Clockers (62 page)

Strike sat on the bench and went off into his thoughts, not watching anymore, only vaguely aware of the buzz-and-whack rhythm from the batting cage, musing on the fine line between Promise and Too Late. He felt sorry for himself, because at nineteen and a half years old, he was way over into Too Late. But when he finally looked up, Tyrone was standing over him, holding out a batting helmet and an aluminum bat, smiling as if he could read his thoughts and was here with a reprieve. “Now you.”

Strike dug in. He could see the prosecutor’s office about three hundred yards past the big deserted field, and as he waited for the first pitch he imagined the balls as hand grenades. He would belt the first one clear through a window down there, blow the fat Homicide to chunks, the second one right on top of Rodney’s car, the third one all the way across the river to the Bronx. But when the first pitch came, it sizzled right past his hands, scaring him a little, making him wobble with surprise.

“This ain’t no medium,” he said out loud to himself, too embarrassed to face Tyrone.

He missed the first eight pitches altogether, nicked the ninth by accident and let the last seven go by without swinging, too humiliated to whiff anymore. He stared out at the sun going down behind the prosecutor’s office and felt himself drifting deeper and deeper into the land of Too Late.

By the time he tossed the bat into the dirt, disgusted, he had just about decided to drive Tyrone home, let him get on with his life. But on the way to the car, the attendant caught up with them, walking slightly behind with a limpy little trot, murmured, “You got any bottles?” and Strike changed his mind right there, thinking, Fuck it, nobody goes home tonight.

Sliding behind the wheel, Strike let loose with an angry, squawking laugh. “No wonder I couldn’t hit the goddamn ball! Lookit!” He turned to Tyrone and pulled up his shirt to display the gun stuffed into his waistband. “The motherfucker was cutting right into my damn guts. How you like that?”

Back in Herman’s apartment, Tyrone sat on the edge of the bed in Strike’s room, watching Strike measure out two ounces of laxative, then ladle it with the soup spoon onto the wax-paper-covered circular platform of the triple-beam scale.

“The profit’s in the brown bottle,” Strike said, talking low and steady with concentration. “Always remember that.”

Strike lifted the wax paper and carefully dumped the cut into a mixing bowl with eight ounces of coke.

“I ever see you do this?” Strike glanced over at Tyrone, then started chopping at the bigger rocks with a single-edge razor and stirring the mixture with the spoon. “I ever see you put this shit in your nose or in a pipe or in your arm? Shit, I’ll come and kill you my
damn
self.”

Strike kept chopping, stirring, pouring powder over powder. “You probably asking yourself, how come I sell it, then?”

Strike really had no idea what this kid was asking himself. Tyrone sat silently, so Strike answered his own question. “‘Cause if / don’t, somebody else
will.
Me not selling it ain’t gonna stop nothing out there but my money flow.”

Strike transferred the stepped-on coke back to the scale, a spoonful at a time, weighing out ounces. “See, my boss buys him a ki for twenty-two, and that bottles up into thirty-five hundred ten-dollar bottles. That’s seventeen thousand profit on a ki takes us like a week to sell.”

Strike emptied an ounce off the wax paper into a Ziploc bag, noting to himself that here it was, his first ounce in his new weight business. “Now my boss, he takes sixty percent of that ki profit, but that leaves us seven thousand dollars, and I take like fifty percent of that, divide up the rest with my boys. So how much does my cut come to? Let me see how smart you are.”

Bagging up ounce number two, Strike cocked his head and frowned. Something ticked at the edge of his awareness, something
off
right now, and then it came to him: he was speaking without stammering. He didn’t stammer when he was around this kid.

“How much is fifty percent of seven thousand?”

“Three thousand five hundred,” Tyrone said quietly.

“Yeah, that’s right. I make me three thousand five hundred dollars a week out there.” He hesitated for a moment, wondering why, if that was the case, he never took home more than two thousand. “I got me a nice apartment, stereo,
women.
“ An image of Crystal came into his head and he shook it off. “Yeah, and I got me another house on a mountaintop? Nobody even knows about it. It’s like hidden in the rocks. You got to press this button, the rocks slide up, there’s the house. And
that
house, that house it’s like a
palace.
It got a indoor swimming pool, everything.”

Feeling foolish, he sneaked a peek at Tyrone, but the kid wasn’t even there. Hungry to get him back, Strike shifted gears. “You see that ugly man I was talking to before? The guy that came up to me on the benches?”

“The white man?”

“What white man?” Strike said. “No, the
black
man give me this package. You see that man?”

Tyrone nodded, getting a spooked look, and Strike decided that the kid was either scared by Erroll or off somewhere again, maybe wondering how he would explain to his mother where he’d been this evening. Strike momentarily worried about that himself, imagined the news of this little adventure filtering all the way back to Andre, and his anxiety made him paint Erroll with ghoulish strokes.

“That man’s a
killer.
That man’d kill you soon as look at you. That man got more bodies on him than a army. But he’s still walking free. You know why? They can’t find the damn bodies. They just find like a
blood
stain.” Strike nodded in agreement with himself.

“You know why I carry this?” Strike held up the gun. “Because if that man ever come up my wrong side? It’s gonna be me or him, and it’s gonna be over like
that.
“ Strike snapped his fingers, listened to himself as if he was on television. “That man ever come up to you, you better shoot first, ask questions later, because he
never
got any good news on him. Shoot first, ask questions later, even if he just wants to know what time it is, just say it’s
dyin
time, Erroll, and shoot him right in his ugly face.”

Tyrone sat as still as a monk, watching the line of ounces grow.

Strike held up a finger. “And don’t think he wouldn’t shoot you just ‘cause you little. Shit, I think he killed himself a eleven-year-old boy just last year.”

Strike wasn’t exactly sure how all this would make the kid feel tight with him. He looked at Tyrone, saw a boy who was all eyes and coiled secrets. Why wouldn’t he just
say
something?

“You ever shoot a twenty-five before?”

Tyrone shook his head, and Strike placed the gun in his hand. “It don’t feel like nothing, right?”

Tyrone stared down at his palm, his fingers splayed as if he was too shy to close his fist, to hold the thing like a weapon. The kid looked unnerved, but Strike saw something else coming off him too: there was a secret giddiness in the widening of his eyes, in the way he held his lips between his teeth.

Eight bags were full now, about two ounces left in the bowl. Strike was tempted to give the soup spoon to Tyrone and let him measure out an ounce, but something about that made him queasy, so he bagged up the rest himself and put them in the bureau.

“See, now this here, this ain’t bottles. With this here, I’m getting into a higher bracket thing right here. Make me a millionaire. What you think of that?”

Tyrone didn’t answer.

“What’s up with you?”

Tyrone made a noise that approximated “nothing.” He was still looking at the gun, gazing at it as if it were a tiny but vicious animal sleeping in his upturned hand.

Strike took the gun out of Tyrone’s palm and placed it in a nest of unused plastic bags in the bottom drawer of the bureau. Wanting to break the kid’s trance, he had Tyrone help him gather up all the mixing paraphernalia and transport it to the kitchen. At the sink, he stood behind Tyrone and watched him rinse off the mixing bowl and the soup spoon. He could tell by the way the kid held the bowl under the faucet that he was trying not to come into contact with the chalky veil of cocaine residue.

“You want a Yoo-Hoo?” Strike pointed to the refrigerator with his chin.

Herman materialized at the doorway, uttering half-words to himself and badly scaring Tyrone, who dropped the bowl into the sink with a hollow
bonk.
Herman’s neck was as corded and thin as a broccoli stalk, the collar of his starched white shirt two sizes too big.

“Hey
Herman,
“ Strike said in a shout. He shook the old man’s hand.

Herman nodded, then turned stiffly to Tyrone with a sweet feeble smile. His chin was patched with white stubble.

“That’s my brother,” Strike blared, winking at Tyrone.

“College boy?” Herman tried to pat his head, but Tyrone jerked backwards and bumped into the counter. For the first time since he got into the car, Tyrone sought out Strike’s eyes, and Strike was startled to see that the kid was on the verge of tears.

It was almost eleven o’clock, an hour past Fury time. Strike sat on his perch overlooking the bottle traffic. It was moving briskly but there was nothing much to do, just wait on Rodney to beep him and tell him what next with the ounces. Rodney had screamed at him on the phone to get his ass bagging, and now here it was four hours later and nothing was happening. Hurry up and wait. Always hurry up and wait.

When he got back to the projects, Tyrone had flown out of the car and into his building, and Strike cursed himself for telling the kid all those lies about secret houses and Erroll Barnes killing eleven-year-old boys. But he felt worst about making Tyrone wash out the mixing bowl, as if it was some kind of initiation rite. Well, shit, at least he didn’t make him bag ounces.

Out on the sidewalk, one of the lookouts tentatively raised up. Strike saw a five-year-old Delta 88, a rusty warhorse filled with bulky silhouettes at every window. It wasn’t a Fury car but it smelled like knocko anyhow, and Strike braced for trouble. Both of the front doors flew open and two Hawaiian shirts stepped out. The raiser barked “Five-oh” and split.

The two knockos moved to the bench at a fast clip, ignoring the bolting clockers, making a beeline for the bench, for Strike.

It was too late for Strike to move, but running wasn’t his style anyhow. His beeper went off, and then he saw that one of the knockos looming out of the darkness was Jo-Jo.

Strike didn’t get a chance to open his mouth. Jo-Jo and the other guy grabbed his arms and lifted him off the bench, walked him over to 8 Weehawken and slammed him into the outside wall. With his cheek mashed up against the brick and Jo-Jo’s hand jammed into his back, Strike listened to the other knocko tell people to move the fuck on. Strike willed himself to go slack and passive; he was clean.

“I’m gonna take my hand off your back now, but if you move your face from that wall, I’m gonna cave in your ribs, OK?” Jo-Jo spoke in a low, reasonable voice but there was a quiver of adrenaline in it.

“Yeah, OK,” Strike whispered, closing his eyes.

Strike’s beeper went off again. Jo-Jo grabbed it and read the phone number coming up. “Hey, my friend Rodney,” he said, then put the beeper back in Strike’s pocket and started a frisk, working from the calves up.

“So what’s up, Strike? What’s happenin’?”

Jo-Jo’s pat-down felt a little strange to Strike, the touch too quick and light. “Nothing, Officer.”

“Jo-Jo. Call me Jo-Jo.”

“Nothing Jo-Jo, just sitting.”

“Look, Strike,” Jo-Jo said, his whiskers in Strike’s ear. “The reason I come by, I just wanted to tell you that tomorrow night’s knock night. We’re coming down on Roosevelt like a fucking broom, OK?” His fingers played Strike’s clothes like piano keys. “So if you can remember that, and I was you, I’d take all my boys out for Blimpies about nine, nine-thirty, come back around eleven, OK?”

“OK.” Strike inhaled brick dust, his cheek starting to sting. ”
Tha-thank
you.”

“From now on, I’ll tell you when shit’s coming down, OK? Week in, week out.”

“Yeah, OK.”

“I’m your friend.”

“Yeah, I hear that.”

“Are you my friend?”

Strike hesitated. “Uh-huh.”

“What are you gonna do for me?”

Jo-Jo’s beard was tickling Strike’s ear, and Strike sighed out loud, thinking fast, an involuntary ripple running through his upper body. “Fuh-five hundred?”

Jo-Jo paused in his phony frisk. “That’s beautiful, Strike, that’s perfect.” He rubbed Strike’s neck, giving him a massage now. “I’ll send someone around in an hour, corner of Krumm and Loyola, in front of the candy store, OK?”

“Yeah, OK.”

“That’s great, that’s great.” Jo-Jo made a clicking sound of approval, patting him on the back in such a way that Strike knew it was all right to come off the wall.

Jo-Jo and his partner started walking back to the Olds, Jo-Jo getting as far as the benches before turning back to Strike. “You OK?”

“Yeah, I’m OK.” Strike looked off, breathing through his mouth.

“Good.” Jo-Jo nodded once. “Me too.”

When Strike’s beeper went off fifteen minutes later, he was alone, pacing in front of the benches like a crazy man. None of the clockers were back at work yet—a knocko visit was worth at least an hour’s step-back. He reached into his pocket for the beeper and found a business card. Turning it to the light, he read the name: Rocco Klein. Strike stood still, confused, not knowing if this was the card the Homicide gave him yesterday or one just laid on him by Jo-Jo. After a moment he resumed patrol, tallying in his head all the cash he had hidden in various safe houses around the Heights. Six thousand plus seven thousand plus nine thousand equals twenty-two thousand. Scoop scoop scoop and out.

24

WHEN
Rocco awoke Thursday morning, Patty had already left to take Erin to her Gymboree session and the apartment was empty. He lay on his back in the silence with a pillow over his head and began automatically running some faces and places behind his eyelids: Strike, by the benches, aggrieved and jittery; the Dunham apartment, spotless, the air charged with stifled emotion; Victor, sitting across from Rocco in the interrogation room like a stony shell, the heart of him, the truth of him, vanishing like sucked smoke right before Rocco’s eyes. Victor: Rocco wished he could get another crack at the kid, especially given what he had learned since the lockup. But there was no chance of that now; a lawyer would have to be out of his mind to allow the arresting officer to have any contact with his client.