“That’s what dying is, kiddo. But I’m not planning on doing that. Not for many years. Not for the foreseeable future.” Later. A little old. Soon. A little young. A lot old. Too soon. Not too young. Much later. Any time soon. Forever. Many years How many years made many years? And foreseeable future? A foreseeable future wasn’t possible. Unforeseeable was the future’s crux. Unforeseeability made the future the future.
All this shape-shifting, fake-out doubletalk. Time couldn’t be told. There was no reason even to bother trying to tell time. Time did not listen.
“Aw, Baby Beth, don’t cry. You’re killing me. Seeing you miserable? That’s what’ll be the death of me.” I wiped my face with the quicker-picker-upper I’d used as a napkin, did the usual little-kid shit, whimpered, sniffled.
I really didn’t want him ever to die. And I didn’t mean to kill him.
“Not for nothing, don’t’cha think it’s kind of hard to be so serious and sad when you got stripes of tomato sauce going down your schnozz?” I slid my index finger down my already sizable nose, and it came back greasily orange. Still inconsolable, I reached my index finger across the table, and striped his nose with my sauce. He stuck three of his fingers into my maze and war-painted my cheeks, which my face’s controlled ache told me were dimpin—the gerund form of a verb he invented just for me, its infinitive form, to dimp, referring to the sudden appearances of my dimples while eating or sup-pressing a smile. I poked a finger into my plate, stirred until my finger was slick with sauce, traced creepy-smiley-clown lipstick around his mouth’s perimeter. He stood, opened the fridge, handed me a can of orange soda. “This’ll make you feel better.” I drank some, cheered up a little, then a lot. Then all better.
I was so saturated with relief and unruly joy that my lips and tongue could almost taste the blood connecting me and my father. I was a balloon-skin about to burst into bits with the force of detonating affection and hope, hope, hope. I barreled toward him, bounded up into his arms, beaming, bobbing my cocksure head, shouting with unadulterated confidence: “You’re right! You’re not going to die any time soon. I just know it!” I spilled out of his arms. I wanted him to see how happy I was, now that I’d figured it out. “Nope!” I jigged a hippy-hoppy succession of leap and skips that he’d called, since I’d been a baby, Beth’s Dance of Sudden Elation. “I was being crazy, all wrong, before. Now for sure I know that you’re going to live at least another two weeks!”
Guilty as charged.
* * *
The good news, when we buried him, was that for the first time in twenty-four years, as his dead body dropped lower and lower, groundward, down, down, down, he had no fear at all. Burying him was the opposite of going up to work. Supine in his coffin, the cheapest my mother’s boyfriend’s money could buy, he descended, disappearing toward the world’s bottom, groundward, instead of climbing to its top, rising up and above, skyward. Sharper, closer to the surface of feeling even than grief, were the bones of my rib cage, truly a cage now, except the heart it was constructed to incarcerate, mine, had turned to nothing. The cage’s new inmate was Zero, the nothing that most definitely was something, an absence more present than my hands in front of me.
After the burial I packed my knapsack with my few things and moved into my mother’s house. I wasn’t going anywhere. Even while primed in a permanent state of cat-like readiness, I was solidly placed. I was keeping vigil. I was staying; I was staying vigilant. I assumed the position, like a long-distance runner poised to bolt at the sound of a gunshot that wouldn’t fire a second too soon. Fast and forward. No promises would be made, fulfilled or not, at 617 Flatlands Avenue, where I’d live with the mother who’d let me go. Where I’d live with the simplest fact—no one was ever going to help me ever—and where I’d live with the impenetrable tangle, the un-unravellable knowledge-knot that my mother had never wanted me around, but there I was, living with her as she resigned herself to living with me in a house attached on both sides and jam-packed with no-Dad and no-cry and plastic-covered furniture, exponentially accelerating my development into the little waste of sperm that I was.
And am.
PART II
New School Brooklyn
CROWN HEIST
BY ADAM MANSBACH
Crown Heights
Tap tap BOOM. Birds ain’t even got their warble on, and my shit’s shaking off the hinges. I didn’t even bother with the peephole. It had to be Abraham Lazarus, the Jewish Rasta, playing that dub bassline on my door.
BOOM I swung it open and Laz barged in like he was expecting to find the answer to life itself inside. A gust of Egyptian Musk oil and Nature’s Blessing dread-balm hit me two seconds after he flew by: Laz stayed haloed in that shit like it was some kind of armor. He did a U-turn around my couch, ran his palm across his forehead, wiped the sweat onto his jeans, and came back to the hall.
“I just got fuckin’ robbed, bro.”
Funny how a dude can cruise the road from neighbor to acquaintance to homeboy without ever coming to a full stop at any of the intersections. Me and Laz, our relationship was like one of those late-night cab rides where the driver hits his rhythm and the green lights stretch forever. He came upstairs and introduced himself the day I moved into his building two years ago: got to know who you live with when you’re moving four, five pounds of Jamaican brown a week. He sized me up, decided I was cool, and told me his door was always open. I didn’t really have too much going on then—just a half-time shit job in an office mailroom and a baby daughter Uptown who I never got to see—so before long I was com-ing by on the regular to smoke. If Laz wasn’t already puffing one of those big-ass Bob Marley cone spliffs when I walked in, my entrance was always reason enough for him to sweep his locks over his shoulder, hunch down over his coffee table, and commence to building one.
I used to call his crib Little Kingston. All the old dreads from the block would be up in there every afternoon: watching soccer games on cable, chanting down Babylon, talkin’ ’bout how horse fat an’ cow dead, whatever the fuck those bobo yardie motherfuckers do. I never said much to any of them, just passed the dutchie on the left hand side. Jafakin-ass Lazarus got much love from the bredren, but a domestically grown, unaffiliated nigga like me stayed on the outskirts. Whatever. Later for all that I-n-I bullshit anyway.
I flipped the top lock quick. “What happened?”
“Motherfucker walked straight into my crib, bro, ski-masked up. Put a fuckin’ Glock 9 to my head while I was lying in bed. Ran me for all my herb.” His hand shook as he lifted a thumb-and-finger pistol to his temple. Fear or rage; I couldn’t tell.
“How many?” I asked. “Who?” In Laz’s business, you don’t get jacked by strangers. Strictly friends and well-wishers.
“Just one, and he knew where my shit was.”
“Even the secret shit?”
“Not the secret shit. I still got that. But the other ten are gone—I just re-upped yesterday. Son of a bitch filled a trashbag, duct-taped me up, and bounced.”
“Didn’t do a very good job with the tape, did he?”
Laz shook his head. “He was too petro. That was the scariest part, T. He was shitting his pants more than I was. And that’s when you get shot: when a cat doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing.”
“You want a drink?” I didn’t know what else to say.
“You got a joint?”
“Yeah. Yeah. Hold on.” I went to the bedroom and grabbed my sack. Laz was sitting on the edge of the couch when I got back, flipping an orange pack of Zig-Zags through his knuckles.
“This might be kinda beside the point right now,” I said carefully, falling into the chair across from him, “but it’s probably time to dead all that cosmic-karmic open-door no-gun shit, huh?”
The bottom line was that Lazarus was practically asking to be robbed. He never locked his door, and the only weapon in his crib was the chef’s knife he used to chop up ganja for his customers. He had some kind of who-Jah-bless-let-no-man-curse theory about t
he whole thing, like somehow the diffusion of his positive vibrations into the universe would prevent anyone from schiesting him. That and the fact that all the small-timers who copped off him knew that Laz was tight with the old Jamaicans who really ran the neighborhood. Plus, Laz was convinced that he looked crazy ill strutting around his apartment with that big blade gleaming in his hand: a wild-minded, six-two, skin-and-bones whiteboy with a spliff dangling from his mouth and hair ropes trailing down his back. Half Lee “Scratch” Perry, half Frank White.
It was an equation that left plenty out—the growling stomachs of damn near every young thug in the area, for starters. A year ago, all Laz’s customers were dime-bag-and-bike-peddling yardmen, and everything was peace. Then the hip hop kids found out about him. I told Laz he shouldn’t even fuck with them. I know these niggas like I know myself, I said. They’re outa control. They trying to be who Jay-Z says he is on records, dude. You don’t need that in your life.
He shrugged me off. They’re babies. I man nah fear no likkle pickney. Any time Laz started speaking yard, I just left his ass alone. But he should have listened. You could practically see these kids narrowing their eyes at my man every time he turned his back. It had gotten to the point where I’d started locking the door myself whenever I came over.
“It was Jumpshot,” Laz said, as a calligraph of smoke twirled up from the three-paper cone he’d rolled. “It had to be.”
I leaned forward. “Why Jumpshot?” So-called because he liked to tell folks he was only in the game because genetics had failed to provide him with NBA height. Or WNBA height, for that matter.
“Two reasons.” Laz offered me the weed. I shook my head. He blew a white pillow at the ceiling. “Three, actually. One, he sells the most. He’s got the most ambition. Two, that shit last month, when he complained and I sonned him.”
“Hold up, hold up. You did what? You ain’ tell me this.”
Laz cocked his head at me. “Yes I did, bro. Didn’t I? He came by at night, picked up a QP. I was mad tired, plus mad zooted, and I gave him a shitty shake-bag by mistake. So the next morning he shows up with two of his boys, dudes I don’t even know, bitching. Little Ja Rule-lookin’ cocksucker. I was like, ‘Okay, cool.’ Sat him down, gave him a new bag, took the one he didn’t want, and threw it on the table. Then I brought out the chalice, like, ‘Now we’re gonna see if y’all can really smoke.’ Part challenge, part apology, you know. My bag and his bag, bowl for bowl. And you know I can smoke, bro.”
He had told me this story. It was funny at the time, hearing how Laz had smoked Jump and his boys into oblivion, burned up half Jump’s new herb sack before the kid even got out of the room. The way Laz told it, Jumpshot’s crew had passed out, but Jump himself refused to go down; he’d sat there all glassy-eyed, slumped back, barely able to bring the chalice-pipe to his lips, while Laz talked at him for hours like he was the dude’s uncle or something—regaled him with old smuggling stories from the island days, gave him advice on females, told him how to eat right, all types of shit. After a while, Laz said, he’d put this one song on repeat for hours, just to see if Jump would notice. “Herbman Trafficking” by Welton Irie, Laz’s theme music: Some a use heroin, some a snort up cocaine/but all I want for Christmas dat a two ganja plane/as one take off the other one land/we load the crop of sensimilla one by one/they tell me that it value is a quarter million/me sell it in the sun and a me sell it in the rain/ca’ when me get the money me go buy gold chain/me eat caviar and me a drink champagne …
“So what’s the third reason?” I asked.
“I recognized that motherfucker’s kicks. He got the new Jordans last week.” Lazarus stood up. “I gotta send a message. Right?”
I threw up my hands. “I’d say so. Yeah. I mean, you gotta do something.”
“Come see Cornelius with me.”
“Man, Cornelius doesn’t know me.”
“You’re in there all the time.”
“So? I’m just another dude who likes his vegi-fish and cornbread. Whatchu want me there for, anyway?”
“’Cause I’ma go see Jumpshot after that. And I’d like some company, you know what I’m saying?”
“I know what you’re saying, Laz, but I’m not tryna just run up on a armed motherfucker. What, you just gonna knock on his door? Say you’re the Girl Scouts? Why would he even be home?”
“If he’s not home, he’s not home. If he is, I’ll play it like I’m coming for help, like, ‘You’re the man on the street, find out who jacked me, I’ll make it worth your while.’”
Laz looked sharper, more angular, than I’d ever seen him. Like he was coming into focus. “I guess if he wanted to shoot you, he woulda done it half an hour ago,” I said.
“Exactly. Now he’s gotta play business-as-usual. Besides, I’m known to be unarmed. Now you understand why: so when I do pick up a strap, it’s some real out-of-character shit.”
“I don’t wanna be involved in no craziness, Laz.” I said it mostly just to get it on the record. Once you put in a certain number of hours with a cat like Lazarus, you become affiliated. Obligated. It starts off easy-going: You come over, you chill, you smoke. Ay T, you hungry? I’m ’bout to order up some food. Put away your money, dog. I got you. Then it becomes, Yo T, I gotta go out for a hot second. Do me a solid and mind the store, bro Or, Man, I’m mad tired. Can you bring Jamal this package for me? I’ll break you off. Good lookin’ out, T.
I stood up and walked out of the room.
“Fuck you going?” Laz called after me. I could tell from his tone that he was standing with his arms spread wide, like Isaac Hayes as Black Moses.
I came back and shook my duffel bag at him. “Unless you wanna carry those ten bricks back home in your drawers.”
“Good call.”
* * *
We drove to the spot, and I waited in the car while Laz talked to Cornelius. Most innocent-looking store in Crown Heights: Healthy Living Vegetarian Café and Juice Bar. X-amount of fake-bodega herb-gates with, like, one dusty-ass can of soda in the window, but Healthy Living was a high-post operation. They sold major weight, and only to maybe two or three cats, total. You had to come highly recommended, had to be Jamaican or be Abraham Lazarus.
The funny thing was that Cornelius could cook his ass off. You’d never know his spare ribs were made of gluten—that’s my word. Tastier than a motherfucker, and I ain’t even vegetarian. All Cornelius’s daughters worked in there, too, and every one of them was fine as hell. Different mothers, different shades of lovely. I stopped flirting after Lazarus told me where he copped his shit. Started noticing all the scars Cornelius had on his neck and forearms, too. He was from Trenchtown, Laz said. Marley’s neighborhood. You didn’t get out of there without a fight.
The metal gate was still down when we got there, but Cornelius was inside sweeping up. He raised it just enough to let Laz limbo underneath. I watched them exchange a few words: watched the face of the barrel-chested, teak-skinned man in the white chef’s apron darken as the pale, lanky dread bent to whisper in his ear. Then Cornelius laid his broom against a chair and beckoned Laz into the back room.
It wasn’t even a minute later when Laz ducked back outside and jumped into the ride. He didn’t say anything, just fisted the wheel and swung the car around. His face was blank, like an actor getting into character inside his head. I’d always thought his eyes were blue, but now they looked gray, the color of sidewalk cement.
“So what he say?” I figured he’d probably ignore the question, but I had to ask.
“He said, ‘Abraham, there are those that hang and those who do the cutting.’ And he gave me what I asked for.” Laz opened the left side of his jacket and I saw the handle of a pistol. Looked like a .38. Used to have one of those myself.
“I was hoping Cornelius would tell you he’d take care of it,” I said.
Laz shook his head about a millimeter. “Not how it works, T.” He made a right onto Jumpshot’s block, found a space, and backed in—cut the wheel too
early and fucked it up and had to start over. “Bumbaclot,” he mumbled. There was another car-length of space behind him, but Laz missed on the second try, too. I guess his mind was elsewhere. He nailed it on the third, flicked the key, and turned to me. Surprising how still it suddenly felt in there, with the engine off. How close.
“It’s cool if you want to wait in the car, T.” Laz said it staring straight ahead.
I ground my teeth together, felt my jaw flare. Mostly just so Laz would feel the weight of the favor. “I’m good.”
“You good?”
“I’m good.”
“Let’s do this.”
It was a pretty street. Row houses on either side, and an elementary school with a playground in the middle of the block. I used to live on a school block back Uptown. It’d be crazy loud every day from about noon to 3—different classes going to recess, fifty or sixty juiced-up kids zooming all over the place. Basketball, tag, double-dutch. Couldn’t be too mad at it, though. It was nice noise.
A thought occurred to me and I turned to Laz, who was trudging along with his hands pocketed and his head buried in his shoulders like a bloodshot, dreadlocked James Dean. “It’s too early for a tournament, right?”
That was Jumpshot’s other hustle. Dude had eight or ten TVs set up in his two-room basement crib, each one equipped with a PlayStation. For five or ten bills, shorties from the neighborhood could sign up and play NBALive or Madden Football or whatever, winner take all. Even the older kids, the young thug set, would be up in Jump’s crib, balling and smoking and betting. Jumpshot handled all the bookie action, in addition to selling the players beer and weed—at a mark-up, no less, like the place was a bar or some shit. It was kind of brilliant, really.
“Way too early,” said Laz.
We stopped in front of Jumpshot’s door. “Play it cool,” I reminded him.
“We’ll see,” said Laz, and a little bit of that Brooklyn-Jew accent, that soft, self-assured intonation, surfaced for a second. It occurred to me that maybe this wasn’t the first time he’d done something like this. Maybe he didn’t own a gun because he didn’t trust himself with one. I don’t know if the thought made me feel better or worse.
New York City Noir Page 11
