Newberg Narcotics Detective Doyle McKenzie leaned back against the hood of the vintage Trans Am and enjoyed the low rumble of the five-liter engine idling beneath him. He ran his hand across the smooth black paint and thought how he’d waited his entire career for a car like this. Hell, more like my whole life. The car had come to him a month ago by way of a drug seizure. Some stupid-ass dope slinger out of Beloit who, McKenzie had learned, not only paid cash and owned the car outright, but hadn’t even had the good sense to register the vehicle in his baby mama’s name. McKenzie had seen to it that the dealer made his way to Newberg while holding major quantity in the trunk. Once the beat cops pulled the crook over and found the dope, McKenzie wasted no time in swooping in and claiming the car as a seized asset.
There’d been some talk of selling the car at public auction and using the proceeds for patrol equipment, but McKenzie had run to Chief Jorgensen and squashed that idea right quick. Before the previous owner even made it to lockup, McKenzie had turned in the keys to his pile-of-shit Crown Vic and assigned himself the new undercover ride. He wasn’t about to give it up so some flatfoots in uniform could have a whizbang flashlight. Fuck those guys. Being a senior detective had its perks.
At the moment, the new muscle car and all the joy that came with it was a sorry consolation. McKenzie could only shake his head in frustration at the fact that he’d been standing around for damn near half an hour with his thumb up his ass. The son of a bitch was late and McKenzie’s patience was wearing thin.
To make matters worse, it had been one hell of a rough night. He hadn’t bothered shaving in two days and even in the bright sunlight his blotchy, spider-veined skin had a grayish tint that nearly matched the thick head of hair that he greased straight back. A sizable paunch rode high over his belt, and the audible growls from his stomach weren’t due to hunger but to the aftereffects of all-you-can-eat barbequed spareribs at the Ho-Chunk Indian Casino and God knows how many whiskey shots chased with PBR.
McKenzie pushed hard against his eyes with both thumbs in an attempt to quiet the pounding in his head. He knew what he needed to do—knock off the greasy slabs of pork and buck up for a fillet once in a while. And no more happy-hour boilermakers with that shit-ass Indian firewater they sold as whiskey. From now on it’s Grey Goose with a twist of lemon. Or are you supposed to drink it with lime? He laughed as he pictured himself in a joint where they kept that sort of booze on hand.
Hell, it ain’t like I can’t afford it.
McKenzie blew out a long breath and thought back to his glory days. Back when even after raising hell all night he’d need nothing more than a twenty-minute nap and quick line of crystal meth to get right back on the beam. McKenzie still liked his booze, but the drugs had become too risky. Even he could see the dangers of getting hooked on crank. Nowadays he sucked it up until noon or so, when he could sneak off for a little hair of the dog.
His cell phone buzzed in his pocket. Blocked number. He figured his new assbag of a sergeant was on the prowl again. Jesus, that guy. Damn supercop or some shit, him and his invalid father-in-law. But now, with Norgaard stroked out and Jorgensen at the helm, business was good. McKenzie had no plans to slow down. He punched Ignore even as he instinctively scanned the vicinity. As planned, the county park was deserted and he had a wide-open view of a half mile in all directions. Even though he knew he was covered from the top, McKenzie didn’t take chances. As long as Sawyer was around, McKenzie needed to be extra cautious when conducting his special assignments.
He lit his tenth cigarette of the morning and looked on with disbelief as the vehicle he was waiting for finally pulled into the secluded parking lot.
“What the fuck, convict?” he said to himself.
The pounding bass of rap music could be heard through the closed windows of the tricked-out lowrider. McKenzie could make out two silhouettes through the smoked tint, with the driver in a serious gangster lean behind the wheel.
The long wait had left McKenzie irritable, but the arrival of two players when he expected one took him all the way to righteously pissed off. He fisted the gun in his pocket as his heart double-tapped in his chest. He mumbled a string of epithets that would have left a Klansman red with embarrassment.
Two men, dressed in warmups and heavy on ghetto bling, stepped from the car and jive-shucked it up pretty good as they approached.
“What up, McKenzie? What’s happenin’ in the big-time land of Newberg Five-O?” The driver attempted levity and the second man over did it on the laughter. McKenzie was glad to see them both look uneasy when they picked up on the bulge in the pocket of his ill-fitting overcoat.
The first man said, “This here is my partner…”
McKenzie kept one hand in his pocket and raised the other. “Shut your piehole, boy.”
With near twenty years of police work, most of it working dope and working dirty, McKenzie knew that when dealing with big-city trash-talkers like these fools, it was best to keep all communications plain, simple, and in a language they understood. McKenzie maintained his posture against the hood of his prized possession and spoke directly to his contact’s unknown companion. He made sure to lay the sarcasm on thick.
“Yo, Snoop Dogg. Go on and get your black ass back in that car and stay there. You ain’t gonna be participating in this conversation.”
The two men exchanged looks and waited for McKenzie to say more. When nothing followed, the driver smiled, flashing gold teeth. His brown eyes danced under his sideways Milwaukee Bucks ball cap. He tried to sound smooth, but McKenzie picked up on the noticeable tremor.
“Damn, McKenzie, what up with you? You ain’t got no call to be goin’ all badass cop or some shit. This here…”
Doyle stood up, one hand still concealed, and looked at his man.
“Boy, I won’t tell you again. Shut the fuck up until I tell you to speak.” Then, to the stranger, “I don’t know and rightly don’t care who you are, my brother. But like I said”—McKenzie pointed to the car the men had arrived in and spoke in short clips—“You. Car. Go. Listen to that hip-hop bullshit or whack yourself off with some spit and goddamn Afro Sheen for all I care, but get yourself outta earshot of me.”
“Dude, you don’t need—”
That was as far as the man got. McKenzie was a firm believer that when confronted with superior numbers, there was something to be said for bravado. He took one step toward both men, showing the fluid athleticism of a much fitter man. One hand grabbed the nearest man’s crotch, the other emerged from his coat, wrapped around the grip of a .40-caliber semiauto. The sound of the hammer pulling back rang through the air, and McKenzie trained the barrel on the center of the stranger’s head.
McKenzie bit down on the cigarette that still hung from his mouth and spoke through clenched teeth. “Listen up, Tyrone. You and me, we’re going to start over. But before any of that, your boyfriend here is going to take a seat in that car. Otherwise, in about two seconds and two pounds of trigger pull, his ass is gonna be damn near headless, and I’ll see to it that you do twenty-five to life for killin’ him. Am I making myself clear?”
McKenzie closed his fist and squeezed, pulling down hard on whatever it was he had hold of. He got only a nod in response, but it was a nod of conviction. The stranger looked bug-eyed at the gun in a way that told McKenzie he was dealing with a couple of mopes after all. The situation was under control.
The passenger backed slowly to the car and climbed in. McKenzie had to laugh when he heard the door locks engage. His gun went back into his coat pocket while with his other hand he adjusted his grip until he was certain the pain left the strongest possible impression.
“Tell me something, Tyrone. Should I have spoken Swahili or some such shit when I said ‘meet me alone’? Did my instructions somehow confuse the simple mind of a stupid-ass dope slinger like you?”
McKenzie wheeled around, putting Tyrone against the hood of the car. He loosened his grip, balled his fist, and delivered a quick punch to the same vicinity. The dealer dropped to his knees, breathing hard.
“Next time you’re confused, you be sure to let me know. We can avoid all these unpleasantries. Now get up, boy, and listen to how it’s gonna be.”
Tyrone rose to his feet and McKenzie immediately got down to business.
“I’ve got half a kilo in the trunk,” he said. “It’s rocked up real nice and packaged to go out as eight balls. If you want, break it down to something a little more affordable for your broke-dick homies. If you go quarter grams you can stomp the hell out of it and turn it to powder. Step on it with talc, lace it with Comet, or get all generous and fire it up with a little H for all I give a shit. You sling it how you see fit, you being an independent businessman and all.”
McKenzie went on in a more threatening tone. “But hear me on this, boy. You do all your dealin’ with those cracked-out bros and hos one on one. Don’t be tryin’ to build some damn entourage. And this park is the closest you ever come to me. Don’t even think about bringing any of your lowlife ghetto bullshit inside my city limits. You don’t be dealing with any of the yuppies or kids in Newberg. They’re taken care of, you hear me?”
Tyrone, still rubbing his crotch, took the insult in stride. “Yeah, all right.”
“You got my ten grand?”
“It’s in the trunk,” Tyrone answered, nodding toward his car.
“Get it.”
Tyrone turned and signaled to his still-unnamed partner. McKenzie shook his head in disbelief and delivered a solid kick with his booted foot. Tyrone came back around and his face flashed the anger any grown man would show over a public kick in the ass.
“Are you just ignorant, Tyrone?” McKenzie almost shouted in disbelief. “I said I don’t work with third parties. Get it your damn self.”
McKenzie watched the man limp to the car and pull a brown grocery sack from the trunk. Tyrone walked back, his face set to a slow burn. McKenzie drew on his cigarette, and let his hand drift back inside his coat. Tyrone was young, fit, and hard as nails. McKenzie knew if the boy put his mind to it, he could put up a hell of a fight. But there he stood with aching balls and a sore ass and no intentions of doing a damn thing about it. McKenzie understood the boy’s fear of the law and all that came with it. He found it a common trait among the Tyrones of the world. Exploiting that fear was McKenzie’s greatest pleasure.
“I thought we had come to an understanding, Tyrone, that if I let you stay out here on the street, you’d be ready to play ball. You’d step up and start earning. I’m beginning to think I was wrong. Seems like you’re all bound and determined to reestablish yourself as some kinda shot caller. Maybe I oughta see about canceling our arrangement. Ship your ass off to the penitentiary.”
Tyrone couldn’t let it go. “Motherfucker, before you came along, I dropped four or five keys of this shit every week all over Milwaukee, Racine, Mad-City; my name rang out all over the damn state. I had two dozen homeboys workin’ for me, doin’ whatever I say. Pretty white college girls standin’ in line to get with me. And I never needed no cracker cop kickin’ me in my ass tellin’ me how to do a damn thing. And I sure as hell wasn’t layin’ out no ten grand for half a key. How am I gonna make any scratch if I gotta be puttin’ up with that kind of inflated bullshit?”
McKenzie nodded his head, approving of the frank discussion.
“No shit? Five keys a week? Better price than mine, huh? How about that last five-key deal? How’d that work out? You know, the one where you and I got together?”
Tyrone made a click with his tongue and looked off into the distance.
“Tell me something, Tyrone. Do you have any idea the ramifications of getting caught holding that kind of weight?”
Still looking away, the dealer’s response was mumbled anger. “I know how to jail, motherfucker.”
“Oh, yeah?” McKenzie took a step forward. “Tell me this, do you know how to jail for fifteen to twenty? Or if I take it federal, you’d be jailin’ for life, bitch. How’s that sound?”
“Man, I’ve paid my way outta that shit and then some,” Tyrone argued back. “None of you crooked-ass pigs has cut me a damn bit of slack.” The man held McKenzie’s eye, making it clear he was reaching his limit.
“That’s the truth, Tyrone. I’ve made a pretty penny exploitin’ your ass. But now tell me something. How long you figure you’d stay out here, rollin’ around in that pimped-out ride of yours, blastin’ that ghetto bullshit, if you didn’t have me watchin’ out for you? I mean, let’s face it, it ain’t exactly Chocolate City in this neck of the woods, and you ain’t all that good when it comes to blendin’ in. So tell me, what’s gonna happen when you get your ass in a jam with Johnny Law and I ain’t there to smooth things out?”
“Listen, McKenzie,” Tyrone answered, “I know the score, all right? But you ain’t gotta go all slave master on my ass, tryin’ to turn me into your own Kunta-fuckin-Kinte or some bullshit, humiliatin’ me in front of my boys. You gotta show me some respect, dog.”
“Slave master? Kunta Kinte?” It was McKenzie’s turn to yuck it up. “Now I hadn’t thought about it like that till you said something, but I kind of like the sound of that. My own Kunta Kinte.” McKenzie pulled hard on his cigarette and kicked his head back to exhale, enjoying the moment.
McKenzie flicked his lit cigarette and bounced it off Tyrone’s nylon warmup in a quick burst of orange sparks. Tyrone jumped back in a moment of panic, banging his hands against his jacket. McKenzie closed in and Tyrone flinched. McKenzie thrust two fingers against the man’s chest.
“Fact is, I do own your ass. You’re bought and paid for. Without me looking out for your black ass, you’d be doing one hell of a hard stretch. You’re out here because it works for me. No other reason. And truth be told, Tyrone, I find a little humiliation good for the soul. Helps a man like you remember your place in this world. Your place in my world. You’re nothing more than a walking convict, boy. Your kingpin days are over. You live under my thumb, and you need to get your big old melon head around that. You hearin’ me?”
McKenzie took the silence as a confirmation, but he went on to strengthen his point.
“And know this, brother. One more improvisation on your part, and I will personally ship your ass off to some shit hole of a prison in the middle of nowhere that specializes in attitude adjustments for smart-ass black folk. I know you’re a man who loves his pussy, but you won’t be seein’ none of that. Shit, by the time you walk out, it won’t be women who make your dick hard; you’ll be all about that prison shit. You hear what I’m sayin’, homeboy?”
Still nothing but a hard look. McKenzie laughed as he spoke. “So, whaddya say, Kunta? You gonna play ball?”
There was a long pause, and Tyrone’s voice was filled with resignation when he eventually answered. “It’s cool, McKenzie. Just fuckin’ ease up on me, all right? You gotta let me build a rep if you want me to deal your shit.”
McKenzie swiped the bag from his hand, aroused by the weight of it. He looked inside. “Whaddya know? Used twenties and tens. Least you got that right. It better add up.”
“It’s all there.”
McKenzie clicked his remote and popped the trunk. “The green bag is yours. Get it.”
Tyrone did as told, then stood before McKenzie, bag in hand, awaiting further instruction.
“Now I gotta unfuck one more thing because of your dumb ass.” McKenzie pushed past with a look of irritation etched on his face and signaled for Tyrone to follow along. He walked the short distance to where the silent associate sat stone still. McKenzie stood outside the passenger door, and signaled for the man to put the window down. Reluctantly, he obliged.
“Never caught your name, son?” McKenzie thought he came off sounding damn near fatherly.
“Eldon.”
“I have to say, Eldon, Tyrone here didn’t do you any favors by bringing you to this meet, but you probably figured that out for yourself, didn’t ya, boy?”
“It ain’t nothin’, man.” Eldon’s voice shook. “We were just kickin’ it, so I came along. That’s all. Whatever you guys got goin’ ain’t nothin’ to me.”
“That’s a real nice attitude for you take, but in this business it’s all about risk and reward. You know what I’m sayin’?”
The man shook his head back and forth. He used his thick tongue to wet his lips; a layer of sweat had formed along the edge of his red do-rag. McKenzie looked on and estimated he might be nineteen or twenty. Too bad.
“You see that car, Eldon?” McKenzie jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That’s the reward of this life. You, on the other hand, you’re the risk.”
McKenzie had been bent at the waist to speak through the window. He stood up, pulled his weapon, and fired two quick shots dead center into Eldon’s chest. The man was dead before the echoing sound of gunfire even cleared the air.
McKenzie finished his conversation with Tyrone’s now silent partner. “You gotta eliminate the risks, Eldon.”
McKenzie turned and saw Tyrone standing statue still, mouth hanging open, arms stiff at his sides. The bag slipped from his fingers and fell with a soft thud onto the asphalt.
McKenzie laughed. “Shit, Tyrone. You’re damn near white.”
McKenzie’s gun went back to his jacket but with his hand still around it. He wanted Tyrone to know he wasn’t planning to kill him, but it was a possibility.
“That shit is on you,” he said. “Now maybe you’ll be a bit more mindful about the serious nature of our arrangement.”
McKenzie closed in on Tyrone, who still stood like a stone.
“Listen up, homes. From now on your name is ‘Alone-Tyrone,’ you hear me? You don’t need to be reestablishing your old lifestyle. I got enough to worry about without you adding to the mix.” He picked up the bag and jammed it hard into Tyrone’s chest. “Now get your ass down to Beloit and sling that shit. I’ve taken care of the competition. The market is wide-open. You should be able to move it pretty quick.”
Tyrone stared at the dead man in his car. McKenzie reached out and gave the drug dealer an openhanded cuff to the face.
“Answer me, Tyrone. I need to know you hear me on this shit, boy.”
“I … Jesus Christ … it’s cool, McKenzie.” Tyrone looked as if he might pass out on the spot, but he held it together. “Shit … I get it, dog. You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”
McKenzie sauntered to his car and revved the Trannie’s engine to full strength. His cell phone buzzed, and like before he looked at the blocked number and punched Ignore. With the window lowered, he called out to Tyrone, who was still hugging the bag with both arms as if it were a security blanket, staring at the corpse in his car.
“There’s a rest stop on the Fifty-one just before you get to Beloit. Dump your boy there. I’ll see that state patrol picks him up and that the investigation ain’t all that inquisitive. Now get your ass outta here and stay off the radar. I’ve got another half a kilo ready to go out, so get on it.”
McKenzie punched the accelerator, kicking up rock and sand and fishtailing away without waiting for an answer. He still had three more stops to make, and dealing with Tyrone had put him behind schedule. The voice mail alert went off on his cell. McKenzie didn’t bother to listen.
“Fuck you, Sawyer. You ain’t the only one with a crew to run.”