Hair of the Dog by Gordon Carroll (reading strategies book TXT) 📗

“Ziggy,” said a very black skinned, very fat man, sitting behind a desk stacked with papers. “Been a long time.”

“Mr. Diamond,” said Ziggy as they shook hands. Ziggy sat opposite him. “I’m sorry to hear about Snake Oil.”

Mr. Diamond nodded. “Most of the old crowd is dead. Not many of us left. You still up Colorado way?”

Ziggy wasn’t surprised to hear that Mr. Diamond knew what part of the country he had holed up in. Mr. Diamond always knew everything.

“Ziggy says yes, sir. That he is. Beautiful country up that way.”

“Right,” said Mr. Diamond. “That and legal pot. I heard you got hooked pretty bad on them drugs. Always thought you was smarter than that, Ziggy.’

Ziggy bobbed his head up and down, taking no offense. “Ziggy done thought he was smarter too, but that was back in the day, sir. These days, Ziggy knows he ain’t half as smart as he thought he was back then. No, sir, not so smart at all.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Diamond, “I guess none of us is ever as smart as we think when we kids. So what you here for?”

“Well, sir, Ziggy says he got a friend who’s in bad trouble and Ziggy’s here to ask a favor.”

Mr. Diamond just stared at him. “Well, unless the drugs done erased your brain real bad, then you know that I don’t do favors. Nothing in this world ever comes free. There’s always a price.”

“Yes, sir, Ziggy done knows that for sure. Ziggy spoke a little off there. He didn’t mean a favor. What Ziggy means is he’s coming here to you to cash in on a debt.”

Mr. Diamond smiled. “After all this time?”

“Ziggy says time don’t matter to debts or promises,” said Ziggy. “Those are forever things till they fulfilled or paid off.”

“Forever things, yes, I suppose they are. Well… I certainly do owe you, so go ahead and ask what you want. You ask and I’ll play the part of old King Herod and give to you up to two thirds of my kingdom.” He held up his fat arms as if in surrender. “Ask. Whose head is it you want on a silver platter, old man?”

Of course Ziggy didn’t want a head, just a name.

Jerome had to be careful. Unlike Ziggy, he hadn’t been gone for thirty years and he had a big bounty on his head, dead or alive.

Gil gave him a hundred dollars and Jerome’s first stop was to the local Walmart where he picked up jeans, a t-shirt and a neutral green hoodie as well as a red one, and some cheap sneakers. He wore the green hoodie until he got into Blood’s turf, then slipped the red one over it. Time was slipping away. It was already nine-thirty and he needed to make contact before the heavy hitters started coming out. Playing it safe, he stuck to the back alleys as much as possible and avoided the streets. Gil wouldn’t give him a gun, but he planned on taking care of that in short order. He saw two teens consummating a drug deal behind a 7-11 and eased his way to them just as they were finishing up. One of the boys wore a tilted cap and red pants hanging down to the tops of his thighs, while the other sported close-cropped black hair and a thin mustache. Jerome pegged the one in red for the dealer and focused his attention on him. The boy turned at the other boy’s startled look behind the dealer’s shoulder. It would have been comical if not for the everyday life and death struggle that plagued the inner streets of the city. Jerome thunked the dealer square on the top of his baseball cap before he could complete his turn and he crumpled in a loose heap to the dirty asphalt. Jerome grabbed the second boy by the throat before he could flee or scream.

“Your money. All of it. Now.”

The boy wasn’t about to argue with this walking mountain that had just crushed the dealer with one strike. He dug out his wallet and with shaking hands fumbled out the remaining few dollars.

“You got a gun?” asked Jerome completely unafraid.

“Gun? No… no… I swear…”

“Get,” said Jerome. “And don’t look back.”

The boy got and he didn’t look back. He didn’t want to see what might happen.

Jerome searched the boy in red. He looked to be about sixteen. Jerome found a black BB gun in his front waistband and a piece of garbage pocket knife, along with a wad of bills that counted out to about three hundred bucks.

Jerome walked away; once again on the hunt. He needed a gun. A real gun.

It didn’t take long. Three blocks over, he ran into a banger, huffing from a silver can of spray paint behind a dumpster. Jerome put him down with a hard smack to the side of his neck. The skinny freak only had seven dollars on him, but he also had a gun. It was a nice .22 S&W revolver that the kid had to have stolen. One chamber was empty, but that left five bullets, and five bullets should be more than enough for what he had planned.

Jerome hadn’t told Gil everything. He hadn’t told him that he recognized one of the Bloods that attacked him at the church where Gil had taken Clair from him. The Blood had been about seventeen when Jerome knew him, which would make him about nineteen or twenty now. He looked different, but not that different. Jerome recognized him clear and sure. And better, he knew where he would be.

Like most street gangs, the Bloods didn’t have a central headquarters or meeting hall like your local chapter of Elks or Masons (they weren’t that kind of club). Instead they gathered at pool halls, or more often, at crack or meth houses, many of which were heavily fortified with lots of armed bangers acting as guards and reinforced doors that would