King Suckerman

by George Pelecanos

  “Yeah, but they’re careful about givin’ out too much. No, I found out what you were lookin’ for by talking to the FBI and ATF boys we got working with us on the GYA thing. Got close to a couple of them these last six months.”

  “The Feds are involved?”

  “Uh-huh, and those Federal boys work fast. Turns out the group that robbed your store are wanted for a whole lot of shit, and not just in D.C.”

  “Like what?”

  “There was this shotgun murder at a drive-in this past week, down in North Carolina. A car registered to a Wilton Cooper was seen driving the suspect, white boy named Bobby Ray something-or-other, away. Then on Friday was that slaughter up in Marriottsville, near Baltimore. You read about that, right?”

  “I read it.”

  “Whoever did it burned the place down, but they got the tire markings, the shells, and some shot patterns, and they matched the double-aught loads. Same as the Carolina kill. Same prints, too.” Dozier looked Clay square in the eyes. “Same everything as in your shop.”

  “Damn.”

  “Uh-huh. This Cooper is one bad nigger, on the for real side. Was some kind of king inside the walls of Angola. One of the suspects, got a yard-long record on him, was incarcerated with Cooper down there. This suspect’s got a brother, and they think he’s with them, too.”

  “What about the white boy?”

  “No paper on him, but everyone makes him as the main triggerman. Way it appears, he just plain likes to kill. Question is, what connects them, motivewise, to you? Or was it something they had against Rasheed?”

  “Rasheed was good. I don’t know why they picked my store, George. I wish I did, but I don’t.”

  “Well, they’re gonna get ’em.”

  “Got a good lead, huh?”

  “Shoot, man, they left a trail so bright, blind man could see it. Had this girl they asked directions to the night of the murder, she described the car they were drivin’ down to wraparound stripes on the rear quarter panel. I saw the girl myself on Saturday, giving her statement in the station. Dark-skinned girl, looked like Carol Speed.”

  “Carol Speed. She the one played with Pam Grier in that prison movie set down in the Philippines?”

  Dozier nodded. “The Big Bird Cage. Anyway, the way she described the ride, it was like they picked out the most noticeable set of wheels they could. Like they were lookin’ to get caught.”

  “What were they drivin’?”

  “Chrysler product with a big-ass spoiler on the back.”

  “Plymouth Superbird?”

  “The sister version, by Dodge. Daytona Charger. Kind you usually see Chinese boys drivin’.”

  “So everyone thinks they’re still in town?”

  “Yeah. They found Cooper’s original vehicle, a red Challenger, stashed in a wooded area in Bladensburg, someplace like that.”

  “Should be easy to spot ’em.”

  “All the local law enforcement’s got the description of the men and the car now. Like I say, they’ll get ’em. I just hope to God they do before those boys hurt someone else.” Dozier looked at Clay, Clay’s eyes fixed and staring ahead. “You all right, Marcus?”

  “Yeah, George, I’m fine. Thanks for looking into it, man.”

  “I don’t know what you can do with it.”

  “Can’t do nothin’. Just tryin’ to make some sense out of all this, for my own piece of mind.” Clay took his wallet from his back pocket, signaled the aproned teenager who stood beside the grill.

  “Hold on, Marcus.” Dozier spoke to the grill man. “Young fella? How about another one of these chili dogs.”

  “Damn, George. I thought Moms was waitin’ on you to get the barbecue going.”

  “She is. But I don’t get in here as much as I used to. You come to Ben’s, you might as well go ahead and fill it on up.”

  “Good dogs,” said Clay.

  “Like to make you cry.”

  Marcus Clay crossed Connecticut Avenue on foot, hit the sidewalk, walked north against the flow. He stepped around a tourist carrying a miniature American flag mounted on a stick, and bumped into her husband, who wore plaid shorts and athletic socks pulled up to the knee.

  “Pardon me.”

  “Excuse me,” said Clay to the tourist, and that’s when Clay saw Clarence Tate standing in front of the locked door of Real Right Records.

  Clay went to his storefront, stood eye to eye with Tate. “You lookin’ for somethin’, man?”

  “What all good people are lookin’ for,” said Tate, spreading his hands palms out. “Peace.”

  “I don’t need no abstracts. I’m askin’ what you’re doin’ here for real.”

  Tate shrugged in a loose way. “Came to talk to you, Marcus, that’s all. Figure we got a mutual interest in working this thing out.”

  Clay looked around him, past the loiterers and the pedestrians. Traffic inched along amidst a shimmering heat mirage in the street. “Cooler and quieter inside,” he said, motioning his head toward the store entrance.

  “You askin’ me in?”

  Clay unlocked the door and said, “Come on.”

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Dimitri Karras looked out the front window of his apartment late Sunday morning. One block west, a mass of pedestrians moved slowly up Connecticut; Karras saw an opportunity to off the rest of his weed. He made a cup of coffee, scaled out the remainder of his dope, bagged it at the cable-spool table in his living room. He did a couple of bong hits and left the Trauma Arms.

  Karras wore baggy, lightweight cotton trousers with deep pockets in which he kept his OZs. A Hawaiian shirt worn tails out covered the bulging pockets. He went down to the circle and sat on the edge of the fountain, talking to a couple of people he knew and looking out for narcs. He didn’t usually ply his trade in the open here, but he knew the cops had better things to do on the Fourth, especially this Fourth, than to bother with a low-level dealer like him. After a while Karras saw an eager guy named Don Goines who was bone dry and offered to take the dope off his hands for retail. Karras made the deal sitting on a bench at the edge of the circular concrete walkway. He pocketed two hundred in twenties and went on his way.

  He bought a Sunday Post and another cup of coffee and returned to the circle, where he had a seat on an unoccupied bench. Karras read the A section, then Book World, and then Metro, his routine. Halfway into Metro he came upon a story detailing a Saturday accident on 95 in which a car carrying three boys had collided with a tractor-trailer head-on. All three boys and the driver of the truck had been killed. Open alcohol containers, marijuana, and paraphernalia were found in the car’s wreckage. The boys were Silver Spring residents, and one of them was named Jimmy Castle.

  “Hey, Dimitri, what’s goin’ on?”

  “What?”

  Karras looked at the face in front of him: a law-firm messenger he knew named Mike, or Mick, something like that. Karras hadn’t noticed his approach.

  “Dimitri, you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  “You don’t look so good, dude. You’re whiter than a fuckin’ sheet.”

  Karras looked down. He had dropped the Metro section, and it lay in the grass at his feet.

  “I’m all right.”

  “Hey, Dimitri.” The messenger lowered his voice. “I’m lookin’ to cop.”

  “Cop?”

  “Yeah, I’m lookin’ for some smoke, man.”

  “I’m done with that,” said Karras. “I’m cooked.”

  “You look cooked, dude,” the messenger said, but Karras was up and walking away.

  Karras had a beer at Benbow’s and a second one right behind it. He knew he could get drunk very quickly on an empty stomach, if that was his intent, but Karras was not a drinker, and he was still rational enough to realize that getting drunk would neither bring Jimmy Castle back to life nor change what he, Karras, had done. He drank a third beer anyway and stepped out into the heat.

  Karras badly wanted to see Marcus, but he couldn�
�t face him yet. He thought of going to a movie, but he had seen the feature at the Janus, and there was the possibility that Noah Castle was there, ushering the show. Of course Noah wouldn’t be working, not one day after his little brother’s death. But Karras didn’t care to take the chance.

  Karras stood in the middle of the Connecticut Avenue sidewalk. People went around him, all of them moving south. He began to feel nauseous out in the sun. He walked back to the Trauma Arms and took the steps up to his apartment, stopping once on the stairs to get his breath. Inside, he went straight to the bathroom, where he vomited his beers and morning coffee into the toilet. The beer bile stung shooting through his nose. He pulled himself up and washed his face with cool water from the sink. He staggered out into his bedroom, dropped onto his mattress, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

  “So,” said Marcus Clay. “Talk about it.”

  “It’s about Wilton Cooper,” said Clarence Tate.

  Clay said, “I figured it was.”

  “Want you to know somethin’, man, straight off.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “I had nothin’ to do with what happened in your shop.”

  “Never thought you did. Was your boss, though, that brought those boys north.”

  “He didn’t know nothin’ about the consequences. Eddie’s just simple like that.”

  “He’s responsible, just the same.”

  “In the same way that you’re responsible. You and your Greek friend.”

  “Tell me somethin’ I don’t know, Tate.”

  They stood on the sales floor, Tate with his back against the Soul rack, Clay straight up with his arms folded across his chest.

  “Okay,” said Tate. “It was Cooper’s bitch killed your employee. The ugly white boy with the Zayre’s-lookin’ vines pulled the trigger.”

  “I know it.”

  “Wasn’t just your employee they dusted. They killed a bunch of bikers out in Howard County as well.”

  “I know that, too.”

  “Cooper’s crew is just a killin’ machine.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know all that.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But you haven’t told the cops what you know.”

  “Right again,” said Clay. “And neither have you. Otherwise, you’d be talkin’ to them right now and not to me.”

  “Yeah. I’m talkin’ to you.”

  “You know where Cooper’s at?”

  Tate nodded. “I got the number where they’re staying, over in Northeast. Take about a couple of seconds for the police to be over there and bust that door down.”

  “But you’re not gonna call the police.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “ ’Cause Cooper threatened the life of my baby girl.”

  Clay unfolded his arms and leaned back against a rack. Now he stood eye level with Tate.

  “You got a daughter?”

  “Yeah.” Tate smiled. “Girl named Denice. Prettiest little thing you ever did see.”

  “Why not have her mother take her out of town until it’s over?”

  “She ain’t got no mother. The woman who bore her lives on the streets. She started spikin’, fell in love with that shit. Forgot all about the love she had for her daughter. I’m raising my girl now. Anyway, it ain’t never gonna be over.”

  “Cops raid that joint, they’re gonna put Cooper and the rest away for life. You won’t have to worry about no threats he made.”

  “That’s bullshit, Marcus, and you know it is. Wilton Cooper’s one of those niggers got so he loves the inside. On the street he’s hunted. But inside those walls he’s something else. A hero, man. Incarceration doesn’t punish a man like Cooper. The longer the bit, the greater his reward. He can have anything done, have anyone smoked from in there.”

  “I hear you, man.”

  “Question I have for you is why haven’t you been talkin’ to the cops?”

  “Who’s askin’? Your boss pullin’ your strings, or you come here your own self?”

  “Just me,” said Tate.

  “Okay,” said Clay. “I thought there might be a better alternative than the kind of justice the courts gonna deal out to Wilton Cooper. Thought I might have the opportunity to meet with the man, face-to-face, before the law gives him his gift, puts him where he wants to be.”

  “Then we’re thinkin’ the same way.”

  Clay said, “What’d you have in mind?”

  Tate pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He motioned Clay, and the two of them went to the island in the center of the store. Tate placed the paper on the counter, used his fingers to smooth out the folds.

  “I ain’t much of an artist,” said Tate. “But this here’s a place where I thought I could arrange it so the two of you could meet. It would have to be tonight.”

  “During the fireworks.”

  “Right. On account of all that noise.”

  “You think you can get him to come?”

  “I think he’s waitin’ on my call. Truth is, that’s why he’s hangin’ around D.C. He don’t give a fuck about the money you took. It’s all about you.”

  Clay stared at the crude pencil diagram. “All right, Tate. Like I said: Talk about it.”

  They planned for the better part of an hour. Clay went in the backroom and phoned Elaine, told her he’d be home a little later in the day. When he came out, he saw Tate flipping through the C bin in Soul.

  “What you lookin’ for, man?”

  “Give More Power to the People.”

  “The Chi-Lites. You mean you don’t own that?”

  “I wore the grooves down on my original.”

  “Well, it’s on order,” said Clay.

  “Can’t let that inventory build up, right? Got to turn it quick.”

  “You know it. I’ll put it aside for you when it comes in.”

  “Thanks.”

  Clay watched Tate withdraw an LP, read the liner notes on the back. “You’re into that neoclassic sound, huh?”

  “That what they call it? Shoot, man, I just love good music.”

  Clay looked Tate in the eye. “Let me ask you something. Why’s a smart guy like you workin’ for a dumb-ass like Eddie?”

  “Just happened, I guess.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you stay.”

  “I don’t intend to be with him much longer. Tryin’ to make this one last score, you want to know the truth. Lookin’ for a fence to take this big load we got. Eddie and me, we got this deal. Gonna split the take on that one and go our separate ways. And there’s another thing. I know it sounds like bullshit, man, but I just don’t believe in walking out on a man after I’ve made a commitment to him.”

  “It don’t sound nothin’ like bullshit to me,” said Clay. “Matter of fact, I could use a man like you right here.”

  “Say what?”

  “I’m offering you a job. You can start on Tuesday morning, when I get this place clean and opened back up. Got a lot of plans, Clarence. Soon as we get rollin’ here, I’ll be lookin’ for another location. Gonna need a good man to manage it for me, and the one after that, too.”

  Tate smiled. “Thanks, man. But like I say, I been counting on that money from the fence.”

  Clay rubbed his jaw. “Okay. How about this? I’ll find a fence for Eddie. Let me take care of that. Eddie’ll make whatever he can make. In the meantime, I’m gonna give you a grand, out of that ten thousand I got left, to come to work for me right away. Call it a bonus, Clarence. Call it anything you want.”

  “Thousand dollars?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Need to think on it, man.”

  “Think on it hard.”

  “I will.”

  Clay wrote his phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Tate.

  “You call me later, hear?”

  “Soon as I talk to Cooper.”

  “Right.”

  They walked to the door. “Whe
re you off to now, Clarence?”

  “Got something to take care of for you over at Meridian Heights.”

  “Then?”

  Tate shrugged. “Go home, I guess. See my little girl.”

  “No celebration tonight?”

  “Ain’t my independence day,” said Tate.

  “I heard that.”

  “Anyway, tonight’s Sunday, right? Round ten o’clock tonight, I usually be watchin’ Petey Greene’s Washington.”

  “Petey Greene’s somethin’.”

  “You know he is.

  “Marcus—”

  “Don’t say it. Don’t be wishin’ me no good luck. It’s all luck, man. If there’s one thing I learned overseas, that’s all it is.”

  “All right, man.”

  “All right.”

  They shook hands. Clay unlocked the door. He let Tate out and watched him walk down the street.

  Clarence Tate double-parked his Monte Carlo across from the Meridian Heights condo on 15th. On his left, people milled about and partied in Meridian Hill Park, staking out their spots for the evening’s festivities. The park sloped from the edge of the plateau to the beginnings of downtown, and its high ground afforded a clear view of the city, the monuments, and the Mall. Meridian Hill was a prime viewing point for the city; the park was going to be happening tonight.

  Tate went up the steps, entered the condo building. Andy, the security guard, was not behind his desk. A bulletin board where notices and local ads were hung was mounted near the elevator. On the board, a handmade flyer advised residents that the doors leading to the roof would be padlocked on July 4, as insurance restrictions prohibited parties and other group activities on this, the most desirable of outdoor party nights. Tate went back out to the street.

  A boy dribbled a basketball on the sidewalk out front, putting it through his legs and around his back, occasionally punctuating a particularly good head-fake with a simulated, get-up J. Then he went back into his dribble. The kid, Tate thought, had pretty good moves.

  Tate approached the boy. “Hey.”

  “Hey, wha’s up.”

  The boy gave Tate a quick appraisal but did not stop dribbling the ball.

  “Want to make some money?”

  “Ain’t dealin’ no drugs.”