Deadly Assets

[TWO]

After entering the ministry-followed by Harris and with “Carlos” Simpson bringing up the rear-Payne scanned the large main room with its gold-and-black-patterned wallpaper and red-painted trim.

There were a half-dozen young men picking up the hundred or more brown folding metal chairs scattered across the floor, many knocked onto their side, others folded flat. A crucifix crafted of rough-hewn timber was hanging at an odd angle on the wall.

To one side of the room, where the outlines of lettering that spelled BUFFET had been pried off, were black cubes like the ones outside, now burned, that had served as the stage for the rally. These were stacked to form two tiers, each level holding more of the brown folding chairs.

“That’s him,” Simpson said, looking toward an overweight black male in his mid-twenties sitting at the end of the first tier.

DiAndre Pringle had his tablet computer in his lap and was rapidly typing.

Payne grunted derisively when he saw Pringle was wearing a long-sleeved yellow T-shirt with WARNABROTHER on the front.

As Payne approached him, Pringle looked up, and his big brown eyes grew wide.

Pringle said, “You’re. . you’re-”

“Apparently Public Enemy Number One,” Payne offered, “if Skinny Lenny is to be believed. I want to talk to him now. Where is he?”

“Who’s Skinny Lenny?”

“Oh, come on. Your boss, Cross. You know that his real name is Lenny Muggs.”

“Muggs? That’s shit. I don’t believe you.”

“And that’s pretty sharp language there for a deacon, DiAndre. Where did you say you attended seminary?”

Pringle did not reply.

Payne went on: “Yeah. I thought so. Listen, you don’t have to believe me. Just tell me where to find him.”

Pringle studied them, then after a moment announced, arrogantly, “In a safe place, because you’re trying to kill him.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The shots fired from the crowd?” Pringle said. “They were clearly a planned assassination attempt on Reverend Cross.”

“Are you crazy? By who?”

“By you. The Man. He said he’s lucky to be alive-”

“How badly is he hurt?”

“Which is why Reverend Cross has gone into hiding,” he said, evading the question.

Payne sighed audibly.

He exchanged glances with Harris and Simpson, both of whom had looks that said This is bullshit.

“Okay,” Payne said to Pringle. “Enough. We did not shoot Lenny-if he was even shot. And what about Tyrone Hooks?”

“You mean King Two-One-Five?”

“Okay, sure, King Two-One-Five. Don’t tell me-he was shot, too?”

Pringle met Payne’s eyes.

“Everybody saw it here, and on their TVs and all,” he said, pointing at his pad computer. “Got shot right after rapping ‘Beatin’ Down the Man’ and ‘Payne’s Gotta Go.’ That’s why he’s gone hiding, too. Go figure.”

“And I guess the two of them are now sitting in this safe house of theirs, tending to each others deadly wounds?”

There came no reply.

Payne locked eyes with Pringle, then after a long moment just shook his head.

You sorry sonofabitch! Payne thought.

Payne felt his phone vibrate, then looked at its screen, then looked back at Pringle.

“Thanks for your time, Deacon,” Payne said, and handed Pringle his business card. “Tell Lenny he’d better call me. Tell him I know a couple good doctors if he needs them to tend to those wounds. And tell him that Public Enemy Number One said there’s going to be a police presence out front until he turns up, dead or alive.”

Payne looked between Harris and Simpson.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, gentlemen,” he said.

Simpson gestured at Pringle’s chest.

“Nice shirt, by the way,” he said, then smiled. “FOAD.”

Pringle looked up at the big black cop. “Foad?”

Simpson nodded.

“Just a technical term used in police work.”

Payne and Harris exchanged glances and grinned.

Both were familiar with the acronym for Fuck off and die.

–

Tony Harris finally returned to the Crown Vic, where Payne now sat on the front fender, arms crossed over his chest.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Harris said. “Nature called, and you know you can never be sure if there’ll be another restroom downrange.” He then made a grand gesture of unlocking the vehicle, and added, “Don’t forget what our friends on police radio said about keeping the car secure. .”

After they got in, sitting on the seat belts that they had left buckled, Harris snapped his cell phone in the spring-loaded polymer mount he had clipped to the air vent on the dashboard.

“Think you can get the heater going sometime this year?” Payne said, rubbing his hands together.

As Harris turned the ignition switch, his phone began ringing and the screen glowed. BLOCKED NUMBER popped up on it.

Payne reached to the dash and pushed the air temperature control as far in the red as possible and bumped up the fan speed. He felt cold air blow on his ankles.

“What’s up with all these damn blocked numbers?” Harris said, then tapped his fingertip on the SPEAKERPHONE button and answered the call with “Yeah?”

A woman’s voice, her tone even, said, “Okay, Harris, you never heard me say this. .”

Payne motioned toward the phone and mouthed, Who?

There was a lot of background noise on the call, and Harris shrugged as the phone screen dimmed.

“. . but,” she went on, “Hooks has-make that Hooks had-jewelry from the casino robbery in his mother’s house. There’s still a lot missing, but we’re pretty sure we now know where it’s stashed at the Shore.”

“Who is this?” Harris said.

“Thank me later,” she said, clearly avoiding the question, then went on: “We finally ran down enough leads-his girl Carmelita is a lively one once she gets talking, though she has the vocabulary of a longshoreman, both in English and Spanish-and had a look. You might want to visit his house-actually, the place belongs to his mother-which is at Monmouth and Hancock. You can’t miss the place. It’s got a small cabin cruiser in the side yard, which isn’t really a yard but where a row house once stood.”

“A cabin cruiser in Fairhill?” Harris heard himself automatically reply. “What the hell?”

The female caller laughed.

I know that laugh. .

“That was pretty much my first thought,” she said. “But it’s not what you’re thinking. It’s on the ground, on its keel, listing to one side.”

“What’s it doing there?” Harris said, hoping the more she talked, the better his chances of confirming he recognized the voice.

“The goats use it as a makeshift barn,” she said, and laughed again, “when the chickens let them. Welcome to 19133, poorest ZIP code in town. For the record, I had no part of what was done there or getting the girl to talk; I just connected the dots. Anyway, I’ll check back if I learn more. Later. .”

Payne raised his eyebrows as he watched the phone screen light up and CALL ENDED appear onscreen.

Payne looked at Harris.

“Nice source,” Payne said.

“Yeah. That was Webber. That laugh of hers is hard to miss.”

“Is she credible?”

“Oh yeah. Quite.”

“She’s working for Sully, right?”

“Maybe he told her to give us that.”

“What do you think she meant by she had ‘no part of what was done there’?”

Harris grunted.

“Good question. Which may be why her first words were that we didn’t hear it from her. Not sure we want to know.”

“Well, then, let’s go find out,” Payne said. “We can sleep when we’re dead.”

Harris put the car in gear.

“Or when Tyrone Hooks is. .” he said.