Extreme Justice: A Ben Kincaid Novel of Suspense

Chapter 24

TYRONE CROSSED THE gravel parking lot of Uncle Earl’s Jazz Emporium, admiring the vivid sunrise. The iridescent rays were just beginning to seep over the skyline, illuminating the Bank of Oklahoma Tower and other downtown skyscrapers, the refineries on the far side of the river, and the miles and miles of woodland beyond. Someday, he thought, once he’d mastered that sax, he was going to come out here and write a song about a sunrise like this.

That was his ultimate goal—not just to play but to write. He wanted to take everything he saw and did and knew and to transform it into music. Think of all he could bring to the music table—life in the gangs, life on the streets, life on the con. Sure, he was young, but he had experiences like no one else in the world. Think what Gershwin did—and what did he know about the blues anyway? Tyrone had lived it. He knew he could compose something special, something that would live forever—if he could just learn how to play.

He heard a scraping noise, a crunching of gravel. He turned, but didn’t see anything.

That was odd. He turned back toward the sunrise. Probably nothing. Still …

He heard the crunching sound again.

“T-Dog!”

A wave of relief swept over him. Earl was standing near the entrance to the club, waving. He waited patiently as Earl waddled out to the parking lot.

“You gonna be around for a while?” Earl asked.

“Nah. Sorry to blow and run, but I got work to do.”

Earl jammed his big fleshy hands into his pockets. “Look, we need to talk.”

“ ’Bout what?”

Earl eyed him carefully. “I think you know.”

Tyrone suspected he did. And it was a conversation he didn’t care to have. “Look, Earl, I have things to do. Places to be.”

“Like what?”

Like the Okarche bus came in at 9:02, but he wasn’t going to tell Earl that. “Just takin’ care of business.”

“Then when will we talk?”

“I don’t know, Earl.” Tyrone started toward his car and opened the door. “Maybe at the next lesson.”

“That’s too long.”

“Well, I can’t do it now.” He slid into the seat.

Earl clamped a solid hand down on the steering wheel. “You’re not goin’ anywhere till you tell me when we’re gonna talk.”

“Earl—”

“How ’bout tonight?”

Tyrone shook his head. “Can’t. Got major plans.”

“You ain’t puttin’ me off, Tyrone.”

“I got plans—”

Earl laid his hand firmly on Tyrone’s chest. “Tomorrow night then. No later.”

“Fine. Tomorrow night. Ten P.M. Right here.”

Earl eased off. Tyrone gave him a tiny push, then closed the car door. He shoved the stick into reverse and backed out.

Tomorrow night, he thought, as he zoomed onto Brady. Great. That gave him about forty hours to figure out what the hell he was going to say.

He waited until Earl had disappeared inside the club, then slid the knife back into its sheath.

That had been a close one. He’d been lurking behind the club next to the Dumpsters when the kid came out. He’d started to make his move, but his foot slipped on the gravel and the kid whirled around. He’d have gone for it anyway, but who should stumble by but good ol’ Uncle Earl himself.

He’d had to take cover. Earl could’ve made him, even with the new disguise. He would’ve had to kill them both, and he didn’t want that. The kid, yes—that was necessary. But he was much happier letting Earl boil in the brine. He wanted Earl to suffer. Earl deserved to suffer.

Just as he had suffered.

Well, there would be another time, and sooner than he had expected. Tomorrow night, ten o’clock. That’s what the kid had said. He didn’t know what Earl was so anxious to talk about, and frankly he didn’t care. What they planned to discuss was irrelevant.

Death would be the main topic for conversation.