Gunmetal Black

by Daniel Serrano

  “Stop counting on it, Beto, this ain’t welfare.”

  Beto slapped Tony’s shoulder and looked at me. “He’s a good man, Eddie. Solid. A prince. He’s gonna go far, this guy.”

  Tony lit a cigarette. “Why don’t you go back to the methadone program like I told you, Beto?”

  “I am, Tony, I am. I’m planning on it. It’s my New Year’s resolution, I swear. But you know, right now it’s the holidays and everything. I just wanna celebrate.”

  Tony started the engine. “The holidays, Beto? It’s a month to Halloween.”

  Beto nodded. “I know, right? You noticed the shit starts earlier every year? It’s getting too commercial.”

  Tony shook his head.

  Beto began to launch into more gibberish, but Tony powered his window up and cut him off. Beto waved like a kid in a home movie about to jump into the ocean and took off toward the gangway with his stash.

  Tony slumped as if contemplating another shift at the mill. “The shit you go through to make a living these days. Anyway, let’s stop at the crib. I got something I wanna show you.”

  Tony’s place was a couple blocks away. A rear apartment on the second floor of a two-flat. We parked in the alley. Tony nosed the front bumper right up to a utility pole, next to the back fence, which left barely enough room for him to get out.

  The backyard was dark, overgrown with brush, and full of garbage. It reminded me of the lot where I once saw a kid jump ten feet after getting bitten by a rat. I moved across the narrow sidewalk quickly to the back porch.

  The back of Tony’s gray building was scarred by graffiti, most of it gang-related. The porch creaked like an old woman’s bones. The door to Tony’s apartment was covered with a metal gate. The lone window had bars on it.

  Tony worked the locks. “I’m staying here to save money right now. Once we pull the caper, I’m buying a condo on Lake Shore Drive.”

  We entered through the kitchen. The room was barely lit by a single low-watt bulb. It needed a paint job. The walls were yellow with grease, and years of dust caked the molding. There was a table surrounded by four mismatched chairs and the hardwood floor was painted plasma red. The sink was empty. A pot, one pan, and two dishes were stacked neatly on the counter. Music poured in from one of the other rooms.

  Tony padlocked the gate behind us. He shut the door. “Anybody in?”

  Two teenage girls bounced into the kitchen from the living room. If they were legal, they were barely legal.

  Tony grinned, removed his shades, and tongued the dark-haired, olive-skinned one like he had just gotten back from the war. He whipped his leather off in a practiced style and hung it on the back of a chair, revealing thick forearms and a menagerie of tattoos.

  I recognized the dark-haired female as Nena, the girl Tony had sent to Joliet to speak to me. The other girl was cream-colored. A green-eyed Puerto Rican who looked almost like a white girl with light brown hair.

  Tony grinned so you could see his dimples. “Eddie, meet Sweetleaf.”

  Tony’s girl, Nena, said, “We call her that ’cause she smoke a lotta weed.”

  Sweetleaf’s white jeans were so tight, they were like a fine glaze.

  I smiled. “What’s your real name?”

  “Nieve.”

  “Pure as the driven snow, huh? Your mother must have taken one look at you and come up with that.”

  Nieve opened her green eyes wide. “How did you know?”

  I smiled. “Intuition.”

  Nieve asked for my jacket and carefully hung it on the back of a chair.

  Tony wagged his eyebrows. “Yo, let’s set this shit off.”

  We sat around a card table, boy-girl, boy-girl, and played drinking games. Nieve broke weed and rolled it into a cigar leaf. Tony did impressions and told jokes. The boom box went through a repertoire of freestyle and house, most of it from the eighties. Tony repeated, “Remember this? Remember this?” during almost every song.

  Nieve held in smoke, but smiled when our fingertips touched as she passed the blunt.

  Tony snapped his fingers. “Damn, I’m snoozing.” He went in the bedroom and returned with his kit. “Almost forgot the yayo.”

  Therapists warn against this: hanging out with the old crowd. Scenarios that set off craving as predictably as ringing a bell. Your only thought becomes, Do coke, do coke now! Sometimes you don’t know the trigger. Other times it’s a lock. Like watching your old running buddies do blow. That’ll get you thirsty every time.

  Tony cut lines on a little mirror. He sucked them with a metal straw.

  My nose tingled. “Where’s the bathroom?”

  They all pointed.

  Tony thumbed at the cocaine. “Walk in the park first?”

  “I’m straight.”

  “You positive?”

  I smiled and hustled to the can.

  Tony said, “Try not to stink up the joint, huh?” and the girls laughed, but not as hard as Tony.

  I locked the bathroom door. My heart galloped. I needed to stick my mind on anything other than the coke rush. I splashed water on my face and looked in the mirror over the filthy vanity. My eyes were close.

  After a few minutes Tony banged on the door. “Yo, kid, you fall in? Need a life jacket?”

  “Tony, can you get away from the door?” I sat on the toilet and closed my eyes. I imagined Miami. The beach. Hot sand. Women in thongs. I ran my fingers over the money belt under my shirt.

  There is no doubt about it: cocaine can devour forty thousand dollars faster than the IRS on a rampage. I whispered the Our Father, said a couple of Hail Mary’s, and the craving began to settle. I splashed water on my face again and walked out.

  Tony blew a big cloud of reefer smoke. “Yo, E, you find the toilet paper under the sink? Or’d you go with the hand on this one?” Tony cracked himself up, but the girls laughed in a way that felt like they were only humoring him.

  “I could use some candy or gum.”

  Nena was on Tony’s lap by then. She offered bubble gum.

  Nieve flicked her hair. “Yo, so how youse two know each other?”

  Tony slapped the table. “Me and this nigga? Girl, since the seventies. Grammar school.”

  Nena said, “The seventies? Ho shit, I wasn’t even born yet!”

  Nieve and Nena were teenagers. This was prehistory to them. Their parents’ generation. Tony recounted the first day, in fifth grade, when he was the new kid, a transfer student, and how I was the first boy in the class to befriend him during recess.

  I smiled again. “Tony conned the teacher into believing he was such a little gentleman. Kept answering, ‘Yes, ma’am. No, ma’am’ to every question. Yet all the while I can see him giving the old bag the finger under his desk.”

  The girls giggled.

  Tony sniffed his middle finger. “Cunt was onto me within a week.”

  “Yeah, but what a week.”

  We bullshitted like that for a while, recalling childhood adventures, like shoplifting comic books at Woolworth’s and changing ratty old gym shoes for new ones at Goldblatt’s and just running out. We talked about other times, in our twenties, when we shared an apartment, a loft, and threw wild parties, like one where we dressed as the Blues Brothers, and another where we dressed as KISS—Tony was Ace Frehley and I was Gene Simmons. We ate magic mushrooms until they kicked in and Tony tried to do a backflip off the couch and stumbled into our TV, breaking it.

  Tony said, “The next day we stole a bigger one from the Polk Brothers warehouse.”

  The girls told us about a time they cut class to do acid and walk around Water Tower mall, laughing in people’s faces.

  Tony said, “Good times. That’s what life is all about.” He looked at me. “Now we’re gonna make some new memories.”

  He took Nena’s feet into his lap, removed her shoes, and began to give her a foot massage. Nieve poured Alizé into my cup. We kept on chatting.

  Eventually, all talking stopped. Nena climbed in Tony’s lap again
. They humped, laughed, and made out. She rubbed him over his pants. Nieve and I sat in silence and pretended not to notice, but I was getting stiff.

  Tony got up and grabbed the boom box. “We’re going in the bedroom. Front room’s all yours.”

  I swallowed. “Ain’t you taking me home, Tony?”

  “Later.” He staggered toward the bedroom. Over his shoulder he said, “Talk to Sweetleaf, will ya? She looks lonely.”

  I followed him to the bedroom door. “Tony, I don’t feel like small talk.”

  Tony looked at me with bloodshot, watery eyes. I could see over his shoulder as Nena spread herself on the bed. Tony whispered, “Don’t be nervous. It really is like riding a bike.” With that, Tony slipped into the bedroom and closed the door.

  I went back to the table and sat in silence. Music pumped out of the bedroom. Before long we heard the bedsprings, muffled voices, laughter. Then the headboard banged slowly against the wall.

  Nieve stood and headed for the living room. “You wanna watch TV?”

  We sat in the curtainless room, on opposite ends of a soiled couch. Tony’s weights and bench took up most of the space. Nieve offered me the remote.

  I waved it off. “Watch whatever you want.”

  Nieve flipped through stations and stopped on a show about a California high school. Teenagers put on a play.

  Nieve tilted her head. “You like this show?”

  “I don’t care.”

  “I can put a movie on if you want.”

  I shrugged.

  Nieve got up and pressed play on the DVD player, then sat down again, closer.

  We sat in silence as a set of woman’s lips, a blonde, pumped up and down, machinelike, on a giant black cock. The camera pulled back and changed angles. The couple worked through an itinerary of positions. Freestyle music bounced in from Tony’s bedroom and mixed noisily with the synthesizer porn score. Tony’s headboard continued to bang against the wall.

  The camera closed in and pulled back on the action. It focused briefly on the word “Sagittarius” tattooed in a cheap green cursive on the woman’s back. Her ass was thick for a white girl. She looked right in the camera and said, “Deep inside, baby. Pay those bills.”

  By then, my dick was like cobalt. Nieve touched my hand, but did not hold it. She slid a little closer, leaned without a word, and started kissing my neck. I was too embarrassed to look her in the eye. I focused on the action on-screen.

  Nieve unzipped my jeans and pulled it out. Her hand felt small. Her stroke was awkward. Still, it was warm. And soft. I don’t know where Nieve imagined it was going, but there was no time. A heavy load bubbled out.

  Nieve held it as it shriveled up. I’m not sure what she was waiting for, but the couple in the porno kept going, and Tony’s headboard slapped the wall.

  After ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, Nieve released. “I better wash up,” she said.

  I zipped so fast, I almost pinched myself. Nieve disappeared into the bathroom. After a while she returned, and we avoided eyes again. I felt like telling her that I hadn’t been with a woman in a very long time. Maybe we could try again another day. I could get her number. Or maybe we could wait a few minutes.

  But I didn’t say a word. Nieve shut off the porn and sat Indian-style on the floor to watch the show about the California high school. The students’ play was in trouble. Then somebody fixed everything by saying the show would go on.

  The bedroom door creaked open. Tony came down the hall less urgent than before. His belt was undone. He wore a dago T, a wife beater that showed off his biceps and even more tattoos. The ones I remembered looked a little faded. Tony was sweaty, but not out of breath. He flashed a big tacky grin.

  “What up, pimp?”

  I didn’t say a word.

  He looked at Nieve. “You two getting along?”

  Nieve looked at Tony, then at me. “He’s really sweet.”

  “I told you.”

  I got up. “Ready to go, Tone?”

  He looked at me. “Do I look out for my boy or what?”

  “Just give me the address, Tony. I’ll find my new place myself.”

  Tony waved me off. “Don’t get your panties in a bundle, stud.”

  He went back to the bedroom and came back fully dressed, down to the driving gloves. Nieve got up from the living-room floor and joined Nena in the bedroom.

  Tony had one hand behind his back. “Close your eyes and stick out your palm.”

  “How many times I gotta tell you, Tony? I’m ready to roll.”

  “Just do it. I got a surprise for you.”

  I felt stupid, but I closed my eyes and put my hand out. Tony slapped it with cold metal. I opened my eyes and saw a .38 Special. Chrome. As polished as Tony’s car.

  I handed it back. “I don’t need this.”

  “Why not? This heater’s a classic.”

  “I don’t run in your crew, Tone.”

  “It’s for security.”

  “I ain’t that insecure. And I sure as shit ain’t looking for no weapons rap.”

  Tony held the gun like he didn’t quite understand. “Suit yourself.” He tucked the chrome into his waistband and grabbed weed and coke off the table. “I thought it might come in handy.”

  We left without saying good-bye to the girls. Once in the car, Tony slipped the reefer, the coke, and the .38 under his seat. I was ready to get to my new place, take a hot shower, and spread out on some clean sheets.

  Tony started the engine. He looked in the rearview mirror. “Fuck!”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Tony opened his mouth to answer, but was cut off by flashing blue lights, and the unmistakable peal of a Chicago police siren tearing through the night.

  CHAPTER 03:

  JURISDICTION

  Blue and white lights bounced off every surface in that alley like bottle rockets. My heart did the same.

  Tony punched the dashboard. “Shit! It’s Coltrane and Johnson.”

  “Who?”

  I looked back at the unmarked squad. A white light flooded us, but I could see that they had snuck up and pinned the Caddy to the utility pole, which left no way out.

  “Tony, you know these humps?”

  A bullhorn blared: “All right, Pacheco. Get out.”

  Tony looked back. “We’re stuck.”

  The horn: “Outta the vehicle! Now!”

  Tony shut off the engine.

  I caught his arm. “What’re you gonna do?”

  He jerked away from me. “Pull it together, Eddie. These leprechauns don’t play.”

  Tony climbed out with his hands in front of him. Even if I made a run, they’d recover my suitcase from the trunk and ID me from what they found inside. It wasn’t worth a bullet in the back either. I followed Tony into the spotlight.

  Two plainclothes officers hopped toward us with their guns drawn. They doubled us over the hood of Tony’s car and shackled our hands behind our backs, but didn’t bother to pat us down.

  One cop was black, the other was white. Their outfits were standard issue: blue jeans, windbreakers, baseball caps. The black cop wielded a round gut. A thin wedding band pinched his sausage-link ring finger. The white one was lanky, and tucked his jeans into skinny cowboy boots.

  The black cop breathed raw onions down my neck. “Stay down, big man.”

  I did not resist.

  The white cop flexed a deep rasp of a voice, with a slight Southern accent. “You too, Pacheco, stay down.”

  For reasons known only to him, Tony flopped like a marlin on a hook. The white cop unholstered a big metal flashlight and jabbed it into Tony’s ribs. Tony tensed like he’d been stunned with an electric current.

  The white cop reholstered the flashlight and looked at his partner. “See that, Johnson? Still breaking ’em after all these years.”

  Tony flared his nostrils and said something nasty about the white cop’s mother. The man’s pockmarked face almost cracked in two. He grabbed Tony by the colla
r and the back of the pants and shoveled him into a garage door, making a loud percussive thump and putting a dent in the thin door metal. The cop then picked Tony up and rammed him into trash bins, knocking them over like bowling pins. Garbage bags spilled. For a finale the tall white cop swung the point of his cowboy boot in a sudden, perfect arc, right into Tony’s gut. Tony yelped.

  The cop bent down and grabbed Tony by the wisps of his receding hair. “Don’t you never say nothin’ about my momma!”

  Tony’s face sagged. If he had anything else to say, he swallowed it. The black cop, Johnson, did nothing.

  Coltrane let go of Tony and turned his square jaw at me. “And who the hell are you?”

  I cleared my throat. “Santiago. Eddie Santiago.”

  “Santiago, why are you polluting my jurisdiction?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Speak up!”

  “I’m from around here.”

  “Around where?”

  “This neighborhood.”

  “Where, Santiago? I want an address.”

  I didn’t even know where I lived.

  “By the park. I just moved here.”

  “You don’t know your own address?”

  “I’m new in town.”

  “Where from? My patience is growing thin.”

  There was no use hiding it. Coltrane could simply punch my name into the computer and it would all pour down. Or he could check my wallet and see my newly minted Department of Corrections ID.

  I cleared my throat. “Stateville. I just got out.”

  Coltrane raised an eyebrow. “Now we’re sharing.”

  Johnson crinkled his nose. “I thought I smelled convict.”

  Coltrane took a comb from his back pocket and raked it through his oily, dirty blond head. “Fresh from the penitentiary, and already itchin’ to get back.”

  Coltrane put the comb away and dug a tin of chewing tobacco from his breast pocket. He pinched a wad and stuffed it between his cheek and gum. He looked at his partner. “Let’s investigate, Johnson.”

  They frisked us, Coltrane on Tony, Johnson on me. Johnson immediately felt my money belt. My throat tightened.

  “What’s this?”