“My father’s mad at that school, too,” said Diego.
“You ain’t gonna say nothin to Brewster and Mr. Guy, right?”
“Nah, dawg, we’re straight.” They pounded fists. “See you at practice.”
“All right, then.”
Diego walked toward the bus stop, looking back at the fake 7-Eleven. Thing was, he and Toby
had
shoplifted a candy bar or two out of that place in days past. But the dude with the turban didn’t know that. How was he gonna discriminate?
At the bus stop, Diego got a call from his mother.
“Where are you?” said Regina.
“About to get on the twelve. I’ll probably stop at the courts, shoot around some. I got practice tonight.”
“Do you have homework?”
“I did it in study hall,” said Diego. He had done half of his homework, so it was only half a lie.
“Don’t be long,” said Regina.
“Okay.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mom,” said Diego in a real low voice, so the guy sitting in the bus shelter next to him could not hear.
Just about then, the Ride On rolled up and came to a stop. Diego boarded the bus.
RAMONE PHONED REGINA AND
told her he’d be out for a while longer. He asked about Alana and Diego, and she told him that Alana was up in her room and Diego was playing basketball over by Coolidge. Ramone was in the neighborhood, so he drove over to the courts.
Diego saw him first. His head came up as he heard the sound of the Tahoe approaching, recognizing the way it cried on its shocks. Diego was in the middle of a two-on-two, him and Shaka against the Spriggs twins, Ronald and Richard losing as usual and talking smack about their opponents and their relatives like they tended to do. Earlier, they had discussed Asa and speculated about his murder. The Spriggs boys had seen him that day, as had Diego and Shaka. No one knew a thing about the killing, but they wanted to talk. All of them felt some guilt, as in the last year or so they had turned their backs on Asa to varying degrees. In truth, he had turned away from them, too. Still, it just hurt. They considered themselves to be tough city kids, but this was the first of their childhood friends who had met death.
Gus Ramone walked up to the courts. With his Ray-Ban aviators, his dark blue suit and rep tie, and his black mustache, he looked every inch a cop. He shook Shaka’s hand and said hello to Ronald and Richard, correctly identifying them by name, though they were identical twins. He could tell the difference because Ronald had more playful, intelligent eyes. He’d known this group of Diego’s friends for ten years, going back to when they were little boys.
Ramone put his arm around Diego’s shoulders and the two of them drifted down to the street. Diego returned to the court a few minutes later, and Ramone got in the Tahoe and drove off.
“Detective Ramone,” said Shaka. “Man looked serious today.”
“Thought he was gonna take you down to the station, somethin,” said Ronald Spriggs.
“What he want?” said Richard.
He told me to get home before dark. He asked me how school went today. He told me he loves me. The same way my mom always does before she hangs up the phone.
“Nothing much,” said Diego to Richard. “He just told me to beat you Bamas to within an inch of your lives.”
“Your mother’s a Bama,” said Ronald.
Diego said, “Lemme see that rock.”
R
AYMOND BENJAMIN LIVED
in a freshly built, well-appointed condominium off U Street, between 10th and 9th, in the new Shaw. All of the furnishings and electronics on display had been paid for in cash. Benjamin’s IRS form stated that he was self-employed as a “certified used-car dealer.” More accurately, he made trips to northern New Jersey several times a month to buy high-end, low-mileage automobiles at auction for clients back in D.C. With his expertise at the process, he was able to purchase a Mercedes-Benz, Cadillac, BMW, or a Lexus at up to ten thousand dollars less than it could be had on a retail lot. In exchange, he delivered the car himself, detailed and in fine running condition, for a thousand-dollar fee.
At a glance, Benjamin was a respected, legitimate businessman. It had been five years since he had completed his prison term on a trafficking beef. He was no longer on paper and appeared to be clean.
Benjamin’s hands may not have touched drugs anymore, but they did touch drug money. He had remained in contact with the sons of his old New York connect, a Colombian now in prison, and Benjamin continued to broker and sometimes bankroll transactions between Washington distributors and the source up north without becoming directly involved. He was as adept at getting the best price on heroin as he was at negotiating down the price of cars, and the quality of the dope was consistently high. His commissions were formidable and afforded him a continuation of the lifestyle he had become accustomed to when he was a top-level dealer himself.
The risks were relatively low. His assistants made the calls and spoke in a kind of code, a variation of Pig Latin that Benjamin had developed, when they were on the line. They used disposable cells, difficult if not impossible to wiretap, when conducting business over the phone. At thirty-five, Raymond Benjamin was finding life better than it had ever been.
Except for days like today. Benjamin’s older sister, Raynella Reese, was in his condo, standing over him where he sat in a deco-style armchair. Raynella had one hand on her hip and was pointing a finger of the other at his face. She was a very tall woman and, like all of her siblings, was named in some manner after the man who had fathered them, Big Ray Benjamin, in his day a well-known numbers man on the 14th Street corridor.
Also in the room was Tommy Broadus, sitting in a similar chair that was bending under his weight. Broadus stared down at his shoes.
By the door stood two Benjamin employees: Michael “Mikey” Tate and Ernest “Nesto” Henderson. Officially, they were employed as sales associates of Cap City Luxury Vehicles, but they served Raymond Benjamin in a variety of capacities.
“He gonna be fine,” said Benjamin, attempting a calming gesture with his hands.
“Oh, he fine, huh?” said Raynella Reese, her hyperemotional voice working against the warm colors Benjamin had chosen for the room.
“The bullet went clean through,” said Tommy Broadus.
“Shut up, fatty,” said Raynella. She turned to her brother. “Where is Edward now? I want to see him for myself and make sure he’s good.”
“He restin,” said Benjamin. “The doctor took care of him.”
“You mean the
dog
doctor,” said Raynella. “Ain’t that right, Raymond?”
“Doc Newman is straight,” said Benjamin.
“He’s a veterinarian!” said Raynella.
“True,” said Benjamin. “But he is straight.”
For a high fee, Dr. Newman treated gunshot victims in the city who did not want to go to hospitals. He ran a veterinary clinic on Bladensburg Road, heading up toward the Peace Cross in Maryland. He often left scars, due to the stitching he used, but he was a master of irrigation. Few of his patients died of infection or loss of blood, and in general he did good work.
“He’s all right,” said Broadus. “They got him sleeping in the back room.”
When he
can
sleep, thought Broadus. With all them dogs barking and shit.
“How did this happen?” said Raynella. “And I don’t want to hear from the Michelin Man over there. I’m askin
you,
Raymond.”
“Someone got some information on the transaction Tommy was gettin ready to make. What we’re thinking is, it was someone at the cut house who learned about the deal and then passed it on.”
“You was braggin on yourself when you went to that place, I expect,” said Raynella to Broadus.
“I told him to make sure everyone knew he was alone on this,” said Benjamin. “That he bankrolled it hisself.”
“What he do, give out his home address?”
“I never did,” said Broadus.
“I don’t know how they figured where he stayed at,” said Benjamin. “But look, we gonna find all that out.”
“You goddamn right you gonna find out. ’Cause my son Edward is lyin in a, a
dog pound
with a hole in his shoulder, and some motherfucker’s gonna have to pay the dinner bill.” Raynella’s eyes were bugged and fierce. “That’s not just my son we’re talking about. That’s your nephew, Raymond.”
“I know it,” said Benjamin, wiping at his forehead as if it carried sweat, though he was not perspiring and it was cool in the room.
Right about now, Raymond Benjamin was thinking that buying and selling cars at auction was a relatively stress-free way of making a living. Knowing full well, even as he idly considered giving up his other activities, that the income from his legitimate business would never be, for a man like him, enough.
He had to choose his clients more carefully, is what it was. He had met Tommy Broadus when he got him that Cadillac CTS, six months back. And then Broadus, who knew who Benjamin was and his history, had told him that he was looking to take the plunge. Benjamin had had his doubts about Broadus, but he would take a hefty cut, not to mention the vig on his principal, if all went well. Also, he had seen it as an opportunity to indoctrinate his nephew Edward, who had been bothering him about getting into the business, with an older, nonviolent man in a deal that looked to be money.
And then the boy, with that smart mouth of his, had to go and lip off to a man holding a gun. Big sis was conveniently forgetting what he had tried to do for her son. Matter of fact, it was his sister who had been on him to “take care of” his nephew for some time. And now Raynella was getting all siced over the consequences, here in his living room.
“We gonna take care of it, Raynella,” said Benjamin. “That’s my fifty Gs they took, too. You know I can’t let none of this pass.”
“Man who shot Edward said his name,” said Broadus. “We do have that.”
“Romeo Brock,” said Benjamin.
“They was two,” said Broadus. “Another man, short and muscled-up.”
“You get an address or cell number with that name?” said Raynella. “Do you know anyone who knows this motherfucker who call himself Romeo?”
“He ain’t exactly in the phone book,” said Raymond.
“Then
exactly
what you gonna do? I was you, I’d go down to that cut house and start cuttin on some throat.”
“That wouldn’t work,” said Raymond. “I got to do business with those people long-term. I
will
find out who talked, eventually. But I can’t afford to sever that relationship at this time.”
“So what then?”
“For now, there’s a better way. Tell her, Tommy.”
“This Romeo Brock,” said Broadus, nearly mumbling, not looking Raynella in the eye, “he took a woman I been seein with him when he left out my place.”
“He snatched your girl out from under you, huh?”
“That pussy had cobwebs on it, anyway,” said Broadus, unable to humble himself even for the purpose of a serious discussion. “The point I’m making is, the girl got a job and she too proud to quit it. Won’t be hard to track her from there to where Brock layin up.”
“Today?” said Raynella.
“She off today,” said Broadus, trying not to picture Chantel with Romeo Brock, celebrating what they took.
“She’s gonna be at work tomorrow,” said Benjamin, standing out of his chair and stretching his six-foot-five-inch frame. “We know where it’s at. We already checked it out.”
“We?”
“Me, Mikey, and Nesto,” said Benjamin, patiently nodding to the two young men who stood by the door.
“Well, get on it!” said Raynella with a horrible shriek.
“I plan on it, Ray-nelle,” said Benjamin.
“Quit plannin and do it.”
Benjamin slowly rubbed his fingers up and down his temple. “You tryin to give me a migraine, girl.”
ROMEO BROCK PARTED THE
curtains of his bedroom window. He saw his cousin Conrad walking home from the shape-up spot he went to every morning, out there on Central Avenue. He was passing through the shade of the big tulip poplar and heading for the front door.
Gaskins had sweat stains on his T-shirt and his khaki Dickies held marks from the grass and shrubs he’d been cutting on all day. The man looked spent. Brock felt sorry for him, almost. He’d been out there in that autumn sun since daybreak, while he, Romeo Brock, had been in the cool of his house, drinking champagne and smoking a little get-high with a woman who was all woman. She was like one of those horses you admired while the trainer walked it around the track.
Brock let the curtain fall and looked over at the bed. Chantel Richards was sleeping on top of it, wearing one of his rayon shirts, unbuttoned to show her bra. She wore a lacy black thong to complement the brassiere. Beside the bed was the open Gucci suitcase, showing cash. Beneath Chantel was some of the cash, tossed there by Brock. They had fucked on it earlier.
He remembered seeing this movie on television when he was younger. Steve McQueen, baddest white man ever walked in front of a camera, played a dude who robbed a bank and then took off with his girlfriend, running from the Mob, the law, and a vengeful man who had worked the heist. Toward the end of the movie, before guns and gunmen interrupted, McQueen and his girl had begun to make it on a bed of money, and Romeo Brock at that moment had said in his mind, I will do that with a woman someday my own self. This girl in the movie, she was too skinny for Brock’s taste; matter of fact, she looked like a chicken with black hair. But there was something about her, he had to admit. Still, Steve’s girl wasn’t even on the same playing field as what he had in this bedroom right here. He couldn’t have dreamed that he, Romeo Brock, would ever be with a woman as fine as Chantel Richards, drinking White Star, bottom-knocking that thing on a bed of clean sheets and green.
He looked at her for a moment, sleeping there. Brock, dressed in his boxers and nothing else, lit a Kool and tossed the match into a tire-shaped ashtray. He closed the door softly behind him as he left the room.
Brock went down a hall, the kitchen behind him, passing Gaskins’s bedroom and the bathroom, and came out into a large living-and-dining-room area where Gaskins was standing.
“Tough day?” said Brock.
“Yeah,” said Gaskins, looking him over with a mixture of amusement and disgust. “How ’bout you?”
“Go on, cuz. Tryin’ to act like you don’t wish you were me.”
“Sure, I’d like it. Lie around in a dark room all day with a fine woman, drinking whatever it is you drinking that’s coming off your breath, smoking what I smell in the air. I’d like to try a little herb again someday, when I get off paper. I used to enjoy getting my head up.”
Brock hit his cigarette and let the smoke out and in, French style. “So why don’t you?”
“ ’Cause I got to work. I don’t mean I have to report to a job, which I do. I’m sayin I got the need to go to work every day.”
“You shouldn’t anymore. We got money.”
Gaskins shook his head. “You missin my point, Ro.”
“Cousin, we are rich.”
“Not hardly. We got to cut up the pie. And I know you gonna buy some things with what’s left. Before long, you’ll be looking for more.”
“And I’ll get it. The same way I got what’s in that bedroom.”
“And how you think that story’s gonna end?”
“Huh?”
“Every story’s got an ending,” said Gaskins.
Brock, his mouth open as he breathed through it, looked at Gaskins with waxed eyes. Then he smiled. “You just
too
damn serious. Here we are with everything, and you talkin doom.”
Gaskins could see it was useless explaining it to the boy. Some of them were just thick. And anyway, who was he to bust on Romeo’s groove? His young cousin would see it in the end. Too late, but still.
“All right, Romeo. All right.”
“There you go.”
“You hear from our man?”
Brock nodded. “He say he’d see us soon. I told him the money was safe.”
Gaskins stripped off his T-shirt. His face said thirty, but his body said nineteen.
“I’m gonna have a shower,” said Gaskins.
“Take a cold beer in there with you.”
“I think I will.”
Gaskins went to the kitchen to find that brew. Brock returned to his bedroom.
Chantel Richards was up, pulling the bottle of Moët out of an ice bucket set on the dresser. She poured champagne into a tumbler and had a sip.
“I wake you?” said Brock. He took a last drag off his Kool and stubbed it out in the ashtray.