Staten Island Noir (18 page)

"Yo, Sy . . . no . . . NOOOOOOOOO!"

Mease slapped his brother's face, trying to wake him up.

"C'mon, Sy, stay with me, stay with me, yo!!!"

With what little life he had left in him, Sy coughed up blood, then slowly whispered to his brother, "My fault . . . I meant to tell you . . . on the way to git the Billy Joel, I robbed thi—"

"Yo, Sy . . . Sy!"

Mease cupped his brother's face as Sy's life slid through his fingers. Mease had always been his brother's keeper. What would he keep now? He kissed his brother's forehead.

Mease stepped out of the truck and gave himself a thorough looking over. Not a drop of blood, no trace of gunshot residue. The cold didn't even bother him. He was in a daze, high off his brother's death, and sober to the Billy Joel. Now he looked at the bullet holes that splattered the back door of the truck. Still dazed from what happened, Mease saw the blue and white lights approaching as he walked over to the other side of the truck.

The blood-maroon Land Cruiser was bullet-riddled on the passenger side too, just like Sy. But Mease was not even scratched.

"How the fuck?"

Mease was in awe. And for a split second, what locked his brain wasn't the fact that his brother was slain, but that he was still standing there in one piece.

"MEEEEEEEEEEASE!"

Quentin, with gat in hand, screamed at his man from the opposite corner. He tucked the weapon between his jeans and hipbone, and ran over. "What the fuck is this, sun?"

Mease stood in utter shock. "Yo . . . I really don't know—"

"C'mon, sun, we gotta motivate! Them boys is on the way!" Quentin could see Mease wasn't moving, and the people who had fled the street were starting to return. He leaned through the shot-out window to grab Mease's coat, then went to the side of the truck to pull Mease away from the scene of the crime.

"My broth—"

"We gotta fly, Mease. If they catch us here, we finished! We gon' find out who did this, but right now, we gotta motivate!" Quent pulled a shell-shocked Mease away from the horrific sight while trying to force him into his coat.

In a moment of clarity, Mease broke away, leaned back into the truck, reached into the ashtray, and took the only memento left from his brother. They quickly skated around the block, into the entirely too long Tunnel line, then blended into the night on their way to the subway.

 

* * *

 

"License and registration."

Damn,
Mease thought, heeding the words of Officer Lillmann.
How the hell did the parking lot turn into a checkpoint?
He was fine until he'd turned off Jersey Street to park, where he saw the usual routine—barricades with one of the po-lice looking and the other one pointing. Of course, Mease got pointed before he could straighten the nose of the Lexus and keep it moving. He'd made it all the way here—now he saw Quentin walking past. Mease knew not to drive the solo car alone. But he was gonna be hard today . . . hardheaded. And they told him not to sniff nothing, but he was
coooool
, he could make it. And he almost had. But then he remembered that factoid—most fatal car accidents happen within a one-mile radius of the driver's home.

Here he was, skeed out his mind, about to be hemmed up by po-lice in the dirty car with three gats: one four-pound, one nine, and one Tec. All that
and
the half-kilo of coke . . . with his boss witnessing this spectacle.

Mease tried to slyly wipe the white powder away from his nostrils while po-lice checked his vitals. "Damn, I was just tryin' to git to my fuckin' son," he said in the empty car. Clearly the coke was getting to him—so much, in fact, he didn't even notice Lillmann back at his window.

"Well, all your info is fine, but here's a ticket . . . Put that in the visor so ya don't lose it."

"What's this for, I wasn't doin nuffin'!?"

"Nothin' except for ridin' with a passenger that looks like a half-ounce of that Pet Shop 'dro from uptown."

Mease looked to his right. Sure enough, he was so worried about the coke, he'd forgotten all about the bright-green bag of Mary Jane he'd copped for the crew to burn down during their cook-up session.

This was why Quent specifically told Mease not to get high.

"Don't worry, me and my old lady'll—how do you fools say it?—
burn it down
, right? Yeah, me and the old lady will burn it down in your honor! As for you, get outta the car slow. I been
waitin'
for this moment! And don't worry—I'll have a cruiser pick up Sy so you ain't too lonely. How 'bout those apples?"

 

* * *

 

Mease woke up in a cold sweat, drenched and so scared that he'd pissed on himself. Mease wasn't scared of po-lice, but had a pinch of fear when it came to Lillmann, because D2 had the power to take his freedom. He'd done it before to other dudes in Stapleton, Park Hill, Richmond Terrace, and every other hood on the Rock. But since Mease had nothing to care for anymore and no one to keep, he figured he'd body a cop before going to jail.

"Shit . . ." was all he could say when he realized he'd just awakened from a nightmare. He rolled over toward the window, saw that daybreak wasn't yet approaching. He could hear
American Splendor
on the TV, the part when Harvey is diagnosed with cancer and tells his wife, "I can't do it . . . I'm too scared and not strong enough to fight it."

Mease responded: "I feel you, homie."

Shit.
Mease was pissed because he pissed, but couldn't really flip. Instead, he collected the soiled sheets and made moves from the Richmond Terrace apartment he'd acquired from an old customer just before crack got her evicted. Richmond Terrace was ideal—the hilly concrete terrain enclosed a murky urban underbrush perfect for the movements Mease needed to make. He hopped in the whip with the saturated laundry bag and skated from the Terrace over to CNB Laundromat—the twenty-four-hour spot—at three thirty a.m.

Mease watched the sudsy clothes and sheets spin through the glass window while reflecting on his dream. Every day was hard since he lost Sy, no doubt about it. And somewhere along the way, he'd lost it all . . . and not by bad decisions, but simply by choice. Without Sy around to balance him out, Mease quickly fell—from crime boss controlling the majority of illegal operations in Killer Hill to low-level crime flunky. He now commuted from Richmond Terrace to finish jobs for Quentin, who had been one of his workers and at one point had owed Mease money. He couldn't care less, though. Without Sy, he did the bare minimum to survive. No more smart maneuvering, no more planning and calculating. Mease would go in, kill you, drop the gun at the crime scene
with
his prints, and dare you to detain him.

Now, six years after Sy had been shot, Detective Schmidt was frantically searching for Mease, always just a step behind. But Mease's whole existence resembled the motion of the soiled fabrics in the washer. He watched as his pissy shit got clean.

 

* * *

 

Then Schmidt's worst nightmare materialized. The Troy Davis rally was pretty tame—Shallah Raekwon made sure the word throughout Park Hill was "PEACEFUL," even toward po-lice. Two years before the miscarriage of justice that led to Troy Davis's 2007 execution date, Rae had approached the man known as The Abbott of the Wu-Tang Clan. He coerced RZA to couple some of that Quentin Tarantino
Pulp Fiction
Hollywood clout with his hip-hop pull to fund the rally supporting the wrongly accused black man. But no one could've anticipated this move.

While Schmidt tried to secure the crime scene in the area between Hubert H. Humphrey School and Targee Street, things began to spiral out of control. He asked, "What's the victim's name?"

"Quentin Montgomery," Lillmann snickered. "That asshole finally got his just desserts!"

Schmidt's face turned sheet-white. He looked at Quentin's body—no open casket for him. "Forty-five-caliber hollow tip wounds? You can't be serious!" Schmidt knew the work of this hollow-tip Desert Eagle executioner.

"I need you to put out a BOLO on—"

"On who, Schmiddy? Every nigger in the projects? We really gonna waste that much manpower on these savages?"

"Cut the shit, Lillmann!" Schmidt screamed, but it was entirely too late. In the lull between the chants of "Free Troy Davis!" someone turned the tide. The onlookers, overseeing the po-lice's treatment of Quentin's body, were already disgusted with Lillmann's foolishness. All it took was one "FUCK the PO-LICE!!!"

"Nah, FUCK D2, yo!"

"Yay-yea-yeah!!!"

Before he knew it, Schmidt was witnessing a riot unfold. The rustling amongst the people focused, becoming unified.

"Yeah, FUCK D2!"

 

* * *

 

Mease got off the bus on Tompkins Avenue clenching an aluminum briefcase. He began walking toward the hood. He kept an indiscreet hooptie in the parking lot; after losing his Land Cruiser, he had no desire for upscale luxury. "From point A to B" was Mease's vehicle motto now. He heard the project's heartbeat quicken as he walked through Stapleton Playground into the hood, and soon saw there was an outside event. A theater company was putting on an interactive play entitled
Bamboozled
for the kids in the projects.

"And that's exactly what it is," Mease murmured as he proceeded through a parking lot toward the interior of the projects. He passed familiar faces and landmarks like the teens with their pit bulls engulfed in blunt smoke.

Quick glares showered Mease, but no one thought twice about who he was.
I wish a mufucka would,
Mease thought, as he opened and closed each finger around the briefcase handle. He was blind to everything but his destination.

People knew Mease as the gangster gone wash-up. He was simply a lackey for Quentin, the dude who somehow usurped Mease's power once Sy was slain. Everyone knew Mease didn't care anymore. He was to Stapleton what Omar was to
The Wire
—when you saw him coming, you either ran, hid, or prepared to dodge slugs.

Mease followed the path into the double-sided building Stapleton was so well-known for. On the benches, another kiddie crew was drinking, smoking, selling crack, and clowning all the addicts who walked by. Spanky always sicced his pit on fiends who didn't look or smell right, which included damn near every customer. When Mease walked past the crew, they stopped talking until he made it to the lobby.

The Warren Street building was commandeered by Casper's crew for purposes beyond just family living. The lobby reeked like a Port Authority restroom. Mease made his way to the elevator, but couldn't enter because it was caught between the first and second floors, exposing the elevator shaft. He turned around and saw three more soldiers standing right behind him, guarding the building entrance and watching his every move. He took the stairs, and passed three-man crews on each landing.

He finally made it to the fourth floor. At the terrace entrance, Mease held his arms open, spread eagle, never letting the case go. He was patted down by two burly security guards, who then opened the door to "The Dub": two apartments connected by a wall removed. Mease and the briefcase were directed to the bathroom, which had been converted into a recording studio vocal booth. A small note taped to the mic read,
PUT THESE ON
. Mease set the briefcase down, stepped into the bathtub, stood in front of the mic, and slipped on the headphones.

He immediately heard Casper: "
I see you still remember your way to the hood, huh?
"

"Yeah, it's been awhile, but I made it," Mease replied.

Feeling awkward holding a conversation with a microphone, Mease scanned the room from floor to ceiling and located the camera posted on the wall above the mic, aimed at him.

"I see some things never change," Mease said, referencing Casper's anonymity. The crime boss had committed so much dirt in Stapleton that he had to remain nameless and faceless. And since there was already a Ghostface in Stapleton, he got stuck with the next best moniker.

Casper cackled through the headphones. "
No doubt. I called you out here for a reason, so lemme give you the details.
"

As he listened, Mease's face told it all.

"You really think that's gonna work? He's gonna be there for
that
?"

"
Fuck you think you talking to, nigguh? Look, I understand you outta the hood now, and I can even sympathize with the reason behind it. But you ain't been here, so don't question how I make moves. You here for a fuckin' job, so do as you told! Leave all the thinking to me, ya heard?
"

"A'ight . . . I got it . . . and you got me, right?" Mease countered.

Casper let out a deep sigh. "
Yeah, nigguh,
I got you!
You know the whole hood asking why you sleeping with the enemy? You ever think of that?
"

Mease looked puzzled.

"
I'ma put you outta this misery, cuz I know you really want out. And given what you been through, I'ma hook you up. One of my mans just ripped this jump-off he met in Manhattan. What's bugged is she talkin' 'bout how she messed with Harvey and was delivering paper for him. She told my dude that one time she got robbed by a kid from Killer Hill that Harvey's brother bodied.
"

Mease's brain began to move again. It hadn't in a very long time. "And . . ."

"
And my man said shorty was brunette up top . . . but was fire-engine-red down below.
"

Mease's face blanked. He couldn't believe it.

"
Yeah, believe it, fam. Don't never say I ain't do nuffin' for you, homie. Leave the case in the bathtub and break north. Do my job—that'll be your last. Then do what you need to, and don't fuck it up! Make sure you git it right, yo! Now get the fuck out my hood 'fore I sic some killuhs on that ass! You've been warned, ya heard?
"

"No . . . no doubt," Mease stuttered, puzzling the pieces together.

He took off the headphones, placed them back on the mic, stepped out the tub, and sat the briefcase where he once stood. When he opened the bathroom door, an identical briefcase was sitting in his path. Mease quickly picked it up and left.