the harm in admitting it’s yours, Jerome?” Train encouraged him.
Washington looked back and forth between Train and Cassian, wondering what was going on. He smelled a trap. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” he asked.
“Yeah, we do, Jerome,” Cassian shot at him from his perch against the wall on the other side of the room.
“That’s funny,” Washington replied. He turned back to Train. “Your little white boy there’s funny. You teach him to be so fuckin’ funny, D-Train?”
Cassian tensed visibly, but Train held up his hand to prevent a disruption. “You don’t want to be making enemies right now, Jerome. You’re in a world of shit, and you can only make things worse.”
“You’re scarin’ me, Train,” Washington scoffed. He wasn’t about to lose his bravado. The truth of the matter, though, was that Train was scaring him. “Look, you an’ the DA wanna waste your time tryin’ to make possession stick in front of a jury, you go ahead, but the fact is the shit under the chair wasn’t mine, an’ you can’t prove it was. You can lie an’ say that torch was with the shit, but you an’ I both know it wasn’t.”
“This isn’t about the drugs, Jerome. You’ve got much bigger problems than that.”
“You wanna tell me what other problems I got?”
“Let’s try murder. How’s that work for you?”
Jerome thought Train was joking for a moment, but as he stared into the huge man’s eyes, he could tell he was serious.
“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about, Train?” he asked cautiously. This was a development he hadn’t anticipated.
“That’s right, Jerome,” Cassian confirmed, tossing a manila folder down on the table. “Oh yeah, you’ve hit the big time, scumbag.”
Washington looked from the folder lying on the table to Train and then back again, unsure what to do.
“Open it, Jerome,” Train said. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Washington reached out his hand hesitantly. He looked one more time at Train, who nodded his head. Then he flipped over the cover to the folder, looking down at the images inside. “Goddamn!” he exclaimed, making a face that hovered between revulsion and fascination. “Some white bitch had a bad day, fo’ sure.”
The pictures were in color, and the image of Elizabeth Creay screamed out from the glossy eight-by-tens, her face barely recognizable from the burns, and the wounds to her neck and abdomen having pooled blood onto the mattress.
Train sat back in his chair. “Look at her, Jerome,” he said quietly.
“I’m lookin’,” Jerome said, though his eyes were focused on Train.
Train leaned back in his chair, and he spoke slowly. “Her name was Elizabeth Creay, Jerome. She had a daughter, you know that? Fourteen years old. Did you know that it was her daughter who found her like this? That’ll fuck a person up, but I guess you never really cared about that, did you? As long as you got the money for your fix, right? How much did you take off her, maybe a few hundred dollars? Maybe another thousand for the computer and whatever else you could carry away? What’s that, Jerome, enough to get high for a week or so?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ ’bout, man!” Jerome insisted.
“Bullshit, Jerome,” Cassian barked. “This girl lived at 114 1 ⁄G
2 Street—less than two blocks from the shithole where you’ve been hanging out for months, where we picked you up today, and where your boy in the other lockup tried to put a hole through Sergeant Train’s chest. That’s your shack; you run it, from what we hear on the street, and nothing happens in that neighborhood without your say-so. The murder looks like a burglary gone wrong—the kind you made your name with.
And then there’s this.” Cassian picked up the plastic bag with the lighter in it.
Washington rubbed the back of his neck, looking venomously at Cassian, who was holding the bag in his face. “What about it?” he
Washington looked back and forth between Train and Cassian, wondering what was going on. He smelled a trap. “You think I’m fuckin’ stupid?” he asked.
“Yeah, we do, Jerome,” Cassian shot at him from his perch against the wall on the other side of the room.
“That’s funny,” Washington replied. He turned back to Train. “Your little white boy there’s funny. You teach him to be so fuckin’ funny, D-Train?”
Cassian tensed visibly, but Train held up his hand to prevent a disruption. “You don’t want to be making enemies right now, Jerome. You’re in a world of shit, and you can only make things worse.”
“You’re scarin’ me, Train,” Washington scoffed. He wasn’t about to lose his bravado. The truth of the matter, though, was that Train was scaring him. “Look, you an’ the DA wanna waste your time tryin’ to make possession stick in front of a jury, you go ahead, but the fact is the shit under the chair wasn’t mine, an’ you can’t prove it was. You can lie an’ say that torch was with the shit, but you an’ I both know it wasn’t.”
“This isn’t about the drugs, Jerome. You’ve got much bigger problems than that.”
“You wanna tell me what other problems I got?”
“Let’s try murder. How’s that work for you?”
Jerome thought Train was joking for a moment, but as he stared into the huge man’s eyes, he could tell he was serious.
“What the fuck’re you talkin’ about, Train?” he asked cautiously. This was a development he hadn’t anticipated.
“That’s right, Jerome,” Cassian confirmed, tossing a manila folder down on the table. “Oh yeah, you’ve hit the big time, scumbag.”
Washington looked from the folder lying on the table to Train and then back again, unsure what to do.
“Open it, Jerome,” Train said. “It’s nothing you haven’t seen before.”
Washington reached out his hand hesitantly. He looked one more time at Train, who nodded his head. Then he flipped over the cover to the folder, looking down at the images inside. “Goddamn!” he exclaimed, making a face that hovered between revulsion and fascination. “Some white bitch had a bad day, fo’ sure.”
The pictures were in color, and the image of Elizabeth Creay screamed out from the glossy eight-by-tens, her face barely recognizable from the burns, and the wounds to her neck and abdomen having pooled blood onto the mattress.
Train sat back in his chair. “Look at her, Jerome,” he said quietly.
“I’m lookin’,” Jerome said, though his eyes were focused on Train.
Train leaned back in his chair, and he spoke slowly. “Her name was Elizabeth Creay, Jerome. She had a daughter, you know that? Fourteen years old. Did you know that it was her daughter who found her like this? That’ll fuck a person up, but I guess you never really cared about that, did you? As long as you got the money for your fix, right? How much did you take off her, maybe a few hundred dollars? Maybe another thousand for the computer and whatever else you could carry away? What’s that, Jerome, enough to get high for a week or so?”
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talkin’ ’bout, man!” Jerome insisted.
“Bullshit, Jerome,” Cassian barked. “This girl lived at 114 1 ⁄G
2 Street—less than two blocks from the shithole where you’ve been hanging out for months, where we picked you up today, and where your boy in the other lockup tried to put a hole through Sergeant Train’s chest. That’s your shack; you run it, from what we hear on the street, and nothing happens in that neighborhood without your say-so. The murder looks like a burglary gone wrong—the kind you made your name with.
And then there’s this.” Cassian picked up the plastic bag with the lighter in it.
Washington rubbed the back of his neck, looking venomously at Cassian, who was holding the bag in his face. “What about it?” he
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