrel in his face.”

And with no bullets you won’t be able to shoot me later.

“Besides, I’ll be backing you up with this going in,” Allante said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Ruger 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a holster on his belt.

Kenny clearly looked as if he didn’t like the idea, but then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and pulled out five or six foot-long white zip ties.

“Not gonna shoot the bastard, anyway,” Kenny said, pointing to the zip ties. “Gonna do to him what he did to Reggie.”

With Allante Williams just to the right of the door at 3118 Richmond Street, Kenny Jones banged on the door.

What are the fucking odds that some hothead inside is going to look out the peephole, see this dumbass holding the sack of cash, then drill the door-and him-with lead?

Damn good, that’s what the odds are.

This better be worth forty Gs…

The door opened a crack, and Kenny said, “Cicero, I got it like I said, man.”

He held up the bag with his left hand. The hand cannon was in his right, hidden by the bag.

The door closed, and there was the clanking sound of its two chains being removed, then the door swung open.

And Kenny, surprising the hell out of Allante, did exactly as he’d been told.

Allente went in behind him.

“What’re you doing, Kenny?” Cicero said, staring at the business end of the barrel.

Then Kenny swung the heavy stainless-steel Ruger, fiercely pistol-whipping Cicero’s mostly bald head.

Cicero quickly backed up, shielding his head from the blows with his arms.

“Kenny! Wait!” Allante yelled. “Stop!”

Cicero then turned and tried to run down the basement steps-but Kenny got one last hard swing in.

And Cicero went tumbling down the steps.

In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.

Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero’s neck. Cicero’s body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.

Damn, that was fast, Allante thought.

Kenny turned and said, “I’m gonna look for some acid. Be right back.”

And he ran back up the stairs.

After Allante was sure Kenny was out of earshot, he called Rapp Badde.

“Hey, man, I know you were worried. Everything’s under control. The Cicero guy is gone and-”

“Look,” Badde interrupted, “you don’t have to do Kenny, too. We got back everything that he stole. All’s good. Just turn him in for the reward, too.”

“Okay, man. You’re the boss,” he said, but realized that he was talking to a broken connection.

Badde had already hung up.

Then Allante, starting to paw the bags of pills, wondering what they might be, heard banging on the front door upstairs.

What the-?

He threw all the bags of pills he could fit in the duffel, then headed for the stairs.

Will Curtis, curiosity getting the best of him on his way to Port Richmond, drove to where LeRoi Cheatham had had his Lex Talionis moment. Because of the various one-way streets, he had to make a huge circle around the block.

Then, there on Hancock, was a shred of yellow POLICE LINE tape flapping in the breeze.

And that’s all.

Then he thought he saw a bloodstain on the alleyway. But it was in shadow and he couldn’t be sure.

A block later, he did a double take at the cleared city block.

Down there’s where all those cops were.

But I thought there were some houses on that corner.

Now it’s all smelly raw dirt.

He drove on, and ten minutes later, just before eleven o’clock, he turned the white Ford minivan onto Richmond Street, then rolled up the street, looking for 3118.

During the drive, Will Curtis had decided he wasn’t going to handle this delivery like the others. He didn’t think he could go through the whole charade, then maybe have to wait if the bastard wasn’t here.

He felt so ill, in fact, that he almost had not come at all. Even after a night’s sleep he had not felt significantly better. He’d regained a little energy from forcing himself to eat a banana and half a turkey sandwich on the drive over. But he was still weak, far more so than usual.

The only good thing, he decided, was that he hadn’t had another unfortunate accident. The lump on his forehead hurt enough.

But I really want this evildoer to pay.

The sonofabitch not only sold those damn date-rape pills, but he’d been convicted of using them, too.

So, the minute the door opens, I’m just going to go in. I know what the bastard looks like.

Then it’s Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am, and I’m done.

3118 Richmond Street, Philadelphia Monday, November 2, 10:59 A.M.

Flying up the Delaware Expressway in the gray unmarked Crown Victoria, Matt Payne killed the siren over Ann Street-where this part of I-95 went from being elevated to ground level-then caught the next exit. The off-ramp actually went over Allegheny, and he had to go up a block to Westmoreland, then double back around a park.