King Suckerman

by George Pelecanos

  They climbed out of the Dodge and crossed the street. B. R. Clagget ran alongside Cooper, the sawed-off pressed tightly against his leg. He caught his heel on a step leading into the building, and Cooper grabbed him under the arm to prevent his fall. Clagget felt light as paper in Cooper’s grasp.

  “Come along,” said Cooper.

  “I ain’t feelin’ so good, Wilton.”

  In the fluorescence of the lobby, Clagget looked waxy and gray, the vomit of acne purple on his sunken cheeks.

  “Never you mind. Soon as we get out of this town we gonna get you strong again.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Yeah, little brother. Tonight.”

  Ronald and Russell stepped forward as they came to the open elevator.

  “Uh-uh,” said Cooper. “You and your brother take the stairs.”

  “All right, Coop,” said Ronald. “See you up there, man.”

  Cooper said, “Right.”

  “Marcus,” whispered Karras.

  Clay said, “Hush.”

  They stood shoulder to shoulder behind the door. From outside the time between explosions grew shorter; the silence was filled by the conversation of the men coming up the stairs. The men were taking the stairs more rapidly now, and the concrete beneath Clay and Karras’s feet began to vibrate as the men advanced.

  Underneath the driving gloves, Karras’s hands were hot, slick with sweat. He had one hand behind him, wrapped around the grip of the .38. Sweat pooled in the collar of his shirt and snaked down his back. He could hear a thin wheeze in Clay’s breathing. Then the wheezing stopped. Clay had stopped breathing, that’s what it was; Karras stopped breathing, too. The men had rounded the corner of the top-floor landing and were coming up the last set of stairs toward the door that gave to the roof.

  Marcus looked through the crack between the door and its jamb.

  In his rectangular tunnel of vision, he saw Ronald Thomas pass. Russell passed next, his face flashing blue. They stepped outside and turned a corner, and then they were gone.

  Clay pushed against Karras’s shoulder. Karras stepped out from behind the door and pressed his back against the wall. He exhaled slowly and took in a lungful of thick, damp air.

  “Move it,” whispered Clay.

  “Where?” whispered Karras.

  Clay pointed his chin at the top of the stairs.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Thomas brothers stood on the roof, facing south. The roof was nearly clear: There were a couple of overturned beach chairs, three empty beer cans, and an air-conditioning system, duct work and compressors and such, that cluttered the northernmost end. Ladders leading down to fire escapes hung on the building’s east and west walls.

  Below, in the park, people moved about, holding sparklers, lighting off cones, firecrackers, and cherry bombs. A bottle rocket shot up above the trees. Beyond the park and downtown, the fireworks rose above the Mall, flowering and exploding now relentlessly, coloring the monuments, coloring the Thomas brothers and the roof.

  “Whew,” said Russell, stumbling back a step.

  “What?” said Ronald.

  “I am tripping, Ronald. All this blow is just fuckin’ up my head!”

  “There it is.”

  “Look here. I gotta run some water through my pipe.”

  “Don’t let me stop you.”

  “Need a little privacy, though.”

  “What, you shamed about somethin’?”

  “Shamed? Shoot, man, I’m right proud!”

  “Go ahead, man.”

  “ ’Cause you know I got some weight.”

  “Just go ahead.”

  Russell drifted, lighting a Kool along the way. Ronald drew his .357. He watched his brother walking slowly, putting that dip into it the way he always had. Ronald smiled.

  Russell went behind the air-conditioning ducts, stood at the building’s edge. He let the cigarette dangle from the corner of his mouth while he unzipped his fly. Russell pulled his cock out and let a hard stream of piss fly over the ledge.

  “Ahhh,” said Russell. “Goddamn.”

  Being higher than a motherfucker and taking a good-ass pee: It occurred to Russell just then that he’d never felt happier in his life.

  The elevator crept toward the top floor. Wilton Cooper racked the receiver on one .45, then the other, reholstered them both. He looked over at B. R. Clagget, narrow of shoulder, wasted, hunched in the corner of the car. He nodded at Clagget’s weapon.

  “You best ready that hog’s leg, little brother.”

  “My movie. Gonna take it all the way to the last reel, blood.”

  The car came to a stop. The doors opened to the hall.

  “How you want to play it, Wilton?”

  “The Greek’ll be with him. Kill the Greek, soon as you get a chance. Marcus Clay is mine.”

  “After we get the money?”

  “This ain’t got nothin’ to do with money. Kill ’em all, straight away.”

  They walked out into the hall, found the door to the stairwell. Cooper gave it a push.

  The stairwell was dark as they entered, darker as the door closed behind them. From where they stood they could see the open door past the landing above and the rockets spreading fire in the square of night.

  A light came on abruptly, and Clagget shielded his eyes. Cooper looked to the top of the stairs and smiled. Clay and Karras stood there, guns at their sides.

  “Trouble Man,” said Cooper.

  “Cooper.”

  “Takin’ the high ground, like a good soldier.”

  “Cooper?”

  “What.”

  “You ain’t got much time. I wouldn’t be wastin’ what you got left talkin’ all that bullshit.”

  “What would you have me do, then, Clay?”

  “I was you, I’d be prayin’ there’s a God who forgives.”

  Al Adamson rushed forward from behind the air-conditioning ducts, the Ka-bar knife in his hand, and slashed Russell Thomas’s throat clean through his windpipe.

  A wave of blood arced over the building’s edge. Russell crumpled like a marionette whose strings had been released, his head flopping back against his shoulders as if hinged.

  Adamson wiped the Ka-bar off on his black slacks, put his foot up on a square of ductwork, and sheathed the knife. He walked out from behind a large compressor.

  Thirty feet away, Ronald Thomas stood with his back turned, gun in hand, watching the fireworks. Adamson pulled his .45, jacked a round into the chamber.

  “Turn around slow!” yelled Adamson.

  Ronald did it.

  “Now drop it or use it,” said Adamson.

  Ronald raised the .357.

  They faced each other, guns pointed, expressionless. A barrage of rockets ripped across the sky.

  Ronald Thomas fired his gun; Al Adamson fired his. Twin muzzle flashes flared in the night.

  Cooper said, “You hear that, Clay?”

  Clay nodded.

  Cooper grinned. “Even with all those rockets and shit, the sound of a gun stands out. I guess you brought along some help. My money’d be on the Thomas brothers, you want to know the truth.”

  Marcus Clay did not respond. Clagget slipped his finger inside the shotgun’s trigger guard, wrapped his hand around the pump. Karras snicked the hammer back on the .38 and aimed the gun at Clagget’s chest.

  Cooper laughed shortly. “You lookin’ a little shaky, Greek boy. By the way, was pleased to make your momma’s acquaintance. Like a woman with a little back to her. Maybe I’ll look her up again, soon as we’re done.”

  Clay said, “You gonna talk all night, Cooper?”

  “All right,” said Cooper, “I guess we ought to just go ahead and get this done. Seein’ as how y’all got all your shit drawn and ready, and we standin’ here, basically at a disadvantage, maybe you’re thinkin’ now that things are gonna go your way. But here’s how I see it—”

  “No,” said Clay. “Here’s how it is. Your sissy ain’t racked that pu
mp yet, number one. Would be like him to wait for the drama rather than to come prepared.”

  Cooper’s smile died.

  Clay said, “And that leaves you and me.” He leveled his gun at Cooper.

  Karras shifted his weight, sweat dripping from his hair to his eyes. He tried to blink away the sting.

  “Shoot him, Dimitri,” said Clay.

  “Marcus,” said Karras.

  “You know your boy ain’t gonna use that gun,” said Cooper.

  “Shoot him now, Dimitri!”

  Karras did not move. The pipes cried in the stairwell below.

  Clagget racked the shotgun’s pump.

  “Aw, shit,” said Cooper. “Here we go, T-Man.”

  Cooper crossed his arms as Clagget brought the shotgun around.

  Karras closed his eyes, pulled back on the trigger of the .38.

  There was a deafening explosion. Clagget fell back, the shotgun flipping from his grasp and clattering down the stairs.

  The automatic in Marcus Clay’s hand kicked three times as Cooper’s fingers grasped at the grips of his .45s.

  A high-pitched tone sounded in Karras’s ears. Through the gun smoke, he saw Clagget writhing on the floor. A black hole showed in the thigh of the kid’s white slacks, and blood was shooting from the hole with the force of water flowing from a hose. The blood was washing over the walls and splashing back on Clagget. He was in a heap and holding his fingers over the hole, but the blood was finding its way through, and Clagget’s face was blue and stretched back.

  “Marcus.”

  “Shut up.”

  Clay went down to the landing. Cooper was sitting up, his back against the wall, his maroon polo shirt flapping at the sucking wound in the center of his chest. One elbow was white and shredded where the second round had hit, and two fingers were gone from the right hand where the third bullet had taken them off. Cooper stared into Clay’s eyes, his own eyes glassy, his mouth open as he tried to take in breath.

  Clay looked down at Clagget. He had seen a femoral artery wound before, in the war. The blood was everywhere now, overflowing the lip of the landing. Clagget had stopped trying to stanch the flow. He let his head fall back in the crimson pool.

  “Come on, Dimitri.”

  Karras didn’t move.

  “Come on,” said Clay. “They’re done.”

  Karras stepped around the dying men and followed Clay. Their shoes made blood prints on the stairs.

  Clay got behind the wheel of the Riviera. Karras dropped into the shotgun bucket, lacing his fingers tightly and resting his hands in his lap. Clay looked in the rearview mirror and smiled.

  “Marcus.”

  “Al.”

  Adamson sat low in the backseat. He shook a cigarette out of a pack and put fire to its end.

  Adamson blew smoke out the open window. “You make out all right?”

  “Yeah. You?”

  “Uh-huh. One of ’em had a little life in him after it went down. Followed me halfway down the fire escape, took a blind shot at me in the dark. He ain’t gonna last but another minute or so. I gut-shot his ass, blew some shit out his back, too. He’s gone.”

  Clay and Adamson’s eyes locked in the rearview.

  Adamson nodded to the back of Karras’s head.

  “He all right?”

  Clay thought of the first time he had killed a man.

  “He’s all right,” said Clay. “He’ll be fine.”

  “Get all your shit, then,” said Adamson, “and put it in this bag.”

  Adamson passed the olive green pack through the opening in the buckets while Clay removed his shoes. Clay looked inside the open flap at the chain cutters and Adamson’s gear. He dropped his own shoes, gun, and gloves in the pack.

  “Now you, Dimitri,” said Clay. “Take them Clydes off, too.”

  Karras did it, and Clay passed the pack back to Adamson.

  “Better get goin’,” said Adamson. “Don’t know if you noticed it or not, but you’re parked in a fire zone.”

  “Where we off to, man?” said Clay.

  “Anyplace where there’s water,” said Adamson, “provided you can get to it. Need to get this shit to the bottom of a river right quick.”

  Clay drove to the next intersection, turned right, and headed east.

  Ronald Thomas came out of the alley clutching both hands to his stomach. He felt as if his insides were falling out on him, right there. His hands were slick with blood, and his trousers were soaked with it down past the crotch. It hurt like a motherfucker, too. Goddamn did it hurt. He had never taken a bullet before, and he had no idea it could put a hurting on you this bad.

  Ronald had lost his gun just before dropping down from the fire escape. No matter. All he had to do was get to the Dodge. He had the keys in his pocket; at least he had been smart enough to keep them on him. Maybe Russell was waiting for him there—Ronald hadn’t seen Russell on the roof since he had gone off to take a piss. He hoped Russell had been smart enough to slip away when he got a look at the bald-headed dude. It would be like Russell to do just that.

  A cop was standing by the yellow Dodge.

  Ronald knew he shouldn’t have double-parked that Mopar out on the street. He turned his head and walked south on the sidewalk, standing as straight as he could manage without screaming out from the pain, and did a slant-step across 15th, straight into the park.

  There were people everywhere in the park, laughing, clapping, talking loud, like this was the party they had been waiting for all their lives. The rockets above exploded without a break now, brightening the park with sunlight intensity. The faces of the people were unfamiliar, distorted in the colored light.

  Ronald thought if he could get someplace quiet, a country kind of place, it would be all right.

  He stumbled onto a concrete stairway, passing a group of people sitting on a statue.

  “That nigger’s drunk as a white boy,” said a man, but when Ronald turned to look at him the man was just a dark face in a crowd of many dark faces, none of them friendly or warm.

  Ronald lost his balance, cried out, tripped down the steps and rolled, landing on his back at the edge of a fountain. Everyone in the park stood then, cheering and applauding as the finale was loosed above the Mall. Ronald looked up: red, white, and blue diamonds burned across the sky.

  Not here, Lord. Please, not here in front of all these strangers. I’m too far from home.

  A young man nearly stepped right on him. He got down on one knee and saw the massive wound in Ronald’s gut. Ronald put his hand on the young man’s shirtsleeve, gripped it tight.

  “Goddamn, man, you all right?”

  “Where go my brother?” said Ronald.

  “You just hold on, blood. I’m gonna get you some help. We’ll find your brother, too, don’t you worry about that. Just hold on.”

  The young man found an older man, who appeared to be sober and responsible, standing alone at the edge of the promenade.

  “There’s a man needs help. He’s hurt real bad.”

  “Show me,” said the older man, who read genuine fear in the young man’s face.

  The two men went to the fountain. Rubies and emeralds sparkled in Ronald Thomas’s open eyes.

  “Do something,” said the young man.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to do,” said the older man. “This man is dead.”

  The explosions ended just as the red, white, and blue light stopped flickering on the cinder-block wall. Then there was a great cheering sound and scattered applause. Wilton Cooper guessed that the big celebration was done.

  His eyes traveled down to his shirt. A small fountain of blood pumped out rhythmically from the scorched, ragged opening in the fabric. He let his head fall to the side. That was all he had the strength to do.

  Bobby Roy Clagget, light as he was, had been lifted by the bath of his own blood and carried a foot to rest against the wall. Cooper could see the slow rise and fall of Clagget’s birdcage chest. Clagget’s thin lips were pulled u
p high over his gums, and his complexion was stark and marbleized, beyond blue. He looked as dead as any man Cooper had ever seen.

  Cooper knew that he, Wilton Cooper, was dead, too.

  What was Bobby Roy thinking? Cooper guessed that B. R. Clagget was just plain surprised. That he had been shot, and yes, that it was all about to end. If he thought himself to be the hero of his own private movie, then it didn’t make sense—it couldn’t make sense—that the hero would die. Hadn’t the hero always walked away in the last reel?

  Cooper coughed up a great black glob of blood that flopped over his mouth and came to rest on his chin.

  “Wilton?”

  “Yes, little brother.”

  “I’m dyin’, blood.”

  Cooper issued a gurgling laugh. The blood was in his lungs now, and he was drowning in it. He stared at the cinder-block wall, the mortar lines erasing in the forty-watt light.

  “Wilton?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It hurts,” said Clagget in a small and childish way.

  “What,” said Wilton Cooper. “Didn’t you think it would?”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Marcus Clay drove across the city, taking the Sousa Bridge over the river and into Anacostia Park. Clay, Karras, and Adamson walked down to the picnic area, where revelers still gathered, drinking, laughing, listening to music, and getting high.

  Adamson had the pack slung over his shoulder. He nodded toward the end of the manicured grass where the tree line gave to a thin forest that ran upriver.

  “Think I’ll take a walk in the woods, Marcus.”

  “All right, Al. You take care.”

  “Right.”

  Adamson looked at Karras for a moment, then turned and jogged toward the woods. He entered the black space between the trees.

  Clay said, “Come on.”

  They walked down to the waterline, where they copped a joint from a Ward 8 resident their own age. Clay and Karras had a seat on the grass looking out across the Anacostia, the sky still bright in the west and thick with smoke.

  Clay fired up the number. The two of them smoked it down without conversation, listening to Hendrix’s Are You Experienced? coming loud from a Gremlin parked behind them in the lot. Clay smiled. Probably some blood, back in the world. The brothers over there, they did love their Jimi. Listening to the music, it made Clay think of Rasheed; the image of Rasheed kept the smile on his face.