Admission of Guilt (The detroit im dyin Trilogy, Book 2) (The Detroit Im Dying Trilogy)

by T. V. LoCicero

  After a few blocks he spotted two familiar youngsters, along with a third boy who looked a bit older, hanging on a corner on the opposite side of the street. They were in front of a party store that stood alone next to a large overgrown vacant lot. John slowed as he watched a late-model Olds pulling to a stop in front of the boys. The older kid leaned into the passenger-side window.

  Eric Garner and Jimmy Long were searching the street up and down as the older kid serviced the car.

  “You got boy today?” asked the man in the Olds.

  “Hey, Renaldo the Fish!” said Darnell, the older kid. “The best, man, Safety Blitz.”

  “How much?”

  “The usual, man, dime and two. Cause you a regular, dime and one.”

  Spotting John’s Camaro, Eric nudged Jimmy, and the two watched their homeroom teacher do a slow u-turn and park in front of the vacant lot a hundred feet from the party store.

  They could see him watching carefully as Darnell went into his pocket, pulled out something small and white and handed it into the car. He came out with cash in hand, and, as the car drove away, he stood there counting it. Eric flicked a look at Jimmy that said the older boy was a dumb shit, flashing it out in the open like that. Then with a big smile he and Jimmy, who was all business, sauntered up to the Camaro’s open passenger-side window.

  “Mr. G., how you be?” Eric’s favorite greeting.

  “Hey, Eric. What’s happenin’, Jimmy?”

  “Hey, Mr. G.”

  “So what are you guys doing?”

  “Just hangin’,” said Eric.

  “Looks to me,” said John, “like you and your friend on the corner are doing business.”

  “We might be,” said Eric, still smiling.

  “What happens when the cops come by?”

  “Nothin’,” said Eric. “We don’t do nothin’, and when they leave we back in business.”

  “Cops don’t mess with us,” added Jimmy. “We run faster’n them. And even if they catch us, we got mostly only a pack or two on us, and Juvenile say, ’Don’t do that again,’ and turn us loose. I been there four times. Nothin’ happen.”

  “Mr. G.,” said Eric, “You got some nice ride. How about can I sit in it?”

  “You clean or dirty?”

  “I’m clean, man. I almost never got it on me. I keep my stash back in the field there, near the alley.”

  “Okay then, hop in.”

  With an even bigger smile Eric opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. With the door closed again Jimmy leaned in at the window. Eric ran his hands over the leather dash.

  “Real fine,” he said. “Gonna get me one of these here real quick.”

  “These things cost big time,” said John.

  “That’s okay. I’m savin’ up. I give some to my ma, and the rest I’m savin’.”

  Jimmy looked up at an old Toyota passing slowly. “Here come Too Fat in the Rice Rocket. Catch you later, Mr. G.” Jimmy moved away from the Camaro and headed for the dirty Camry that was stopping now in front of the party store.

  “Who’s Too Fat?” asked John.

  “One a his regulars. You got to do good for the regulars. Keep ‘em happy and comin’ back.”

  As John watched, Jimmy gave a series of hand signals as he approached the car, then turned away and headed back into the vacant lot.

  “Where’s he going?” asked John.

  “His stash in the alley. He keep his shit like me back there, case he get stopped.”

  John watched as Jimmy leaned over briefly at the back of the field, then headed back toward the Camry.

  “So how do you feel selling shit to these poor dumb junkies?”

  “Hey, we providin’ a service,” said Eric. “We can’t help if they dumb junkies. They need it, we sell it.”

  John looked at him squarely. “No guilt over what you’re doing to them?”

  “What do you mean, man? What we sell ‘em make ‘em happy.”

  “Sometimes it kills ‘em.”

  “No, not our shit, man. We only sell good, clean shit.”

  By now Jimmy, finished with his transaction, was walking back towards the Camaro, shoving his wad of cash deep in a pocket.

  “But what you’re doing is against the law,” said John.

  “The law is dumb, man,” said Eric without his smile. “Shouldn’t be no damn law.”

  “Tell me this, Eric. What do you want to be doing in ten years? What kind of a future do you want?”

  “Me? I wanna run some big deal like this, man. Make me two, three grand a day, like this one dude I know. Not just five, six bills a week like we make now.”

  “You make five or six hundred dollars a week?”

  Back at the window again Jimmy said, “Easy, man, no problem.”

  “So what about you, Jimmy? What are you gonna be doing in ten years?”

  Before answering, Jimmy gazed up toward the corner as a man staggered coming out of the party store carrying a bottle in a paper bag.

  “Tell you one thing,” said Jimmy, “I ain’t never gonna turn into one them dumb-ass winos, go beg me some nickels, buy a two dollar wine and stay drunk all day. Me? Always gonna have me enough money to live good, whatever it take.”

  “Well, from what I hear,” said John, “if you guys stay in this business, sooner or later the law’s gonna lock you away or somebody’s gonna blow your head off. One or the other.”

  Eric’s response was quick. “Not if you do it smart, like us. Besides, we got protection, man. Anybody mess with us on the corner, here come the ‘Fearsome Foursome.’ With bats and guns. They are some mean motherfuckers.” He stopped to pull a fat wad of tens and twenties out of his jeans. “Besides, where else I’m gonna roll this much in a couple hours?”

  Shaking his head with no answer, John gazed up the street at a lanky young boy talking to the older kid doing business on the corner. Finally he asked, “Isn’t that Mark Simpson? From class?”

  “Yeah,” said Jimmy, looking up the street, “that’s the Simp. He always hangin’ around here. He want to do what we doin’, but he tryin’ to get up the balls.”

  Eric opened the car door and climbed out. “Gotta get back to work, Mr. G. Catch you later.”

  “See you in class,” said John, watching the two boys walk back to the corner, nudging each other and laughing. He put the Camaro in gear, did another u-turn and sped away in the opposite direction.

  Digging his elbow into Eric’s side as they headed for the corner, Jimmy said, “How about we tell the Simp that was the heat, and they got his name?”

  Eric giggled and dug back with an elbow. “Naw, man, he know Mr. G’s ride.”

  “Man, he be shakin’ too much to notice.”

  By the time they reached Darnell on the corner, Mark Simpson had disappeared. Jimmy asked, “Hey, Darn, what the Simp want?”

  “The usual. Want me to give him some to sell. I told him you got to talk to Andre, man. They no other way.”

  “He scared to see Andre,” said Jimmy. “The Simp’s all mouth and no balls.”

  “Maybe he be better off not rollin’,” said Eric searching the street intently up and down. “Once you start, you get used to that wad in your pocket, you ain’t gonna stop”

  “Yeah, so why you wanna stop?” Darnell had menace in his voice.

  “Don’t say I wanna stop. Just say it ain’t as much fun out here with the heat on us like now. Them motherfucks drivin’ by and shootin’ the other day, was lucky they missed one of us.”

  “Wasn’t no luck,” said Darnell. “They ain’t shoot for shit. Beside, what you need be a heater. They old equalizer, man. Need to pop for one and pack it on you.”

  “Naw, man.” Eric folded his arms, trying to look both smart and tough. “You got it on you, some cop stop to talk on the corner, he already got your ass. You already caught a case.”

  “It don’t matter, man,” said Jimmy. “Juvenile don’t do shit, man.”

  Jimmy felt the bulge under
his shirt. “Hey, Darn, know where I can get me somethin’ bigger? I wanna get me somethin’ bigger.”

  “Sure, man, Andre say he know a cop’ll get you anything you want, man. Cheap too. They get ’em for nothin’, you know, man, when they take ‘em off them dudes they bust. They got anythin’, man, .44s, .357s, Uzis.”

  “No way I’m like dealin’ with no cop,” said Eric, his arms still folded.

  “Hey, Andre say this cop doin’ more than we doin’. He got two crack shacks he runnin’. And he always be rippin’ off these other places he find out about doin’ his cop work. Andre say he don’t care about nothin’ but money. You got the bread, you good with him.”

  Chapter 13

  Later Jimmy and Eric walked home down a blighted residential street replete with weed-infested lots, boarded up houses and burned-out hulks.

  “You ever want to work a crack shack?” asked Eric as they passed a dilapidated house they knew to be one. Ripped and dirty shades were drawn over the front windows.

  “Sure, man, why not? You make more’n we do, and nobody see what you doin’. You not out there in the wide open like we is on the corner.”

  “Wide open be better to me. Least you can run when the heat come or somebody try to rip you. There ain’t nowhere to run in a shack like that.”

  “No, inside still be better. You got the gun by the door, and you don’t let nobody in you don’t know. And in between you do anythin’ you want—play poker, watch tube, do dick-a-chick. You got so many cunts comin’ to your door and half of ‘em don’t have no bread, so they beggin’ to suck you off or whatever, so they can get what they want. They love that crack, man.”

  “Yeah, but...”

  “You hear that story Andre tellin’ at the club the other night? About this one place he know where this dude has him some dogs, like a German sheep dog or somethin’. And when some cunt come beggin’ for it, he say, ’Okay, bitch, you want some smoke, you fuck my dog.’ And she do it. They got dogs doin’ these cunts every day.”

  Eric stopped, turned back against the direction they’d been walking and stood there with his arms folded. “That is bullshit, man. You can’t get no dog to do no bitch. They don’t want no bitch.”

  “Oh, man. Andre say he seen it his self. More than once. He say everybody come and watch and laugh they asses off. And he gonna take us there anytime we want, so we can see them dumb cunts doin’ them dogs.”

  Eric unfolded his arms, turned and yelled at his friend, “Andre full of shit, man.”

  “You full of shit,” Jimmy yelled back. “Andre been there, man. He seen it his self. You see when he take us there.”

  “I ain’t goin’.”

  “So you miss it, you dumb nigger.”

  The boys walked on in sullen silence for a while.

  Eric finally asked quietly, “You ever think about what Mr. G be saying?”

  “Like about what?”

  “Like about how there ain’t no future in this shit. Like how you either gonna end up dead or busted.”

  “I don’t never think about that stuff. Too busy makin’ cash.”

  “Mr. G. be a smart dude. He know about a lot of things.”

  “Yeah, if he so smart, why he a sorry-ass teacher? Why ain’t he doin’ somethin’ where you can make the big bucks?”

  “He like teachin’.”

  “That be what I’m saying, if he like teachin’, he ain’t be all that smart.”

  They walked for another dismal block before Eric spoke again. “You ma know you rollin’?”

  “She know.”

  “You tell her?”

  “Don’t have to. She seen me on the corner. She know what we doin’. She ain’t working’, so they ain’t no other bread comin’ in. So when I give her some, she just say, ’Thank you, you the man of the house now.’ What about your ma?”

  “She don’t know. Least she act like she don’t know.”

  “Where she think all that bread you give her come from?”

  “She don’t know. Last time I told her I just found it.”

  “And she believe that shit?”

  Eric shrugged and said nothing.

  “What about your pa? What’s he say?”

  “He ain’t been around,” said Eric.

  “How long?”

  “A year, maybe two. We don’t never see him. He left right when my littlest sister was born. She’s two now, I think.”

  They arrived in front of Eric’s house, an old two-family flat in filthy yellow brick. The cement steps to the two front doors were cracked and crumbling. Eric ran up the steps saying, “I still think Andre’s full of shit about them dogs.”

  “I still think you a dumb nigger,” yelled Jimmy.

  “Catch you later.”

  Chapter 14

  Inside the lower flat Eric found his mother sitting in the dark watching a Superheroes cartoon with his three younger sisters. They all had their feet tucked up on the old sofa right below the huge jigsaw puzzle of a dinosaur that he had put together a while back. His mother had been so proud of him that she had taped the puzzle to the wall above the couch like a fine painting.

  “Hi, Ma. Got somethin’ for you.”

  “Hey, Ricky.” His mother got up and followed him into the kitchen. She was wearing her gray nightgown, and he knew she wasn’t feeling well again.

  “I got somethin’ good, Ma.”

  “What is it, Ricky? Would you like a glass of milk?”

  “Yeah.” Eric pulled a carefully folded wad of five 20s from the pocket of his jeans. “I got lucky again, Ma.”

  He handed the wad to his mother who placed a half-glass of milk on the sink, then unfolded and counted the 20s. With both wonder and suspicion, she said, “Ricky, where did this come from?”

  “I found it, Ma, like the other one.”

  “Ricky, how could you just find this much money?”

  “I just found it. I don’t go just lookin’ all over. I go where people might be droppin’ their money and not findin’ it. Like that parkin’ lot over near to the supermarket. I looked for a long time for that money.”

  “Well, all I can say is you sure got you some sharp eyes. And we sure can use this here money. Now I can buy some groceries tomorrow. We was all outta stamps.”

  Eric took a swallow of milk and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his T-shirt. “Ma, can I ask you a question?”

  “‘Bout what?”

  “‘Bout dogs.”

  “Dogs? We can’t keep no dog, Ricky. I told you that.”

  Eric took another swig of milk. “No, I’m askin’ would a dog, like say maybe a German sheep dog, ever like do it with some woman?”

  “Ricky, whatever you talkin’ ‘bout?”

  “Like do it, Ma. Could you make a dog like do it with some woman?”

  Eric watched his mother’s eyes widen in her deeply lined face. “Oh my God, Ricky. No, that don’t never happen. Wherever did you hear about such ugly things?”

  “From Jimmy. He say it happen.”

  “Well, Jimmy don’t know what he talkin’ ‘bout. And I told you I don’t want you hangin’ round with that damn Jimmy after school. He ain’t good for nothin’. And he gonna turn out just like his pa who been in prison as long as I been knowin’ his ma. That boy act like he ain’t responsible for nothin’. He father a child last year, and I hear he ain’t given that baby or the mother one penny for support. He just no good, Ricky, and I don’t want you spendin’ no time with him no how.”

  Eric took one last sip of milk and watched his mother nervously fingering the twenties.

  Chapter 15

  Until about ten years back when it went topless, the Oldies Paradise, on Livery near Fort, had been a typical neighborhood bar in one of the city’s many struggling neighborhoods. Now in a garish red light on a raised platform on one side of the large square room, a bare-breasted young woman in a red g-string and red heels worked her number while Bob Seger wailed on the juke box, “We were makin’ Thunderbirds.”<
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  Two waitresses, one thin and one plump, each looking like she was wearing the other’s black leotards, were serving a slow weeknight crowd. They moved between the bar and a half-dozen tables, each with one or two men watching, drinking or talking with one of the other scantily clad dancers.

  The song ended, and there was distinctly modest applause for Sally as she moved from the stage, down three steps to a nearby table where one of the few men clapping was wearing her flimsy red top on his bald head. With a smiling smirk she picked off the bra and sauntered toward the back of the room. Still bare-breasted but slowly beginning to put the bra in place, she stopped at a table where John was talking earnestly with a tough-looking, cocoa-skinned fellow in a black T-shirt, jeans and vest.

  “Johnny G!” crooned Sally. “How ya doin’, honey?”

  “Lookin’ good up there, Sal.” John glanced at her only briefly.

  “You weren’t even watchin’. Too busy talkin’ to Sergeant Wolfman here.” Sally mugged at the black man and slid into a movie-moll moan: “How they hangin’, copper?”

  George Wolf offered a cop’s pleasant contempt. “Wouldn’t you like to know, sweetmeat?”

  “Why bother with this creep?” she asked John. “He just causes trouble.”

  “Hey, he’s a good guy,” said John. “You just gotta get to know him. Sit down and join us for a while.” Unlike the discomfort he usually felt around women, John always seemed more relaxed with the dancers at the Oldies Paradise.

  “In a few. I gotta powder my nose.” Sally winked at George, tousled John’s hair, and walked away. Another dancer, a thin redhead, punched a button on a box next to the stage, changed the lighting to blue and then climbed up to start her routine to Billy Joel’s “Second Wind.”

  George watched Sally leave. “Nice ass,” he said, “and the tits ain’t bad either.”

  John turned to look as if he’d never noticed. “You’re right.” Swinging back he picked up where he left off. “So the kid pulls out this wad and says where’s he gonna make this much, you know, doin’ what? And what am I gonna say? I mean, he’s right. Given the economic realities of this city and the likelihood that he’ll drop out of school within the next couple years, what’s he gonna do?”