* * *
"License and registration."
Damn, Mease thought, heeding the words of Officer Lillmann. How the hell did the parking lot turn into a checkpoint? He was fine until he'd turned off Jersey Street to park, where he saw the usual routine—barricades with one of the po-lice looking and the other one pointing. Of course, Mease got pointed before he could straighten the nose of the Lexus and keep it moving. He'd made it all the way here—now he saw Quentin walking past. Mease knew not to drive the solo car alone. But he was gonna be hard today . . . hardheaded. And they told him not to sniff nothing, but he was coooool, he could make it. And he almost had. But then he remembered that factoid—most fatal car accidents happen within a one-mile radius of the driver's home.
Here he was, skeed out his mind, about to be hemmed up by po-lice in the dirty car with three gats: one four-pound, one nine, and one Tec. All that and the half-kilo of coke . . . with his boss witnessing this spectacle.
Mease tried to slyly wipe the white powder away from his nostrils while po-lice checked his vitals. "Damn, I was just tryin' to git to my fuckin' son," he said in the empty car. Clearly the coke was getting to him—so much, in fact, he didn't even notice Lillmann back at his window.
"Well, all your info is fine, but here's a ticket . . . Put that in the visor so ya don't lose it."
"What's this for, I wasn't doin nuffin'!?"
"Nothin' except for ridin' with a passenger that looks like a half-ounce of that Pet Shop 'dro from uptown."
Mease looked to his right. Sure enough, he was so worried about the coke, he'd forgotten all about the bright-green bag of Mary Jane he'd copped for the crew to burn down during their cook-up session.
This was why Quent specifically told Mease not to get high.
"Don't worry, me and my old lady'll—how do you fools say it?—burn it down, right? Yeah, me and the old lady will burn it down in your honor! As for you, get outta the car slow. I been waitin' for this moment! And don't worry—I'll have a cruiser pick up Sy so you ain't too lonely. How 'bout those apples?"
* * *
Mease woke up in a cold sweat, drenched and so scared that he'd pissed on himself. Mease wasn't scared of po-lice, but had a pinch of fear when it came to Lillmann, because D2 had the power to take his freedom. He'd done it before to other dudes in Stapleton, Park Hill, Richmond Terrace, and every other hood on the Rock. But since Mease had nothing to care for anymore and no one to keep, he figured he'd body a cop before going to jail.
"Shit . . ." was all he could say when he realized he'd just awakened from a nightmare. He rolled over toward the window, saw that daybreak wasn't yet approaching. He could hear American Splendor on the TV, the part when Harvey is diagnosed with cancer and tells his wife, "I can't do it . . . I'm too scared and not strong enough to fight it."
Mease responded: "I feel you, homie."
Shit. Mease was pissed because he pissed, but couldn't really flip. Instead, he collected the soiled sheets and made moves from the Richmond Terrace apartment he'd acquired from an old customer just before crack got her evicted. Richmond Terrace was ideal—the hilly concrete terrain enclosed a murky urban underbrush perfect for the movements Mease needed to make. He hopped in the whip with the saturated laundry bag and skated from the Terrace over to CNB Laundromat—the twenty-four-hour spot—at three thirty a.m.
Mease watched the sudsy clothes and sheets spin through the glass window while reflecting on his dream. Every day was hard since he lost Sy, no doubt about it. And somewhere along the way, he'd lost it all . . . and not by bad decisions, but simply by choice. Without Sy around to balance him out, Mease quickly fell—from crime boss controlling the majority of illegal operations in Killer Hill to low-level crime flunky. He now commuted from Richmond Terrace to finish jobs for Quentin, who had been one of his workers and at one point had owed Mease money. He couldn't care less, though. Without Sy, he did the bare minimum to survive. No more smart maneuvering, no more planning and calculating. Mease would go in, kill you, drop the gun at the crime scene with his prints, and dare you to detain him.
Now, six years after Sy had been shot, Detective Schmidt was frantically searching for Mease, always just a step behind. But Mease's whole existence resembled the motion of the soiled fabrics in the washer. He watched as his pissy shit got clean.
* * *
Then Schmidt's worst nightmare materialized. The Troy Davis rally was pretty tame—Shallah Raekwon made sure the word throughout Park Hill was "PEACEFUL," even toward po-lice. Two years before the miscarriage of justice that led to Troy Davis's 2007 execution date, Rae had approached the man known as The Abbott of the Wu-Tang Clan. He coerced RZA to couple some of that Quentin Tarantino Pulp Fiction Hollywood clout with his hip-hop pull to fund the rally supporting the wrongly accused black man. But no one could've anticipated this move.
While Schmidt tried to secure the crime scene in the area between Hubert H. Humphrey School and Targee Street, things began to spiral out of control. He asked, "What's the victim's name?"
"Quentin Montgomery," Lillmann snickered. "That asshole finally got his just desserts!"
Schmidt's face turned sheet-white. He looked at Quentin's body—no open casket for him. "Forty-five-caliber hollow tip wounds? You can't be serious!" Schmidt knew the work of this hollow-tip Desert Eagle executioner.
"I need you to put out a BOLO on—"
"On who, Schmiddy? Every nigger in the projects? We really gonna waste that much manpower on these savages?"
"Cut the shit, Lillmann!" Schmidt screamed, but it was entirely too late. In the lull between the chants of "Free Troy Davis!" someone turned the tide. The onlookers, overseeing the po-lice's treatment of Quentin's body, were already disgusted with Lillmann's foolishness. All it took was one "FUCK the PO-LICE!!!"
"Nah, FUCK D2, yo!"
"Yay-yea-yeah!!!"
Before he knew it, Schmidt was witnessing a riot unfold. The rustling amongst the people focused, becoming unified.
"Yeah, FUCK D2!"
* * *
Mease got off the bus on Tompkins Avenue clenching an aluminum briefcase. He began walking toward the hood. He kept an indiscreet hooptie in the parking lot; after losing his Land Cruiser, he had no desire for upscale luxury. "From point A to B" was Mease's vehicle motto now. He heard the project's heartbeat quicken as he walked through Stapleton Playground into the hood, and soon saw there was an outside event. A theater company was putting on an interactive play entitled Bamboozled for the kids in the projects.
"And that's exactly what it is," Mease murmured as he proceeded through a parking lot toward the interior of the projects. He passed familiar faces and landmarks like the teens with their pit bulls engulfed in blunt smoke.
Quick glares showered Mease, but no one thought twice about who he was. I wish a mufucka would, Mease thought, as he opened and closed each finger around the briefcase handle. He was blind to everything but his destination.
People knew Mease as the gangster gone wash-up. He was simply a lackey for Quentin, the dude who somehow usurped Mease's power once Sy was slain. Everyone knew Mease didn't care anymore. He was to Stapleton what Omar was to The Wire—when you saw him coming, you either ran, hid, or prepared to dodge slugs.
Mease followed the path into the double-sided building Stapleton was so well-known for. On the benches, another kiddie crew was drinking, smoking, selling crack, and clowning all the addicts who walked by. Spanky always sicced his pit on fiends who didn't look or smell right, which included damn near every customer. When Mease walked past the crew, they stopped talking until he made it to the lobby.
The Warren Street building was commandeered by Casper's crew for purposes beyond just family living. The lobby reeked like a Port Authority restroom. Mease made his way to the elevator, but couldn't enter because it was caught between the first and second floors, exposing the elevator shaft. He turned around and saw three more soldiers standing right behind him, guarding the building entrance and watching his ever
y move. He took the stairs, and passed three-man crews on each landing.
He finally made it to the fourth floor. At the terrace entrance, Mease held his arms open, spread eagle, never letting the case go. He was patted down by two burly security guards, who then opened the door to "The Dub": two apartments connected by a wall removed. Mease and the briefcase were directed to the bathroom, which had been converted into a recording studio vocal booth. A small note taped to the mic read, PUT THESE ON. Mease set the briefcase down, stepped into the bathtub, stood in front of the mic, and slipped on the headphones.
He immediately heard Casper: "I see you still remember your way to the hood, huh?"
"Yeah, it's been awhile, but I made it," Mease replied.
Feeling awkward holding a conversation with a microphone, Mease scanned the room from floor to ceiling and located the camera posted on the wall above the mic, aimed at him.
"I see some things never change," Mease said, referencing Casper's anonymity. The crime boss had committed so much dirt in Stapleton that he had to remain nameless and faceless. And since there was already a Ghostface in Stapleton, he got stuck with the next best moniker.
Casper cackled through the headphones. "No doubt. I called you out here for a reason, so lemme give you the details."
As he listened, Mease's face told it all.
"You really think that's gonna work? He's gonna be there for that?"
"Fuck you think you talking to, nigguh? Look, I understand you outta the hood now, and I can even sympathize with the reason behind it. But you ain't been here, so don't question how I make moves. You here for a fuckin' job, so do as you told! Leave all the thinking to me, ya heard?"
"A'ight . . . I got it . . . and you got me, right?" Mease countered.
Casper let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, nigguh, I got you! You know the whole hood asking why you sleeping with the enemy? You ever think of that?"
Mease looked puzzled.
"I'ma put you outta this misery, cuz I know you really want out. And given what you been through, I'ma hook you up. One of my mans just ripped this jump-off he met in Manhattan. What's bugged is she talkin' 'bout how she messed with Harvey and was delivering paper for him. She told my dude that one time she got robbed by a kid from Killer Hill that Harvey's brother bodied."
Mease's brain began to move again. It hadn't in a very long time. "And . . ."
"And my man said shorty was brunette up top . . . but was fire-engine-red down below."
Mease's face blanked. He couldn't believe it.
"Yeah, believe it, fam. Don't never say I ain't do nuffin' for you, homie. Leave the case in the bathtub and break north. Do my job—that'll be your last. Then do what you need to, and don't fuck it up! Make sure you git it right, yo! Now get the fuck out my hood 'fore I sic some killuhs on that ass! You've been warned, ya heard?"
"No . . . no doubt," Mease stuttered, puzzling the pieces together.
He took off the headphones, placed them back on the mic, stepped out the tub, and sat the briefcase where he once stood. When he opened the bathroom door, an identical briefcase was sitting in his path. Mease quickly picked it up and left.
It was starting to make sense to Mease. Harvey was Quentin's brother. They were both from QB and acted like they hated each other. Problem was, it was all game—all for show in the hood so they could extort info from people. This dude might tell Harvey about some bullshit Quentin did. Meanwhile, Quentin found out from someone else why they were scheming on Harvey. They had it down to a science.
No wonder Quentin never had my money that night, Mease thought. Sy did a robbery. He robbed the fire-engine redhead Mease remembered from that night . . . Harvey's girl. And now Mease woke up.
He proceeded to his usual escape route; after sliding the briefcase into a duffel bag slung across his back, he moved briskly across the terrace to the adjoining building and noticed the uniforms running into the other entrance.
And at the back of the pack was Officer Lillmann. As Detective Schmidt cautiously hopped up the stairs, gun drawn, to the fourth floor, Mease was already on the other side of the building. When he reached the far end of the terrace, he hopped the enclosure gate and climbed down. Mease was tall enough to hang from the outside of the terrace fence and plant his feet on the top of the third-floor fence.
Maneuvering onto the third-floor terrace, Mease opened the apartment window from outside. Casper's instructions were good, and Mease darted through the apartment to the far wall, opened the window, and climbed onto the cemented air conditioner. From there, he sprang down to the curved lamppost jutting from the building. He let go, landing on his feet.
Mease was track-star status to his hooptie in the parking lot. While he was pulling outta Stapleton Houses, Schmidt and the po-lice brigade knocked down the door to find the apartment empty, except for the mic and headphones in the bathroom.
Mease knew Schmidt would be pissed that he had just missed him . . . again. But Mease was awake now, and back to his Harry Houdini when it came to Schmidt's pursuit—always a step ahead.
* * *
"FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
Schmidt slapped his palm against his forehead. For the first time, Lillmann looked at Schmidt helplessly, his eyes opened wide, irises big as saucers with hole-punched black spots in the center.
"FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
The other officers on the scene approached the crowd tentatively, trying to calm them down. Lillmann walked up to Schmidt.
"Schmiddy, what are we gon—"
Schmidt saw Lillmann's eyes pop out of his head in slow motion. A spatter of red liquid hovered in the air like late-July humidity. Schmidt didn't recognize what was happening. Then he gasped as Lillmann's face was pulled from his head.
"What the . . . ?" Schmidt tried lifting his hand toward Lillmann, but the gesture took a lifetime. And then it all resumed in real time.
The thud of Lillmann's body bouncing against the concrete echoed in Schmidt's ears. The angry mob screamed, swaying in various directions. Po-lice on the scene ducked, squawking like pigeons, searching for the assailant's angle. But Schmidt stood erect, scanning with his eyes. He'd been told Mease was working on a big job for Casper that would allow him to exit the game. At first, he figured it was Quentin; but then it dawned on him that was Mease's thing—the job was a hit on the most hated officer in Park Hill history.
As the crowd dispersed, the remaining residents saw that Lillmann had been hit.
"DAMN—they shot D2 in the face!!!"
"Rude bwoy . . . bo-bo-BO!!!"
"YEAH . . . FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
A few po-lice grabbed their walkie-talkies, calling for backup, the riot squad, any extra manpower to contain and control a steaming hood crowd. Schmidt was still, craning his neck, surveying the landscape for the culprit.
Just then, a black Lincoln livery cab turned the corner from Park Hill Avenue onto Palma Drive. While everything seemed slow to Schmidt once again, this cab existed in the same wrinkle of time he now occupied. His head and eyes stopped, locking in on the moving vehicle. The driver was unrecognizable—until he pulled the black bandanna off his face and the black hood off his head.
"Mease," Schmidt whimpered.
Mease winked at the detective who'd been following him since Sy's death. "This one's on me, Schmiddy!"
Focused on his getaway route, Mease's fingers stumbled through the ashtray. He'd killed Lillmann for Casper . . . Shit, he'd killed D2 for the whole hood! But Quentin was responsible for the death of his baby brother Sy. Finally, his fingers fell on their target. He picked up the small clip left from that night's eL. He put it to his lips and lit up. He had kept this clip for a long time, and promised himself he'd dead it when he deaded his brother's murderer.
When Mease turned onto Targee with the hood in an absolute frenzy, he cracked the window and let the smoke fly as he choked on his last few pulls of that Uptown Girl named Billy Joel.
[Editor's Note: all characters in this story—even those
based on real people—are fictional or used in a fictional context.]
BEFORE IT HARDENS
BY EDDIE JOYCE
Annadale
His parents called it his graduation barbecue but Mikey knew better. This was their party, their chance to show off their oldest son. So he stood there, in the tiny fenced-in backyard, and answered the same questions over and over. Yes, he was glad that school was over. Yes, he was excited to go up to LeMoyne. No, it wasn't a full scholarship, just half. Baseball was different than basketball. The coach only has a dozen scholarships to divide among twenty-five players. He wasn't sure what he would major in. No, he probably wouldn't start freshmen year.
After a few minutes, his cheeks started to ache.
When they were done congratulating Mikey, the well-wishers—neighbors, old friends, twice-a-year cousins—walked over to his father, cooking burgers at the grill, and slapped his back, or they sidled up to his mother, standing on the small brick patio drinking Chardonnay, and kissed her cheek. They all said something and then glanced back at Mikey. Something like Good job or Great kid, like it was all his parents' doing, like Mikey had played no role at all. His graduation party. Right.
Sure, Pete and Benny were there. Jenny, of course. And Jenny's best friend Amy. But that was it, as far as his friends went. Mikey didn't even mind because these were the only people he might actually stay in touch with when he went away to college. At graduation, all the kids around him were crying and hugging, promising to hang out this summer, swearing they would keep in touch. But Mikey just smiled and shook hands and wished them good luck. His life, his real life, was in front of him, not behind him, and he saw little sense pretending otherwise.
As soon as he could, Mikey retreated to the picnic table in the back of the yard.
"Dude, how long do we have to stay here? This is boring as balls."
"Benny, do you have to use 'balls' in every sentence?"
Staten Island Noir Page 14