and cleaned it out. Now the police used the switchboard operator to listen in, mainly on the ones who drove the long, expensive Cadillacs. It made him mad to see them pull up in the driveway. He knew that he would never be able to buy one of the luxurious cars and resented the longhaired black men who bought them as if they were small compact cars. Half of the niggers didn't work. He could tell that after they had stayed for a week or two, flashing their huge bankrolls every time they paid their rent.
There were two Cadillacs sitting in the driveway now, and one of the owners had two white girls with him, so the white operator knew that this was probably one of the many black pimps who came in and out. Now all he was waiting for was a chance to catch them with some white tricks in their room and he would call the vice squad immediately and bust their asses.
As the man who was going under the name of Marcus Gregory walked out of his room, the operator was trying to decide if it was important enough to call his buddy down on the vice squad. The only thing he had to go on was the fact that the caller had asked him to go out and find a pay phone.
He took a glance out the window just as the Creeper went by. One look at the ugly face on the man made up his mind for him. Any nigger who looked like that had to be up to something wrong. Why else would a woman first ask for him, then let a man take the phone, who then only ordered the ugly bastard to go out and find a pay phone? Yes, he reasoned, as he sat before his switchboard, something out of the ordinary was going on-he would be willing to bet his ass on it. The switchboard operator dialed police headquarters. He knew the number by heart.
Kenyatta sat on the bed rubbing the leg of the beautiful woman who was next to him. Betty stretched out on the bed with her arms thrown back over her head. Maybe, just maybe, she wished silently. For some reason, she couldn't get enough of this man. Kenyatta was her very life.
The telephone in their room rang shrilly. "Yeah," Kenyatta roared into the receiver. "Hang that mother- fuckin' receiver up downstairs; I got the phone upstairs here!"
"Hey, baby boy, you at a pay phone now?" He wait ed for the reply, then continued. "Listen, brother, I got an important job for you, man. It's very important, and it's got to be taken care of immediately. Are you strapped down for business?"
The Creeper patted the gun under his armpit as if the man he was talking to could see his action. "I'm ready and willin', bro," he answered sharply.
"Good, then," Kenyatta replied quickly. "I want you to put a hit on this white sonofabitch Angelo. Angelo Benita will be the name he's under. The cat is staying at the Holiday Inn on Woodward in Highland Park. You know where the place is?" Again, Kenyatta waited for the Creeper's answer before continuing. "Now, dig this, bro," he said, making sure he never used the man's nickname because he sensed that the Creeper didn't like the name. "Okay, now dig this, boy. The fat honky is staying in room...." He hesitated and dug out a small piece of paper from his pocket. "In room 204-that's right, 204. Now, he should be loaded with bread, but if you ain't got the time after makin' the hit, fuck the bread. Don't even worry about it, 'cause you ain't going there after the money. I want this fat-ass bastard dead before the fuckin' night is over. And listen, bro, I got this hunch that the motherfucker is about to split."
The Creeper asked a question and Kenyatta listened patiently before replying. "Yeah, you know him, bro; it's the same motherfucker we pick the guns up from. Yeah, well, the bastard has decided not to supply us with guns anymore, because of them hits you made on them bigshot honkies uptown. Yeah, it kind of got to Angelo so he's decided to freeze us out. That's right, bro, the honky don't want any more of our business, so I want his ass loaded up. Yeah, he's the one who sold us the motherfuckin' list; now he's
There were two Cadillacs sitting in the driveway now, and one of the owners had two white girls with him, so the white operator knew that this was probably one of the many black pimps who came in and out. Now all he was waiting for was a chance to catch them with some white tricks in their room and he would call the vice squad immediately and bust their asses.
As the man who was going under the name of Marcus Gregory walked out of his room, the operator was trying to decide if it was important enough to call his buddy down on the vice squad. The only thing he had to go on was the fact that the caller had asked him to go out and find a pay phone.
He took a glance out the window just as the Creeper went by. One look at the ugly face on the man made up his mind for him. Any nigger who looked like that had to be up to something wrong. Why else would a woman first ask for him, then let a man take the phone, who then only ordered the ugly bastard to go out and find a pay phone? Yes, he reasoned, as he sat before his switchboard, something out of the ordinary was going on-he would be willing to bet his ass on it. The switchboard operator dialed police headquarters. He knew the number by heart.
Kenyatta sat on the bed rubbing the leg of the beautiful woman who was next to him. Betty stretched out on the bed with her arms thrown back over her head. Maybe, just maybe, she wished silently. For some reason, she couldn't get enough of this man. Kenyatta was her very life.
The telephone in their room rang shrilly. "Yeah," Kenyatta roared into the receiver. "Hang that mother- fuckin' receiver up downstairs; I got the phone upstairs here!"
"Hey, baby boy, you at a pay phone now?" He wait ed for the reply, then continued. "Listen, brother, I got an important job for you, man. It's very important, and it's got to be taken care of immediately. Are you strapped down for business?"
The Creeper patted the gun under his armpit as if the man he was talking to could see his action. "I'm ready and willin', bro," he answered sharply.
"Good, then," Kenyatta replied quickly. "I want you to put a hit on this white sonofabitch Angelo. Angelo Benita will be the name he's under. The cat is staying at the Holiday Inn on Woodward in Highland Park. You know where the place is?" Again, Kenyatta waited for the Creeper's answer before continuing. "Now, dig this, bro," he said, making sure he never used the man's nickname because he sensed that the Creeper didn't like the name. "Okay, now dig this, boy. The fat honky is staying in room...." He hesitated and dug out a small piece of paper from his pocket. "In room 204-that's right, 204. Now, he should be loaded with bread, but if you ain't got the time after makin' the hit, fuck the bread. Don't even worry about it, 'cause you ain't going there after the money. I want this fat-ass bastard dead before the fuckin' night is over. And listen, bro, I got this hunch that the motherfucker is about to split."
The Creeper asked a question and Kenyatta listened patiently before replying. "Yeah, you know him, bro; it's the same motherfucker we pick the guns up from. Yeah, well, the bastard has decided not to supply us with guns anymore, because of them hits you made on them bigshot honkies uptown. Yeah, it kind of got to Angelo so he's decided to freeze us out. That's right, bro, the honky don't want any more of our business, so I want his ass loaded up. Yeah, he's the one who sold us the motherfuckin' list; now he's
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