Clockers (37 page)

Champ turned to one of the kids and gestured limply to the broken bottle. “Kick that away, gonna slice up my damn tires.”

The kid played soccer with the glass shards as Champ handed two dollars to another kid and jerked his hand lazily in the direction of a mini-mart.

“This your new short?” Rodney nodded to the Mustang.

“Yeah,” said Champ. “1 don’t go in for no broke-down pimp-mobile.”

“What it do?”

“One forty, one fifty?”

Rodney grimaced at Champ’s belly. “One fifty with
you
in there? Shit, then it
got
to do one eighty with me, I’ll bet.”

“Who’s this?” Champ eyed the undercover cop.

“Yeah, this my cousin Lonnie, I told you about him?”

The knocko nodded, stone-faced.

“I thought you say he was your nephew.” Champ smiled slowly, looking at Rodney through narrowed eyes.

“Yeah, well he my sister’s boy. I call ‘em
all
cousins.”

Champ grinned at Rodney a little longer, the knocko dancing in place as if he was freezing.

A short skinny guy in a floppy camouflage hat ambled over to the group, hands in his pockets, eyes down. Strike recognized him from the last time he had been to O’Brien: it was Buddha Hat, Champ’s enforcer. Champ was smart that way, picking the small, heartless ones who shoot without blinking instead of the big muscle boys, knowing that enforcement isn’t a bodybuilding contest and that besides quality, the other thing needed to keep it together and stay on top was fear. Buddha Hat was a walking ice cube, and Strike knew that if anyone here shot Papi it was him.

Strike found himself inching back to the car. The night, the colors of things, the feel of the misty air on his face, all became vivid and strangely precious, and he imagined moving quickly from safe house to safe house, picking up his money and hitting the turnpike. He had about twenty-two thousand dollars. Scoop it and go: all he had to do is survive this thing here. His mother had people in Henderson, South Carolina. Or was it North Carolina? His father had people in Columbus, Ohio. That might be better; at least people wore shoes there.

Champ was still smiling at Rodney, chewing over the cousin story. Finally he let it slide and turned to the knocko. “You know you uncle a famous pimp?”

The knocko grunted noncommittally. Strike stood behind Rodney now, hiding behind Rodney’s age, Rodney’s knowledge.

“And who’s that?” Champ stood on tiptoe to look at Strike over Rodney’s shoulder. He laughed. “That your muscle?”

Strike casually strolled back into sight, trying to show that staying behind Rodney was no big thing, but he was unable to look Champ in the face. He noticed that Buddha Hat was staring at him—no, not at him, at his sweatshirt. Looking down, Strike saw the dried Yoo-Hoo splatter and felt a rush of disgust and shame.

Rodney hooked his arm around Strike’s head. “That’s my man Strike,” he said playfully. “You know Strike.”

Champ didn’t answer, turning back to the knocko. “Yeah, so you his nephew, huh? I’m sorry about that.”

The knocko shrugged, then looked around like time was tight.

“Yeah,” Champ said, “so Rodney say you in a jam.”

“My connect’s doing thirty in.” The cop’s voice cracked on the last word; he sounded scared. Strike spun in a little circle.

“Where at?” Champ was all big white teeth and concentration.

“Florida.” The knocko’s voice was stronger but he still didn’t meet Champ’s eyes, Strike thinking, This motherfucker stinks. Scoop and go.

“Florida. What he do for thirty in?”

The knocko shrugged, dancing from foot to foot. “You know, nothin’.”

Champ laughed, but Strike saw that he was still thinking things over.

“Motherfucker’s got the
hot
seat down there,” Rodney said, starting into a nervous little rain-gimped jig of his own. Strike thought the three of them must look like a goddamn bunch of break dancers or something.

Champ and Buddha Hat didn’t move, their eyes patiently reading the show.

“Motherfucker’s got a sign in the execution chamber?” Rodney made a frame with his hands. “Justice—Regular or Extra Crispy.”

Champ ignored Rodney. “What you paying now?”

“Twelve,” the knocko said.

“A what?”

“A pound.”

Champ winced, sucking air as if that was way too much. “Where’s that?”

“New Ark.”

“Newark?” Champ hunched his shoulders in astonishment.

“New
Ark,
Delaware,” Rodney said, sounding proud.

“New Ark, Delaware,” Champ announced. “I don’t know nobody down there.”

“It’s there,” the knocko said to the sky.

“Delaware,” Champ murmured to himself, then looked down at Buddha Hat. “Get Aisa over.”

Buddha Hat turned to the servers and the line of cars. “Yo Aisa,” he called, his voice tinny and small to Strike’s ears. A tall, light-skinned kid walked over with the easy stride of a hurdler.

Champ put an arm around the kid’s shoulders and tilted his head toward the knocko. “Tell Aisa here where you from.”

The knocko took a heavy breath as if losing patience. “New Ark.”

Champ looked at Aisa. “Where you people from?”

“Wilmington, but I know New Ark too. Where in New Ark you from?”

“You know, like near the
downtown
?”

Strike saw Buddha Hat watching him and read a message in his eyes: everybody’s just running a game here. Then Buddha Hat nodded imperceptibly, as if to add, But I’ll see you later.

Strike strolled behind Rodney again. Rodney casually reached behind his back and crushed Strike’s elbow, this message clear too: Stop hiding.

“Near the college?” Aisa looked back at the cars, hungry for dope.

“Yeah, near there.”

Champ studied the knocko. reading his hands, his eyes, Strike thinking, Just like a cop.

“You know Tito?” Aisa asked, his tone challenging.

The knocko reared back in disdain. “Shit, I know like
three
Titos.”

“Tito Clark.”

“I don’t know nobody’s last names. Is that the fat one?”

Aisa hesitated. “Yeah, well, he’s chunky, but…”

“Yeah, I know him. Hey look.” The knocko turned to Champ. “I got to book—can we
do
something? ‘Cause like, my time is money, you know? I mean, I got me a problem.”

The kid came back with Champ’s quart of malt liquor and started to walk away.

“Hey yo! Yo!” Champ snapped his fingers at the kid’s back. The kid turned. “You slick or something?” The kid did a bad act of coming on surprised, then handed over the thirty cents change.

Cracking the top of the quart, Champ turned back to the knocko. “Yeah, well, I don’t have nothing now. How long you gonna be around?”

Strike saw both Rodney and the knocko relax with secret relief. He looked to Buddha Hat, wondering whether he’d seen it too. Buddha Hat caught Strike’s glance and again tilted his head in some kind of acknowledgment.

“Two days,” the knocko said. “But like I got to set something up. You know I got a contact in Queens, but Rodney said to see you first, but I only got but two days.”

“That’s OK,” Champ said.

“So like when you
have
something, how do I get in touch?”

“Through Rodney.”

“Aw man.” The knocko waved Champ off. “Don’t put me on Rodney. The nigger never answers his beeper. Let me check in with you direct. Just give me your number.”

Champ’s eyes suddenly went big and he strode over to Strike, hunched down and bellowed right in his face, “This nigger’s gonna set me up!
Oh!
“ He howled and threw a wet, heavy arm over Strike’s shoulder as if they were drunk together, Strike staggering under the weight, a strand of bile burning in the back of his throat. Champ laughed wide-mouthed, talking right into Strike’s face again. “Haw! Gimme your number! Motherfucker’s settin’ me
up!
”

Rodney went into a manic boxer’s shuffle, laughing and yelling out loud. “Tha’s right! Put your ass in jail! Take over the show!”

Rodney and Champ were shouting now, Champ still holding Strike in a near headlock, Strike reeling under the loudness, the weight and the smell of Champ, terrified that the play was over and that Buddha Hat was going to pull out some kind of weapon and finish the Papi business right here, take out Rodney, Strike himself, maybe even the knocko, just because he was here, a witness.

Disgusted, the knocko grabbed Rodney’s arm. “C’mon motherfucker. Let’s jet, let’s jet.”

As the knocko threw open the car door, Champ let Strike free. Strike clambered into the back seat.

“Hold on, hold on.” Champ grabbed the door. “Gimme
your
number. Maybe I’ll call you, see what I can do.”

The knocko hesitated, playing hard to get, then wrote a number in pencil on a dollar bill. “Yeah, this my beeper. When you punch in, put like a twelve on the end of it so I know it’s you. But like, you know, I’m gone in two days, so…”

“Yeah, I’m gone too,” Champ said.

“Where you going?” Rodney asked as he slid into the driver’s seat.

“Disney World.” Champ grinned.

Buddha Hat came up behind Champ and stared at Strike through the open window. Strike thought maybe all this eyeballing was instinctual, maybe Buddha Hat was just automatically zeroing in on the weakest player. But then Buddha Hat said in a small voice, “You Victor’s brother,” said it not as a question or as a conversation starter, just as a registration of fact, talking more to himself than to Strike. Then he stepped back into the shadows as if he’d got what he wanted. Speechless, tilting, Strike unthinkingly covered his stained sweatshirt with crossed arms like a woman hiding her breasts.

“Yeah, I’m gonna take us to Disney World,” Champ said. He finished his malt liquor and flung the bottle into some weeds.

“In
that?
“ Rodney’s voice went high as he frowned at the Mustang.

“Hell no.” Champ massaged his wet chest. “Take us a
plane.
”

As Rodney started the car, Champ reached through the rear window and grabbed Strike by the sweatshirt.

“Don’t you be bullshittin’ me now.” He smiled, licking his chops in good cheer. “Is this motherfucker settin’ me up?”

Strike tried to say no, but the word came down like a steel trap on his tongue. All he could do was moo like a cow.

Strike and Rodney sat in the Cadillac on a side street in Jersey City, watching the knocko piss in some bushes and then disappear down the street.

“See, I
told
you don’t worry about no Champ.” Rodney turned to Strike in the rear seat. “Didn’t I say that?”

“Uh-huh,” Strike said, but he was hearing Buddha Hat again: “You Victor’s brother.” The words were setting up house in Strike’s head.

“See, what happened was, the state knockos? They got me on this wiretap talking to this guy? We wasn’t talking about nothin’
too
bad, but bad enough for it to be a conspiracy on me. And like now I got to work that off. So I said, Shit, I’ll help you get inside on Champ, take down Champ, ‘cause for me that’s like killin’ two birds with one stone, you know? Work off the charge and clear the road for business.”

Rodney started to drive back to Dempsy. “Champ ain’t stupid, but he’s greedy. I told him this guy’s product is so raggedy he could step three times on his package, the guy’d
still
be happy. Yeah, Champ is goin’
down.
”

But Rodney’s revelations barely registered. Strike was still communing with Buddha Hat, lost in his eyes, trying to translate his words: “You Victor’s brother.” And then it came to him: My Man. Buddha Hat was My Man.

Rodney blathered on. “See, the only thing, it might take some time. This shit always takes some time, because now they want this guy tonight to introduce like another guy, let that second guy get in good, make the big buys, and
then
take him down. You know, so Champ won’t know it’s
me
behind shit. I told them, though, I don’t give a fuck. Take him down fast. I ain’t afraid a no Champ. Fuck him and take him down
now
”

Strike pictured Buddha Hat giving him that knowing head bob, then remembered Victor’s secret smile in that bar two nights before. My Man: Had to be.

“Champ,” Rodney muttered through his teeth. “I used to bounce that nigger on my knee. I gave that fat boy his start—he used to be my spy boy. Paid him twenty dollars a day? He’d run out and spend it all on candy.
Champ…
shit. Buddha Hat too. I used to go out with his mother before he was even born. He might even be mine if I think on it. I used to catch him playing hooky? I scooped his ass up by the ear, dragged him off to the school my damn self. Bunch a damn ungrateful kids.”

Strike smelled Champ on him still, saw Buddha Hat’s mope-faced stare, felt the rude poke of the knocko’s finger on the back of his head—this city closing in on him again like a bloody-knuckled fist.

“And that fat boy’s comin’ after
me?
Who the fuck does he think he’s playin’ with?”

“Champ killed Papi, man.” Strike said, his own voice sounding far off and mournful.

“Hey, fuck the Papi thing,
fuck
that shit. You don’t know nothin’ about that. And even if you do? Hey, that best end right there between him and him, ‘cause someone comin’ after
me
is gonna die his own self—24, 7, 365, because that’s the way I am. Shit, I ain’t afraid a no Champ.”

Strike looked at Rodney’s bulging eyes: Rodney was a fool. “Yeah, well then you should drop a
dime
here, man, ‘cause they don’t wait to set up on a shooting. They just go in an’ snatch him up.”

“Yeah? What kind of proof you got? That’s just like
hearsay.
That’s just word on the street. Besides, Champ didn’t do Papi, man. He had it
done.
”

Strike looked out the window, thinking, Yeah, just like you did on Darryl. Then: And just like
I
did on Darryl.

But how did Victor come to know Buddha Hat? Victor never did anything but work his whole life, never even hung out on the street. And then Strike began sweating out another question: Did Buddha Hat know the real reason why Victor had asked him to cap Darryl? Did he know that Strike and Rodney were dealing behind Champ’s back? Strike stared out the side window and fought down a wave of burning belches.