Read Online Death Wish by Iceberg Slim - Free Book Online Page B

his shotgun hardagainst Ivory’s throat under the jawbone and pleaded in his loud voice, “Please! Please! Crack another word! Come on, you terrible bastard, do me a favor and open your jib again so your mammy can bury you without your head. Now let’s march!”
    Ivory went toward the front of the Pontiac and its rigid occupants, with the shotgun rammed under his jawbone. He kneeled beside the front wheel with his palms on the fender.
    Slim stepped back to cover Ivory and the interior of the Pontiac. He said, “Where did you hit Lard Ass?”
    Thick Set laughed and said, “Through the right eye and out the top of his skull.”
    He pointed the thirty-eight at Dew Drop through the open door and said, “Get out and kneel beside this loud-mouthed nigger.”
    Dew Drop got out and followed the order. Thick Set stood behind Dew Drop and Ivory. Slim moved to the open rear window of the Pontiac. He pointed the shotgun at Bumpy and Roscoe on the backseat.
    Thick Set said, “Whitey Blue Eyes, are you a Warrior too?”
    Dew Drop said loudly, “I sure am, and you can bet your mother’s fucking life I’m—”
    Dew Drop’s reply was cut off as Thick Set took a step forward and fired two rapid shots. Roscoe and Bumpy saw the arms and hands of Dew Drop and Ivory slide lifelessly from the front fender.
    Thick Set threw his head back and said gleefully, “What the hell, let’s be tidy and go all the way.”
    Slim swung open the rear door and said, “You niggers hit the ground and go the clean way or sit right there and I’ll blow you away nasty with this shotgun.”
    Bumpy hurtled though the open door toward Slim and seized the barrel of the shotgun with both hands. Roscoe was paralyzed. His teeth chattered as if he were encased in ice. Bumpy struggled with Slim for the shotgun. Thick Set sprinted toward them casually, pressed the thirty-eight against the back of Bumpy’s head, and pulled thetrigger. Bumpy sagged to the ground. Slim and Thick Set stuck their faces into the Pontiac. Vomit dribbled from Roscoe’s mouth. His eyes walled toward the top of his head. He lay on the floor in a ball, whimpering piteously like a puppy with a crushed rear end.
    Slim guffawed and said, “We should have a camera to get a shot of this bad Warrior crapping in his pants.”
    Thick Set reached in and jerked Roscoe to the alley floor. He pointed the muzzle of the thirty-eight at his temple.
    Roscoe stared into the muzzle. His heels clicked together in a spasm of terror, and he blubbered rapidly, “I ain’t no Warrior, I swear I ain’t. I’m one of you. Call Lieutenant Porta at Eleventh Street Station. He’ll tell you I ain’t lying.”
    Thick Set snorted and said, “Bullshit, you’re no undercover cop. We’d know because we’re members of Porta’s special squad. What’s your badge number?”
    Roscoe waved his arms and pleaded, “I ain’t got no badge number ’cause I didn’t mean I was a real roller. I mean the lieutenant is got me working to get inside the Warriors’ hideout, to set them up an stuff like that. Please believe me, Officers. I ain’t stuffing on you. Call Lieutenant Porta at Eleventh Street. If he ain’t there, I got his unlisted private number at home. I ain’t jiving, Officers. I ain’t no Warrior.”
    Slim said, “Write it down.” He dug into his coat pocket and took out a small address book, then he threw it on Roscoe’s chest.
    Thick Set flung a ballpoint beside it. Roscoe, in the glow of the spotlight, shakily scrawled a telephone number in the book. They pulled Roscoe to his feet. He leaned against the rear fender of the Pontiac. Then he shuddered and batted his eyes rapidly at a terrifying spectacle. Bumpy sprang up, grimly alive. He came toward Roscoe, followed by Dew Drop, Lotsa Black, and Ivory Jones. They stood in a half circle