“Gotta hear this through the 901s,” said Fisher, jerking his head toward a relatively small Bose speaker that sat up on a pedestal base.
The music began. Karras recognized it as the intro to Curtis Mayfield’s “If There’s Hell Below,” the one where Curtis is shouting, “Niggers… Whiteys… Jews…” against some acid guitar, bongos, and echo effects right before the jam really kicks in. But on this tape, the Curtis vocals had been mixed out, replaced by the voice of another black singer, this one in the Eddie Levert mold, the rhythm track just pumping along. It was the same song, basically, but with a different singer, and way different lyrics:
You Jewish bastards, you know your dicks are disasters.
You Nigger dudes, you know you fuck real rude.
You Chinese bitches, you know you like big switches….
The song went along in that inventive vein, insulting every ethnic group with lewd, unrestrained glee while keeping straight on with the killer groove.
“What the fuck is this?” said Karras.
Fisher smiled. “Guy named Sam, used to work here, cut this track.”
“It’s bad.”
“Damn right it’s bad. Sam was bad, too. He was funnier than a motherfucker, man, and he could write some music and really sing.”
“Was?”
Fisher turned down the volume. “Died about six months ago. His father shot him during a card game. Both of them were drunk.” Fisher blinked his eyes, flicked some skin off his nose. “C’mon, I’ll show you where Nick’s at.”
Karras followed Fisher out of the Sound Explosion. The guy from the parking lot was back in the store now and pitching a cheap Spectracon receiver, talking very fast to an older black man wearing a purple rayon shirt.
“Got to get the rebop on the bebop,” said the salesman.
“Say what?” said the customer.
“Just sayin’ this receiver can put it out.”
The customer stroked the end of his Van Dyck. “How many watts this box got?”
“Box got lotsa watts,” said the salesman. “I ain’t kiddin’ you, Jim.”
Karras and Fisher moved out of the stereo department. Karras looked back at the jive-ass salesman with the muttonchop sideburns.
“Who was that?”
“McGinnes.” Short and abrupt, like the name itself said it all.
They walked by the desk where the smiling Arab-looking gentleman sat sleeping. “And him?”
“Phil Omajian,” said Fisher. “Our manager.”
“He looks happy.”
“Down freak. Stays out of our way, though. The best kind of manager you can have.”
They entered a small room housing clock radios, irons, and a heavy metal desk holding paperwork and overflowing ashtrays.
“Hey,” said Fisher, “I almost forgot. You need any sound equipment?”
“No, I’m all right.”
“See me if you do. If I’m not here, we got this new young guy can help you out. Real nice guy. Name’s Andre Malone.”
“Okay.”
Fisher pointed to a lit stairwell. “Nick’s down there.”
“Thanks.”
Karras went down a shaky set of wooden stairs. The musty odor of damp cardboard hit him as he stepped onto a concrete floor littered with warranty cards and cigarette butts.
“Hello!”
“Back here,” came a voice from deep in the stockroom.
Karras walked past rows of cartoned televisions and appliances, all up on pallets, toward the source of the voice. The basement ran the depth of the building and was lit dimly by widely spaced naked bulbs suspended on cords. Near the end of the center row, a teenage kid sat atop a Panasonic color TV carton, grease-stained restaurant wrap and a go-cup scattered around him, his legs dangling off the carton’s side.
“Hey, man,” said the kid.
“Hey.”
The kid jumped down off the carton, landed cleanly on his feet. He shook his shoulder-length hair with a toss of his head.
“What’s happenin’?”
“Nothin’ much. My name’s Dimitri Karras. Friend of your papou’s.”
“Nick Stefanos.”
Stefanos put out his hand, gave Karras a soul shake. Karras had a look at the kid: on the thin side, wearing Levi’s cigarette style, one turn up at the cuff—the same way Karras wore his—a pair of Sears work boots, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that replicated the cover of the band’s debut. The kid smiled; like his grandfather, he had a friendly, wide-open face.
“Am I interrupting your lunch?”
“Nah, I just finished.”
“Anything good?”
“I eat the same thing every day. Mighty Mo, Orange Freeze, and onion rings. Eat it the same way, sittin’ on that very box.”
“Creature of habit.”
“I guess.” Stefanos shuffled his feet. “Got a bonus, though, walkin’ over to the Hot Shoppes today to pick up my food. Saw Isaac Hayes coming out of MAL. I guess he was doin’ some kind of interview over there.”
“How’d he look?”
“He was stylin’, man! Isaac had those chains on his chest, with no shirt underneath, like he does on the albums.”
“That’s somethin’.”
“Yeah.”
Stefanos pulled a flat pack of Marlboros from his back pocket, shook out a bent smoke. He flipped open a book of matches, gave himself a light. Squinting through his exhale, he eyed Karras in a curious way.
Karras said, “I guess you’re wondering—”
“You say you know Papou?”
“Well, not really. My father worked at Nick’s grill in the forties.”
“I don’t remember him mentioning your dad to me.”
“My father’s been dead a long time.”
“Sorry, man.” Stefanos thumb-flicked ash off his smoke. “You look familiar, though. You go to Saint Sophia?”
“Not so much.”
“Me either,” said Stefanos. “Not so much anymore.”
Karras said, “You ever play pickup ball?”
“At Candy Cane City sometimes. Me and my friend Billy get into some decent games every so often.”
“Maybe that’s it. Maybe you’ve seen me there.”
“Could be it, yeah.”
“So, anyway… I was talkin’ to your grandfather. He asked me to stop by, introduce myself, say hello.”
Stefanos blew smoke down at his work boots. “He’s worried about me, right?”
“A little, I guess.”
“That’s what this is about. He’s finally figured out that I like to get high.”
“That’s partly it, yeah. I’m not gonna lie to you.”
“Well, what am I supposed to say? Papou and me, we got, like, fifty-some years between us. I love him, man, but how do I explain to a guy from his generation that everybody gets high? It’s not like I’m sittin’ around in somebody’s basement all day, listening to Dark Side of the Moon, or somethin’ like that. I work, I play ball, I chase after girls—gettin’ high is just something I do when I’m doin’ something else. I mean, you know, man! I can tell from lookin’ at you that you get high yourself.”
Yeah, and I deal it, too. And here I am, trying to give you advice.
“It’s not just the reefer thing,” said Karras.
“What, then?”
“He was talkin’ about… You’re goin’ on some trip, right?”
“Oh, that.”
“You leaving after the Fourth?”
Stefanos smiled with excitement. “The next morning. Billy’s picking me up at Papou’s apartment on Irving Street. We’re towing a ski boat down to Florida for this dude, and then we’re just gonna drive around. See what we can see.”
“Guess you’ll be getting ready for it all weekend.”
“Got a lot goin’ on this weekend. Going down to the Town tonight to see that new one, King Suckerman.”
“One about the pimp?”
“Yeah. And then Sunday night’s the party. I wouldn’t
miss the action down on the Mall for anything. In fact, we put off the trip till Monday just to stick around for the Fourth.”
“How long you plan on being gone?”
“I don’t know. That’s part of the adventure! Why, you think there’s something wrong with that, too?”
Karras tried to think of something responsible to say. The truth was, he didn’t believe there was anything wrong with the kid’s plan. He had gone out of town with no itinerary whatsoever more than a few times himself. A road trip, man, it could really do good things for your head. And Karras was tired of being a hypocrite. He had come out here, talked to the boy just as he had promised the old man. All right, he had done that. Now he just wanted to be finished with it and get away.
“No,” said Karras. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Nick. Have a good time, man. Enjoy yourself.”
Stefanos crushed his cigarette under his boot. “Thanks.”
Karras heard the sound of footsteps rapidly descending the wooden stairs. “Nick! Hey, Greek!”
It was the one named McGinnes, coming down the aisle in their direction, an electric charge in his goose-step walk. On the way, he retrieved a sixteen-ounce can of Colt from behind a carton, tore the ring off its top. He took a long pull from the can as he walked toward them.
“The bad dude’s brew,” said McGinnes, wiggling his eyebrows at Karras.
“Dimitri Karras,” said Karras.
“Johnny McGinnes,” said McGinnes. “What it is?”
They shook hands. McGinnes’s eyes were electric, glazed and pink. His Nutty Nathan’s tie was thick as a clown’s, knotted crookedly and match-burnt in several places.
“You need somethin’, Johnny?”
“Just sold a Spectracon receiver to some yom. Gonna buy it on ‘credik.’ I can get that one myself. But you might want to bring up a KV-1910 when you get a chance. I sold the Sony to this Indian over the phone: he’s gonna pick it up in a few.”
“Want me to write his name on the box?”
“Okay. Write Singh on it. Or Patel. No, put Singh and Patel on there. That ought to shake him up. And bring up one of those Generally Defective ten-inchers while you’re at it.”
“The Portocolors?”
“Yeah. Void’s up there right now, writing up another one of those pieces of plunder.” McGinnes smiled. “But first, how about you and me get our heads up?”
McGinnes put the Colt can up on a carton. He took a film canister and a small brass pipe from his pocket and shook some pot into the bowl. He handed the pipe to Stefanos, put fire to the herb with a disposable lighter. Nick Stefanos coughed out the hit.
“Wanna get high?” said McGinnes to Karras.
“No, thanks,” said Karras. “I’m good.”
McGinnes gave the pipe another light, hit it hard, kept the smoke down in his lungs. He tapped the ashes out on his palm, slipped the pipe and the film canister back in his pocket.
“C’mere, Greek,” said McGinnes, producing a Magic Marker from his jacket.
“What are you gonna do?”
“Just come here.”
Karras watched McGinnes carefully draw a red dot in the center of the kid’s forehead. For the Indian customer’s benefit, thought Karras. That ought to shake him up.
“I gotta jet,” said Karras.
“Good to meet you, man,” said Stefanos. “Maybe I’ll see you up at the courts sometime.”
“Yeah,” said Karras. “Maybe you will.”
“Hold still, Jim,” said McGinnes. “Gonna have us a red dot sale.”
Karras backed away, walked the length of the stockroom, listening to the fade of McGinnes’s giggle as he hit the stairs. The old man had been right: Young Nick worked with a bunch of wise guys. Well, at least the kid was having fun.
Out on the showroom floor, Karras could hear another Steely Dan cut coming from the Sound Explosion. He passed Phil Omajian, the smiling store manager, his eyes closed, his feet still up on his desk. McGinnes had apparently caught Omajian sleeping; a bright red dot had been drawn in the center of his forehead, too.
SEVENTEEN
Yo. Mitri!”
“Hey, Marcus!”
Dimitri Karras sat behind the wheel of the Karmann Ghia, looking for a place to park. Marcus Clay had spotted him while walking down the sidewalk of McKinley Street on the way to the library.
“Hurry up and get your shit on, man, we’re waitin’ on you. I just went and called you from a pay phone to find out where you were at.”
“I’ll be right there,” said Karras, hitting the gas and pushing the Ghia up to the top of the hill. He found a space, changed beside his car, and jogged down McKinley, cutting right at the rec center alley to the area behind the library.
The game was to be played on a fenced-in outdoor court. Since this was Chevy Chase, the asphalt was free of glass and debris, the hoops had been strung with chains, and the court was lit by powerful overhead lamps.
Karras passed a row of kids and more kids behind them, all jammed up against the fence. Someone had set up a portable eight-track player, and the Commodores’ “Gimme My Mule” was playing loudly, with the emphasis on treble over bass. A teenager wearing painter’s pants and a painter’s cap was doing the robot next to the box while a couple of his friends looked on.
For an early evening summer contest in the Urban Coalition league, the place was packed. Though loosely organized at best, league rules required that starters be registered. From there on in, though, anyone could get in the game as long as he cleared it with the team captain. Karras saw more players than usual, with an obvious number of ringers, as he entered the gate.
“Come on, Dimitri!” yelled Clay from across the court. “Get it on!”
Karras went over to Marcus, greeted a couple other players he knew who were standing next to the bench. He patted Clay on the arm. “Good to see you, man.”
Clay looked into Karras’s eyes. “What’s up with you, man?”
“I don’t know. Just had a weird day, I guess. I’ll tell you about it later.”
“You ready to play some ball?”
“Sure. But why so many people?”
“Adrian Dantley’s supposed to show tonight.”
“Damn.”
They heard some commotion from outside the fence. A Mark IV with peace-sign covers on the headlights came to a stop and double-parked right on the street. A very big man got out of the driver’s side and walked toward the gate, the kids outside the fence slapping each other five even as they moved out of the man’s way.
“Who’s that?” said Karras.
“Looks like Zelmo Beaty to me,” said the player next to Karras.
“Utah Stars?”
“Last time I checked.”
The game began. Karras caught the tip and took the ball to the top of the key. He bounced one in to Clay, who took the turnaround J from eight feet out. The chains danced as the ball went through the hoop.
The other team brought the ball up. They had a Greek kid by the name of Ted “T. J.” Tavlarides, a former baseball pitcher for Wilson who could get possessed and drop the pill from way outside. When he got into a zone his boys called him the Mad Stork. He was in one tonight; on the next two possessions, he swished two in a row from twenty-five.
“I don’t need no doctor,” said Tavlarides to his defender, as the second shot dropped.
“Cover his ass,” said the team captain to the player who had just been used.
Clay took a pick, slanted into the lane, came up against a wall of defenders, and dished a no-look over to Karras in the corner. Karras took the jumper, bricked it off the back of the rim. Clay skyed, got the rebound, whipped it out to Karras in the same spot. Karras felt the velvety backspin on the ball as it left his hands. He knew it was good, and it barely kissed the chains.
“Way to get up,” said Karras to Clay as they ran the length of the court to get back on D.
“I always get up,” said Clay.
“By Larry Brown,” said Karras. br />
The two of them smiled, touched hands.
Adrian Dantley rotated in for Tavlarides, and Zelmo Beaty came in for Marcus Clay. On the next ball out, Jo Jo Hunter, a Player of the Year from Mackin, checked in for Karras. By the second half, when the sky had darkened and the overhead lamps had been turned on, many of the town’s recent inductees to local basketball royalty had found their way into the game: Gerald Gaskins, Al Chesley, and James “Turkey” Tillman, all from Eastern’s ’74 championship team; Hawkeye Whitney, out of Dematha; and Tiny “Too Small” Jones, who could shoot the eyes out of the bucket most any time. Clay was in and out, and he performed respectably, but Karras never saw another minute of play. He was perfectly happy to ride the bench, watching up close the exquisite battle on the court, a night of ball in D.C. that Karras and many others would not soon forget.
When it was done, Karras and Clay walked out of the gate to the street, stopped at Clay’s Riviera.
Karras said, “That was bad.”
“No question.”
“We on for tonight?”
“Yeah. I got Rasheed closing up. Let me swing by my crib, have a shower. I’ll be over with Elaine in about an hour, okay? Give you time for you and your little… friend to get ready, too.”
“Cool.”
“And Dimitri. Don’t be talkin’ about the game all night, hear? It just plain bores the fuck out of my woman, man.”
“All right, Marcus. I won’t say a thing. You see that move Dantley made against Zelmo, though?”
“Mitri, man—”
“All right. See you in an hour, hear?”
Clay got into his Riviera, turned the key. Karras walked over to McKinley and found his ride. He slipped Coney Island Baby into the deck, listened to his favorite Lou while cruising through Rock Creek Park under a star-filled dome of night.
“Man,” said Wilton Cooper to Bobby Roy Clagget, “what the fuck is that?”
A canary yellow muscle car came to a stop in front of the Northeast row house, its Hemi bubbling beneath the hood. Ronald Thomas cut the engine, stepped out of the driver’s side. Russell Thomas climbed out of the passenger seat, left the door open in the street. Both brothers were smiling with pride.