Pipe Dream

by Solomon Jones

  “But knowing we were the reason that so many people were dying wasn’t enough to stop the young boys from joining. Well, that’s not really true, because looking back now, I guess they really didn’t have any choice. You were either with us or you were against us. And if you lived in the neighborhood and you weren’t in the gang, you were against us. The only ones we really let slide were the athletes—basketball players or whatever—and the drug addicts.

  “Leroy couldn’t play basketball. And he wasn’t on dope. Not yet. He was just a young boy, thirteen years old. He lived right there on Oxford Street. I remember seeing him going to the store for his mother one day, and going through the roo the next day. Everybody had to hit him and kick him. That’s what the roo was—like two lines of guys. And you had to go down the middle and let them beat you down to prove you were tough enough to join the gang. Can you imagine that? A little boy coming through a line of damn near grown men, taking all kinds of punches and kicks, just to be initiated into a gang that he might or might not live to say he’d been a member of.

  “I’ll never forget how he looked when he came out of that line. His eye was swelling, his bottom lip was split down the middle, and he was trying hard not to limp where someone had kicked him in the knee. But he was smiling the most incredible smile, as if he’d achieved everything he’d ever wanted in life.

  “I don’t think it really dawned on me right then that this was someone who really didn’t belong there. I don’t think I even cared. But the more he hung around, the more he came with us to the gang wars, the more he stood on the corner with us and drank Wild Irish Rose, the more it seemed like he was different from the rest of us. He never said much, because he had that stutter, and I guess he didn’t really want to give anybody a reason to mess with him.

  “But there were so many things about him that separated him from the rest of us. I mean, the boy just had heart. If we were outnumbered and we had to run back to the neighborhood, Leroy was always the last to go. He was the smallest one, but he would be the last one to go, covering the rear so the rest of us could get away. He would draw up plans like some kind of little general. Using abandoned houses as staging areas, setting up the gang wars so we had whoever we happened to be rumbling outflanked, using cars almost like foxholes, setting things up so that we attacked in waves instead of all at once. The boy was smart. I think the only reason he wasn’t the leader was he was too small. But even that didn’t stop him. He fought when he had to fight, took his lumps with the rest of us, got locked up when he had to. Didn’t talk much, like I said. But the way he looked at you, it was like he could see everything you were thinking. It was like he had this sixth sense about everything that wasgoing on around him. It was like he’d been here before.

  “One time I asked him something right before we went out to fight the Valley. I said, ‘Leroy, who’s not going to make it back?’ And when I said it, I was just joking, you know? But Leroy took it seriously. He acted like he didn’t hear me. Then he looked at this boy named Porkchop and nodded his head.”

  He paused, trying to compose himself as the memory came flooding back to him.

  “That night, Porkchop got shot in the chest with a twelve-gauge,” he said, shaking his head. “The guy just ran up to him and shot him. And Porkchop slumped over a fire hydrant, like a rag doll.”

  His eyes lost their focus, like he was caught up in a trance.

  “The way the blood was pouring out of his chest,” he said in a soft monotone, “it looked like the hydrant was leaking this bright red water. And Porkchop was bent over, trying to turn it off. It was almost like, if somebody would have come by with one of those wrenches, they could have stopped the leak and everything would’ve been all right.”

  Ramirez shifted uncomfortably.

  “Everybody scattered. I remember I dropped the car antenna I had and ran toward 30th Street. We didn’t want to leave him there, but he was dead already, and there was nothing else we could do. So we ran. We ran and we screamed and we tried hard not to cry. And then we bought some wine like that was going to make it go away.

  “When we got back, I just looked at Leroy. I was almost kind of scared of him, to tell you the truth, because I thought he had some kind of crazy powers or something. I don’t know, maybe that was the Wild Irish Rose talking. But I know I never looked at Leroy the same way after that. None of us really looked at ourselves the same way after that.”

  He stopped and gripped the bridge of his nose. Then he breathed in deeply and went on.

  “On the day of the funeral,” he said, “we all came to the church and stood in the back. The family didn’t want us there, but we weren’t bothering anybody, so it really didn’t matter. Nobody said anything to us and we didn’t say anything to them, either. Everything was fine. The preacher said his little piece about the gang wars and how we were in the final days. The choir got up and sang ‘Amazing Grace.’ The women cried, the children cried, the grandmother passed out, and the men all looked at us like it was our fault. Everything was going like it was supposed to go. As soon as the guys from the funeral home got up to close the casket, though, all hell broke loose.

  “The guys from the Valley ran up in the church and flipped the casket over in the middle of the aisle. At first, we were like, frozen. And then—it was like somebody yelled, ‘Action!’ or something—it was just like we were out in the street. They tried to run back down the aisle, but they were trapped inside the church, stuck between us and the family. We kicked their behinds, and by the time they got out of the church, a lot of them were too hurt to even make it out of the neighborhood. The cops came and arrested some of them, but none of us got arrested, because we hid in a couple of abandoned houses across the street.

  “When we came out, we caught one of them trying to stagger up the street. The rest of them had either run away or gotten arrested, so he was on his own. When he saw us, he tried to run, but we grabbed him and dragged him into one of the houses. Frank Nitty—that’s what our leader called himself back then—told this dude to go and get some rope or some string or something to tie him up with. While we waited for the guy to come back with the rope, we beat that boy unconscious like three times. Every time he would pass out, we would make him wake up and knock him out again. By the time dude came back with the rope, the guy didn’t even look like the same person anymore. His whole head was swollen.

  “When we finished tying him up, Frank pulled a gun out of his waistband and gave it to Leroy. Then he told Leroy to kill the guy. I still remember the way he said it: ‘Do it for Porkchop, ’cause Porkchop can’t do it for hisself.’

  “Leroy took the gun, cocked the hammer, and held it tightly in his right hand, aiming right at the boy’s chest. Then Frank made everyone leave the room. The only ones who stayed were me and Leroy. My job was going to be to help drag the body to the window and throw it into the alley. And I would’ve done it, too, without the slightest reservation. But just as I was trying to brace myself for the blast, something strange happened. Leroy uncocked the hammer, handed Frank the gun, and told him he wasn’t going to do it.

  “I couldn’t believe it. This little thirteen-year-old boy stood there and told Frank, knowing the consequences of what he was saying, that he could never just stand there and kill someone who wasn’t trying to kill him. Leroy stood there and gave up what could have been his life, because Frank could have shot him right there for disobeying an order. He stood there and he did that because, even then, Leroy would do anything except take someone’s life for nothing. He did it because he had something that I hadn’t discovered in myself yet—the courage to stand up for what he believed in.

  “Frank let Leroy walk out of there that day. But Leroy could never walk with his head up in the neighborhood again. Frank made him leave the gang the same way he came in; by going through the roo. We lined up in this little open space out in Fairmount Park. And then we made Leroy come through. Only it wasn’t just about fists and feet that time. Oh no, when he came throu
gh that time, he wasn’t supposed to come out alive. And he almost didn’t. We beat that boy so bad that when we were finished, we ran away, thinking he was going to die in that lot. But he didn’t. He got up and he walked away. And every time we saw him after that, we beat him down again.

  “After a while, it was like he was immune to it. He would stand there and take it, day after day, time after time, like it didn’t even hurt him anymore. But when you looked at him real close, you could see that he wasn’t the same. The light in his eyes—the one he’d use to see into your soul—it died one day. And when the light died, he died. I guess he couldn’t go on knowing that he didn’t belong anymore. I guess it became too tempting to give up on life. So that’s what he did.

  “He started shooting heroin, and even though his body grew, you could see that his spirit was shrinking. He was withering away to nothing. The man he became was nowhere near the boy he had been. And everyone could see it. We started seeing him sitting on people’s steps nodding, or walking up the street scratching the side of his face. His hands were as big as baseball mitts and his body started to look bloated. It got to the point where we didn’t even bother him anymore. We just stood by and watched him killing himself.

  “After I moved out of the neighborhood, I got into the church, went to school. I guess Leroy kept going in the opposite direction. When cocaine came out, he started using that. And I guess when crack came out, that was the next logical thing for him to do. Because when you’re born to be a leader, and someone snatches all that away from you, sometimes you end up thinking that you don’t have anything left to live for.”

  John shook his head sadly. Then he looked over at Ramirez.

  “That’s why I know Leroy couldn’t have killed anybody,” he said earnestly. “Because I know that the man cared too much about life to take it, even if it meant giving up his own.”

  When Ramirez and Hillman left the house and headed back to the crime scene, they weren’t any closer to finding Leroy. But Leroy had become more than just words on a printout. He had become real to them. And Ramirez hated that.

  He didn’t want to know anything about a suspect’s past that he couldn’t read on a rap sheet. He saved his compassion for his family, for other cops, for people whose lives intersected with his own. But never for suspects. It was easier that way. He didn’t have to feel.

  Hillman had seen a thousand cops like that. Their every action was about detachment. But Hillman was going to make sure that Ramirez looked below the surface. He knew that there was more to North Philly than desolation. The people in the streets he patrolled were his family. Not other cops. Not his ex-wife. Not even his children. Perhaps that was why his life was in a shambles. He cared too much.

  “What are you thinking so hard about, Reds?” Ramirez said.

  Hillman started to tell the truth: that he was wondering how it felt to be detached, like Ramirez. But he just steered the conversation back around to the subject at hand.

  “I was thinking about Leroy,” Hillman said.

  “What about him?”

  “You heard what the man said. Leroy doesn’t shoot people.”

  “Yeah, I heard him. But people change. Twenty years is a long time.”

  “Maybe, but doesn’t this whole thing just seem a little odd to you?”

  “Does what seem odd?”

  “The commissioner and the captain wanting to be so close to the investigation. Focusing on one or two suspects without any real evidence.”

  “I do what I’m told, Reds,” Ramirez said. “When the commissioner tells me to find somebody, I do it. I don’t ask why. I get less grief that way.”

  The radio crackled to life. “Dan 25, meet two complainants at Northwest Detectives in reference to a carjacking at Roberts and Wayne Avenue. Please expedite. It may be related to the founded shooting on Park Avenue.”

  “Dan 25 received,” Ramirez said, looking over at Hillman. “Hold me out on the scene at Park Avenue. Dan 50 will meet the complainants at Northwest.”

  “Okay, Dan 25.”

  Hillman smiled to himself and looked down at his lap. “You sure you want to send an old man to check that out?”

  “Contact me if it turns out to be a solid lead,” Ramirez said, ignoring Hillman’s question as he got out of the car and walked back over to the house on Park Avenue.

  Hillman was almost beginning to like Ramirez. He reminded Hillman of himself as a young detective. But as he shook his head and smiled at the young lieutenant’s cocky attitude, Hillman couldn’t help wondering about Leroy.

  If he knew that he was wanted, he could probably elude the police for days without ever leaving the neighborhood.

  But Hillman knew all too well that Leroy could never escape from his real enemy—himself. And that, more than anything, would be his weakness. That is, unless he had a lot of help.

  Chapter 7

  Clarisse looked at Black like he was crazy.

  It wasn’t as if he had asked her to kill herself or anything. But they needed her, and he didn’t think the request was all that unreasonable.

  “You want me to do what?” Clarisse asked in disbelief.

  “I want you to let us hold your car,” Black said. “And maybe some of your clothes, so we can make it out of the city.”

  Leroy and Pookie, fully dressed now, stood next to them in the dining room and listened, knowing they could only make matters worse if they interfered.

  “Well, y’all might as well kill me now,” Clarisse said. “Because there is no way I’m letting you and him and this bitch go anywhere in my new car.”

  “I got your bitch,” Pookie said.

  “Shut up, Pookie,” Leroy said, and she immediately fell silent.

  “Clarisse,” Black said, pausing for a moment. “The only way we can get out of here is in a car. And we can only do that while it’s still dark. Now, I know you think we killers, or whatever you think. But I ain’t kill nobody, and neither did Leroy. Five-o ain’t tryin’ to hear that, though. You heard what they said, right? Two black males wanted for a shooting and an assault on a police officer.

  “Assault on a police officer,” he repeated, emphasizing each word. “You know what that mean to a cop? That mean shoot a nigger now, ask questions later. If we walk out that door, we won’t live five minutes and you know it.”

  Clarisse looked at him hard and said, “So what.”

  “Oh, so what we did tonight ain’t mean nothin’ to you?”

  “Nigger, please. You know just like I know that it didn’t mean anything. And even if it did, you don’t have a job or a place to live. Plus you’re smoking. What can you do for me, Everett, or Black, or whatever your name is? So why don’t you do me, and you, and all of us, a favor. Save the drama for your mama, ’cause I ain’t tryin’ to hear that shit.”

  “That’s what they teach y’all in nursing school?” Black said. “How to cuss people out?”

  “That’s what they teach you in real life, Everett. How to survive.”

  “So what I got to do to get you to help us?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “Because I’m not going to help you.”

  “Look. Don’t even let us hold the car. Just give us some coats and hats to put on over our clothes and drive us somewhere—anywhere. You can drop us off and drive yourself back home.”

  “You’re going to ride around wearing women’s coats and hats?” she said, stifling a grin.

  “That’s right. Not unless you got a better idea.”

  “And what about her?” she said, nodding toward Pookie.

  “They ain’t lookin’ for her.”

  “They’re not looking for her yet,” she said.

  “They lookin’ for two guys walkin’. Not four sisters in a ride. How they gon’ recognize us if we shave and take showers and put on some of your clothes?”

  “They probably wouldn’t. Too bad I’m not going to let you shave and take showers and put on some of my clothes.”

  “I’ll pay you,” Le
roy said.

  “This isn’t about money,” Clarisse said, folding her arms and turning her head.

  “Clarisse,” Black said. “If we was killers you woulda been slumped by now. We woulda just took whatever we needed and left you up in here dead.

  “Now, I like you. If things was just a little bit different, I could probably love you. But this here is life or death. And if you think I’m lettin’ you stop me from gettin’ outta here ’cause you don’t wanna be involved, you wrong.”

  “No, Everett,” she said. “You’re wrong. I’m not involved. I’ve never been involved. I’ll never be involved. I’m not the one who—”

  “Shut up!” Black said, raising his voice for the first time. “You are involved. So stop tryin’ to act like you so far above all this, ’cause you ain’t. You smokin’ just like I’m smokin’. And you want some more dope just like I want some more dope. So stop frontin’ like you so shocked, ’cause you ain’t no better than nobody in here. Now, take the money, girl, and don’t make me do nothin’ I don’t wanna do. ’Cause I’ll take your car, lock you in the trunk, and leave yo’ ass out the airport till the dogs catch the scent.”

  For a moment, there was near silence. The only sound in the room was the chatter of the radio and the hiss of Black’s breathing. Everyone else, it seemed, was holding their breath. No one blinked, or shifted position, or spoke. Nothing, in fact, moved—until Pookie laughed.

  Clarisse reacted before anyone could stop her. By the time Black looked up, her fist was flying past him in a blur, and Pookie’s feet were leaving the floor. When he looked again, Pookie had banged into the far wall and was sliding down, her eyeballs rolled back in the sockets like marbles.

  She crumpled to the floor in a heap, and Leroy rushed over to help her.

  “How much money are you talking about?” Clarisse said, ignoring Pookie while she rubbed her knuckles and breathed heavily.

  “Huh?” Leroy said, looking up from Pookie. “Oh, three hundred.”

  “Six hundred,” she said.

  “What?” Leroy said, acting as if she had asked for his right arm.