Extreme Justice

Chapter 17

TYRONE SAT AS quietly as the proverbial church mouse. He wanted to say something, he really did. But how could he?

He hated watching Earl squirm, hated watching that jerkoff cop play with Earl’s head. Earl meant more to him than anyone. He’d been like a father to him—far more than his own father, who he’d only seen twice. He had no complaints against his mother; she’d worked like nobody’s business her whole life, typing for the city during the day and cleaning houses at night. But with all that work and six kids to tend, there was little time for one-on-one with her next-to-youngest. When he dropped out of school after the eighth grade and got a job, she could hardly say no. Education was great, but they needed the money.

Small wonder he fell in with the North Side Hoover Crips, one of the hottest gangs on the Tulsa strip. Everyone he knew was doing it; it was the place to be. The organization was pretty loose; it was more like a family than the Mafia. But he needed a family. For the first time in his life, he felt a part of something, felt surrounded by people who cared about him. And it brought him some cash on the side every now and again, something else he sorely needed. It was a great deal, at least till that cop died in a shoot-out near Earl’s club.

Tyrone hadn’t been the one who pulled the trigger, but he was there. And he was smart enough to realize that he could be called an accomplice, that he could be nailed for felony murder, that the cops would consider it a pleasure to put away another punk gangster. When cops got killed, no holds were barred.

Tyrone pushed himself to his feet and walked outside. Gazing north from the club, he could see the site where the shoot-out had occurred, where his life had changed. It was a miracle Tyrone hadn’t been arrested at the scene. He’d gotten his leg busted up during the fight. When the cops descended and everyone scattered, he could barely crawl, much less run. He thought it was all over for him when to his total amazement, Uncle Earl came out of nowhere and dragged his crippled carcass inside the club. Tyrone’d never met this man in his life. And yet here he was, sticking his neck out for him, protecting him.

“Why?” he asked Earl later. “Why did you do this for me?” But Earl just shrugged his shoulders and said he’d seen a spot of trouble in his life, too, and he didn’t want a kid’s life ruined over something he didn’t do. Something about the way he said it told Tyrone this was important to him, something he believed, something that really mattered.

In the aftermath of the shooting, three of his gang buddies were arrested, two at the scene and another later. Two of the arrested boys got life sentences; and Hopper, the trigger man, got an appointment with a lethal injection. Tyrone knew perfectly well the same thing could have happened to him. Earl had done more than just pull him out of trouble. He’d saved Tyrone’s life.

Tyrone strolled back to the club, walked up the spiral staircase to Earl’s office, and picked up the saxophone that was always there. He put the stick to his lips and blew. The note came out sharp, harsh, and flat. Like usual.

He placed Earl’s sax back on its stand. After the cop-killing, the Crips didn’t seem like such a cozy little family anymore. That was when Tyrone first started thinking about getting out. All of a sudden, he didn’t like Tyrone Jackson—T-Dog—so much; he wanted to be someone other than who he was, someone he’d never been before. But getting out was easier to think about than to do. The Crips didn’t like quitters. They didn’t like people who knew too much about them leaving the fold. As soon as he announced his desire to quit, he found that his oldest and best friends weren’t all that friendly anymore. And as soon as he left, he heard rumors that some of the boys might be looking for him. He’d heard that Momo wanted to have what the Crips euphemistically referred to as a “chat.” He was in trouble.

And then he tumbled onto the con game. He’d been panhandling downtown one day, not having much luck, when all of a sudden, without even thinking about it, he began weaving this elaborate tale about his sister (he didn’t have one) being taken captive by militant states’ righters holed up near Tahlequah and trying to raise money to rescue and deprogram her. He was just spinning the tale out of nothing, spouting whatever came into his head.

But the mark had tossed him a fifty-dollar bill. Hadn’t said a word. Just tossed it into Tyrone’s can and that was that.

That day Tyrone realized he had found his calling. For the first time in his life, he had discovered something at which he excelled. Problem was, he felt miserable about it. After every successful sting, he was consumed with guilt. It seemed his mama and all those Baptist Sunday school classes she had dragged him to had left their mark.

It was one day when he was working the bus station that he hit on the idea of scamming the scammers. They were easy to spot—easy for him, anyway. He knew all their routines intimately. And one could hardly lose much sleep over ripping off someone who was, after all, trying to rip you off. It worked perfectly; he’d been doing it ever since.

But he didn’t plan to be doing it forever, he thought, peering down at Earl’s sax. To him, the sax was a symbol, a promise of better things to come. Someday he wanted to live an honest life, a life he could go home and tell his mama about. Earl had said that first day he pulled Tyrone off the battlefield that he thought he could make a musician out of him. It just took time, that was all. So this con man bit was temporary, just until he learned the sax well enough to play in the band. Once he could do that, he would leave all the scamming behind. When the day came, he knew Earl would give him a job.

If Earl could give him a job, that is. If he wasn’t behind bars. Or worse.

That was what hurt most. He hated seeing Earl get the treatment, but he also knew that if Earl took the rap for this killing, it would mean no more sax access, no more free lessons, no more job prospects. Nor more chance of digging himself out.

He left the office, suddenly edgy. It was almost as if he didn’t have the right to be there, didn’t have the right to touch Earl’s belongings. Why didn’t he speak up when he’d had the chance? He’d seen that creep in the bathroom, the one with the knife. Maybe not well enough to identify him. What with the fake beard and all the excitement, the man coulda been his dear old dad for all he knew. But he knew it wasn’t Earl. Earl was being set up. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that okeydoke.

And yet when the police had questioned Tyrone, he hadn’t said a word. And just now, when a word from him might have bailed Earl out of trouble, he stayed mum.

Why? Tyrone knew there were at least two outstanding warrants on him, one stemming from the cop killing and one stemming from a con that went bad, a mark that had the wherewithal to file a complaint. If he got involved with the police, he could count on having charges brought against him. And charges like those could lead to a long stretch behind bars.

And so he sat by silently while those creeps humiliated his only friend in the world. Good thing Kincaid was there; for a mediocre piano player, he seemed to be able to handle cops. Tyrone was glad for that.

He flopped down on a stool. He knew damn well those cops would be back, knew they’d make the arrest as soon as possible. How long was he going to let Earl dangle in the breeze without saying anything? Forever? Was he going to sit on his butt and do nothing? Let Earl spend the rest of his life in the joint, doing forever-and-one years?

Hell of a way to thank a man who had done so much for him. Who had stuck his own neck out to help a kid he didn’t even know.

But no matter how long Tyrone pondered, he couldn’t think of a way out.

It was like a game of checkers where your last piece was covered in all four directions; no matter what he did, he was going to get jumped.

Tyrone whirled around on his stool and kicked the chair behind him, cursing silently under his breath. Why was life always such a bitch?

He sat on the back porch staring at the Tulsa skyline as the orange sun dipped below the horizon. Here, perched at the crest of Shadow Mountain, he was able to gaze down into the surrounding city and watch all the bustle. He could see everyone. And no one could see him.

He liked it that way.

He flipped on the radio, checking the news update on KWGS. No new developments on the case the whole city was talking about, the one with the very special victim. It went by various names, depending on the luridness and schlock factor of the given station. One channel was calling it “The Case of the Cordial Corpse.” Hell, what was next—the Sensational Smiling Stiff?

He had to laugh; who would have expected the deceased to become a media celebrity? But it was all the news folks had at the moment; it was all they could use to exploit this bit of grisliness. Because thus far there had been no arrest.

He pounded his fist down on the end table. What was wrong with the justice system these days? Here he’d gone to all this trouble, setting Earl up with a frame so strong even a blind man could see it, and they hadn’t arrested him yet. Good God, what did it take these days, a live video of the murder? Cops were so stupid it was easier to get away with murder than to get convicted of it. What was the world coming to?

He shut off the radio. Perhaps he was expecting too much too soon. Still, it was troubling. When he thought of all the meticulous preparations—well, it just didn’t seem fair. After all the risks he’d taken. The risk of being caught, the risk of being seen—

A risk that was realized, he reminded himself. Because he was seen. Because that stupid punk in the bathroom got a clear look at his face after the wig and beard were removed. If he started blabbing to the wrong people …

So far, miraculously, he had escaped detection. But he couldn’t count on this state of grace lasting forever. The risk had to be neutralized. The discordant note had to be silenced. That kid was the fly in the ointment, the instrument out of groove.

The melody had to be sweetened, so to speak.

The kid had to be eliminated.

Problem was, he didn’t know where to find the kid. And it would be hard to start making inquiries without provoking undesirable attention.

Well, something would turn up. He was sure of it. He’d made it this far, hadn’t he? Even when plans went sour, when unexpected developments arose, he’d managed to deal with them. Managed to overcome them. And he would again. That was the difference between Earl and himself. He was smart, and he knew what was really important and what wasn’t.

Tomorrow he would start trolling, cruise the streets of the North Side, see if he couldn’t tumble onto that kid. He’d keep an eye on the club, too. And since Earl was still inexplicably on the streets, maybe when he popped the kid …

An ear-to-ear grin spread across his face, almost as wide as the one he had carved the day before. That would work. That would be damned sweet. That would give him something worth living for.

Still smiling, he picked up his instrument and began to play. The lilting jazz riffs floated off his porch and drifted down to the city below that had no idea what was coming.