“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” said Murphy.
“Most merchants,” said Tate, “got their projections taped over their desk.”
“Clarence does half my worryin’ for me. Course, he’s got a girl he’s gonna be sendin’ off to college in a few years.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Murphy.
Clay said, “Clarence here is the father of that girl you saw walkin’ out the store when you came in.”
Murphy had recognized the girl as the one who had been with Rogers in the street the night before. He knew the girl had recognized him.
Murphy avoided Tate’s eyes. “Looked like a nice young lady.”
“Denice is her name,” said Tate proudly. “And, yeah, she’s doing very well.”
“Come on over here, Murphy,” said Clay, standing in front of the TV set, his eyes widening. “Goddamn, man, you gotta see this, you know they’re gonna show it again!”
Murphy watched the slo-mo replay, Scott Skiles charging down the court, leading a three-on-one fast break. The guard dribbled behind his back, then went across his body with an on-the-money pass to the forward, who laid it right in.
“Skiles,” said Clay.
“Looks like they’re on a run,” said Murphy.
“Got thirteen minutes left to play,” offered Tate, looking up from his paperwork.
Georgetown was down by five. One of the Hoyas signaled the ref for a time-out.
A worn-down-looking white man with prematurely gray hair entered the back room. Murphy looked him over. The guy seemed like he was up on something, dark circles contrasting his overly bright eyes.
“Gentlemen,” said the man.
“Hey,” said Clay. “Dimitri Karras, meet Kevin Murphy.”
“How you doin’?” said Murphy.
“Great,” said Karras, shaking Murphy’s hand a little too vigorously. “Really great.”
No question, thought Murphy, this Karras is up on something for sure.
Clay said, “Michigan State’s up by five, Dimitri. Looks like Skiles is gettin’ ready to light it up.”
“Thompson better slow down the pace,” said Karras.
“He just had Broadnax call time,” said Murphy.
“Any action out there?” said Clay, his eyes on the game, which had resumed.
Karras said, “Not much,” lining himself up next to Clay.
Murphy pulled a chair over and had a seat. He felt comfortable here. Out on the street, in the bars and the lunch counters around town, he always got some kind of reaction wearing his blues. None of these men had backed away or made a thing about his uniform. None of them had made him feel defensive about being a cop.
Skiles hit a bucket from just inside the perimeter, followed it on the next possession with a reverse layup driving to the hole.
“What is he, Dimitri,” said Clay, “six two?”
“Six one,” said Karras.
“Damn.”
The Spartans handled the Hoyas for the entire second half. Georgetown was eliminated from the tournament. Clay turned the sound down as Karras went into the bathroom.
“Now,” Clay said to Murphy, “you wanted to talk about something?”
“Right,” said Murphy, suddenly remembering why he had come into the shop. He pulled out his pad, the one on which he had written Anthony Taylor’s address, and a pen. “Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about that accident yesterday.”
“What about it? That was just an accident, right? I mean, if it was a homicide or somethin’ they’d be sendin’ a homicide detective around here, right?”
“It was an accident, far as we know. Procedure, though, you understand.” Murphy felt himself begin to fumble. “I need to follow up on a few things about it, that’s all.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, I need to know, was there something suspicious, anything you might have seen that was suspicious around the scene?”
Clay made a decision. Clay said, “No.”
“Nothing at all, right?”
“Not a thing.”
Murphy nodded and closed the cover of his pad. He didn’t want to pursue it. Suddenly, finding Tyrell’s money didn’t seem all that important.
“All right. Thanks. I’ll be around if you think of anything.”
“Glad to help.”
“And thanks for the hospitality, hear?”
“Ain’t no thing,” said Clay. “You come back anytime. Matter of fact, we’re gonna be watchin’ the Terps tomorrow. Why don’t you swing by, you don’t have plans.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” said Murphy. “Maybe I will.”
Clay shook Murphy’s hand.
THIRTEEN
“There go your girl,” said Short Man Monroe. “Young as she is, damn if she don’t got some back on her, too.”
“I see her,” said Alan Rogers.
They sat parked in the Z down on 10th. Denice Tate was walking out of a market on U. She had a bottle of strawberry soda in her hand, and she was headed back in the direction of Real Right.
“I’m gonna go talk to her, man.”
“Ain’t you done talked enough?”
“Go ahead, Short.”
“ ’Bout time you shut your mouth and busted a nut in that bitch.”
“I’ll get up with you later,” said Rogers as he got out of the car.
Monroe shifted the toothpick in his mouth, watched his boy kick up his heels as he jogged across the street. Damn if anybody’d ever see him run after some pussy way Rogers was doing right now.
Monroe sat low in the bucket. He leaned to the right, pushed the Nike shoebox filled with cash underneath the passenger seat. When he came back up he saw Rogers sweet-talkin’ the girl, and then he saw him kind of tug on her coat, pull her back behind a solid construction fence the subway people had set up along that stretch of U.
A blue-and-white cruised toward him down 10th, pulled alongside the Z. The uniform inside rolled the window down. Monroe rolled down his. He fingered the Glock tucked tightly between his legs just for fun. He moved his eyes lazily to the cop behind the wheel.
“What’s goin’ on, Short? You takin’ a break from your busy schedule?”
“Doin’ a day’s work, Tutt. Just like you.”
Alan Rogers got in close to Denice Tate, draped his extra-large jacket around her shoulders, blanketed them both. They stood behind the fence, hidden from the street.
“Missed you, girl.”
“I missed you, too.”
He kissed her, sliding his tongue into her mouth. She closed her eyes and kissed him back. He pushed his swelling groin into hers and listened to her moan.
“Want you bad, Neecie,” whispered Rogers.
“We’ll know when it’s time,” she said in a shaky voice.
“I know now.”
She wanted him. Kissing him, she felt a warm, wet kind of tickle build between her legs. She kissed him hard once more and broke away.
“Alan.”
He slowly pulled her back in against him.
“Tonight, baby. Can we hook up?”
“I don’t know. I’m scared.”
“What, you scared of me?”
“Course not. I’m talkin’ about your friends. Your life.”
He tilted up her chin. “I ain’t gonna let nothin’ happen to you. Don’t you know that?”
“I know, but—”
“And you don’t have to worry about my friends.”
“The man my father works for, he says y’all be dealin’ drugs.”
Rogers cocked his head thoughtfully. “Just tryin’ to make my mark, Neecie. Get some like everybody else. Make enough to break off quick, go on about my business, get a real job. Maybe earn my GED. Don’t worry, I know what I’m doin’.”
“What about the police?”
“Those ones from last night?” Rogers puffed out his chest. “Shoot, girl, they ain’t gonna do nothin’ to you.”
Denice rested her cheek on Rogers’s chest. “I like that
you’re strong.”
“You need a man like me out here. Don’t you know that?”
“Yes.”
Rogers stroked the top of her head. “So what about tonight?”
“I’ll try,” said Denice. “Listen, I got to be gettin’ back. My daddy’ll be all worried.”
Rogers said, “You go on.”
“Where’s your boy Rogers at?” said Tutt.
“Love-talkin’ his girl,” said Monroe.
“One from last night?”
“Yeah.”
“Like to cut me a little slice of that.”
“Little on the dark side for you, ain’t it?”
“I’m an equal opportunity employer when it comes to pussy. Don’t want to deprive anyone of my good lovin’.”
“Yeah, you a real fine stud.”
“You know I am, Short.”
“What about your partner?”
“Murphy?”
“Uh-huh. Where he at?”
“Talkin’ to that kid, always hanging outside of Medger’s.”
“One wear that Raiders jacket?”
“Yeah. Murphy’s got the idea the kid saw something go down when Junie was burning up.”
“That’s the case, you got the wrong brother talkin’ to the kid. ’Cause you know your boy Murphy is way too weak to make that kid sing.”
“You talk about my partner, Short, you show respect.”
Monroe said, “I’ll give it when it’s due.”
Tutt and Monroe locked eyes.
Tutt said, “Forget about that kid. And forget about Chief and his sidekick, too. You just worry about your runners and collect your junk money and keep pushing your poison on all these other worthless fucks in this neighborhood who ain’t never gonna amount to shit anyway. You just concentrate on that. I’ll do my job, keeping things together down here. This is my district. I rule this motherfucker, you understand?”
Monroe smiled. “Why they call you King, I guess.”
Tutt raised his hand and waved good-bye. He pulled down on the shifter and gave the cruiser gas. He drove toward 11th and T, where he and Murphy had agreed to meet. He chewed on his thumb and spit dead skin out the side of his mouth.
Monroe was right. Murphy was weak. Murphy had always been weak. And lately he was acting like he didn’t give a rat’s ass about the sweet arrangement they’d made with Tyrell. Since they’d been in bed with Cleveland, they’d both been taking home four grand a month, free and clear. Fifty G’s a year, that wasn’t pocket money, and now Tutt had the feeling that Murphy wanted out. Tutt couldn’t allow that. Tutt would have to have a sit-down with Murphy, go eye to eye, let him know how it had to be.
And Monroe. Fuck, that little nigger knew how to make his blood hot. Someday he’d wave good-bye to Monroe for real.
Tutt imagined that Monroe was bending Tyrell’s ear every chance he got now, building a case against Murphy and Tutt for sure. Tutt decided that to keep what he had, he’d have to do something quick. Remind them all who was still in charge.
Tutt felt the Power surge through his veins.
Why they call you King, I guess.
Tutt said, “Goddamn right.”
Murphy walked down 11th, got into the cruiser. The dispatcher’s voice coming from the squawk box described a domestic disturbance called in from the Highland View apartments at the top of the 13th Street hill. Tutt keyed the microphone, informed the dispatcher that they’d respond. He hung the mike in its cradle.
Tutt said, “Anything?”
“Nothing,” said Murphy.
“Kid didn’t know shit, right?”
“Not a thing.”
“We got to find out what happened to that money, partner. We come up with it, it’s gonna keep us in good graces with Tyrell. Got to keep provin’ our worth, you know what I’m saying?”
Murphy looked at the Twenty-third Psalm card taped to the dash. There was that one sentence toward the end that Murphy loved: “Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.” But Tutt had run a line through it, rewritten the sentence in a childlike scrawl: “My gun and my shield they comfort me.”
Murphy nodded in the direction of the radio. “Thought we were gonna take that call.”
“In a minute. Ain’t nothin’ but an argument between a couple of—”
“Niggers?”
“Aw, come on, Murph, don’t pull that shit on me. You know me better than that. I’m talkin’ about somethin’ important here.”
“So am I.”
Tutt put the car in gear. “We need to have a talk.”
“We’re on duty,” said Murphy. “How about we take that call?”
Rogers and Monroe sat in the idling Z. They had been there for fifteen minutes or so, Rogers keeping the radio up so he wouldn’t have to listen to Monroe talking shit about Denice. Monroe reached over and turned the volume down.
“Look what we got here,” said Monroe. “Officer Murphy claims that boy there knows somethin’ about Junie and the money.”
Rogers saw that the kid from outside the liquor store was walking down U.
“Let Murphy handle it.”
“Bitch couldn’t handle shit,” said Monroe, opening his door.
“Where you goin’, man?”
“What you think?”
“Short, you don’t want to be fuckin’ with no little kid.”
“Ain’t gonna fuck with him,” said Monroe, closing the door behind him. “Much.”
Moving quick toward the corner, Monroe shouted out some kind of greeting, gave the kid a little come-on-over wave of his hand. The kid hesitated for a moment and looked around, deciding what to do. He stepped off the curb and crossed the street toward Monroe.
They stood together on the corner and talked back and forth. The kid looked scared. He backed up a step. Rogers watched Monroe get real close to the kid’s face. He watched Monroe grab a handful of the kid’s jacket.
Alan Rogers slid Monroe’s Glock underneath the driver’s seat. He pulled the keys from the ignition and got out of the Z. Then he broke into a run.
“Short!” yelled Rogers. “Hold up!”
Monroe smiled and threw the kid up against the fence.
FOURTEEN
Anthony Taylor heard that drug boy Monroe, called himself Short Man, yell “Hey” from across the street. Taylor knew to keep walking, act like he thought Monroe was talking to someone else. But there wasn’t anyone else around, and that would be a mistake. It would also be a mistake to run, since Monroe would only catch up with him sometime later on. Probably at night, which would be way worse. Anthony thought about it, decided he’d see what this Monroe boy wanted. Maybe, if it was just a question he could answer, he could trade what he knew for something good. Anthony thought if he did have something he could trade, maybe he’d get paid.
Anthony crossed the street, looked behind him and down the block toward Real Right, wondering if Mr. Clay was out on the floor or anywhere near the front window. Anthony walked slow. But a car came east on U, rolling along kind of fast, and he had to quick-step to get out of its way. Then he was on the corner before he wanted to be, not quite ready in his mind, without a plan. He found himself standing before Monroe.
“Yo, wha’sup, little man?” said Monroe.
“Ain’t shit,” said Anthony.
Monroe wasn’t so tall, but he had show muscles, and eyes like the kind they put in stuffed birds. Anthony shivered in his coat.
“Heard tell you saw that accident yesterday, one where my boy Junie got himself burned up.”
Anthony shrugged. “That’s right.”
“What’d you see?”
“Piece of steel went through the car, took off that boy’s head.”
“After that.”
“Ain’t see nothin’, man.”
“That’s some boolshit.”
Anthony stepped back.
Monroe stepped forward. “Only gonna ask you one more time.”
Anthony felt his legs weaken and begin to shake. He cou
ldn’t make them stop. He tried not to let it show on his face.
Gotta be hard. Can’t let no one punk you out.
Anthony said, “What you gonna give me, man?”
Monroe looked around, kind of smiled, looked back at Anthony and said, “How about I give you your life?”
“W-what you mean, man?”
“W-w-what I mean? M-m-mean I’m gonna cut your m-m-mothafuckin’ head off, you don’t start tellin’ me what I want to hear.”
Anthony looked back toward the store. He felt his eyes tear up.
Monroe said, “Who you lookin’ for, huh? Go ahead and cry all you want. Ain’t nobody in this world gonna give a good fuck about you, little man. You just another nigga out here, and you are mine. This ain’t no bad dream you gonna wake up from, your momma strokin’ your head, sittin’ by your bed and shit. I’m real, hear? Your very own killer-clown.”
“Okay.” Anthony closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I saw some shit, okay?”
“Talk about it.”
“Saw this white dude, parked on the street. Walked right up to Junie’s car while it was burnin’, took out this pillowcase and shit, put it in his car. Saw him drive away.”
“White dude, huh? What he look like?”
“I don’t know… white. Skinny, kinda, I don’t know. Had a girl with him, but not when he left.”
“Where’d this girl go?”
“Came out later, with another white dude, works at the record store.”
“What about the car? What kind of car? You remember the color, boss?”
Anthony didn’t answer.
Monroe grabbed the kid’s jacket, turned at the sound of someone yelling his name. Anthony saw the Rogers boy running toward them. Anthony saw Monroe look at his friend and smile. Anthony felt Monroe lift him off the ground. Then Anthony was in the air, feeling the give of the fence as he bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He fought to bring in breath.
Anthony’s feet slipped in the gravel spread about the concrete. He tried to get up and run, but Monroe lifted him by his jacket and stood him up against the fence. And there was no place to run; Alan Rogers had arrived and blocked his way.