“Is it in yet?”
“The last time I saw a penis that small I was signing a birth certificate.”
“You're in luck hot stuff, I'm charging by the inch today.”
“Hold on while I get my reading glasses, handsome.”
Veronica missed her friend and the bawdy girl talk too. It felt good to let loose, but she felt guilty talking about her past. Collette told her she saw BB a couple of times a week. She'd mention that Veronica wanted to talk. He was the only lead the two of them had.
“What do you think Col, is he full of shit or is there some truth in all that talk?” Veronica asked.
“My guess, it's about 50-50,” she said. “So, do you love this Gino guy, or are you just taking a break and having a good time?”
“It's love. We're in love,” she said. “It’s funny. If it wasn’t for BB, Gino and I never would’ve met. That night at the Shot Tower I was taking care of the payola for BB because he was sick,” she said.
She wasn't one to kiss and tell but she was proud of the way Gino treated her. She told Collette they'd been living together for a couple of weeks before they'd even had sex. She told her what Gino had said. How he didn't want to rush it. How he wanted their first time to be perfect. How they had the rest of their lives.
“Oh, my God,” Collette said. “I'm so jealous. He sounds like a real sweetheart. You're lucky girl. Don't go and do something stupid and screw it up.”
Veronica told her she and Gino were moving to Puerto Rico and needed a quick infusion of cash. Collette knew all about Veronica's contempt for the city. Lots of sleepless nights, sharing gas station hot dogs in musty, one-bed motel rooms had made heartfelt companions of them.
“Good for you girl. Get out of this shithole while you can. I'll talk to a few people. But you can't expect something big to happen overnight. You know how shit works around here.”
“I know,” Veronica said. “Just keep your eyes and ears open. Mention it to BB. That's all I'm asking.”
“I'm so happy for you I could cry,” said Collette. “Fuck it, I think I will. Give me a hug.”
“Me too,” said Veronica. “I'll miss you so much.”
20
BB WALKED ACROSS THE parking lot to the dilapidated warehouse on Holabird Avenue. The sales team on their smoke break at the discount tire shop next door leered at him suspiciously through the chain-link fence. He stubbed the joint he'd been smoking against the block wall and entered through the rusty steel door, tugging his sagging jeans toward his thin waist.
“Yo, yo,” he said. “Where you at?” The words rang clear in the concrete structure. They'd done business together before. Lots of times. No guns. No problems. But something wasn't right. He felt it.
“Sorry BB. I didn't have a choice.” The familiar voice came from behind and to his left. “I've got a wife and kid. What could I do?”
When the two bruisers showed themselves the blood drained from his face. He recognized one of them. His face was the spitting image of Fred Ward in Escape from Alcatraz. Bruno. No last name required. His reputation was his last name. Bruno Head Smasher. Bruno Underworld Assassin. Bruno Sadistic Motherfucker. He was dressed for a board meeting, like the crime family was a publicly traded company. Only his sterling and turquoise studded leather belt was comically out of place, like he'd won it at a charity bingo event at a fire hall in New Mexico. His partner was shorter and stouter. His massive forehead and miniature eyes screamed: Shallow gene pool. No diving! His parents had ignored the warning. His duds were a step down too. Attention K-Mart shoppers.
He stood motionless, his dead arms hanging by his side. Bruno extended his right arm to BB's head. The cold, steel cylinder pressed against his left temple.
“Do you feel this gun pressed against your slimy head you grease ball?”
“I feel it.” His voice quivered.
“It's a .357 Magnum. Do you know what it'd do to your worthless skull?”
“I know.”
BB was in a bad way. He'd been in some predicaments over the years, but not like this. He guessed he had a ten percent chance of making it out alive.
“I know you're not as stupid as you look,” said Bruno. “That would be impossible, because you are one stupid looking motherfucker.”
“I know,” BB said.
“You don't know how lucky you are either,” Bruno continued.
“Funny, I don't feel lucky,” BB said. He figured if he made Bruno laugh he was less likely to kill him.
“That's funny. I like a guy who can keep his sense of humor when times are tough. It's an admirable quality. But BB, selling drugs, now that's not admirable. I mean, what kind of bottom-feeder are you? Don't you know children use that shit? It ruins lives. Shame on you.”
He didn't know what to say so he stood motionless.
“So, we're going to do you a big favor. We're going to relieve you of this horrible, moral burden. You don't even have to thank us, it's our pleasure.”
“Thanks,” BB said, instantly recognizing his blunder.
“I just said, 'you don't even have to thank us.’ Are you retarded?”
He bobbed his head.
“But BB, since we're doing you this big favor, you'll need to do us one too. Any problem with that?”
“No problem.”
“How do you know? I haven't told you what it is yet.” Bruno was enjoying himself. Like a cat enjoys tormenting a wounded toad before it rips its head off. His dick was probably hard too, BB thought.
“Whatever it is, it's OK with me.”
“That's a great attitude. I appreciate that. Now here's the deal. The men I work for are very powerful. I'm sure you know that already. They have certain arrangements with other powerful men. They scratch each other's backs, you know, tit-for-tat. Some of those men need some good PR, so we're going to throw them a bone, and you're going to help.”
“How?”
“Did you see that Caddy out front?”
“I saw it.”
“Well, we're going to fill it with drugs and send it on a trip. At least it'll look like it's full of drugs and going on a trip. That's all that matters. See, it'll only be partially full, and it won't make it very far. Won't even make it to the state line. Know why?”
“Nope.”
“Because the hard working men and women of law enforcement are going to get a tip. They'll be waiting. All you need to do is find someone to drive. With all the morons and scumbags you know that shouldn't be a problem right?”
“Right.”
“That's good because if you can't, you'll have to drive it yourself. And BB, don't drag your heels on this thing. It's going to happen soon. Don't do anything stupid either, like try to leave the city. We'll be watching. And whatever you do, don't tip off the driver. That would be unwise. If anything goes wrong, it'll be your problem. Got it?”
“Got it.”
21
I OPENED THE BOTTOM drawer of my dresser and pulled out the manila envelope that'd been hiding under my t-shirts. I lit a cigarette, took a drag, and placed it in the glass ashtray I'd brought in from the balcony. When I pinched it, the envelope's worn metal clasp snapped off in my fingers. I slid the picture out and propped it against the lamp on the night table. Two improbable friends if ever there were any. Two handsome young men in their primes. One black, one white. Two helmets, two beers, two big smiles. Muscular arms draped over one another's shoulders. Ernie Pyle couldn't have captured the moment more perfectly. A Huey gunship lifted off in the background, its nose pointed 30 degrees below horizontal as it gathered momentum. A cluster of palm trees to our right flapped in the rotor wash.
My body ached, worn-out from a week of punishing workouts. My mind was exhausted too. Telling La Lena my story had brought everything full circle. Peeled the scabs off some old wounds. Guilt seeped to the surface like methane through a tar pit.
Hey Jimmy. Remember this picture? Tough motherfuckers weren't we?
I waited. Sometimes Jimmy spoke. Someti
mes he just listened.
Guess you're not talking tonight. That's OK. Gotta run soon anyway. I haven't looked at this old picture in a while. Wow. Memory Lane.
I'm going to dinner at that pretty black girl's house tonight. The one you said might get me killed, remember? She told me to bring an open mind. Any idea what that means? No? Me neither. This morning I heard, My Boyfriend's Back. The Angels. Your favorite fuck-with-Dutch song. Every time we went back to Saigon you'd pretend you were Mai, hold your flashlight like a microphone and sing it to me. I wanted to kill you, but I could never stop laughing long enough to do it. Sleep well brother. I'll leave the photo out so you can get some fresh air.
THANKFULLY DOMINIC WASN’T there when I stopped at the restaurant to pick up a blueberry pie. If he had been he'd have asked a million questions. I knew he was dying to get the scoop, so I made a mental note to catch up with him soon. Outside I hailed a cab and told the driver I was going to Magnolia Dry Cleaners in Cherry Hill.
“Please tell me it's Cherry Hill, New Jersey,” he said, meaning why on earth would a white guy like me be going to that neighborhood with a pie? If he'd known who I was going to see, he wouldn't have asked.
From my place as the crow flies, La Lena's neck of the woods was south, southwest. That crow would have to fly over Baltimore Harbor, Locust Point, and the Patapsco River. As the cab goes, we took Boston Street to South Clinton to the Keith Avenue interchange, hopped on I-895 South through the Harbor Tunnel, then took the Potee Street exit and headed north. On the ride over I gazed out over the water. A heavy-duty tug was heading south against the chop, black diesel exhaust burping from its sooty stack. A ragtag flock of gulls flitted around its stern. Gulls can tell a tug from a trawler at 1,000 yards, so they knew it wasn't a fishing boat. Maybe they were just bored, or a deckhand was feeding them bread left over from his dinner sandwich.
My mind drifted away from that scene to the day La Lena and I met. That coffee shop wasn't near either of our homes, and other than that day I'd never have even considered going into a dive like that. I wondered how many trillions of little things had to happen in our lives to make the two of us end up there on the same day.
The shop where La Lena worked was on a corner and had big wrap around windows. The sign said they closed at five, and the sun had just disappeared by the time we pulled up. A blurry figure moved behind the counter, the last light flickered off, then she was at the door. She gave me a quick smile and began lowering the four, retractable metal shields that covered the windows when the shop was closed. Each was secured with two big padlocks, then she locked the front door and pulled down its metal cover as well. It was locked with an even bigger padlock.
“What’s in there?” I asked. “Gold bars?”
“Can't be too careful around here,” she said. She stepped back and gave me a onceover. She said I looked nice and asked what the wonderful smell was.
“Polo,” I said. “Not too much I hope.”
“I was talking about the pie,” she said, then asked if I was ready.
“Lead the way.”
The evening air was brisk. The sky was starry and the breeze was steady. She slipped her hand into mine and we walked north.
“I brought an open mind,” I said.
She smiled.
Her place was in an old apartment block. Three identical buildings situated around an open courtyard about 30 yards on each side.
“We're in this one over here,” she said. “I hope you don't mind taking the stairs. We're on the fourth floor.”
We? “OK by me.”
I remembered an article I'd read about the Cherry Hill section of Baltimore. It's located on a beautiful piece of real estate that bulges out into the north end of the Patapsco. Most of the housing was built as part of FDR's New Deal in the '30s. A spend-your-way-out-of-the-doldrums scheme meant to jumpstart the nation's stalled economy. At that time housing segregation was the norm, and Cherry Hill was all black. In the days after World War II the homes were filled with black veterans and their families, many of whom worked in the steel mills that employed a significant portion of Baltimore's labor force. When the Chinese figured out they could get away with dumping cheap steel on our shores, and the Japanese started making better, more fuel efficient cars than we did, many of those jobs went the way of the dodo. The precarious prosperity to which Cherry Hill had clung for decades slipped away. Many of the homes and apartments were converted into public housing, but like most government projects, the planning far exceeded the execution. Another taxpayer funded, do-gooder utopia crushed under the weight of incompetence, bureaucracy, and unforeseen market forces.
We entered the lobby and took the staircase on the right. A faint urine scent lingered and empty soda cans and cigarette packs littered the floor. When we got to the fourth floor landing she stopped.
“Thank you for coming,” she said.
She squeezed my arm and we walked down the hallway to the third apartment on the left. Inside, an old black woman sat peeling sweet potatoes at a worn, green Formica and stainless steel kitchenette. My jaw dropped. She was a carbon copy of someone I'd met as a young man. The sudden wave of memories stunned me.
“You OK?” La Lena asked.
“Your mother reminds me of someone.”
“That's my grandmother,” she said. “Who does she remind you of?”
I told her it was a long story.
Two young girls and a younger boy ran circles around the loveseat in the small living room.
“Everyone, please say hello to Mr. Dutch,” La Lena said.
“Hello Mr. Dutch,” the children said dutifully, then returned to their chasing game. The old woman stood up.
“We're glad you could come,” she said. “Don't mind the children too much. They make a lot of noise but that's about it. Well I suppose they may stare at you when they're done their game, but only because you’re a handsome white man.”
I smiled. “Smells great in here.”
She asked if I liked chicken, greens and sweet potatoes. I said I did. La Lena got me a glass of water and I sat down at the table with the old woman.
“I thought you were La Lena's mother,” I said.
“Heavens no honey, I'm her grandmother,” she said. “But flattery will get you far around here.”
We chatted as she finished peeling. She asked me about my family, where we were from, and what my father did when he was alive. She asked the most questions about my mother.
La Lena asked her grandmother if she could help. “I'm the only one who makes the sweet potatoes in this family girl. You know that,” she said.
La Lena chuckled and moved out of the way to let her into the kitchen, then sat down in the seat she’d just vacated.
“I knew she wouldn't let me help, but I always ask anyway,” she said.
The kids had calmed down and two of them were laying on the sofa watching a cartoon. The oldest girl came over and sat down on La Lena's lap. La Lena stroked her hair and kissed her cheek.
“How was school today baby girl?” she asked.
“Fine,” she said, and then she was up and over to the sofa to watch television with the others.
I knew the minute I saw her they were mother and daughter. The eyes, the nose, the affection. Ray Charles could've seen it.
“They all yours?” I asked.
“Only her,” she said.
“She's adorable,” I said. “What's her name?”
“Soul.”
We had a hell of a dinner, and I ate like a grizzly bear stocking up for winter. The conversation was easy and the food delicious. I usually ate alone and the family setting was a nice change. In typical fashion La Lena's grandmother kept heaping on seconds even after I was way past full. The kids asked me some blunt and interesting questions unique to children their ages.
“Why are you here?” Soul asked. Coming from an adult or adolescent it would have been confrontational. From her it couldn't have been more innocent.
“Well
, I love chicken and sweet potatoes. Your mom said her grandma made the best. So, here I am.”
“Oh,” she said and continued picking at her food. She was skinny but healthy. I was surprised at how little the children ate. With all the energy they'd expended since I'd been there it was a wonder they hadn't eaten more than I did. La Lena put on a pot of coffee and cut pie for everyone. The kids scarfed theirs down then asked if they could be excused. They were off quickly, but not as quickly as they'd been moving before dinner. They disappeared into the bedroom, where I could hear them whispering and giggling.
After a cup of coffee and a little more conversation it was time for me to go.
“That was the best meal I've had in ages. Thank you for having me,” I said.
“Oh, any time,” grandmother said. “Any time at all.”
As I walked to the door I peeked my head into the bedroom. “Goodbye kids, it was nice meeting you.”
“Goodbye Mr. Dutch,” they said in unison, then burst into laughter.
La Lena told her grandmother she was going to walk me downstairs. We were halfway down the hall when Soul ran out and jumped in front of us.
“Here,” she said. “I made something for you.”
She handed me a flower made from pink tissue paper and a green pipe cleaner.
“Thank you Soul. It's beautiful. Did you make it yourself?”
“Yes, I made it special for you,” she said.
She hugged my leg awkwardly then ran full-speed back into the apartment.
It was one of the most touching things I'd ever experienced. I wondered if La Lena saw it.
She walked with me across the courtyard to the street. We stopped under a flickering street light. I thanked her and told her what nice family she had.
“Will you be all right from here?” she asked.
“I'll be fine,” I said, not too sure I would be. Cherry Hill at night wasn't a good place for a guy like me.
“I suppose a kiss would be customary, but I'm guessing there are four pairs of eyes on us right now.”
Shakedown on Hate St Page 7
