Whispers in the Night Page 28

  “Sure you right.” Redbone shook his head. “You ain’t gettin’ it, yo. Shorty dropped a little somethin’ in your drink, knocked you outta the game. Then while me an’ Lil’ B were carryin’ your ass back to the ride, she took off with Tonk and that big mofo’.”

  “Somebody dosed me?” ’Dre was angry and confused, trying to remember. “Some bitch poisoned me?”

  “Nah, man. It weren’t all that. Half a roofie. Tonk said she was tryin’ to calm your ass down.” Redbone paused, lit a Newport. “It was the drink and blow that got you to heavin’. But don’ worry none. We gonna get some payback. Wait’ll we get down there an’ let Tonk tell it.”

  The two of them drove down Georgia Avenue in silence, as Young ’Dre drank and tried to piece everything together in his mind. It was hopeless; the last thing he could remember was Lil’ B and some girl . . .

  And nothing. It was as if his memory had been wiped clean.

  “Damn, ’Bone. I can’t remember shit.”

  “Fuggit, yo. You got tore up, you puked, we brought your ass home. End of story.”

  “But I can’t remember . . . something happened. That big nigga . . .”

  “I said, don’ sweat it. Tonk is on this shit. We gonna get ours. Just be cool.”

  The malt liquor was having the desired affect; Dre sipped, bobbed his head to the music, and surveyed the brownstones and storefronts along Georgia Avenue as they went past Walter Reed, past Howard University, and moved deeper into the city. At Thirteenth Street and Florida Avenue NW, the Celica slowed and Redbone looked around for a parking space. Finding none, he continued down Thirteenth to W Street, turned left, and pulled over in front of some new town houses.

  “We here. Kill that bumper an’ we out,” Redbone said simply. ’Dre complied, as always, deferring to the older boy. The two of them clambered out of the car and crossed back over W Street, then headed up Thirteenth Street half a block before turning into a service alley.

  The sight of the alley made ’Dre nervous. Something about an alley . . . “Yo, ‘Bone. Th’ fuck we goin’?”

  “Almost there, Young. Let Tonk tell it. It’s his call.”

  They moved up the alley until they came to the back of an abandoned row house; it seemed someone had attempted reconstruction and repairs, then tired of it. The backyard was fenced off with sagging chain-link and razor wire; there were stacks of soggy Sheetrock and torn tarps and piles of garbage everywhere. Redbone slipped through a hole in the fence, gestured for ’Dre to follow. They climbed up into the house, as there were no stairs.

  It was getting dark.

  As the two of them picked their way through the accumulated trash and moved to the front of the house, there was the creak of wood from the floor above. A harsh whisper queried from the darkness . . .

  “Who’zat!”

  “Yo’ baby mama,” Redbone answered gruffly. “Where my check at?”

  “Fuck you, ‘Bone,” Tonk snapped back. “You got ’Dre wit’ you?”

  “Yeah. So put your shit away, we comin’ up.”

  Redbone and ’Dre climbed the stairs noisily, and emerged on the second floor. The upstairs area was remarkably clean. All the walls had been knocked down, leaving only the bare support beams in a single, large room. The windows had been boarded up, but the wide cracks between the boards showed dusk outside. Tonk and Lil’ B were sitting on a worn wooden bench, passing a bottle of wine back and forth, while Tonk peered through the cracks with a small pair of binoculars. There were two pistols lying on the floor at their feet.

  “Tell everybody, why don’cha?” Lil’ B said sharply. “ ’Dre, you back with us?”

  “I’m a’ight,” ’Dre said. “So, whassup, Tonk? Redbone said you’d gimme the four one one.”

  “Nothin’ to tell, nigga.” Tonk waved the boy forward, handed him the binoculars, and pointed to a crack in the boards. “’Cept in a couple hours, we gonna be tearin’ up that place over yonder. Upstairs, window on the left.”

  ’Dre raised the field glasses to his eyes, followed Tonk’s directions. He saw nothing until his eyes adjusted to the interior shadows in the room across the street. Then he saw her.

  Skin the color of honey and cream. Jet-black hair. A lush, ripe body barely covered by the thinnest of white negligees.

  ’Dre felt a stirring between his legs. More than a stirring. His mouth was dry.

  “So, after y’all cleared out, after the bitch dosed you an’ shit, she an’ that big fuck, Julian, brought me back here for fun an’ games. Had a party going on up in there, more freaks an’ crazies than I seen anywhere, ever,” Tonk whispered, as the boy watched her move around the room. Back and forth, in front of the window. “Weird, fucked-up shit. They got a dungeon in the basement, yo. Chains an’ shit all on the walls. Mofo’s whippin’ bitches, burnin’ them with hot wax an’ cigarettes, piercin’ ’em, makin’ ’em bleed. She take me into a changin’ room, an’ while she’s puttin’ on some kinda robe, I’m s’pose to strip down an’ squeeze into this leather jock with studs an’ shit. Then she gimme a leash, clip it to her collar. Tells me tonight, she my slave an’ do as I please.”

  Across the street, the woman had slipped out of the negligee and was standing naked at the window, a red gown folded over her arm. She turned, and a man came into view. He was white, of medium build and fully dressed. As ’Dre watched, he shrugged into a black overcoat. The man moved to kiss her; smiling, she turned her face away.

  “She got . . .” ’Dre’s voice cracked; he swallowed and passed the glasses back to Tonk. “She got somebody up there with her. Not the big one, somebody else.”

  “He ain’t gonna be there long. She got mofo’s comin’ and goin’, day an’ night. And that big one, fuck him. He’s just her driver. Hired help. I better not see his ass—”

  “She a pro, Young,” Lil’ B broke in. Tonk’s antipathy was plain. B passed his partner the bottle and nodded at Redbone, who sat down at the top of the stairs and lit a joint. “Some kinda SNM ho—”

  “S and M. Sado-Masochism.” Redbone coughed smoke. “Damn, B. You needs to read somethin’ ’sides GQ sometime. She a dominatrix. Niggas pay her to kick they ass, piss on ’em. All that freaky, evil shit.”

  ’Dre stepped away from the boarded-up window. He looked around the darkened room at each boy in turn. Tonk was edgy and eager, ready to make a move. Lil’ B seemed calm, but that was probably the wine; B loved his mellow grape. Redbone was standing aside, distant, smiling like he knew more than he was saying.

  “So what? We gonna take turns lampin’ an’ jerkin’ it?”

  All three of them laughed aloud at that. ’Dre felt like he’d missed something, but he’d felt like that since he’d wakened to the sound of Redbone’s horn.

  “Didn’t let me finish, yo. Y’see, we been in an’ outta here Saturday, Saturday night, Sunday morning. Watchin’ her.” Tonk sneered angrily, walked over, and snatched the joint from Redbone. He drew deep, held the smoke, relaxed. “Yeah. So I’m down in the basement, but I ain’t about puttin’ on no sex show, y’feel me? Ain’t no fuck puppet for a room full a’ freaks. If I want the ass, I take the ass. So I tell the bitch to get busy. If they want a show, they can watch her eat every pussy in the place. An’ while they all standin’ around watchin’, I ducked out, had a quick look around upstairs. Bitch had cake up in there, Young. Gold. Silver. Paintin’s an’ shit. Now, me, I couldn’t jack no goods, not wearin’ nothin’ but a leather jock an’ a smile. So I eased back down to the changing room, an’ took a peek in her little black purse. . . .”

  Tonk reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal ring. Attached to it were three keys, and a tiny gold phallus.

  “Are those . . .” ’Dre stopped short, his head spinning.

  “Gate. Front door, back door. Tried ’em all ’fore I left up outta there.”

  “Hello!” Lil’ B burst out, slapping his hands together for emphasis. ’Dre jumped at the sound, much to the other boy’s amusement.

  “
Now y’feel me, Young.” Tonk turned his eyes toward the house across the street, and it seemed he peered through the very walls. “Now we wait.”

  Moonlight poured through the holes on the roof. In the distance, the squeal of tires, the howl of a police siren.

  “Tha’sit,” Tonk said. “Let’s roll.”

  Redbone was snoring softly, his back in the corner, his Eddie Bauer jacket zipped up past his chin. ’Dre and Lil’ B were playing out a silent game of blackjack, a buck a hand. ’Dre was seven dollars down, after being up twenty. There were four empty bottles of wine and two dozen Newport butts scattered over the floor.

  “C’mon, get that chronic nigga up. Lights out over there.” Tonk stood and shook the circulation back into his legs. “Time to do this.”

  ’Dre collected the cards as Lil’ B woke Redbone with a light slap on the head. The four of them stretched in silence, not looking at each other.

  “A’ight, then. She just turn out all the lights upstairs—” Tonk began.

  “By twos. Me an’ Tonk. ’Bone an’ ’Dre,” Lil’ B interrupted. “We go first. Y’all count to fifty, then follow. Meet up at the front door. If there’s anybody on the street, any cars, anything, circle round the block an’ come back. Niggas round here don’ see or hear shit. Let’s don’ give ’em a reason.”

  “Yeah. Like that. ’Cept I get first crack at the bitch. Twenty minutes, and then you niggas can have her. What’s left of her,” Tonk amended. He tucked one pistol under his sweatshirt, held out the other. “’Bone, you hold this strap. We out.”

  ’Dre and Redbone moved silently down W Street, past the carryout where they’d bought the wine and playing cards, and turned left, onto Twelfth Place. The street was only one block long, terminating at Florida Avenue, just below Cardozo High School. Row houses, identical save for their exterior paint, lined both sides. There were bars on every downstairs window, and gates on every door.

  At the far end of the street, almost to Florida Avenue, Tonk and Lil’ B stood for a moment, then turned back, moving slowly so they would reach the front door at once with Redbone and ’Dre. The plan worked to perfection. They were all of them through the gate and door, Tonk, then Lil’ B and ’Dre, moving across the threshold, in moments.

  But not Redbone. He stopped short, looked down, and stepped back from the door. His eyes were wide.

  “Nah, man,” he whispered, pointing to the floor. “Shit ain’t right.”

  The moonlight spilled onto the hallway floor, illuminating a perfect square of white tile with a large red circle at its center. At each corner of the square was a decorative flourish, a trompe l’oeil, painted so it seemed each design was floating above the floor.

  “Don’ you punk out, nigga,” Tonk rasped, his eyes hard. “You in this!”

  “No! That’s a blood circle! It ain’t right!” the boy answered, shaking his head frantically, remembering something his mother had told him long ago. He shoved the pistol into Lil’ B’s hand. “I’ll be at the car. I’ll wait . . .”

  Lil’ B pushed Tonk and Young ’Dre deeper into the darkness of the house, and quietly closed the door with Redbone outside. As Tonk bent down and removed his shoes, Lil’ B looked at ’Dre, pointed to the door, and slowly mouthed the words “punk-ass bitch.”

  ’Dre was shaking, his guts rumbling in protest. He should have eaten. He should have bounced out with ’Bone. He should never have come here, gotten caught up in this ill-starred sortie. But even as his eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, and Tonk moved silently up the carpeted stairs, he knew it was too late.

  Lil’ B shifted the pistol to his left hand, reached into his jacket, and pulled out a bundle of pillowcases. He tossed one to ’Dre, who was standing nervously at the bottom of the stairs. The house wasn’t big; there was the living room in the front, with two windows facing the street outside, then a single step up into a small dining area that held a large mahogany table set with several chairs. Farther back was a large kitchen, with two doors; one led out to the backyard, the other, set beneath the stairs that Tonk had climbed to the second story, led to the basement.

  The living room was a hodgepodge of overstuffed single chairs and serving tables on a wine-colored Persian rug; it appeared to be a reading room, and was dominated by a large bookcase that ran from floor to ceiling, from front windows to dining room. The shelves were crowded with curios, figurines, and books of every size, from tiny pamphlets to great, oversized volumes. On one shelf, in the center of the bookcase, was a display of bottles with several types of liquor.

  Lil’ B and ’Dre moved quickly to the bookcase, and snatched the figurines from the shelves. They were made of gold, and showed a mélange of partners—men, women, and animals—in a profusion of sexual positions. Lil’ B dropped them into his pillowcase, along with an engraved set of silver bells and an African mask, then gestured ’Dre closer.

  “Check downstairs, yo. Grab up anything worth takin’,” he whispered, pointing back to the kitchen.

  ’Dre nodded, moved past the dining table, with its centerpiece of black candles, and through the kitchen. On impulse, he pulled open each kitchen counter drawer as he passed it, noting the contents, not sure what he was looking for. There were ladles and wooden spoons, plastic bags of spices, silverware, knives, and tongs, and in the last drawer, closest to the basement stairs . . .

  Dozens of key rings, identical to the set Tonk had shown him. Three keys and a tiny golden phallus. ’Dre felt a thrill along his spine, and waved to Lil’ B.

  B shook him off, pointed to the basement door.

  ’Dre acquiesced. He opened the door and felt for a light switch. Finding it, he clicked it on, flooding the stairwell with reddish light. As he moved slowly down the wooden stairs, each step filled him with a sense of wrongness, of apprehension, that loosened his bowels and squeezed sweat from his brow. He just wanted to leave this place....

  He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around him. It was as Tonk had said: a dungeon. In the dim red light, he could make out the bare brick walls set with chains and manacles, a pair of stocks, an inverted wooden cross. Several rough wooden benches were scattered throughout, some sporting large metal rings at each end. At the foot of the stairs was a flaking, life-sized painting of a woman standing in a red circle, wrapped in a flowing black robe that looked like wings. She wore a necklace of small skulls, and clutched a small trident in one hand, and a coiled serpent in the other. Beside the painting was a wall display that held whips, scourges, pinchers, and other implements of torture. As ’Dre reached up and touched one of the braided leather whips, he felt his pulse thunder in his head and realized he was hard, his cock bulging full in spite of his fear. Or perhaps, because of it.

  He looked over to his left, through a beaded curtain, and saw the changing room; masks and robes and harnesses hung from hooks along the wall, waiting. Now he pushed aside the curtain, stepping deeper into the red-hued darkness . . .

  Above him, something hit the floor hard enough to shake the very house. The red lights dimmed, then brightened again. ’Dre stood stock-still, frozen by fear, not knowing what to do, and then . . .

  Another sound. Something scraping across the bare dining room floor.

  He couldn’t wait any longer. ’Dre took the steps two at a time, turned through the doorway into the kitchen . . .

  The front door was open.

  Lil’ B was on the dining table, flat on his back, his knees bent at the table’s edge, his arms outstretched, waving helplessly. Above him, holding him down, one hand across Lil’ B’s mouth, slowly turning the boy’s head, something big. Some-one big. And black and wide. Like a mountain.

  As ’Dre watched, horrified, Julian lowered his mouth to B’s exposed neck; ’Dre could hear the muffled screams as the man sank his teeth into the soft folds of Lil’ B’s throat, worrying his head from side to side like a feeding lion.

  The pistol was on the floor, near the table. As B gurgled and died, ’Dre rushed forward and swept it u
p, sliding a bullet into the chamber and pointing it in a single motion.

  “Freak mothafucka!” ’Dre screamed. “Now you dead!”

  The big man raised one hand contemptuously, and carved a design into the air with his fingertips; the symbol hung there, glowing, incandescent, then dissipated.

  The boy pulled the trigger.

  Click.

  Again. Click.

  Now Julian pushed away from B’s quivering corpse, and smiled. His teeth were filed to points, with blood and bits of flesh in the corners of his mouth. Without thinking, ’Dre reached back and threw the useless pistol with all his strength; the man ducked aside, and slowly moved toward the terrified boy.

  ’Dre stumbled back into the kitchen, his legs weak, his heart pounding to burst. Looking around, he grabbed a pan from the stovetop, threw it, then another, and another. Julian slapped them aside; they clanged off the walls like carillons. Desperate, filled with fear, ’Dre searched frantically for something . . .

  And then he saw the open drawer. Filled with knives.

  He grabbed a handful of cutlery, bloodying his hands on their edges. Screaming, he drew back and heaved them at Julian’s face. The man turned his head reflexively, his hands raised in defense....

  ’Dre threw them at Julian’s face, save one. And with that one clenched in his fist, in that instant that Julian’s eyes were turned away, ’Dre leapt, and plunged the steel blade into his chest....

  ’Dre was crying as he climbed the stairs. It took him a long time to reach the second floor. He didn’t know how many times he’d stabbed Julian. He’d kept stabbing him until he stopped moving and his hands were soaked past the wrists with black blood and the wooden knife handle had slipped from his fingers. Then he cut his throat.

  “Tonk! We gotta go, man.” ’Dre sniffed, wiped his nose. He could feel the wine in his belly trying to come up. “We gotta go. . . .”

  He moved down the hallway to the front bedroom. The bedroom where they’d watched her.