Deacon King Kong

by James McBride

  The stories were crazy, and Deems never believed them. But Sportcoat’s love of the game washed over Deems and his friends like rain. He bought them baseball bats, balls, gloves, even helmets. He umpired the annual game against the Watch Houses and coached it at the same time, wearing his hilarious umpire costume—mask, chest protector, and black umpire’s jacket—running around from base to base, calling runners safe when they were out and out when they were safe, and when either side argued, he’d shrug and switch his rulings, and when there was too much yelling, he’d holler, “Y’all driving me to drink!” which made everybody laugh more. Only Sportcoat could make the kids from those two housing projects, who hated each other for reasons long ago forgotten, get along on the ball field. Deems looked up to him. Part of him wanted to be like Sportcoat.

  “The fucker shot me,” Deems murmured, still facing the wall. “What’d I ever do to him?”

  Behind him, he heard Lightbulb speaking. “Bro, we got to talk.”

  Deems shifted around and opened his eyes, facing them both. They had moved to the window ledge, Beanie smoking nervously, glancing out the window, Lightbulb staring at him. Deems felt his temple. There was a huge lump of bandage there, wrapped around his head. His body felt as if it had been squeezed in a vise. His back and his legs still burned, aching from his fall off the plaza bench. The ear, the one that was wounded, itched badly—what was left of it.

  “Who’s covering the plaza?” he asked.

  “Stick.”

  Deems nodded. Stick was only sixteen, but he was original crew, so he was okay. Deems checked his watch. It was early, only eleven a.m. The usual customers didn’t show up at the flagpole until noon, which gave time for Deems to establish his lookouts on the four buildings that directly faced the plaza to spy for the cops and hand-signal any trouble.

  “Who’s the lookout on Building Nine?” Deems said.

  “Building Nine?”

  “Yeah, Building Nine.”

  “Nobody’s up there right now.”

  “Send somebody up there to look out.”

  “For what? You can’t see the flagpole plaza from there.”

  “I want ’em up there looking out for the ants.”

  The boys stared at him, confused. “For the ants?” Lightbulb asked. “You mean the ants that come ’round that we used to play with—”

  “What’d I say, man? Yes for the fucking ants—”

  Deems snapped to silence as the door opened. His mother marched into the room with a glass of water and a handful of pills. She placed them on the nightstand next to his bed, glanced at him and at the two boys, and departed without a word. She hadn’t said more than five words to him since he’d gotten out of the hospital three days before. Then again she never said more than five words to him anyway, other than: “I’m praying that you change.”

  He watched her as she moved out of the room. He knew the yelling, the screaming, and the cursing would come later. It didn’t matter. He had his own money. He could take care of himself if she made him move out . . . maybe. It was coming soon anyway, he thought. He stretched his neck to ease the tension and the movement sent a flash of pain firing across his face and ear and down his back like an explosion. It felt like the inside of his head was being torched. He belched, blinked, and saw a hand extended at his face. It was Lightbulb, holding out the water and the pills.

  “Take your medicine, bro.”

  Deems snatched the pills and water, gulped them down, then said, “Which apartments did they get into?”

  Lightbulb looked puzzled. “Who?”

  “The ants, bro. What apartments did they get into last year? They follow the same trail like always? They come up from Sausage’s basement in Seventeen?”

  “What you worrying about them for?” Lightbulb said. “We got a problem. Earl wants to see you.”

  “I ain’t studying Earl,” he said. “I asked about the ants.”

  “Earl’s mad, bro.”

  “About the ants?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” Lightbulb said. “Forget the ants. Earl says Sportcoat got to be dealt with. He’s saying we gonna lose the plaza to the Watch Houses if we don’t do something.”

  “We’ll deal with it.”

  “We ain’t got to. Earl says he’ll deal with Sportcoat hisself. Mr. Bunch told him to.”

  “We don’t need Earl in our business.”

  “Like I said, Mr. Bunch ain’t happy.”

  “Who you working for? Me? Or Earl and Mr. Bunch?”

  Lightbulb sat in silence, cowed. Deems continued: “Y’all been out there?”

  “Every day at noon,” Lightbulb said.

  “How’s business?”

  Lightbulb, always a goof, grinned and pulled out a round wad of bills and held it out to Deems, who glanced at the door where his mother had disappeared and said in a hushed voice, “Put that up, man.” Lightbulb sheepishly pocketed the money.

  “Light, anyone come through from the Watch Houses?” Deems asked.

  “Not yet,” Lightbulb said.

  “What you mean not yet? You hearing they gonna come through?”

  “I don’t know, man,” Lightbulb said forlornly. “I ain’t never been through this before.”

  Deems nodded. Lightbulb was scared. He didn’t have the heart for the game. They both knew it. It was just friendship that kept them close, Deems thought sadly. And friendship was trouble in business. He looked at Lightbulb again, his Afro covering his oddly shaped scalp that resembled from a side view a sixty-watt lightbulb, thus his nickname. The beginnings of a goatee were growing on his chin, giving Lightbulb a cool, almost hippie look. It doesn’t matter, Deems thought. He’ll be shooting heroin in a year. He had that smell on him. Deems’s gaze shifted to the small, stout Beanie, who was quiet, more solid.

  “What you think, Beanie? The Watches gonna try to move on our plaza?”

  “I don’t know. But I think that janitor’s a cop.”

  “Hot Sausage? Sausage is a drunk.”

  “Naw. The young guy. Jet.”

  “I thought you said Jet got arrested.”

  “That don’t mean nothin’. You check out his sneakers?”

  Deems leaned back on the pillow, thinking. He had noticed the sneakers. Cheap PF Flyers. “They were some cheap joints,” he agreed. Still, Deems thought, if Jet hadn’t hollered, Sportcoat would’ve . . . He rubbed his head; the ringing in his ear had now descended into a tingling pain, working its way down to his neck and across his eyes despite the medicine. He considered Beanie’s theory, then spoke. “Who was lookout on the roof of Building Seventeen and Thirty-Four that day?”

  “Chink was on Seventeen. Vance was on Thirty-Four.”

  “They didn’t see nothing?”

  “We didn’t ask.”

  “Ask,” Deems said, then, after a moment, added, “I think Earl sold us a bunch of goods.”

  The two boys glanced at each other. “Earl didn’t pop you, bro,” Lightbulb said. “That was Sportcoat.”

  Deems didn’t seem to hear. He ran through several quick mental checkoffs in his mind, then spoke. “Sportcoat’s a drunk. He got no crew. Don’t worry about him. Earl . . . for what we paying him, I think he double-crossed us. Set us up.”

  “Why you think that?” Lightbulb asked.

  “How’s it that Sportcoat could walk up on me without nobody calling it out? Maybe it ain’t nothing. Probably old Sport just lost his head. But selling horse is so hot now . . . it’s taking off. Easier to just rob somebody than stand out on the corners selling scag and smack in five- and ten-cent bags. I been telling Earl’s boss we need more protection down here—guns, y’know. Been saying it all year. And we need more love on the money tip. We’re only making four percent. We oughta be pulling five or six or even ten, as much shit as we move. I had all my collection money on me when
I was shot. I woke up in the hospital and the money was gone. Cops probably took it. Now I got to pay that back, plus the ten percent Bunch charges for being late. He don’t give a shit about our troubles. For a lousy four percent? We could do better getting our own supplier.”

  “Deems,” Beanie said. “We doing okay now.”

  “How come I got no muscle to protect me then? Who did we have out there? You two. Chink on Building Seventeen. Vance on Thirty-Four. And a bunch of kids. We need men around. With guns, bro. Ain’t that what I’m paying Earl for? Who’s watching our backs? We moving a lot of stuff. Earl shoulda sent somebody.”

  “Earl ain’t the boss,” Beanie said. “Mr. Bunch is the boss.”

  “There’s a bigger boss than him,” Deems said. “Mr. Joe. He’s the one we should be talking to.”

  The two boys looked at each other. They all knew “Mr. Joe”: Joe Peck, whose family owned the funeral home over on Silver Street.

  “Deems, he’s mob,” Beanie said slowly.

  “He likes money just like us,” Deems said. “He lives three streets over, bro. Mr. Bunch is just a middleman, from way out in Bed-Stuy.”

  Beanie and Lightbulb were silent. Beanie spoke first. “I don’t know, Deems. My daddy worked the docks with them Italians a long time. He said they ain’t nothing to mess with.”

  “Your daddy know everything?” Deems asked.

  “I’m just saying. Supposing Mr. Joe is like the Elephant,” Beanie said.

  “The Elephant don’t do dope.”

  “How you know?” Beanie said.

  Deems was silent. They didn’t have to know everything.

  Lightbulb spoke up. “What y’all talking about? We ain’t got to mess with the Elephant or Mr. Joe or nobody else. Earl said he’d handle it. Let him handle it. It’s old Sportcoat that’s the problem. What you gonna do about that?”

  Deems was silent a moment. Lightbulb had said “you” rather than “we.” He filed that thought for later, and it made him feel sad all over again. First he’d mentioned the ants and they’d hardly remembered. Protecting our building! That’s what the aim was. The Cause. Protect our territory! They didn’t even care about that. Now Lightbulb was already talking “you.” He wished Sugar were here. Sugar was loyal. And had heart. But Sugar’s mother had sent him to Alabama. He’d written to Sugar and asked to visit and Sugar wrote back saying “come on,” but when Deems wrote him a second letter, Sugar never wrote back. Beanie, Chink, Vance, and Stick were all he could trust now. That wasn’t much of a crew if the Watch Houses came calling. Lightbulb, he thought bitterly, was out.

  He turned to Beanie and the pain from his ear shot through his head. He grimaced and asked, “Sportcoat been ’round these parts?”

  “A little bit. Drinking like always.”

  “But he’s around?”

  “Not like always. But he’s still around. So’s Pudgy Fingers,” Beanie said, referring to Sportcoat’s blind son. Pudgy was a beloved fixture in the Cause Houses, wandering around freely, often brought to his door by any neighbor he happened to run across. The boys had known him all their lives. He was an easy target.

  “Ain’t no need to touch Pudgy Fingers,” Deems said.

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Don’t fuck with Pudgy Fingers.”

  The three were silent as Deems blinked, deep in thought. Finally he spoke. “Okay, I’ll let Earl take care of my business—just this once.”

  The two boys immediately looked glum. Now Deems felt worse. They had wanted to take care of Sportcoat, now he’d agreed, and now they were sad. Goddamn!

  “Stop being crybabies,” he said. “You said we got to do it, and now it’s done. Otherwise, the Watch Houses is gonna come gunning for the plaza. So let Earl deal with Sport.”

  The two boys stared at the floor. Neither looked at the other.

  “That’s how it is out here.”

  They remained silent.

  “This is the last time we let Earl take care of our business,” Deems said.

  “Thing is . . .” Beanie said softly, then stopped.

  “Thing is what?”

  “Well . . .”

  “What the fuck’s the matter with you, man?” Deems said. “You so scared of Earl you want him to take care of our business. Okay, I said let him. It’s done. Tell him go ’head. I’ll tell him myself when I get on my feet.”

  “There’s something else,” Beanie said.

  “Spit it out, man!”

  “Thing is, when Earl come around yesterday, he was asking about Sausage, too.”

  Another hit. Sausage was a friend. He’d helped out Sportcoat with baseball in the old days. Sausage gave out the cheese to their families every month. Everybody knew about Hot Sausage and Sister Bibb, the church organist for Five Ends. She was also Beanie’s aunt.

  That’s the problem, Deems thought. Everybody’s related to everybody in these goddamned pisshole projects.

  “Earl probably thinks Sausage is hiding Sportcoat,” Beanie said. “Or that Sausage is diming us out to the cops.”

  “Sausage ain’t diming nobody,” Deems scoffed. “We working right in front of Sausage’s face. He ain’t no stoolie.”

  “Everybody in the Cause knows that. But Earl ain’t from the Cause.”

  Deems glanced at Beanie, then at Lightbulb. One looked concerned, the other frightened. He nodded. “All right. Leave it to me. Earl ain’t moving on Sausage. I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, listen: In the next week or two, it’s the March of the Ants. You two take turns setting on top of Building Nine like we used to. Let me know when the ants come. You the only ones that know how to do that.”

  “What for?” Lightbulb asked.

  “Just do it. When you see signs they’re coming, wherever I’m at, come fetch me. The first sign you see, come get me. Got it? You remember the signs, right? You know what to look for?”

  They nodded.

  “Say it.”

  Beanie spoke up: “Mice and rats running in that little hallway near the roof. Bunch of roaches running up there, too.”

  “That’s right. Come get me if you see that. Understand?”

  They nodded. Deems looked at his watch. It was almost noon. He felt sleepy; the medicine was taking effect. “Y’all get down there and help Stick make us some money. Post all the lookouts on the buildings and pay ’em afterward, not before. Beanie, check the roof of Nine before you go to the plaza.”

  He saw the look of worry on their faces.

  “Just be cool,” he said. “I got a plan. We’ll get everything back to normal in no time.”

  With that, Deems lay sideways, his bandaged ear toward the ceiling, closed his eyes, and slept the sleep of a troubled boy who, over the course of an hour, had suddenly become what he’d always wanted to be: not a boy from one of New York City’s worst housing projects, an unhappy boy who had no dream, no house, no direction, no safety, no aspiration, no house keys, no backyard, no Jesus, no marching-band practice, no mother who listened to him, no father who knew him, no cousin who showed him right or wrong. He was no longer a boy who could throw a baseball seventy-eight miles an hour at the of age thirteen because back then it was the one thing in his sorry life he could control. All that was past. He was a man with a plan now, and he had to make a big play, no matter what. That was the game.