Clockers (54 page)

“Did he seem upset? Angry?” Rocco scanned the half-dozen faces turned his way. One or two people shrugged. “Did he seem different to you”—he spoke directly to the guard again—“after he talked to this other guy?”

“I just don’t remember. I
think
they were talking but I can’t swear to it.”

“And when he went to the back, before the bartender here asked him about the TV, what was he doing back there, changing out of his uniform?”

“Naw, he was changed out of that already.” The guard waved to the wall. “I think he was on the phone back there.”

“So he
was
on the phone?”

“I can’t say for sure. I
think…
”

“Do you have any idea who he might’ve called?”

“Unh-unh, I don’t know. He might’ve just been in the bathroom. I might of mis-
seen
him on the phone.”

Rocco nodded, thinking he’d have to remember to request a log of the bar’s phone calls. “Well, let me ask you this. Was he in the habit of making phone calls from here?”

“Not really,” the guard said. “That’s why I say I might have mis-seen that. He might’ve just been passing the phone coming out of the bathroom. Because I really can’t say I ever truly saw him talking to nobody on that phone
ever.
Don’t talk to nobody at the bar either, for that matter.”

“He just don’t talk to nobody,” the deep-chested fat woman said as she lit a cigarette.

“OK,” Rocco said. “Is there anything else you could tell me about this guy, you know, in general?”

“He writes on his cocktail napkins.” The bartender wiped down the bar in front of Rocco’s beer.

“Oh yeah?”

“After his first drink? He always starts writing on the napkin.”

“You ever see what he writes?”

“Yeah. Teams.”

“Basketball, baseball?” Rocco said, thinking, Gambling?

“No, like made-up teams. Like one time I saw he had writ down New York Destroyers, Texas Tornados, Cleveland something, a whole list. I didn’t recognize any a them. I asked him what it was, he said it was Aroundball teams. I said what the hell is
that?
He said it was a game he was inventing and he was just fooling around with team names for when he got it all organized. I asked him how do you play, he said he wasn’t at liberty to talk about it, like he was still ironing out some rules. But yeah, a lot of times after he had a drink or two? He’d be writin’ down team names on his napkin.” The bartender shrugged apologetically. “Aroundball.”

“Aroundball,” the security guard repeated, sounding frustrated at having no more to add.

The fat woman grunted three times as if to say, Ain’t that a shame.

Mazilli arched his back, restless to go.

“He ever write anything else down?” Rocco asked the bartender.

“Just team names. All the time different team names.”

“No real names? People’s names?”

The bartender shrugged.

“And you can’t remember when he left that night—even a rough guess?”

“Unh-uh.”

Rocco turned to the security guard, who shrugged helplessly.

“So like, you don’t know if it was before or after the incident over there?”

The bartender shook his head. “Man, he’s in and out of here like a whisper. Shit, he’s comin’ in here six months maybe? I don’t even know his name.”

They drove away from the bar in silence, Rocco still buzzing a little from the photo switch, savoring that jolt, how it felt in his chest, his head.

Victor: Rocco pictured the kid coming into the bar every night from Hambone’s, still wearing his uniform, having to throw down a few shooters before he could feel human enough to change back into street clothes. Once he got a buzz, he’d start daydreaming about himself as an inventor, or a sports tycoon. And then he’d go home with his load on, dreaming his dreams, pass out, get up the next day, slog through the bullshit all over again, land on that wet cocktail napkin the next night—same time, same station.

“This kid sounds like a fucking’nut-boy.” Mazilli chewed his thumb joint. “Aroundball.”

“I don’t know.” Rocco felt a little defensive. Aroundball didn’t sound any loonier than being an actor, or whatever it was that Rocco had been so pumped about over the weekend. “It’s probably like an escape valve. So what do you think of the brother being there?”

“What of it?” Mazilli said.

“The kid’s a known shithead, goes in there only one time, leaves be
fore
the shooting, leaves sober.” Rocco felt that rush again, that shock of discovery. “Meanwhile, nobody can even say this Victor kid wasn’t sitting there watching TV when it all went down.”

“Hey,” Mazilli said, “who came to us with the gun?”

“Well, what was this Strike doing there, then?”

“How the fuck do I know? They’re brothers, right? One guy sees the other. Hey, how you doin’? Goes into the bar. They’re brothers, they’re seen together, big fuckin’ deal.”

Mazilli pulled in at the drive-in window of a Burger King. “You want anything?” Rocco shook his head, and Mazilli ordered himself a strawberry shake.

“Thumper told me these two never hang out together,” Rocco said.

“Well, all the more reason to have a drink. Long time no see. How’s tricks? How’s Ma?” Mazilli pulled back into traffic, driving slow and slurping through his straw.

“I dunno. I just think he’s dirty on this, this other kid.”

“Because he had a drink with his brother?
May
be had a drink? The square-badge wasn’t even sure they were together. And even if he is involved, it’s like, we’re gonna bust our ass for a conspiracy charge? Hey, it’s locked. We got a gun, we got a confession.”

“I dunno, I dunno,” Rocco said. “Maybe this Victor kid’s taking the weight for something he didn’t do.”

Mazilli raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean, out of brotherly love?”

“I don’t know, maybe. Maybe the shit brother’s got something on him. Or yeah, maybe the kid’s trying to keep his brother out of jail. I mean, he’s got no record to speak of, he’s a solid citizen, he’s claiming self-defense. Maybe he thinks he’s got a better chance of beating us on this than his brother. Maybe he thinks he can even
walk
on this. Hard-working guy comes in, confesses, claims he was attacked. Self-defense. Who are we to say no? Meanwhile, his brother’s off the hook. I dunno, maybe his brother promised him money if he confessed. Maybe the guy threatened him. What
do you
think?”

Mazilli pulled over at a garbage can and tossed in his empty milk shake container. “Hey, the security guard said the kid was two or three drinks over his usual. So what
I’m
inclined to believe is that he just walked out of there with a red brain, you know, doin’ figure eights without skates, the Adams guy startles him and, ah, he did something like he said he did. You know, like the capper on a bad fuckin’ day.”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Rocco said. “My witness says the do-er was
wait
ing for the vic to come out. Leaning against the car and Hiring. Don’t sound like no startlement shooting to me.”

“I thought you said your witness was all stupefied on gin.” Mazilli lit a cigarette.

“Oh yeah? And I thought
you
said you thought this Victor kid was a hit man.”

“I was goofing.” Mazilli shrugged and waved lazily to a double-parked cruiser. “Besides, after tonight? I’d say he sounds more like a hapless putz with a gun and a red nose.”

“I don’t know, Mazilli, this shit brother’s like a pebble in my shoe. What did Rodney say to you after I left?”

“I’m off Rodney on this,” Mazilli said. “He don’t know this kid. Besides, if anybody’d be running dope out of there it would most likely be Champ.”

“Well, what did Rodney want to talk to you about?”

Mazilli laughed. “He got into a beef with some old goombah down at Benny’s Lounge over his video games. He lost his temper and smacked the guy upside the head. Now he’s nervous. He wants me to talk to them.” Mazilli played cards with the old-timers and their soldiers almost every day.

“So he’s gonna give us nothin’ on this?”

Mazilli shook his head. “I dunno. Every time somebody gets whacked in this town Rodney’s name comes up. You remember that dog-poisoning epidemic about eight years ago? I had two guys tell me it was Rodney. Meanwhile, where’s Rodney then? He’s in federal prison out in Wisconsin.”

“Well, that was then, this is now.”

“Nah, nah, I’m just not smelling this on him,” Mazilli said. “At first, when he got all jumpy in my store Saturday, I thought, Well, maybe. But after he came in tonight? I mean, I
know
him, and I was watching his face like a hawk, so … And now with the bartender and that square-badge? We’re talking five schnorts and a gun. I’m not wasting my time on it.”

“I want to tell you something, Maz. No offense, but sometimes I think you’re a little naive about your street connections, like you think there’s no way they can put one over on you.”

“Oh yeah?” Mazilli glared at Rocco, flooring it a little in his anger. “Well actually, I think
you’re
the one who’s a little fucking naive. You think just because a guy’s got a family, a job, minds his own business in the bar of his choice, he can’t be a shooter? Who’s naive here, Rocco, me or you?”

Looking out at the passing boulevard, Rocco sighed: Mazilli had it all wrong. Rocco was sure he wasn’t being sentimental about the kid. In fact, his interest in the case had hardly anything to do with Victor at all. It was just that he felt something powerful click in him when he asked the right questions about the wrong picture, something that had been building in him all day since the mother’s house, BCI, Thumper’s story…

“Will you please slow the fuck down?” Rocco smiled at Mazilli, feeling good.

“You gonna tell me how to drive now?” Mazilli raised an eyebrow, then eased off the gas pedal. “Listen to me, Rocco. This kid got his load on, staggered out of there with his piece like he’s in Tombstone Arizona and now he’s in the hoosegow. And whether Rodney’s selling dope over there or not, or Champ, or anybody else, it’s got nothing to do with what went down. And even if this kid
was
selling us a line of shit on the tape, which is what they all do anyhow, even if they’re giving it up, this is still a good, solid ‘Closed by Arrest.’ And if I’m wrong? If Rodney’s conspired on this? Or Strike? Or the fucking Medellin cartel? I don’t give a fuck, ‘cause
we got the shooter.
”

“And
I
think we locked up the wrong brother.” Rocco felt both steely and serene.

Mazilli laughed, tilting his ear to his shoulder as he drove. “De wrong brother.”

21

STRIKE
finally got loose of Rodney about ten o’clock, and now he walked from Weehawken toward the benches, thinking about Victor, realizing that his brother was about to spend his second night in County. County: the word, the memories, came down on him in a rush, and Strike experienced a wave of powerless misery that made him stop in his tracks and hold his stomach with both hands. When the pain passed he walked on, swearing to himself that he was going to do something about this. Something…

About a block away from Roosevelt, Strike saw most of his boys loping off, hands in pockets, the way they always did when there was a Fury roll. But as the benches came into view, he saw that it wasn’t the Fury, it was Buddha Hat. He sat alone, his arms flung out along the top slat of Strike’s bench, his knees spread. With his floppy-brimmed camouflage hat, a khaki T-shirt and baggy fatigue pants, Buddha Hat looked as if he’d just finished mopping up some little military operation all by himself.

Strike would have kept walking, but Buddha Hat got him in an eyelock and waved him over. Feeling a breeze at the back of his head, Strike stood before him, nodding and grimacing. “What’s up?”

Buddha Hat sat up straighter. “Waitin’ for you.”

Strike pressed the flat of his hand against his solar plexus, then glanced at Buddha Hat’s waist, looking for the bulk of a weapon.

“You want to go across the river?” Buddha Hat said.

Strike didn’t know what that meant, but he was sure he didn’t want to go anywhere with the Hat, now or at any other time. “Yeah, well, for what?”

“I want to show you something.”

“I’m kind of aw-on the
job,
so like…” Strike went silent as Buddha Hat rose from the bench, his head looking like a skull wrapped in skin, all eye sockets and cheekbones. Strike’s resolve to help Victor evaporated.

Buddha Hat said “C’mon” and walked away, disappearing around the side of 8 Weehawken. Feeling he had no alternative, Strike followed and found Buddha Hat standing next to a forest-green Volvo, holding open the passenger door.

The car was free of extraneous flash and relatively clean. Strike noticed that the radio and tape deck had been pulled out.

“I got to change first,” Buddha Hat said, pulling away from the projects.

“What kind of music you like?” Even as the words left his mouth, the question made no sense to Strike.

“I got me a Benzi Box?” Buddha Hat responded, his tone faraway and dreamy. “I forgot to take it home with me one night. Made it real easy for the thief who took it, you know?”

“I hear that.”

“You know anyone trying to sell a Benzi on the street?”

“Unh-uh.”

“Let me know if you do, ‘cause I’m gonna have a conversation with him.”

As they drove toward O’Brien, Strike tried to imagine asking Buddha Hat about how he knew Victor, but he couldn’t even work up the courage to choose the words he’d use. And he could feel his stutter waiting to ambush him; it had been there all day, fading in and out, and by now he’d almost become used to it again. But he wanted the words, when he was ready to speak them, to come out easy and natural. Fear got a odor, Rodney had said.

Buddha Hat pulled up in front of the O’Brien projects and parked. It was a hot, muggy night, and a number of kids had lit strips of newspaper, making a game of swirling them in loops, trying to smoke away the mosquitoes and no-see-ums. Strike had grown up in the Roosevelt Houses, and even on the best of days all the other projects had a vaguely alien and hostile color to him. Now, trailing Buddha Hat through the swirls of burning paper, past the conga line of dope cars and toward the six looming domino-shaped towers that made up O’Brien he felt like a prisoner dragged into an enemy camp felt himself in an agony of helplessness at being so effortlessly abducted, paralyzed between running for his life and staying cool, between mortal terror and fear of embarrassment. But even if he ran or struck first, Dempsy was a small city and there was no place to hide. You had to flee, go live someplace else and no one Strike knew had ever had the imagination or the courage to do that.