Two matched pairs of BF Goodrich Comp T/A tires locked up and screeched to a halt in front of Hannibal’s building. His car vibrated when he slammed the door. He stared for a few seconds at his front office windows, largely missing. He stared up and down the street, looking for a good target for his anger before crossing the sidewalk. His shoes tapped up the outside steps like machine gun fire. He burst into his office, to find Sarge in the visitor’s chair pointing a shotgun his way.
“It’s good to see you’re all right, man,” Hannibal said. Sarge nodded. Then rapid-fire footsteps approached from the back of the building. Hannibal could smell Jewel’s fear before she came into view. She threw her arms around him, less like a lover than like a drowning man clutching a life preserver.
“Oh, thank God you’re here. God, there were bullets everywhere and I was sure I was dead. He’s crazy. He’s crazy and he wants to kill me and I know only you can save me. I’ll pay anything, anything.”
Hannibal kept his eyes on Sarge while he pulled Jewel’s arms down from his neck. “Tell me what happened.”
“Not much to tell,” Sarge replied. “I’m sitting in here, Jewel’s at the desk, starting to get the hang of surfing the net, you know. Black Cadillac cruises by, three or four brothers inside. An arm comes out the window and fires five shots at us. I kind of land on top of Jewel, all the shots go over our heads. Mother Washington was in the kitchen but you know the Lord looks out for her. When I gets up, the car’s gone. I sent Mother Washington on home. Only casualty’s your machine.”
As Sarge talked, Hannibal’s breathing deepened and his lips curled in, revealing his teeth. He walked slowly behind his desk. Window glass still littered the floor five feet out from the windows. Sunlight sent painful reflections up into Hannibal’s eyes. His computer’s monitor was now a hollow box and one of the bullets had smashed his keyboard.
“Okay,” he said, finally looking at Jewel, “where does the son of a bitch live?”
The man on the stoop was obviously a guard, broad and squat, his bald head shining like a bowling ball. Floyd’s chosen guard type. He was more alert than the men Hannibal met before, but by the time he figured out how to react, Hannibal figured it would be too late. He set his emergency brake, got out of the car, and stalked directly toward the man. Momentarily flustered, the guard braced himself like a linebacker, his right hand moving slowly toward his waistband. Hannibal stopped three steps from the top of the stoop.
“You know who I am?”
The guard nodded, pulled a stiletto and stepped back two paces. Aside from jeans and sneakers, he wore a black tee shirt and a ball cap with the letter X on the front.
“You really want those to be the clothes they bury you in?” Hannibal asked. “Put that down before you piss me off.”
“You get out of here, Jones,” the muscular man said. “You supposed to be tough but your rep don’t mean shit to me.”
Hannibal nodded. Another mouth-powered idiot, probably on drugs. He turned his head, as if checking on something over his right shoulder. Then his left hand whipped past the guard and his right foot spun around him. His right heel whipped back, around and up, cracking like a flail against the guard’s right elbow. With a strangled cry, the guard dropped the knife and fell to his knees. Hannibal stepped past him into the building.
Inside, the smell of musk and malt liquor hung in the air. Hannibal burst up the narrow stairs to the second floor where he knew his target was busy gambling, or drinking, or doing drugs or getting laid. Not that it mattered. Whatever he was doing, he was about to be interrupted.
Bass-heavy music rattled Floyd’s door on its way out. Idiots. A platoon of police could storm the hall unanticipated. If they cared to. Disgusted, Hannibal drew his Sig Sauer P229 from its holster, took a deep breath and executed a front stamp kick. Floyd had installed a good lock, but the door sill was thin wood which splintered easily. The door flew open and slammed against the wall on the inside.
“Just don’t,” Hannibal said as he stepped in. Through his dark lenses and a thick cloud of marijuana smoke, he saw Floyd playing cards with his two lieutenants and three fairly attractive girls. The girls all appeared to be on the losing end of a game of strip poker. He had seldom seen such an impressive collection of dilated pupils.
He was surprised, first, that all the furniture, and even the stereo, were high-end items, the most expensive things available, but poorly cared for. His second surprise was Lawrence’s ability to react, almost like a professional. He dropped the joint from his left hand and the cards from his right and produced a gun from his waistband in a fraction of a second. Hannibal sent a forty caliber hollow point slug through his right biceps. The impact drove Lawrence to the floor. The women screamed and slapped hands over their ears against the gun blast. The raised arms made three pairs of nipples jump humorously.
“Girls out, men freeze,” Hannibal snapped. The women scrambled and stumbled through the door without a backward glance.
“You a dead man,” Floyd muttered, the scar over his left eye flaring red.
Hannibal stepped within arm’s reach and spoke what sounded like three harsh words: “Shut! The fuck! Up!” After which he backhanded Joey with his gun. The big man dropped to the floor and did not move. Hannibal then slid his pistol back under his right arm and snatched Floyd up by his collar. The player’s face twisted into a snarl and he started to resist, so Hannibal slammed him into the wall. That brought the widened eyes he was looking for. He jammed his knee up between Floyd’s legs to hold him in place and put his face so close to Floyd’s they almost touched. Close enough to finally smell fear.
“Did you think you could threaten my friends and just go about your business? Did you think you could shoot up my office and I’d just ignore it? Huh?” Hannibal slammed his right fist into Floyd’s stomach. Once. Twice. Three times and Floyd began coughing like he was about to retch. Hannibal stopped him with a forearm across his throat.
“What do you want?” Floyd gasped. “What is it with you?”
“Me?” Hannibal’s throat, restricted by rage, only allowed his voice out in a strained growl. “Well I ain’t no hooker. Hookers are all scared of you. And I ain’t no cop. Cops play by rules. And I ain’t another pimp or gangster. They all hide behind a gang of muscle men. See, I take care of trouble up close and personal. You ain’t never met a nigger like me.”
While Hannibal stared into Floyd’s cruel but terrified eyes, he saw realization dawn. Under the threat of physical damage, Floyd suddenly appeared to have a light bulb moment.
“Look, why don’t I just forget Jewel ever existed?” Floyd croaked. “If she can go straight, good for her. She can go anywhere she wants. She can go on back up to Jersey where I picked her up last year.”
Hannibal eased the pressure on Floyd’s throat as those words sifted down into his brain. “You hang out in Atlantic City?”
“Sometimes,” Floyd stammered, as if he was not sure if admitting it was a mistake. “Lot of girls up there, working independent. I can usually find seasoned girls like Jewel up there.”
“You might just come out of this with a whole skin, pimp,” Hannibal said, spinning Floyd around and tossing him onto the dirty leather couch across the room. Hannibal spun a chair away from the table, faced its back toward Floyd, and dropped onto it. He again drew his automatic and aimed it casually at Floyd’s nose.
“I was thinking of breaking your arm,” Hannibal said, “or maybe blowing out one your knees. That would be fair for shooting at my client and ruining my computer. But maybe I won’t if you turn out to be of some use. So, give me the 411 on Zack King.”
Floyd screwed his forehead up into a puzzled expression. “Who?”
Hannibal squeezed his trigger, and a hole opened up in the front of the sofa, less than two inches below Floyd’s crotch. The pimp drew a sharp breath. He controlled his voice, avoiding a scream, but he could not stop drops of moisture from welling up on his forehead and dripping down his face.
“You mean Zack King in Jersey,” he said, as if the original question had somehow confused him. “White guy, runs a club up there. Has prize fights there, and takes bets on his fighters.”
“His fighters?”
“Well, yeah,” Floyd leaned forward, as if confiding in a friend. “He runs a gym downtown where most of the fighters train. I think he’s skimming a pretty good amount off the gambling, because he knows the fighters so well.”
Hannibal heard Joey stirring behind him, but he put his gun away and continued talking to Floyd. “You know, Floyd my man, if you tell me exactly where this place is, and stay away from my client, you might not get your ass kicked today.” Then he stood to face Joey. “You, on the other hand, just need to sit down and shut up.” Joey hesitated, fists curled but face blank.
“Look man, I been kickboxing since I was sixteen,” Hannibal said. “You’re nothing like fast enough, or skillful enough to take me. If you got any sense, you’ll get your buddy there to a doctor before he bleeds to death.”
Joey continued to stand, facing Hannibal. He never looked at Floyd, but his eyes wandered from Hannibal’s face to his hands and back again.
“What’s it going to be?” Hannibal asked. His anger had passed, leaving him with the weariness that comes when adrenaline stops pumping and the rational mind reminds us how little violence solves. Perhaps Joey saw all that on Hannibal’s face, because he raised his fists into a defensive stance and stepped forward.
“All right,” Hannibal said, his mouth pulled to one side. His stance shifted subtly and his hands rose to chest height. When Joey leaned in with his first punch, Hannibal ignored it and unleashed a burst of left-right combinations. When Joey staggered back, he switched to three-way combos: left, right, left crescent kick to the ribs. When Joey hit the wall, Hannibal delivered a single side stamp to his midsection, putting Joey on his knees. Hannibal did not have the heart to finish it. He turned back to Floyd.
“That’s you if you give me bad dope, or if you ever come within a mile of hurting Jewel,” Hannibal said. “In fact, if you ever come down to my hood again I’ll break your knees. You reading me, you slimy pimp?”
Floyd nodded, but his eyes were on Joey and Lawrence. Hannibal wondered what might happen to him when others on the street got the word his main protectors were out of business for a while.
When Hannibal got home, the broken glass was cleaned up. Sarge was perched on the desk, shotgun in hand. Cindy sat in his desk chair reading Cosmopolitan. Jewel was nowhere in sight.
“So, did you kill her while I was gone?” he asked her.
Sarge grinned and dropped to his feet. “Jewel’s in the back. She’s been keeping a pretty low profile since Cindy got here.”
“I didn’t say a word to her,” Cindy said, rising. “I think she just figured out who I was.”
“So what brings you down here?”
She stood so she could rub her hands up his chest. He was instantly less tired. “I called to find out what happened in Baltimore,” she said. “Sarge told me there were shots fired and you took off after the guilty party. I just wanted to know you were okay.”
“I’m fine, and the guy who did this won’t do it again,” Hannibal said. He held her hands in his. They reminded him of commitment, dedication, and responsibility. In such a short time, this woman had become his anchor, his tether line to reality. He could not say what was in his heart, but he hoped she guessed how important she was to him. He leaned in and kissed her lips gently.
“Babe, I need a break from all this. Can you get the rest of the day off? We can maybe put together a picnic and go over to Riverside Park and just sit.”
“I think I can arrange that,” Cindy smiled. “Want to go right away?”
“Not quite. I’ve got to go take care of one responsibility first, and I’m hoping you’ll come with me.”
When Hannibal walked in, Kyle Mortimer was sitting up straight in bed playing a video game. On the television screen, a dinosaur screamed like a swooping eagle while battling a sword wielding skeleton. He hoped Kyle was the dinosaur, because its tail was pounding the skeleton. Kyle looked stronger than when Hannibal met him, and his eyes were more alive. His windows were open, and the room filled with the scent of newly mown lawn.
With a whoop of triumph, Kyle watched the dinosaur eat the skeletal warrior. Then he turned toward the door, his smile as bright as the sun coming in his window.
“Hi, Mister Jones. Come on in. It’s good to see you.”
Hannibal gripped Cindy’s hand hard and walked over to Kyle’s bed. The boy continued his game, his dinosaur now facing some sort of ice being.
“Kyle, I said I’d report in to you,” Hannibal said, “so I wanted you to know everything I’ve found out so far. I actually made a lot of progress in finding your father.”
“Oh, yeah. Grandpa told me my dad’s dead. You sure work fast.” Kyle never looked away from the screen and his smile never wavered.
“He told you?”
“Sure,” Kyle said. “He said he died a long time ago.”
“Kyle, I’m sorry,” Hannibal began.
“Not your fault. I’m glad to have an answer.” Kyle turned to Hannibal. “See, all these years I’ve thought my father was somewhere hiding from us, that he didn’t want to know how I was or what I was doing. Now I know he died soon after he ran out on us. I mean, sure he left us, but he never really had a chance to change his mind.”
The boy’s optimism was bottomless and Hannibal’s throat thickened thinking about it. He heard Cindy sniff, then rummage in her purse for a tissue. “Still,” Hannibal said, “I’m sorry I didn’t bring better news. Your best shot at a transplant just evaporated.”
Kyle took Hannibal’s empty hand, and Hannibal could feel the electricity of his courage. “Not really. There is still my half sister.”
“They told you about Angela?”
“She came up here,” Kyle said. “She only stayed for a few minutes, though. Some people just…” he looked down at his covers, “they just can’t, you know?”
Hannibal did know. “You think she might be your donor?”
“Well, the odds aren’t quite as good as with a true sibling,” Kyle said, in his clinical way. “But even half brothers and sisters often provide compatible bone marrow. Trouble is, the HLA test takes a few days, and I’ve only got a few days. But hey, that’s the way it always works, isn’t it? Just before the deadline, a miracle happens.”
“Yes, and I believe you could make a miracle happen,” Hannibal said, shaking Kyle by his shoulders. “If there’s anything I can do to make this all any easier…”
“There is one thing,” Kyle said. A shadow crossed his face as if he suddenly realized how short his time might be. “Just in case things don’t work out. I know it’s a lot to ask, but do you suppose there’s any way you could find out how my father died, and why? I’d hate to leave without knowing that.”
Hannibal considered for a moment. “I found out about one man who probably knew, but he was murdered. Then I found out the murderer might know. Today I think I found out how to find the murderer. I was planning to give that information to the police and let it go at that, but this is different. Gabe Nieswand asked me to stay on the payroll for a couple more days, and you are the client, after all. I’ll see what I can turn up and get back to you. I promise to be here before…” Hannibal choked and had to clear his throat, “before you have to leave.”