Free Death Wish by Iceberg Slim Page B

Zone since early afternoon.
    Rachel said, “T., promise me you’ll eat all your salad and the green vegetables. And don’t leave yours, Bama and Smitty.”
    They nodded as they forked in steamy mounds of turkey and dressing. As Rachel and Fluffy turned to leave, Tat raised and pursed his greasy lips for their kisses.
    George “Bama” Lewis, seventy-year-old ex-con man, with his jaws inflated with candied yams, jabbed his fork toward a large painting of slain council member Darrel “The Mole” Miller, in Sandhog clothing, studying blueprints on a table. The Mole had been married to Willie Poe’s sister, Reva. He had been the genius engineer responsible for the elaborate tunnel system beneath the Zone, and the free electricity and gas leeched from utilities’ lines and pipes.
    Bama said, “Too bad The Mole ain’t here this Christmas to enjoy these yams.”
    Taylor stopped eating and looked at the painting hung on the earthen wall between shoring of steel rods and oak beams. He said,“Yeah, it’s a heartache to hear his name. Everybody loved him except Porta and his killers.”
    Gigantic Lester “Kong” Smith snickered and said, “Sure, he was really together alright . . . for a paddy. But I hope you guys don’t break down and bawl like a coupla bitches and spoil my dinner.”
    Bama snorted and said, “Smitty, I feel sorry for you. You’re in bad trouble.”
    Kong frowned and said, “Old Man, why you cracking on me?”
    Bama said quietly, “Because, son, Mole had forgotten he was white, and even when he’s dead you can’t.”
    Tat said, “The Mole is been wasted by Porta’s killers close to two months. Soon we got to find a way to send Porta where Darrel is.”
    Kong said, “Porta’s asshole could chew up railroad ties when he gets the wire his latest shot at us missed and Roscoe is executed.”
    Taylor stood and stretched his lean frame and went to the water cooler in a corner. As the water gurgled into a paper cup he said, “Easy, Smitty, the young brother ain’t been found no kinda guilty yet. And if he is, ain’t no way now we know what kinda shitty game Porta ran on Roscoe. Maybe we will, and maybe we ain’t gonna waste the brother if he’s guilty. Smitty, if he’s guilty.”
    Bama nodded toward the tiny image of the Pontiac on a TV monitor as it penetrated to the heart of the Zone. The Pontiac glided past other TV cameras. They were concealed in table lamps in the front windows of houses at all points of entry around the ten square blocks of the Zone. Driver Lotsa Black waved several times at sentries on foot and in unmarked cars.
    Squad leader Ivory Jones, seated on the backseat, said, “Lotsa, pull over to that phone booth next to that grocery store.”
    Lotsa Black coasted the Pontiac to a stop. Ivory got out and went into the booth.
    Bumpy Lewis, on the front seat, said, “Roscoe, Ivory’s calling that number. Shame on you, nigger, if it jingles Porta.”
    Roscoe, huddled on the rear floorboards, shaking with fear,eased his head up and peered at grim-faced Ivory leaving the phone booth. Roscoe smashed the heels of his handcuffed hands down on the door handle and leaped through the open door to the sidewalk. He scrambled to his feet and pumped his long legs madly down the sidewalk. Lotsa Black, Dew Drop, and Bumpy Lewis took up the chase. Ivory fired two pistol shots over Roscoe’s head and three at his legs.
    Ivory shouted, “Stop, Roscoe, or I’ll kill you!”
    Then as he raced out of pistol range the squad shouted, “Escaped prisoner!”
    Roscoe had nearly reached the Zone perimeter when a rifle-carrying sentry ran into the street twenty yards ahead of Roscoe, put his rifle to his shoulder, and shouted, “Halt!”
    Roscoe veered onto the sidewalk. He zigzagged across a yard to escape between two houses.