Clockers (38 page)

“Fuck that nigger’s fat ass.” Rodney stomped the accelerator as if the speed of the car was directly connected to the pressure behind his eyes. “And he’s comin’ after
me?
Well, come on then, motherfucker. Come on and
come.
”

Flying down I-9, Rodney swerved tight around a car that was already doing seventy. When the driver honked, Rodney pulled over one lane, slowed down until the car came abreast of him, went eyeball-to-eyeball with four white teenagers for a long minute and then veered sharply back into their lane, making them drive off onto the shoulder.

Strike hid his eyes, trying to be casual about it, gripping his temples with the thumb and index finger as if he had a headache. He had to get away from Rodney, think this through.

“Yeah, I left my car by that bar in Guineatown? Wuh-Where you was before?”

“Goin’ down to Guineatown,” Rodney said in a clenched-teeth singsong. He hit JFK and plowed through the red lights, ignoring people, making for the white gangster section of town.

A new thought crashed into Strike as he imagined telling Rodney how he had fucked up and somehow got Champ’s hit man to shoot Darryl Adams: he might as well have gone directly to Champ and announced that they were dealing behind his back. Strike glanced quickly at Rodney, saw all that fury and fear, and suddenly he was more scared of Rodney than of a dozen Buddha Hats. What if Rodney found out that Strike had exposed his play? But if Strike didn’t tell him, they’d both be killed the minute Buddha Hat and Champ decided to stop playing with them. Either way …

Strike rolled open his window, belched deep and froglike, spitting out something reddish-brown. “Let me out, man,” he said in a whisper. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Rodney looked at him intently, then pulled the car over to the curb in front of a beauty parlor about six blocks from Guineatown.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go back to the benches.” Strike reached for the door handle, avoiding Rodney’s eyes. “You know, take care of business.”

“Don’t you want your car?”

“I get it later.” Strike spit up more red bile.

“Yeah, you do that,” Rodney said. Then he grabbed Strike’s wrist. “I wanna tell you something. I know
everything
you thinking right now. You thinking Champ killed Papi, Buddha Hat killed Papi. You going, Ho shit, I’m next, I’m next, ho shit.”

Strike nodded, staring at his knees, thinking, You don’t know the half of it.

“But you gotta be like
me.
See, I don’t give a fuck, ‘cause coming after me and coming after Papi is two different things. I ain’t no Papi. I’ll kill you right back, so I just don’t give a fuck and I know those niggers know that, and if you was any kind of
man,
any kind of
player,
you’d be thinking like me too.”

“Yeah, I hear that.” Strike eased his wrist free, desperate to be out of the car.

“Fear got a odor, like sex. You know what I’m sayin’?” Rodney ducked down, looking over his nighttime sunglasses into Strike’s eyes.

“Yeah, OK.” Strike stepped out on the street and began to toddle backwards, giving Rodney a little salute, hoping that when Buddha Hat finally decided to come after them, he’d hit Rodney first and at least give Strike a chance to run.

14

ROCCO
stood behind the lottery machine on the bottle side of Shaft Deli-Liquors, looking across the narrow aisle at Mazilli, who was manning the counter on the grocery and sandwich side. A thin but steady stream of customers bobbed between them on a wood floor so old and beaten down it looked more like tamped earth than anything man-made.

Mazilli had asked Rocco to help out because the wife of one of his black clerks had had a baby that ‘afternoon and the Puerto Rican kid who worked for him had lost a grandmother the night before. Rocco and Mazilli were both on duty, but as long as they could hear their beepers nobody cared how they spent their shift. Besides, Mazilli was still the acting head of Homicide for another nine days, so there wasn’t even anybody to duck.

It was slow for a Saturday night. The bank of pay phones on the corner made the street a natural dope market; on a normal evening there was always an army of clockers and baseheads marching in and out of Shaft for cigarettes, beer, pork rinds and sweets. But a few days before, the block association had made a stink, so tonight two uniformed rookies wandered in bored half circles in front of the phones, moving the action a block down the street. The cops would knock off at eleven, and the crowd would return to the corner by eleven-fifteen, but Shaft closed up at eleven-thirty, so Mazilli’s impulse sales were way down. Still, it could have been worse: at least half of the customers lived off the mailbox, and since it was just two weeks into the month, many of them were still somewhat flush. Rocco could have guessed the date by how the store’s customers held themselves when they walked in; as the end of the month neared, the postures would start slumping, but for now most everybody was carrying a little pride a little spirit.

Rocco still felt shaky from his encounter with Almighty earlier in the evening. He had spent the last few hours trying to get the guy out of his head by keeping busy, fetching pints and half pints of Seagram’s Gin—a k a Knottyhead—Captain Morgan Spice Rum and various sweet wines—all of it stoop booze—from the shelves behind him. He also ran Pik-6, Pik-4 and Pik-3 numbers through the lottery machine, a procession of wishful thinkers singing out birth dates, death dates, dream signs, street addresses and, in one case, a six-digit FBI confidential informant ID code, everyone hoping to score anywhere from fifty bucks for a Pik-3 box to $2.1 million for a Pik-6 straight. The winning numbers would be drawn on TV at eleven o’clock sharp, and as the hour crept toward the statewide shutdown, the lottery line grew longer. Rocco was so busy between the numbers and the bottles that the vodka and ice he had stashed behind the counter for himself had turned into an alcoholic soup.

A ten-year-old boy with large sober eyes and a shaved head passed to Rocco a scrawled list of ten three-digit numbers and a ten-dollar bill. “She say all straight.”

“Sorry kiddo, you got to be eighteen.” Rocco smiled apologetically.

The boy turned to Mazilli across the way, who was busy selling loose cigarettes for fifteen cents a pop. Mazilli met the boy’s patient gaze, shrugged and waved a go-ahead. Rocco punched in the combinations, took the money and handed the boy ten Pik-3 tickets.

Rocco then rang up a can of Budweiser, the guy buying it having already bought three cans on three separate trips during the last hour. A lot of the same people had been in and out several times, moving between the street and the store all night, making repeat purchases of a single item. It drove Rocco nuts: guys would buy ten loose cigarettes on ten trips for a dollar fifty when they could have bought a pack—twice as many butts for the same price.

A tall pregnant woman wearing a flimsy shift and a pair of rubber flip-flops handed Rocco a neat list of twenty six-digit combinations, two ten-dollar bills peeking out of her fist.

“Straight or box?”

“Straight.” Going for the $2.1 million: Rocco wondered what her life would be like with that much money, what it would change for her.

Rocco looked up from the lottery machine and saw Rodney Little limp in, walking backward, talking loud to someone out in the street. He wheeled around in the store and pointed his finger like a gun at Mazilli, then took a garlic pickle out of a glass jar over the cold cuts display window.

“How come I can’t get these?” Rodney said to Mazilli. He leaked pickle juice down his chin. “Every time that motherfucker come by my store, I say bring me some garlic pickles. He say he can’t get them no more. I think the motherfucker’s prejudiced.”

“He ain’t prejudiced.” Mazilli ditched his cigarette. “He just hates black people.”

Rodney reared up on tiptoe, his ass in the air, to keep the juice from dripping on his shoes.

Rocco hadn’t seen Rodney in about six years, and he instantly resented the fact that he looked as if he hadn’t aged at all. Rodney did a double take on seeing Rocco behind the lottery machine, reading “cop” but not placing the face.

Rocco nodded in greeting, then answered the question in Rodney’s eyes. “I arrested you eight years ago for shooting Chewy Bishop.”

Rodney smiled. “Yeah, how you been?”

“You want a napkin for that?” Rocco smirked at the sheen on Rodney’s chin.

Rodney didn’t respond. He turned his back on Rocco and pulled a fat wad of money out of the front pocket of his tight bicycle shorts. He limped over to Mazilli.

“What the fuck happened to you?” Mazilli tilted his head to Rodney’s bad leg.

“Rain.”

“Yeah? I thought maybe Erroll Barnes winged one at you, too.” Rodney grunted a laugh, moving his lips as he counted his roll.

“You best put a leash on that fuckin’ psycho,” Mazilli said.

“It’s a free country—so they tell me,” Rodney said while whisper-counting his money.

“Not if you’re in County it ain’t,” Rocco mumbled as the computer screen announced that night’s shutdown.

Mazilli rang up a box of Pampers. “Yeah, about three hours ago, I go to pick up Chickadee Willis to talk about that Ahab’s thing? He got the best alibi in the world. Laying up in Christ the King with a slug in his thigh. Your buddy Erroll missed his femoral artery by a half inch.”

“That must hurt.” Rodney bared his teeth and wrinkled his nose in mock pain, recounting the wad now. “How you fixed on Similac?”

“What do you need?” Mazilli asked.

“A case—two if you could spare it.”

Rodney’s store was two blocks away, and he had a reciprocal deal with Mazilli: if either of them ran out of something, he could buy it in volume from the other at wholesale.

“I could spring for one.”

“How about Chore Boys?”

“They pipin’ up heavy by you?” Mazilli winked to Rocco.

“Saturday night.” Rodney shrugged. “Don’t tell me
you
ain’t sellin’ any.”

“Let me check.” Mazilli walked back to his supply room, leaving Rodney with Rocco.

The ten-year-old came back in, out of breath from running, with a list of ten more three-digit combos.

“Too late, kiddo.”

The boy gave a little gasp of fear before he sprinted out of the store.

The guy who had already bought four cans of Bud came up to the counter for a fifth. Rocco shook his head, his mood turning sour with Rodney standing there. “You ever hear of a six-pack?” The guy just looked at him. “One trip, about ten cents cheaper a can. You should think about it, you know?”

The guy walked out of the store muttering something under his breath.

Rodney wheeled around to Rocco on his good leg. “Let me ask you something. You go into a bar, you sit down, you say to the bartender, ‘Give me
six
beers’? Or you say, ‘Give me
one
beer’?”

Rocco didn’t answer, his face growing hot.

“The man got no money to sit in a bar, pay bar prices, leave a tip an’ shit. See that street out there?
That’s
his bar. Sit on a nice stoop, watch the girls go by. An’
you
the bartender. See what I’m sayin’?”

“Fuck you.” Rocco was barely able to get the words out: A lecture about “the people” from this freaking parasite?

“Gah-damn, don’t you know nothin’ about these niggers out here? How long you been a cop?” Rodney shook his head in disbelief as Mazilli returned from the supply room with two cases of baby formula and a carton of Chore Boy pads.

Rodney dropped some cash on the counter.

“Hey listen, before I forget,” Mazilli said. “You know that new flying squad going around popping people?”

“Yeah, that cop Jo-Jo?” Rodney tucked his chin into his chest and looked at Mazilli over the rims of his nighttime sunglasses, hands resting on the cartons but not picking anything up yet.

“Yeah, Jo-Jo,” Mazilli said. “He came in here about two days ago. He was asking about you—what you’re up to, who you’re running with. You best watch your ass.”

“Hey.” Rodney stepped back, snapping his hands down in disgust. “I’m a motherfuckin’ hard-workin’ businessman. Fuck Jo-Jo and them.”

“I’m a
bith
nith mayn,” Rocco said.

Rodney didn’t seem to hear this, and Mazilli threw Rocco a look to knock it off.

“Hey, you got to admit, Rodney, you got some fucking rep out there,” Mazilli said. “You know, anytime anybody talks to anybody about anything, your name pops up.”

With the lottery shut down, the store had begun to empty out. Rocco took a quick sip of his drink, came out from behind his counter and sauntered over to Mazilli’s side. He leaned on the front of the cold cuts case, positioning himself at the edge of Rodney’s vision.

“All I’m saying, Rodney, is watch your ass.” Mazilli sounded sincere. “I think they’re looking to fuck you good. Don’t use your phone for talking, you know what I mean?”

“My
phone!
“ Rodney squawked. Then he said to the wall, “Ain’t this some shit?”

“Let me ask you something.” Mazilli’s voice went low and confidential. “What do
you
hear about Ahab’s?”

“What Ahab’s?” Rodney’s voice went flat, his eyes darting between Mazilli’s and Rocco’s. “What, you mean that boy that got shot up?”

“He used to work for you, no?” Mazilli lit a cigarette and squinted through his own smoke.

“Yeah, Darryl. He was OK.”

Rodney looked at Rocco, expecting him to start something. But Rocco knew he had to keep his mouth shut now: he’d had words with the man, established himself as not his friend.

“He was OK, hah?” Mazilli made a bologna sandwich for a street dealer without losing eye contact.

“Yeah,” Rodney said, looking antsy now.

“Yeah?” Mazilli stared, waiting, until Rodney started playing bongo riffs on the Chore Boy carton. “We found like twenty-five hundred dollars on him.”

“Maybe they was wanting to take him off with the store receipts,” Rodney said, “then they panicked.”

“You think so?” Mazilli said.

“You got me.”