Fatal Exchange by Russell Blake

Author:Russell Blake [Blake, Russell]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9781610613880
Google: vFyl7xLxX5cC
Amazon: B0054M6PTY
Goodreads: 12004793
Publisher: Reprobatio Ltd
Published: 2011-06-06T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 25

Ron was sitting at his desk filling out paperwork when the data came through on the messenger suspects. Duff, real name Lamar Calvin, had a long sheet dating back to when he was a juvenile: every conceivable petty crime, and then larger gaps and more serious charges. No convictions, but assault, robbery, and drug-dealing charges abounded. Then he’d been shot, had taken six bullets in the back. And he was still walking around. That was four years ago and he was now twenty-seven. No charges since the shooting. Born in Queens, grew up in Harlem. Suspected member of the Bloods, but apparently gone straight.

Six bullets could do that for you.

Dirter, real name Henry Perth, twenty-five, had two arrests for brawling-related assaults, one dropped, one pled down. He had a DUI from Chicago, where he’d been born and raised, and had moved to New York three years ago, from what Ron could tell. Had a possession of marijuana charge that had been dropped, had been cited for drunkenness in public, had one assault complaint, later dropped. His nickname fit.

Skid, real name Thomas Franzone, twenty-six, born in Detroit, had a charge for vandalism when he was nineteen and that was it. A few speeding tickets back in Detroit, a traffic ticket from two years ago. Not exactly Jack the Ripper, but then again, who knew?

Luis, born German Luis Allecante, thirty-two, from Havana, Cuba. Parents had come over as refugees. He’d grown up in Miami, had a battery charge that never went anywhere and an auto theft charge that landed him in county, two years served in 1997. No more trouble since then, although Ron remembered from the interview he’d been distracted and nervous. Maybe he just hated cops? Or maybe he had a roomful of scalps?

Tiny, real name Curtis Young, twenty-eight, born and raised in Washington, D.C., had turned up in New York two years ago. He’d had multiple drug possession charges in D.C., two that stuck, and served a few months each time. No history of violence, but had been placed under observation while incarcerated for possible schizophrenia. Nice.

Turbo, real name James Earl, from Vernon, Texas, twenty-nine. Four years in the Army out of high school, honorable discharge. Had several bar brawl charges in his early twenties, and then several drug busts, one for possession of methamphetamines, the other for possession with intent to sell meth and PCP. He’d pled the dealing charge and served six months; the possession had been dropped. That had been when he was twenty-four. Ron had gotten a really bad, skittish vibe from Turbo, and the meth thing made sense. Meth was ugly shit, made you crazy, as did PCP. Turbo had appeared in New York almost two years ago, but had been unaccounted for since release at twenty-five—leaving three years in between where he was off the radar. Drifter?

Ron liked all of them for it, but especially Turbo, Tiny, Luis and Dirter. Duff he got a reformed feeling from, but that could be an act.

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