else.”
“The man with the tattoo on the back of his hand?”
“Bingo. I guess his name wouldn’t mean anything to you. I bet you never even
heard
of Red 71.”
The brunette just shook her head.
JEAN-BAPTISTE DROVE slowly to his other apartment. He was trying for that ice inside him that the ancient pimp had warned him he could never allow to melt.
Ronni was still asleep when he let himself in. She wouldn’t wake up for hours, he knew—she always gobbled a handful of pills and washed them down with a double of Crown Royal just before she hit the sheets, never failed.
That one had been easy. Got too much weight on her for the best clubs, but a lot of men like their women thick, and she’d work any room he told her to, so she always came home with real money.
Dependable. That’s what she had going for her. There was a neatly stacked pile of bills on the kitchen table. He riffed through them quickly—twelve big, one half, and the rest double sawbucks … all the way down to singles. Probably didn’t keep a dime for herself. If she wanted something, she knew her man would get it for her. He paid all the bills, didn’t he?
J.B. was still red-rage angry enough to wake the cow up and use the strap he kept hanging in the bedroom closet to remind her of …
Stop that, fool!
his mind shouted at him. Ronni was a good girl. Not just that, until he could put another game plan together, she was his
only
girl.
He still had his ride. And half his wardrobe was sitting only a few feet away. He never left much cash lying around.Not that any of his women would ever steal a dime, just playing it safe.
Speaking of which …
LESS THAN an hour passed before he emerged, wearing a subdued daytime outfit, but one that would scream “Money!” at any woman who was in the market for a man who could take her to the best places. And then take her away.
His mother had already left for her job, so he was able to get to the basement pad where True Blue had spent his last days. By then he was pretty much out of conversation, so J.B. had known it was coming.
The safe was hidden inside what looked like a drywall panel. He spun the combination without looking. About seventy thou in there. That calmed him down right away. As he knew it would.
Some other stuff in there, too. The old man had warned him to dispose of the pistol that had earned him his first new car and the extra custom touches that set it apart from the rest. But J.B. just couldn’t do that.
His religion was superstition. Not only was that pistol his personal mojo hand, he wouldn’t know where to get another one like it. The full magazine he’d emptied into Chi-Town Terror had been barely audible—no lights went on, no dog barked. Getting bullets was no problem—more 9mm rounds sitting in boxes on the West Side than there were roaches in the kitchens. But the pistol, that was special. Custom-made. The best.
And no cop was ever going to be searching his mother’shouse. Even if he got dropped for—who knows?—the most they could do would be search any place he was carrying the keys to at the time. He never carried the key to his mother’s house—that was under a back windowsill, on a magnetized strip even she didn’t know about.
His mother’s house. The one safe haven that would always be there for him. The parallel to the house of the Chi-Town Terror’s mother had never entered his mind.
“Always make them underestimate you,” he heard the old man’s voice in his head, counseling him when he proudly returned with the news that he’d earned that bounty money. “Never carry, not even a blade. Only two people know you a genuine life-taker now: you and me. You keep it that way. Let them think,
Oh, that boy, he ain’t nothing
. You don’t want no street rep. Let ’em all sleep on you. That way, if anyone does come for you, they won’t come prepared, see?”
When he hit that club where Taylor danced, she might have warned the bouncer to be on the
“The man with the tattoo on the back of his hand?”
“Bingo. I guess his name wouldn’t mean anything to you. I bet you never even
heard
of Red 71.”
The brunette just shook her head.
JEAN-BAPTISTE DROVE slowly to his other apartment. He was trying for that ice inside him that the ancient pimp had warned him he could never allow to melt.
Ronni was still asleep when he let himself in. She wouldn’t wake up for hours, he knew—she always gobbled a handful of pills and washed them down with a double of Crown Royal just before she hit the sheets, never failed.
That one had been easy. Got too much weight on her for the best clubs, but a lot of men like their women thick, and she’d work any room he told her to, so she always came home with real money.
Dependable. That’s what she had going for her. There was a neatly stacked pile of bills on the kitchen table. He riffed through them quickly—twelve big, one half, and the rest double sawbucks … all the way down to singles. Probably didn’t keep a dime for herself. If she wanted something, she knew her man would get it for her. He paid all the bills, didn’t he?
J.B. was still red-rage angry enough to wake the cow up and use the strap he kept hanging in the bedroom closet to remind her of …
Stop that, fool!
his mind shouted at him. Ronni was a good girl. Not just that, until he could put another game plan together, she was his
only
girl.
He still had his ride. And half his wardrobe was sitting only a few feet away. He never left much cash lying around.Not that any of his women would ever steal a dime, just playing it safe.
Speaking of which …
LESS THAN an hour passed before he emerged, wearing a subdued daytime outfit, but one that would scream “Money!” at any woman who was in the market for a man who could take her to the best places. And then take her away.
His mother had already left for her job, so he was able to get to the basement pad where True Blue had spent his last days. By then he was pretty much out of conversation, so J.B. had known it was coming.
The safe was hidden inside what looked like a drywall panel. He spun the combination without looking. About seventy thou in there. That calmed him down right away. As he knew it would.
Some other stuff in there, too. The old man had warned him to dispose of the pistol that had earned him his first new car and the extra custom touches that set it apart from the rest. But J.B. just couldn’t do that.
His religion was superstition. Not only was that pistol his personal mojo hand, he wouldn’t know where to get another one like it. The full magazine he’d emptied into Chi-Town Terror had been barely audible—no lights went on, no dog barked. Getting bullets was no problem—more 9mm rounds sitting in boxes on the West Side than there were roaches in the kitchens. But the pistol, that was special. Custom-made. The best.
And no cop was ever going to be searching his mother’shouse. Even if he got dropped for—who knows?—the most they could do would be search any place he was carrying the keys to at the time. He never carried the key to his mother’s house—that was under a back windowsill, on a magnetized strip even she didn’t know about.
His mother’s house. The one safe haven that would always be there for him. The parallel to the house of the Chi-Town Terror’s mother had never entered his mind.
“Always make them underestimate you,” he heard the old man’s voice in his head, counseling him when he proudly returned with the news that he’d earned that bounty money. “Never carry, not even a blade. Only two people know you a genuine life-taker now: you and me. You keep it that way. Let them think,
Oh, that boy, he ain’t nothing
. You don’t want no street rep. Let ’em all sleep on you. That way, if anyone does come for you, they won’t come prepared, see?”
When he hit that club where Taylor danced, she might have warned the bouncer to be on the
Similar Books
