“Yeah.” DelPrego’s grin was a bit forced. “Sorry about that.”
“This is pointless,” Lancaster said abruptly. “Sherman, if you’re smart you’ll flush that stuff down the toilet and never think about it again.”
Jenks nodded, puffed, scratched his chin, and considered the gym bag still in the bed of the pickup. Lancaster was right, but Jenks just couldn’t bring himself to do it. A hundred grand of coke. There had to be a way he could turn a buck on the stuff. He might have to go to Tulsa to make some kind of deal or maybe OK City.
“I want to go home.” Lancaster looked pointedly at DelPrego.
DelPrego asked Jenks, “You need a ride anyplace? I’m going to take him.”
Jenks continued to stare straight ahead. “Go ahead. See you in class.”
DelPrego and Lancaster climbed into the pickup. DelPrego leaned out his window. His wide grin was genuine this time. “Cheer up, Sherm. We’ll think of something.”
That boy always thinks some shit is funny. Jenks fought down his own grin.
DelPrego backed out of the driveway, Jenks still staring at his shoes and absently smoking the cigar. The truck was already two blocks away and turning the corner when Jenks’s head snapped up. He ran after the truck, waved his arms. “Wait!”
They didn’t hear, kept driving.
The gym bag was still in the back of the pickup. Shit. Jenks flicked the stub of the cigar into the street. Anyway, he’d call Wayne. Tell him to bring the bag in, hide it in back of a closet or something and get it from him later.
He climbed the stairs to his apartment, unlocked the door, and went in.
Quick, strong hands grabbed him. A punch in the gut. Jenks coughed air, doubled over. The hands shoved him to the floor, and he landed hard.
“What the fuck!” Jenks looked up. Red Zach towered over him.
Jenks felt his stomach heave. “Oh, shit.”
“You’re damn right, oh shit. I should bust a cap in your black ass right here.”
Zach wore a lime-green suit with a black shirt. Two of his bruisers flanked him, thick-necked sons of bitches with shaved heads and dark glasses. Spoon Oliver sat on the bed. He sported two swollen eyes and a split lip. Zach’s boys had worked him over good.
“I want my goddamn coke,” Zach said. “Or you’re one dead nigger. You’re already in for two broken legs.”
“Zach-”
“Shut the fuck up.” Zach kicked Jenks hard in the ribs.
Jenks glanced at Spoon, but Spoon wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“Your boy ain’t going to help you,” Zach said. “He gave you up quick. We had to pop him a few times, but he was only too happy to talk. He told us all about Sherman Ellis and your damn-fool fucked-up idea to come here and pose like a college boy.” Zach laughed without humor, a grim chuckle. He shook his head. “Like you could make these folks think you was college educated.”
Zach squatted next to Jenks, gathered a fistful of Jenks’s shirt. He pulled Jenks close and spit in his face. Jenks winced like it was acid. Saliva ran down the side of his nose.
“Anything I can’t hold with, it’s an uppity nigger thinks he’s better than the rest of the folks from the hood.” Zach let go of Jenks. “You’re nothing. You hear that? You stick with me and let me guide you, you could have been something. But now you’re nothing.”
Zach stood, straightened his jacket. He pulled a fat, silver revolver from his belt and thumbed back the hammer, pointed it at Jenks’s head. “I want my coke, you dumb shit.”
“I can call-” Shit. Jenks remembered Wayne DelPrego’s phone had been cut off. “I can get it. Damn, Zach, you know I wouldn’t-”
“Shut your fucking mouth, nigger.”
“I’m just saying, you got to let me explain about-”
Zach lifted his foot and stomped his heel across Jenks’s mouth, mashed his lips against his teeth. Blood smeared down Jenks’s chin. One of his lower teeth was loose.
“Save the bullshit. You’re close to being a dead motherfucker, Harold Jenks. Now save your life and get my fucking cocaine.” Zach pressed the barrel of the pistol against Jenks’s head. “Or am I saying something too hard for you to understand? I think I’m saying some pretty simple shit here, but let me know if I’m going too fast for you.”
“I hear you,” Jenks said. His lips throbbed. “But it’s not here.”
“We know that, motherfucker. We already looked.”
“I can get it.”
And he would. You didn’t cross Red Zach. It was like a law of nature. The tides, the rotation of the Earth, the flow of time and Red Zach. Jenks had been crazy to try. Now he was looking at a pair of broken legs if he was lucky. A one-way trip to the bottom of a lake if he wasn’t.
“If you just wait an hour,” Jenks said, “I can bring you the stuff.”
Zach kicked him in the side of the head. Jenks went flat to the floor, bells going off in his head, his ear buzzing hot where the heel of Zach’s shoe had dug in.
“How fucking stupid you think I am?” Zach said. “You think I’m going to let you cut out again? You know how much trouble I had already tracking you down to this shithole, redneck town? I got a car around back. We’ll take you. Keep an eye on you the whole way.”
Red Zach’s stretch limo eased to a stop in front of Wayne DelPrego’s shabby trailer. The pickup was parked out front. Jenks had half hoped DelPrego would be gone. No such luck.
“I’ll go in and get it,” Jenks said.
“I’ll send one of my boys to keep you company,” Zach said. He nudged one of the bruisers, who got out of the limo.
Jenks got out too. He walked ahead, the bruiser right on his heels. “Yo. What’s your name?” Jenks asked.
“My name is Mr. Stomp-your-punk-ass if you trying anything,” said the gangster. “Just keep walking.”
As they passed the pickup, Jenks glanced into the bed. No gym bag.
Jenks climbed the three metal steps and knocked on the trailer door, the bruiser crowding him close from behind. Nobody answered. Jenks knocked again. He was sweating now, feeling a little dizzy. Come on Wayne, you dumb shit. These motherfuckers are going to bag my ass. Be home.
“Try the knob.” The bruiser shoved his shoulder.
“Okay, man. Take it easy.”
Jenks turned the knob, pushed. The door swung inward. The bruiser shoved again, and they both entered the trailer. Jenks thought about calling Wayne’s name but didn’t. The trailer smelled like burnt coffee. It was a cramped single-wide, the kitchen/dining room to the right, a narrow hall leading left.
“Where’s the coke?” the bruiser asked.
“We have to look for it.”
“Best get looking then.” The bruiser cracked his knuckles.
“Cool it, okay? Let me look around.”
“I’ll come with.”
They walked down the hall, and Jenks looked in two of the open doors, a dingy bathroom with a wad of dirty towels on the floor and a small bedroom full of junk. The door at the end of the hall was closed.
The bruiser crossed his arms behind Jenks; he was becoming bored with the situation. “Last door.”
“Uh-huh.” Jenks opened it, walked into the trailer’s master bedroom.
He turned and stood there, looking back through the door at the bruiser. He didn’t move.
“Well?” The bruiser looked at Jenks expectantly.
Jenks looked back at him, face blank.
“You just going to stand there, nigger?”
“I need you to help me move the bed. The stuff is in the floor underneath.”
“Move it your own damn self.”
“Don’t be like that. Help me move this.”
The bruiser sighed, walked into the bedroom. “I don’t get paid to be no-”
The golf club smacked into the side of the bruiser’s head with a sickening crunch. The bruiser stumbled forward, frantic, high-pitched screams jumping out of his throat. He tried to go into his jacket for his gun.
&nbs
p; DelPrego leapt from his hiding spot beside his dresser, swung the club again in a long, overhand arc, brought it down with a loud thwack on top of the bruiser’s skull. The bruiser’s eyes rolled back. He pitched forward, landed facefirst, and didn’t move.
DelPrego’s eyes were wild and jittery. “Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ.” He knelt next to the bruiser and dropped the club, threw open the unconscious man’s jacket. An enormous automatic pistol hung from a shoulder holster. DelPrego drew it from the holster, held it up to his eyes. It said Desert Eagle.357 on the side. “Oh shit shit shit.”
Jenks said, “Goddamn. You whacked him good. I bet he’s dead.”
“Shit shit shit shit. I saw you guys coming, looked like trouble.” DelPrego’s eyes bounced between the dead man and the gun in his own hand. “I thought you needed help-this guy-I was just trying to help!”
DelPrego was wired, freaked out. Jenks shook him by the shoulder. “Wayne, listen to me. This guy’s just the tip of the motherfucking iceberg. You got a back door?”
DelPrego stood, grabbed his denim jacket off the bed. “This way.”
“Wait!” Jenks grabbed DelPrego’s arm. “Where’s the coke?”
“It ain’t here.”
“What!”
“I stashed it.” DelPrego jerked his arm away from Jenks. “Come on.”
He led Jenks back to the kitchen. On the way, Jenks glanced out the window. Zach’s other bruiser was out of the limo and coming toward the trailer.
“We got to hurry.”
DelPrego threw open the back door and jumped. No steps. Jenks followed, tumbled on the grass, but jumped up again quick. The backyard led to trees.
“Come on,” yelled DelPrego. He ran for the trees.
The other bruiser came around the far end of the trailer, gun drawn. He spotted Jenks.
Jenks followed DelPrego into the trees. Thick underbrush, limbs, and vines grabbing at Jenks’s arms and face.
“You’re dead, Jenks.” Shots tore through the trees, whipped overhead.
Jenks plunged after DelPrego farther into the bush. Jenks had thought this merely a stand of trees. He’d expected to come through them, emerge on the other side in another neighborhood, but this was deep, dark, no-shit jungle. He prayed DelPrego knew where he was going.
“Jenks!” More shots. But both shots and shouts were more distant now. Zach’s thug wasn’t following them into the woods.
Jenks didn’t slow down. He pumped his legs, dodged low-hanging branches trying to keep up with DelPrego. He’d never seen a white boy run so fast.
twenty-two
Maybe we should take a break,” Fred Jones said. “You seem distracted.”
“I’m sorry.” Morgan shuffled the stack of poems, set them aside. “I’m worried about one of my students. He wasn’t in class.” Neither Sherman Ellis nor Wayne DelPrego had shown for yesterday’s workshop. When Morgan had asked Timothy Lancaster about it, the young man simply looked nervous and denied knowing anything. And Lancaster sported a wicked bruise across the bridge of his nose.
Morgan hadn’t asked.
The university poetry reading was only a week away. He needed to get in touch with Ellis. Soon.
“Here.” Fred Jones handed a cellophane-wrapped cigar to Morgan. “It’s a Macanudo. Smoke it.”
“I don’t smoke, but thanks,” Morgan said.
“No, smoke it for me.” The old man folded his gnarled hands on the table in front of him. He had a long face, weary and slack with age. “Please,” he said again quietly. “The doctor don’t let me smoke ’em no more, but I like the smell. I ain’t smelled one in months and I’m going loopy.”
“Okay.” Morgan unwrapped it, stuck it in his mouth.
“You’ve got to bite the end first,” Jones said. “Or just nip a piece off with this. Just enough to draw air.” He pulled a penknife out of his baggy trousers, handed it to Morgan.
Morgan sliced off the end like he was cutting a carrot and stuck the cigar in his mouth. “I don’t think I have any matches.”
“I figured.” Jones slid a gold lighter across the table. Expensive and old.
Morgan lit the cigar, puffed. The smoke went to his nose, hit the back of his throat hot and rough. He coughed.
“Don’t suck it in your lungs. Just puff slow and easy. It’ll last a while if you don’t suck it too fast.”
“Okay.” Morgan puffed again, blew out a cloud of blue-gray smoke.
Jones closed his eyes, ran a hand over his freckled, bald head. He breathed deep. “Boy, that takes me back.”
Morgan was getting the hang of it, not inhaling too deep. “Let me know if I can take a few shots of bourbon for you or run some call girls in here.”
The old man chuckled.
“This could be a poem,” Morgan said.
“You write it.”
Morgan was already juggling the syntax in his head, listing words that might go in the poem. Surrogate seemed too formal. The tone would have to be nostalgic, sweetly sad. He looked around for a pen, found one, and scratched a note to himself.
“Bob doesn’t smoke for you?” Morgan meant the ever-hungry giant who chauffeured Jones and ran his errands.
“Asthma,” Jones said.
Morgan flicked the ashes into a half-empty coffee cup. “Why poetry, Mr. Jones?”
“Because I don’t paint.”
Fair enough. “I’ve noticed a sort of submerged theme in your work. It’s reoccurs quite often.”
“What do you mean?”
“Easier to show you. Once I point it out, I’m sure you’ll see.” He pulled two of Jones’s poems from the stack, turned them around, and slid them side by side in front of the old man. “Read these and think about them thematically.”
Jones didn’t read them. “What the hell you talking about? Two completely different poems. This one’s about an arsonist and this other one is a man who kills people with piano wire.”
“Geeze, these things are so violent.”
“So what?”
Morgan shrugged. “In any case, those are just the vehicles,” Morgan said. He kept the cigar in the side of his mouth as he talked. He was beginning to like it. “Let me show you something.” He stood, scanned the bookshelf in his living room, and came back to the table with The Collected Works of Wallace Stevens. “Listen.” He read a poem:
“Anecdote of the Jar”
I placed a jar in Tennessee,
And round it was upon a hill.
It made the slovenly wilderness
Surround that hill.
The wilderness rose up to it,
And sprawled around, no longer wild.
The jar was round upon the ground
And tall and of a port in air.
It took dominion everywhere.
The jar was gray and bare.
It did not give of bird or bush,
Like nothing else in Tennessee.
“What’s going on in the poem?” Morgan waited, puffed the cigar.
Jones turned the book toward him. He read again silently, his lips moving. “This jar is changing everything just by being there. It’s making itself the center of the world.”
“But is it really?”
“What do you mean?”
“Is it really doing anything? It’s just sitting there, right?”
Jones thought for a long time. Morgan didn’t mind. He was enjoying the cigar. He thought a cold beer would go well with the smoke, but it was still before noon and Morgan had recently set some new rules for himself.
He was getting his shit together.
Jones leaned back in his chair, rubbed his chin. “You know what I think?”
“What do you think?”
“I think it’s both,” the old man said. “I think it’s doing nothing and everything at the same time. I think it’s only perception that makes it seem like it’s changing everything. Then again, maybe perception is all we got, right? So changing perception is like changing reality.”
Morgan too
k the cigar out of his mouth, looked at Jones.
Jones scanned the poem again. “Jesus. That’s a pretty fucking good poem. Once you figure it out.”
“Yes.”
“Got any more like this?”
“You can borrow the book.”
“Thanks.”
Morgan said, “That’s pretty smart, Mr. Jones. Not a lot of people get it right off.”
“Thanks, but I’d trade being smart for being able to smoke that cigar.”
The phone rang. Morgan set the cigar across the top of the coffee cup, excused himself, and picked it up in the kitchen.
“Morgan, is that you?” Louis Reams’s voice was edgy and hushed.
“It’s me.” Morgan hadn’t spoken to the professor since the bicycle incident.
“Have you seen Pritcher? The big faker is walking around campus wearing this ridiculous neck brace. He’s been asking a lot of very pointed questions too.”
“I think you need to consider that he might really have been seriously hurt,” Morgan said.
“Ha. I know better. He’s out to get me. Yes, I admit it was a lapse in judgment, a bit juvenile.”
“A bit.”
“But now he sees his chance. If he can prove I did it, he’ll have me by the balls. That’s just what he wants, the son of a bitch. Morgan, you didn’t mention what happened to anybody did you?”
“No.”
“I need you to keep it under your hat. You wouldn’t tell would you? That would be playing right into his hands.”
“I said I hadn’t mentioned it.”
“You won’t will you?”
“I’ll keep quiet.”
“Good man.” Reams sounded relieved. “I knew I could count on you. I’m going to pay you back.”
“That’s okay.”
“Really. I want to show my appreciation.”
“Reams, I don’t want you to pay me back.”
Reams didn’t hear. “I know a fellow down at San Gabriel College in Houston. They’re going to need a one-year poet next fall.”
Now Morgan was listening. He’d sent out at least thirty applications for next fall and had turned up nothing. Securing a job for next year would take a big load off his mind. And he wouldn’t have to track down Ellis for the ridiculous poetry reading. Wouldn’t have to be under Whittaker’s thumb.
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