Murder in Germantown Page 7

  The guests had many things in common. They were all mutual acquaintances and professionals of the same trade. The party could have been happening in Chicago, New York, or St. Louis. It happened that that ghetto-fabulous event took place in Shannon McKeithan's pad in a Chestnut Hill expansive tudor. Chestnut Hill was an area next to Germantown and the northernmost point in Philadelphia before entering Montgomery County.

  Suspect--Shannon's street moniker, given to him for his brushes with the law--had only one reason to host this highly anticipated mansion party. Like many street pharmacists, Suspect liked to pack his pad with men of the same cloth to verify the distinct difference between them and his self. At that moment he was glad. He had chilled in the kitchen with Low-Down and a voluptuous vixen at that fortunate moment. Both men wanted to awake to her in the afternoon.

  Lawrence Miller--better known as Low Down--had his undivided attention on the slender, expertly built, Dominique Dorsey. Otherwise, he might have noticed the suspicious activity happening around his homey's pad. Of all the drug dealers gathered in the home, Low Down was most qualified to get a handle on the conundrum before it commenced. But, Dr. Lawrence Miller, too, had had as much fun as the other men chasing the cat.

  Standing in the kitchen with an unmolested bottle of Courvoisier, Suspect grinned at the string that the tasty Dominique dangled in his comrade’s face. Her tawny-yellowish complexion and ample tits must have been enhanced in his drunken state, that illusion of playboyism which got him through Germantown High School and catapulted him through UCLA undergrad, Georgetown Law and U of Penn Law School to his corrupt post as chief legal advisor for the thriving Philadelphia illegal narcotics circle. If Low Down did get the pussy, at least it would be kept in the family. Suspect and Low Down were cousins. Suspect was by no means jealous of Low Down for having Dominique's attention. When she first stepped into the pad, very fashionably late and noticeable, like most of the blood hounds had tried his game. He must have acquired his game from Milt & Bradley. It looked like the attorney was about to interrogate the woman in the bedroom.

  The hip-hop blasted from the stereo speakers and drowned all of the chatter. Holding bottle and glass up in the air, Suspect glided into the living room and sank into an armchair, which was snuggly perched in the alcove by the bay window. The bevy of youngsters was amazingly animated. Suspect admired his work. He gestured at the bottle and one of the kids happily helped himself. Unselfishly, he poured rounds about the room until the bottle was empty. Ideas of his next business endeavor was more intoxicating than the booze, it seemed. Astonishingly, Suspect uncapped a bottle of Dom Perignon.

  The "kids" weren't young, they were seven or eight years short of Suspect's 30. At 30 he couldn't count the miles he had traveled pushing his product. He had many experiences through his life and was wholly dedicated to his current status. On the contrary, as time progressed, he became more and more aware of the truth of the king-pin credo that the game was to be played thoroughly until the end, and it must end. It consoled him that, however dull his love life, there would always be new business to invest, new stocks to buy low and sell high, and crack houses where street pharmacists and their brothers grind to eat. He had vastly set himself aside from the masses. He was regarded as a High Priest in the game, despite some rivals’ suspicion that he had to be a rat, to keep getting off. But professional paranoia did not affect his drive to conquer poverty.

  "Suspect, lil buddy," Low Down said, smiling. "Just what the fuck do you want now?"

  "Don of the Century."

  "You have the conceit, Shannon, but you don't have the looks."

  That was not a lie. He was not as handsome as Low Down. Thirty years of occupying his lanky body, and carrying his drop-dead ugly face was no longer one of his concerns. Money had introduced him to more vaginas close up than a life-long gynecologist.

  Suspect took the Dom P. to the head, and relaxed to get a bar of the dialogue probing between the young ballers. The street dealers were talking about where cooking the product, running game on women and managing a corner met, that road of "ghetto significance." Suspect slumped lower in his recliner, stretched out his legs, and sipped Don Perignon appreciatively.

  * * *

  Across the street from the party sat another large home. It too was set back from the sidewalk. Many windows faced the street side of the house. From the second story balcony overlooking the circular driveway, Suspect's party was clearly visible.

  The man sat in a porch chair, peering across the street at the assholes partying. It was too cold for anyone to be roaming about outside. That was excellent. He had had plenty of time setting up. The home owners of the balcony were not at home. He lighted a Newport and then crossed the balcony and retrieved the rifle against the wall.

  The rifle was a target rifle, which he had sawed off. It was crafted to exceed all requirements for long range, high power target shooting at miniature game. He had shaved off a few inches to reduce the weight and size. It had a large butt, but he had large hands. A telescopic eye was mounted to the gun. He focused the sight on Suspect's party, so that the crosshairs were on the alcove which gave a beautiful view of the party goers. Some of them would be going someplace, but not another party.

  * * *

  The party had been hot as usual. Everyone had a hunger for networking and intimacy and lively appetites. The best of the southern buffet was gone. Weed induced hunger pangs had already cleaned two bowls of jerk chicken that a local Jamaican caterer provided. Chocolate, creamy cupcakes--food for chocolate, creamy babes--had been destroyed, too. Regiments of empty champagne bottles, wine bottles, and beer bottles were lined militarily along the bar table. The sharpened aroma of drugs seeped in the air. No doubt, the bedrooms were being occupied by some young buck rocking some diva’s boots. Now that Suspect had slung the door wide open to all, he was cured of his need to be sociable and drifted smoothly into chill mood in hopes that they would start to leave.

  At that instant, the bullet of a rifle split the arm chair an inch from Suspect's brain and chopped deep into the upholstery. The next bullet did not miss Suspect's occipital.

  Low Down reached out for Dominique. Astonishment froze on the face of a boy next to Low Down as the bullet sliced through his chest. Blood spurted from Pooh onto Dominique and she grabbed Low Down tightly. Two down, one to go. That happened quickly. Low Down received a shot in the back of his head and regurgitated blood onto Dominique's silky hair. Now that was low down.

  Amazingly, the hip hop was silenced by terrified screams.

  Sunday, January 7, 2007

  CHAPTER 22

  The annoying ring pelted me like being stoned to death in Times Square by the New Year's Eve crowd. I emoted, turned over and decided to ignore the caller. Then I had an epiphany. I heard Brandon’s electric toothbrush whirling and I knew he would answer the phone. What if the caller was... Fuck! I groaned and angrily snatched up the phone from the cradle.

  "What?" I asked the caller, groggily.

  "Ravonne Lemmelle!"

  Oh shit! I was suddenly alive and clear headed. "Granny?"

  "Who you whatting? I know you have caller ID." I imagined her in her Sunday's best on her way to Sunday school at New Inspirational Baptist Church.

  "Nobody. It's seven-thirty, though, Granny."

  "I know morning is not a good time for you, which amazes me how you manage to be in an office at seven some mornings and deal with Brandon."

  "I lock myself in my office and sleep until I can cope with people. If I have court, I feel sorry for the DA. Brandon inherited my sense of time."

  She laughed lightly and then quickly changed her tone. "I'm sorry, but this is an emergency. Wydell, Odella James' boy was arrested for a triple murder."

  "When?" I asked and furrowed my brow and scratched my balls.

  Wydell was just at the hospital yesterday with his mother to visit his brother who was shot when he called me to thank me for visiting his brother on Friday after the Mark Artis acquitta
l. Now he was arrested, and I was willing to bet money that this involved revenge.

  "They kicked Odella's door in about four a.m. I was up praying and then I heard the police radios outside. Guns everywhere, and they drug him naked out of the bed with some gal. They found a gun."

  "Sounds like more than an emergency."

  "They need your help."

  "Constance, you told them I'd help didn't you?"

  "Well..."

  "Granny, my firm will never go for a pro bono case right now."

  "How 'bout gratis then," she said and chuckled. I was not laughing, though. "Just go and talk to them. Please."

  "Okay, but no promises. You better pray for them. After the Mark Artis mess, a murder is not exactly on my menu right now."

  "Thank you."

  "Love ya."

  "I love you, too."

  Dajuan had eyeballed me as I talked. Ms. Pearl jumped on his side of the bed. I tried to pick her up and she wiggled out of my arms, licked her leg and wiped her face to cleanse herself of my touch, and yawned. She was obviously still perturbed that I ignored her on Friday. Nerve, right? I'd make it up to her at Jacque Cuisine. The 4-star restaurant had a posh patio where leashed pets could feast on delights from the pet menu. I bet she'd circle my feet like Jack the Ripper outside of the home of a co-ed if I pulled out her leash.

  "Get up," I mumbled to Dajuan and nudged him.

  Outside it was raining fiercely and I was absolutely over that. For one, Granny wanted me to go to the James' on my rest day. More importantly, the Eagles would play the Giants in the playoffs. I had intended to watch the game with my two homeboys: Brandon and Dajuan. I knew that once I made an appearance at the James', I'd find myself at a precinct obtaining Wydell's story, and later at a bail hearing at the bare minimum. Then I'll be conferencing with my contacts at the Public Defenders Association to see that he gets special care.

  Dajuan found his boxers on the floor and went into our private bathroom for his perfunctory wake-up piss. He gargled some mouthwash, brushed his teeth and returned with a mint mask on his face. I turned to the doorway and there was Brandon also in a mint mask and boxers, which were as big as a sheet of paper.

  "So, this is what it's like not to have jobs?" I joked.

  "It's Sunday," Dajuan told me. "We do this weekly, but you're usually sleeping."

  "Yeah!" Brandon said, hopping on the bed. "It's the Eagles color green."

  "How sweet?" I said and slipped on my boxers under the covers before going into the bathroom. I did a quick bathroom tour and met them in the kitchen.

  "Listen, I have to take care of something for my grand mom, so I need you to TIVO the game."

  "Aiight," Brandon replied.

  "No one was talking to you, brainiac," I said and tickled him. "Tickle monster...tickle monster," I said tickling him more.

  "That was her talking to you?" Dajuan asked. "I knew it had to be because you did not go postal," he told me.

  He turned and asked Brandon, "What kind of cereal, King B?"

  "My favorite."

  "Honey Combs coming right up."

  "Not no more," Brandon said, playing with a Leap Frog electronic spelling game. He mimicked the computerized voice, "Spell house. H-O-U-S-E."

  "What kind, Brandon?"

  "Cap'n Crunch."

  "Hey, that's my favorite," Dajuan said, playfully.

  "I know," Brandon confirmed, kicking his feet into the air.

  I poured my breakfast into a glass: a protein shake. Then I watched the scene with these two unfold. Sometimes I wished Dajuan had a biological kid. I still hadn't brought up the Ariel visit. I wanted to get to that later. I knew that her return would scare Dajuan. He would believe that she could win me back for the sake of Brandon. Not! There was nothing in the world that would make me make that backwards step.

  I stumbled into the bathroom, tossed my boxers in a wicker hamper, and turned on the shower. I let it run while I slapped Noxzema on my face. I stepped into the marble, double head shower stall, which doubled as a steam room. The water was freezing. Don't tell me that the pipes are frozen, I said under my breath. I jumped beneath the water and dithered as the ice-cold water rivulets ran down my body. I washed quickly, rinsed, and was drying myself with the blow dryer when Dajuan waltzed into the bathroom.

  "What kinda kinky shit are you doing? And without me?" he asked with a sinister grin on his face.

  "No hot water. I'm heating myself up."

  "I don't get it, but I can heat you up."

  "Pipes are frozen. I paid the water bill, if that's what you thought, fool."

  He shut the bathroom door and wrapped his arms around me. "What I tell you about calling me names? he asked and kissed my neck.

  "What are you going to do about that?"

  "Put you on bird punishment," he said, exiting the bathroom. I followed. We had dubbed the penis, bird for Brandon’s sake. "And booty punishment, too."

  "Please! You do that and you'll punish yourself," I said and tapped his bubble butt.

  I threw on a baby-blue button down shirt, jeans, and Timberland boots. No tie. Then I picked up my trench coat and briefcase and headed for the door. Gave both of my boys a hug and told Dajuan,"I need your keys."

  "They're on the counter."

  "Gotta be incognito. I do not feel like getting caught up in Germantown all damn day."

  "Incognito in a Range Rover?"

  "It's not mine, so they won't know that it's me."

  "You're nothing but a corner boy. I know all your colleagues see you as a thug with a degree."

  "Probably, but have you seen me in a courtroom? They know that I am the Kobe Bryant of legal eagles."

  "Whatever. Get out."

  "Bye dad, Brandon said."

  CHAPTER 23

  Wydell James and his mother--no father--lived in a broken down duplex up the street from where his younger brother had been shot earlier in the week. Now his mother's oldest boy was in jail on a triple homicide rap. Her life had to be in shambles.

  I pushed the Range Rover through the rain along I-76, which meandered along the Schuykill River and exited at the Germantown Avenue exit. At the first light, I made a left onto Wayne Avenue, and then at Seymour Street, I made a right. I parked in the Fitler School yard, hopped out of the truck and snatched my briefcase off the seat. I then said a silent prayer. I walked up the block and was mobbed by a few childhood friends. I know that they were glad to see me there. They had been unable to escape the ghetto. Or, didn't have the parental encouragement to do so. It was a sad thing. They had correctly assumed that I was there to see Wydell's mom. I shook their hands, as they gave me the ghetto gospel, but I was uninterested. I wanted facts. Not rumors and speculation.

  I approached Odella's crib, and blankets were up to the living room window posing as curtains. I knocked on the door and it swung open. What a shame, I thought as I looked at the living room. I was almost scared to enter and a stench eddied through my nostrils. I nearly choked. I did not recall it being that bad. There wasn't a sofa. Just a few folding chairs and a host of dingy pillows thrown about. From the upstairs came Odella James.

  "Who the fuck? Oh! Little Ray-Ray," she said. "Come in. You're still handsome."

  "Thanks, Ms. James," I said.

  Had she forgot that she had seen me two days earlier?

  Odella was tall and perhaps younger than my mom's 48-years. She wore jeans and a tattered sweater with a cigarette in her hand. Her wrists were bony. She watched me staring at her home with disgust and I caught myself, but my nose was on fire.

  "It's a mess in here, I know. But shit has been hard."

  "Don't trip. I've been here. Remember I used to spend the night here."

  "But now you're a fancy lawyer. Saw you on TV, too," she said and took a long drag of her fag.

  "Let's go have breakfast." I suggested.

  "Really?" she asked. "You wanna take me to breakfast."

  "Yes, let's go up to John's on Chelten Avenue and have some
panny cakes."

  She cracked up. "You haven't learned that it's pancakes, yet?"

  "Nope."

  CHAPTER 24

  Where had I been? John's had an entirely new staff. I guessed the Korean owners rotated the slaves. Johns? It should have been called, Wong's. We sat at the counter and I let Odella fill her tummy before I began to drill her with the preliminaries.

  Without preamble, I asked, "Did Wydell say anything to the police?"

  "He had some story about basketball at some school gym and then going to a campus party."

  "Did he mention anything about a gun being found?"

  She thought a moment and looked perplexed. "Well..."