text: Benny’s City That’s the thing about this city, Dixon Creek runs thru the poorest neighborhoods. The city owns the land on both sides of the creek, about a hundred yards on each side, until the creek empties its filth into the Pearl River. Old growth trees and thickets surround the creek which twists and turns as it slithers toward the fast-running river. Bike trails, human trails, secret places abound among the thickets and trees. Murders are committed, rapes perpetrated, deals made, and crimes planned along its banks and among the trees. That’s the thing about this city...Dixon Creek. Dylan looked out his second-floor bedroom window with a scope from an old twenty-two rifle, the rifle long since pawned. The corner, where Tunk’s crew conducted business was quiet. It wasn’t yet sundown. That’s when the music would start. With cell phones flashing bright in dark hands and anger and greed on minds without pity, the commerce would begin and last until daylight approached. Dylan’s phone was on speaker on the desk before him as he scoped the neighborhood. “Yeah, it looks cool. I’ll have Benny walk toward the Sonic.” “Okay, tell him I’ll be with Cherry. You know how he is.” “Known him all his life,” Dylan said, and laid the scope on the desk. “What I’m saying is, he liable to just keep walking if I got someone in the car D, feel me?” Dylan chuckled, “Why he ain’t never been caught, most like.” “That fuckin Tunk ain’t out is he?” “Nah, it’s good. Ain’t dark enough yet.” “That nigga’s crazy, his whole crew. I hate driving by that corner.” “Yeah, ever since he killed Chokoh and took it over, he been giving me the eye.” “Think he know’s D? That nigga’ll kill ya he even thinks it.” “He never knew me and Chokoh’s deal. He means mugs me every time I ride by, but that could be we one of the last few whites in the neighborhood.” “And you got the only two-story house on that block D. He know that too and wants it.” “Most likely, look, I’ll send Benny on his way. But let him get to Rose street before you meet up. Too many eyes around here.” “It compressed?” “Oh yeah, and have the cash rolled tight. Rubber band it.” “As always my brother. I’ll wait five then start that way.” Dylan ended the call and looked toward his little brother’s bedroom door. He could hear music being played, gospel music, the old kind, bluegrass. Not loud, Benny Jo was always respectful. Rare for a fifteen-year-old. Dylan hadn’t been that nice. He’d leaned toward hell raising, fist fighting, and sleeping with any girl that let him. Dylan picked up his phone and called Benny. “Yo, we got business,” and hung up. Benny logged off his computer and killed the stereo, put on his hoodie and running shoes, and tucked a .380 behind his waist band as he checked himself in the mirror. Saying “Let’s do this” to his reflection, he grabbed his backpack and headed to his brother’s room. The door was open. Dylan liked to be able to listen to the house, though no one had ever broken in. The neighborhood knew Dylan had served in the army and a bronze star had been pinned on his chest in Iraq. He’d been in the local papers and news. He’d refused all interviews and dropped out of sight into his old neighborhood. Dylan delt in weight. When Benny entered the room, Dylan tossed him a compressed pound of Mother’s Milk from California. A potent sativa and expensive in Mississippi. Premium weed brought premium dollars was Dylan’s philosophy, and he had serious connections in several states, compliments of the United States Army. Tunk’s weed wasn’t even in the same ballpark. Tunk hated that he couldn’t find that kind of weed. Tunk smoked Dylan’s weed when he could get it; he just didn’t know where it came from or who was bringing it into the city. He scored his good weed, as he called it, from a city cop he had on the payroll. Officer Billingsly claimed he didn’t know who was bringing it in either. Tunk thought a lot about shooting Officer Billingsly in his lying peckerwood face. He would too, but he needed the protection Billingsly provided. You can have all the lookouts you want, but a text was better. Benny stuffed the shrink-wrapped block into his backpack and said, “Who is it?” “Joe Van. Look he’s got his girl with him, said to let you know it’ll be just the two of them, Sonic route.” “Cherry?” “Yeah.” “That girl is fine.” “Smoking hot son,” Dylan grinned. “The money’s rolled, leave it that way.” “Sure, I’ll put it next to my balls.” “Dick.” “Just don’t be sniffin it when I get back.” “Fuck you Benny, you little shit.” Benny laughed and headed for the stairs. When Benny got outside and started walking to the Sonic, Tunk got a text from Squirrel, “B on tha move.” Tunk tapped his phone absently as he wondered once more about them Carrol boys, Dylan and Benny. How come nobody seemed to know nothing about them two? He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. He didn’t like not knowing about shit in his hood, and them two were at the top of the list. Been in that big house all their lives and nobody knows nothing. They mom’s and dad dead in that car crash, and nobody seems to work. How they eat? Tunk thought on it some more and hollered for Rashan. Rashan poked his head in the door, “What up?” “That white boy, Benny? You know him?” Rashan stepped in and closed the door. “Yeah, why?” “I wanna know some things, maybe you could step in his face, find out.” Rashan looked down at his shoes. “What?” Rashan looked Tunk in the eye. “That brother of his?” “Dylan.” “Yeah. He work out with Benny almost every night in they garage. Got weights, mats, punching bags, all that shit.” “So?” Rashan frowned, “So Dylan be a black belt, army boy, war killer. He work Benny hard. Been doing it since he got back.” “You scared?” Rashan swallowed, waited a beat, then said, “Damn straight. Benny don’t play. Them fights I seen him in? They be over fast. Other boy hurt. Teeth on the ground.” “He raise that hell like his brother, huh?” Rashan smiled and looked down, shaking his head. “What boy? What funny?” Rashan looked up. “Benny a nerd. He get the highest grades in the class. I be in some of his classes. He don’t even pay attention to them teachers, then make a hundred, every time. He a quiet whiteboy. Stick to hisself. Them fights? He didn’t start ‘em. That why he never got in no trouble. Tunk looked out his window and waived his hand. Rashan left the room quick. Rashan was one of Tunks best fighters. He couldn’t believe that nigga scared of that white boy. Rashan wasn’t scared of nobody. He ain’t never said no to me Tunk thought. Something ain’t right. He fired up a blut and thought about how nice it would be to shoot that fucking Billingsly. Shoot him right in his face. After a moment he text his best lookout, Squirrel. He told him his new job. Watch every move from that Carrol house and follow that whiteboy Benny. Tunk leaned back and blew smoke at the ceiling. Squirrel saw Benny turn the corner. Squirrel got on his bike. Two blocks later he saw Benny get in a green Tahoe. A text went out with a description. Tunk looked at his screen. Brand new green Tahoe. Whiteboy walk out, then climb into a brand-new Tahoe? Why not just pick him up at the house? Shit ain’t adding up right. Brand new green Tahoe, sounded upper westside. He put the blunt out and rocked in his chair. Then he began texting some whiteboys he knew. White boys who knew that area of the city. Dirty whiteboys who always up to dirty shit. After an hour of texting, Tunk had a good idea about how those Carrol boys be eating. Nobody knew about those Carrol boys, or said they didn’t, but they knew about that Tahoe. He looked at his nine-millimeter. It took three day of looking at his security footage before Benny was sure. Edited and put into folders, he went over the footage again. He sat back and drummed his fingers on his desk. Squirrel was definitely watching them. All the time now. He refreshed his smaller laptop. Tunk’s backyard and most of the front popped into view. Last summer he’d been mowing the widow Jackson’s yard when he saw she had a perfect view of Tunk’s house from the corner of her husband’s old workshop. He was always helping Ms. Betty and she let him use the shop. He set up surveillance on Tunk and dedicated a laptop to the job. It cost him money, but he’d gone high end on the camera. He clicked on a folder. Numerous folders popped up with names like hand to hand deals, product delivery, fights, suspicious vehicles, and Chokoh’s murder. He got up, grabbed his backpack, and rode over to visit Ms. Betty. It was nightfall by the time he got back home with all the equipment. His hands had white paint on them. Gail Werner looked at the small brown bubble pack envelope, no return address. The newsroom of WKAY, Channel 5, hummed with activity. She opened the envelope and a memory stick dropped out. She pulled out the letter and read it. Then she looked at the stick. Two hours later she tapped on her editor’s door. Randy Spears looked up and waived her in. She closed the door saying, “You’re not going to believe this. Remember that drug dealer, Chokoh, that just disappeared? Randy squinted and waived her to sit, saying, “Who?” “His name was Bernard Grimmles, but everybody called him Chokoh. We put his family on the air, suspicious disappearance. He was never found.” “Not really, but what about it.” “I got video of his murder. I got the address and the shooter’s name. I got where he’s buried, all on video. Very good video. Clear video. The shooter is actually facing the camera when he shoots Chokoh. He also buries him where he fell. Then, get this, he turns the grave into a little flower garden with bird feeders and one of them stone bird baths. It’s unbelievable. And that’s not the half of it. I got video of that address going back months. You wouldn’t believe what goes on there, it’s unbelievable, and I haven’t even gone thru it all. I got an idea for the lead.” Gail grinned, her face reddening. “Yeah?” “The Den of Sin,” she said, making quotes with her fingers. After an hour of watching the Chokoh footage on his big screen, Randy said, “That neighborhood borders Dixon Creek.” Gail nodded, “Your right,” and showed him her phone. Google Maps showed the neighborhood bordered the creek. “We got to work that into the story.” “Maybe I can work it into the lead,” Gail said, frowning. “But the house isn’t on the creek, just close to it.” Randy shook his head, “Not the lead, just make sure to mention it. The notorious Dixon Creek, that kind of thing. I got to call Chief Pickett. We can’t run with this yet. Make some copies. Put the stick in the safe.” Randy picked up his phone and called the City Police. “Hey Fay, is the Chief in?” Gail leaned in and whispered, “I’ll start editing the Chokoh thing, then start on the rest.” Randy nodded and waived his pencil toward the door, “Doug? It’s Randy at 5 News. Can you come to the station?” Gail smiled and winked, closing his door. “Well, like now. You’re not going to believe what I got on video. You remember the Chokoh disappearance?” Randy couldn’t help but smile. “That’s the one. Well good news, he’s been found, and his murder and burial are all on video. All of it, everything. What? Oh, it was anonymous. Somebody mailed it to the station. It’s all on a memory stick.” Randy listened as he tapped his pencil. “The envelope? It’s right here.” Randy pushed it around a little with his pencil. “I’ll have coffee made. We’re gonna need it.” Three days later, Dylan watched as several police cars converged on the corner. The crime scene van pulled up. SWAT arrived and began checking their weapons and talking into headsets. “Yo Benny, check it out,” Dylan hollered out as he picked up his scope. Benny had been expecting and hurried to Dylan’s room. They watched as things escalated outside the window. Two dogs were on a leash behind the last patrol car. “Looks like they gonna search his house, bet there’s nothing there.” Benny held his tongue. It took a bit, but Tunk was placed in a patrol car. Then the dogs moved into the back yard. Cadaver dogs, Benny thought. “What the fuck is going on over there?” Dylan said out loud. Benny glanced over, stood straight and said, “Tunk fucked up.” Greg Pierce 2021