Last Man Standing

7

Francis Westbrook was a giant of a man, with the height and girth of a NFL starting left tackle. Regardless of the weather or season, his clothes of choice were silk tropical short-sleeved shirts, matching slacks and suede loafers with no socks. His head was bald, his large ears were covered with diamond studs and his enormous fingers were festooned with gold rings. He wasn’t a dandy of any sort, but there simply weren’t that many things he could spend his drug earnings on without the law or, even worse, the IRS sniffing around. And he also liked to look good. Right now Westbrook was riding in the backseat of a large Mercedes sedan with black-tinted windows. To the left of him was his first lieutenant, Antoine Peebles. Driving was a tall, well-built young man named Toona, and in the passenger seat was his chief of security, Clyde Macy, the only white guy in Westbrook’s entire crew, and it was easy to see that the man carried that distinction with great pride. Peebles had a neatly trimmed beard and Afro, was short and heavyset, but he wore his Armani and his designer shades well. He looked more like a Hollywood exec than a high-level drug entrepreneur. Macy looked like a breathing skeleton, preferred his clothes black and professional-looking and with his shaved head could easily have been mistaken for a neo-Nazi.

This represented the inner circle of Westbrook’s small empire and the leader of that empire held a nine-millimeter pistol in his right hand and seemed to be looking for someone to use it on. “You want to tell me one more time how you lost Kevin?” He looked at Peebles and clutched the pistol even tighter. Its safety was in the grip and Westbrook had just released it. Peebles seemed to recognize this and yet didn’t hesitate in responding. “If you let us keep somebody on him twenty-four and seven, then we’d never lose him. He goes out sometimes at night. He went out that night and didn’t come back.”

Westbrook slapped his enormous thigh. “He was in that alley. The Feds had him and now they don’t. He’s mixed up with this shit somehow and it happened in my damn backyard.” He smacked the gun against the door and roared, “I want Kevin back!”

Peebles looked at him nervously, while Macy showed no reaction.

Westbrook put a hand on the driver’s shoulder. “Toona, you get some of the boys together and you gonna hit every part of this damn town, you hear me? I know you already done it once, but you do it again. I want that boy back nice and safe, you hear me? Nice and safe and don’t come back till you done it. Damn it, you hear me, Toona?”

Toona glanced in the rearview mirror. “I hear you, I hear you.”

“Set up,” said Peebles. “All around. To put the blame on you.”

“You think I ain’t know that? You think ’cause you went to college that you smart and I’m stupid? I know the Feds coming after my ass on this. I know the word on the street. Somebody’s trying to get all the crews together, almost like a damn union, but they know I ain’t joining shit and it’s messing up their plan.” Westbrook’s eyes were red. He hadn’t slept much in the last forty-eight hours. That was just his life; surviving the night was usually the big project of the day. And all he could think about was a little boy out there somewhere. He was getting close to the edge; he could feel it. He had known this day might come, and still, he was not prepared for it.

“Whoever got Kevin, they gonna let me know it. They want something. They want me to jump my crew in, that’s what they want.”

“And you’ll give it to them?”

“Anything I got they can have. So long as I get Kevin back.” He paused and looked out the window, at the corners and alleys and cheap bars they were passing, where his drug tentacles slithered. He did a brisk business in the suburbs too, where the real money was. “Yeah, that’s right. I get Kevin back and then I kill every one of the mothers. I do it myself.” He pointed the pistol at an imaginary foe. “Start with the knees and work my way up.”

Peebles looked warily at Macy, who still showed no sign of any reaction; it was as though he were made of stone. “Well, nobody’s contacted us so far,” said Peebles.

“They will. They didn’t take Kevin ’cause they want to shoot hoops with him. They want me. Well, I’m right here, they just got to come to the party. I’m ready to party, bring it the fuck on.” Westbrook spoke more calmly. “Word is one of them dudes didn’t eat it in that courtyard. That right?”

Peebles nodded. “Web London.”

“They say machine guns, fifty-caliber shit. How’s a dude slip that?” Peebles shrugged his shoulders and Westbrook looked at Macy. “What you hear on that, Mace?”

“Nobody’s saying for sure right now, but what I hear is the man didn’t go in that courtyard. He got scared, freaked or something.”

“Freaked or something,” said Westbrook. “Okay, you get some shit on this man and you let me see it. Man walk away from something like that, man got something to tell me. Like maybe where Kevin is.” He looked at his men. “Whoever shot them Feds up got Kevin. You can count on that.”

“Well, like I said, we could’ve had him on round-the-clock,” commented Peebles.

“What the hell kind of life is that?” said Westbrook. “He ain’t got to live that way, not because of me. But the Feds come after my ass, then I’ll just point them boys in another direction. But we got to know which way that is. With six damn Feds dead, they ain’t gonna be looking to cut no deals. They’ll want some serious ass to fry and it ain’t gonna be mine.”

“Whoever took Kevin, there’s no guarantee they’ll let him go,” said Peebles. “I know you don’t want to hear this, but we have no way of knowing if Kevin’s even alive.”

Westbrook lay back against the seat. “Oh, he’s alive, all right. Ain’t nothing wrong with Kevin. Not right now anyway.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I just know and that’s all you need to know. You just get me something on this Fed mother.”

“Web London.”

“Web London. And if he ain’t got what I need, then he’ll wish he died with his crew. Hit it, Toona. We got bizness.”

The car sped on into the night.