South Central Noir

But this might be different. Vince was small fry, he knew that. And so long as the little guys didn’t cost too much, didn’t rock the boat, didn’t stir up shit for the bigger fish, and brought in more than they took out, all was right with the world. A little trouble every so often, taken care of easily with something the Luccas could scrape out of his cut of things, no problem. It was like any company, just business.

Vince understood the politicians and the high-ranking cops and even the cops on the beat weren’t earning their keep by being stupid. The way to lean on the Luccas was to raise their cost of doing business. They weren’t ever going to shut down, everyone knew that. They didn’t even want to. The “legit” guys were like everybody else, they wanted to gamble, they wanted dope, they wanted women, and they wanted their slice, a fat slice, of the money being made from that.

And the soft part of the Luccas’ business was guys like Vince. Give enough grief to the little guys and it was one of the very rare times that shit could defy gravity and roll uphill. This was going to be expensive, a lot more expensive than usual. And by the time the internal ball of shit rolled back down from the Luccas to Earl and got to Vince, it would gain a whole lot of weight and pick up a mighty head of steam. He’d be theirs, forever, for whatever the fuck they wanted him for. And there were some things he didn’t want to do, wasn’t sure he could do if it came down to it. And if the Luccas owned a guy, “no” was a very dangerous word.

The whole thing gave him the kind of pain that was a lot harder to deal with than a knee in the crotch or falling onto a cop’s billy ever could. His head hurt, throbbing at his temples, pushing on his eyes. His gut churned in a way that made the club-shaped bruise on his stomach seem like a nice bit of decoration by comparison.

Fucking George. Even under the circumstances they probably couldn’t have pulled him in over the taillight. Sooner or later they’d have to give him his call. Then what was he gonna do?

He could call his mom. His mom, his hardworking, dumped-by-his-pop, dragged-down-sad, miserable mom. She’d scrape up the bail somehow, he was her boy. And then there’d be some lazy-ass public defender who’d just be another piece of shit he was going to be flattened by. He’d be sent down, hard, maybe for years. And the Luccas could still get to him inside, still own him, or at least a big piece of him. If he was lucky and kept his trap shut tight, did his time and got out, maybe they’d leave him alone after that. Maybe not.

He squeezed his eyes shut, tried to will his ears closed; anything to not feel the wet, anxious stink of the caged men all around him. Anything to avoid having the walls press closer in on him, to keep the barred ceiling and harsh lights from crushing him.

“Lasker, you got your call.”

The guard cuffed his hands in front of him, led him stumbling down what felt like a very long, bright-lit linoleum-and-plaster hall to the pay phone. He had to borrow the nickel.

Haint in the Window by Tananarive Due

Leimert Park Village

They walked in with a gale of authority, the bells on the door jangling with ferocity that made you jump and feel guilty even if you’d only spent the morning arranging to rent chairs for next week’s Terry McMillan book signing. Darryl noted their flanking formation — one on one side, one on the other — as they eased inside the bookstore, their hands never far from their waistbands. Fingers never far from their triggers. Maybe that was how they had moved when they served in Afghanistan, or wherever else they had moved on the lookout for targets.

Darryl had noticed the uniforms through the window long before the door opened, but he kept his eyes down on his seating chart just the same, as if they hadn’t shaken those bells loud enough to wake the dead. Fucking security guards. A salt-and-pepper team like Lethal Weapon. Or 48 Hrs. In his store with such an imperious air. (His store except on the deed, anyway.)

“Sir?”

When Darryl looked up, the Black security guard, who was closest, smiled an irritated smile, worse than a frown. The white one kept a distance as if he were waiting for Darryl to pull out a sawed-off from underneath his counter: his head tilted slightly down, eyes angled upward. Meant to look scary, maybe, but he was only five eight, so Darryl, who was six feet, wasn’t scared. They looked like they were serving a warrant. Darryl had to remind himself they weren’t really cops. And that he’d never been served a warrant in his life. He managed a damn bookstore.

“Yeah,” Darryl finally answered when he figured they had waited long enough.

“A couple was mugged down at the intersection today.”

Darryl waited for the part that had something to do with him.