For just a minute Benson debated with himself on whether or not to let his partner in on his private little joke.
Defiantly he stated, "Oh man, do you really want to know?" He then continued before Ryan could answer, "I was thinking, Ryan, why go through the trouble of writing his number down, then havin' to check it downtown, when more than fuckin' likely it's a rented car in a phony name? To beat all that shit, why don't we just act like he's a black dude when he comes out and lean on him a little. You know what I mean, Ryan? We lean on enough niggers daily for it to be quite easy."
Benson watched his partner's face. It went red, then Ryan rubbed at his chin nervously, trying to make up his mind on how to answer Benson.
"Man, you're really in a hell of a mood today, huh?" Ryan began as he thought over the ticklish question Benson had dropped in his lap. He cursed silently at himself, wishing he had left well enough alone. Now, since he'd asked for it, Benson had really put it in his lap. All of the problems of what could happen flashed through his mind. The last thing he wanted was another meeting with the captain-not anytime soon anyway. If the fat salesman was to do any complaining, that's just what it would add up to. Another fuckin' meeting with the captain. There was something like a tacit agreement among the policemen about white businessmen. You didn't harass them while they were down in the black neighborhoods. A white junkie was something else. He was nothing. But a taxpayer, that was a horse of another color-white color at that.
Benson could read it all in his face. "Don't worry, Ryan, I was just foolin' with you, man. I don't want the trouble it could bring either."
For a minute Ryan couldn't look his partner in the eye. "You make me feel like a three-dollar bill, Ben. If you want to, we can shake him down. I was just thinking, though, if a kickback comes out of this shit, we'll have some tall explaining to do. The fuckin' captain will say, `Why are you guys hustling a white man? Everybody in the city knows it was black gunmen who made the hit, so where's the connection with this white merchant?"'
He didn't have to illustrate too much for Benson to know that his partner was right. "I mean, Ben," Ryan added, "it won't go as hard for me as it could go for you. All I'd have to say was that it was your idea and I just went along with it, even though you know I wouldn't shift the blame on you. But I'm just trying to show you where we'd be. The first thing we'd have to answer is why. Why in the fuck did we bother him? Don't we have enough troublemakers down here to cope with without going out of our way to disturb workin' people?"
The very air in the car seemed to become oppressive to Benson, but what his partner said was true. They would never be able to make their superiors understand. Even as Benson thought about it, it seemed foolish. What would a well-dressed white man want with someone like Kenyatta, except to sell him something that would be junk a month later? They lived in two different worlds; the world of men like Kenyatta was a black world, devoid of whites. Even as Benson thought about it, he remembered that the little he was able to dig up on Kenyatta showed him to be militant, preaching against associating with whites. As he went over the possibilities in his mind, Benson quickly came to the conclusion that the fat white man was probably just the landlord coming to collect his rent.
He put his thoughts into words. "You know, Ryan, I'm grabbing at straws, really. That guy's probably the landlord trying to collect his rent." Benson laughed dryly, then added, "And that's more than likely one hell of a job right there, trying to get his rent out of a bunch of hustlers like them punks hanging out there. Yeah, he's got one hell of a job on his hands, if I know anything about young brothers."
Ryan wasn't fooled by his partner's words. It had hurt Benson to make that small confession. Benson really wanted to shake down the white man. "Now, Ben, don't go against your hunches. If you want to, just give the word, man, and we'll have that fat load of lard jacked up before God gets the news."
"You're a good man, Ryan," Benson said slowly. "Yeah, you're a damn good one to work with. But now that I think about it, I believe I was wrong. I can't picture no reason for there to be any connection between them, other than legal business. Kenyatta hates whites, so they couldn't have much other than business between them. Let's let it pass this time. We can still check out the license number with headquarters."
6
THE BLACK MEN SHUFFLED reluctantly out of Kenyatta's private office. None of them wanted to leave until they found out what the fat white man wanted. It was the first time any of them had ever seen Kenyatta treat a white man with any kind of respect. When this one entered, Kenyatta had gotten up and walked across the carpeted floor to throw his arm around the fat man's shoulders as if they were old war buddies. After making the man as comfortable as possible, Kenyatta had started ushering the rest of the people out of the office until there wasn't anyone left but him and the white man.
"Well, Angelo," Kenyatta began, "I hope you brought what I wanted."
Angelo rubbed his hand across his huge stomach. He had been nervous at the sight of so many young, wild-looking black men. He knew they were followers of Kenyatta, and that Kenyatta preached death to the white man. So far, though, all he'd received was the red-carpet treatment.
Before answering the question Kenyatta had put to him, he asked one of his own. "What about the paper? You know what I mean, that green stuff." Angelo leaned across the desk on his elbows and tried to stare Kenyatta in the eye but quickly changed his mind. Instead he tried to cover up his error by playing the big shot.
"I don't generally come this far out of my way for no fuckin' body, Kenny," he stated, glaring across the desk, "but you've been bugging me for this information for the past six months at least, so I come up with it for you, but I've got to have my bread."
Kenyatta stared coldly at the nervous white man. Suddenly he stood up from behind his desk. "Listen, sucker," he began loudly, "you come down here and I try and treat you like a man, but that ain't good enough for you. You want us to kiss your fuckin' ass to show how much we appreciate your coming down here, as you say. But we ain't doing nothing of the kind. Honky, you came down here because you can't sell that information you got nowhere else in this world. Ain't nobody willin' to pay the price I was goin' pay for it."
Angelo drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly, hoping the tightness he felt would disappear with it. He hadn't missed the past tense Kenyatta had used. The words seemed to stifle the very air in the room. He pulled at his collar, and his face became red as a beet. The glare coming from the ceiling lights seemed to move the walls inward, sealing him in. He could picture the army of people he was in debt to, marching arm in arm toward him, each one carrying a different kind of weapon.
"Now wait a minute, boy," he began, and realized at once that he had blundered before he even began. That was the problem of trying to deal with these fuckin' spades. You couldn't open your mouth without steppin' on their tender egos some kind of way.
Kenyatta's voice was smooth and softly triumphant. "Things have just changed a little, that's all, Angelo. We don't have to pay that wild price you were asking now because we already know half of the names ourselves. But," Kenyatta waved to the man to remain silent, "since you did go through so much trouble, we've decided to offer you five thousand dollars for your snitching. I mean, if you really look at it like you should, that's good money for an informer, whether he's white or black."
Being called an informer didn't set too well with Angelo either, but what hurt worse than that was the thought that he couldn't collect the whole ten thousand dollars he had come to think of as his own. Yet five grand was better than nothing. As far as he was concerned, the information he was passing on to these black guys was less than useless. He couldn't see what they could possibly do with it. Even if they turned it over to the police, it would be nothing new. The big wheels in the police department already knew who was responsible for the steady flow of dope into the city, yet they couldn't, or wouldn't, do anything about it. So what could some black hoods living in a ghetto do?
r /> Angrily he reached in his pocket and snatched out the envelope. "Here," he snarled as he tossed it across the desk, all the time hoping that the black man wouldn't change his mind again. He needed the five grand to live. Without it, he was a walking dead man. His mind was already working on how he could pay certain people half their money. When they saw him come up with some cash, they would know that he was trying, that he wasn't just attempting to shine them on. Yes, the five grand would be enough to hold back the strong-arm boys.
Kenyatta stared at the envelope as if it was a snake. He hadn't appreciated the white man tossing it down on his desk instead of handing it to him like a man. For a second, he visualized himself choking the fat man to death. It was a picture that he enjoyed. How desperately the fat man would struggle. The image of the man's red face turning blue brought a smile to his lips.
Angelo sat impatiently waiting for Kenyatta to make up his mind. Nervously he lit up a fat cigar. "I mean, what the hell gives around here, Kenyatta? We ain't never had any kind of misunderstanding like this before. I bring you what you ask for, but you've changed the fuckin' price. How the hell will you feel if I should do the same thing to you the next time you put in a big order for guns, huh?"
It didn't take a mind reader to see that he had hit on a vital organ. The steady supply of fresh, untraceable guns was indispensable. It was of the greatest importance that Kenyatta keep his gun connection. Angelo saw this and pushed home his point. "You and me, Kenyatta, we been doing business for over two years now, without ever having any trouble. Now, all at once, here comes some bullshit. Okay, I accept the fact that ten grand was too much money for the information you wanted, but don't rub my nose in shit, boy."
There it was again, that fuckin' term "boy." Kenyatta gritted his teeth before jumping up and stalking around the desk. "Angelo, I'm goin' tell you one time, man, and only once. The way you honkies have of calling us `boy' is too much. I'm one nigger who just can't stand it. Now, I know you probably don't mean a fuckin' thing by it, but it still rubs me to the quick to hear a peckerwood call me `boy,' so you done run out of chances. If you do it again, no matter how bad I might need your gun connect, I'll personally kick you in your fat ass until all the lard runs off it."
All the while the tall black man spoke, he pointed his finger down into the white man's face. Angelo could only sit in the chair and stare up at him with his mouth open. He promised himself though, if he got out of that office alive, it would be a cold day in hell before he'd ever come down near the ghetto and do business with the black bastards again. Oh yes, he'd continue to sell them guns. It made him feel good to know that he was supplying the guns they were killing each other with. In time, maybe they'd kill so many of their brothers that the white people could start getting back some parts of the cities because, the way things stood, niggers had already taken over the major portions.
"I didn't mean no harm, Kenyatta; it's just that I forget how to pronounce your name at times and `boy' comes out. But don't worry, I won't make that mistake again."
Kenyatta glared down at the man without smiling. "I ain't worried about it at all," Kenyatta said. "I've already warned you; the rest is up to you." He turned his back on the fat man and walked back around his desk. This time he did pick up the envelope. He opened it quickly, glanced down at the names, then back up at Angelo. "What kind of shit is this you're giving me, Angelo? You got the Kingfisher in charge of the dope on the west side, east side, north side, and south side of the city. In other words, you got a black man in charge of all the dope that goes into the ghettos."
Angelo held up his hand, catching himself before he made the mistake of calling Kenyatta boy. "It's the goddamn truth. I was surprised as hell when I found it out. I didn't know a nigger had that much power." He became tongue-tied as he suddenly realized the word he had used, but since no warning came he continued. "It's the truth though. Kingfisher has the whole ball of wax. There's not a white distributor in the whole fuckin' city who can put any dope in the ghettos without the okay of the Kingfisher."
Angelo's words rang in Kenyatta's ears. "That's the way that bastard has got it set up. No drugs are sold on the large levels unless he has something to do with it. It's no big outlet in the suburbs yet, so the big boys have to play to the Kingfisher's tune for now. They damn sure don't like it, but what can they do about it? There's not another colored guy around anywhere as big as the Kingfisher. He don't allow it. If the big white boys try and set up another black guy, something always seems to happen to the guy. It's a short investment, so they have to do business with the Kingfisher."
The spectacle of watching the facial expressions of Kenyatta was enough to scare the shit out of some people, and Angelo was no exception. At first Kenyatta had been defiant, then uncontrolled fury flashed across his features. Just the mention of the Kingfisher was enough to make Angelo wish he was somewhere else.
"Well," Angelo began, "I'd appreciate it if we closed our little business deal, because I've got to get uptown and check on a shipment of guns. You do still want that big order, don't you?" It was clear he was trying desperately to change the subject.
With difficulty Kenyatta managed to bring his mind back to the business at hand. A blinding white rage had blotted out all his thoughts for a moment, until the only thing he could think about was revenge.
But the guns were of immediate concern to him. Without them, he couldn't begin to put into practice any of the far-reaching plans he had. It took a few seconds but he managed to gain control of his anger.
"Yeah, Angelo, I know where you're coming from. Just hold on to your shirt for a minute, man," he said, as he reached inside his pocket and removed an envelope. He took his time and counted out the money on the desk. Angelo counted the money alongside him, not even attempting to keep the greed out of his eyes.
"Why don't you give me a partial payment down on the guns now, Ken, and tomorrow night when you send your people over to pick them up, they won't have to have that much cash on them." Angelo's eyes continued to follow the large roll of money still inside the envelope.
Kenyatta laughed loudly. "Man, you must really need some bread bad, Angelo. Suppose I did what you asked me to do, then something happened during the pickup. I'd be out of my money, plus the guns. No, baby, ain't no way for it to go like that. I couldn't stand to lose on both ends. It would hurt me bad enough if the cops knocked off our pickup spot, but it would ruin me if I lost all my bankroll along with it." The tall, lean, black man stood up from behind his desk, showing by his actions that the interview was over. He walked around the desk and took Angelo's arm, leading the white man toward the door. "To show you how much I'm concerned about you, Angelo, I'm even going to walk you out to your car so that there won't be no chance of somebody knockin' you off for the few bucks you just picked up. I don't want no shit out of you, you know what I mean? Like you calling me back in an hour tellin' me some shit about somebody knockin' you over. Well, baby, I'm goin' make damn sure that don't happen."
The black man's deep laughter boomed out loudly as they went through the outer office. Neither man took notice of the black men standing around in the room.
Near the front window, two Negro men stood peeping out. One of them yelled out to Kenyatta before he opened the front door. "Hey, baby, maybe you had better be cool. It's a couple of detectives parked down the street. They been there ever since fat boy pulled up and parked. At first we thought they might have been a couple of his boys, you know, trying to put a little protection on him, but we checked them out and it's them two detectives from homicide. The black and white cops that always work together."
Kenyatta stopped with his hand on the door, undecided on which course to take. "You say they been down there checkin' out the place, huh?" he asked, his mind racing.
"Naw," the tall, angular black man called Jug replied. "Naw, I didn't say they were checkin' out our joint. I said they seemed to be checkin' out fat boy's car."
As Jug talked, Angelo stared at the black
man. He shook his head. They did all look alike, only this one had hair. If he cut off his hair, he'd probably look just like Kenyatta, Angelo reasoned quietly.
It was true to a certain extent. Kenyatta and Jug were almost the same height; both men had the same lean build, with wide shoulders tapering down to a small waist-men built for power, speed, and explosive action.
"Goddamn it, Kenyatta, I told you you should have come downtown and picked up that shit. Now I'm involved down here with the fuckin' police. It's been years, man, since I've had a run-in with a cop. Now, I don't need this kind of shit, but what am I going to do? I sure in the fuck can't sit here at your place all fuckin' day."
It was the man's tone of voice that rubbed him wrong. Now, even though the law was outside, Kenyatta wanted to get rid of the fat white man. He glanced over his shoulder, then snapped his fingers.
"Betty!" he ordered, his voice full of wrath.
The tall black woman came running across the room.
"Honey, I want you to walk this honky out to his car, put your arm around him, you know, give the impression that he just finished knockin' off some black pussy. The cops are down the block and we would like to fake them out, so make it look good."
She glanced up at him in surprise. "Okay, honey, you know I wanna do whatever you want me to."
It was clear to everybody looking that what Betty was doing was something Kenyatta sure in the hell didn't like. He had to turn his back when she took Angelo's arm and went out the door.
Kenyatta stalked back to his office and slammed the door. He didn't want to be bothered by anyone. Kenyatta gritted his teeth so hard his jaw hurt. It was the first time he'd ever had to use his woman in such a way. He'd rather have had her kill Angelo than walk out pretending that the fat man was her lover.
Betty led the fat man outside. She put her arm around his huge waist and held him close. She sniffed, then tried to hold her breath. There was an odor about the heavy man that was repugnant to her. It would have been farcical for her to pretend that she didn't smell him, because she couldn't hide her reaction. She pulled away from him quickly, even though she still kept her arm around his waist. But one glance at her face, with her nose turned up, would have been enough for anyone to see the dislike on it.