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“You ever shoot a wheel gun?” Allante asked. “Any gun?”
“Damn right, Big Al!”
Allante wasn’t sure if he believed him.
“This Redhawk is a cannon,” Allante said, handing it to him. “It’s mine, dude, and I want it back, so don’t get any goddamn ideas.”
“Yeah, sure, man,” Kenny said, wrapping his hand around its big black grip and aiming it out the windshield.
“Keep it down, dammit!”
“Okay,” Kenny said, putting it on his lap and swinging out the cylinder to check if all the bullets were live rounds.
“There ain’t no damn bullets in this gun!” Kenny blurted. “What the hell’s it good for if it ain’t got no bullets?”
“Calm down, dude. You saw how it looked when you first saw it. That’s all you need to do with Cicero. Door opens, you move inside with the bag of money first, then hold the tip of this badass barrel in his face.”
And with no bullets you won’t be able to shoot me later.
“Besides, I’ll be backing you up with this going in,” Allante said, pulling back his jacket to reveal the Ruger 9-millimeter semiautomatic in a holster on his belt.
Kenny clearly looked as if he didn’t like the idea, but then shrugged. He reached in his pocket and pulled out five or six foot-long white zip ties.
“Not gonna shoot the bastard, anyway,” Kenny said, pointing to the zip ties. “Gonna do to him what he did to Reggie.”
With Allante Williams just to the right of the door at 3118 Richmond Street, Kenny Jones banged on the door.
What are the fucking odds that some hothead inside is going to look out the peephole, see this dumbass holding the sack of cash, then drill the door—and him—with lead?
Damn good, that’s what the odds are.
This better be worth forty Gs. . . .
The door opened a crack, and Kenny said, “Cicero, I got it like I said, man.”
He held up the bag with his left hand. The hand cannon was in his right, hidden by the bag.
The door closed, and there was the clanking sound of its two chains being removed, then the door swung open.
And Kenny, surprising the hell out of Allante, did exactly as he’d been told.
Allente went in behind him.
“What’re you doing, Kenny?” Cicero said, staring at the business end of the barrel.
Then Kenny swung the heavy stainless-steel Ruger, fiercely pistol-whipping Cicero’s mostly bald head.
Cicero quickly backed up, shielding his head from the blows with his arms.
“Kenny! Wait!” Allante yelled. “Stop!”
Cicero then turned and tried to run down the basement steps—but Kenny got one last hard swing in.
And Cicero went tumbling down the steps.
In the basement were two small dirty rooms, one with a twin-size bed and a wooden table. There were bags of pills stacked two feet high.
Kenny dragged the limp but breathing body to the bed, then pulled the zip ties from his pocket and cinched them tightly around Cicero’s neck. Cicero’s body began to convulse. But within a minute, it went slack.
