Clarence slid out of the booth, moved over to a seat directly across from us. The kid didn't move.
"Shove over, Rover," the Prof barked at him. The kid moved to his right, breathing easier. Clarence watched him the way a pit boss watches the dice roll—any way they came up, he'd deal with it.
"I think I'm next," the kid said.
"You said that before. On the phone. Next what?"
"Next to die," the kid said, a ready–to–break bubble under the surface of his voice.
"You do this a lot?" I asked him, leaning forward. He wouldn't meet my eyes.
"Do what?" he muttered, surly now.
"Tell melodramatic stories to people you don't know."
His hands gripped the counter but he wouldn't look up, mumbled something I couldn't catch.
"What?"
"Fuck you ! I didn't come here for this…you don't care…"
"You got that right, kid. I don't care."
"My mother said…"
"It doesn't matter what your mother said. She thinks I owe her, I just paid it off. I said I'd listen to you, not hold your little hand, wipe your nose for you. All your mother knows, I'm a man for hire. You understand what I'm saying? Not a goddamned babysitter, okay? This is a simple deal—even a punk kid like you could get it. You want to talk, talk. You don't, walk."
The kid jumped up so suddenly that Clarence had the automatic leveled at his chest before the waiters even had a chance to pull their own hardware. The kid gasped, flopped back down like his legs had turned to jelly. He put his face in his hands and let it go, crying.
Clarence watched him for a minute or so before he reholstered his gun. I exchanged a look with the Prof. He shrugged his shoulders.
We waited.
The kid sat there crying, ignored. The rest of the joint moved into what it does: phones rang, people came in and out the back door, Mama's messengers and dealers and traffickers went about their business. The kid sat through it all, unmoving, a stone in a stream.
Starving to death in a restaurant.
When he looked up at me, his eyes were yellow–flecked with fear. If he was faking it, he was the best I'd ever seen.
"They have a way of coming for you. Getting inside. I didn't believe it at first. When Troy and Jennifer did it, everybody said they just wanted to be together. You know what I mean? Together forever. Kids talked. Like, maybe, she was pregnant or they wanted to get married and their parents wouldn't let them. But those kids…they don't know us. Our parents…it wouldn't matter. They wouldn't stop us from doing anything. Then Lana did it too. And Margo. They all did it."
"Did what?" I asked him.
"Died," the kid said. The way you explain something simple to someone simpler.
"They got done?"
"Huh?"
"Somebody killed them?"
"No. I mean…yes. I don't know. Suicide, that's what they called it. In the papers. Suicide."
"And you think it wasn't?"
"It was…I guess. I mean…they did it to themselves and all. But I think, maybe, they had to do it. And I will too."
"I don't get it, kid. People kill themselves. Kids kill themselves. They go in groups. Couple of kids, they're so sad, they play around with the idea, push themselves over the edge. The next kid sees all the weeping and wailing and special funeral services and how everyone knows the dead kids' names for the TV coverage. He doesn't focus on how they won't be around to bask in the light. He puts himself in that place…like he could have the funeral and be there too. And then goes to join them. It's a chain reaction—they call it cluster suicide. It's okay to be scared—that's a natural thing. But you don't need a man like me, okay? What you need, you need someone to talk to, like…"
"That's how it started !" the kid blurted out. "In Crystal Cove."
The Prof threw me the high–sign. I got up, left the two of them alone.
Clarence followed me out the back door. I stood there, watching the alley. It was empty except for my Plymouth and Clarence's gleaming British Racing Green Rover TC, both moored under a NO PARKING sign. The sign didn't have any effect on the community, but the graffiti did. You looked close, you'd see the spray–painted scrawls were really Chinese characters. Max the Silent, marking his territory with his chop.
I lit a smoke, thinking about Cherry. I left it alone—I'd play the tapes later.
"That is one weak sissy whiteboy, mahn," Clarence said, the Island roots showing strong in his young man's voice.
"He's just scared, Clarence. It happens."
"Yes, it happens to us all. Fear is a devil, for sure. But that boy, he is on his knees to it."
"It's not my problem," I said.
"Whatever it is, my father will find out. No man can hide the truth from him."
I glanced sideways at Clarence. I knew how he felt about the Prof, heard the pride in his voice. But I'd never heard him give it a title before.
"Yeah, the Prof is a magician."
"A magician, yes, but with the heart of a lion. He sees it all, but he never fall."
I started to tell this young man that I had come up with the Prof. He was the closest thing to a father I ever had, too. Made the jailhouse into my school, turned me from gunfighter to hustler. Saved my life. But Clarence, he knew all that. He was another savage cub whose heart the Prof found.
He'd been a pro even then—a young gun, working muscle for Jacques, the Brooklyn outlaw arms dealer. Up from the Islands he was, but he dropped straight into the pits, where the money was. The only thread that bound him to the straight side of the street died when his mother did. He was a quiet, reserved young man—his gun was much faster than his tongue. Jacques had him marked for big things, but Clarence got caught up in my war.
Clarence was there—waiting for me when I came out of that house of killing. He lay in the weeds, a few feet from the body of a cult–crazed young woman who would have taken him out with her long knife but for the Prof's snake–quick shotgun. Lay there in the quiet, lay there after the explosion, lay there during the gunfire. He asked the little man then, what do they do? Wait, the Prof said. Wait for me. And if I don't come out? Wait for the cops, the Prof told him. And die right there—die like a man.
After that night, the Prof had his heart. They bonded tighter than any accident of birth, flash–frozen together forever.
Me, I had a body. A baby's body.
I smoked through a couple more cigarettes in silence. A slope–shouldered Chinese stepped out the back, jerked his thumb over his shoulder. We went back inside.
The Prof was sitting next to the kid, holding an earless teacup in both hands. The kid had one too.
I took my seat. The Prof made a flicking gesture with his hand. Clarence walked over, put a slim, immaculately manicured hand on the kid's shoulder.
"You come with me, mahn," he said softly.
The kid got up. Clarence made an ushering gesture with his hand, and the kid started off to the back, Clarence shadowing. They'd be heading to the basement.
The Prof watched them go. Then he turned his milk chocolate eyes on me. I waited to hear what he'd pulled out of the kid, but he wasn't having any.
"Tell me what you know, nice and slow," the little man said.
"Already told you."
"Not about the boy, about his momma. You really go back with her?"
"Yeah. I guess. Maybe. There was a girl. Cherry. A long time ago. In London. Just before I went over to Biafra."
"She didn't have a kid then?"
"I don't know. Wouldn't be this kid, anyway…he's in high school, right?"
"Yeah. Just finished in fact. He's got a weak rap, but it's not no trap. The fear is real, bro."
"Lots of people scared."
"His nightmares could be gold, partner. Could be cream in those dreams. Tell me the rest."
"She was a waitress, or whatever they call those girls work in the clubs."
"Runway dancer?"
"No. It wasn't a nightclub, one of those Playboy–
type restaurant things. Everybody dressed up, fancy…but Vegas–glitz, not real class, you know what I mean? All matching little outfits for the girls…not topless, but just about…little black things, laced up the back, fishnet stockings, spikes, look–but–don't–touch, you got it?"
"That fluff–stuff won't play today."
I nodded my head in agreement, thinking of Peter, that poor sorry bastard, saving up his lunch money for weeks to buy a few minutes of delusion.
"Yeah. I was in this cheap hotel, staying low, waiting. We had to fly out of Lisbon, something about the Portuguese government backing the rebels…I never did understand it all. Anyway, I knew the man who was supposed to come for me…the same guy I'd met over here, right? But two guys knock on the door, call me by name, ask if they can come in. I figure, it's a new passport or something, but they were outsiders. They knew all about the Biafra thing, but that wasn't their play. What they had, what they said they had, was a whole bunch of diamonds. Handfuls, they said. Right out of the mines in South Africa. They gave me a whole lot of stuff about some mercs who wanted to pipeline it back to the States, how I could hook up with them on the island before we jumped in."
"What island?"
"São Tomé. Little tiny island, just off the coast of Nigeria. Biafra was landlocked by then, it was…you sure you want to hear this?"
"Play it out till it shouts, son."
"All right. They asked me to have a meet. At this club. Where Cherry worked, only I didn't know her then. I went every afternoon, for about ten days. One guy was always there, this guy Rex."
"Rex Grass, the kid said."
"Grass, that's just the way Limeys say 'rat,' Prof," I said, glad for once to be telling my teacher something he didn't know. "That wasn't the name he gave me."
"Motherfuckers talk some strange shit, don't they?"
"I guess. We had this corner table, like regulars. It was always this Rex, but one day there was a couple of Chinese guys, from Macao. Another day it was an Indian…like from India. Rex was the middleman, putting it all together."
"The guys who sent you over, you didn't tell them anything about this?"
"There wasn't any way to tell them, even if I wanted to. They gave me the cash in the U.S., the passport, told me they'd make contact at the hotel. That was it."
"Ice, huh?"
"That's what they said. I was just listening. I was a kid myself, right? But I was trying to do it right."
"So…?"
"So this Cherry, she was the regular girl on that table. It wasn't the kind of joint where they'd stuff tips into her bra, but her butt was always bruised from the pinches. I never tipped her myself—I wasn't picking up the tab. I get back to my place one time and I find a slip of paper in my jacket pocket. Just her name and a phone number. I called her, and we spent some time together."
"She was a player too?"
"I don't know…now. I sure didn't think so then. She was a bit older than me. I thought she just wanted some fun. That's all we did. She never asked me a word about business, didn't ask what I was doing over there, nothing. I asked her once, why she worked there. She said she was gonna meet a rich man, get married. It was a good place to meet a rich man, I remember her saying that."
"Look like she scoped the dope."
"Yeah. The last time I was in the joint, she gave me the high sign. I went to the Men's Room and she was there. Inside. I thought she wanted to get it on, but she wasn't after sex. She told me she saw this Rex the night before. Meeting a government man. I asked her how she knew. She told me I wasn't the only boyfriend she'd ever had. 'Don't come back, love,' is what she said. And I never did."
"What happened?"
"I don't know. I went back to the hotel, packed my stuff and got out. Called a number back in the States, left word where I was. I just waited on the recruiters. When they came to the new hotel, I told them I got nervous…spotted a federale in the place where they'd put me up. They took it okay—said I was smart to be spooky—made me describe this Rex. They didn't get mad about me looking to score for myself…like they expected it. Couple of days later, I went over to Cherry's house. The landlady said she moved out. I was there maybe another week, then I shipped out."
"Never saw her again?"
"Never."
"So what finally happened?"
"They bounced me around. London to Geneva to Lisbon, then to Angola, then to the island. I found the plane easy enough. Then I went over. After a while I came back. Never saw any of them again. It didn't come up until those South Africans came to me with that end–user certificate scam…the phony gunrunners, remember?"
"Yes, my brother," the Prof said, serious now. That was when Flood came into my life.
She won't be back either.
"I wouldn't know her…this Cherry. if she walked in the door. It was a long time ago."
"Want to ride the rocket?" the Prof asked, leaning forward. "Here's what the kid told me—get down to the sound."
The Prof reached over, glommed another of my smokes. Took a minute to fire it up to his satisfaction, like it was a five–dollar cigar, working with a convict's sense of time, killing it the way it was trying to kill him.
"They all rotten–rich, where this kid lives. Got all the things, you know what I'm saying? They all do everything the same way—there ain't but one kinda vines to buy, one kinda way to wear them, one kinda car to drive, right? It's all groups. Some of them ride horses, some ride Mercedes. Their folks are all someplace else. With their activities," he sneered. "They got crews, but they got no loyalty, see? Savage little bastards. Our boy, he was a tanker—the same nitrous they slip you in a dentist's office. Other ones, they played with Jello–shots. Some tranq'ed it through. Whatever makes your head dead, Fred."
"So what's he scared of? There's no more draft…and his kind don't go to jail."
"You ever watch TV? Ever see those ads…your kid's fucking up big–time, maybe he needs some of our fancy psychotherapy? A few weeks in our little hospital, you get yourself a brand–new kid. No more drugs, no more booze, no more bad temper. That's this Crystal Cove joint he was talking about."
"He's afraid they'll send him there?"
"Maybe. They sent his pals, a whole bunch of them. And they all come back. Talk about how great it was. They don't seem no better to him—they go right back to whatever lightning they was riding before they went in. But they're different."
"How?"
"The kid don't know. Here's what he says: half a dozen kids…kids he knows, kids he ran with…they checked out on the do–it–yourself plan. Stepped over. First two went out from an exhaust pipe. One drowned herself. Couple more overdosed on downers. And the last one, he ate a gun."
"They do that…"
"None of them left a note, bro."
"So?"
"He won't say why, but he thinks they got done. And what he's scared of, it's gonna happen to him."
"So the move is…"
"He can't run, son. Something's going down in that town, and he thinks it's coming for him, Jim."
"He wants…what?"
"A bodyguard, way he says it. Make sure he don't have himself an accident. But that plan don't scan, man. Got to be something else…"
"Where's the money?"
The Prof's voice dropped. He was talking without moving his lips, out of the side of his mouth. In the jailhouse, you talk two ways: loud when you're selling tickets, quiet when you're plotting. I leaned forward, tuned in.
"You be fucking surrounded by money, schoolboy. Up where the kid lives, the whole scene is green."
"Yeah, but…"
"You don't like the bet, you can always jet," the Prof rapped. "Take the case, Ace."
It didn't take me long to pack. Michelle dogged my steps, harassing me with questions. All I had was an address—told the kid I'd be there by nighttime.
"I don't know how long this is gonna take," I told her. "You can stay here, long as you want."
"About a New York minute is as long a
s I want, baby. This place is creepy enough with you here—I'm not staying one single night alone."
"Whatever you…"
"Yes, I know. I'll find a sweet little crib someplace, don't worry about me. Soon as you have a safe number, get it to the Mole."
"Okay."
"Now remember what I told you to watch for?"
"Yeah, yeah. What they wear, how they wear it, what they wear it with…"
"Don't be such a sarcastic bastard. How am I going to help you if I don't know the territory?"
"I said okay, Michelle. Soon as I know, you'll know, all right?"
"Shut up. And pack this too," she snapped, tossing a package at me.
It was a silk jacket, midnight blue. Soft as down, almost weightless. A pair of pleated pants of the same material, a slightly lighter blue.
"It's beautiful, Michelle."
"You got that right, dummy. That jacket's a genuine Marco Giallo. You can wear it with a pair of jeans, over a T–shirt, you still make a statement. Put on a nice shirt and a tie, you can walk in anywhere. Understand?"
"Yes. Thanks, honey."
"It gets crumpled, you just turn on the shower, all hot water, fill the bathroom with steam, hang it up for a couple of hours, it'll be good as new.
"Okay."
"Take the alligator boots too. Just wear them all the time, like a trademark. They'll never know you don't belong if you stand apart…got it?"
"Yeah."
"And don't do anything stupid."
"I got it, Michelle."
"I love you, baby," she whispered, standing on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.
After she left, I packed the things she bought for me. And threw in a gray summer–weight business suit and some other stuff, just in case I had to work a straighter crowd.
I crossed the Triboro through the Bronx, took 95 North to the Connecticut Pike, rolling east, driving just past the speed limit, staying with the Exact Change lanes. The Plymouth's tach never saw three grand, its monster motor bubbling, so far within itself it was almost asleep.
Just off the side of the road, the carcass of a dead dog. Couldn't cross the highway, but he made it to the other side.
Down in the Zero Page 3
