Pipe Dream

by Solomon Jones

  Black put down the straight, slowly released the smoke through his nostrils, and began to caress her breasts. She gasped and he fell to his knees, pulling her down from the chair, his hands exploring her, learning for themselves what his eyes already knew—that she was delicious.

  Kneeling there, Black could feel her, could smell her, could taste her. He put her fingers in his mouth and sucked them, one at a time, then ran his hands along the inside of her thighs, touching her softly until her essence poured out beneath his touch. He licked her breasts, teasing and then sucking, whispering the things he had never felt good enough to say to her, running fingers through hair, hands over hips, lips over eyelids and shoulders and neck. And then he sat before her, beckoning for her to move closer, to respond.

  Clarisse pulled her skirt around her hips and sat atop his thighs. Gently, he wrapped her legs around his back and thrust into her, searching her eyes for the Clarisse he knew he’d never find again. She locked her ankles behind him and rocked back and forth, her waters running down and through him like hot streams. He met her every motion with a motion of his own, still searching her eyes and hoping that the Clarisse he’d known was still there, still salvageable. She began to scream, to curse him, to love him, to hate him. And then, with a violent shudder, she climaxed, and Black knew that she was someone entirely different. The Clarisse he’d known before had died in the swirl of creamy smoke that drifted toward the ceiling, fading into nothingness, like a ghost.

  Now all that remained for either of them was to watch and to wait for whatever was next. There was no turning back. So they sat, their juices running down between them, and watched Pookie give to Leroy what she had never given to anyone who had paid for it.

  When Black turned around, Pookie was pulling in smoke, standing and slowly gyrating in a strangely erotic grind. Then she held her straight to Leroy’s lips and let him pull the remainder of the smoke from the tube. While he inhaled the smoke, she dropped to her knees and released him from his clothing, caressing him slowly and gently, as if she wanted nothing more than to touch him. Then she began to roll him around on her tongue like candy. For a moment, he watched her. Then he rose from the chair, turned her around, threw her against the wall, and entered her.

  Black laid Clarisse on the floor and was upon her, pushing into her as he braced her legs over his shoulders, penetrating her and reveling in the sound of her childlike squeals. Clarisse met his thrusts head-on, giving him all there was to give, while Leroy and Pookie gave their fear and their excitement and their relief to each other against the wall on the other side of the room.

  Forever, it seemed, they continued, filling the room with screams and sweat and musky embraces, clawing and tearing at each other like animals, holding on to whatever they could salvage of the moment. And then, through the haze, Black heard someone call his name.

  He stopped and turned to Leroy, who was stock still against the wall, listening. Clarisse stopped moving, sensing that something was wrong, and Pookie began to adjust her clothes. The same voice called Leroy’s name, and Leroy looked at Black, then at the radio, and they all began to listen.

  “ . . . and to recap the top story this hour, police are looking for two males in connection with a murder in a reputed North Philadelphia crack house and an assault on a police officer,” the voice was saying against a Teletype backdrop. “Although they have not released the name of the victim pending family notification, police have formally released the names of the suspects. They are Leroy Johnson, thirty-four, and Samuel Everett Jackson, known as ‘Black,’ twenty-four. Johnson is a dark- complexioned black male, five feet eleven inches tall, one hundred sixty pounds, with a scar on his right forearm and a tattoo on his chest that reads 30TH STREET NATION. He speaks with a slight stutter and was last seen wearing jeans and a sweatshirt with the word FILA written across the front. Jackson is a dark-complexioned black male, five feet ten inches tall, one hundred fifty pounds. No further description. They may have made their escape on foot from Roberts and Wayne at or around 12:15 A.M. They may be injured, and they should be considered armed and dangerous. If you spot either male, police are asking that you immediately call 911. KYW News time is 1:46. AccuWeather is next.”

  For a moment, they were all still. No one looked at anyone. No one moved. No one breathed. They simply stared into space, wondering if it was all part of the high.

  Clarisse was the first to speak.

  “Who did you kill, Everett?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  “I don’t know,” Black said, pulling on his clothing and staring hard at Leroy. “Ask him. He should know.”

  “I’m asking you!” Clarisse shouted. “You, Everett. That’s who I’m asking. The one I let into my home, the one I trusted!”

  “Clarisse, I—”

  “Clarisse, nothing!” she said, picking up her underwear. “Now, unless you plan to kill me next, I suggest you get out of my house.”

  “He ain’t k-kill nobody,” Leroy said, mumbling.

  “What?” Clarisse said.

  “I said, he ain’t kill nobody,” Leroy said.

  “I don’t care what he did,” Clarisse said. “They’re broadcasting your ass on KYW and—”

  “He ain’t kill nobody and I didn’t either,” Leroy said. “Now, I don’t know how they got our descriptions and I don’t know why they think Black was there, because he wasn’t. But we ain’t kill that dude.”

  “Well, how do you know it was a dude?” Clarisse said. “They didn’t say it was a dude. It could’ve been a woman. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know why I’m arguing with you. We can settle all this right now.”

  Clarisse picked up the phone. Pookie went over and snatched the phone cord from the wall.

  “Bitch, you ain’t settlin’ nothin’,” she said. “You might as well go ’head over there and sit down in one o’ them chairs ’fore you get—”

  Clarisse punched Pookie hard on the side of the head, knocking her into the doorway that separated the kitchen from the dining room.

  “Bitch, don’t you ever,” Clarisse said, kicking her in the head.

  “Dis—” she said with a punch to the ribs.

  “Respect,” with a kick to the midsection.

  “Me,” punching and kicking her in the face.

  Pookie fell on her back, sliding across the kitchen floor, then recovered and kicked a charging Clarisse in the stomach, knocking her back into the dining room table. Clarisse lost her balance and fell hard into a table leg. The leg broke, and the table fell across Clarisse’s arm, pinning her to the floor.

  “Yeah, bitch, what?” Pookie said, getting up from the kitchen floor and preparing to pounce.

  “Nah, y’all gon’ stop this right now,” Black said, grabbing and pushing Pookie away from Clarisse. “Leroy, get your girl, man.”

  “That ain’t my girl, man.”

  “Yeah, that’s what you think.”

  Black pulled Clarisse from beneath the heavy rosewood table.

  “Go in the freezer and get some ice,” he said to Pookie. “And put the rest o’ your clothes on. We gotta get outta here.”

  Pookie looked at Leroy, who nodded, and then she went into the kitchen to get the ice.

  “That ain’t your girl?” Black asked facetiously.

  “Look, man, I—”

  “Look, nothin’!” he said, taking the ice pack from Pookie and placing it on Clarisse’s arm. “I should be up in here kickin’ your ass. You got my name all on the radio and I don’t even know what’s goin’ on. You gon’ have to tell me somethin’, or I’m callin’ 911 myself.”

  “Black, I—”

  “I’ll be just like this,” Black said, picking up a mock phone. “Yeah, 25th District? This Black. Yeah, that’s right, Black—the one y’all got on the radio.”

  Black paused for a minute, waiting for his make-believe cop to say something.

  “Okay, I’ll hold for the sergeant. I’m holdin’ for the sergeant,” Black said to Leroy in a stag
e whisper, placing his hand over the mock receiver.

  “Yeah, Sergeant? Dig this here, Sarge, I ain’t kill nobody, but here go the nigger right here. Lee-roy John-son. L-E-R . . .” He paused, as if he were listening.

  “Oh, you know how to spell it? All right, well, I’m at 3934 Dell Street. And I’ll hold him till you get here. Hurry up before he put his shirt on.”

  “Everett,” Clarisse said. “This is not a joke.”

  “Yeah, but I gotta laugh to keep from cryin’,” Black said. “I shoulda known by the way y’all looked when I seen y’all on Broad Street.”

  “Look, Black, I ain’t kill nobody,” Leroy said soberly. “Rock did it. I just walked up on dude and went up in his socks. And I found this.”

  Leroy reached into his sock and pulled out a wad of hundreds and fifties.

  “I went out the front window on the second floor and ran across the roofs. Then I gave this hack two hundred ones to let me use his ride. I was gettin’ ready to pull off when Pookie and Rock and Butter—”

  “Look, man, save the details. Just tell ’em Rock did it. What, you gon’ do life for that nigger?”

  “Rock dead,” Leroy said.

  “He what?”

  “I crashed the car up on Wayne Avenue. That’s why they think we up there somewhere.”

  “What you mean we?” Black said, growing angry.

  “Black, they know we roll together. They probably just assumed we was together again. Now, you can stand there till they walk up in here and lock us all up. Or you can help me get outta this.”

  Black looked at him, speechless, and began to understand the gravity of their situation.

  “So what it’s gon’ be, nigger? ’Cause ain’t neither one of us got time to be standin’ up talkin’ ’bout it.”

  “Why should I help you?” Black said. “Give me one good reason.”

  “I’ll give you a thousand.” Leroy peeled off ten hundreds.

  Black looked at the money, then at Leroy, and the dope fiend inside told him that he could escape from Alcatraz for one thousand dollars.

  “All right,” he said after a lengthy silence. “Let’s do this.”

  Chapter 6

  After nearly two hours of gathering evidence, the police were ready to remove Podres’s body from the house. Channels 3, 6, 10, 17, and 29 were carrying the crime scene live, with so-called experts providing commentary via satellite as to why a politician might be frequenting a crack house. Everything from the Marion Barry–like conspiracy theory to the undercover-investigation-gone-awry theory was being advanced. But no one really cared about any of that. They were just talking to buy time until the police walked out to the van with the zippered body bag.

  When the television reporters saw the officers walking into the house with the bag, all the cameramen started positioning themselves to get the best shot. It didn’t matter whether it was stated. Everyone knew that city councilman Johnny Podres was going to be carried out of that house, and the body-bag piece would be good for at least a week’s worth of dramatic replays.

  Ramirez knew that. And he was determined not to be a part of it. So he tried to walk in unnoticed behind the officers with the body bag. Before he could take five steps, the reporters were on him.

  “Lieutenant Ramirez!” Jeanette Deveraux shouted.

  “No comment,” he said, before she got a chance to ask a question.

  “Lieutenant Ramirez!” the other reporters began to shout, creating an almost riotlike atmosphere of people yelling and cameramen jostling for position.

  “No comment,” he said as he worked his way through the crowd, trying hard not to give in to his desire to push somebody down.

  When he got to the door, he leaned against the doorjamb for a minute to catch his breath. “Are they ready to bring the body out?” he said to the young detective who was helping him to keep the scene under control.

  “Zippin’ him up now,” the detective said. “The family just called back, too. The wife and daughter said they’ll meet you at the medical examiner’s.”

  “Does the medical examiner know that I’ll be sitting in on the autopsy?”

  “I spoke with an autopsy technician a few minutes ago. They’re waiting for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  As he prepared to walk out the door, Ramirez straightened his tie and ran his fingers through his hair. He hated attending autopsies almost as much as he hated meeting victims’ families. Yet there he was, about to do both. He was still trying to convince himself that it would be worth the sacrifice, when Reds Hillman walked up behind him.

  “You know, you’re never going to figure this thing out like that,” Hillman said.

  Ramirez turned around to face him. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re going down to the medical examiner’s to watch an autopsy, for God’s sake. You’re not a doctor. What the hell are you going to learn from an autopsy?”

  “It’s not like I’m going to be weighing organs,” Ramirez said defensively. “I just want to be there when the medical examiner declares this thing a homicide so we can get all the warrants we need quickly.”

  “Lieutenant, you’re going to have to excuse me for being so blunt, but screw the warrants. You wanna know where to find Leroy? Talk to the people he knows. He’s got a friend who lives right around the corner here. If you want, I’ll take you around there and we can have a little talk with him.”

  Ramirez hesitated. But as he watched the grizzled detective with the curly red hair and the smooth stroll make his way to the car, he couldn’t help thinking that Hillman was the one person who could help him to sift through the facts to find the truth.

  “Come on, Lieutenant, take a ride with me,” Hillman said.

  Ramirez waited half a beat, then walked out to the car just as the body was carried from the house. The reporters ignored Ramirez as they flocked toward the body bag, and the detectives rode the two blocks to Leroy’s friend’s house undisturbed.

  When they arrived, a man with an easy smile answered the door.

  “I was wondering how long it would take for you to get here, Reds,” he said, opening the door and extending his hand to Hillman. “Come on in.”

  “John, this is Lieutenant Ramirez,” Hillman said. “I know you probably heard by now . . .”

  “I know. You’re looking for Leroy. News travels fast around here.”

  “Me and John go way back,” Hillman said to Ramirez. “I was a beat cop in the 23rd when they used to gang war back in the seventies. I watched him and Leroy grow up.”

  “No offense, Reds, but I don’t really have a lot of time to talk about the good old days.”

  Ramirez turned his attention to John. “I need to find your friend.”

  “Why?”

  “You tell me. You said that news travels fast.”

  “If it’s the same news I heard, I can tell you right now. Leroy didn’t shoot anybody.”

  “How do you know that?” Ramirez said. “Were you there?”

  “I know because I’ve known Leroy for more than twenty years. I’m probably the only friend he’s got left. Everybody else is either dead or in jail.”

  “So when was the last time you saw him?” Ramirez said.

  “Maybe a month ago. He used to come around sometimes when he was hungry and I’d get my wife to make him some chicken or something. But I think he’s too proud to come around now. I hear he’s looking real bad.”

  Ramirez’s patience was wearing thin. “What can you tell us about him that we don’t already know?”

  “Look. I know you said you don’t want to talk about the old days, but you’ve gotta understand who Leroy is before you start running around saying he shot somebody.”

  “Okay,” Ramirez said, taking out a notepad. “Who is he?”

  “First I gotta tell you where he came from,” he said with a wistful smile. “Thirtieth and Columbia—Cecil B. Moore now. He came from a time when Philly was real crazy. Especially North Philly and West Phi
lly. Everybody had a gang, and you couldn’t even leave the block without worrying that you’d never make it home.

  “You had the Valley, Redner Street, the Moroccos, Zulu Nation, Hoopes Street out in West Philly, Brick Yard and the Hollow up in Germantown. And you had 30th Street Nation down around 30th and Columbia.

  “By the time I came along, everything was out of hand. It wasn’t just chains and bats and car antennas anymore. It was zip guns and twelve-gauge shotguns and .38s. It was another dead body every day and brothers doing life in Graterford. It was babies growing up without daddies, and mommies ending up prostitutes, turning tricks for pimps who strung them out on heroin.

  “It was like the same thing that’s going on now, only it was less about the street dealers fighting over corners and money than it was about a people fighting for an identity. Whatever money was made from the heroin trade went to the Mafia boys in South Philly, so big-time drug dealers were almost nonexistent. You didn’t see a lot of young boys riding in Benzes and BMWs like you do now. You saw maybe a couple of pimps and a couple of drug dealers driving Caddies around the neighborhood. The rest of us were just stuck, killing one another over worthless corners. You know, Martin was dead, Malcolm was dead, and every other day it seemed like another one of our boys was dead. After a while, it was like, you wanted to be dead yourself, because you just didn’t care anymore.”

  Ramirez looked at him and tried to understand what all this had to do with Leroy.

  “I used to sit up nights and wonder how I was going to get out of it,” he said. “Sometimes I even thought about just blowing my own brains out so I wouldn’t have to worry about somebody else doing it. It was that bad. You know, it was like, every other day there was a funeral. We would try to come in, just to view the body or whatever, and the boy’s mom would be there like, screaming that we were the reason her baby was dead. After a while, it was hard to believe that we weren’t the reason. At least it was for me.