They had come back to Karras’s apartment at 1841 R Street, nicknamed the Trauma Arms by its earlier residents, after Karras had stopped for a twelve-pack of Heinekens. Karras wasn’t a power drinker normally, but when he did coke he had a bottomless thirst. Lately he’d been drinking quite a bit. There were five dead soldiers on the table in front of him.
“Here, baby,” said Karras when he’d caught Donna’s eye.
He watched her walk to the couch. She had taken off her sweater and now had just a white T-shirt tucked into her skirt. Like everyone else these days, partiers and health nuts alike, she had a tight body. Karras could remember the freckles on her chest, the dark nipples hung like plums on her smallish, hard white breasts. He tried not to think of them or the rest of her. He wanted to party some more, not rush the night.
Donna used a twenty, tightly rolled and taped, to hoover the line. There was a cigarette burning in the ashtray and one still smoking where she had butted it out.
“All right,” Donna said, dipping her fingers in the glass of water on the table, putting the wet fingers in her nose. She took a bottle of beer off the table.
Karras sang along to the record: “ ‘Time ain’t nothin’ when you’re young at heart, and your soul still burns….’ ”
“Yeah!” said Donna.
Karras did half his line into one nostril, half into the other. He dumped some more coke from Donna’s snow-seal onto the mirror.
As the music ended, Donna said, “You got any U2?”
“Uh-uh.”
“What?”
“I saw them at the Ontario on the Boy tour, and then at Ritchie in College Park to make sure I wasn’t missing something. The audience was in black leather, all of them pumping their fists in the air at once. It looked like Berlin in thirty-eight.”
“You’d know, ’cause you were, like, hanging out in Nazi Germany in thirty-eight.”
“Look, I just don’t get it.”
“Whaddya wanna hear, then?”
“Keep on goin’ with that Paisley Underground thing. Put on some Dream Syndicate.”
“Which one?”
“Medicine Show,” said Karras. “A Sandy Pearlman production.”
“Huh?”
“Guy who produced that record produced early BOC. Also did that Clash record, Give Em Enough Rope.”
It was all speed now, Karras knew. His mouth was overloading his asshole. He was spouting useless shit just to hear his own voice.
“What are you talkin’ about?”
“Go ahead and put on that Dream Syndicate, Donna.”
A couple of beers and several lines later, Karras was in the center of the room air-guitaring the “Merrittville” solo. He caught his reflection in the window, a gray-haired guy running his fingers down an imaginary fret.
“What’s so funny?” said Donna.
“Funny? I feel good, that’s all.”
“I feel good, too.”
She’d reached her peak, a kind of desperate and deluded happiness in her eyes. Her smile was glued open. She looked blown out.
Karras wanted more. The time between jolts was getting shorter, and more was all he could think of now.
He laid out lines. They talked and talked. Donna jumped up to call Eddie Golden for the third time that night.
“His machine again,” said Donna.
“Oh,” said Karras. He hadn’t told her that Eddie had taken something from that burning car. I’ll tell her tomorrow, he thought, or maybe not at all. Why does she need to know? Why fuck things up for tonight?
Karras pulled her to the couch and kissed her. He broke off, gave her the thousand-dollar smile. His charm was full on. They made out until their mouths were dry. Karras put his hand up Donna’s T-shirt, massaged her breasts through her bra. Her nipples were pebble hard.
“Mr. Karras,” whispered Donna.
“That’s me.”
They drank some more, talked much more, laughed. They did the rest of Donna’s coke. They listened to Psychocandy, The Replacements Stink, and cranked up Zen Arcade in a beer-and-blow rush. Karras finished off the night doing an improvised thrashing jig to a Pogues tune off Rum, Sodomy and the Lash, leaving his feet and knocking an old end table over as the last Heineken finally kicked in.
On his ass, feeling the bass of his big Polk speakers, he looked across the room. Donna was standing near the coffee table, her hair in her face, licking the snow-seal clean. When she had gotten every last taste, she dropped the paper from her hands. He watched her eyes sadden as she tracked the leafy float of the empty snow-seal to the floor.
Marcus Clay said, “How’s that dog taste, Youngblood?”
“Dog taste good, Mr. Clay. Thanks for gettin’ it for me.”
“Ain’t no thing.”
They sat at the counter of Ben’s Chili Bowl, near the old Lincoln Theater on U. Clay had taken Anthony Taylor there after he had closed up the store. He had given Anthony a five-spot for sweeping the place out, told the boy he’d drop him off at home. But the Taylor kid had hunger in his eyes, so they made a stop down the street. Clay had nothing going on for the evening anyhow, and there wasn’t anything much better than a late-night stop at Ben’s.
Clay sopped up the chili on his plate using the heel of his bun. “You want another?”
“Okay,” said Taylor.
Clay signaled the counterman. “Two more. And another grape soda for the young man.”
They were served, and Taylor dug in straight away. He turned his head to look out the window at a Metrobus that was passing on U.
“That’s a nice bus,” said Taylor.
“You like buses?”
Taylor nodded as he swallowed a gulp of Nehi. “Like to drive one my own self someday.”
“Shoot, boy, you could own a bus yourself, you work for it hard enough.”
“For real?”
“Why not? You can do anything, you set your mind to it. I grew up near here, up around Thirteenth and Euclid. When I was a kid, I wanted to own my own record shop. Now I got four of them myself.”
“Dag.”
“Just remember, though, it took a whole lot of focus. Wasn’t no quick way to get it. These young drug dealers today, living large like they do, it might look real good to you now, but you got to realize, that good life’s only temporary. Either death or jail waits for those boys on the for-real side.”
“I know. Like that boy got burned up today. Name of Junie, worked for Tyrell Cleveland.”
“Cleveland, huh.” Clay knew the name.
“Yeah, he’s runnin’ the action in the neighborhood down around your store. Junie, that boy got burned up today in that fast Buick? He worked for Tyrell.”
“You see too much, boy, for your young age.”
“I see everything! Saw this white dude get out of a Plymouth, take a pillowcase out of Junie’s Buick this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” Clay didn’t look at the boy.
“Sure. A whole lot of cash money in that pillowcase, too. Saw some of it fly up out of the Buick when it was on fire.”
Money. So that’s what it was for sure. Clay wondered if Karras knew that his cokehead girl was running with a man fool enough to steal from a dealer.
“Good-lookin’ white girl got out of that Plymouth first, went into your shop, came out after the accident with this white dude had gray hair. I seen him over at your shop plenty of times. And somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“There was this sign on the side of the Plymouth door. I memorized the phone number and the address they had there on the sign. See, I told you I seen it all.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was gonna tell this po-liceman, too,” said Taylor. “Man I seen around, rides with this mean-lookin’ white cop in our district. But he didn’t ask.”
“What you gonna do if he does ask?”
“What should I do?”
Clay took a bite of his dog to buy some time. He didn’t want his friend Dimitri involved in any of this. A
nd he sure didn’t think it was healthy for the kid to get involved, either. But here Clay was, acting the role model to the kid, giving him advice. What was he supposed to do, be selective as to what he told Anthony Taylor when it came to right or wrong?
“This black cop asks you,” said Clay, “you tell him to come talk to me.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that. Way my friends at school tell it, you shouldn’t talk to the po-lice about nothin’.”
“Your friends are wrong. But in this case… it’s just better this time, he talks to me. Hear?”
“Okay.”
“You want another chili dog?”
“Nah, I’m kinda full.”
“Gettin’ full myself. But it sure tastes good, doesn’t it?”
“Damn sure does.”
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
“All right.”
Short Man Monroe hated that Jeffrey Osborne tune, “You Should Be Mine,” ’specially when the deejay called it “The Woo Woo Song,” which made it sound like something a punk would be into for sure. Monroe couldn’t square with that love music. Now he was listening to it, driving down U with Alan Rogers and his new skeezer, the one his boy Alan kept calling Neecie. They were both squeezed into the passenger seat of the Z, Neecie on Alan’s lap. Alan was givin’ the girl a little tongue.
“Where we goin’, man?”
Alan Rogers moved his mouth off the girl’s. “Gonna drop Neecie off up around the way. Gotta be gettin’ her home, man, ‘fore her pops be buggin’.”
“Your pops,” said Monroe, “he work in that record store, right?”
“He works for all of them,” said Denice. “He’s the controller. Handles the money.”
“Didn’t know he was so important,” said Monroe, chuckling low. He moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
Denice Tate pulled Alan Rogers back to her, gave him a long kiss. It felt so good to kiss him, strong and looking good like he was, and sweet as he had been to her all night. And he hadn’t tried anything more than those good kisses he had been giving out for free. A gentleman, that’s what he was, someone her father would probably like if he’d only give Alan half a chance.
“Good show,” said Rogers, “right, girl?”
“Chuck Brown was the bomb,” said Neecie. “Gonna remember that show for a long time.”
Rogers smiled. “Yeah, me too.”
Monroe got low in his seat. Good thing wasn’t none of his other boys around to see him drivin’ around Rogers and this girl, Rogers actin’ like he was livin’ in some soap opera, little birds flyin’ round his head goin’ tweet tweet and shit, everything all pretty and nice. Monroe thought, Why doesn’t he just do what he wants to do, get a deep nut with this bitch, hit it and split it and kick her the fuck on out of their ride? They had business to attend to, didn’t concern no girls.
Up ahead, a truck parked in front of a late-night market flashed its lights at the Z. Monroe eased his foot off the gas, pulled over to the curb.
“Yo, Short, what you stoppin’ for?”
“Man wants to talk to us, I guess.”
“What man?” said Rogers.
“Looks like our pocket cop,” said Monroe. “King Tutt.”
TEN
Marcus Clay first noticed the group standing around the baby blue truck with the big wheels as he cleared the intersection at 12th and U. Rolling nearer to the group, he recognized those drug boys who had been across the street from the store, the short one with the pumped-up arms and the taller one with the gentle face. They were talking with a weight-lifter type, white man with a buzz cut. Clay couldn’t be sure—the white man wore street clothes—but it looked to be that beat cop from the neighborhood. The taller boy had his arm around a girl, seemed like he was doing it to keep her warm the way he softly rubbed her shoulder and arm. Clay passed by, looked them all over. It sure was that cop, probably shaking those boys down. And the girl, goddamn, it looked like—no, it was—Denice Tate.
“What the hell,” said Clay.
“What’s that?” said Anthony Taylor.
“Nothin’.”
He punched the gas. No sense in getting this kid Taylor involved in anything. And no reason to stop. While Clay was pretty certain that Clarence Tate didn’t know his little girl was out here tonight, Clay didn’t believe she was in any kind of immediate danger. What could happen to her? After all, they were with a cop. The cop would make sure she came to no harm. The cop would see that she got on home. Denice was a smart girl; she knew how to steer away from trouble. Probably out having a good time is all it was. Maybe she didn’t even know this kid was in the life.
The next thing he had to think of was should he tell Clarence, straight up, about Denice?
Clay drove the boy up to Fairmont, kept the Peugeot running outside Taylor’s house.
“This it?”
“Yes.”
“All right, then, get on inside.”
Taylor looked over at Clay. “Can I come by tomorrow?”
“Sure,” said Clay. “You come on by.”
“Thanks, Mr. Clay.”
“Pleasure, Anthony.”
Clay watched the boy walk toward his row house. He waited there until the boy had gone inside.
Richard Tutt saw the Z coming down U at about the same time that Kevin Murphy entered the market to pick up some chocolate for his wife. He flashed his lights, and the Z pulled over to the curb. Tutt got out of his Bronco just as Monroe and Rogers and some young girl got out of the Z.
Rogers and the girl hung back as Monroe walked toward Tutt in that slow, deep-dip way of his, a toothpick dangling from between his lips. Tutt thought, What I wouldn’t give to slap that toothpick out of that little nigger’s mouth.
“Wha’sup, Tutt?” said Monroe. “Where go your darker half?”
“My partner’s in the store. He’ll be right out.”
“What brings y’all out tonight?”
“Just checking out our neighborhood.”
“Your neighborhood. You own it now, huh?”
“The good citizens own it. I’m just the caretaker.”
“Whatever you say, big man.”
Tutt grinned. He reached behind him like he was hitching up his jeans.
“Here’s a joke for you, Short.”
“I’m listenin’.”
“What did Marvin Gaye’s father say to him right before he smoked him?”
“What?”
Tutt pulled his gun, racked the receiver, pointed it in Monroe’s face, in one fluid motion.
Tutt said, “This is the last forty-five you’ll ever hear.”
Monroe didn’t even twitch. If this white boy wanted to high-noon it out here, he was ready for it any time. And he didn’t give a fuck if he was a cop.
Tutt laughed. “Don’t you get it, Short? Marvin Gaye. Forty-five, as in forty-five caliber. As in forty-five RPMs.”
“I get it. It just ain’t all that funny, Tutt.”
Alan Rogers put his arm around Denice Tate. He stroked her arm, could feel her shiver beneath his touch.
Tutt replaced his Colt in the waistband of his jeans. A car approached. None of them looked directly at the car as it slowed and then accelerated and passed. In his side vision, Tutt only noticed that the car was one of those French jobs that were all the rage these days with the city’s spades.
Murphy came out of the market holding a package of Turtles, Wanda’s favorite chocolate.
“What’s goin’ on?” said Murphy, trying to break the strange silence he had walked into. He stood behind Tutt, always behind him, because Tutt would cowboy it without thought if anything went down. Tutt would protect him, take that first hit. Murphy thought he saw contempt in Monroe’s eyes, and maybe disappointment in Rogers’s. Both of them knew what Murphy knew himself: that he didn’t have the same kind of balls-out courage as the white cop.
“Your partner, he just tellin’ jokes, Officer Murphy,” said Monroe.
“What you got there
, Rogers?” said Tutt, nodding at the girl, looking her over slowly, letting Rogers know, law-of-the-jungle style, that he could make the girl his own if that’s what he wanted to do. “Got you some new stuff, man?”
Rogers held Denice close.
“She looks fine, too,” said Tutt with an ugly smile and a wink at Murphy. “Don’t she, Murph?”
Shut your mouth. Just shut it, man, for once. And don’t look at her like that. Shit, can’t you see that she ain’t nothin’ but a kid? Even you ought to have enough decency to see that.
“Let’s go,” said Murphy.
“Yeah,” said Tutt. “We got work to do. You geniuses have yourselves a good night.”
Tutt and Murphy walked back to the truck. Monroe’s voice stopped them.
“Yo, King Tutt. I ran into Chief tonight, that young boy been tryin’ to move into our strip.”
Tutt turned around. “Yeah?”
“Gonna take care of that my own self, Tutt. Gonna do your job for you, man.”
“You ain’t qualified to have no job, Short.”
Monroe smiled, transferred the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “We’ll see.”
Monroe, Rogers, and Denice Tate watched the two cops get back in the Bronco. They watched them drive away.
“I’m cold,” said Denice.
“I know it, baby,” said Rogers. “So am I.”
“I want to go home, Alan.”
Rogers said, “Let’s go, black.”
Monroe said, “We gone.”
Clarence Tate pulled the Cutlass up to the curb, cut the engine. He took the concrete steps leading to his row house, entered, hung his coat on a tree by the door. He went up the staircase, knocked on Denice’s bedroom door.
“Denice? Honeygirl, you in there?”
He pushed on the door, stepped inside. The room was dark, but light spilled in from the hall. Tate could see his daughter’s form beneath the covers of her bed, the cornrows roped on the back of her head.
“Denice?”
She didn’t stir. He backed out of the room smiling, went downstairs. He grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, turned on the set in the den. Maybe he could catch one of those late-night tournament games they had playing tonight.
The Sweet Forever Page 10