The Boston Copycat Killer

By Johnny Barnes

The Boston Copycat Killer is a quick primer on serial killers. It is the story of a murderer replicating many of New Englands famous and astounding crimes. Former homicide detective, now private investigator, Jack Kelly and Boston Police Department Detective Lt. Jessica Paris track the killer as he terrorizes the community and mocks the BPD. The tale begins with an intense look at the copycat killer and his unholy mission. True crimes reproduced take a central role as Kelly, the Boston Police Department, State Police, and the FBI race to an explosive shoot-out and arrest, only to find it is not the end.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: May 17, 2018
• ISBN: 9781546241850

Johnny Barnes

Johnny Barnes was a detective agency operative in Boston, a police detective and FBI trained hostage negotiator in Maine, and a patrol officer in Mass. He attended Marlboro Academy, UMass-Dartmouth, Berklee School of Music, North Shore Community College, and Harvard University Extension School. Johnny played guitar and sang in a R&R band for most of his life, producing many records and CDs. His group played with many of musics legends at Bostons famed Channel nightclub, where he was a manager and Head of Security. WWW.JOHNNYBARNES.COM

Book preview

Chapter 1

Dead Cat & The Vampire Killer

James Riva had drank the blood of a cat.

Now Copy Cat was going to. He would be as faithful as he could in reproducing the original crime, within reason. Copy Cat was obsessed with all the details needed to replicate the murder. He would at least cover the basic elements of the evil offense.

He had showered and shaved his entire body and face. Copy Cat would shed little or no trace evidence. His medium-length brown hair was washed, slicked down, and combed back.

Today is special, the aspiring killer had said this morning, staring at his naked frame in the mirror. He draped his body with a clean shirt and his best dark blue suit. He wore his favorite pair of rattlesnake skin cowboy boots. Today was special. He felt it. Today he was special.

He arrived at his first scene. Copy Cat didn’t want to make any mistakes or glaring inaccuracies, and he didn’t want to be chaotic. He took off his boots and placed them by the bathtub. He took off his suit, light blue shirt, and socks and laid them on the towel rack in the old woman’s bathroom. Copy Cat looked at his naked reflection in the mirror. He thought his body looked white and soft, as if he had never been in the sun or exercised. The man resolved to go back into the gym in the future. If he had a future.

There were gold painted bullets in the revolver that he had placed on the edge of the bathtub, similar to the bullets James Riva had used. Next to the gun, his long knife and a silver bowl. If he had a hard time with the woman’s cat, he could stab it until dead. That would be acceptable. Maybe a few of the details in his fantasy weren’t exact, but Copy Cat felt confident this is what James Riva would have done.

The killer watched the old woman’s cat as he filled the white tub with water and the cat watched him. The immense black cat with white front paws jumped up on the edge of the bathtub and became fascinated with the bubbles floating in the water. The cat paid less attention to the strange man and was reaching out to bat a bubble with its paw when in a flash the trust was broken. The killer grabbed the cat by the neck and shoved the feline’s head down into the bathtub water. He thought drowning as a method of killing was preferable; it was clean and could be accomplished in a minute.

The cat struggled, striking out with its paws, looking for anything to dig its claws into. Water splashed out of the tub. Copy Cat took a quick look down to see the water splashing onto his expensive boots on the floor nearby. He glanced down for just a moment and the cat got its hind legs up far enough to scratch the soft flesh on the inside of Copy Cat’s arm. The cat’s claws dug deep as it fought for its life. The killer cried out in pain and looked to see blood streaming from the scratches.

Bitch! Copy Cat screamed as he lifted the soaking cat up over his head. The cat was defiant, staring into Copy Cat’s face, hissing. Copy Cat swung the cat down, slamming the feline’s cranium on the edge of the tub, crushing the back half of the cat’s head. Dark blood gushed out of the split skull into the tub water. Copy Cat picked up the silver bowl and held it underneath the bleeding cat. As the bowl began to fill, the overspill from the cat added to the runoff from Copy Cat’s arm and it turned the tub water bright pink. Copy Cat stood in wide-eyed wonder, savoring the moment. He held the dripping feline up to the light as an offering. Its body convulsed for a moment but the tail soon stopped twitching. The blood flow slowed, the cat gurgled, and the light in its green eyes began to fade.

A fascinated Copy Cat quivered with excitement, believing he was on the edge of glory. It was now or never. He pulled the dead cat down from the light and cradled it in his arms like an infant for a moment looking into its open eyes. Then the killer relaxed his grip on the feline and the bloody mutilated cat slid down into the red water of the tub. Copy Cat lifted the shiny bowl, feeling its weight, and brought the bowl to his lips. He took a sniff as if from a brandy snifter and then drank some of the liquid. The warm blood slid over his tongue and down his throat. The cat killer was repulsed and sickened by the taste but he forced himself to drink. His chest heaved and he gagged. Some of the dark fluid bubbled up in his mouth and ran down his chin, but he succeeded in swallowing much of it.

Copy Cat’s demeanor changed from overexcited to rapturous. He slowed his breathing and stood gazing into the full-length bathroom mirror. His eyes were wide open as he admired his insane image, his hair untamed and wet. There was a soft smile on his lips as the red fluid dripped from his chin, ran down his heaving chest, and onto his shaved pubic area and genitals.

He felt special. The cat killer grinned at his image. Copy Cat was covered in red and he sniffed the hot blood. This was the start of something grand. He was being reborn. Copy Cat was excited and swollen with self righteous pride. He admired his image in the mirror and hummed the Teapot Song, a child’s nursery rhyme. The freak turned from side-to-side, not unlike a little girl who had done something cute.

Copy Cat had waited a long time for this moment, planning and training. He had wondered if his commitment was strong enough. The killer had hoped he had the bravado to dedicate himself to his quest. Now Copy Cat knew he did.

The cat slayer needed to complete the act by killing the Grandmother. The role of the Grandmother, in Copy Cat’s fantasy, was to be played by an unsuspecting woman in her eighties. She had no connection to Copy Cat other than he had driven her home in a taxicab and escorted her to her apartment door. He had decided right then and there to cast her in his fantasy for the simple reason that she was available and could portray the character. All the world is my stage, when I open my cage, and I’m free once again, he sang.

Copy Cat had done his homework. The Grandmother used a wheelchair similar to James Riva’s grandmother. His surveillance had revealed she lived in a suitable location in the south shore town of Quincy, right by the Redline rail tracks. He could make entry into her apartment in the back of the building through her second floor terrace’s unsecured sliding glass doors. Yes, she was perfect. And, she had a cat, just like James Riva’s grandmother!

Copy Cat walked from the bathroom to the bedroom, continuing to admire his reflection in every mirror he saw, posing and primping. It was as if the cat blood running down his face and body was the most desirable and the coolest new accessory. He felt special as he snapped a selfie from the wall mirror.

The killer walked over by the bed to the old lady and ran his wet fingers through her short white hair as she sat in her wheelchair. The Grandmother wore a pale green nightgown and he snapped a picture of her. She looked as if she weighed less than 80 pounds. She whimpered as he approached and managed to plead in a whisper, Tell me you didn’t hurt Mr. Whiskers, please.

Copy Cat blinked a few times from a nervous tic. He looked into the wall mirror, smiled at himself and winked. The cat killer put a finger to his lips and said, Meow… meow… Uh, oh.

The old lady began to sob.

Wait! I hear voices. I never stop hearing the voices. They say you are a lady vampire! Are you after my spinal fluid? Have you been trying to suck my blood? Copy Cat asked her as he bent over, staring into the old woman’s face.

The woman became paralyzed with fear as the stench of the stranger’s bloody breath blew into her face. She didn’t have any idea what this madman was talking about, who he was, or why he was there. The old lady had woken at 2 AM to find the strange man standing over her as she lay in her bed in the dark. He said to her, This is no good; you’ve got to be in your wheelchair.

The old lady strained to speak. She was bewildered and shaking now. She raised an arm, pointing to a portable phone in a charger on her bureau. In a weakened voice the woman managed to beg, Let me get you some help, young man. Let’s call an ambulance or go to the Emergency Room. You need some help, my son. Give me that phone.

Copy Cat stood before her, with glistening dark red blood running down from his mouth, some beginning to coagulate on his chest and stomach. Blood trickled down his legs as he stood listening for the approaching subway trolley.

You’re my first, did you know that? he said smiling at her.

What?

He added, Except for your big fat kitty cat.

As he listened to the faint sound of an oncoming Red Line trolley, he said through blood covered teeth, I think it’s time to go.

Copy Cat took another photo with the old woman then walked into the bathroom and retrieved his pistol and the long knife. He returned as the woman tried to roll to the phone, and bent down in front of her.

I’d love to go on talking to you Grandma but the train should be coming by in a minute. When the rumble gets loud enough I’m going to p-p-pop you a couple times and… I may… drink your blood, he said, as if explaining the day’s scheduled events to a resident at an old age home. The woman’s eyes widened and she shook her head from side to side.

But I’m going to s-s-s-start with this. He plunged the 6-inch knife blade straight into her chest, under her breast plate. They locked eyes. Copy Cat felt a perverse excitement, a profane forbidden lust, dominating, controlling, and feeding his sickness. The woman experienced the disturbing gaze between a predator and its prey when the game is over and they both know it.

Copy Cat pulled the knife out of her chest as he crouched over her, brushing aside her nightgown and leaning in. He was slow and tender as his lips pressed around the wound. The madman began to suck, and the dying woman’s tiny heart pumped the blood into his mouth.

He stood up, reveling in the gore, the blood running down his lower lip and across his chin. The sick cat killer arched back his head and howled. The old lady was able to look up at him in shock and disbelief. As the sound of the approaching Red Line trolley reached its zenith, Copy Cat picked up the gun and fired four of the golden bullets into her tiny ribcage. The woman’s head slumped forward and she made a clicking sound in her throat as she struggled to get air into her bleeding lungs.

He stood there, in the moment, obsessed with the horror of his reflection.

After the sound of the trolley faded away he vacuumed, cleaned up, put all the evidence; rubber gloves, the vacuum cleaner bag, bleach, paper towels, the gun, the knife, and the sterling silver bowl, into a trash bag. Red blood ran down the drain as Copy Cat showered. He put a topical antibiotic on the deep scratches on his upper arm, added some gauze dressing, and wrapped it all with an Ace bandage.

Fucking dead cat, he said feeling nauseated again as he looked down through the bloody water at the cat at the bottom of the tub. He knew he was on his way and had gone beyond the point of no return. Copy Cat dressed back into his suit and combed his damp hair back. He put in his ear buds and set his iPod to play, ‘Burning Down the House,’ by the Talking Heads. The killer could no longer hear the gasping, clicking, and wheezing of the Grandmother.

Copy Cat took a final look around the old woman’s apartment and shook his head in affirmation. The killer liked what he saw. He opened the sliding door and threw the trash bags out onto the porch, preparing to return back out into the night. Before leaving, Copy Cat poured two pints of dry gas all over the woman, her bed, and the rugs. And approximating James Riva, he threw the lit match at her feet. The orange flames traveled up her nightgown and covered her. The old woman, still clinging to life, tried to scream as the crackling fire sucked the air from her tired lungs.

Chapter 2

Hunting Season

"Did you see the front page of the Boston Herald, Jack?" Willie Crawford, AKA the Musician, asked as he burst through the doorway of Jack Kelly’s 4th floor Chinatown loft-space office. Willie is an investigator and operative for Jack’s detective agency. He’s a thirty-something bass playing ex-band mate of Jack’s. He’s 6’ tall, clean-shaven with a thin build. His brown hair is longer-than-average and looks like it had been cut with a soup can lid. Today he wore his red Converse sneakers with jeans and an old blue T-shirt with yellow letters declaring, ‘BOSTON STRONG.’

Can’t you see I’m working here? Jack pushed a reddish-brown shock of hair back and pulled his black sneakered feet down from the desk. Jack Kelly was in his early forties but looked younger. He stood at 5’10" tall and was on the thin side, weighing less than 170 pounds. He was clean-shaven with bright blue eyes and medium length hair, brushed straight back. Jack threw the copy of Yachting magazine on the desk and added, I didn’t hear you coming up the stairs. Don’t you knock?

"Cut the bullshit, Jack. I took the old elevator. I didn’t want to spill the coffee. Didn’t you hear it, Mr. Security, grinding its way up four floors and slamming to a halt outside your door? You keep telling me that nobody can sneak up on you. And besides, I’m the guy who painted the lettering on your office door that reads ‘Jack Kelly’s American Detective Agency’ and ‘Please Come In.’"

True. True.

"And I have a key. You insisted I take a set of keys three years ago. Now, maybe I should take this giant Dunkin’ Donuts coffee with ‘milk no sugar’ written on it, and today’s Herald, right back out the fuckin’ door with me," Willie said with mock hostility.

Have a seat, my dear friend, Jack said reaching outward and making a childish grasping motion for the gigantic Styrofoam cup of coffee Willie held.

You know, Jack. To say you act juvenile would be an insult to juveniles everywhere, Willie said handing Jack the coffee.

I admit it. I’m childlike at times.

"You are childlike all the time. And besides, I didn’t knock because I never knock. Why are you giving me shit that I didn’t knock? I work here."

After a moment of silence, Willie asked, Don’t I?

Jack opened the lid on the coffee, took a sip and said, I’ve been thinking I need to make some changes.

Oh, I’m fired again?

I’m thinking of changing to having my coffee with milk and honey, Jack said looking out the window at the light rain falling over Chinatown.

Gee, Jack. You can see the big picture. And the important things, like milk and honey in your coffee, Willie said.

Attention to details, my young detective. The Devil is in the details. By the way, my life is based on a true story.

Great, Jack. Is that all you’re going to change?

Yes. Henceforth, and from now until eternity, I will have my coffee with milk and honey, when available, Jack said scrutinizing the front page of the soon to be obsolete newspaper, I think that’s enough of a change for now.

Jack read and shouted, "Jesus! ‘Child Found Dead. The body of a 6-year-old girl was pulled out of Fort Point Channel.’ Jesus Christ Almighty."

Don’t blame Jesus, he didn’t do it, Willie said, pulling his St. Christopher medal out from under his T-shirt.

He didn’t stop it either, Jack retorted, hoping the comment wouldn’t begin their endless debate on religion, philosophy, and the nature of man.

Jack paraphrased the newspaper, Police suspect foul play… anonymous witness came forward last night…saw a taxi cab stop on the Broadway Bridge and the driver take a green bag or large green knapsack out, hurl the bag over the rail and down into the water of the Fort Point Channel. The witness thought it was an illegal dumping, but saw the green bag move, as if something were alive inside. She called the police. The bag floated down the channel, began sinking, and the witness said she would try to get a better look. Later, while conducting a search of the channel with the patrol car’s spotlight, the police found a small green sleeping bag on the water’s edge. Inside was the body of a schoolgirl of 6 or 7 years-old. She was dressed, like the earlier report of a missing child, in her schoolgirl uniform with a green plaid skirt, white socks, and white shirt. The Medical Examiner and the homicide detectives were called to the scene.

And get this, said Jack, reading.

’At daybreak the body of an older woman was also found a few hundred yards downriver. It looked as if she had taken a beating to the face.’

It sounds like that little girl was dressed in the school uniform of the Bleeding Sacred Heart Catholic School for Girls. My little Katelyn goes there. It’s right on Broadway in Southie. Next to the former Triple O’s, Willie said, beginning to worry about the safety of his three girls.

Oh yeah, Triple O’s. Serial killer mob boss James ‘Whitey’ Bulger used to stand in front of his barroom and stare at the little school girls.

Not anymore.

Don’t you think it’s odd an old woman was beaten and thrown into the channel at the same time and place… relatively?

Related, you think? They’re relatives? Willie asked, confused.

Jack looked over the top of his newspaper at Willie like a father looking at his immature son. He did not answer the question but instead shook his head saying, That dead woman might be the anonymous witness-caller. God! What is wrong with people?

Willie didn’t answer for a moment and then quoted, ’When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.’

Are you quoting Martin Luther King or Gandhi?

Jimi Hendrix.

Are you having an acid flashback? You didn’t learn that in high school.

No. I learned how to fight and steal at Southie High. I studied a book of famous quotes when I was in the Charles Street Jail for 3 months, Willie confessed.

"That murder was four blocks from here. And listen to this in the Herald. Kelly continued reading, The police got a call last night from a man saying there was a dead body in a muddy hole dug for a foundation at a construction site in the old Combat Zone on Beach Street near the Two O’clock Lounge. The same spot where the Novelty Lounge had been torn down. The caller was ‘giggling and laughing as he reported this.’ The Boston Police dispatcher, suspecting a prank call, asked the caller why he kept laughing and the man said, ‘Because I put him there.’ And when asked to identify himself the caller laughed again and said, ‘I’m the Giggler,’ and ended the call. The responding patrol officers found the body of a middle aged man beaten with rocks in the muddy foundation excavation. The police report stated, ‘An empty whiskey bottle will be processed. Evidence in the mud showed the unidentified victim tried to claw his way out of the muddy foundation hole but may have been hit with rocks until succumbing.’"

Freaky, Willie said. Three bodies, all in our neighborhood. Can we take the case, Jack?

No client, no case, Willie. No more pro bono casework. If it don’t make dollars, it don’t make sense, Jack said knowing his propensity for getting involved without adequate remuneration. Before Willie could offer an objection, Jack repeated, No dough, no go, Willie.

Willie stood up, looked out the window, and said, lamenting the old days, What has become of this part of Boston? Southie and Chinatown are cleaned up. The yuppies are taking over, buying up condos. The Combat Zone is all but dead and gone except for a few places like the Liberty Tree, Glass Slipper, and the new Centerfolds. It was better when strip clubs like the Naked i, the Two O’clock Lounge, the Intermission Lounge, Pussy Cat, and Club 66 were here. The cops used to let you go about your business. It was a designated adult entertainment zone for sailors, soldiers, and business men coming to Boston. Sex was good clean fun.

Not if you’re doing it right, Jack said.

Huh?

Never mind, Jack said, rolling his eyes. Yeah, Willie, the good ole days, when the prostitutes and transvestites would stop traffic, hookers were ‘performing’ sex in cars, men getting hummers in the alleyways, people were throwing used condoms in the gutters, and ‘Deep Throat’ was playing at the Pilgrim. Robberies, rip-offs, and drug deals. Drunks were fighting in the streets and walking around in the afternoon hammered.

To hell with it, Jack. You’re right. There’s more good clean fun now. We’ve got the Red Sox, Celtics, the Boston Revolution, the Bruins, and my New England Patriots to represent what we Bostonians are all about. We are…, Willie said, pointing to his T-shirt.

Jack’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket and he jumped, startled.

Hey babe, Jack said to his girlfriend, Boston Police Lieutenant Detective Jessica Paris.

Yes, we’re working straight out here at the detective agency. Oh, you can’t. Ok, I’ll take Willie. Jack leaned over and said, away from the phone, Wanna go to Celtic’s versus Brooklyn tonight, Musician? Willie nodded in the affirmative.

You did? You caught that case? Willie and I were reading it in the newspaper. How old? Aw. You got ID? We think she must go to the Bleeding Sacred Heart Catholic School for Girls with Willie’s youngest daughter. Yes, they give the kid-murders to you Jess, ‘cuz you are good with people. You’re compassionate, tactful, sympathetic, and you don’t piss everybody off like the majority of cops. And you are the best homicide detective the BPD ever had, except for me. What’s the cause of death? Ok, you let me know when you find out and if I can do anything to help, let me know… What? Wash the dishes in the sink when I get to your apartment? Jack repeated and looked at Willie in mock disbelief.

Jack ended the call and picked up a thumbtack from his desk. He was jealous his girl was assigned to a high profile murder case. He had nothing up on his corkboard but a few bar spotting jobs and an executive protection assignment for a few days next week. Now he was assigned to wash the dishes when he got to Jessica’s apartment. Jack contemplated listing the assignment on his tiny caseload but instead threw the tack at the corkboard.

Let’s watch the news at noon, Jack said switching the TV on with the remote control.

The pretty blonde newscaster’s lead story was the child’s body found in the Fort Point Channel separating downtown Boston from South Boston. Interviews of shocked Boston citizens ran for a few minutes alongside some footage of police boats, patrol cruisers, and personnel surrounding a white sheet covering a small body.

Also, in the same area of the channel the body of an older woman was found. The Medical Examiner is investigating the cause of both deaths. It is unknown if the deaths are related, reported the newscaster. Then it was on to the story of the unidentified man whose body was found in the water-filled excavation hole at a construction site in the former Combat Zone. Video rolled of police personnel looking down at a body covered with a blue tarp. It lay next to the six-foot deep muddy foundation hole.

Ok, another night in Boston and we’ve got three bodies, Willie said as he leaned back hoping to watch the sports report to get psyched up for the Celtics vs. Brooklyn game tonight.

As the TV station flashed its ‘Breaking News’ logo across the screen Willie said, Paul Peirce and Kevin Garnett should have both retired from the Celtics. Paul was loved like a god in Boston.

As video of smoke rising up from the back of an apartment building played in the background on the TV screen the blonde anchor said, We have breaking news that a body has been found at the residence in last night’s fire in Quincy. There has been no positive identification but an unidentified police source has said a charred body was found at the scene in a wheelchair and it is thought to be the resident. The Fire Marshal’s Office is investigating possible arson.

Crime is our business and business is good, Willie said.

Chapter 3

China White

Fuck you, you motherfucker! I said you don’t know shit, you fuckin’ pussy.

Hey. I could’ve had her. That bitch was mine and you didn’t have to start callin’ her a ho, mothafucka. What the fuck, Antoine? I could’ve had that Shorty!

"I’m looking out for you, Redbone. Fuck her, man. I’m telling you. She is a fuckin’ ho. My brother, Fat Bobby, got his cock sucked in the alley behind Royale on Tremont two mothafuckin’ nights ago. Yes. A blow job. By her. Yeah, Shorty’s a fuckin’ ho slut. A fuckin’ stanky skank. I tell you she sucked his cock right in front of us. You sure you wanna kiss those sweet lips?"

The tall and thin Redbone’s anger flashed and he considered throwing a punch at the shorter but solid-built Antoine. But in another moment, he laughed and said in his affected Jamaican accent, Listen Ant… No, Mon. I wanted to fuck her; I didn’t say nothin’ ‘bout kissin’ the bitches’ lips.

Bros before ho’s, Antoine said holding up a fist.

Yes my bruthah, Redbone said and punched his friend’s knuckles adding, Now let’s get some money for dat cabbie’s good China White ting.

The two young black men turned right out of the alley behind the library in Boston’s Copley Square. The weather forecast indicator lights at the top of the Hancock Tower were red, signaling the cool light rain that began to fall through the fog. The taillights from the cars reflected off the wet Boylston Street, adding to the gray and red urban landscape. The clock in the bell tower at the old armory nearby gonged twelve times.

Under his black hoodie, Billy Redbone wore a red, green, black, and yellow high-top Jamaican tam cap that held his long dread locks up in it. The cap seemed to explode upwards like an expanding light-gauge aluminum pan of Jiffy Pop popcorn. Sometimes, after committing a crime, he would turn the cap inside out to make it appear all black. Except for a dark blue hoodie, the stocky Antoine wore black. Both young men wore state-of-the-art Air Jordan sneakers that made them hard to catch. They were looking for something. They weren’t sure what.

How much of our shit you got left? Antoine said, feeling the cold drizzle on the back of his neck and rubbing his nose. He looked down at Redbone’s hands as they pulled four tiny glassine bags out of his pocket. Antoine slapped his childhood friend on the shoulder and said, What the fuck nigga, don’t get no dew on the baggies, man! It’s getting clammy out here tonight.

The two teenage junkies were looking for a mark. Some poor sucker that wasn’t as brutal, depraved, or as unforgiving as they. Antoine was working himself up for some type of perceived machismo, some act of violence. A solid beat down maybe. Either way somebody was going to get robbed tonight.

I’m gonna need more of that shit, soon. I’m getting shaky. That was some sweet black tar smack, packed inside those little black balloons, we had at Herbie’s house-party last night. Does he get it from that weird cabbie? Antoine asked, rubbing his nose.

No, Herbert doesn’t know Crazy Cabbie.

You think those balloons were smuggled inside somebody’s ass? If it was, I hope it was smuggled in that Shorty’s ass.

No, Ant. Get off Shorty’s ass.

"Nigga please. I tried to hit that, too. After you tried to get up with her, I was chillin’ so fine talkin’ to that Shorty. She was fine. I wanted her to back that thing up, you know. Until that fuckin’ soldier boy stahted moving in between us, gettin’ all mouthy wid his ‘just back from the battlefield’ shit. I play ‘Battlefield 4’ on my PlayStation. He’s talking about his ‘tour of duty’ this, and his ‘tour of duty’ that. I play fuckin’ ‘Tour of Duty’ on my old fuckin’ Xbox 360."

"The game’s name is, ‘Call of Duty,’ Ant," Billy Redbone corrected.

Whatevah. I was gonna pop that fuckin’ nigga with all his bad talk about Iraq, and ‘Ganistan. Fuck him. Fuckin’ Marine. Big mothafuckin’ deal. He look jus’ like anotha nigga to me. He a bitch! That don’t mean shit back here on the street. I’ll pop that son of a bitch he get in my mothafucking face again, cocksuckah, Antoine was working himself up.

Nigga made it through Iraq, though. That must have been the shit, Redbone said, either impressed by the Marine or trying to ramp up Antoine.

Fuck that. He ain’t made it through this, Antoine said pulling back his sweatshirt to reveal a black semi-automatic handgun in his waistband. That muthafucka my cousin! You feel me? For real, that fuckin’ Marine is my second cousin, Dewayne. I hate my fuckin’ family. They try to tell me what to do. They screw with me every chance they get. Dewayne also stole my other girlfriend before he left for fuckin’ boot camp at Paris Island.

Red blood may be thicker than water, but if green money or white pussy gets in the way, it’s ‘look out nigga,’ Redbone said, pointing to the red, green, white, and black colored bands on his cap.

That’s all right. Things are changin’ for me on the love scene, Antoine said. ’Although, my new girlfriend called me a stalker. Well… she ain’t my girlfriend… yet.

The two hoodlums strolled by a row of four cabs at the taxi stand in front of the Lenox Hotel on Boylston Street. There was a pile of scratched lottery tickets scattered in the gutter and a cabdriver was busy scratching off another stack. The fifty-two floor Prudential Building loomed overhead. To a great degree, the two young black faces were concealed by the dark hooded sweatshirts they wore, but their eyes glinted in the city lights as they cased each cabdriver and pedestrian, looking for that weak link, that soft target, that poor unfortunate soul. Redbone and Antoine knew potential victims would present themselves. They always did.

Let’s roll an urban camper hanging at the heaters behind the library, Redbone said, referring to the homeless persons that check the trash bins and trash cans for food and other sources of revenue. Some of the homeless camped out on the warm subway vents behind the Boston Public Library.

They ain’t got shit. I just wanna cop some China White or some black tar dope or pick up some strange, Antoine objected.

As the two turned the corner, a well dressed, middle-aged, blonde businesswoman stepped out of the back door of the Lenox Hotel’s bar and grill.

Where is the cab stand, boys? she said, startled upon finding herself alone on the dark sidewalk facing the two hooded men.

Right this way, ma’am, Antoine said guiding her down the block in the wrong direction. The lady felt uneasy, took a dozen steps, then turned and lied to the robbers, saying she had left her car keys back at the bar.

There’s a back door to the bar right here around this corner, Redbone said, hustling the businesswoman around the corner. By now, the woman was struggling to break free of the two