Courtney “Owl Baby” Newman a well-known creep, dope dealer and all around bad guy and his lovely girlfriend/baby mamma, Takiashia Brown dabbled in the sales and distribution of dope and guns.
As is customary in this situation both had lengthy arrest and conviction records. Not so customary, Takiashia, snitched for Murph and myself.
Takiashia came up with good information for us from time to time. This activity, of course, conducted without the knowledge of “Owl Baby.”
Murph and I completed our undercover activities, now assigned to the street crew, that being former undercover cops that knew the criminal landscape and worked in the Street Corner Apprehension Team, referred to as SCAT.
Primarily targeting open-air drug markets and developing, following up on any major criminal activity.
One fine day Takiashia called our office looking for Murph and moi. Ms. Rohan, the secretary tracked us down and told me Takiashia is looking for us with a most important crime bulletin. Something about bloody tennis shoes, stashed clothes and a bunch of other gibberish that she couldn’t understand.
I contacted the source of all the drama and agreed to meet her near the abandoned carter carburetor factory.
By now, it was dark. Like no moon or stars dark, like no streetlights dark. Creepy dark. Murph and I had our iron out and ready for quick access. Is this a set-up? Crazy thoughts run through your tired, oxygen-starved brain.
Tankiashia arrived on the scene and got in the back seat of our trusty red mercury cougar.
She couldn’t stop talking. Words spilled out like a machine gun. I picked up snippets like “Owl Baby”, bloody clothes, attic and I think he kilt that boy.”
After we settled her down with calming words like “What the fuck are you talkin’ ‘bout, girl?” She composed herself somewhat and broke the set down to us.
The story revolved around a non-paying heroin distributor in the employ of our purveyor of fine dope products. “Owl Baby.”
The late Billy “white boy Bill” McCurry, failed to make good on a fronted package of two ounces of heroin. In the dope world, non-payment is, in essence, a death penalty. That is a death penalty without benefit of court proceedings, endless appeals and pleadings of defense attorneys like “Howlin’” Ray Nixson with some fairy tale explanation why his client is not good for the charged offense.
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, Murph and I were able to get a reasonable, if somewhat disjointed, story about what the hell happened.
“Owl Baby” went in search of the dope thief ,”White boy Bill”, unfortunately for the victim, if that is the correct description, he found the chump getting down with a portion of the purloined heroin.
“Owl Baby” put an end to his antics via several bullet holes in the area of vital organs. The evil doer then rummaged through the lad’s clothes looking for any money and the remnants of the fronted two ounces. In the process rendering his clothes and tennis shoes bloody.
Murph and I being able to piece toghather that the clothes and shoes stashed in a closet. The gun placed behind a radiator.
A quick check with the homicide boys indicated that, sure enough, “White Boy Bill” was a murder victim.
Our boss and the homicide boss agreed to let us work the case. Proper procedure and all that shit.
Murph put out an arrest order. I got a search and arrest warrants. The hunt was on. “Owl Baby” captured a short time later.
Grand jury indictments followed.
Then came the legal system, and depositions.
Tankieshia subpoenaed by the defendant’s attorney, “Howlin’ “Ray for an exploratory deposition. “Howlin’ Ray trying to find out who snitched out his god-fearing client. She was accompanied to this party by an assistant prosecuting attorney.
After being sworn in“Howlin’ Ray asked if she was married to the defendant, Mr. Newman.
“Yeah we married, but we ain’t got no papers ‘yaunnderstan’”
“Then Mr. Newman is your significant other?”
“My what.”
“Never mind.”
“Tankishia, do you know Detectives Dye and Murphy?”
“Yeah…but I ain’t fuckin’ ‘em.”
THAT’S IT
To read about Ken’s latest novel, go to his website.
S A Y W H A T !
Not too many coppers knows how to spell carburetor…back long before spell check, when we had to write something about the Carter plant up on Grand Avenue, we had to get in the car, ride up there, and copy the word off the front of the building.
I worked the other section of the old Fifth in Henry Five, dealing with a little higher class of folks…mostly winos down on broadway and norf market…Johnny Sayers and his girl friend Rose, an ex-stripper whose tattoos were starting to take on new meaning…particularly the snake that was curled around one leg…I’ve forgotten which.
Got a call one night for a disturbance…Johnny was sitting on a sewer lid with his feet in the gutter and Rose was hoverin overhead with a pair of pliers, trying to pull a tooth that was giving Johnny some pain. Rose kept pulling the wrong tooth and Johnny was getting a mite bit distraught…blood was everywhere. This one was nolle prossed right there on the corner since they were drawing a crowd and it was time for shift change..
Soon Johnny got well…Fall was in the air; the first frost upon us and time for Johnny to prepare for his annual visit to the Workhouse, back when it was down on norf broadway. John had once been tossed out of a bar in the immediate vicinity…on the Fifth side of the street of course…norf market being the dividing line with the Fourth District…Well, to get even, Johnny would heave a brick through the tavern window, wait for his conveyance, get six months for the window smashing, save his pension checks and then emerge in the spring with a fist full of money…enough to keep him mellow until Fall was once again in the air.
I tear up just thinking about all those wonderful folks …I really miss the smell of stale wine and vomit….and Rose dancing for us in the cell room.