“Had a full-page grand opening ad in there last week,” said Clay. “Can only afford two of those a month.”
“What you gotta do, then,” said Tate, “is run a half-page every week. Got to be in that joint every single week, Marcus.”
Karras looked at the two of them. They had this same argument every Friday, usually right about this time.
“I like those big ads, Clarence. Keeps the competition on their toes. Makes us look like somethin’.”
“It’s like they always told us in my marketing classes,” said Tate, “when they were teachin’ us print advertising: Frequency beats size, Marcus, every time.”
“That’s what she said,” said Karras, and no one responded. Well, Cootch did give him a charitable, lopsided grin.
Clay rubbed his face. “Cootch, turn that music down a touch, will you, man?” The music always got to Clay first, even more so in the last few years, as he neared the end of his thirties.
“This one’s gonna be big, Marcus,” said Karras, nodding at the wall-mounted speakers where the eight-piece funk was coming through.
“Bigger than the moonwalk,” added Cootch.
“Yeah, I know.” Clay hadn’t paid much attention to this group since Cameosis in ’80, but even he still knew a hit when he heard one. “Word Up” was going to be the bomb in D.C.
“Better be big,” mumbled Tate. “We brought in enough units, man. And too many on the wax side, if y’all don’t mind my sayin’.”
“The twelve-inch on this one,” said Clay, “is going to go large.”
Karras had been hoping the conversation wouldn’t go in this direction. The product mix had been the most heated debate subject for the last six months. Lately, they had been bringing in about 80 percent vinyl and cassette, 20 percent CD. No one seemed to know for sure the way the software was going to shake out. On top of that, the rumor mill had the national chains headed toward town. It was a crazy time to be in the music business. And a really crazy time, thought Karras, to be opening new stores.
“Hey, Neecie,” shouted Tate across the store. “Come away from that window, now, hear?”
Tate knew who she was looking at: that boy leaning against the Z, looked like some kind of drug boy to him, across the street. His girl was too young to be fraternizing with young men. She was especially too young to be checking out young men like that one. Far as he was concerned, she’d always be too young.
Denice Tate rolled her eyes and walked toward the men in the center of the store. She was fourteen, tall like her father, and suddenly running more to woman than to girl. Her hair fell in cornrows around a wide and pretty face.
“Denice,” said Cootch, saving her from her old man. “Got somethin’ for you here.”
He pulled a cassette tape from under the counter, handed it to Denice.
“What’s this?” she said, inspecting the unlabeled tape.
“Rare Essence,” said Cootch, “live at Anacostia Park, nineteen hundred and eighty.”
Her eyes widened. “Dag, you got this?”
“First generation, off my personal master. Take care of it, girl, it’s precious.”
“Thanks, Cootch. They say this be bumpin’!”
“They say this is bumpin’,” corrected Tate, and once again Denice rolled her eyes.
“Bumping,” said Karras to Tate. “You dropped your g there, Clarence. Just thought I’d point it out.”
“Thanks, Professor. Was wonderin’ why the boss man keeps your Greek ass around.”
Clay was looking through the window and out to the street, where a fine-looking white woman had gotten out of one of those Lee Iacocca cookie-cutter sedans and was crossing, heading toward the store. Ankle-high black boots with a short, tight skirt, black stockings, a jean jacket over a purple sweater—one of Dimitri’s friends, no doubt.
“Hey, Mitri,” said Clay, pointing his chin toward the street. “What you think about a woman wears shorty boots with a skirt like that?”
“That’s her hookup, I guess. You gotta admit, on her it looks good.”
“Yes, it does.” Clay liked the way she walked, too, not just the hip action, but the determination in her step. “You think she’s lost or somethin’, comin’ in for directions?”
Karras smiled. “No, she’s not lost. She’s comin’ to see me.”
“I’m just messin’ with you, man. I knew who she was comin’ to see.”
“You could tell, huh?”
“Yeah,” said Clay. “She looks like one of yours.”
Clay expected a response to that one, but Karras hadn’t heard the cut. He was already headed for the front door.
Karras chuckled to himself, noticing Donna’s Susanna Hoffs–style haircut as she neared the door. It was the medium-length cut from the cover of the All Over the Place album, not the redone Hoffs look off the new LP. It would be just like Donna to be a little bit behind in her look. But it suited her, that black hair fluffed out, shorter on the sides and hitting her shoulders in the back, the black a nice contrast to her pale skin. She had the thick black eyeliner going today, too. He liked that.
He held the door open for her. She came in, and they embraced. Karras pushed himself into her for a moment, a habit of his, letting her know that he was still all there. Donna broke off first.
“That you?” said Karras, giving her his patented smile, wide and holding, though a bit tight from the cocaine. “For a minute there, I thought it was that Bangles girl walking across that street.”
Donna turned to the side, made forty-five-degree angles with both wrists, did a brief version of the “Walk Like an Egyptian” dance she had seen on MTV. Miniskirted girls were doing it on the floor of Cagney’s and Poseurs and the other new-wave clubs all around town.
“Yeah, it’s just me,” said Donna. “How you doin’ Mr. Karras?”
“Doin’ good. Come on, say hello to everyone.”
Karras introduced her to Cootch, Tate and Denice, reintroduced her to Clay. Clay could hardly keep track of Karras’s women through the years, but this one he recalled vaguely, if only for her face. One of his students back when he was teaching at the University of Maryland.
Clay and Tate returned to their argument about frequency versus size, and Cootch asked Denice if she wouldn’t mind helping him file some new stock into the racks.
Donna and Karras were alone. Donna leaned forward, put her mouth close to Karras’s ear.
“Got something for me?” she said.
“Yeah,” said Karras. “Come on back.”
Marcus Clay watched them enter the back room.
FOUR
Dimitri Karras pulled the vial from the pocket of his jeans and unscrewed its top. Donna Morgan had a seat on the edge of the sink. It was cramped in the bathroom; Karras took his liberty, brushed the rough denim of his leg against Donna’s stockinged thigh.
Donna pulled her leg back an inch. “Isn’t Marcus gonna know something’s going on?”
“He’s out there arguing with Tate. Believe me, they’ll keep arguing for the next ten minutes.” Karras lifted a spoonful of coke up to Donna’s nose. “Here.”
Donna hoovered it like a pro. “Mmm.” She did a quick shake of her head.
“Another?” said Karras, and she took it in.
“Wow. This is the same shit I’m getting?” Donna pushed her pelvis out to slip her fingers into the right pocket of her skirt. She pulled free five folded twenties.
Karras nodded. “It’s cut out of the same eight ball.”
“Cool.”
Karras fed himself a couple of mounds. He had felt the start of that familiar, sad crash a couple of minutes earlier, and he thought he might as well get back up. He’d be on it into the night now, he knew.
Karras retrieved his wallet, pulled Donna’s snow-sealed gram from the secret place behind the photograph of his mom. He handed Donna the gram. Donna handed him the money.
“I don’t deal,” said Karras.
“I don’t care.”
&n
bsp; “I just want you to know, I picked this up from my guy as a favor to you.”
Donna put the gram where the money had been.
“What does that mean, you’re some kind of angel now? You used to sell pot. I can remember that.”
“No one sells pot anymore,” said Karras.
“Well, I appreciate it, Mr. Karras. So does Eddie.”
“You still with him?”
“Uh-huh.” Donna eye-swept Karras. “He’s steady.”
Karras smiled tightly. “Right.”
They heard an explosion. Donna let herself down off the porcelain. The sound did not seem too close, but she had felt a vibration coming through the sink.
“Jesus,” said Donna.
“I know. Sounds like someone had a wreck or something out on U.”
“We better—”
“Yeah.” Karras had the vial out of his pocket again before Donna could step around him. He hadn’t been around her for a while, and now that he had her here he didn’t want to see her go. “Want another taste real quick?”
“Sure.”
They did another round. Karras was rushing hard. The bathroom was too small now. He could see Donna was anxious to move. He could hear sirens from out on the street.
“Let’s go,” said Karras. “We better see what that is.”
“What’s going on?” said Karras to Cootch.
“I don’t know for sure,” said Cootch, “but it looks pretty bad.”
Karras and Donna went by Denice, who stood by the plate glass window next to her father, a little behind him and to the side, her hand touching his hip.
Karras pushed through the door. Donna followed him outside. A car was in the air, suspended and burning on the end of a flatbed truck parked in the construction median. People stood on the opposite sidewalk, watching quietly, a couple of them just a step or two out in the street, but not too far because of the heat and smoke. A squad car had pulled over and a couple of uniformed cops, one black and one white, were out and asking the ones who had begun to close in to step back. An ambulance was traveling west down U, with the heavier siren of a fire truck not far behind.
Donna saw Eddie’s Plymouth going east, then the red of his taillights, then the Plymouth turning left. Donna thought, Maybe the cops told Eddie to get the hell off the street. He’d circle around the block, pick her up.
“Be right back,” said Karras.
Donna said, “I’ll be here.” She reached into her jean jacket and pulled out a cigarette. She lit it, pulled hard on it, kept the smoke deep in her lungs; nothing better than nicotine over cocaine.
Karras met Clay, who was stepping back away from the car, in the street.
“Marcus.”
“Hey, man. Where you been?”
“In the back with my friend.”
“In the back, huh?”
“We heard the noise and came out. What happened?”
“Damn if I know.”
Karras stepped toward the car. Clay grabbed ahold of his arm, held him back. Karras saw something in Marcus’s eyes, stopped walking.
“What is it?”
“You don’t want to see that, Dimitri. Been a long time since I seen that kind of shit my own self. Saw it plenty in the war, but… shit.”
“What?”
“Boy got his head tore off, man. One of those I beams went through the windshield of that Buick, ripped that mothafucker right off his shoulders.”
“All right,” said Karras. “I’m not going near it. I’ll stay right here.”
They watched the rescue squad clue the fire department in. They watched the fire department extinguish what was left of the flames.
Clarence Tate noticed that the driver of the black Z had come back and parked the car on the south corner of nth. He watched the driver—tall and slim, not a bad-looking kid—get out of the car. The door on the passenger side opened. A shorter, more muscular kid stepped out, down-stepped around the car to where the taller kid leaned. Despite the cold, the short kid went without a jacket. He wore a white T-shirt clinging to a cut chest and oversized biceps. He wore two gold chains out over the shirt. He wore the Scowl that young boys felt they had to wear these days. Tate thinking, These two here are definitely in the life.
“Daddy?”
“What, Neecie?”
“The person in the car is dead, right?”
The rescue squad people had looked in the Buick. Now they were just standing around. Their squad leader had said something to one of his men over by the fire truck as it had arrived, and now the firemen were putting out the blaze. The smoke was thick and black, and it was rising off the street.
“That’s right, honeygirl,” said Tate.
Tate could see the shorter kid talking with his hands, trying to make a point to the taller kid. The taller kid kept looking toward the window of the store. He was looking for Denice.
“You know that boy?” said Tate.
Tate didn’t have to say which boy. Out the corner of his eye he had seen Denice glancing that way.
“I seen him around.”
“You don’t need to be talkin’ to him. He’s too old to be talkin’ to you, hear?”
“Daddy, I don’t even know his name.”
She did know his name. It was Alan Rogers. He was tall and he was cute. It was good to know a boy like that. She was scared on these streets now, with all the rough boys talking trash to her as she walked back and forth from school, pushing themselves against her in the stairwell in school. Hard-looking boys; she heard tell some of them had guns. It was good to know a cute boy like Alan, who was hard, too, but in a different way, who drove a nice car, who had respect, who could protect her from those other boys.
“You hear me, girl? I don’t want you talkin’ to his kind.”
“Oh, Daddy—”
“Daddy nothin’. You mind me now, hear?”
Tate’s voice was harsh. But he hoped she understood that he loved her, just loved her so much. He scolded Denice to make his point known. As he scolded her, he stroked her hair.
Officer Kevin Murphy told the usual Medger’s winos to get back up on the sidewalk. A couple of elderly men from the residential side of 11th had come over, too, and Murphy ordered them back, too, gently and with more respect. He watched Tutt get close to the burning Buick, and then he watched Tutt make his way toward the Z, where two of Tyrell’s boys, Alan Rogers and Sean “Short Man” Monroe, stood against the car. He could see Tutt shake his head subtly to Rogers, as subtly as a clumsy guy like Tutt could manage. Then Tutt started back, stopped to talk to a couple of other uniformed cops, two young white guys named Platt and Thompson, who had just come upon the scene. Platt was all right, hardworking and by all accounts committed; Thompson was mean and stupid, red to the core, just like Tutt.
Tutt looked over at the Buick, said something to Thompson, and Thompson laughed. The kid in the Raiders jacket, the one who always stood in front of the liquor store, walked by them. He stepped out into the street, his hands in his pockets. He walked toward Murphy.
“All right, young man,” said Murphy. “Get back over there with the others.”
“Sure thing, officer,” said the kid, but he didn’t move.
“You heard me, why you’re not walkin’? Move along.”
“I saw what happened,” said the kid.
“The accident?”
“After, too.”
“Lotta people saw it. You don’t worry yourself over this now, hear? Get back up on that sidewalk.”
“Whatever you say.”
The kid smiled a little, walking away.
Murphy checked the cockiness in the kid’s step, pictured himself at the kid’s age, on these same streets, twenty years ago. Tried to picture this new world through the kid’s eyes.
Murphy called out, “Say, young brother. What’s your name?”
“Anthony Taylor,” said the kid, still walking, not turning. “Up around my way they call me T.”
“You live around he
re?”
“My corner,” said Anthony. “Right over here.”
Murphy watched him go there and take his place.
“Dag, boy,” said Sean “Short Man” Monroe. “How’d you like to go out like Junie went today?”
“I don’t want to go out no way,” said Alan Rogers. “I want to live.”
“I ain’t goin’ out like that. Gonna take some with me when I go.”
“No doubt you will.”
Monroe licked his lips. “You know, Tyrell told Junie not to buy that car. Knew it was too much for him. Knew Junie’d fuck his own self up behind the wheel. Don’t you know, little nigga like Junie couldn’t even reach the pedals and shit.”
“Junie did like to drive fast.”
“Tyrell told him not to be drivin’ so fast when he had ’caine or money in the car. Man had twenty-five grand in a pillowcase, goin’ to make a buy, doin’ seventy down U.”
“Didn’t listen.”
“Never did have no control. Grand National and shit. Way he drived, man shoulda been drivin’ a Dodge Omni, some shit like that.”
The white cop, Tutt, came close by, shook his head slightly in Rogers’s direction. Then he walked away.
“Redneck mothafucker,” said Monroe.
“Talk about it.”
“What, he claimin’ the money ain’t in the car?”
“That’s what he’s sayin’, yeah.”
“Tyrell ain’t gonna be happy, man.”
“Could be in the trunk, you never know. Coulda burned up, too. Tutt’ll find out when the smoke clears. We’ll talk to Tutt later.”
“You talk to him. I say fuck that mothafucker, boy.”
“Yeah, I know. Come on.”
They got into the Z. Monroe saw Rogers take a last look over at the record store before he gunned it down 11th.
“Look at you,” said Monroe, laughing. “You still goin’ at that young stuff.”
“She look good, man.”
Monroe pursed his lips. “Clean, too. After you hit that shit, I’ll be right behind you.”
“She’s nice,” said Alan Rogers softly.
The Sweet Forever Page 3