The Fence - Dick Lehr [51]
The guilt trip worked. The foursome left Conway’s. Smut followed Tiny to Tiny’s mother’s house, where he left his car and jumped into the back of the gold Lexus. Tiny took advantage of the pit stop to run inside to retrieve a silver 9mm Ruger semiautomatic pistol he had hidden there. With the added protection, they took off. Smut was riding in the backseat behind Tiny, and Boogie-Down was behind Marquis. There were now two handguns in the car: Tiny’s silver Ruger and Boogie-Down’s.
The ride actually went quickly. Few cars were on Blue Hill Avenue at two o’clock in the morning. Smut was slumped in the backseat, tired and boozy, and he slumped even further when Marquis announced he was hungry and wanted to go to New York Pizza. Smut was not interested in making any stops besides the mandatory dropoffs. He was glad when Tiny vetoed the pizza joint: too far out of the way. But then someone said Walaikum’s was up ahead and that it would be open.
Walaikum’s was also in the heart of that night’s darkness—near the Cortee’s, near Castlegate Street, and near where Little Greg lived around the corner.
“Dudes wasn’t thinkin’,” Smut said later.
Tiny slowed as he drove past the restaurant, made a U-turn, and parked a couple of car lengths from the entrance. The four climbed out of the car—the menacing-looking Boogie-Down in brown boots and hat, hunched in his tan jacket; the beefy Marquis, the tallest, in his black hoodie sweatshirt; Tiny with his braids and gray sweatshirt; and Smut, the shortest, in a brown leather jacket. They saw the restaurant was crowded—standing room only. When they got to the door, Smut muttered to himself, “Man, fuck this.” Boogie-Down went ahead, Tiny and Marquis near him. Smut turned and figured he would just wait for the others to get some food.
Smut then noticed Tiny tensing up. Someone standing by the entrance had casually asked, “Waz up, Tiny, waz up, Marquis?” Tiny flipped out on the kid. What the fuck, saying my name out loud like that. What the fuck you thinking?
Tiny was hissing at the kid in a hushed, angry tone. Smut didn’t understand why. The only thing he could think was Tiny was acting tough in front of Marquis. Smut stepped back toward the Lexus. Tiny began stuttering, and Smut saw his eyes darting between inside the restaurant and out. That’s him, Tiny was saying excitedly. That’s him. Tiny was indicating a husky black guy standing at the counter at the front of the line. That’s him—Little Greg’s driver, he was saying. Marquis pulled out one of the guns. Boogie-Down was already farther inside, heading toward the counter.
Several teenage girls by the door later said the first sound they heard was the ratcheting of a handgun’s slide, as if it was jamming. The clicking sound made the girls jump off their stools, and their sudden, spastic movements rippled through the crowd. “He’s packing! He’s packing!” someone was shouting. Walaikum’s erupted in pandemonium. Patrons were diving onto the floor looking for cover behind the few tables and chairs. Those by the entrance rushed to escape outside.
The target was Lyle Jackson. Tiny had seen Lyle and thought Lyle was Little Greg’s driver. But Tiny was mistaken, and Lyle, at the counter waiting for his food, turned to see two guns aimed at him. He scrambled to get away, knocking chairs aside and stumbling to the ground.
Some said they heard two or three gunshots. Others said it was five or six.
The first call to 911 was made at 2:39 A.M. and fifty seconds. “Can I get the policemen quick,” said an unidentified male.
“What’s the address?”
“451 Blue Hill Avenue. There’s been a shooting up here. Hurry up.”
Right away the call was broadcast over the Boston police channel 3. Hearing it, Mike Cox, Craig Jones, and the others in the gang unit froze in their tracks. The radios on their belts had exploded in a chorus with the initial shooting