She went back to the window and looked down at the yard. Earl and Ray were three—point turning, heading down the gravel and into the trees.
She checked the level of her drink. It was going down real good today. Nothing like a little Jack and some nicotine behind a hit of speed. Course, Ray wouldn’t like it if he came home and found her drunk, but she didn’t have to worry about that yet.
She had a sip from the glass and then, what the hell, drank it all down in one gulp. Maybe she’d go down to the barn and fix one more weak one, mostly Coke with just a little mash in it to change its color. Ray wouldn’t be home for another few hours anyway, and besides, he’d be all stoked and occupied for the rest of the night. Ray liked to count the cash money he brought back after he made his runs.
RAY and Earl’s property was set back off Route 28, between Dick—erson and Comus, not too far south of Frederick, at the east—central edge of Montgomery County. There was still forest and open country out here, but not for long. Over the years the Boones had seen the development stretch farther and farther north from D.C., white—flighters, mostly, who claimed they wanted “more land” and “more house for the buck.” What they really wanted, Ray knew, was to get away from the niggers and the crime. None of them could stand the prospect of seeing their daughters walking down the street holding the hand of Willie Horton. That was the white man’s biggest nightmare, and they ran from it like a herd of frightened animals, all the way out here. Ray could understand it, but still, he wished those builders would go and put their new houses someplace else.
Ray moved the car to the on—ramp of 270 and drove south.
“Here,” said Ray, handing his pistol butt—out to his father. Earl took the gun, opened the glove box, hit a button, and waited for a false back to drop. He placed the Beretta in the space behind the glove box wall.
Ray had bought this particular vehicle from a trap—car shop up in the Bronx. It was your basic Taurus, outfitted with more horses than was legal, more juice than Ford used to put in its high—horse street model, the SHO. The bumper was a false bumper, which meant it could withstand a medium—velocity impact and could also accommodate relatively large volumes of heroin between its outer shell and the trunk of the car. Hidden compartments behind the glove box, to the left of the steering column, and in other spots throughout the interior concealed Ray’s guns and his personal stash of drugs.
Ray lit a cigarette off the dash lighter, passed the lighter to his daddy so he could light his.
“You’d know we was the bad guys,” said Ray, “if this here was a movie.”
“Why’s that?”
“’Cause you and me smoke.”
“Huh,” said Earl.
“Down county, I hear they want to outlaw smoking in bars.”
“That so.”
“They can have mine,” said Ray, beaming at his cleverness, “when they pry ’em from my cold, dead fingers. Right?”
Earl didn’t answer. He didn’t talk much to begin with, and he talked even less with his son. Ray had been absent the day God passed out brains, and when he did say something, it tended to be about how tough he was or how smart he was. Earl had twenty years on Ray, and Earl could take Ray on his weakest day. Ray knew it, too. Earl figured this was just another thing that had kept the chip on his boy’s shoulder his entire life.
Earl popped the top on a can of Busch.
Ray dragged on his cigarette. It bothered him that his father barely gave him the time of day. It was him, Ray, who had set up this business they had going on right here. It was him, Ray, who had made all the right decisions. If he had left business matters up to his father, who had never even been able to hold a longtime job on his own, they’d have nothing now, nothing at all.
Course, it took a stretch in Hagerstown, where Ray had done a ten—year jolt on a manslaughter beef, for him to find the opportunity to connect to this gig he had here. Ray had been paid to kill some K—head who’d ripped off the stash of a dealer out in Frederick County. Ray had killed a couple of guys for money since high school, and he’d gotten a rep among certain types as the go—to man in that part of the state. He’d never intended to become a hired murderer — not that he ever lost any sleep over it or anything like that — but these were people who deserved to die, after all. After his first kill, who begged and didn’t go quick, it had been easy.
This particular job, Ray’s idea had been to do it in the bathroom of a bar where the K—head hung out, then climb out the window and make his escape. After he gutted the thief with a Ka—Bar knife, though, the bar’s bouncer came in to take a leak and disarmed Ray, holding him until the pigs could get to the scene. Ray should’ve killed the bouncer, too, he had replayed it in his head many times, but the bouncer was one of those cro—mags, he broke Ray’s wrist real quick, and then there wasn’t all that much Ray could do.
What he did do, he claimed the dust bunny had attacked him, and lucky for Ray, a piece—of—shit .22 was found in the jacket pocket of the corpse. So the hard rap couldn’t stick, and Ray drew manslaughter and Hagerstown.
Prison life was okay if you could avoid getting punked. The way to avoid it some was strong attitude, but mostly alliances and gangs. The whites hooked up with Christian Identity and the like. The blacks hung together and so did the Spanish, but the whites and Spanish hated the blacks more than they hated each other, so once in a while Ray made talk with a brown or two.
One of them was Roberto Mantilla. Roberto had a cousin in the Orlando area, Nestor Rodriguez, who worked for the Vargas cartel operating out of the Cauca Valley in northern Colombia. Nestor and his brother Lizardo made the East Coast run, selling powder to dealers in D.C., Baltimore, Wilmington, Philly, and New York. Purer heroin at a lower cost had expanded their market, crushed their foreign competition, and fueled the growth of their business. Roberto said that his cousins could no longer handle the logistics of the transactions themselves and would be willing to sell to a middleman who could make the back—and—forth into D.C. and satisfy the demands of the dealers more readily than they. For this, said Roberto, the middleman would receive a ten—thousand—dollar bounce per transaction.
Ray said, “All right, soon as I get out, I’d like to give that a try.” A year later, after a parole board hearing at which he convinced the attendees that the good behavior he had exhibited during his term was not an aberration, he was out of Hagerstown. And two years after that, when he had completed his outside time and said good—bye to his PO, he was free to go to work.
Ray supposed he had Roberto Mantilla to thank for his success. But this was impossible, as Roberto had been raped and bludgeoned to death by a cock—diesel with a lead pipe shortly after Ray’s release.
“This load we got, it’s eighty—five—percent pure, Daddy,” said Ray, thinking of the heroin sealed in the bumper compartment at the rear of the car.
“Lizardo tell you that?” asked Earl, needling his son, knowing Ray hated the Rodriguez brother who never showed Ray an ounce of respect.
“Nestor told me. Down in Florida, they got brown heroin, it’s ninety—five—percent pure when it hits the street.”
“So? What’s that do?”
“For the Colombians, it kills the competition. I’m talkin’ about the Asians, who were putting out seven—, ten—percent product, and the Mexicans, too. The Colombians upped the purity and lowered the price, and now they’re gonna own most of the U.S. market. And what this pure shit does, it creates a whole new class of customers: college kids, the boy next door, like that. It’s not just for coloreds anymore, Daddy. ’Cause you don’t have to pop it, see, to get a rush. You can smoke it or snort it, you want to.”
“That’s nice.”
“You’re not interested in what we’re doin’?”
“Not really, no. Get in, sell it, get out; that’s all I’m interested in. Wasn’t for the money, I’d just as soon never set eyes on that city again. Let them all kill themselves over this shit for all I care.”
&
nbsp; “You wouldn’t want that,” said Ray, smiling at his father across the bench. “Wouldn’t have no customers, they all up and died.”
“Critter?”
“What.”
“Someday, you and me, we’re gonna wake up and figure out we got enough money. You ever think about that?”
“I’m startin’ to,” said Ray, goosing the Ford into the passing lane.
Truth be told, Ray had been thinkin’ on it for quite some time. Only piece missing was a way to get out. That’s all he and his daddy needed: some kind of plan.
Chapter 6
By the time Earl had killed another beer, Ray had gotten off the Beltway and was on New Hampshire Avenue, heading south into D.C. Later, on North Capitol, down near Florida Avenue, he made a call on his cell phone and told Cherokee Coleman’s boys that he and his father were on their way in.
He turned left onto Florida when things were really starting to look rough, and went along a kind of complex of old warehouses and truck bays that had once been an industrial hub of sorts in a largely nonindustrial town but were now mainly abandoned. The entire area had been going steadily downhill since the riots of ’68.
Ray passed by Cherokee Coleman’s place of business, one of several small brick row houses in the complex, indistinguishable from the rest. Coleman’s place was across the street from what folks in the area called the Junkyard, a crumbling warehouse where crack fiends, blow addicts, and heroin users had been squatting for the past year or so. They had come to be near Coleman’s supply.
Ray drove slowly down the block. Coleman’s army — steerers, pitchers, money handlers, lookouts, and managers — was spread out on the sidewalk and on several corners of the street. An M3 BMW, an Acura Legend, a spoilered Lexus, and a two—seater Mercedes with chromed—out wheel wells, along with several SUVs, were curbed along the block.
A cop car approached from the other direction. Ray did not look at its uniformed driver but rather at the large numbers printed on the side of the cruiser, a Crown Vic, as it passed.
“Ray,” said Earl.
“It’s all right,” said Ray, matching the numbers on the car to the numbers he had memorized.
In the rearview, Ray saw the MPD cruiser make a right at the next corner, circling the block. Ray punched the gas and made it quickly to a bay door at a garage on the end of the block. He honked his horn, two shorts and a long. The bay door rose and Ray drove through, into a garage where several young men and a couple of very young men waited.
The door closed behind them. Ray got his gun out of the glove box trap and pushed his hips forward so that he could holster the .9 beneath the waistband of his jeans. He knew his father had slipped his .38 into his jacket pocket, back in the barn. He didn’t care if the young men in the garage saw the guns. He wanted them to see. Ray and Earl got out of the car.
There was no greeting from Coleman’s men, no nod of recognition. Ray knew from his prison days not to smile, or show any other gesture of humanity, because it would be seen as a weakness, an opening, a place to stick the knife. As for Earl, he saw hard black faces, one no different from the other. That was all he needed to know.
“Money, clothes, cars,” rapped a dead, even voice from a small stereo set up on a shelf. “Clockin’ Gs, gettin’ skeezed …”
“It’s behind the bumper,” said Ray to the oldest of the bunch, whom he’d seen on the last run.
“Then get it, chief,” said the young man, the manager, with a slow tilt of his head.
“You get it,” said Ray.
Now you’re gonna look at each other for a while, thought Earl, like you can’t decide whether to mix it up or fall in love.
That’s what they did. Ray stared them down and they stared him down, and a couple of the older ones laughed, and Ray laughed some, and then there were more hard stares.
And then the manager said, “Get it,” to one of the younger ones, who nodded to the guy next to him. Those two dismantled the bumper and got the heroin packs out of the space.
Coleman’s employees scaled the heroin out quickly on an electronic unit that sat on a bench along a wall while Ray and Earl smoked cigarettes. They did not taste it or test it, not because they trusted these two but because Coleman had instructed them to leave it alone. Coleman knew that Ray and Earl would never try and take him off. What they had with him, it was just too tight.
“The weight’s good,” said the manager.
“I know it’s good. Call Cherokee and tell him I’m coming in. We’ll be back for our car.”
The group began chuckling as the Boones walked from the garage, after one young man started singing banjo notes. Ray didn’t care; all of them would be croaked or in the joint soon anyway. It felt good walking out of there, not even looking over his shoulder, like he didn’t give a good fuck if they laughed themselves silly or took another breath. He felt strong and he felt tall. He was glad he’d worn his boots.
RAY and Earl stepped quickly down the block. The cold wind blew newspaper pages across the street. Ray met eyes with a young man talking on a cell, knowing that the young man was speaking to one of Cherokee Coleman’s lieutenants. They kept walking toward Coleman’s place, and when they neared it a door opened and they stepped inside.
They were in an outer office then, and four young men were waiting for them there. One of them frisked Ray and Earl and took the guns that he found. Ray allowed it because there was no danger here; if something was to have gone down it would have gone down back in the garage. Coleman didn’t keep drugs, handle large amounts of money, or have people killed anywhere near his office. He had come up like everyone else, but he was smart and he was past that now.
The one who had frisked them nodded, and they went into Coleman’s office.
Cherokee Coleman was seated in a leather recliner behind a desk. The desk held a blotter, a gold pen—and—pencil set, and one of those lamps with a green shade, the kind they used to have in banks. A cell phone sat neatly next to the lamp. Ray figured this kind of setup made Coleman feel smart, like a grown—up businessman, like he worked in a bank or something, too. Ray and his father often joked that the pen—and—pencil set had never been used.
Coleman wore a three—button black suit with a charcoal turtle—neck beneath the jacket. His skin was smooth and reddish brown against the black of the suit, and his features were small and angular. He wasn’t a big man, but the backs of his thick—wristed hands were heavily veined, indicating to Earl that Coleman had strength.
Behind Coleman, leaning against the frame of a small barred window, was a tall, fat, bald man wearing shades with gold stems. He was Coleman’s top lieutenant, Angelo Lincoln, a man everyone down here called Big—Ass Angelo.
“Fellas,” said Coleman, lazily moving one of his manicured hands to indicate they take a seat before his desk.
Ray and Earl sat in chairs set lower than Coleman’s.
“How’s it goin’, Ray? Earl?”
“How do,” said Earl.
“How do what?”
Angelo’s shoulders jiggled, and a sh—sh—sh sound came from his mouth.
“Looks like everything checked out all right,” said Coleman.
“No doubt,” said Ray. “The weight’s there, and this load is honest—to—God high—test. Eight—five per.”
“I heard.”
Coleman didn’t feel the need to tell Ray this purity—percentage stuff was straight—up bullshit. If the shit was eighty—five, ninety percent pure for real, you’d have junkies fallin’ out dead all over the city, ’cause shit that pure was do—it—on—the—head—of—a—match—stick stuff only. Got so even the dealers were startin’ to believe the press releases comin’ out of the DEA.
“You hear it from the Rodriguez brothers?”
“Yeah. They called me to discuss some other business.”
“This business involve my father and me?”
“It could.” Coleman turned to his lieutenant. “Looks like we got a killer batch on our hand
s, Angelo. What we gonna call it?”
Coleman liked to label the little wax packets of heroin he sold with brand names. Said it was free advertising, letting his “clients” know that they were getting Cherokee’s best, that there was something new and potent out on the street. He liked to think of the brand names as his signature, like the special dishes cooks came up with in those fancy restaurants.
Ray watched Angelo, staring down at the floor, his mouth open as he thought up names, a frown on his blubbery face. Angelo looked up, nodding his head, proud of what he’d come up with.
“Kill and Kill Again,” said Angelo with a wide grin.
“I don’t like that. Sounds like one of those Chuck Norris movies, Angie, and you know what I think of him.”
“Death Wish Too?” said Angelo.
“Naw, black, we used that before.”
“How about Scalphunter, then?” Angelo knew that his boss liked those kinds of names. Coleman thought himself kin to the Indian nation.
Coleman pursed his lips. “Scalphunter sound good.”
Earl shifted in his chair. The room was warm and smelled of oils or perfume, some shit like that. Colored guys with their paper evergreen trees hanging from the rearview mirrors and their scented crowns and their fancy fucking smells.
“About the Rodriguez brothers,” said Ray.
“Nestor,” said Coleman, “now he’s gone and added cocaine to that sales bag of his. Had to explain to him, I’m getting out of that business. Blow fiends and pipeheads, their money’s green, too, don’t get me wrong. But all the cash is in brown powder right now, and that’s where I see the money of the future, too. And the cocaine I do buy, I buy from the Crips out of L.A. Thing I’m tryin’ to say is, I don’t want to be beholdin’ to just one supplier. Gives ’em too much power with regards to the price structure and negotiations side of things, you know what I’m sayin’?”