Slipping Into Darkness by Maxine Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

better than before. So I really had a lot to lose, even looking into this case.
    As early as it was, the crackheads filled the gray streets. People who looked old beyond their years shuffled up and down the streets. Strawberries trying to hook up with tricks stalked the boulevards. Their hips swiveled dangerously as they teetered up and down the stroll in high stilettos. Most of the working girls wore almost nonexistent short skirts, which resembled tube tops and string-like halter tops, although it was forty degrees outside. Some gangbangers, pants hanging low and showing their boxer shorts, leaned on corners, waiting to sell their next bag. The sounds of sirens played in the backdrop like beats to a rap song.
    I finally located the address, deep within the projects. It was a single-story stucco bungalow. I looked around and pulled my Glock out and put it to my side. I approached the door, paused, then knocked.
    â€œWho is it?” a baritone male voice barked.
    â€œZ. I met you before. Mayhem sent me. I tried to call you.”
    I saw his light brown iris squint as he looked directly into my eyes from out of the peephole.
    â€œAin’t you One time?” One time was the street phrase for the police in L.A.
    â€œNot anymore.”
    Slowly, the door cracked, sending out just a shard of light onto the porch.
    â€œSo you’re boss man’s baby sis.” He said it more as a statement than a question.
    Finally, he opened up what sounded like a dozen deadbolt locks. He was strapped, and pointed his gun from side to side on the door. He craned his neck, looked around the corner, and pulled me in.
    I put my Glock back into my sling-shot, which hung under my arm. Once inside, I got my first good look at Tank. I was so afraid the first time I met him at one of Mayhem’s spots, I didn’t really get a good once-over of him. He wore a close fade haircut. He really didn’t look like Michael Clarke Duncan. He was just big like him–like a Mandingo slave who was bred by the former slave owners to be strong enough to build this country on his back.
    This early morning he wore a wife beater, which revealed an old bullet wound on his huge left bicep and what looked like a razor slice across his throat, which had miraculously healed in a large wormy keloid. Just seeing his battle wounds made me unconsciously touch my old bullet wound above my heart and I experienced a sharp stab of pain just from the memory. The irony was I was shot in the line of duty by so-called “friendly fire” from my two officer colleagues trying to cover up their corruption.
    â€œYes, I’m Mayhem’s sister.”
    â€œWhat do you want?”
    â€œMayhem sent me to you. He said you would know what to do.”
    â€œOkay. C ... cc ... could you show me some I.D. or something?” This was the second time hearing him speak, and I’d never realized he was a stutterer. But maybe he was just nervous.
    â€œWhy? Don’t you remember when I came back and saw Mayhem last year?”
    â€œI can’t exactly remember what you looked like. You’ve lost weight or something.”
    I pulled out my private eye badge. True; I had trimmed down since taking tae kwon do, and I was wearing my hair longer.
    â€œOkay, now I remember you. You’ve fallen off some. I remember you being thick.”
    I flexed my muscles, which were still small, but more defined. “Working out. Okay? Am I straight with you?”
    â€œYeah, come on in. Things are getting hot around here. Got to get off the street. Are you strapped?” he asked me as one more precaution.
    â€œYes, but I’m not here to hurt you. I’m here to try to help my brother.”
    As soon as I stepped into the living room of a home, I inspected the room in a cursory glance. It looked like it was a typical project home: swamp-colored carpet, matching pleather loveseat and sofa, fake leopard-skin and giraffe-print throw pillows, fake wood