The Sweet Forever

  A vein pulsed in Monroe’s temple beside his right eye.

  “Gonna fuck you up right quick, little man. You know that I’m not playin’. Now, look here: I want to know the license plate off that car.”

  “Was one of those Plymouths they got, look like all the rest. Gray…. Aw, shit, come on, you’re hurtin’ me, man.”

  “Wanna know what you saw!”

  “Short!” said Rogers, cupping a hand around Monroe’s bicep. “C’mon, man, lighten up on that shit!”

  “Fuck off me, Alan!” Monroe shook off Rogers’s hand. He bunched up Anthony’s jacket tight to his neck.

  Anthony whispered, “Appliance Installers Unlimited.”

  “Short!” yelled Rogers.

  Monroe ignored Rogers. “Say it again.”

  “Appliance Installers Unlimited,” said Anthony. “That’s what it was. What the sign said on the white boy’s car.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Had an address; don’t recall the numbers. Someplace out in Maryland. Beltsville, wherever that is.”

  Monroe let go of Anthony’s jacket, dropped him on the ground.

  “Short,” said Rogers.

  “What!”

  “Look over there, man.”

  Monroe turned his head. A big, wide-shouldered man was running across the street, straight toward them. Behind him ran a white dude with gray hair.

  “I know that nigga?” said Monroe.

  “Look like he knows you,” said Rogers. “Way he’s comin’, he don’t look like he’s gonna stop.”

  Anthony got to his feet. “Mr. Clay,” he said.

  Monroe said, “Who?”

  “Tried to tell you,” said Alan Rogers to Monroe. “You were too busy, though, beatin’ up on that little kid.”

  Marcus Clay had just finished moving the “Word Up” twelve-inch bin to the front of the store when he happened to look out the window. He saw Anthony Taylor a block down, crossing the street around 10th. Then he saw that drug boy, Short Man, standing on the corner there by the construction fence, waving Anthony ahead.

  Clay went and stood by the window.

  “Turn that music down, Cootch,” said Clay over his shoulder.

  Cootch cut back the volume on the house stereo. “That better?”

  “Yeah. Can’t see nothin’ with that music up so loud.”

  “What are you lookin’ at?”

  “You send Anthony out for somethin’?”

  “Gave him a couple of ducats for a soda from the market. Told him to buy one for himself, keep the change. There a problem with that?”

  “Not sure just yet.”

  Dimitri Karras came out of the back room. He crossed the floor and stood next to Marcus Clay.

  “What’s goin’ on, Marcus?”

  “Just lookin’ at—” Clay stopped speaking, noticing Karras. Karras’s jaw was knotted tight.

  “What?”

  “You eat today?” said Clay.

  “Had a piece of toast this morning. Why?”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “I feel fine.”

  “I bet you do. But you sure don’t look it. Ought to see just how pale you look. And those jeans of yours are about ready to drop right off your ass. Startin’ to look like that Mitch Snyder, been fastin’ for twenty-seven days.”

  “I just need to eat. Food and a good night’s sleep, that’s all I need.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Karras looked through the window. He squinted his eyes. “That our new employee?”

  “That’s Anthony, yeah.”

  “Who’s he talkin’ to?”

  “Goes by the name of Short Man. Deals coke for our neighborhood kingpin, someone named Tyrell Cleveland. That boy got burned up yesterday, he worked for Tyrell, too. Tell me, man, what was the name of Donna’s boyfriend again?”

  Marcus was getting to something now. It made Karras uncomfortable, that too quiet, too polite tone in Clay’s voice. It had been a while since he’d heard Marcus speak that way.

  “Eddie Golden,” said Karras.

  “Eddie Golden. Well, this Tyrell, the one I told you about? He’s the one Eddie stole all that jack from.”

  Clay watched Short Man get up in Anthony’s face. Clay made a small humming sound through closed lips.

  Karras cleared his throat. “But why’s Short Man talkin’ to the kid like that?”

  “ ’Cause the kid managed to get himself in the middle. Yesterday, when that boy in the Buick got his head tore off and Eddie Golden took that pillowcase? Anthony saw what went down.”

  “Damn.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  Karras saw Clay unfold his arms and ball his right fist.

  “Thought you weren’t going to get involved,” said Karras.

  Clay said, “I’m tryin’ my best.”

  Short Man threw Anthony up against the fence. Anthony went down, tried to scamper off. The Rogers kid came up on the two of them, blocked Anthony’s route. Short Man snatched Anthony by his jacket and stood him back up.

  “Aw, shit,” said Clay very softly. “You done went and did the wrong thing, now.”

  Clay stepped quickly toward the door. Karras followed.

  “Marcus, what you doin’, man?”

  “Find out when I get there.”

  “I’m comin’ with you.”

  “All that energy you got, you might as well.”

  They pushed through the door and hit the street.

  Cootch stepped out from behind the counter and walked to the window, watched Clay and Karras in full sprint.

  “Damn,” said Cootch. He never would have thought a couple of old-school mugs like Clay and Karras could move so fast.

  Short Man Monroe watched the big dude approach, the gray-haired white dude just behind. Big dude was coming on fast. One of those Vietnam-time, Richard Roundtree–lookin’ mothafuckers, way past his prime. Monroe figured he’d listen to what the man had to say, then talk him down. If Vietnam wanted to throw a punch, he’d cover up at first, let the old mothafucker punch himself out. Then he’d step to him, fuck this old, broken-down nigga up.

  The man kept coming, though. Didn’t look like he was gonna stop to talk.

  “What you want, nigga?” said Monroe.

  The man was stepping fast. He was close enough now.

  “You don’t see no nigger here, boy. The name’s Marcus Clay.”

  Monroe gave him a sucker smile and planted his back foot. He threw a right toward the man’s face.

  Clay stepped to his side, slipped the punch. He whipped out his hand, turned it for a nice, quick snap at the point of contact, drove his palm up into Short Man’s nose. The blow lifted Monroe off the ground.

  Monroe flew back, his eyes hot as fire. He watched his own blood splash up before his face, felt it run over his lip and into his mouth.

  “Respect!” yelled Karras to Alan Rogers, who had moved forward.

  Rogers stayed where he was. The white dude looked like some mad professor and shit, lit by a hundred tabs of speed.

  Anthony Taylor backed himself away along the fence.

  “How you like that, short stuff?” said Clay. “You like it when a bigger man than you roughs you up?”

  Monroe stood up, rolled his shoulders, smiled red. Pain tears streamed down his cheeks. He came forward in a crouch. He brought his hands up to protect his face, bobbed, saw blood hit the sidewalk.

  “Stay where you are, man,” said Clay. “You don’t want no more.”

  Monroe kept coming. He hooked a right toward Clay’s middle. Clay brought his elbows in, took the shot. Monroe led with a left jab, threw another right.

  The blow was weak and off. Clay swatted it to the side. He slapped Monroe hard with an open hand. He backhanded him, hammer-slapped him again square on his broken nose. Monroe yelped like a stick-beat dog and went down to the concrete.

  “Dag,” said Anthony Taylor.

  “Get out of here, boy. Go on back to the store now, hear?
Go.”

  The kid looked at the bloody heap curled on the sidewalk and walked away. A couple of old men had gathered down along 10th, and they were shouting words of encouragement to Marcus Clay.

  “You,” said Clay to Rogers. “Pick your boy up and get him to a doctor. Now on in, you stay out of sight of my shop. Don’t even want to see your kind around this neighborhood, you hear?”

  “Tell ’em, Clay!” yelled one of the old men.

  Rogers helped Monroe up off the ground. He began to walk him back toward the Z.

  “C’mon, Marcus.” Karras tugged at Clay’s shirt.

  “Another thing, Rogers. That your name, right, boy?”

  Rogers and Monroe kept walking.

  Clay raised his voice. “You keep away from that girl, Rogers. Keep away from Denice Tate!”

  “All right, Marcus,” said Karras. “You made your point, buddy. Let’s go back to work.”

  They headed across U.

  Monroe stopped, pulled his arm away from Rogers. He turned toward Clay. “Gonna fuck you up, nigga!” You hear?” He stared at the old men on the sidewalk, gestured wildly. “Gonna fuck all a y’all up!”

  The old men turned and walked back toward their homes.

  “Gotta get you to D.C. General,” said Rogers.

  “Gonna doom that mothafucker, Alan,” said Monroe.

  “All right, black,” said Rogers. “Need to fix you up, though, first.”

  Alan Rogers looked back at Clay and the white dude, crossing the street slow. Clay, he’d handled Monroe, crippled his ass and then slapped him down like he was breaking a child. Rogers thought, How’d I ever get with the people I’m with?

  Rogers wanted to see his girl. He wanted to run away.

  Karras and Clay reached Real Right’s front door.

  “Damn, Marcus, haven’t seen you move that fast since—”

  “Ten years back? Don’t say it, man.”

  “Where’d you learn that hand strike?”

  “Been training a little bit with my cop friend, George Dozier. Just brushin’ up, really, on what they taught me in the service.”

  “We’re gonna see those guys again; you know that, don’t you?”

  “I reckon.”

  Karras touched the handle of the door. “How’d it feel, Marcus?”

  “What?”

  “You know.”

  “Felt good, doin’ it. Gonna feel foolish about it later on tonight. Way it always is, Mitri.”

  “What was that shit about Denice? She hangin’ out with that Rogers kid?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Clarence know?”

  “Haven’t told him yet.”

  “You just told the whole neighborhood, though.”

  “I know it. Guess it’s time I let Clarence in on it, too.”

  Karras pulled on the door and held it open. Clay stepped inside.

  FIFTEEN

  “Mr. Clay,” said Anthony Taylor, “I’m sorry.”

  “Sorry about what?”

  “I did wrong.”

  “No,” said Clay, “you did no wrong.”

  “You did fine,” said Karras. “You okay?”

  “Back’s a little sore,” said Anthony.

  “You’re gonna feel it tomorrow, Anthony,” said Clay. “Young as you are, though, you’ll rebound quick.”

  Clarence Tate came into the back office. “What’s goin’ on, Marcus? Just got back from droppin’ Denice at home. Cootch said you had some trouble.”

  “He didn’t have much,” said Karras.

  Anthony said, “Mr. Clay kicked that boy’s ass.”

  “Anthony.”

  “Sorry.”

  “What happened?” said Tate.

  “Kid got roughed up by our local drug boys. Had to put one of them down.”

  “Mr. Clay said bap,” said Anthony, slapping a fist into his palm. “Broke that boy’s nose.”

  “There’s other ways to settle things,” said Clay, thinking how good it had felt when Short Man’s nose had given way. “You know, talk things out.”

  “That’s what you were doin’?” said Karras.

  “Shut up, Dimitri.”

  “What’d they rough the kid up for?” said Tate.

  “Information,” said Clay. “Anthony here saw someone pulling something out of that burning drug car yesterday.”

  “Mr. Clay said not to tell the po-lice.”

  “You knew about it, Marcus?” said Tate.

  “Yeah, I knew. Lots of things I been seein’ I should have told you about, Clarence. We get things squared away here, you and me are gonna have a talk.”

  “I tried not to tell that boy everything I saw,” said Anthony. He looked at the baggy-eyed white man with the gray hair. “Had to tell him there was a girl got out of the Plymouth. Told him she came back out the store with you. And I told him what I noticed of the car. I’m sorry, Mr. Karras, I didn’t mean to say nothin’ about you, only—”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Karras. “Like I said, you did good.”

  Cootch put his head inside the door. “Hey, Boss. Cops are here.”

  “Murphy?”

  “Yeah. And that white cop he rides with, too.”

  They all went out to the floor. Murphy came forward and met the group. Tutt stayed back by the door, glancing around the place like he was looking for something, rocking on his heels.

  “Heard you had some trouble, Marcus,” said Murphy.

  Karras said, “He didn’t have much.”

  “Couple of our neighborhood dealers,” said Clay, “they were out there roughin’ up Anthony. I kind of stepped in.”

  “Why were they messin’ with you, Anthony?”

  “Tried to ask me some questions about that Buick burnin’ up yesterday.”

  “But you didn’t know anything, right?”

  “Right. And if I did know, I wouldn’t have told.”

  “Anthony’s a stand-up kid,” said Karras, and Anthony gave him a smile.

  “You officers are a little late,” said Tate, “aren’t you?”

  “One of the residents on Tenth phoned it in while we were on another call,” said Murphy. “Everybody all right?”

  “Yeah, we’re all fine.”

  “Mr. Clay kicked that boy’s—he kicked that boy’s butt!”

  “What boy?” said Tutt from across the room.

  “Boy named Short Man,” said Anthony. “Mr. Clay broke his nose.”

  Clay watched Tutt’s eyes kind of cloud over.

  Murphy said, “That right?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” said Clay. “Put a hurtin’ on him, though, I’ll admit to that. You need to charge me with somethin’?”

  “Not unless this Short Man character files a complaint. And even then I kinda doubt it, considering the circumstances. That sound right to you, Officer Tutt?”

  “That’s right. Only, Mr.—”

  “Marcus Clay.”

  “Mr. Clay. Here on in, you leave the policin’ to me and Officer Murphy. That sound good to you?”

  Clay nodded at Tutt. Tutt smiled a little and nodded back.

  “Had enough excitement today, young man?” said Murphy to Anthony.

  “Yessir.”

  “How’d you like me to ride you home in my squad car?”

  “Yeah! That okay, Mr. Clay?”

  “Sure, Anthony, I think it would be all right. You put in a full day.”

  Anthony went to shake Clay’s hand, and Clay gathered him into a hug. Clay patted his back and let him go.

  “Thank you,” said Anthony.

  Clay said, “Go on, boy.”

  Anthony and Murphy walked toward the front door.

  Tutt said, “Nice shop you got.”

  “Thanks,” said Clay.

  “Hope you make it down here.”

  “We will.”

  Clay, Karras, Tate, and Cootch watched them get into the squad car out front.

  Karras said, “That Murphy seems okay.”


  “Yeah,” said Tate, “Murphy’s down.”

  “Can’t say nothin’ for his Boss Hogg–lookin’ partner, though,” said Cootch.

  “Clarence,” said Clay, “let’s go in the back and have that talk.”

  Anthony Taylor uncurled his fingers from around the criss-cross metal grate. They had put him behind the cage in the backseat. Officer Murphy had turned up the volume on the radio mounted underneath the dash so Anthony could hear. Anthony could see some kind of shotgun propped barrel up next to Tutt, the white cop with the mean eyes. Murphy was driving, sitting up straight. Anthony thought that Officer Murphy looked bad behind the wheel. Murphy stopped the car halfway down Fairmont.

  “All right, young man,” said Murphy. “This is it right here, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  Anthony had to wait for Murphy to come around, since there wasn’t any handle on the door to let himself out. Anthony figured that this was on purpose, like; it was usually criminals sat back where he was at now.

  Murphy opened the door, and Anthony stepped out onto the government strip of grass. A couple of kids from the neighborhood had come close to the car, along with two boys Anthony recognized from Clifton Terrace.

  “Don’t say nothin’, Officer Murphy,” Anthony said softly. “Okay?”

  Murphy put his hand on the boy’s arm, walked him up the sidewalk to his row house. Murphy almost chuckled, watching Anthony affect a swagger as he looked behind him and winked one time at his friends.

  Murphy rang the buzzer on the front door.

  A middle-aged woman, broad shouldered with large, artillery-shell breasts, opened the door. She registered Murphy’s uniform and quickly frowned down on Anthony.

  “What’d you go and do now, son?” she asked.

  “Ain’t do nothin’, Granmom.”

  “He’s in no trouble.” Murphy extended his hand. “Officer Murphy.”

  “Lula Taylor.”

  She wasn’t a bad-looking woman. Strong and tall, about ten years past pretty. A large mole lodged against the fold of her right nostril would give some men pause. It looked like a beetle had crawled up and died right on her face.

  “Why’d you bring him home, then?”

  “Earlier on, some boys tried to rough him up. Thought I’d escort him back.”