Murder at the Foul Line

by Otto Penzler (ed)

  Okay, I got off the subject. I was talking about my night.

  Early on I got a domestic call, over on Otis Place. When I got there, two cruisers were on the scene, four young guys, two of them with flashlights. A rookie named Buzzy talked to a woman at the front door of her row house, then came back and told me that the object of the complaint was behind the place, in the alley. I walked around back alone and into the alley and right off I recognized the man standing inside the fence of his tiny, brown-grass yard. Harry Lang, sixty-some years old. I’d been to this address a few times in the past ten years.

  I said, “Hello, Harry,” Harry said, “Officer,” and I said, “Wait right here, okay?” Then I went through the open gate. Harry’s wife was on her back porch, flanked by her two sons, big strapping guys, all of them standing under a triangle of harsh white light coming from a naked bulb. Mrs. Lang’s face and body language told me that the situation had resolved itself. Generally, once we arrive, domestic conflicts tend to calm down on their own.

  Mrs. Lang said that Harry had been verbally abusive that night, demanding money from her, even though he’d just got paid. I asked her if Harry had struck her, and her response was negative. But she had a job, too, she worked just as hard as him, why should she support his lifestyle and let him speak to her like that… I was listening and not listening, if you know what I mean. I made my sincere face and nodded every few seconds or so.

  I asked her if she wanted me to lock Harry up, and of course she said no. I asked what she did want, and she said she didn’t want to see him “for the rest of the night.” I told her I thought I could arrange that, and started back to have a talk with Harry. I felt the porch light go off behind me as I hit the bottom of the wooden stairs. Dogs had begun to bark in the neighboring yards.

  Harry was short and low-slung, a black black man, nearly featureless in the dark. He wore a porkpie hat and his clothes were pressed and clean. He kept his eyes down as I spoke to him over the barks of the dogs. His reaction time was very slow when I asked for a response. I could see right away that he was on a nod.

  Harry had been a controlled heroin junkie for the last thirty years. During that time, he’d always held a job, lived in this same house and been there, in one condition or another, for his kids. I’d wager he went to church on Sundays, too. But a junkie was what he was. Heroin was a slow ride down. Some folks could control it to some degree and never hit the bottom.

  I asked Harry if he could find a place to sleep that night other than his house, and he told me that he “supposed” he could. I told him I didn’t want to see him again any time soon, and he said, “It’s mutual.” I chuckled at that, giving him some of his pride back, which didn’t cost me a thing. He walked down the alley, stopping once to cup his hands around a match as he put fire to a cigarette.

  I drove back over to Georgia. A guy flagged me down just to talk. They see my car number and they know it’s me. Sergeant Peters, the old white cop. You get a history with these people. Some of these kids, I know their parents. I’ve busted ’em from time to time. Busted their grandparents, too. Shows you how long I’ve been doing this.

  Down around Morton I saw Tonio Harris, a neighborhood kid, walking alone towards the Black Hole. Tonio was wearing those work boots and the baggy pants low, like all the other kids, although he’s not like most of them. I took his mother in for drugs a long time ago, back when that Love Boat stuff was popular and making everyone crazy; his father—the one who impregnated his mother, I mean—he’s doing a stretch for manslaughter, his third fall. Tonio’s mother’s clean now, at least I think she is; anyway, she’s done a fairly good job with him. By that I mean he’s got no juvenile priors, from what I know. A minor miracle down here, you ask me.

  I rolled down my window. “Hey, Tonio, how’s it going?” I slowed down to a crawl, took in the sweetish smell of reefer in the air. Tonio was still walking, not looking at me, but he mumbled something about “I’m maintainin’,” or some shit like that. “You take care of yourself in there,” I said, meaning in the Hole, “and get yourself home right after.” He didn’t respond verbally, just made a half-assed kind of acknowledgment with his chin.

  I cruised around for the next couple of hours. Turned my spot on kids hanging in the shadows, told them to break it up and move along. Asked a guy in Columbia Heights why his little boy was out on the stoop, dribbling a basketball, at one in the morning. Raised my voice at a boy, a lookout for a dealer, who was sitting on top of a trash can, told him to get his ass on home. Most of the time, this is my night. We’re just letting the critters know we’re out here.

  At around two I called in a few cruisers to handle the closing of the Black Hole. You never know what’s going to happen at the end of the night there, what kind of beefs got born inside the club, who looked at who a little too hard for one second too long. Hard to believe that an ex-cop from Prince Georges County runs the place. That a cop would put all this trouble on us, bring it into our district. He’s got D.C. cops moonlighting as bouncers in there, too, working the metal detectors at the door. I talked with one, a young white cop, earlier in the night. I noticed the brightness in his eyes and the sweat beaded across his forehead. He was scared, like I gave a shit. Asked us as a favor to show some kind of presence at closing time. Called me Sarge. Okay. I didn’t answer him. I got no sympathy for the cops who work those go-go joints, especially not since Officer Brian Gibson was shot dead outside the Ibex Club a few years back. But if something goes down around the place, it’s on me. So I do my job.

  I called in a few cruisers and set up a couple of traffic barriers on Georgia, one at Lamont and one at Park. We diverted the cars like that, kept the kids from congregating on the street. It worked. Nothing too bad was happening that I could see. I was standing outside my cruiser, talking to another cop, Eric Young, who was having a smoke. That’s when I saw Tonio Harris running east on Morton, heading for the housing complex. A late-model black import was behind him, and there were a couple of YBMs with their heads out the open windows, yelling shit out, laughing at the Harris kid, like that.

  “You all right here?” I said to Young.

  “Fine, Sarge,” he said.

  My cruiser was idling. I slid under the wheel and pulled down on the tree.

  TONIO HARRIS

  Just around midnight, when I was fixin’ to go out, my moms walked into my room. I was sittin’ on the edge of my bed, lacing up my Timbies, listening to PGC comin’ from the box, Tigger doin’ his shout-outs and then movin’ right into the new Jay-Z, which is tight. The music was so loud that I didn’t hear my mother walk in, but when I looked up, there she was, one arm crossed over the other like she does when she’s tryin’ to be hard, staring me down.

  “Whassup, Mama?”

  “What’s up with you?”

  I shrugged. “Back Yard is playin’ tonight. Was thinkin’ I’d head over to the Hole.”

  “Did you ask me if you could?”

  “Do I have to?” I used that tone she hated, knew right away I’d made a mistake.

  “You’re living in my house, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You payin’ rent now?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Talkin’ about do I have to.”

  “Can I go?”

  Mama uncrossed her arms. “Thought you said you’d be studyin’ up for that test this weekend.”

  “I will. Gonna do it tomorrow morning, first thing. Just wanted to go out and hear a little music tonight, is all.”

  I saw her eyes go soft on me then. “You gonna study for that exam, you hear?”

  “I promise I will.”

  “Go on, then. Come right back after the show.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I noticed as she was walkin’ out the door her shoulders were getting stooped some. Bad posture and a hard life. She wasn’t but thirty-six years old.

  I spent a few more minutes listening to the radio and checking myself in the mirror. Patt
in’ my natural and shit. I got a nice modified cut, not too short, not too blown-out or nothin’ like that. A lot of the fellas be wearin’ cornrows now, tryin’ to look like Iverson. But I don’t think it would look right on me. And I know what the girls like. They look at me, they like what they see. I can tell.

  Moms has been ridin’ me about my college entrance exam. I fucked up the first one I took. I went out and got high on some fierce chronic the night before it, and my head was filled up with cobwebs the next morning when I sat down in the school cafeteria to take that test. I’m gonna take it again, though, and do better next time.

  I’m not one of those guys who’s got, what do you call that, illusions about my future. No hoop dreams about the NBA, nothin’ like that. I’m not good enough or tall enough, I know it. I’m sixth man on my high school team, that ought to tell you somethin’ right there. My uncle Gaylen, he’s been real good to me, and straight-up with me, too. Told me to have fun with ball and all that, but not to depend on it. To stick with the books. I know I fucked up that test, but next time I’m gonna do better, you can believe that.

  I was thinkin’, though, I could get me a partial scholarship playin’ for one of those small schools in Virginia or Maryland, William and Mary or maybe Goucher up in Baltimore. Hold up—Goucher’s for women only, I think. Maybe I’m wrong. Have to ask my guidance counselor, soon as I can find one. Ha, ha.

  The other thing I should do, for real, is find me a part-time job. I’m tired of havin’ no money in my pockets. My mother works up at the Dollar Store in the Silver Spring mall, and she told me she could hook me up there. But I don’t wanna work with my mother. And I don’t want to be workin’ at no Mac-Donald’s or sumshit like that. Have the neighborhood slangers come in and make fun of me and shit, standin’ there in my minimum-wage uniform. But I do need some money. I’d like to buy me a nice car soon. I’m not talkin’ about some hooptie, neither.

  I did have an interview for this restaurant downtown, bussin’ tables. White boy who interviewed kept sayin’ shit like, “Do you think you can make it into work on time?” and do you think this and do you think that? Might as well gone ahead and called me a nigger right to my face. The more he talked, the more attitude I gave him with my eyes. After all that, he smiled and sat up straight, like he was gonna make some big announcement, and said he was gonna give me a try. I told him I changed my mind and walked right out of there. Uncle Gaylen said I should’ve taken that job and showed him he was wrong, for all of us. But I couldn’t. I can’t stand how white people talk to you sometimes. Like they’re just there to make their own selves feel better. I hired a Negro today, and like that.

  I am gonna take that test over, though.

  I changed my shirt and went out through the living room. My sister was watchin’ the BET videos on TV, her mouth around a straw, sippin’ on one of those big sodas. She’s startin’ to get some titties on her. Some of the slick young niggas in the neighborhood been commentin’ on it, too. Late for her to be awake, but it was Friday night. She didn’t look up as I passed. I yelled good-bye to my moms and heard her say my name from the kitchen. I knew she was back up in there ’cause I smelled the smoke comin’ off her cigarette. There was a ten-dollar bill sittin’ in a bowl by the door. I folded it up and slipped it inside my jeans. My mother had left it there for me. I’m tellin’ you, she is cool people.

  Outside the complex, I stepped across this little road and the dark courtyard real quick. We been livin’ here a long time, and I know most everyone by sight. But in this place here, that don’t mean shit.

  The Black Hole had a line goin’ outside the door when I got there. I went through the metal detector and let a white rent-a-cop pat me down while I said hey to a friend going into the hall. I could feel the bass from way out in the lobby.

  The hall was crowded and the place was bumpin’. I could smell sweat in the damp air. Also chronic, and it was nice. Back Yard was doin’ “Freestyle,” off Hood Related, that double CD they got. I kind of made my way towards the stage, careful not to bump nobody, nodding to the ones I did. I knew a lot of young brothers there. Some of ’em run in gangs, some not. I try to know a little bit of everybody, you see what I’m sayin’? Spread your friends out in case you run into some trouble. I was smilin’ at some of the girls, too.

  Up near the front I got into the groove. Someone passed me somethin’ that smelled good, and I hit it. Back Yard was turnin’ that shit out. I been knowin’ their music for like ten years now. They had the whole joint up there that night, I’m talkin’ about a horn section and everything else. I must have been up there close to the stage for about, I don’t know, an hour, sumshit like that, just dancing. It seemed like all of us was all movin’ together. On “Do That Stuff,” they went into this extended drum thing, shout-outs for the hoodies and the crews; I was sweatin’ clean through my shirt, right about then.

  I had to pee like a motherfucker, but I didn’t want to use the bathroom in that place. All the hard motherfuckers be congregatin’ in there, too. That’s where trouble can start, just ’cause you gave someone some wrong kinda look.

  When the set broke, I started to talkin’ to this girl who’d been dancin’ near me, smilin’ my way. I’d seen her around. Matter of fact, I ran ball sometimes with her older brother. So we had somethin’ to talk about straight off. She had that Brandy thing goin’ on with her hair, and a nice smile.

  While we was talkin’, someone bumped me from behind. I turned around and it was Antuane, that kid who ran with James Wallace. Wallace was with him, and so were a coupla Wallace’s boys. I nodded at Antuane, tryin’ to communicate to him, like, “Ain’t no thing, you bumpin’ me like that.” But Wallace stepped in and said somethin’ to me. I couldn’t even really hear it with all the crowd noise, but I could see by his face that he was tryin’ to step to me. I mean, he was right up in my face.

  We stared at each other for a few. I shoulda just walked away, right, but I couldn’t let him punk me out like that in front of the girl.

  Wallace’s hand shot up. Looked like a bird flutterin’ out of nowhere or somethin’. Maybe he was just makin’ a point with that hand, like some do. But it rattled me, I guess, and I reacted. Didn’t even think about it, though I should’ve. My palms went to his chest and I shoved him back. He stumbled. I saw his eyes flare with anger, but there was that other thing, too, worse than me puttin’ my hands on him: I had stripped him of his pride.

  There was some yellin’ then from his boys. I just turned and bucked. I saw the bouncers started to move, talkin’ into their headsets and shit, but I didn’t wait. I bucked. I was out on the street pretty quick, runnin’ towards my place. I didn’t know what else to do.

  I heard Wallace and them behind me, comin’ out the Hole. They said my name. I didn’t look back. I ran to Morton and turned right. Heard car doors opening and slammin’ shut. The engine of the car turnin’ over. Then the cry of tires on the street and Wallace’s boys laughin’, yellin’ shit out. I kept runnin’ towards Park Morton. My heart felt like it was snappin’ on a rubber string.

  There were some younguns out in the complex. They were sittin’ up on top of a low brick wall like they do, and they watched me run by. It’s always dark here, ain’t never no good kinda light. They got some dim yellow bulbs back in the stairwells, where the old-school types drink gin and shoot craps. They was back up in there, too, hunched down in the shadows. There was some kind of fog or haze out that night, too, it was kind of rollin’ around by that old playground equipment, all rusted and shit, they got in the courtyard. I was runnin’ through there, tryin’ to get to my place.

  I had to cross the little road in the back of the complex to get to my mother’s apartment. I stepped into it and that’s when I saw the black Maxima swing around the corner. Coupla Wallace’s boys jumped out while the car was still movin’. I stopped runnin’. They knew where I lived. If they didn’t, all they had to do was ask one of those younguns on the wall. I wasn’t gonna bring none of this home to
my moms.

  Wallace was out of the driver’s side quick, walkin’ towards me. He was smilin’ and my stomach shifted. Antuane had walked back by the playground. I knew where he was goin’. Wallace and them keep a gun, a nine with a fifteen-round mag, buried in a shoe box back there.

  “Junior,” said Wallace, “you done fucked up big.” He was still smilin’.

  I didn’t move. My knees were shakin’ some. I figured this was it. I was thinkin’ about my mother and tryin’ not to cry. Thinkin’ about how if I did cry, that’s all anyone would remember about me. That I went out like a bitch before I died. Funny me thinkin’ about stupid shit like that while I was waitin’ for Antuane to come back with that gun.

  I saw Antuane’s figure walkin’ back out through that fog.

  And then I saw the spotlight movin’ across the courtyard, and where it came from. An MPD Crown Vic was comin’ up the street, kinda slow. The driver turned on the overheads, throwing colors all around. Antuane backpedaled and then he was gone.

  The cruiser stopped and the driver’s door opened. The white cop I’d seen earlier in the night got out. Sergeant Peters. My moms had told me his name. Told me he was all right.

  Peters was puttin’ on his hat as he stepped out. He had pulled his nightstick, and his other hand just brushed the Glock on his right hip. Like he was just lettin’ us all know he had it.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” he said easylike. “We got a problem here?”

  “Nope,” said Wallace, kinda in a white-boy’s voice, still smiling.

  “Somethin’ funny?” said Peters.

  Wallace didn’t say nothin’. Peters looked at me and then back at Wallace.

  “You all together?” said Peters.

  “We just out here havin’ a conversation,” said Wallace.

  Sergeant Peters gave Wallace a look then, like he was disgusted with him, and then he sighed.

  “You,” said Peters, turnin’ to me. I was prayin’ he wasn’t gonna say my name, like me and him was friends and shit.