The bell chimed. Andy Murphy went through the living room and opened the front door.
“You’re early,” he said.
“Can’t make dinner today. Thought you and I could kneel down and say the psalm.”
“You don’t look well.”
“I was troubled,” said Kevin Murphy, smiling strangely. “But I’m better now.”
TWENTY-THREE
Tyrell Cleveland cradled the phone on the table beside his armchair.
“Who was that?” said Short Man Monroe.
“One of our runners,” said Tyrell. “Cops been shakin’ most of them down this morning, askin’ questions about Chief and his friend. Askin’ about me.”
“Those runners don’t know shit,” said Monroe. “And if they did know, they’d know better than to talk.”
“I ain’t worried about them. You hadn’t gone and done those younguns, they wouldn’t have nothin’ to talk about.”
“Little nigga had a gun, Ty.”
“Hmm. Hope you threw that gun of yours away.”
“Damn sure did. Pitched it in the Anacostia.”
“No witnesses and no weapon. We shouldn’t have no problem, then.” Tyrell looked at Alan Rogers. “And where were you when all this shootin’ was goin’ down?”
“Seein’ his girl,” said Monroe.
“Tyrell—”
“Got to get your priorities together, Alan. You do have yourself together, right?”
“You know I do.”
“That’s good. Real glad to hear that, Alan.”
Antony Ray, Rogers, and Monroe sat at the round table near Tyrell. Chink Bennet and Jumbo Linney were sitting on the couch, quietly playing a game of Atari.
“How’s our boy Eddie doin’, Antony?”
Ray snapped ash off a cigarette. “Sleepin’ again.”
“Look like he’s hurt bad,” said Rogers. “Could be goin’ into shock.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ray. “Gonna put him out of his misery soon enough.”
“Not yet,” said Tyrell. “Alan, you know anything about a white dude, works at that record store?”
“He knows,” said Monroe. “White boy with the gray hair stood his ass down.”
“Nothin’ I could do, Ty—”
“Here’s the thing. Antony got a little too rough with our boy Eddie last night. But before he passed out, Eddie said something about that white boy and the money.”
Rogers shrugged. “Maybe he took it from Eddie’s girl.”
Tyrell looked into the fire. “Seems like it all leads to that record store, y’all know what I’m sayin’?”
Monroe smiled. “I do.”
“Maybe we ought to pay that Marcus Clay a visit. Meet him and his people all in the same room. Talk about money and some other things, too. ’Bout how we gotta… co-exist there in that neighborhood. ’Cause, you know, way things are goin’ with him, shootin’ his mouth off ’bout how he don’t want to see our kind around no more, one of us is not gonna last down there. Think if I talk to him, maybe he’ll see the light.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Monroe.
“How about you, Alan? That okay? Or would that, how they say it in those soap operas, jeopardize your relationship with that girl?”
Ray and Monroe laughed. Rogers’s lip twitched as he forced himself to break a smile.
“We go now?” said Monroe.
“Nah,” said Tyrell. “Wanna catch that Maryland game first. I’ll call Clay after the game, set it up. Tutt and Murphy’s supposed to come by later, too. Need to talk to them, make sure we still got our understanding in place. Even bad cops get nervous when you start cappin’ mothafuckers on their beat.”
“I’ll say it again,” said Monroe. “We don’t need those two, Tyrell.”
“Relax, Short. I’ll throw a little more money at ’em. That’s all they really care about. All anybody cares about, you get down to it.” Tyrell stretched his long frame. “Anyway. With all these distractions and shit, I almost went and forgot about the business. Chink! Jumbo!”
Bennet and Linney made their way over to Tyrell. Linney carried Cheetos with him, his hand rustling the bag.
“Y’all busy?” said Tyrell.
“Nah, Ty, we ain’t busy,” said Bennet.
Tyrell eyed them with amusement. “You don’t mind, I need you two to go down and collect what you didn’t get last night while you were busy fuckin’ up those kids.”
“We ain’t have nothin’ to do with that,” said Linney.
“Hey, Short,” said Bennet, “let us take the Z, man. Think we ought to chill with the Supra down there, for a little while, anyway. Someone might have seen it last night.”
“You know your boy Jumbo can’t fit in that Z,” said Monroe. “Take the mothafuckin’ Supra.”
“Tyrell,” said Bennet, “we gotta go now?”
“Yes,” said Tyrell. “Now.”
Kevin Murphy said hello to Cootch and walked into the back room of Real Right. Marcus Clay, Dimitri Karras, and Clarence Tate sat in chairs semi-circling the store’s battered television. Anthony Taylor stood beside Clay, sipping from a can of Nehi grape.
“Officer Murphy!” said Anthony.
“Anthony,” said Murphy. “Wha’sup fellas?”
“You missed the first half,” said Clay.
“Had some things to do. Listened to it on the radio on the way down. Maryland’s down by six, right?”
“Yeah,” said Clay. “St. John’s lost to Auburn today, you believe that? Chuck Person had twenty-seven, made Walter Berry look like nobody’s All-American.”
“Big East is out of the tournament,” said Karras. “Didn’t even place one team in the Sweet Sixteen.”
“And that means Bias ain’t gonna have that hookup with Berry,” said Clay, “everyone’s been waitin’ for.”
“Don’t look like Maryland’s going to the next level anyway, Marcus,” said Tate.
“Gotta think positive, Clarence. Lenny’s gonna turn it on second half. You wait.”
“UNLV’s holding ’em pretty good, though,” said Karras. “Seems like they got two men on the ball handler every possession. Tarkanian’s coaching a good game. And Anthony Jones is hot.”
“Jones is a Washington boy,” said Tate for the third time that day. “Out of Dunbar.”
“Bias is the key,” said Clay. “He’s keepin’ ’em in the game. Pull a chair up, Kev.”
Murphy drew a chair beside Clay. Clay looked him over.
“You lookin’ a little rough, man.”
“Drank too much last night. Was at the crime scene down the street.”
“Need to talk to you about that, just you and me, when we get a chance.”
Murphy stared at the action on the set. “Okay.”
Len Bias drove the baseline, went up against three defenders, sank the pill.
“Number Thirty-four,” whispered Clay.
“Here we go,” said Karras.
“Check out Tark,” said Tate. “Gonna bite right through that rag, man.”
“Go on and bite through it, Kojak!” said Anthony, and Clay tapped him on the head.
The Terps scored the next fourteen without an answer from the Runnin’ Rebels, bringing it to 41–33, Maryland’s way. Maryland’s players were high-fiving at midcourt.
“What’s Lefty so mad about?” said Anthony.
“Coach thinks they’re celebratin’ too early,” said Clay.
Armon Gilliam, UNLV’s big forward, and Jones began taking it to the hole. The Runnin’ Rebels went on a 17–2 run: 50–43, UNLV.
Bias cut it to three. Derrick Lewis, the other half of Maryland’s inside game, fouled out.
“Is this a game?” said Karras.
Murphy slapped Karras five.
Clay said, “Got to get it to Lenny now. He can win the game for ’em if they keep dishin’ him the rock.”
“Goddamn—sorry, Anthony—look at Jones. He’s hittin’ at will from downtown!”
“D.C. boy.”
“Out of Dunbar, Clarence. We know.”
“It’s all Bias now.”
“Number Thirty-four.”
Len Bias had scored the last thirteen of Maryland’s points. The Runnin’ Rebels missed the front ends of three one-and-ones. The Terps brought it to within one with forty seconds to go. Jones hit four foul shots. John Johnson, a Terp reserve, stepped up to the free throw line. Tark called a time-out to let the freshman shooter think about it. Johnson bricked the shot.
“Aw, no!” said Karras.
Maryland guard Jeff Baxter drove the lane.
“Dish it to Bias!” said Murphy.
“Look out,” said Clay, “man’s got position in the paint!”
Baxter was called for the charge. The buzzer sounded. Maryland lost the game.
“Damn shame,” said Clay. “Bias had thirty-one points and twelve rebounds. And they still lost.”
“Got beat by the better team,” said Karras. “Outcoached, too.”
“Can’t wait to hear what Glenn Harris got to say about it tonight on HUR,” said Clay.
“Let’s Talk Sports,” said Tate. “The man knows his ball.”
The group scattered. Anthony Taylor asked Murphy for a ride up to his place, and Murphy told him to wait out front. Clay and Murphy remained in the back room.
“Kid’s afraid to walk home,” said Clay. “He heard those gunshots last night. Was chased by some boys in a car, too.”
“He say who chased him?”
“He’s afraid to say. Even too scared to tell me. But I figure it had to be Short Man Monroe. Take it to the next level, you gotta believe it was Tyrell Cleveland and Short Man were the ones involved in those murders.”
“How you make the leap to that?”
“Had breakfast with George Dozier this morning. You know him?”
“Homicide. Good man, got a good rep in the department. Went to Cardoza, about your age. Must have come up with you.”
“Right. George told me those kids were playing dealer on Tyrell’s turf. One of those kids called himself Chief. Short Man’s job is to keep that turf free and clear.”
“Keep going.”
“I was out the other night, came up on Alan Rogers and Short Man and Clarence’s daughter, Denice, out on the street. Your partner, Tutt, he was with ’em.”
Murphy shrugged, trying to hide the empty feeling in his gut. “Some kind of shakedown, I guess.”
“Plainclothes shakedown? Tutt’s a uniformed cop.”
“Tutt’s a little aggressive.”
“Denice,” said Clay, “she said Tutt and Short Man were arguing over a kid named Chief.”
Murphy’s heart jumped in his chest. He stared at the floor.
“Tutt’s dirty,” said Clay. “You must know it.”
“He’s my partner. And that’s a serious accusation.”
“Ain’t like you haven’t suspected it yourself. I told you just now, there wasn’t a whole lot of surprise on your face. Murphy? I’m talkin’ to you, man.”
Murphy felt himself break a sweat beneath his shirt.
“Okay,” said Murphy, “ain’t gonna deny that I’ve suspected it. What’re you gonna do?”
“What are you gonna do, Kevin?”
Murphy rose from his chair. “You tell George Dozier?”
“No. Was waitin’ to talk to you.”
Murphy buried his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Give me the rest of the day, Marcus, that’s all I ask. I need to confront Tutt my way. Need to settle things. By tonight I’ll have this whole thing worked out. Tomorrow I’ll go to George Dozier with what I know. That sound fair to you?”
Clay looked at Murphy. “Okay. A few hours isn’t gonna make any kind of difference. I’ll give you that.”
“Thanks,” said Murphy.
“Come on,” said Clay. “Sounds like you got a day ahead of you. And Anthony’s having Sunday dinner with his grandmother. He needs to be gettin’ home.”
They walked out to the showroom. Cootch had the new Prince, “Kiss,” cooking on the house stereo. Karras and Tate were behind the counter, working on some numbers.
“Anthony,” said Clay.
“Yeah, Mr. Clay.”
“You dust out those racks?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You took the records out first, right? Didn’t just dust around them, did you?”
“Cleaned ’em like you said to.”
“Here.” Clay gave Anthony a ten-dollar bill. “Good job.”
“Thanks!”
“Let’s go,” said Murphy.
“Call me later,” said Clay.
Murphy said, “I will.”
Clay watched Murphy and Anthony get into the black Trans Am parked out front. He turned toward Cootch and raised his voice over the music.
“Any customers, Cootch?”
Cootch shook his head. “Not a one.”
Murphy pulled to a stop in front of Anthony Taylor’s row house.
Anthony pointed to a gauge in the dash. “What’s that?”
“Tachometer. Call it a tach. Measures the RPMs. You know, like when you rev up the engine? Like that.”
“This a nice car, Officer Murphy. I’m gonna have me a nice car like this. To go with that fleet of buses I’m gonna have, too.”
“A fleet now, huh?” Murphy chuckled. “I believe it, boy. Just remember, though, flashy cars, nice clothes, they don’t mean a thing unless you earn the money to buy them. Earn it through hard work.”
“Like Mr. Clay did. Like you.”
Murphy looked away. “Anthony?”
“Yes?”
“Mr. Clay told me some boys chased you last night. Was the boy who chased you the same boy roughed you up yesterday on the street?”
“I… I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. And you need to tell me so it doesn’t happen again. Was it the one called Short Man?”
Anthony nodded slowly. “Yes. But… what happens if he comes after me now? What happens if you can’t fix things with him?”
“I’m gonna fix things, Anthony. You don’t have to worry about that. And you don’t need to be afraid anymore.”
“It ain’t just him. It’s everything down here. I wish it was summertime, so I could be with my moms and my sisters, down in the country.”
Murphy smiled at the boy. “You keep wishin’ on it, summer might come sooner than you think.”
“For real?”
“Just might.” Murphy reached across Anthony and opened his door. “Go on, son, you got dinner waitin’.”
“Thanks for the ride, Officer Murphy. Take care.”
Murphy said, “You, too.”
Murphy watched Anthony’s grandmother step aside and let him in the row house. Lula Taylor stayed in the doorway, staring at the black Trans Am idling on Fairmont. Murphy drove away.
Karras, Tate, and Clay were in Clay’s office when the phone rang. Clay picked it up.
“Real Right.”
“Marcus Clay?”
“Speaking.”
“Tyrell Cleveland.”
Clay adjusted the receiver against his ear. “Go ahead.”
“You and me, we need to have a talk.”
“What we got to talk about?”
“You got a white boy works there?”
“Man’s name is Dimitri Karras.”
“He does work for you.”
“So?”
“This Karras, he’s got twenty-five thousand of my money.”
“That right.”
“Boy by the name of Eddie Golden told me. He ain’t talkin’ so good right now, but we been able to put enough together to make your boy Karras for the second thief. Karras took off this girlfriend of Eddie’s, after Eddie took me off—”
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”
“Sure you do. Course, we can go back and twist Eddie’s arm a little more, see if he’s tellin’ the truth. Don’t think he’d care for it much. Wrist is sta
rtin’ to look like a football right about now.”
“You holdin’ him?”
“Got no choice. And don’t get a mind now to call the police on me, Marcus Clay. I’d have to finish Mr. Eddie Golden quick, you know what I’m sayin’?”
“What do you want?” said Clay.
“A meeting. In your store on U. This evening, after you close. Got a few things to discuss. Might as well do it face-to-face.”
“Who’s gonna be there?”
“Me, Alan Rogers, and Short Man Monroe. He’s been anxious to see you again, after you went and schooled him yesterday.”
Clay thought it over. “No guns.”
“What?”
“No guns.”
“What about y’all?”
“I said no guns. Give you my word.”
“Okay. Have my money ready, Mr. Marcus Clay. We’ll work a trade. My money for Eddie Golden’s life.”
“Don’t kill Golden.”
“Don’t force me to,” said Tyrell.
The line went dead. Clay racked the receiver.
“What was that all about?” said Karras.
“That was Tyrell Cleveland on the line.”
Tate dropped his pencil and looked up at Clay.
“What’d he want?”
“Has it in his head that you got his money, Dimitri. Eddie Golden gave him that notion. You were right: They got Eddie. Cleveland told me they’d kill him if I went to the cops.”
“Who’s Eddie Golden?” said Tate.
“Explain it to you later, Clarence.” Clay looked at Karras. “Cleveland wants to come in and talk to us tonight.”
“And you said what?”
“I said we would.”
“Who’s Tyrell coming with?” said Karras.
“Couple of his boys.”
“What boys?” said Tate.
“Short Man. Alan Rogers, too.”
“I’m in,” said Tate.