Hardcase

CHAPTER 13

"You understand, my man?" said Malcolm Kibunte to Doo-Rag for the fourth time. "He go up to 'raignment tomorrow sometime, they probably transfer him tomorrow late or next day morning, and he go into general population out at County."

"I unnerstand," said Doo-Rag, beginning to nod a bit, his heavy-lidded gaze becoming a bit more unfocused, but still there enough for Malcolm's purposes.

"Good," said Malcolm and patted the banger on the back.

"What I don't unnerstand, you know, what I need to axe you," said Doo-Rag, squinting through his nod, "is how come, you know, you be getting so fucking generous in your ol' age, Malcolm? You know what I mean? How come you turn over the whole D-Mosque ten bills to me and mine when we do this, you know, this pasty honky fucker for you? You hear what I'm saying?"

Malcolm opened his palms. "It's not for me, Doo. It the Block D-Mosque brothers who want him shanked. No way I can get in there after the dude, so I just pass the word to you, my man. You want to give me some of the reward, that's cool, but no way I can get myself in there after the fucker, hear me? So if your people do the job—" Malcolm shrugged—"fucker's dead, Mosque brothers happy, everything cool."

Doo-Rag was still frowning, working the thing through his drugged mind, but he obviously could not find a catch. "Tomorrow visiting day at County," he said. "Get in early, like ten, pass the word to Lloyd and Small Pee and Daryll, your whiteboy be dead meat before lockdown."

"He may not be transferred until day after tomorrow," Malcolm reminded him. "But probably tomorrow. Arraigned tomorrow, probably bussed tomorrow."

"Whenever," said Doo-Rag.

"You got his mug shot, my man?"

Doo-Rag patted the chest pocket of his filthy Desert Storm camouflage jacket.

"You remember his name, my man?"

"Curtis."

"Kurtz," said Malcolm, tapping Doo-Rag's nodding head right on the red do-rag. "Kurtz."

"Whatever," said Doo-Rag, shaking his head and climbing out of the SLK. He sauntered down the avenue, several of his fellow gangbangers falling into the same ambling pace with him. Doo-Rag reached into his baggy trousers, pulled out some of the crack bottles Malcolm had given him, and distributed them to his pals like candy.