The Case of the Death Dealer
An Alexander Steele Mystery

by
Lawrence Johnson Sr.

SMASHWORDS EDITION
Copyright © 2013 by Lawrence Johnson Sr.

December 2020 Edition

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

The Case of the Death Dealer

An Alexander Steele Investigation

Chapter 1

Pusherman

The cool evening breeze didn’t seem to faze the crowd of music lovers as they tapped their feet and bobbed their heads to the Latin rhythms of music legend Carlos Santana. The open-air venue on the west side in Philly’s Fairmount Park was the perfect night out for Alexander Steele and his longtime girlfriend Shakia.

Shakia ignored the occasional pungent scent of marijuana wafting past her nose. Feeling a chill in the air she tugged on her powder blue shawl and snuggled up closer to Steele. An interior designer by profession Shakia could have easily been mistaken for a model. When the concert came to a close, Steele, the six-foot browned skin ex-detective stood and looked around. As he stroked the corners of his mustache Steele wondered if getting front row seats was worth the hassle of dealing with the crowds after the show.

As the two made their way through the crowd to the parking lot Shakia gently held on to his arm while the couple discussed the concert. Steele made a habit of parking close to the brightly lit areas in case an old enemy or two should be lurking about. It didn’t take long for him to notice the small white piece of paper tucked neatly under the driver’s windshield of his midnight blue Jag. He unfolded the paper and read the note

“Steele, Meet me on the corner of 57th and Master at 11:00 tonight. It’s a matter of life or death, signed Trench.”

Shakia folded her arms and looked toward the stars in the night sky, it was clear that Steele’s usually calm girlfriend was upset by the note.

“Oh hell no, what does that low life bastard want now?” Shakia was known for her kindness, something she shared a mutual respect with just about everyone she knew but when it came to Trench respect went out the window and Shakia never held back.

“He’s bad news baby. Everything he touches turns to …” Steele placed his index over her lips.

When she noticed that more than a few people in the parking lot were watching she dropped her arms to her side and let out a sigh. Early on in their relationship Shakia learned that Steele was a confident Blackman who always made his own decisions. Not only did she respect him for that she admired his confidence. Steele read the letter again aloud,

“A matter of life and death,” he said.

Shakia pranced around in a small circle, you could hear her heels clicking against the parking lot’s asphalt,

“Life or death alright,” she muttered, “yeah probably his.”

Steele checked his watch, it was 10:45.

‘How did he know I was here?’ he wondered. He explained to Shakia that lives may be at stake; and how he didn’t want that to be on his conscience.

It was exactly 11:00 p.m. when Steele rounded the corner and parked his car in front of the corner lot on Master Street. A few seconds later a black Escalade slowly pulled up behind him.

Steele patted Shakia on the leg, “I won’t be long baby.”

Shakia watched silently as he got out of the car. She always joked with her girlfriends about her boyfriend's looks. She would say he's like Denzel and Billy Dee combined but was always quick to add Billy Dee when he was in his prime.

Steele stood face to face with the man he had grown up with a man he had learned to despise. The stocky build man wore a dark blue jogging suit, his hair was cut close. His mustache seemed to grow a little wider when he smiled at Steele.

When Trench reached out to shake hands the small diamond-studded earring in his left ear glistened through the darkness. “Alexander Steele in the flesh, man I wasn’t sure if you were gonna show.”

Steele pretended not to see Trench’s outstretched hand, “Okay Trench, what’s up? Why am I here?”

Trench stretched out his arms and looked around. “I got people around here, people who look out for me. Listen Steele, I got wind of something the other day. There’s a shit storm headed this way.”

Trench looked around again. “You sure you want to do this out here. I mean you got a reputation to protect and all, I didn’t think you wanted to be seen with me that’s why I left you the note.”

The men sat inside Trench’s Escalade to continue their conversation. Trench explained. “There’s a guy, a big-time drug dealer named Fat Daddy. Him and some chemist got into a thing in Florida about six months ago about manufacturing a large quantity of pills, probably Ecstasy. Anyway, it ended badly and Fat Daddy had his sister offed.”

Trench motioned as if he were using a knife to cut his throat. Trench nodded, “That’s right; they found her floating in one of the back bays in Miami. According to what I’ve been told this chemist swore that he would get revenge for his sister’s murder.

Well, it took a while but he is about to get even. Ya see he’s created this odorless poison to spray on Fat Daddy’s next coke cocaine shipment. If it’s true, and if it works, folks from Philly to Maryland are gonna start dropping dead within 48 hours after using the drug. Not only will it put the fat man out of business. The friends and family of those dead junkies will hunt him down and kill him like a rabid dog.”

Steele reached for the door handle. “You don’t need me, you need to go to the cops with this.”

Trench grabbed Steele by the arm but when Steele gave him a nasty look Trench quickly let go. “Come on Steele, just hear me out. I can’t go to the cops. They’ll ask me where I got my info from and besides you know how I feel about the boys in blue.”

Steele took his hand off of the handle and eased back into the seat. “Okay, where did you get this hot news flash from?”

Trench gripped the steering wheel with both hands and stared out of the window before answering. “I got it from my cousin. Remember I told you I got out of the drug business, well, somebody once said that ‘Nature abhors a vacuum.’ My cousin stepped into that vacuum; if I go to the cops they’ll bring him in, that’s why I need you. What’s your fee?”

Steele looked out of the window then back at Trench, “Man you know that I’m retired.”

Trench threw his hands in the air.“Okay, fine, who cares if a couple of hundred junkies die?”

Steele got out of the car and slammed the door. “Oh don’t give me that crap. For years you ruined thousands of people’s lives selling them drugs and all of a sudden you decided to grow a conscience?”

Trench got out of the car and walked around to the sidewalk and faced Steele. “I’m doing it for my cousin, he’s blood. If all of those people die Fat Daddy will be dead, out of business and when the heat dies down John will take over his turf giving him control of half of the city. I want him out of the drug business not further in.”

Steele held up his hand, “Wait, do you mean Little John? Little John is your cousin?”

Trench nodded and waved his hand, “Yeah but don’t call him that. He’s got a big rep now and a bad temper to go with it and besides, he ain’t so little anymore.”

Steele followed Trench as they walked around to the back of his SUV, when he opened it Steele saw that it was loaded with all kinds of knockoffs. LeBron James, Nikes, Aviator sunglasses, Prada, Sean John clothes, even a couple of pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

Trench fished through the sea of merchandise before pulling out a yellow folder. “Here,” he handed it to Steele.

“I printed this out from the internet.” Steele held it toward the light and thumbed through the dozen or so pages of stories about missing drug addicts whose deaths were of an undetermined nature.

Trench pointed to one of the papers, “You see that? From the Bronx in New York to North Philly it’s always the same, unknown causes. It’s odorless, colorless, and tasteless. He’s been experimenting on those dudes and now he’s ready.”

Trench held up both hands as if he were surrendering, “I tell you what, why don’t you sleep on it and give me an answer in the morning?” He reached inside the SUV and picked up two pairs of sunglasses, “Here, for you and your lady, no charge.”

Steele reluctantly accepted the glasses and agreed to give Trench an answer tomorrow.

After dropping Shakia off Steele went home and tried to get some sleep but his conscience wouldn’t cooperate. His thoughts drifted back to grade school and how the kids used to joke about how God forgot to give Trench a heart. How do you do business with a guy who robbed a nun at age fourteen?

Two hours later Steele found himself driving through the roughest neighborhood in the city. No one in their right mind would come down here alone in the daytime and most cops wouldn’t risk traveling through this part of town late at night but somehow on this dark and quiet night, Alexander Steele seemed to be drawn to it.

There was movement in the shadows of blocks and blocks of abandoned buildings where it was commonplace to see hundreds of crack vials strewn about the sidewalk. The movement came from the remnants of lives that once had promising futures until somehow it all went wrong, somehow dreams were shattered and goals were forgotten or placed on indefinite hold. This was a microcosm of the millions who chose unwisely at life’s fork in the road. These were the forgotten whose primary concern was not what to wear to work tomorrow morning but how to survive another day.

Up until now, Steele had never given it much thought. Every now and then a homeless, drug addict would be bold or desperate enough to step out of the shadows and approach his car asking for money. At that moment the cold stark reality had set in, Steele thought to himself that could have been me, or one of my friends. Deep down inside he knew that he could not just sit idly by and let them all perish.

Chapter 2

The Inner Sanctum Crew

Alexander Steele arrived at his upscale nightclub bright and early the next morning. When Club Inner Sanctum opened two years ago Steele enlisted Shakia to help him design the club’s interior.

As a professional decorator, Shakia combined eclectic elements with Steele’s taste and melded it with the look of elegant nightspots of the fifties and sixties. The club's décor was made up of various shades of dark reds, blues, medium grays, and a touch of polished steel that gave the club-style and originality. He was very proud of what he had accomplished. Steele had created an environment where people of all races, backgrounds, and social status could hang out and be themselves.

His lifelong friend and club manager who lives above Club Inner Sanctum had a pot of fresh-brewed coffee waiting for Steele every morning.“Morning Sugar Bear, did you have any problems here last night?”

Sugar Bear was a large heavyset man whose dark complexion seemed to enhance his smile which made him even more likable. He shook his head as he polished one of the glasses behind the bar,

“No boss, it was business as usual. How was the concert? Looks like you got home pretty late.”

Steele nodded his head, “it was good, we really enjoyed it.”

If there was anyone who hated Trench more than Steele’s girlfriend it was his three best friends Sugar Bear, Stan, and Roger aka the Philosopher. Steele motioned for Sugar Bear to meet him in the back. The last booth on the left in the rear of the club is where Steele spent most of his time.

During the day he conducts business but during club hours it was all about socializing with friends and customers. Sugar Bear and Steele took their coffee to the booth. The club manager listened intently to Steele’s story about last night’s encounter with Trench. He politely waited until the story was over before rearing back on the booth’s bench and proclaiming, “Well I guess there’s going to be a lotta of dead junkies cause I know you aren’t going to help that dude again. He’s been bad news since we were kids and he’s never gonna change.”

Sugar Bear’s response was expected, they all knew that Trench was rotten to the core but this wasn’t about him. Steele sipped the steaming hot coffee and looked up at Sugar Bear. “I’m taking the case.”

Sugar Bear’s eyes widened, “You what! You do know who we are talking about don’t you? Besides, aren't you retired?”

Steele was unfazed by his friend’s emotional outburst. He sat back in the booth and corrected

“Sugar Bear; you called them dead junkies, wrong, they are people. Oh, Trench will be the one who pays me alright but I ain’t doing it for him. He’s a lying bastard but there is one thing he said that was true. I can’t stand by and let all of those people die.”

Later that morning Steele drove down to North Philly to an area known by the locals as the Badlands. Steele agreed to meet Trench in his office hidden in a back room of a restaurant aptly named the Greasy Spoon.

The weather was bright sunny outside but it was clear from the grease smears and grime on the front window that the sun’s attempt to brighten the inside of the joint was a lost cause. From the moment Steele walked in the door it was evident that whoever was responsible for cleaning the place had taken the last five years off. The dingy red and white sign in the corner read special, 2 eggs, hash browns, and coffee $2.50.

Knowing that it was a front for Trench’s illegal activities in the back Steele shook his head as he entered and murmured, “They should change the sign to leave your taste buds at the door.”

The half dozen zombie-like patrons didn’t bother looking up when he walked in. The decor was early seventies with duck-taped stools but the balding cigarette smoking man in front of the grill was definitely a product of the fifties.

Never taking the cigarette from his mouth the sweaty cook turned around holding a spatula in one hand and a plate of eggs with hash browns in the other. “What can I get you young blood?”

Steele chuckled as he thought, ‘Coffee, hash browns and eggs $2.50. Cigarette ashes, no charge. Does that come with a side of Pepto Bismol? This place would be a health inspector’s dream if one was ever bold or crazy enough to come through those doors.

Steele took notice of the bulge near the cook’s waistline under his dirty white apron. ‘That ain’t no fanny pack, he thought, this guy was definitely packing heat.’

The cook was doing double duty as Trench’s first line of defense; too bad he didn’t do windows. Steele glanced at the plate of food and waved him off, “No thanks.”

He pointed to the dark brown door all the way in the back. “Is Trench in?”

The man set the plate on the counter in front of the customer. Hanging directly overhead was a swirly strip of flypaper that had done its job all too well.

“You Steele?” he asked.

When Steele nodded the cook motioned for him to walk to the back of the restaurant. He reached under the counter and buzzed him in. Steele passed by an assortment of boxes containing counterfeit merchandise from Trench’s suppliers.

They lined the walls of his office in the back of the rundown greasy spoon diner. Steele counted three bodyguards plus the hired help. Trench had changed into blue jeans and a short-sleeved olive green shirt, he motioned for one of the men to clear a box of Gucci handbags from the chair so his guest could sit down. Trench sat behind a large oak desk filled with papers. He lit up a cigarette and took a drag before waving it in the direction of his guest.

“Thanks for coming Steele. I know that it was hard” Steele waved him off.

“Let’s cut the bull crap. I don’t like you and if the truth be told you never really liked me either so there’s no point in us acting like we are besties okay? I want one hundred grand, half up front and the rest later so get rid of your boys here and tell me more about this crazy-ass doctor.”

Once Trench ordered his men out of the room he told Steele more about Doctor D. and how the once-respected doctor picked up the gambling habit that forced him into making the illegal drug Ecstasy to support that habit.

“One day he got careless and screwed up the mix, a couple of college students got sick at one of their frat parties. Two of them went into convolutions and one died. That’s how he got the name Dr. Death or Dr. D for short.”

Steele nodded, “So when is Fat Daddy’s next shipment due?”

Trench took another drag from his cigarette and blew the smoke high in the air as he shook his head,

“I don’t know man. I don’t even know where he keeps it stashed but Dr. D knows. Fat Daddy distributes his drugs out of 7 or 8 hoagie shops around town but his one legitimate business is his steakhouse on Germantown Avenue.”

Steele was a bit miffed; “You mean you want me to stop this Dr. D from poisoning Fat Daddy’s drug shipment but you don’t know when it’s coming or where it’s going?”

Steele sat down and leaned back in his chair; “Well let’s see, should I use my crystal ball or should I break out my Ouija board? How in the hell do you know if any of this is true?”

Trench waved the cigarette around, got up from the chair, and walked around to the front of the desk. “When I got out of the business my crew disbanded. One of my guys ended up working for the good doctor. He called me because he has people in Philly that will most definitely die if this tainted stuff hits the streets.”

When he took a moment to pause Trench noticed a copy of the wall street journal was sitting on his desk in plain view. Steele didn’t think much about it until Trench tried to cover it with a magazine before he handed Steele a piece of paper.

“Call this guy,” he instructed.

“His name is Panama; he drives a cab at 30th Street Station. A while back Panama did time with Fat Daddy and the Dr; that’s where the two meet.”

Trench chuckled, “Strange, ain’t it? Prison is supposed to rehabilitate your ass instead it just makes you a better criminal.”

He opened the safe and handed Steele $50,000 then reached inside the top drawer and gave Steele a picture of the doctor. “That’s the best I can do man.”

Twenty minutes later, Steele was back on Broad Street headed to his club. He saw no point in telling Trench what they both already knew. There was a strong possibility that the poisonous drugs could already be on the street. There was no time to waste. As he reached for his cell phone Steele caught a glimpse of a blue Chrysler in his rearview mirror. It was the same car that was parked up the street from the toxic restaurant. He was being tailed and he had a pretty good idea of who it was.

Steele pulled into a side street, got out of his car to confront the men. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

There were two men in the car both got out and immediately walked over to him. The guys were muscular with dark, tight-fitting shirts; they were tall and heavier than Steele. Judging from the size and thickness of their necks they could have been the poster boys for steroid use. The middle-aged men looked like bouncers you would find inside a sleazy strip joint.

The bigger of the two stroked his coarse black beard, His voice was deep and husky. “What business do you have with Trench?”

Steele laughed in his face. “You must work for Little John.”

The other man stepped forward and waved his finger at Steele. “Man, you don’t want to say that to his face. The last guy who did needed $8,000 worth of dental work.”

Steele chuckled,“Okay, fine, I get it. Tell Johnny that Trench is a client of mine and if he wants to know what’s going on he needs to talk to his cousin.”

As Steele turned to walk away the man with the beard grabbed his shoulder. Steele whirled around and stuck his gun in the man’s gut. The man instantly froze once he felt the tip of the cold steel barrel plunging into his abs.

Steele was no longer smiling, he stared directly into the thug's eyes.“Look; I don’t have time for this, talk to Trench.”

Before backing away and getting into his car to drive off he aimed his weapon at the man’s face just to make sure they both got the point.

It was just before the evening rush hour when Steele caught up with Panama outside the train station on the outskirts of center city. Dressed in light tan pants and a light palm tree shirt Panama was a small man with an olive complexion. He sported a mustache and goatee. He smiled as Steele approached his cab.

“Alexander Steele,” Panama tipped his straw hat and shook Steele’s hand.

“Trench told me that you would be calling.”As the cabbies around him picked up passengers exiting from 30th Street Panama told Steele about how he met the Fat Man and Dr. Death in prison. Panama spoke with a slight accent.

“We were all cellmates,” he recalled. Panama looked to the ground; “I knew that one day there would be bad blood between them, I could feel it, even back then. There were four of us. There was a guy named Eddie in our cell. He became Fat Daddy’s, right-hand man. Did Trench tell you that Eddie has gone missing?”

Steele shook his head, “No, when did this happen?”

Panama thought for a while “About two weeks ago. Yeah, I remember because it was the day after my wife’s birthday.”

The cabbie looked at Steele and pointed to his temple beneath the brim of his hat, “You see Dr. D is muy loco; he was crazy even back then. If you ask me I think that he used too much of his own product, you get my drift? Even in jail he still couldn’t get that damn monkey off his back. The Fat Man’s got issues too, he likes to gamble, a real high roller, he’s also superstitious and that makes him very paranoid my friend. He’s into astrology and all that supernatural shit. Every month he goes to the Borgata down the shore. It’s a real shame; do you know he went to Morehouse College?”

Panama motioned as if he was washing his hands. “I don’t run with that crowd no more. I got a wife and kid to support.” Panama’s information was useful, the two talked until he had a fare. Steele reached in his wallet and paid him for his time.

“Hey Steele, gracias, '' The man smiled at the two crisp twenty-dollar bills Steele had given him and waved to Steele as he was leaving.

Steele now had something to work with but there was still the nagging thought that all of his efforts would be for naught if the doctor had already put his deadly plan into motion.

Chapter 3

Glass Houses

Back at Club Inner Sanctum, the evening crowd had already begun to trickle in. Members of the club ran the gambit from politicians to construction workers, pro athlete’s lawyers and others made up the cast of regulars.

Steele has always exuded a quiet confidence, a coolness that everyone notices whenever he walks into a room. As he greeted the customers at the bar with hugs and handshakes. He noticed a few of his friends waiting for him in the back booth.

It’s common knowledge that no one sits at Steele’s back booth unless they are invited however that rule doesn’t apply to his two oldest friends Stan and Roger who was known around Philly as the Philosopher.

With an IQ of 165 and a knack for writing inspirational quotes, Roger’s personality was more like a prankster than an intellectual. Dressed in his usual attire of blue jeans and grey tee shirt he waved to Steele just in case he hadn’t spotted them. His somber-looking buddies had been concerned about him since earlier in the day when they received his call.

After the usual greetings, Stan the smooth-talking ladies man of the three men decided to get right to it. “So Steele, I see you’re back in the game, huh?”

Steele nodded, “Not by choice brother.”

The usual jovial Philosopher nodded at Stan, adjusted his glasses and gave Steele a serious look.

“Well you know how it is, you called and here we are. I know you couldn’t say much on the phone so what’s the deal and how can we help?”

Steele ordered drinks for his friends and a Pepsi for himself. He explained the entire situation to the guys and waited for their responses. While the Philosopher sipped his grey goose Steele slid the picture of Doctor D across the table.

When the Philosopher saw the photo he nearly spilled his drink. “Hey, I know that guy; we went to Morehouse together in Atlanta.”

Steele smiled, “I figured you would, that’s why I asked you to come. Dig up anything you can on him, no matter how small.”

The Philosopher shook his head, “That was ages ago and we really didn’t hang that much. Back then he was a pill freak, I see he’s graduated from more than just college.”

Stan briefly looked at the picture then tossed it onto the table as he spoke. “Yeah, he graduated alright, from popping pills to mass murder, what’s the world coming to? Steele, you want me to check this dude out?”

“Not him,” said Steele, “I want you to work your computer magic on the kingpin Fat Daddy.”

Steele gave Stan a small piece of paper with Fat Daddy’s real name on it.

Stan nodded, “I’m on it, by this time tomorrow I’ll be able to tell you what kind of toothpaste this guy uses.”

As Stan and Steele discussed his plan the Philosopher took out his pen, pulled out a small pad then began writing. He had heard about Sugar Bear’s lack of sympathy concerning the looming mass murder of hundreds. On his way out of the door he handed Sugar Bear the paper and simply walked out. It read,

‘Glass Houses - Life is like a fingerprint, each one is unique. Until you can duplicate my life's experiences until you have felt my joy and pain, my victories, and failures you are not qualified to judge me, my decisions, or my lifestyle.’

Sugar Bear thought for a moment, smiled then tucked the paper inside his shirt pocket. At the back of the club, Stan noticed something was not quite right with his friend.

“Hey man, I know you’re supposed to be retired and all but it’s time to embrace who you really are.” Stan stood with outstretched arms as he looked around the club, “This is Alexander Steele’s playground he proclaimed, it’s a beautiful place,”

He sat down across from his detective friend and continued. “But it’s not who you really are.” Stan opened his hand and held it to his chest, “Deep down inside you are a private detective, a damn good one, that’s what you were born to do.”

Stan spotted a familiar face near the front of the club and waved him over. Kenny was a tall dark-haired man with a deep dark tan. Kenny was well-groomed and wore an expensive beige suit. He made his way over with his beautiful girlfriend in tow.

After making the introductions; afterward Kenny spoke, “It’s a real pleasure to meet you Mr. Steele.”

After a bit of small talk, the happy couple went over to the dance floor. Stan immediately turned to Steele and asked, “What do you think of Kenny?”

Steele was dumbfounded by the question, “What do I think?” he repeated.

“He’s not my type,” joked Steele. “Okay, I get it, you want me to read this guy. I see a happy couple out having a good time.”

“No,” Stan shook his head, “that’s what everyone else sees but what can you tell me about Kenny?”

Steele decided to humor his friend. “Okay, fine, let’s start with the easy part, judging from the white ring around his tanned finger it’s obvious that he has recently taken off his wedding ring and the fact that he has a deep tan and his girlfriend doesn’t probably mean that he most likely took the wife on vacation instead of the hot girlfriend.”

Still not impressed he continued questioning his friend. “How do you know he didn’t get the tan from working outside in the sun? Maybe in construction?”

Steele burst out into laughter, “With those soft hands”

“He’s more likely to be holding a doctor’s scalpel all day than a jackhammer, and you don’t buy suits like that on a construction worker’s salary. That’s a custom made suit, it didn’t come off the rack.”

Stan had little choice than to concede that Steele’s observations were right but he still pressed on. “So is that it Steele? Is that all you got?”

Steele laughed again, “Man, what do you expect? I only talked to the guy for five minutes. Okay, he’s not originally from Philly, if you listen closely you could hear a slight Boston accent, he’s left-handed and Jewish, how’s that?”

Stan slapped his hand on the table in amazement, “Damn, how do you do it?”

Steele leaned forward, “He threads his belt loops from right to left, and he has a little Star of David on the chain around his neck.”

The detective/club owner was feeling antsy, it was like he knew something was about to happen but he could not put his finger on it. It was the calm before the storm. He left the club early and drove past Fat Daddy’s Steakhouse.

The bright red and white sign above the restaurant was impressive. Next to the letters that read Fat Daddy’s Smokehouse was a picture of a large juicy prime rib steak. Steele was about to turn his car off when he noticed a dark green pickup truck without a license plate pull up in front of the restaurant. One of the two men that got out of the truck looked at a red sedan parked on the same side of the street as Steele.

The men dressed in dark clothes lowered the back of the pickup and struggled to drag something large and heavy onto the sidewalk directly at the entrance of the Steak house. Three middle-aged women who had just left the restaurant screamed in horror once they realized the object was a dead man’s corpse. The men in the truck didn’t appear to be fazed by the screams.

One of the men watched patiently as his partner poured a bucket of dark green slimy seaweed over the dead man’s body then walked over and tossed a note that read: ‘I’m coming for you!’

Screams from the women brought curious customers running out of the restaurant to see what the commotion was about. Seconds after the truck sped off. The sound of its squealing tires was drowned out by a tremendous boom coming from inside the restaurant. The scene erupted into total chaos; windows were shattered by the force of the explosion while those closest to the blast were thrown to the ground. Others were screaming and yelling as they scrambled to drag their friends and loved ones out of harm’s way while flames flickered inside of what was Fat Daddy’s Steakhouse.

In all of the confusion, Steele noticed that the red sedan was speeding off. Realizing that there was nothing that he could do to save those who died in the blast he decided to pursue the man in the red Dodge Charger. Sounds of fire alarms combined with the wailing sirens and squealing tires got Steele’s adrenaline going. He knew that the driver must have set off the blast by remote control.

Steele chased the car down back streets, through red lights, across parking lots and gas stations but the diver knew the Philly streets well and he knew how to handle a car. The chase came to an abrupt end when the driver turned the corner into a small street and rammed into a car that was parked in the middle of the street. The collision killed the driver instantly.

Steele sat on a nearby step waiting for the police, he thought to himself, ‘The doctor is making his move; it won’t be long before the other shoe drops and many more people die.’ Steele gave the police a full report before going home.

The next morning started out the same as most others, thousands of unhappy people trudging of to spend eight hours or more in a place that felt more like punishment than a job. Steele sat in his car and checked out the dozen or so people standing at the bus stop. He was there to stake out one of Fat Daddy’s hoagie shops across the street. Dressed in black Dockers and a loose-fitting blue shirt Steele wanted to be comfortable for the long day ahead. He needed to know for sure if Dr. D. had already trained the drugs. If he had all hell would break out across the city and since his hoagie shop was drug central it would be ground zero.

As he watched and waited he thought about Stan’s clever little stunt last night. The little exhibition that he goaded him into was just what Steele needed to crystallize the reasons why he would need to step out of the comfort of his cushy club to do what few other men in this city could. Steele had solved tough cases all over the world, it was a dangerous job, a job where he faced death more times than he cared to remember, a job that got him shot not once but twice, but Stan was right, he was good at it.

By noon the temperature had climbed to an uncomfortable, muggy eighty-nine degrees and there was still nothing out of the ordinary going on across the street. Stan’s call was a welcome distraction from the mundane comings and goings of the few customers that wandered in and out of the hoagie shop. Most of the customers were apparently absent-minded and paranoid since very few came out with any food but always looked around before entering and leaving the store.

Stan and Steele talked for a while then agreed to meet at seven that evening. Any private detective would tell you that without a doubt spending long hours on a stakeout was the most boring part of the job. At six-thirty he decided to call it a day. Steele loved the energy that came from the busy neighborhood street in the summertime. His car radio was set to WDAS and the AC was on full blast but on the outside, it was hot and sticky.

Steele turned down the radio and lowered the window a bit so that he could enjoy the wafting aroma’s coming from the neighborhood barbeque grills and listen to the children’s laughter as they played in the fire hydrants. As he made his way uptown he could hear music blaring from the teenager’s radio as they hung out on the front steps while the old heads up the street shot craps probably with crooked dice.

Showtime in the inner city came to an abrupt halt when Steele noticed that he was being followed for the second time in two days. Knowing the car behind him would continue to follow he drove until he reached a gas station in a fairly isolated area. Steele no longer needed to wonder if the poisoned drugs were in play, if they had been there would be no need to have him followed. Pretending not to notice the car Steele who always dressed in a light button-down shirts that make it easy to conceal his weapon casually walked into the gas station and pre-paid for his gas, he also brought a plastic red cigarette lighter.

When he returned to his car he was not surprised to see a muscular man with a full black beard sitting comfortably on the hood of his jaguar while another played with a large sharp ice pick. Trying to avoid another confrontation Steele tried to reason with the men, “Look I told your other friends to talk to Trench.”

The man with the white tee shirt had two tattoos: a bulldog on his arm and a broken diagonal link chain on the side of his neck. The tattooed man laughed, “Why would we wanna do that? Fat Daddy wants to know why you’re watching his place.”

Realizing his mistake Steele quickly shifted to his second plan, attack. When he took off his gas cap and began pumping gas into his car the bearded thug on the hood looked confused but Steele’s lack of fear angered the tattooed man with the ice pick.

As the young Asian gas station owner watched from inside to see what would happen next. In an act of frustration, the thug in the white T-shirt plunged the ice pick into Steele’s front tire. The hissing sound distracted his partner just long enough for Steele to pull the hose out of the car and douse him with gasoline.

Steele had taken him by surprise; he knew that he needed to act fast. Steele was at the top of his game, he dropped the hose and quickly snatched the gasoline-soaked man off of the hood. He twisted his arm behind his back. The sharp searing pains forced the bearded thug up on his toes winching and screaming in agony. The man with the ice pick was very angry; he snarled as he ran toward Steele yelling obscenities. Suddenly, as if some invisible force was holding him back the ice pick wheedling thug stopped dead in his tracks. Steele was holding the cigarette lighter close to the gasoline-soaked thug’s shirt. A strong odor of gas filled the air. Steele moved the lighter side to side taunting the guy with the weapon. In an instant, the tables had turned and Steele was in control.

“One more step,” he yelled, “take one more step and I’ll light your boy up like a Roman candle on the Fourth of July! Now lose the damn ice pick asshole!”

The guy flung the weapon away; it made a clunking sound when it hit the ground. Steele released his partner by shoving him toward the angry man then pulled up his shirt to reveal his gun. The thugs didn’t know much but they wasted no time telling Steele that the new shipment of drugs had not come in yet but was expected soon. Before letting the two go he warned them that it would be in their best interest not to tell their boss about their conversation.

“I’m no fortune teller,” he added, “but I am willing to bet that your life spans will be drastically reduced if you decide to tell anyone about what happened here, so keep your mouths shut and get the hell outta here.”

Chapter 4

The Death Dealer

Stan was a bachelor in every sense of the word. His clothes, his car, and especially his house. He always said no woman was ever going to tie him down. A computer programmer by profession Stan has made a small fortune by legally hacking for profit. His lavishly furnished brownstone is the weekend hangout for the guys to drink, shoot pool, play chess and discuss everything from women to politics but tonight there was important business to tend to.

Steele thought the lime green shirt was a little loud even for Stan’s taste but decided not to comment on it. Stan greeted his friend with a manly hug and offered him a cold Pepsi. Steele accepted the drink and soon the men were sitting comfortably on the dark brown sectional inside Stan’s large sunken living room the guys nicknamed the pit.

Steele was normally the one his friends came to for advice but before they got started Stan gave his friend a stern look and said;

“Let’s not forget who we are dealing with here. Remember, Trench is the same guy who shot some unarmed dude in the back a couple of years ago and we both know that a tiger doesn’t change his stripes.”

Stan guided his remote toward the huge screen on the opposite side of the room, when the screen came on he reached for his keyboard and began tapping away.

“Roger was here earlier, he gave me what little he could dig up on his pill-popping college buddy.”

Stan continued to talk while he typed. An aerial view of the east coast came into focus. “Okay, class is in session,” he said jokingly. “Fat Daddy owns two houses, one in Philly the other in Baltimore.” Stan zoomed in on the mansion Fat Daddy owned in Maryland.

Steele gave a low whistle; “Damn the drug business pays more than I thought.”

Stan nodded,“Yeah, and I guess it helps if you control a third of the city.”

He pointed to the screen; “He also owns this little toy, a luxury yacht called Strictly Business. Once a month he fuels this baby up and pilots her from the Baltimore harbor to…”

Steele motioned for Stan to stop.“Wait, let me guess, Atlantic City?”

Stan laid the wireless keyboard next to him on the sofa and turned to his friend, “Now how in the hell did you know that?”

Steele paused for a moment, “I talked to a couple of his henchmen today, they told me.”

Stan stared at Steele in disbelief as he pulled out the little red cigarette lighter and gently placed it on the oversized mahogany coffee table. He knew that Steele never picked up the habit of smoking cigarettes or joints.

“Well,” Steele confessed, “I had to give them a little incentive first, but after I doused one of them with gas they were very cooperative.”

Stan looked at the lighter than at Steele, “Dude, you are one sick pup.”

He reached for his keyboard and shook his head, “I’m glad I am on your side.”

Steele told Stan what he had learned from the thugs, about how Fat Daddy pays off a few casino bus drivers to secretly haul the shipments of drugs in the cargo bins late at night on their return trips from A.C. Stan listened as they watched the screen, Fat Daddy’s yacht Strictly Business was headed up the east coast at that very moment. When Stan told Steele that Charles Harris aka Dr. Death had just checked into the Borgata hotel Steele knew that the shit was about to hit the fan.

“Like life-size chess pieces moving around the board,” he said, “and soon all of the players will be in place.”

When Stan commented on how bold Fat Daddy must be to bring the drugs in on his own boat Steele stroked his chin and nodded his head.

“No that doesn’t make any sense. Why would you run the risk of getting caught with a million dollars worth of dope? Can you hack into his credit card records?”

Stan chuckled, “Does a fat lady love cake? How do you think I got all of this? He’s using a dummy corporation and a program called Hush Mail to cover his email tracks.”

Once Stan pulled up the records Steele waded through the transactions for the last three months, “There, he pointed. You see, every time he fuels his yacht he charters a second one.”

Stan looked confused. He waved his hand, “I don’t understand.”

Steele took a sip of his drink and explained.“Drug runners generally pick up their load in Miami and drive it up the coast sometimes all the way to New York. It got so bad that the cops named Interstate 95 cocaine alley so he found a way to avoid it. Fat Daddy is one clever little bastard, you got to give him that. He’s protecting his investment and covering his ass by following the second boat, the one with the drugs. After he takes delivery in Maryland his guys pick up his shipment, load it onto the chartered boat then he follows it to A.C. where it’s transferred to the casino busses headed to Philadelphia and avoiding I 95. The cops never check the cargo bays under casino buses, why would they?”

Steele slapped his knees; “He never actually touches the drugs so if the pilot or the bus driver gets busted he can walk away. Of all the casinos in Atlantic City, only a handful are near the marina, that’s probably why he always stays at the Borgata Hotel, it’s on the marina. That’s where the doctor is gonna make his move. Thanks, man,”

Steele got up and patted Stan on the shoulder. “I have to get down to the shore before it’s too late.”

It was around nine when Steele rushed back to the club. He parked around back and met up with Sugar Bear. The two slipped downstairs so Steele could pick up some equipment and additional firepower just in case he needed it. Inside the storage room was a hidden door that led to his arsenal.

Steel opened a small black duffle bag and began filling it while he gave Sugar Bear a few last-minute instructions. Before closing the bag he also added a Glock and a pair of night vision binoculars. Steele was about to leave when Sugar Bear confessed that he had a change of heart about the murdering of the drug users.

Sugar Bear thought it was best to explain himself, “I am really sorry about the things I said earlier, boss. I got some baggage, a bad relationship that I never told you about. The Philosopher really put things in perspective for me. I mean I know some of these people, grew up with a couple of them. They are victims and now they are about to be victimized again, for the last time. What about the kids, you know the first time users, and the ones trying to quit, what about them? All of them are not hardcore druggies; you can’t let all of those people die, Steele. If there is anything that I can do you let me know okay?”

Traffic on the Atlantic City expressway was light. Steele rolled down his window to get some fresh air, it helped him to clear his mind and figure out a strategy for getting the deadly chemical from Dr. D. He needed more time, and now he would have to improvise. Less than an hour after crossing the Walt Whitman Bridge the smell of seashells and saltwater traveling along with the ocean breeze told Steele that he was back in A.C. During peak season at the shore no one can just walk in and expect to get a room. Lucky for Steele he and the head of security had worked a case together a few years back and Steele was able to call in a favor. Not knowing when the deal was going down Steele dropped his bags off in the room and reached the marina just in time to see the Strictly Business and the second boat dock.

Steele staked out a secluded spot about a block from the yacht and watched through his night vision glasses. “Damn, six guards,” he muttered to himself. “Getting aboard the boat would be damn near impossible.”

He would have to intercept Dr. D’s deadly drug before it reached the ship. ‘Who was the traitor? The doctor was not going to just stroll onto the ship and spray the chemicals on the drugs so he must have someone working on the inside, a traitor.’

Steele took photos of all the men as they milled about on the boat. By the time he was finished the man himself had finally made an appearance. Fat Daddy had lived up to his name. Wearing a single gold earring, a gold chain, and a sky blue shirt with pants to match the Drug Lord easily tipped the scales at 300 pounds. His clothes fluttered in the salty night breeze as he puffed on his fat cigar.

Fat Daddy turned to the side as he heard the footsteps of a trim muscular man in his thirties approaching from downstairs in the boat. The man dressed in black. It took a few seconds for the face to register but the man in black was named Ramon. Steele had caught a lucky break. Ramon used to work for Trench. Steele was sure that he was the man on the inside.

As Steele anticipated the fat man could not wait to get to the casino, he made a beeline to the poker table but for the moment Steele was not concerned about Fat Daddy’s whereabouts. He knew that Ramon would lead him to Dr. D and the poison they were going to use to taint the cocaine.

By Atlantic City standards the night was still young. Steele used the crowd as cover; it made it easy for him to follow Ramon to his target. In the drug business, there is no such thing as loyalty and Romone was about to prove it. Steele watched from down the hall as Ramon slipped into the Doctor’s hotel suite. As he waited he wondered what the going rate was for betrayal, how much was he being paid to help murder hundreds of innocent people.

The hall was quiet, that’s one of the benefits of being on a floor with suites, less foot traffic. Minutes later Ramón and the Dr. stood at the door and shook hands. Ramón headed Steele’s way with a khaki knapsack. Steele ducked into the ice machine cubby hole with his back facing the hallway, when he heard Ramón pass he crept up behind him and stuck his gun in Ramón back.

Disguising his voice Steele whispered in a commanding tone, “Don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even blink or I swear I will kill you where you stand.”

Making sure that Ramón did not see his face Steele looked around before guiding him backward back into the cubby hole before knocking him out with the butt of his Glock. Steele picked up the bag, took a quick peek inside, and quickly left the floor.

“That was easy,” he said to himself. After locking the package away in his hotel’s safe he felt as though the glass was still half empty.

All he had done was to prolong the mad doctor’s plan. What’s stopping the crazy doctor from making up another batch of poison and starting over again? Or what if he had brought more with him? He didn’t have any answers but the one thing that he did know was that a fresh shipment of cocaine was about to hit the streets of Philly and there was something that he could do about that.

Feeling that he had at least accomplished a small victory Steele called Stan and got the casino bus schedules so that he would know when the last bus would leave that night. Returning to his vantage point Steele watched Fat Daddy’s yacht and the one he chartered through his binoculars just in case Fat Daddy wanted to move the drugs tonight. Hours later Steele checked his watch, two a.m. and the fat man was a no show. He was probably still gambling. Steele concluded that there would be no drugs moved tonight.

The following morning feeling confident that the drug lord would not risk transporting the shipment in broad daylight, Steele decided to enjoy himself. He treated himself to a big breakfast of hotcakes, eggs, bacon, and sausages; it was a far cry for what they were serving at the Greasy Spoon back in Philly. After breakfast, Steele checked on the Strictly Business and the drug boat. When he was satisfied that everything was as he had left it the night before he began feeling a bit nostalgic for the old times in A.C.

Steele took a stroll on the Boardwalk to Illinois avenue where the Traymore hotel once stood. He remembered the fun weekends that he had with the guys hanging out chasing girls and getting into mischief on the Boardwalk and in Club Harlem on Kentucky Avenue.

By nightfall, it was back to business. Steele changed into a pair of black jeans and a black shirt, slipped the bus schedule in his back pocket then waited patiently as the chill from the sea air had begun to make its presence felt. He was about to call it quits for the night when he saw two men offloading four large metal containers and putting them into the trunk of a dark blue sedan.

Steele took a short cut to the bus terminal; he had to run in order to get there before the car with the containers. With the exception of a few late gamblers boarding the last bus back to Philly, there was no one around to notice the containers being loaded from the trunk of the car to the storage area under the bus. The bus driver lit up a smoke and casually enjoyed his cigarette having no idea that from now on he would be trading his smokes for favors behind bars in the Federal penitentiary.

Using his binoculars Steele carefully jotted down the name, number, and license plate of the bus. Once he was out of the area he put in a call to the state police and tipped them off. He had done all that he could do.

“At least that’s one shipment of poison that will never see the streets,” he said out loud.

Steele returned to the hotel and took the elevator to the twenty-second floor. He was looking forward to going home tomorrow, home to his woman, his friends, and his club but as he would soon be reminded that life is rarely that simple.

He kept thinking, ‘What harm would it do for him to try and reason with Dr. D? There’s got to be some other way for him to get even with Fat Daddy other than to wipe out so many lives.’

He stayed on the elevator and rode up to the doctor’s suite. When he got off of the elevator two gun-toting men were headed his way. The men wore hats and sunglasses to disguise their faces; one was holding a khaki knapsack identical to the one he took from Ramon. Immediately both men raised their weapons and opened fire on Steele. Instinctively in one fluid motion, Steele dropped to the ground, drew his weapon and shot back as he rolled toward the cover of a large oak sideboard on the opposite side of the hallway.

Pop, pop, pop!

Steele hit one guy in the leg while the other shots went left shattering a large vase on a nearby stand. He could hear the thuds as a hail of bullets landed on the opposite side of the thick sideboard he used for cover. During the exchange of gunfire, screams could be heard from inside other rooms on the floor.

Suddenly the elevator door slid open. When an elderly woman attempted to leave the elevator the wounded gunman grabbed her and used her as a shield. He forced her back into the elevator. The second man saw his chance and made a break for the staircase firing wildly as he ran. Steele fired three more shots hitting the second gunman in the shoulder.

The gunmen groaned and grabbed his bloody shoulder before heading down the exit stairway. Faint sounds of police sirens grew closer and closer as Steele cautiously approached the open door to the suite. ‘What the hell’s going on here?’

Steele crouched down low and held his gun close to his chest as he slowly crept into the room.

Ignoring the heat from his gun barrel and the smell of gunpowder Steele’s trained eyes darted quickly around the lavish suite. There was a stillness in the air. Steele had a bad feeling. The gunmen were not after him, he was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. Once he had a clear view of the spacious suite his instincts were confirmed. Dr. D. lay motionless on the floor.

The once cream-colored carpet under him was fast becoming a large pool of dark red blood. Doctor D was dead. Just as the Atlantic City police were about to arrest Steele for the murder his friend, the head of hotel security showed up and vouched for him.

When the excitement died down and the two men were alone Steele said, “I need another favor, I need to see the video surveillance footage from this floor.”

The two men went to the surveillance room in the basement of the hotel to view the footage. After watching the footage several times the security chief reared back in his chair. “Sorry Steele but there’s not much to go on here.”

Steele slapped the table with his hand, “Un- freaking believable.”

Steele was excited. His friend on the other hand had no idea why. After making a statement to the police and signing the standard documents Steele thanked his friend, checked out of the hotel, and headed back to Philly. With the murder of Dr. D. and the shipment of drugs off of the street, there was only one problem left to deal with. Who stole the doctor's poison concoction and why?

The video surveillance told Steele everything he needed to know but in the event, his plan went wrong he didn’t want his security guard friend to be involved. Steele’s first stop when he got back in town was to Stan’s place.

Later that night, around three a.m. in the morning Steele drove back to the badlands and broke into Trench’s office. Trench knew Steele was a smart detective so he laid low in his dark office waiting for him to break in. Trench sat silently until Steele neared his desk before turning on the lights. Trench leaned forward in the chair behind his desk while pointing a gun at Steele’s chest. He smiled at the calm but stunned detective,

“What’s the matter Steele couldn’t wait to pick up the other half of your fee?”

He instructed Steele to put his gun on the floor. Once Steele reluctantly complied Trench continued. “You were always a smart little son of a bitch, you know that. How did you know Steele?”

“I’m not so smart,” Steele answered, “it's dumb asses like you that just make me look smart.”

Trench’s smile turned to a look of anger, “Careful brother, I haven’t decided which way you gonna leave outta here tonight yet.”

Alexander Steele looked him in the eye and pointed to the desk. “Your first mistake was the newspaper. The last time I was here you tried to stop me from noticing the Wall Street Journal on your desk. So, I had you checked out. You have been buying a lot of stock in funeral homes lately, a lot. Then you sent those assholes after me trying to get me to believe that they worked for Fat Daddy when they actually worked for you. You actually had me fooled for a while but when I saw the hotel surveillance footage after the murder of the doctor I recognized the chain tattoo on the neck of one of your thugs and the designer glasses and sneakers.”

After pausing for a moment he continued, “Your people are ripping you off right in front of your face, and you didn’t even notice it. The Fat man couldn’t have sent them to off the doctor because he didn’t know the doctor was there and he had no idea that his shipment of coke was about to be poisoned. The second knapsack was a dead giveaway. You were the only one who knew about the doctor’s plan, so it was your guys who went after the doctor’s poison. Oh, and one more thing, how many funeral homes have you brought around here in the last six months? I counted four and that’s just in Philly. Okay, your turn,”

The street smart detective pointed to Trench. “What was all that bull about saving your cousin and why in the hell did you need me?”

Still holding the gun Trench was no longer smiling, he leaned back in the chair. “My cousin was a useful idiot. He doesn’t have the balls to run things the way I did. Yeah, I got out of the drug business, that part was true but how much do you think I’m gonna make a year selling knockoff handbags, huh?”

The clever banter between the two men was over, it was clear to Steele that deep down inside Trench had become an angry bitter man. Steele folded his arms and listened to Trench’s confession.

“I saw a chance to make some real money and I took it. You were needed to run interference for me. The more they chased after you the less they looked at me. Without you in the way how long do you think it would have taken them to get to me? You public enemy number one dog. You knocked old Ramon in the head and stole the first batch of poison. It was you who pissed off the guys in Little John’s crew. And who did they catch standing over the crazy-ass doctor’s dead body?”

Trench waved the gun at Steele, “It was you brother. I just sat back and waited for the right time to make my move. Now you see, I got me a really good chemist,”

Trench reached under the desk and pulled out the brown pack that his men stole from the doctor;

“He says that in a week he can mass-produce this drug. When he does I’m going to do it upright. I am going to taint every drug dealer’s stash from Baltimore to New York.”

Steele laughed, “What about Philly, what about your cousin Little John, you gonna murder all of his customers too? You gonna put him out of business while you kill thousands of innocent people.”

“Look Steele, maybe you aren’t as smart as I thought you were so I will tell you again. Within 48 hours after these junkies take a hit of the tainted coke, they’re going to be dropping faster than roaches after the exterminator comes through and once they do nobody is going to want to touch the stuff. So yes my bleeding heart friend, in order for me to fill up these funeral homes and get that stock price jacked up I will put my dumb ass cousin Little John out of business. I never liked him anyway. Hell, their friends will probably blame him and kill him for selling them bad coke. I am gonna be rich, no more of this shit.”

Trench grabbed one of the handbags off of his desk and flung it against the wall. Trench laughed until he noticed Steele smiling while removing an earpiece. Then he unbuttoned his shirt to take off the wire he had been wearing.

Steele held up the wire,

“Oh, I forgot to mention that your dumb ass cousin has been sitting outside in the car with Stan listening and recording our entire conversation.”

Trench was furious. He leaped up from his chair and pointed the gun directly at Steele’s face when his cousin Little John and four of his crew burst into the room with guns drawn. A very nervous looking Trench lowered his weapon. Steele smiled, reached down and picked up his gun then leaned over the desk to pick up the khaki knapsack with the killer drug.

“I never get involved in family squabbles,” he quipped. “Hey, maybe you can offer him some of your designer glasses.”

Steele laughed as he walked out the door. Stan who was parked just a few cars away. Steele waved at Stan to give him the all-clear. Alexander Steele laughed out loud as he got into his Jag and drove off into the night.

End

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