Johnny, the man Sting murdered was Sting's biggest rival in the local dope trade. It was little wonder why Sting made it to the top of somebody's hit list already. A dope boss was dead, which meant stakes were about to be re-arranged and territories were up for grabs. Sting was the second biggest distributor and taking over from his rival would surely increase demand for his products. The attempt on his life earlier this morning was either for revenge or to tilt the odds in someone else's favor. This was the exact reason someone out there was seriously vexed and out for his blood. However, Sting wasn't one to nap. He'd taxed his pawns to sniff the air and smoke the rat out, Lade included.
Lade had been with Sting's organization six years now and knew most of Sting's ambitions, alliances and enemies. Her only friend Cindy had been with Sting for much longer and had coached her on how Sting's game was played. Sting had found Lade to be clever and more subtle than any of the other girls he kept, and so he let her have a few privileges. He stopped pimping her around for cash and favors like he did the other girls. He'd learned that there was better use for resourceful females and that certain assignments will be far easier accomplished by sexy females than by gun-toting, egoistic males. He paid her commissions in cash and drugs. Some of his other girls were jealous, talking at his back of how 'he had a soft spot for Nicky'.
Lade stepped into the cold night out of the under-populated bar. She was wearing a jacket over her evening dress and flat shoes tonight. She stood at five feet three inches without her heels. There was a light touch of make up on her face, her hair was tied to a ponytail tonight and she rocked silver ear rings which complimented her silver purse. She was beautiful and knew it. A group of drunk guys hanging around a car parked outside the bar whistled at her, but she ignored them. She took in the rest of her surroundings. Rosa's bar was owned by Sting's latest rival, an albino named Mandy. She'd been here once before to pick up some cash for Sting but that had been over six months ago. She doubted anyone here would recognize her or who she worked for. She was just another single girl hanging out around the bar looking to mingle. However, the bar looked depopulated for a Friday night. Either the night was too cold to stay outside and everyone had gone to bed early, or Mandy and the noisy crowd he gathered around himself weren't about to show their faces, meaning something was definitely up with them.
The music playing was irritating - too loud to allow her think. She felt like a cigarette and looked around for a vendor. It was going to be a long, cold night for her. She'd need a packet. Or two... Her cell phone began ringing in her purse. She took it out knowing it had to be Sting checking that she was on point. In fact only Sting called her, as a rule. None of the other girls including Cindy owned a cell phone. Lade had learned to say, such was her life.
***
Banks sat in the rear seat of the taxi as it drove along a dark, bumpy street. He'd bathed and changed. He wore a white stud jacket zipped up to his chest and blue jeans. The taxi's headlamp was all that illuminated the broken asphalt single lane and its numerous pot-holes. There was an occasional trickle of pedestrians as they drove, but no other vehicles were on the road. The radio on the taxi was playing an old Damian Marley reggae track to which the driver was whistling in tune. It was distraction enough, trying to glean whatever meaning from the philosophical lyrics spewing through the cackling speakers. It was distraction enough from the numerous thoughts in his head, which he didn't want to be thinking.
Especially Jennifer. Next to Andy, she was his best friend. Why she wasn't as contented with that as he was beat his imagination. Why she wanted to complicate a good and reliable relationship with dates and romance was something he couldn't understand. If he refused to attempt a relationship with every pretty skirt that came close to him, he'd be titled a fag. If he accepted them as they came like he used to, then he'll be called a Casanova. However, this wasn't about pretty girls coming at him, rather about one who'd been consistent for a couple of years now. She was the hottest in his entire faculty, rich and probably not just after his family's money. She had the best cumulative grade point average among both faculties of Fine and performing arts. All the classiest guys he knew around school had asked her out. Her character was unquestionable too, and she'd set sights on him since day one. Everyone that knew both of them was rooting for her. All that didn't mean anything. Just because their relationship worked on a platonic level wasn't a guarantee that if he shifted gears and switched on some romance, they'd be a successful couple. He'd tire of her soon if he attempted it. He loved her, true. He just wasn't in love with her. He wasn't like most guys who developed imaginary sentiments when they found a desirable mate. They were cool to hang out with but most of such guys would laugh at him and call him a fag.
Banks took off his snapback cap and scratched his sweaty head as he stared out of the window at the neighborhood. There he went thinking about her again. Banks felt for the framed painting in his bag and looked at his wrist watch. He was still on schedule.
The taxi driver interrupted his thoughts. "Oga, e be like say na here I go drop you," He said slowing down to a stop at a junction on the street. There were no houses were they'd stopped. Banks frowned at him. "Have we gotten to where we are going?"
The driver pointed at a dark, adjacent street that disappeared to the right. "Na that one be York street, me I no fit to enter that side abeg." He said.
"Why? Wetin we come bargain for?" Banks asked in his imperfect pidgin. "No be number twenty-two York street I tell you, wey we agree how much I go pay you?"
"Oga no vex, abeg." The driver pleaded. "Them dey snatch people moto for this side by this time, especially if you no dey stay around and them no sabi you. Look around! When the last time we see moto pass?"
Banks scanned the area and sighed. "So wetin we go do now?"
"Just pay me small something, or you carry your money go. If I bin sabi say na that side you dey go, I no for gree carry you."
Banks looks at the dark, adjacent street again, trying to douse his anger. If that was York street, then twenty two would be within walking distance or something. Banks took out his wallet, slipped out a five hundred naira note and handed it to the driver. He alighted from the taxi, taking his framed canvas which was covered with well designed wrapping paper.
"Thank you oga! God bless you!" the driver quipped, reversing to drive away the way he came.
Banks crossed the junction into York street with the framed canvas under his arms. He remembered that his client had mentioned the name of a drinking bar close to his apartment. Rose's bar, he thought. Judging by the eeriness of the street, there'd be at most one drinking parlor; that shouldn't be hard to find. Still, he decided to call his client and alert him on his presence. Banks took out his blackberry and scrolled through his phone book as he walked past a dark junkyard at a corner of the street. There was a sharp bend on the street just ahead of him.
"Sorry, the number you just dialed is not available..." Banks ended the call with a mental sigh interrupting the computer voice giving him the bad news. Call network issues in Lagos was a rare occurrence but happened when you least expected. Stray odours of Indian hemp wafting through the air got him alert and made him take a second look at the junkyard to his left as he walked past it. He noticed a few glows from lit joints and could make out human shadows huddled together and talking in whispers. Banks straightened becoming self-conscious but continued at his pace. Fear was smelled on a prey faster than it was seen and he wasn't about to be an easy target for any night prowlers.
Banks made it around the bend and the lights he saw in the distance was a welcome sight. So was the crazy dance music whose sound drifted towards him. He could see the residential areas now. Small bungalows, most of them unfenced, lined both sides of the street and were lighted by i-pass-my-neighbor generators. He could hear their engines noisily compete with each other. A few houses and kiosks were lit with candles or kerosene lamps. A police patrol cruised past him as he made his way past the first houses searching for the address he had. Soon, he saw a huge lighted signboard ahead which read ROSA'S BAR. Okay, not ROSE'S... that was where the dance music was coming from. His client's house would be somewhere close. There were people hanging around the bar going about whatever they were up to.
