“You don’t love me,” Parky said.
“I was gonna pack in a couple of days, run to some other town.”
“You don’t love me,” Parky repeated.
“Imbecile,” the brigadier said. “If this isn’t a declaration of love, then none of us will ever know what love is.”
Parky turned contrite. “Baby, you don’t have to pack. I’ll send Grave Digger and Coffin Ed after this Jupe.”
“Parky, he’s a menace. We can’t win.”
“And I’m gonna let a Kansas City man scare me off Sugar Hill?”
“He just wants me. If I disappear, he’ll leave you alone.”
“Wish I could help,” the general said. “But we have to be neutral. The army can’t take sides in a gang war.”
“You’ve already helped,” Parky said. “You’ve pinpointed the son of a bitch.”
* * *
Carla turned into Scheherazade, told him stories about Jupiter Drake. The stories maddened Parky, but he listened, intoxicated by the details. Jupiter Drake never knew his own dad. He was the oldest son of a hairdresser who moved from town to town, man to man, collected a brood of children until she fell apart and Jupiter was put into a foster home. He ran away, started to steal, ended up in a series of children’s jails. “Edward dear, he was a genius at organizing people … he’d have those jails eating out of his hand. It didn’t matter how the guards hurt him. He was collecting material for future gangs.”
Jupiter took over Kansas City at the age of twenty-one. “He walked into the headquarters of the big boss, who’d gone lazy and simple with greed, and Jupiter bit out his throat in front of all his men. They switched allegiance to Jupe with the blood still hot in his mouth.
“He got rid of the old gangsters, replaced them with graduates of all the children’s jails he’d ever lived in. Jupiter didn’t have to buy loyalty. The baby gangsters adored him. They weren’t wild. They didn’t bring terror to Kansas City. They organized themselves under Jupe, got rid of random crime, and began to police the police, chase drug dealers from the schools and the poorest housing projects. His picture was in the Kansas City Star. They called him ‘The Angel of Mercy with a Tilted Hat.’” He had a political future. He was twenty-four years old. His lawyers told him to pick a wife. “He went shopping, but Jupe didn’t really know where to shop. College girls and debutantes bored him to death.”
He went to a cathouse, like he always did. He’d organized the girls, got them higher salaries and bigger tips. And at one of the houses, near the Missouri River, he met a certain Edwina, a child of seventeen. She wouldn’t get off her back for Jupiter Drake, the young king. Her hair wasn’t platinum then, wasn’t cropped. It was long and reddish brown. She wasn’t like the other chippies. Edwina was into reading books. She wouldn’t even kiss Jupiter when he bought her a gold watch.
“I don’t like kissing customers on the mouth.”
He was full of a cold fury, but he didn’t slap the girl. He took her to the Kansas City political chiefs. “This is the girl I’m gonna marry.”
They smiled crookedly to themselves, but they wouldn’t contradict the young king. He married her in church, in front of his baby gangsters and five deacons. It ripped at his heart, the image of Edwina with her library books, changing a Kansas City cathouse into her own college. Jupiter had never read a book in his life. But he’d watch her peck at words with her mind. It enraged him and excited him, because she didn’t talk about culture, didn’t summarize the books. He bought her a penthouse on the Missouri side of the river, but he didn’t have to guard Edwina. She wouldn’t leave her tower, go to nightclubs or political rallies with the young king. How could he capitalize on a wife who was barely visible? He decided to tour the world with Edwina.
He forced her to get on a plane with him, had to kidnap his own wife. But she wouldn’t leave her room in Brussels or Berlin. Museums couldn’t stir her. Fancy restaurants made her sneeze. Only one thing could lure her out of bed: visiting a chocolate factory. Jupiter had to bribe her with Belgian chocolate. All she remembered from her trip was the street where “Le Lion” was made, the darkest chocolate on the planet. It amazed the young king, who was trying to educate himself. Edwina had a sweet tooth, like every other cathouse girl. Whores were raised on chocolate. “But it wasn’t true, Parky. Jupiter was wrong. I’d never tasted chocolate on my father’s farm. Chocolate was my first fling. It was my escape route from the Dakotas. I didn’t need much. With a bar of chocolate in my pocket, I always felt like an aristocratic lady.”
But the young king couldn’t fathom his bride. He began to beat her up. He’d burn Edwina’s arms with cigarettes while he was making love to her. He’d threaten to throw her out the window. He’d drag her to a rally, handcuff her to a chair. He returned her to the cathouse where she’d come from, offered a thousand dollars to any man who’d sleep with his bride. He couldn’t tempt a single soul in Kansas City. No one would risk getting on the wrong side of Jupiter. He sent her to the hospital with broken ribs. The cops wouldn’t arrest a king who might rule over them. “I had to get out of that rut,” she said, “before he started breaking all my bones.”
“Did you love him?” Parky asked, jealous of Jupiter Drake.
“Maybe, once upon a time,” she said. “But not for very long. Living with Jupe was a homicidal risk.”
“But you married him, baby. He was a boy on the rise. He needed a companion, a wife at his side to cut the cake at parties, dance with politicians.”
“And I failed him. Don’t you think it haunts me, Edward dear? But I was never good at mingling. Why should I march around? Sunlight gives me freckles. And I prefer the company of a book.”
“How’d you get that platinum hair?”
“Oh, it ain’t much of a story.”
“How!”
“I told you. His mom was a beautician. Platinum was her favorite color. And Jupe decided that we should both cut our hair short, with a platinum rinse, so people couldn’t tell us apart.”
“But he has a mustache,” Parky said.
“People hardly noticed.”
“And why didn’t you get rid of the platinum when you got to New York?”
“I was used to it, Parky. It was like having an old friend look back at me in the mirror.”
“Fine,” the counselor said. “You became Carla with the platinum rinse, waiting for her young king.”
“I wasn’t waiting.”
“But you had to know he’d come for you.”
“I dreaded it.”
And Parky tried to believe her.
4.
HE SHOULD HAVE CALLED a war party, but he couldn’t get out of bed. He’d fallen into the middle of Carla’s reverie. He was waiting for the young king. He didn’t send out Grave Digger to ride shotgun with his trucks. He let his merchandise slip away. Sasha Klein was furious and hired a team of black detectives. They were kidnapped on their first run, left in Scarsdale without their clothes.
Sasha cursed on the telephone. “Parky, who is this guy?”
“The devil’s architect.”
“Otherwise known as a punk from Kansas City. A notorious hoodlum who’s married to your concubine. If you don’t get rid of her, I’ll have a heart attack. We’re already ruined.”
“I’ll reimburse you, Sash.”
“So cavalier with your money? You’re bankrupt, just like me.”
He lived on credit and his retainer from Lord Byron. Harris Teitelbaum grew into the diva of Parky’s firm, defended the Maf with his legal songs, but Parky was caught between Lord Byron and the young king. If one didn’t get him, the other would. And so he waited in bed with his orange juice and chocolate lions, finished Chester Himes and Oblomov while Carla combed her platinum hair. And when he heard Coffin Ed mumble “Jupiter Drake” on the intercom, he couldn’t help feel a touch of doom.
“Don’t worry,” said Coffin Ed. “He’s a sitting duck … all alone.”
Giles showed the young king into the Oblo
mov bedroom. Parky and Carla sat under the covers in their silk pajamas. Carla’s nose was red. She’d been crying, and Parky hadn’t even noticed. He was watching the young king, who wore a gray suit that must have come out of a catalog. They don’t know how to dress in Kansas City. But it wasn’t much of a consolation. Jupiter had crystal blue eyes. The counselor wasn’t into white men’s mythology, but this fucker had to be a cousin to Billy the Kid.
“Hello, Edwina,” he said.
“Hello, Jupe.”
“Sugar, ain’t you gonna come home?” He turned to Parky. “No disrespect, Mr. Parkchester. But my little girl is still married to me.”
“My last address was a whorehouse in Kansas City, Kansas, or can’t you remember?”
“I was overextended. I wasn’t thinking straight.”
“You broke my ribs.”
“I’ll rot in hell for that, sugar. But can’t I say I’m sorry?”
“You burnt my arms and legs … and I’m living with Mr. Parkchester now.”
“In sin,” the young king said. “Besides, Mr. Parkchester doesn’t have much of a future with you.”
“I’ll decide that,” Parky said. “How many shooters did you bring from Kansas City? A hundred? Your whole army?”
“Six.”
“That’s a stupid lie. You couldn’t break my organization with six shooters.”
“Wanna bet? Are you gonna give up my Edwina, or can you start looking into the barrel of a real war? Because this has only been an appetizer, Kansas City style.”
“Could be,” Parky said. “But we aren’t dreamers on Sugar Hill. You can’t have Carla unless she decides to come with you.”
“Carla,” the young king said. “That’s the whore of Babylon.”
“But you married a whore, King Jupiter.”
“Am I left out of this conversation?” Carla said.
“Sugar, take a hefty look at Mr. Parkchester here, because he ain’t got long to live.”
“You threaten me in my own crib? I didn’t invite you up here.”
“But your employer did.”
“What employer?”
“Byron Abando. He said I should come in peace, talk it out with you.”
“What’s Lord Byron got to do with this?”
“Mr. Parkchester, you’ve been swimming in your own little stream, called Sugar Hill. I’m Byron’s Kansas City connection. You should have known that… . I’ll be back for you, Edwina. Sit where you are. You don’t have to walk me to the door.”
* * *
Carla stopped crying, but she wouldn’t eat any more of her chocolate lions. Her spirit had flown from Parky. She was like a pilgrim on his bed, preparing for a phantom voyage. Jupe had already settled between them, like an invisible vulture.
“I’ll mend things with Lord Byron.”
But he was talking to his own hall of mirrors.
“Give it up, Parky. Jupe always gets what he wants. Did you look in his eyes? He ain’t human. It couldn’t last with you and me. It was like a little reprieve from the gas chamber.”
“You’re not going back to him.”
“Your master will send me back.”
“I’m my own fucking master,” he said as the telephone rang. It was Sasha Klein.
“Parky, you’ll have to meet with us at my apartment. Byron’s here, and he’d hate to send his soldiers.”
“Sash, you’re my mentor, my closest friend. And suddenly you’re Byron’s crocodile.”
“I’m a businessman, and I’d like to keep you alive.”
Parky got out of bed, but he wouldn’t wear his court clothes. He found a coat in his closet, draped it over his silk pajamas.
“Baby,” he said, “give me one last chance. Promise you won’t leave until I get back.”
Oblomov kissed his bedroom wife. He went down the elevator with Giles. Coffin Ed and the Grave Digger wanted to accompany him to Sasha Klein’s.
“The Kansas City gang could kidnap you, Mr. Parky.”
“Not while Lord Byron’s in the picture. Stay on the Hill. I don’t want my woman to be disturbed.”
“Mr. Parky, we’ll guard her with our lives.”
He looked down Sugar Hill into Manhattan’s heart, and it held nothing for him.
* * *
Byron Abando greeted him at Sasha’s door in a suit that had come from Parky’s London tailor. They’d gone on shopping sprees together, Byron and his black lawyer. Byron smiled at Parky’s silk pajamas, touched the material. “I have the same pair.”
Harris Teitelbaum and Sasha Klein were waiting in Sasha’s enormous salon. They were drinking red wine from a chateau Sasha had bought in Burgundy. Parky didn’t care about the wizards who could predict the greatness of a certain crop. This wine tasted like piss. But he didn’t complain. He watched his junior partner rub against Lord Byron.
“He’s the white hope of your law firm, this kid. Isn’t he, Parky?”
“The best clerk I ever had.”
“Clerk? Harris is a killer. He’s catching all your tricks.”
“I can always give over my practice to him, Byron, if that’s what you’re hinting at. I’ll become an ambulance chaser on Sugar Hill. But fucking Jupiter can’t have my woman, and that’s final.”
“Your woman? He’s married to the bitch. And you already have a fiancée. Isn’t that right, Sash?”
“Tatiana called off the engagement,” Parky said.
“Because of that lollipop you have in bed… . Be practical. I have my spies. You and the old man have been moving merchandise without my consent. I let it slide. You’re our family lawyer. You’re entitled to a little fun. But I didn’t ask you to get into bed with Kansas City. Jupiter Drake is a protected man.”
“And you invited him into Harlem and Sugar Hill.”
“Never. Do I need a civil war? … Sash, where’s the fiancée?”
“Tatiana, darling,” the old man cried.
And Tatiana came down the stairwell in a black dress that revealed the suppleness of her shoulders and the liquid power of her breasts. She was hoping that Parky would eat his heart out. But it was Lord Byron who had the sudden palpitations, who was seeing Sasha’s lovely daughter for the first time. He had a wife and a mistress he was passionate about, but Tatiana cut into all his glory.
“Tatiana,” he said, “are you in love with this ingrate?”
“I am.”
“That settles it. Parky, you give back the lollipop and marry Miz Tatiana Klein.”
She strolled around Lord Byron, her heels clattering on the parquet like knife blades in the middle of a storm. “Thank you,” she said.
Byron began to sweat.
“I’ll marry who I want and when I want,” Parky said.
“Counselor, I’m warning you. I won’t tolerate intransigence from our family lawyer.”
“Then zero me out, but it’s not a basketball game, Byron. You can’t work a switch.”
Tatiana glowered at Parky with her chiseled face. “He comes to us in pajamas, from his whore’s bed, starts to dictate terms.”
Her eyes began to flutter, and she fell into Byron’s arms. He carried her to one of Sasha’s priceless divans, her perfume making his nostrils sting. “Mr. Edward Parkchester, I command you to marry this girl.”
“Command? That doesn’t sound like a lawyer-client relationship. That sounds like the fucking Maf.”
Sasha wagged his head. “You’re talking suicide.”
“No, Sash. Let Harris save his ass.” Parky smiled at Tatiana and pinched Harris’s cheek. “My beautiful little partner.”
“Parky,” Harris said, “I was only thinking of the firm.”
“What firm? Teitelbaum and Teitelbaum?”
He marched downstairs and returned to Sugar Hill. But the Grave Digger and Coffin Ed weren’t in the lobby. The wires of the intercom had been pulled out. “Six baby gangsters,” Parky said. He borrowed Giles’s gun and rode up the elevator to his crib. The front door was open a crack. Parky nu
dged it with the gun. Coffin Ed and the Grave Digger sat in Parky’s living room, tied to the same chair, their mouths sealed with plastic tape. They seemed sadly comical, with their butts almost sailing onto the floor. He peeked into the bedroom. There were no signs of a struggle. Lady Oblomov was gone.
He untied his black detectives, ripped the tape from their mouths. “My heroes. My Grave Digger and Coffin Ed.”
“They were unstoppable, boss,” said the Grave Digger.
“Don’t call me boss. I’m not the plantation owner. I hire your muscle, that’s all. I borrow your fucking intelligence. And you let six ofays from Kansas City surprise you and steal my woman.”
“They weren’t ofays, Mr. Parky. And there weren’t six. Only two. Niggers like I’d never seen before, wearing silver jumpsuits. Like paratroopers … or black ninjas.”
“There are no ninjas on Sugar Hill.”
“Mr. Parky, they weren’t local talent. We would have recognized them.”
“Did they hurt Carla, slap her around?”
“No, sir. They were like lambs.”
“She didn’t put up a struggle, scream?”
“Mr. Parky,” said the Grave Digger. “She walked right into their arms.”
Parky mused a bit. He was still the best criminal lawyer in town. He dialed the Pentagon. “Brigadier General Washington Starke, please.”
“And whom should I say is calling, sir?”
“His chess partner. He’ll understand.”
The general jumped onto the line. “Hold your horses, Parky. Calm down.”
“I am calm. Called yourself a pencil pusher. Those weren’t pencils that stripped my bodyguards. Who were they?”
“Special Rangers. I borrowed them from one of our crack divisions. They’re trained to dismantle nuclear warheads that get into unfriendly hands.”
“And Carla’s another kind of warhead, I suppose.”
“She phoned me, Parky. She doesn’t want to go back to that young criminal and she doesn’t want to see you dead. So I had to extricate her.”
Bad Die Young Page 3