Near the corner, Karras looked across the street at the Nutty Nathan’s on the west side of Connecticut, the electronics store where that Nick Stefanos guy worked. Karras had been there to see him, must have been ten years back, when Stefanos was just a teenager.
A black kid with a bandanna wrapped around his head was standing on the sidewalk outside the store, watching the Hoyas game on the televisions lined up in the display window.
Karras went into the apartment house, sampled a taste of Billy Smith’s new batch of freeze, and copped a half.
Driving across town fifteen minutes later, he turned on HFS, heard the intro to “Back on the Chain Gang,” and cranked the volume way up. The sun had broken out from the clouds. His head was clear, and he was no longer tired, and the deejay was playing his favorite Pretenders jam.
Karras smiled. He’d felt like roadkill just a while ago. Now, suddenly, there was promise in the day.
TWELVE
Kevin Murphy saw the Taylor kid standing outside the liquor store at 12th and U, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his Raiders jacket. He told Tutt to take the cruiser down the block a ways, and then told him to pull it over to the curb.
“What’s up, Murph?”
“I’m gonna talk to that boy back on the corner there. Maybe he saw something with Junie and the money.”
“You want me to go with you?”
“Uh-uh. Might be better if I do this one-on-one.”
“Maybe I’ll find out how Rogers and Monroe are coming along.”
“If I don’t see you out here, I’ll catch you down 11th, near T.”
“Where I’ll be, partner,” said Tutt.
“Right.”
Murphy got out of the blue-and-white and walked down the block, one hand steadying his nightstick. A middle-aged MD 20/20 lover tipped his hat, said, “Hello, officer,” and Murphy raised his chin. He went by a group of old men sitting on folding chairs set out on the sidewalk. He passed a boy in denim, break dancing to the music coming from his boom box. He came up on the Taylor kid, who was looking in the direction of the record store across the street and jogging in place to keep warm. The clouds had amassed, and now a chill, pushed in on a hard March wind, cut the air.
“Hello, young man,” said Murphy.
“Hey, officer.”
“Murphy.”
“Hey, Officer Murphy.”
“Anthony Taylor, right?”
“That’s right.”
Taylor turned at the sound of a Metrobus headed down U. Murphy saw a small smile form on the kid’s face as the tracked the bus’s progress.
“That’s a nice bus,” said Anthony, admiration in his voice. “Clean, too.”
“Like it, huh?”
“Gonna drive me my own bus someday.”
“Okay.”
“I ain’t just dreamin’ it, neither. For real.”
“Don’t sound all that fantastic to me.”
“Mr. Clay says I can do anything if I set my mind to it.”
“Mr. Marcus Clay, works in that record store?”
“He don’t just work there. He owns the place.”
“Well, Mr. Clay is right.” Murphy stroked his black mustache. “Look here, Youngblood, you gonna stand on this corner all day?”
“What else I’m gonna do?”
“Now, I don’t know about you, but I’m kind of hungry. Was thinking I’d head over to Ben’s, get a little lunch. You think you might want to join me for a chili dog?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lunch is on me, if you want to come along.”
Anthony shrugged. “Sure.”
They crossed the street together, Anthony Taylor wondering, Why all the sudden is everyone tryin’ to fill me up with food?
The guys at Ben’s had the Georgetown game playing on the house set. Nearly halfway in, the Hoyas were handling Michigan State. Murphy knew the second half would tell the tale.
“You like Georgetown, Anthony?”
Anthony Taylor swallowed a mouthful of chili beans, bun, and dog. “Not so much since Patrick been gone. I been into Maryland now. Lenny Bias.”
“Yeah, I like him, too,” Murphy said. “Let me ask you something, Anthony.”
“Okay.”
“Yesterday, after that accident, you told me you saw what happened, and after, too.”
“That’s right.”
“What’d you mean by that?”
Anthony looked straight ahead. “Just, you know, the crash.”
“What else exactly?”
“I’m not… I’m not sure, exactly. Kind of confusing, lookin’ back on it, with all those fire engines and shit.”
“Anthony.”
“I mean, fire engines and stuff. Way that car was smokin’ and all that.”
“But you said—”
“Maybe you better talk to Mr. Clay. He saw some stuff. He’ll tell you what he saw. I’ll go over there with you if you want. I’m practically like, what do you call it, an employee of his now.”
Murphy signaled the counterman for the check. The kid was changing his story now, but that was all right. Murphy didn’t really feel comfortable getting him involved.
He watched Anthony scarf down the rest of his food. “Hungry?”
“Taste good.”
“You eat today?”
“Had some cereal this morning.”
“Your mother fix it for you?”
“My moms is down in Georgia, in the country, outside Atlanta. My sisters are down there, too. I live with my granmom, up on Fairmont. Someday I’m gonna go down there and visit my family. Maybe this summer. Maybe stay down there if they got the room, go to school. Gonna take me a Greyhound bus when I go. One of those double-decker models they got, with the windows tinted green.”
“What about your father, Anthony?”
Anthony shrugged. “Don’t know my father.”
Murphy looked at the boy, small in his oversized coat. “Where you live, exactly?”
“Why, you gonna take me home and turn me in?”
Murphy winked. “Just need the information for the official record, Anthony. Case I need to do a follow-up on the investigation.”
Anthony gave him his address, and Murphy made a show of writing it down.
Anthony said, “You’re nice.”
Murphy chuckled. “Thanks. You surprised?”
“I don’t know. You ride with that white cop and all.”
“Officer Tutt?”
“Whatever his name is.”
“Look here, you don’t think all white people are bad, do you?”
“I ain’t known all that many, tell you the truth. But I do know that one’s no good for sure.”
“Why you say that?”
“The way he looks. And I just, you know, heard some stuff he said. Like when that boy was burning up in that car yesterday, I heard him talkin’ to this other white cop. Heard him say somethin’ about ‘Those niggers sure do like their barbecues.’ Somethin’ like that, and then the two of them laughed.”
Murphy looked away from the boy.
Anthony said, “So I was just wonderin’ why a man like you would ride with a man like that.”
“It’s like a lot of things in life,” said Murphy. “It’s complicated.”
“Somethin’ like that, seems like it would be simple to me.”
Murphy didn’t respond. He knew the boy was right.
“Come on,” said Murphy, “let’s go see your Mr. Clay.”
Murphy left money on the counter, then got off his stool. He put his hand on the boy’s shoulder as he walked toward the door. His hand felt like it belonged there. His hand fit. Murphy felt a small shudder enter him then, like when the flu bug first comes, seeping in on the knowledge that he’d never have a boy of his own. Knowing, too, that he had no business being any kind of role model to a good boy like this one.
Marcus Clay felt pretty good about Georgetown’s first half. They had held their own so far against Michigan Stat
e, with Scott Skiles, the Spartans’ star guard, only going one for seven from the field. If the Hoyas could contain Skiles, Clay figured they had a chance.
“Got a whole ’nother half to play, though,” said Clarence Tate, who was doing some book work at the desk in the back office where Clay was watching the game.
“Yeah, I know,” said Clay. “Want me to turn this up?”
“I can hear it.”
“I’m gonna go out and hang on the floor for a little bit while they got this halftime bullshit goin’ on.”
“Cootch is out there. Ain’t all that much to handle.”
“Don’t remind me. Maybe I’ll go out on U, rope some people in.”
“Like we used to do, talkin’ to the girls walking up the avenue: ‘Come on in and get ’em today, ladies, everything is everything at Real Right, we got the sounds gonna help you get down.’ ”
Marcus chuckled. “Yeah, shit was more simple back in the seventies, wasn’t it? And much more fun.”
“Don’t be layin’ that nostalgia trip on me, Marcus. A business either grows or it dies. Remember when you were a kid, how your legs used to ache at night when you were lyin’ in bed?”
“Oh, so now you’re gonna give me that growing pains lesson again.”
“I used that one before, huh?”
“Two or three times since we opened this store.”
“Damn. By the way, where’s the professor?”
“Karras? He’ll be in.”
Clay went out to the floor. Cootch was behind the counter, ringing up an Atlantic Starr cassette for a customer. Denice Tate stood by the front door, staring through the window out to U.
“Thank you, brother,” Clay said to the customer, trying not to wince at the boy’s vines. Jheri-curled fool was wearing a red-and-black leather jacket straight out of a Michael Jackson video, one where Michael danced with all those dead mugs coming out of the grave.
“Thank you,” said the young man, slipping one fingerless glove on his hand as he headed out the door.
“There’s one for you, Neecie,” said Cootch. “Was asking after you when he bought his tape. Called you Billie Jean. That your name?”
Denice said, “Be for real.”
Cootch put a recent George Clinton, Some of My Best Jokes Are Friends, on the turntable. Clay felt the urge to dance a little as he walked over to Denice. He never would have imagined a flute solo on a P-Funk jam. But it worked. Long as he had been around, Clinton was still bad.
Clay said, “Hey, girl,” trying to open things up in an upbeat way.
“Marcus.”
“Good time last night?”
“It was okay. I just went over to my friend Ashley’s, watched some videos.”
Clay glanced behind him to make sure that Clarence had not come out to the floor. Clay stared into Denice’s eyes and said, “Look here. I saw you with a couple of boys last night, out on the street.”
Denice looked down at the black and white tiles, breathed out slow. Clay let her take her time. He had decided to talk to the girl alone first, see what she had to say.
Denice said, “You gonna tell my father?”
“I haven’t yet,” said Clay. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna lie to him, either. What I want to talk about here is you.”
Denice nodded. “All right.”
“That boy you’re runnin’ with, what’s his name?”
“Alan Rogers.”
“This Alan Rogers, he’s into dealing drugs. You know that, don’t you?”
“You don’t even know this boy. Alan’s good.”
“That might be true. I’m old enough to see the world in all kinds of shades. But, good or bad, what he is for sure is trouble. Your father’s put in a lot of good years with me, honey, and I love you like my own. Been knowin’ you since you weren’t nothin’ much more than a baby girl. Just don’t want to see no harm come to you, that’s all.”
“I know. And I appreciate it, Marcus. But see, I wasn’t in any kind of danger last night. Alan wouldn’t let that happen. I saw him at the Chuck Brown show, and he was just ridin’ me home.”
“With that boy he runs with, tough-lookin’ boy. You can’t stand there now and tell me he’s good.”
“No, but—”
“What, that white cop who was talkin’ to you all, he stop you on some kind of suspicion?”
“You saw that?”
“Drove right by y’all.”
Denice looked down. “The white cop, they call him Tutt. That man is mean.”
“How so?”
“Got mean eyes, Marcus. He and Short Man—”
“Rogers’s partner?”
“Uh-huh. Tutt and Short Man were arguing over some kid named Chief. Alan didn’t even act like he knew what they were talkin’ about. Didn’t act like he cared. You know what I’m sayin’, Marcus? It was something between those two.”
“Okay.” Denice was clouding the issue, confusing him, avoiding what she had to know was good advice. “Look, Neecie, all I want you to do is think about what you’re getting into. Just think.”
“I will, Marcus. I promise. And thanks for keeping this between us. Thanks, okay?”
“You hearin’ me?”
Denice gave him a quick series of nods. “I’m gonna think real hard on it, Marcus.”
“Go on, girl. Don’t play me, hear?”
“Marcus, I’m not.”
Denice looked out the door, saw Tutt’s partner, the one named Murphy, in uniform and crossing the street with some kid, headed toward the store. Marcus hadn’t asked about the cop named Murphy, and Denice hadn’t thought to bring him up. This Murphy, he had been pretty nice last night; in his own quiet way he had calmed things down. But she didn’t want to be around the store if he was coming by.
“I’m gonna go for a walk, Marcus.”
Clay was looking at the cop and the kid now, too. “Sure, Denice. You go on.”
Denice pushed through the door, caught the cop’s eye as she went west on U. His eyes met hers, but he didn’t say a word. Denice thought it strange.
Clay watched the cop approach. This was the cop who was partnered up with that white patrolman Denice had been talking about, the one named Tutt. Now this uniformed brother was approaching with Anthony Taylor practically under his arm. Clay wondered if Anthony had said anything about the drug car, about that Donna girl’s boyfriend, or about the money.
Clay figured he was going to find out real quick. He opened the door to let them in.
Kevin Murphy took note of Marcus Clay’s height and build as he stepped into the record store with the boy. Clay had kept himself in shape, even with the fifteen, twenty pounds of added weight that a man couldn’t help but pick up as he went down life’s road. Murphy remembered seeing Clay in this one Interhigh game, when Clay was full grown and Murphy was not quite in his teens. Those five years between them had seemed so much wider then.
“Hey, Mr. Clay.”
“Anthony.”
Murphy extended his hand. “Kevin Murphy.”
“Marcus Clay.”
“I know your name.”
“You do?”
“I went to Cardoza, same as you.”
“Not with me, you didn’t. You’re too young. I graduated in sixty-seven.”
“I came out in seventy-two. But I saw you play. Y’all were up against Spingarn, I think. You had a nice touch from the outside.”
“Thanks. You still live in the District?”
Murphy nodded. “Takoma.”
“How about that partner you ride with?”
“Tutt?” Murphy smiled. “Not for his likin’. Tutt lives in Silver Spring Towers, little ways over the line.”
Clay nodded at Anthony. “He in some kind of trouble?”
“No trouble. We were talkin’ about that accident out front of your shop yesterday. Anthony here said I should talk to you.”
Clay said, “You ready to do some work today, Anthony?”
“Sure.”
??
?Grab yourself a dust rag and some spray and go over those racks. Cootch will show you where everything is.” Clay said to Murphy, “Come on, we can talk in my office.”
They walked together toward the back room.
“Nice shop,” said Murphy.
“We’re tryin’,” said Clay.
“You been at this since you got out of school?”
“Made a little involuntary detour overseas first.”
“Vietnam?”
“Uh-huh.” Clay eye-swept Murphy. “You play for Cardoza, too?”
“Didn’t make the cut. Couldn’t go to my left is what it was.” Murphy touched his mustache. “Still like to play a little bit. And you know I like to watch.”
“Good. ’Cause I got the Hoyas on the box right now.”
“Was watchin’ it myself over at Ben’s. Took the Taylor kid there for lunch.”
Clay glanced at Murphy. “Between the two of us, we’re gonna fatten that boy up.”
“Good kid,” said Murphy.
“Yeah. Figure I can keep him off that corner out there, give him a little busywork around the store.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Boy wants to be a bus driver when he grows up. He tell you that?”
Murphy said, “He did mention something.”
In the back room, Clay introduced Murphy to Clarence Tate, who was seated at the desk, working under a lamp and making notations into a long green book.
Tate lifted himself out of his chair as they shook hands. He had the same raw-material kind of size as Clay, but Murphy saw that Tate’s bulk had edged toward fat. Tate’s brow was set serious, too, with that pinched, strained look common to numbers men.
Murphy noticed a photograph of Len Bias taped over the desk where Tate sat. It was that one of Lenny that the Post had run, where Bias was smiling into the camera, wearing his Terps jersey, palming two basketballs with ease.
“That’s my desk,” said Clay, who had seen Murphy checking out the shot. “I guess you think it’s funny, thirty-seven-year-old man having a picture of a college kid over his desk. I just, you know, haven’t seen anything quite like that kid in a long time. Boy’s got a lot of promise.”