* * *
Lorenzo Moorcock had been a very unhappy man the day he lost the election for city commissioner of Detroit. But now, five years later, he couldn't have been happier about the outcome. If he had been successful in his political career, he wouldn't now be the proud owner of a wildly lucrative drug operation.
It had taken Moorcock time to set up his elaborate drug-cutting factory in the basement, after he had purchased the run-down church. But the church was a perfect cover, and once he had that set up, it was just a matter of rounding up the right people and the right contacts. Some of his old political affiliations had been helpful in that area, especially his Iranian friends.
Using juveniles as his street peddlers had been a stroke of pure genius. When they got arrested, it was only on juvenile charges, and they were soon out on the streets again. And when they got older, he simply moved them into another area of the operation.
It was all perfect, right down to the way the drugs were brought into the country and placed in his hands. For that, he used not only the Iranians but also the Mexicans.
In the eighteen months that his operation had been running, no one had ever come close to impeding it… until now. The American and the Oriental were becoming dangerous and would have to be dealt with. He wouldn't want his Mexican friends to find out about them and get nervous. Removing them would have to be handled carefully because the Mexicans would be in town tomorrow. For once Moorcock admitted to himself that he may have made a mistake. He should have listened to Donald and let him kill the pair sooner.
Of course, he hadn't realized how difficult they'd be to kill. The American had somehow scared away the kids who had been sent to kill him on the street, and then he'd managed somehow to get back to the hotel in time to save the old man.
This time he'd send seasoned men after them and get the job done right.
While he was inspecting the cutting operation to make sure everything was in order, Donald came up next to him with a message.
"From whom?" Moorcock asked.
"Danny the Man Lincoln."
"The nigger dealer?"
"That's the guy."
"What does he want?"
"He wants a meeting."
"With me?"
"Actually, the word is he just wants to meet with someone from our operation."
"For what purpose?"
"I don't know."
"Perhaps he wants to join us.
"God knows he can't beat us."
"Please," the minister said, "we do not speak of God here. He is not part of our modern beliefs."
"Right, right," Donald said, wondering how serious Moorcock was.
"All right, Donald," Moorcock said. "Set it up. Arrange the meeting with Mr. Danny the Man. Who knows? Maybe he could be useful to us."
"When should I set it up for?"
"Tomorrow night, I think. I'll want you with me when we meet with the Mexicans."
"You'll want me with— uh, you mean I'm going to meet with him?"
"Who else would I send, Donald?" Moorcock asked. "You are my right-hand man."
"Yes, sir."
"Everything looks all right here, Donald. I'll be upstairs if you need me."
"Yes, sir."
Moorcock took one last glance around and then went upstairs to prepare for evening services.
Donald Wagner didn't like the idea of having to meet with Danny the Man. He didn't like blacks, and in fact it made him very nervous to work in the ghetto. Of course, he'd never let Moorcock know that. He hid his fear through viciousness— and through killing. Killing for the sake of killing made him feel like a man. He wouldn't have minded meeting Danny the Man to kill him, but to talk business with him— that was another matter.
Still, he worked for Moorcock, and everything the "minister" had done up to this point had been successful. The man was strange and probably more than a little crazy, but there was no doubt that he was a genius.
If Lorenzo Moorcock wanted him to meet with Danny the Man, that's what he would do.
After all, what harm could it do?
* * *
When the phone rang, Danny the Man cursed aloud. The young lady beneath him was just lifting her hips in anticipation when he withdrew, rolled over, and answered the phone.
"This better be real good," he said.
"Is this Danny the Man?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"I'm calling to arrange a meeting."
"Am I supposed to know what that means?"
"I'm sure you do. This is a meeting that you've been asking for."
He should have known. If it wasn't that white bastard himself— with his usual timing— it would be his business that the call was about.
"All right," Danny said. "When?"
"Tomorrow evening, after dark. Let's make it nine o'clock," the man's voice said.
"Are you white?" Danny asked.
"What?" the man asked, puzzled.