City of Heretics by Heath Lowrance Read Free Book Online Page A

Vitower was pretty highly-placed, that was true. And by that time a good ninety percent of the Old Man’s people were black—nobody could say he wasn’t an equal opportunity sort of guy. But the top men, the men running the show, were white, still carrying on that questionable tradition of making wads of cash off the labors of black men.
    But now Vitower was in charge. And one of the first things he had done was order a hit on Crowe, in prison. And Chester had helped him.
     
    “Chester tells me you weren’t interested in coming back into the fold,” Vitower said. “Tell me that’s not true.”
    “Back into the fold?  What are you running these days, Marco, a church?”
    He laughed good-naturedly. “Sure, why not?  A church. And the city is our flock, right?  I mean, I could think of worse analogies.”
    “Yeah, so could I.”
    “So, what’s the story?  Not interested in salvation?”
    Crowe already grown tired of the church analogy, but Vitower probably could have kept it going all night.
    He looked dramatically different from the last time Crowe had seen him. Seven years ago, he was a thug—a tattooed, gold-chain-adorned gangsta-type with personal gym muscles, the type you see all the time on MTV. But even then, you could tell, the guy was just way too smart to go around looking like that. He was smarter than any of the gang, really. All that posturing and street-slang never seemed genuine.
    He seemed to realize it now. The muscles and tattoos were hidden under the sleeves of a pretty tasteful pearl gray suit that he wore very well. His hair was cropped close to his head, and his strong jaw was clean-shaven. He looked respectable and trustworthy, and had that aura of casual authority that most leader-types have learned to cultivate from various books and seminars. The guy was a good ten years Crowe’s junior, but he perched on the edge of his desk like a benevolent old master. His fingers, decorated with rings that glittered with gold and diamonds, drummed against his thigh.
    Chester had slouched on a leather sofa across the room, smoking one of his smelly French cigarettes and watching with casual interest. There were two other men in the room, black guys who looked like proto-Vitowers, wearing good suits but without the panache of their boss. One of them stood by the door, the other hovered near Vitower’s left elbow.
    Crowe was placed in the seat of honor, a comfy high-backed suede chair right in front of the desk, with a pretty good view of the room. Vitower was saying, “I was a little offended, if you want to know the truth, Crowe. I mean, I sent Chester out to see you, as an emissary, really, and you just toss him out?  Bad form.”
    “I was tired, what can I tell you?  Chester picked a bad time.”
    Chester smirked, shook his head, and smoked his cigarette.
    Vitower said, “I suppose I can understand that. Speaking frankly, you stopping by tonight sort of… lessens my annoyance.”
    “I thought it over, Marco. I figure I owe you that much.”
    It was a clean, spacious office, not the sort you’d expect to see in the back of a nightclub and nothing like the makeshift space the Old Man had utilized. A picturesque seascape in pleasing blues and greens occupied the wall behind Vitower’s enormous oak desk. The carpet was a plush wine-red. An impressive bookcase filled almost one whole wall on the right, and the unread volumes that lined it were nice editions of various classics. A well-stocked wet bar sat next to the bookshelf. It looked more used than its neighbor.
    The office smelled strongly of incense. The incense smell came from a small altar in the far corner. Sticks were burning, candles were fluttering, and a large photograph of Jezzie Vitower gazed out at the room with an innocence that only the dead are capable of.
    Vitower caught him eying the little altar, and his mouth went tight. He said, “You don’t owe me anything, Crowe. I mean, you and me, we hardly knew each other back