Didn’t Eddie know you had to turn the inventory so you could take in more goods? Didn’t he know nothin’ about cash flow? No, he didn’t expect that Eddie did. Tate would have to bring up the issue with him soon. Sit down with Eddie, counsel him a little, make up one of those business plans.
That is, if he could keep the fat man focused. The thing that bothered Tate was, Eddie was all over the place, throwing all the balls up in the air at the same time, trying to make that big score. He could do all right if he just kept to moving hard goods in and out of the warehouse. But uh-uh, the man had to be going in ten different directions at once, selling herb, pounds at a time, and now cocaine, brokering a deal between those Southern boys on their way into town and the Howard County bikers. Eddie, he had no idea what it meant to play with bad motherfuckers like that.
Clarence didn’t know why he worried about it anyway. He had never meant to take on all this responsibility. It started when he had gone and answered that Washington Post ad, the one Eddie had placed for an “executive assistant,” the description vague but with phrases thrown in like “sky’s the limit, self starter,” bullshit hustle like that. He figured he’d take the job for a short while, a transition thing, buy a few things extra for his little girl. Here he was a year later, still wet-nursing the Italian, running the show, strategizing, himself. Didn’t that beat all?
Clarence Tate pushed on the door at the end of the hall, entered the main office. There sat Eddie Spags, eyes kind of glazed, watching the Sony. Who was that, that fool Jimmie Walker, talking all that fast, stupid shit on the screen? And the girl, Vivian, stoned and bored, sitting across the room with her legs tucked underneath her, taking that free ride from Eddie, not even giving it up anymore, just hanging around. One thing he did know: If she was his, Tate would never let her get away with that. Fine as she was, too.
“You call me, Eddie?”
“Yeah. It’s snowin’ on the Dinah Shore set, Clarenze.”
Clarenze. Saying it like he thought the niggers would. Course, no brother had ever called him Clarenze. But Tate knew it would be a waste of time to try and explain it to him. What Eddie knew about the black man was what he picked up off the straight-up bullshit he saw on TV. The man was that kind of thick.
“I’ll get up on the roof, jiggle the antenna.”
“Thanks.”
“And Eddie.”
“Yeah.”
“What’s the schedule lookin’ like for the rest of the day?”
“You know,” said Marchetti. “Little bit of this and that. Got that guy Cooper coming into town sometime today. Wants to talk about the coke deal with those biker fellows I know.”
“And you know Cooper from?”
“He works for a guy by the name of Carlos. Used to be a busboy in my old man’s restaurant back in North Bergen. Went down to Miami a few years back and got himself into some more lucrative shit. Wears shiny suits now with long-collared shirts underneath.” Marchetti winked at Tate. “We keep in touch.”
“Okay.” Tate sighed. “What else we lookin’ at?”
“Greek boy by the name of Karras is coming by. Wants an LB.”
“You know this Karras?”
“Loopy vouched for him.”
“I thought you only sold herb to Loopy.”
“That’s right, but Loopy went out of town on a vaykay. He set me up with Karras so there wouldn’t be any coitus interruptus on my dope trade. Just this one time.” Marchetti chuckled. “Hey, Viv, you hear that? Coitus interruptus on the dope trade?”
“I heard you, Eddie.”
“And how you know,” said Tate, “that this Karras cat isn’t a narc?”
“Because, like I said, Loopy vouched for him.”
“Can’t argue with that,” said Tate. “Man named Loopy tells you something, you gotta believe it.”
“And anyway,” said Marchetti, “any fool knows, you ask someone, ‘Are you a narc?’ they have to answer true if they are, otherwise it ain’t a clean bust.”
“Okay, Eddie,” said Tate. “Sounds like you got it all figured out.”
“Why you wanna know what’s on our plate, Clarenze?”
“Thought I’d cut out early. Was hoping to check out this movie tonight, just opened up.”
“What movie?”
“King Suckerman,” said Tate.
Vivian looked up. “That the one about the pimp?”
“Sure is,” said Tate.
Marchetti said, “Like Rooster on Baretta, right?”
“Not exactly,” said Tate.
Tate heard the slam of a car door, then another. He walked behind Marchetti’s desk, stood before the big window, looked down to the street. A big Jim Brown–lookin’ brother, two others darker than midnight, and a skinny white boy with a fucked-up face were moving away from a red-on-red ragtop Challenger. Tate could see from two floors up, the white boy had some kind of hog’s leg stuck down in his pants.
“Eddie,” said Tate. “This Cooper cat, he say how you’d know him when he showed up?”
Marchetti blinked his eyes. “Said he’d be rolling into town in a red Mopar. Why?”
“He’s here,” said Tate.
“Oh, yeah?” said Eddie.
“Uh-huh,” said Tate. “Brought a few associates with him, too.”
FOUR
Dimitri Karras put a bounce pass in to Marcus Clay; the shirts converged. Clay got it right back out to Karras at the top of the key, and Karras took the J. The ball hit the hole clean, kissed the bottom of the net.
“String music,” said Karras.
“Game,” said Clay.
The shirts went off the court, their heads down, hands on hips. One of them went to the portable eight-track on the sideline, changed the tape, put in Gratitude, turned up the V.
The skins—Karras, Clay, Kenny Lane, and Bill Valis—got in a loose circle, gave each other skin, caught their breath, waited for the shirts to come back out for the rubber match. Clay had played against Kenny Lane when Lane was a forward at Western in ’65. Billy Valis was the young boy of the group, heavyset, but a guy who could drive and move underneath in unexpected ways. Valis wore an easy smile and a red bandanna, pirate-style, over his longish black hair. He loved to play ball, thought he was Earl Monroe.
The shirts came back out. The game began, and the shirts took an early lead. They had a guy named Heironymous—his teammates called him Hero—who had gone All-Met for Spingarn, and Heironymous was lighting it up from the outside, just handling Kenny Lane. Clay switched with Lane and noticed that Hero made a funny kind of grimace before he went up. Soon he had him shut down.
Karras took the ball out, shot it inside to Valis, who drove the lane. Valis went up, committed himself, turned around in midair, put some English on the ball as he spun it off the backboard and into the net.
“The Monroe Doctrine,” said Valis to his defender.
“Damn,” said his defender.
“Cover him, then,” said Heironymous. “Motherfucker’s a whirling dervish and shit.”
One of the shirts took a corner shot. The ball bounced straight up off the back of the rim. Clay went up, pinned the rebound to the backboard, stayed in the air, threw it twenty feet out to Karras, who quick-released the jumper, sank the pill. Karras took the next shot from the same spot, hit it. The defender checked it to Karras, who took it back, hit it again. Valis let out a whoop.
“Respect yourself,” said Karras to his defender, a stocky guy from Northeast.
“Staple Singers,” said Clay, crossing the court to give Karras a low five.
Heironymous turned to the one defending Karras. “You gon’ let Gail Goodrich take those all day?”
Karras took the ball out, dribbled back outside the key, made like he was going to take it, put it in to Clay, who was slanting inside. Clay came off a Valis pick, drove the lane, reversed the layup.
Heironymous and his crew came back with three in a row. Lane sank a double pump, and Valis corkscrewed one in right behind it.
That tied things up.
Karras’s defender drove right by him, put one up. Clay skied, rejected the shot. The ball went out to Karras. He went up listening to Phillip Bailey’s falsetto on “Reasons.” The ball caught only net. Karras watched it swish, the sun warming his face as the EWF horns kicked in. Karras knew, right then, that he’d never get a nine-to-five, that he’d play ball and get high as long as he could, and that he fucking loved D.C. His shot had ended the game.
The shirts did fifty push-ups in front of the skins. Valis said good-bye to his teammates and walked across the bridge, over the creek to his lime green ’69 Dart. Heironymous stood up, took off his shirt, toweled himself off. He walked over to Karras and Clay.
“Game, Gail,” said Heironymous with a slight nod of his chin.
“Thanks,” said Karras.
Karras drifted. Heironymous shook Clay’s hand—fist to fist, then finger grip—and snapped his fingers one time. They talked about the Suns-Celtics series, concluded in six a few weeks back. Black D.C. had been for the Suns, because they were for anyone playing the Celts, and as a bonus incentive the Suns’ forward, Curtis Perry, had come out of Washington. It had been a good series, the subject of morning conversation all over town while it lasted; Game Five, with its triple OT, had been a certified NBA classic.
“Way to get up,” said Heironymous before he walked away.
“Yeah, good game,” said Clay. “You take it light, hear?”
Heironymous shrugged. “Everything is everything.”
Clay found his shirt on the grass, went back to the Karmann Ghia, got into the passenger seat. Karras turned the ignition, backed out onto Beach Drive, drove toward town.
“Could use a shower,” said Clay.
“You can get one at my crib before you go back to the shop.”
“ ’Preciate it. That would just about do me right.”
“I need to make a stop, though, pick up that herb.”
“Drop me off first, hear?”
“Come with me, man.”
“Uh-uh. I don’t need to be gettin’ into that.”
“What, you got no problem with smoking my weed, but you don’t want to see where it comes from?”
“Aw, come on, Dimitri.”
“What could happen, anyway?”
“All right, man,” said Clay. “You made your point. But let’s be quick about it, hear? I told Cheek I’d be back in time for him to make his show.”
“Thanks, Marcus. Didn’t feel like driving down to Southeast by myself.”
Clay got down in the seat, closed his eyes, let the wind and sun dry his face. “Good ball today.”
“Yeah, it was pretty nice.”
“You had, what, two from that same spot?”
“Three.”
“Should have been wearin’ a Lakers jersey out there.”
“Don’t start with that Goodrich shit. Hero sees a white boy who can drill it from the outside, all of the sudden he’s callin’ him Gail. Shows a lack of imagination on his part, if you ask me. ’Cause you know my game is closer to Clyde Frazier’s.”
Clay grinned. “Guess Hero didn’t notice those shoes of yours.”
“Have to point them out to him,” said Karras, “next time we do some hoop.”
Clarence Tate sat on the edge of Marchetti’s desk, let his leg swing kind of casual as Cooper and his boys walked into the room. This Cooper dude, it was clear as daylight he was the leader of the crew: It was in the way he walked, out front but not in any kind of hurry, kind of regal-like. And his clothes, too, pressed jeans hooked up with a maroon shirt, a nice wash-’n’-wear job gaping at the buttons from the pull of his running-back chest. A slick boy, that’s what this Cooper was, a slick, survivin’ motherfucker, the kind of dude who walks out of the prison yard every day on his own two feet. Cooper had the look of a smart con, and Tate knew that look, had been acquainted with plenty of boys just like this one back in the Petworth neighborhood off 13th Street, where he had come up.
The two dark-skinned brothers—not just black brothers, but brothers for real—it was obvious that one of them had done a couple of bits himself: hard and cut, not just in the body but in the face as well, like a sculptor had made him in a studio. The second, narrow-assed brother, with his big, open mouth, a hint of a goatee like a badly shaved pussy on his weak, dimpled chin, he wouldn’t have lasted in the joint but a few weeks. But different as they looked, Tate could see straight off that they were kin. It was how they moved together, attached, almost, not because they wanted to be but because they had to be. Not like partners but like blood. A couple of stone Bamas on their first trip north to D.C.
And then the white boy. A light blue rayon shirt patterned with navy blue seashells, coffee-stained white bells, a wide black belt, and cheap black stacks with four-inch heels, a white line curlicued across the vamp. Chili mac–lookin’ face. Small, stupid eyes. Trying to do some kind of pimp walk into the room, the downstroke kind of walk they tried to pass off as fly on TV. Doing it awkward, even for him, on account of the long gun slid down inside the hip of the bells. Tate couldn’t figure out where this white boy fit in.
Slick said, “Afternoon. Wilton Cooper.” He reached across the desk to where Marchetti had stood out of his chair.
“Mr. Cooper.” Marchetti imprisoned Cooper’s thumb, gave Cooper his idea of the soul shake. Tate saw a glimmer of amusement in Cooper’s eyes. “Eddie Marchetti. They call me Eddie Spags.”
“Eddie Spags. That right.”
“ ’Ey.” Marchetti shrugged, spread his hands. “Got to jive to stay alive, right?”
Tate tried not to wince. Cooper looked at Tate out the side of his eyes. “And you are?”
“Clarence Tate.”
Tate got off the desk, stood to his full height, noticed with some relief that he was at eye level with Cooper. They shook hands.
Tate put his ass back on the edge of the desk. Cooper pulled a folding metal chair over in front of the desk, had a seat, crossed one leg over the other, rubbed one hand along his muscled thigh. He looked back at the fine Oriental girl who sat legs-up on the wine-colored couch against the wall. She leaned forward a little, like she was interested in hearing what would be said next.
Cooper made a hand-sweep around the room, where the ones who had come in behind him stood, the brothers together, the white boy alone, all of them awkward, like rejects at a dance floor’s edge.
“My boys,” said Cooper. “Like you to meet the Thomas brothers, Ronald and Russell. Ronald, I met him in Angola. We kind of partnered up down there for a while, watched each other’s backs. I like to call him Mandingo, with affection, understand, though I don’t recommend that you do. His brother, Russell, he came along for the ride. Picked them up down in North Kakilaki, right from their uncle’s farm.”
Tate looked at the hard, chiseled features on the one called Man-dingo—he was a Rafer Johnson–lookin’ brother—watched him shake a Kool from the bottom of the pack where he had torn open a hole. Opening the pack from the bottom, that was just like a tobacco-road Bama—like the ad said, you could take Salem out of the country, but you couldn’t take the country out of Salem.
“Gimme one of them double-O’s,” said Russell, the unfortunate one. Ronald Thomas handed his brother the deck. The two of them said something to one another and both of them laughed.
“Here goes my friend Bobby Roy Clagget,” said Cooper. “Young man from Carolina way himself. Had the good fortune to meet him down there, thought he might like to come along for the ride.”
As if on cue, Clagget pulled the sawed-off from his pant leg, curled his finger inside the trigger guard, let the shotgun hang down along his side.
“You can call him B. R.,” said Cooper, “if you’d like.”
“Nice to meet you gentlemen,” said Marchetti. “All of you.”
Vivian chuckled. She was stoned and she couldn’t help but laugh. The one called Cooper, alone, he was dangerous for sure, but together as a group, even with the gun, s
he just couldn’t take them in a serious way. They were pathetic, really. The idiot brothers and especially the skinny white one, with his ratty, shoulder-length Afro, the bad-dream Soul Train threads, disco-country with the ruined face.
Marchetti shot Vivian an annoyed look. Cooper looked back at her and smiled. He didn’t mind her laughter. He and his boys, they were a funny sight. He knew it, and he didn’t mind. You could laugh at them if you wanted, the way you could laugh at the big cats in the lion house. From outside the cage.
“Why the gun?” said Tate to Cooper carefully, like this whole scene wasn’t digging a tunnel right through his gut. “You fixin’ to knock us over?”
“Don’t mind B. R.,” said Cooper. “He means you no harm. The shotgun, in a funny kind of way, it’s his friend.”
“Sure,” said Marchetti. “We’re all on the same page. Clarenze here, he’s the worrier of my staff. Needs to get down a little. Boogie. Know what I mean, Wilton? Can I call you Wilton?”
Cooper rolled his eyes toward Tate. “I’m a little confused. Your boss here called you Clarenze. Thought you said your name was Clarence.”
“It is,” said Tate.
“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind.”
“So,” said Marchetti, “how’s my buddy Carlos doin’?”
Wilton Cooper said, “Carlos is good. Stylin’, too. Looks about a million miles away from when you knew him. What was he, a busboy in your daddy’s place?”
King Suckerman Page 3