Was he any different from the CEOs of big corporations in this country? He was just as charismatic, as visionary, as tough as a Steve Jobs. In fact, you could say he was tougher. He had never operated any business at a loss. If his businesses were listed on the stock market, the share values would rise every year. His underlings worshipped him just as shareholders worshipped the Bernie Ebberses or Jack Welches of the world. He did whatever he had to do to get the job done. Just as they did. And just as they were celebrated and applauded by their peers and profit-worshippers for their willingness to take chances, to be aggressive and visionary, so was he by the many people who depended on him for their survival.
There were two codes he lived by. They were ruthless, but effective. His first motto: Snitches must die. The silencing of witnesses was the rule he lived by and everyone in his orbit, including all the Baisley Projects, paid heed. Neither the NYPD nor the Feds had ever built a case against him.
The second motto: Accept no disrespect.
Which was why he had no choice but to put down Fred Lawrence in view of everyone in the playground in Baisley Pond Park. It was as necessary as any CEO firing a junior executive who disrespected him in public. As much as he liked the youngster, if he let the upstart get away with this, the mystique of being Phisto Shepherd would be destroyed. Forever. The youngster had stepped to him in a way that no one in their right mind should be tempted to do. And bragging on top of it. You disrespect Phisto and walk around bragging? That's asking to be cut down. There's no surer way to commit suicide than to disrespect Phisto Shepherd and brag on it.
When Phisto claimed a woman, she was his for life. Only when he said the relationship was done could the woman walk away. And until such time, all other suitors were expected to wither way, to drop into the gutter like rats running from the exterminator. This young pup, Fred Lawrence, had laid some pipe on one of his women and then told the world that the girl had begged to be his bitch. Said she would give up Phisto and all his money for another night with him.
Phisto had reached a point in his life where he seldom handled disputes personally. There were any number of young guns in his organization he could call on to quash a beef. Of any sort. If the resolution needed to be quick and permanent, he had enough specialists for every day of the week. If gentle nudging or mediation was required in a sensitive matter, there were people who could be trusted to be discreet.
But he had to show the world that he was still Phisto Shepherd. That the Phisto who survived his father's beatdown, who remade himself into a fire-breathing dragon to create the baddest outfit in Queens, wasn't finished, as many were beginning to whisper on the street after word got around that Fred the bailer had fucked Phisto's woman. He'd taken on the dreaded Jamaican Shower Posse for turf and sent them scampering back to Miami. He'd ordered the hit on a corrupt cop who tried to shake him down, and he'd gotten away with it. Why hadn't this youngster heeded his warning? When the message was conveyed to the kid, he'd signed his own death warrant with a laugh.
Once in a while, even with the large army at his disposal, Caesar still had to go out and slay somebody to remind his soldiers why and how he became Emperor. This one wasn't a head-cracker. The youngster had to be bodied, and he would do it himself.
Fred Lawrence was a talented young bailer who'd just finished his senior year at LSU. Some pundits thought he was sure to be drafted by the NBA. Maybe not a first-rounder, but definitely a second or third. He was that good. Phisto had seen him play and didn't like the kid's game as much as others did. Not enough range on his jumper, but the quick first step and the physical nature of his game reminded Phisto of Stephon Marbury. Fred could have gotten his shot.
That is, had he not come back from Louisiana thinking he could spit in King Kong's eye. Thinking he could steal Fay Wray and not suffer the consequences. Thinking his dribbling skills would get him a buy after dissing Phisto.
Like everyone else who tried to fuck with Phisto's program without considering the consequences, the young man had to pay. The beating and humiliation Phisto took from his father that day in the mortuary taught him never to bluff. Once you bluff you have to back down. And when you back down you lose respect.
His core crew had advised him to let the matter drop. Why knuckle up with this young stud? But he knew they were begging for the youngster's life simply because they were in love with his game. Phisto knew they converged on the park on Saturdays and Sundays, just like everybody else, to watch the muscular youngster play. Everyone on the southside loved this young man, wanted to see one of their own make it in the NBA. Putting the grip on him wouldn't go down well with the residents.
Nevertheless, Phisto's code was his code. The situation reminded him of when his father was shot to death on 121st Avenue during a robbery in 1995. By that time his father had disowned him and he and the old man hadn't spoken in more than ten years. But everyone in the neighborhood knew this was Phisto's father, and accorded him due respect. Phisto found the young killer, and in sight of other customers spaded him as he sat in the barber's chair. Phisto was arrested the next day. But the case never made it to trial. The man who had identified him to the police was Bobby Tanner, a retired postal worker. Tanner got a bullet in the back of the head for his trouble. Word soon got around that Bobby Tanner got tagged for snitching. The next Sunday, Phisto visited the church where another of the witnesses worshipped. The bloated man saw Phisto's sixfoot, 275-pound frame blocking the sidewalk and, fortunately for him, fell down in the street from sheer fright. No one ever appeared in the grand jury to finger Phisto.
Contrary to what his advisors believed, Phisto didn't actually want to put the youngster under at first. He would've let the matter go had the young stud not been stupid enough to woof that he had more dog in him that Phisto. After that, his hands were tied.
That summer evening, the sun had left a band of endless purple across the sky. An unusually high wind curled the young tree limbs and stirred leaves and dust in the park. It blew hard and heavy against the houses on Sutphin Boulevard, rattling the sign on the Crowne Plaza Hotel on Baisley Boulevard.
A storm was coming. Colored balloons, left over from an abandoned family picnic, hung from tree limbs. Yet the approaching inclement weather wash t enough to delay the fitness fanatics doing laps around the track, or to arrest the pick-up game on one of the three courts behind the racquetball wall.
The few daring souls on the sidelines that evening who'd scoffed at the looming bad weather witnessed a near flawless performance from Fred Lawrence on the court. The perfection of his long lean body, snaking through small spaces, piercing the tough wind and a tougher defense, twirling and swerving around defenders with precision, left most people shaking their heads in disbelief.
Fred scored on a driving, twisting lay-up off the glass, using a classic crossover move that left his defender flat on his back. The small crowd screamed. Fred ran back down the court pumping his fist in the air, yelling, "You forgot your jock, bitch!"
The next time down the court, Fred took a pass on the wing and without breaking stride elevated past a closing defender for a rim-rattling dunk.
People were whooping and hopping up and down and spinning around in circles of disbelief.
"Did you see that?"
"No he didn't!"
"Replay! Replay!"
"Jordanesqe."
"Better than Jordan."
Phisto's black BMW pulled up on 155th Street behind a white Explorer. The doors of the truck were open and Jay-Z's latest joint was blasting full force. Phisto wanted to tell the idiot to turn his music down, but decided to ignore the disturbance and walked the short distance across the grass to the courts.
There was a hush as Fred got the ball back on a steal. He veered left and was met by an agile defender. He slipped the ball between his legs and dribbled backward, looking for another opening. Shifting the ball from side to side, through his legs, and then a glance to his left as if searching for someone in the crowd. Everyone knew wha
t was coming. Fred jabbed to the right and the defender bit on the fake. The elusive youngster changed direction and in a split second flew by his defender for another dunk.
Oh, the ecstasy of the crowd. Fred soaked up their response for a full second, posing under the rim.
And then, praack! praack!
Heads jerked around. Too loud for a firecracker. Too close to be the backfire of a car. People scattered when they saw Fred stumble and fall to the ground. Even his friends on the court ran and left him.
Seconds later, only five people were left. Phisto handed the .45 to someone in his three-man posse to dispose of it. He walked over to the only person who hadn't run away.
"Do I know you?" Phisto said.
"I don't know."
Phisto took hold of the man's face, digging his fingers through his scraggly beard into his jaws. "Do you know me?"
"Yeah, I know you."
Phisto laughed. "Why didn't you run away like the rest?"
The man hesitated. "Why?"
Phisto's eyes screwed up and he lifted the man's dark glasses from his face. "What'd you say, muthafucker?"
"Why? I didn't think the game was over."
Phisto laughed. "You think you're funny."
"I mean, he was so amazing, the way he defied gravity. I thought he was Superman. I thought he would get up and fly above that rim again."
"He was amazing, wasn't he?" Phisto said.
"Yeah. Amazing."
Phisto said, "Did you see anything else here?"
The guy took his sunglasses from Phisto's hand and put them back over his eyes. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly. That's what I mean," Phisto replied, turning away. "You better bounce. Cops gonna show any minute."
"I am a cop," the man said.
Phisto turned slowly, his face scarred with a dark smile. "For real?"
The man adjusted his dark glasses and smiled. "Just fucking with you."
Phisto relaxed. "I should kill you for fucking with me."
"Actually, I wasn't. I'm really a cop."
The man opened his jacket. An NYPD detective badge hung from a chain around his neck. Phisto also noticed the 9mm stuck loosely in his waistband.
Phisto gauged the distance between him and the man. "You gonna arrest me?"
"No."
"If you ain't gonna arrest me, what you gonna do?"
"Shoot you between the eyes."
Phisto laughed.
The man wriggled his fingers. "What's so funny?"
"You're gonna shoot me between the eyes?"
"Yeah."
Pointing at the dead bailer, Phisto said, "For him?"
"No."
"Is this personal?"
"Remember the cop you ambushed in that crack house?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"He had a son. That son became a cop."
"And that son. . ."
"Would be me."
Phisto turned to the member of his crew holding the .45. "Shoot this muthafucker."
Nobody moved.
Phisto made a quick grab at the .45. His hand closed on the grip and that's when he felt a jolt to his chest as if he'd been kicked by a mule. He bounced against the white wall of one of the racquetball courts and slid to the ground on his back.
Phisto had often thought of what this moment would be like for a person. The moment that separated life from death. Was there some brilliant light to illuminate your path into the next world, as some people claimed who'd had so-called neardeath experiences? Was there such a thing as coming close to death? He knew what death looked like. His father had made sure of that.
He looked up and saw streams and streams of white clouds. And then he felt a strange relief swell in his chest, a sort of bonding with an energy entering him. A sadness overcame him and he wanted to cry. He saw the faces of his crew and knew that he'd been betrayed. By one or all of them. He also knew it didn't matter anymore. The light was approaching fast.
LIGHTS OUT FOR FRANKIE
BY Liz MARTINEZ
Woodside
rankie tapped his foot and wished the clerk would hurry up. How long could it take to scan a couple of items and punch the keys on the cash register? He lifted his baseball cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead, then slipped it back on, pulling the bill lower. The heatwave was taking its toll on everyone. The air-conditioning inside the store helped a little, but the customers still looked like they were wilting.
Finally, the cashier got her act together. She handed him the transaction slip and her pen. He scribbled Gerry Adams in the signature space. In the past, Frankie had passed himself off as Billy Clinton, Charles Prince, and Johnny Depp. The cashier counted out crisp currency and gave it to him along with a command to have a nice day. Her name tag read Rochelle.
"Thanks, Rochelle," he said, and asked her for the receipt. She stared vacantly at the piece of paper. "Oh. Sure," she said, then handed it to him and wandered off.
Frankie glanced around the customer service desk. What a misnomer. The three clerks behind the counter were doing anything but servicing customers. One was chatting on her cell phone with her back to the store. Another was deep in thought, staring intently into the middle distance. The third mindlessly folded and refolded the same article of clothing. He spied a roll of thermal cash register tape sitting out on the counter. Somebody had probably started changing the tape and then forgot about it midstream. Nobody was paying any attention to him, so he swiped the tape and tucked it into the white plastic bag. He was sure he could find some use for it.
He hopped into his black SUV and merged into traffic on Northern Boulevard. He headed toward his next stop near the Queens Center Mall. Most of his NYPD colleagues worked extra jobs on their RDOS. Having regular days off gave them an opportunity to land good gigs like guarding one of the Commerce Bank branches. Stand there for eight hours in uniform, flirting with the tellers. Nice.
Frankie sighed and looked at the list his wife had made for him. This was how he spent his RDOS-running from store to store. He thought about his wife and their two kids and sighed again. For the millionth time, he questioned the way his life was unfolding. Shouldn't he try to land a private-pay job with a bank for his days off? Or maybe with a store? He grimaced. It was only July, but the kids would need new school supplies soon, and then Christmas ... Always something.
He pulled into the left lane on Queens Boulevard and waited for the light to change. One of the guys in the livery cab that sailed through the light on his right looked familiar, but he couldn't be sure. He tried to think who it might be. The memory came to him just as he pulled into the Marshall's parking lot.
On his first day in the Police Academy, Frankie had buddied up with three other recruits: Thompson, Edwards, and ... the third guy's name escaped him. The group had coffee before classes, studied together, and ate lunch in a diner two blocks from the Academy. The man in the black car reminded Frankie of the last member of the Fearsome Foursome. (How young they'd been! That name had sounded so cool at the time.) He was a lanky, raw-boned shit-kicker from the hills of West Virginia. The guy had heard an ad for the NYPD on his short-wave radio and had spent a day driving northeast to take the test. Everybody thought he was stupid because of his hillbilly accent, but Frankie copied his homework every chance he got.
Williams-that was his name. Frankie must have been the first Mexican-American Williams had ever seen. Right off the bat, the guy made a remark about Frankie's nose. Frankie, who thought his nose was regal, like the profile on the statue of an Aztec warrior, was slightly insulted. "What do you know?" he'd asked Williams. "Your last girlfriend was probably a sheep."
The other guys chuckled, but Williams took it seriously. "We never had no sheep in our family," he said. "I had an uncle once, kept goats. He was pretty tight with one of themcalled her Priscilla." He looked puzzled when the other three recruits doubled over with laughter. He must have figured he'd made a slight miscalculation because he tried to backtrack.
"I don't think he was improper with Priscilla or nothin'," he protested. "They was just real good companions."
Frankie could hardly catch his breath, he couldn't stop laughing. "They never got married, huh, Williams? Your uncle and his goat?"
"That's disgusting," Williams said. He refused to speak to the other three for the rest of the day.
One of the guys found out later that Williams had a degree from some Bible college, but it was too late. He'd earned himself the nickname Officer Goatfucker. Nobody called him that anymore. He was a captain now, working out of the 115th Precinct. Now they called him Captain Goatfucker. Behind his back, of course.
Frankie smiled, thinking about the old days. Fifteen years had slipped by. He sometimes regretted that he didn't have more to show for the time besides a few gray hairs and occasional heartburn. He'd been so naive when he first came on the job. Thought everything was the way they showed it on TV. Boy, did he know better now.
Frankie pushed open the heavy entrance door to the store and made a beeline for the customer service desk. "I'd like to return this merchandise," he told the clerk, and handed her a receipt. This one's name tag said Shaquanna.
She gazed blankly at the clothing he pulled out of his shopping bag and lifted her electronic scanner. She passed it over the tags and pressed a key on her register. "A hundred and eighty-six dollars. Would you like a store credit?"
"Cash, please," he said.
She ripped both layers of register tape off and held them together with her thumb and forefinger. Her nails were painted tomato-red and had rhinestones embedded in the polish. "Fill out your name and address and sign on the line here." He scrawled on the paper and handed it back. The clerk pressed a button on the register with her long, fake fingernail. There was a noise like a lawnmower starting, then everything went dark.
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