Hard Luck And Trouble

by Gammy L. Singer

  “What’s done is done, Steadwell.”

  Steadwell pushed six mink coats off a chair onto the floor and sat. “Every day somebody be dying over that shit. You hear about Skidmore?”

  “No, what?”

  “OD’d off some smack. They found him in the street yesterday, body stiffer than a thirteen-year-old’s dick. Dead. That stuff ain’t nothing but poison.”

  “Yeah, I know, that’s why I dumped it down the toilet.” We both got quiet. Then the idea hit me like a thunderbolt, and I sat straight up. “Yeah, poison, that’s why I got rid of it—the stuff was no good. That’s it, Steadwell.”

  Steadwell eyed me, disbelief cresting like waves over his face. “Are you facking or cracking? You for real?”

  A plan unfolded. I was getting excited now. “Facts, man. Don’t you see? That dope killed poor Skidmore, and who knows? Maybe a few others. Yes, it was that dope that killed him. So I had to get rid of it before anybody else got their hands on it.”

  Steadwell shook his head and sighed. “Harry ain’t stupid, Amos. Only way he’ll listen to that hogwash is if you get his money back and serve up those two agents.”

  “Well, that’s what I’ll have to do, won’t I?” I thought for a minute. “Put it out on the street, Steadwell, would you? That I’m gunning for those two agents.”

  “Why don’t you tell Harry directly?”

  “Uh, like you said, cash in hand makes Harry a better listener. Anyway, chances are he’ll believe the grapevine before he’d believe me.”

  “You got a point. Okay, I’ll spread the word. Messing with my rep if somebody finds out, but I’ll spread the word. You got a plan?”

  Why did everyone keep asking that? “Sure,” I muttered and headed for the door. Then I paused and said, “And what about the other? What we were talking about?”

  Steadwell looked down at the floor. “You ain’t heard nothing from me. I don’t know nothing about nothing, hear? But between you and me and the gatepost, take a long hard look in the mirror—tell you everything you need to know.”

  Hand on the doorknob, I locked eyes with Steadwell. “Yeah, okay, right. Check you later, Steadwell.”

  He ground his cigarette butt in an ashtray and shook his head again. His sigh blew through the room. “Hope there’s going to be a later, Amos.”

  I looked at him and down at the crushed cigarette. I hoped so too.

  For what I needed to do next I had to get some help and headed up to the Bronx, to Seltzer’s pad. The ghetto’s creed was about to come into play—do unto others before they do it to you. Those two DEA agents were stuck in my crosshairs and heavy on my mind.

  Seltzer lived in a concrete jungle of a housing complex with over five hundred families in it, its exterior dark, depressing, and shabby and not too welcoming. I made it past the outdoor buzzer, past a security guard, up a crappy elevator, before ringing the doorbell to Seltzer’s apartment. Susie, Seltzer’s dog, jumped up to greet me, two paws deep into my chest. Seltzer’s wife, Delphina, sat on a couch, shredding wet tissues between her fingers and sobbing.

  When she paused between sobs I found out I arrived too late—that after I had talked to Seltzer this morning, somebody had jumped him. He had stepped outside his apartment to dump the garbage and when he hadn’t returned after twenty minutes, Delphina said she went down the hall to look and found him, lying unconscious, near the trash disposal, bleeding buckets—his blood splattered against the walls and floor of the hallway. She called for an ambulance—nobody had witnessed the beating—and had sat with Seltzer all day at Einstein Hospital, his condition critical.

  I had caught her just as she was about to take off for the hospital again with a bag of personal items to take to Seltzer. She’d only just returned home, to feed the dog, she said, and make dinner for her teenage grandson.

  In the middle of her pain, she stopped and inquired about me. “I’m sorry about your mother, Amos. James told me what happened. Must have been an awful shock.”

  Well, you can guess how I felt. “That’s ... that’s ancient history. It’s you and Seltzer I’m worried about. Did you see anything at all? Did Seltzer say who did it?”

  “Security downstairs says two white guys came looking for Seltzer. They flashed badges, so he let them in. I don’t know why they’d be looking for Seltzer. He ain’t done nothing, I’d swear on it. They didn’t come in—caught him in the hallway. Seltzer came to for a while this morning, but he didn’t say nothing. Couldn’t—hard for him to talk, face all busted up, teeth knocked out. I let him rest. Nurse give him something for the pain and he go out cold again.”

  It was hard to hear this. The muscles in my jaw tensed, then softened at the sight of Delphina. She looked pretty worn herself. Dark shadows circled her eyes, and her bosom heaved with emotion. I tried to comfort her. “Listen, I’ll take Seltzer’s things to him and sit with him the rest of the evening. You get some rest and look after your grandson. Visit Seltzer in the morning—he ain’t going nowhere.”

  She thought about it and said, “Sure you right,” grateful to be relieved, adding, “Don’t want to leave Clarence here by himself. Who knows what might happen? And you know the hospital won’t allow the boy to visit up on James’s floor.”

  I nodded, gathered Seltzer’s belongings, and said good-bye to Delphina—revenge and mayhem on my mind. I had to get to the guns. Sons of bitches weren’t going to get away with this. Something had to be done, and I was going to do it.

  Chapter 39

  Seltzer was wrapped tighter than a mummy in his hospital bed. Only his eyes and forehead showed between the wrappings of bandages. Short and Tall had done a number on him. His jaw, nose, and leg had been broken. They were making sure I got the message. Well, I knew who I was dealing with. Trouble is, the fools didn’t know who they were dealing with.

  The thing about trouble ... having it creates the capacity to handle it—read that somewhere. They were going to regret the day they met up with me, for sure.

  Caww—hiccup. Caww—hiccup. The noise of the oxygen machine cut through the silence in the room. The time was nearly midnight. I got up to leave and leaned next to Seltzer’s ear and told him, “They ain’t getting away with it, old buddy, don’t you worry.” I smashed my hat down on my head and the oxygen sighed as I left the room.

  No one in sight. I cut across the Assembly of God’s rear lot at the end of my block and squeezed through a slat in a broken fence. My shirt caught a nail and ripped like a fart through the Harlem night. I waited. No barking dog responded. And no light in the vicinity told on me.

  I stood in darkness beneath the fire-escape ladder that hung from the building next to the church. Higher than I thought. It took me four leaps before I finally hooked on to the ladder. I kicked my legs back and forth as I tried to hoist myself up. It had been years since I tried this stunt, but I didn’t remember that scaling a fire escape had been this hard back when I was a kid. Shit, and back then I was a hell of a lot shorter too. I couldn’t understand it. My hat flew off as I pulled my bulky body up the ladder. God, I hoped none of the neighbors would catch me.

  Through an open window on the second story, I saw the glow of a black-light poster and heard Barry White’s bass rumble out of a stereo speaker inside, while a woman did a slow grind with herself and got a nut.

  I heard a moan and ... , “Sing it, Barry, a www, sukey, sukey now,” as I trod as soft as I could past her window on the way to the roof. Not quiet enough. My foot scraped the railing. From inside her apartment I heard her shout, “Hey,” and I froze.

  “Hey,” she said again.

  The stereo’s volume lowered. She stuck her head out the window and looked down into the dark yard, head turning to the right and left. Quiet, she listened for another moment and muttered, “Huh.”

  Visions of me being arrested again, this time as a Peeping Tom, motored through my mind as I waited—and she waited. Satisfied at last that there was no one in the yard, she pulled her head back in and returned to Ba
rry and amphed her stereo up to the max. Barry didn’t miss a stroke, no, sir. He moaned and sang, “I’ve got so much to give... .”

  Thank you, Barry.

  I climbed higher up. The ladder creaked and swayed under my weight. Good thing Barry was busy. Everyone’s window was wide open. Televisions blared inside the toaster-oven apartments, but hardly anyone sat watching. Most people had camped out front on stoops and chairs, to escape the stifling July heat.

  When I reached the top I held on to the roof’s ledge and pulled myself up and over. I didn’t stand to my full height for fear of being seen from below, so I monkey-walked to the front of the building and peered over the side.

  The card games were in session, the street as lively at night as it was in the daytime. Nobody slept. Seventies unemployment and humidity kept people up way past their bedtimes.

  Uh-oh. I drew back from the edge. Couldn’t be sure, but was that Short and Tall’s blue sedan parked halfway down the block? Couldn’t tell. In this light and at this distance it could be blue, black, or brown.

  They’d bring attention to themselves if they parked too long on the street. Unless, of course, they didn’t care. That was a possibility. I squinted my eyes, still couldn’t tell for sure. Did they do like I did—park a few blocks over? Were they standing in the overhang of one of these buildings, waiting? My jaw tensed, the anger returned.

  Two things I needed to do, get the guns and have a talk with Zeke, and to do that I needed to get inside my building. Ape-style, I made my way across dozens of rooftops, recalling the fun I used to have as a child. For a fleeting moment I forgot the present danger and ran free. Running the roofs and eluding the cops. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

  A roof is to hide. A roof is halfway to the sky. A roof is to dream. A roof is ... a place to smoke dope. I saw them before they saw me. Two stoned kids. I hollered at them and they scurried off the roof. Fucking juvenile delinquents, what’d they think they were doing? Never mind that I did the same thing when I was a kid.

  When I reached my building, I did a reverse. I climbed down the fire escape and tapped on the window of the top floor—Wilbur’s apartment. His window was open, but the shades were drawn. Hair in rollers, he peered around the shades real casual-like, as if discovering me outside on the fire escape was no big thing.

  “Mr. B.?”

  “Wilbur,” I whispered, “can you let me in?”

  “Sure, sugar. Um ... I wasn’t expecting company. Let me put on a robe.”

  “Fuck the robe, Wilbur, I’m coming in, pull the shade up.”

  “Aren’t we in a snit?” he said. With a grand gesture, he snapped the window shade and it rolled to the sky. And so did his dick. Jesus. I didn’t know the cat was buck naked. I guess I blushed and kept my eyes glued pretty much to the floor as I climbed through his window.

  “Put your damn robe on, Wilbur.”

  He complied, then the little pussy puckered his lips. I shook off the gesture like a dog shakes water. He noticed and let me have it.

  “There’s a nerve running through this room. A big black one. Invading my privacy, and got the nerve to—”

  Okay, okay, I admit it—it was the gay part. It still bothered me. “Sorry, Wilbur.”

  He pursed his lips together again and adjusted a hair roller. “Say it like you mean it.”

  I gave him a don’t-you-fuck-with-me look, and he backed off.

  “All right, I forgive you,” he said quickly. “People been looking for you.”

  “How did you know?”

  “How could I not know? Two men came calling twice. Nobody here in the daytime except me, so I answered the door. They flashed some badges and gave me grief. The last time, the assholes pushed me up against the mailboxes, but I didn’t tell ’em shit. Course I don’t know shit, but they didn’t know that. They wanted to know where you were.”

  Why did Wilbur always make me feel guilty? Awkwardly, I thumped him on the arm. “Thanks, Wilbur. I mean it, man. I’ll take care of them. May be gone for a while. Keep a lookout around here for me.” I headed for the door.

  “Oh, Mr. B., about Patty ...” Wilbur said.

  I turned.

  He saw my look and said, “Uh, never mind ...”

  I waited. When Wilbur didn’t offer any more I said, “She’s into that shit again, ain’t she?”

  Wilbur nodded yes.

  I flashed back to when the cops had pulled me screaming and kicking out of Reba’s house. I resisted with everything I had, but when they shoved me into the back seat of the police car, it was over. I lost hope. When Wilbur nodded yes about Patty, that same feeling took over and rocked me hard where I stood.

  “Is she home?”

  “Ain’t been home for a couple of days. Josie’s sleeping at Winnie’s. I ain’t got room here, but I take care of Josie in the daytime.”

  Wasn’t anything I could do but nod. I left Wilbur’s room, noticed a light on under Zeke’s door, hesitated, then tapped lightly. No answer. I put my ear to the door. Silence inside. I licked my lips. No matter. I wasn’t quite ready to talk to him anyway. I left and trod quietly down the stair well—didn’t want the other tenants to know I was in the building.

  When I reached the foot of the stairs, I froze. The bulb was out in the entryway. Senses alert, I moved cautiously through the darkened hallway. Too late I felt air whiz past me and felt something hard crack against my skull. Tweet-tweet and lights out as I fell, unconscious, to the floor.

  Chapter 40

  Ever had your head hurt so bad that when you blinked your eyes you couldn’t stand the pain? That was what it was like when I finally came to, sprawled across the sofa in my living room. Sitting opposite me was The Beast with Five Fingers, Harry’s Blood Clot George, asleep in a chair, gun dangling off the end of one of his pudgy fingers. I shifted to a sitting position while I watched the room kaleidoscope and heard Big Ben clang like a motherfucker inside my head.

  Should I snatch George’s gun? Even the effort to think exhausted me, so I knew I was in no shape to snatch anybody’s gun away. I fell back on the sofa’s cushion, my head throbbing in counterpoint to the thudding of my heart.

  The move awakened George, who opened one Cyclop eye and glared at me out of it.

  “Where the fuck you been?” he said. “Where the dope? Where the money?”

  Holding my head in my hands, I rolled my eyeballs, ever so carefully, to survey the room. Trashed—my décor gone to shit. I turned my head—ouch—to look beyond the room. Ditto the rest of my apartment. George hadn’t found what he was looking for. Nor would he.

  “What’d you have to hit me in the head for, George? That wasn’t necessary.”

  George looked at me blankly, shrugged his shoulders, and repeated, “Where the dope, where the money?”

  A lightbulb came on. George didn’t know shit from Shinola about what happened to the heroin, or the money. That’s why his ass was here, playing wrecking ball in my apartment. He was knocked out flatter than a pancake when Short and Tall took the money and split. Yeah, but why didn’t Zeke tell him what went down? I pondered that and kept my lip zipped. When in doubt, shut your mouth—a saying I picked up in the joint, and it’s served me well over the years. I said nothing and stared back at George. Made him crazy. He jumped to his feet and waggled his gun at me.

  “Give it up,” he screamed, “or me blow your head off.”

  “Ain’t got it, George, none of it,” I said. “If you wanted to blow my head off, you would have done it way before now, so let’s get to why you’re really here. Let me guess. Harry’s in your ass. He’s blaming you for all of it. Am I right?”

  His lips trembled like Jello-O. His eyes turned a fiery red. Bingo.

  “Well, man, what can I say? The truth is, you didn’t protect Harry’s interests. Neither did Zeke.” I sneaked a peek from beneath my eyebrows, shook my head, and double tsked for his benefit. “You let Harry down. Let those DEA guys get away with the skag and the money? That’s
deep, George.”

  His face fell and puddled on top of his chest. The man was scared. Great. Maybe a way to pull myself out of this after all.

  “You explain to Harry—you tell him how it was,” he said.

  “Hey, ain’t my job, man, and you know Harry, he don’t want to hear no excuses. Besides, ain’t you a little bit embarrassed? There were four of us and only two of them.”

  Fireworks popped behind George’s eyes. I knew that would get to him. I noticed George’s clothes—same suit he had on the night of the drug buy.

  He said, “Told me come get you.”

  That was a fat lie. George wanted a scapegoat for Harry’s wrath. He was ducking Harry too—I could tell from his clothes. “Well, George, Harry’s gonna have to wait.”

  George pointed his gun at me. “Now,” he commanded.

  I wasn’t threatened. I held the trump card and George knew it. I talked real slow and explained to him that those DEA guys had Harry’s money and we had to get it back. The heroin was no good—they had tried to scam Harry.

  “Got to find those guys, understand? They’re in with Narcotics out of the Twenty-eighth Precinct, working for the DEA. You know who the DEA is, right?” George nodded. His lower jaw hung down. “After we get the money back, then we go see Harry. Harry wouldn’t be too happy to see us now. No dope. No money.”

  “No dope? No money?” George asked, and looked down at the floor. He was thinking.

  I didn’t want him to hurt himself, so I said, “Need some backup, George, think you can arrange that? Then we go see Harry. If we get the money back, Harry will think you’re a hero.”

  The idea simmered in George’s head, about five minutes. I waited. Then he grunted twice and headed for the door. “Two hours. Be back with some boys in two hours.”

  Thank God for stupid people. After George left I jumped to my feet, and what did I do that for? Nausea lurched through my gut and up into my throat. What in the hell did George have to hit me for? I willed the nausea away while I felt for the bump—the size of a small lemon—in the back of my head. Didn’t matter—I didn’t have time for pain. I had to work fast.