"And that's exactly what it is," Mease murmured as he proceeded through a parking lot toward the interior of the projects. He passed familiar faces and landmarks like the teens with their pit bulls engulfed in blunt smoke.
Quick glares showered Mease, but no one thought twice about who he was. I wish a mufucka would, Mease thought, as he opened and closed each finger around the briefcase handle. He was blind to everything but his destination.
People knew Mease as the gangster gone wash-up. He was simply a lackey for Quentin, the dude who somehow usurped Mease's power once Sy was slain. Everyone knew Mease didn't care anymore. He was to Stapleton what Omar was to The Wire—when you saw him coming, you either ran, hid, or prepared to dodge slugs.
Mease followed the path into the double-sided building Stapleton was so well-known for. On the benches, another kiddie crew was drinking, smoking, selling crack, and clowning all the addicts who walked by. Spanky always sicced his pit on fiends who didn't look or smell right, which included damn near every customer. When Mease walked past the crew, they stopped talking until he made it to the lobby.
The Warren Street building was commandeered by Casper's crew for purposes beyond just family living. The lobby reeked like a Port Authority restroom. Mease made his way to the elevator, but couldn't enter because it was caught between the first and second floors, exposing the elevator shaft. He turned around and saw three more soldiers standing right behind him, guarding the building entrance and watching his every move. He took the stairs, and passed three-man crews on each landing.
He finally made it to the fourth floor. At the terrace entrance, Mease held his arms open, spread eagle, never letting the case go. He was patted down by two burly security guards, who then opened the door to "The Dub": two apartments connected by a wall removed. Mease and the briefcase were directed to the bathroom, which had been converted into a recording studio vocal booth. A small note taped to the mic read, PUT THESE ON. Mease set the briefcase down, stepped into the bathtub, stood in front of the mic, and slipped on the headphones.
He immediately heard Casper: "I see you still remember your way to the hood, huh?"
"Yeah, it's been awhile, but I made it," Mease replied.
Feeling awkward holding a conversation with a microphone, Mease scanned the room from floor to ceiling and located the camera posted on the wall above the mic, aimed at him.
"I see some things never change," Mease said, referencing Casper's anonymity. The crime boss had committed so much dirt in Stapleton that he had to remain nameless and faceless. And since there was already a Ghostface in Stapleton, he got stuck with the next best moniker.
Casper cackled through the headphones. "No doubt. I called you out here for a reason, so lemme give you the details."
As he listened, Mease's face told it all.
"You really think that's gonna work? He's gonna be there for that?"
"Fuck you think you talking to, nigguh? Look, I understand you outta the hood now, and I can even sympathize with the reason behind it. But you ain't been here, so don't question how I make moves. You here for a fuckin' job, so do as you told! Leave all the thinking to me, ya heard?"
"A'ight . . . I got it . . . and you got me, right?" Mease countered.
Casper let out a deep sigh. "Yeah, nigguh, I got you! You know the whole hood asking why you sleeping with the enemy? You ever think of that?"
Mease looked puzzled.
"I'ma put you outta this misery, cuz I know you really want out. And given what you been through, I'ma hook you up. One of my mans just ripped this jump-off he met in Manhattan. What's bugged is she talkin' 'bout how she messed with Harvey and was delivering paper for him. She told my dude that one time she got robbed by a kid from Killer Hill that Harvey's brother bodied."
Mease's brain began to move again. It hadn't in a very long time. "And . . ."
"And my man said shorty was brunette up top . . . but was fire-engine-red down below."
Mease's face blanked. He couldn't believe it.
"Yeah, believe it, fam. Don't never say I ain't do nuffin' for you, homie. Leave the case in the bathtub and break north. Do my job—that'll be your last. Then do what you need to, and don't fuck it up! Make sure you git it right, yo! Now get the fuck out my hood 'fore I sic some killuhs on that ass! You've been warned, ya heard?"
"No . . . no doubt," Mease stuttered, puzzling the pieces together.
He took off the headphones, placed them back on the mic, stepped out the tub, and sat the briefcase where he once stood. When he opened the bathroom door, an identical briefcase was sitting in his path. Mease quickly picked it up and left.
It was starting to make sense to Mease. Harvey was Quentin's brother. They were both from QB and acted like they hated each other. Problem was, it was all game—all for show in the hood so they could extort info from people. This dude might tell Harvey about some bullshit Quentin did. Meanwhile, Quentin found out from someone else why they were scheming on Harvey. They had it down to a science.
No wonder Quentin never had my money that night, Mease thought. Sy did a robbery. He robbed the fire-engine redhead Mease remembered from that night . . . Harvey's girl. And now Mease woke up.
He proceeded to his usual escape route; after sliding the briefcase into a duffel bag slung across his back, he moved briskly across the terrace to the adjoining building and noticed the uniforms running into the other entrance.
And at the back of the pack was Officer Lillmann. As Detective Schmidt cautiously hopped up the stairs, gun drawn, to the fourth floor, Mease was already on the other side of the building. When he reached the far end of the terrace, he hopped the enclosure gate and climbed down. Mease was tall enough to hang from the outside of the terrace fence and plant his feet on the top of the third-floor fence.
Maneuvering onto the third-floor terrace, Mease opened the apartment window from outside. Casper's instructions were good, and Mease darted through the apartment to the far wall, opened the window, and climbed onto the cemented air conditioner. From there, he sprang down to the curved lamppost jutting from the building. He let go, landing on his feet.
Mease was track-star status to his hooptie in the parking lot. While he was pulling outta Stapleton Houses, Schmidt and the po-lice brigade knocked down the door to find the apartment empty, except for the mic and headphones in the bathroom.
Mease knew Schmidt would be pissed that he had just missed him . . . again. But Mease was awake now, and back to his Harry Houdini when it came to Schmidt's pursuit—always a step ahead.
* * *
"FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
Schmidt slapped his palm against his forehead. For the first time, Lillmann looked at Schmidt helplessly, his eyes opened wide, irises big as saucers with hole-punched black spots in the center.
"FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
The other officers on the scene approached the crowd tentatively, trying to calm them down. Lillmann walked up to Schmidt.
"Schmiddy, what are we gon—"
Schmidt saw Lillmann's eyes pop out of his head in slow motion. A spatter of red liquid hovered in the air like late-July humidity. Schmidt didn't recognize what was happening. Then he gasped as Lillmann's face was pulled from his head.
"What the . . . ?" Schmidt tried lifting his hand toward Lillmann, but the gesture took a lifetime. And then it all resumed in real time.
The thud of Lillmann's body bouncing against the concrete echoed in Schmidt's ears. The angry mob screamed, swaying in various directions. Po-lice on the scene ducked, squawking like pigeons, searching for the assailant's angle. But Schmidt stood erect, scanning with his eyes. He'd been told Mease was working on a big job for Casper that would allow him to exit the game. At first, he figured it was Quentin; but then it dawned on him that was Mease's thing—the job was a hit on the most hated officer in Park Hill history.
As the crowd dispersed, the remaining residents saw that Lillmann had been hit.
"DAMN—they shot D2 in the face!!!"
> "Rude bwoy . . . bo-bo-BO!!!"
"YEAH . . . FUCK D2 . . . FUCK D2!"
A few po-lice grabbed their walkie-talkies, calling for backup, the riot squad, any extra manpower to contain and control a steaming hood crowd. Schmidt was still, craning his neck, surveying the landscape for the culprit.
Just then, a black Lincoln livery cab turned the corner from Park Hill Avenue onto Palma Drive. While everything seemed slow to Schmidt once again, this cab existed in the same wrinkle of time he now occupied. His head and eyes stopped, locking in on the moving vehicle. The driver was unrecognizable—until he pulled the black bandanna off his face and the black hood off his head.
"Mease," Schmidt whimpered.
Mease winked at the detective who'd been following him since Sy's death. "This one's on me, Schmiddy!"
Focused on his getaway route, Mease's fingers stumbled through the ashtray. He'd killed Lillmann for Casper . . . Shit, he'd killed D2 for the whole hood! But Quentin was responsible for the death of his baby brother Sy. Finally, his fingers fell on their target. He picked up the small clip left from that night's eL. He put it to his lips and lit up. He had kept this clip for a long time, and promised himself he'd dead it when he deaded his brother's murderer.
When Mease turned onto Targee with the hood in an absolute frenzy, he cracked the window and let the smoke fly as he choked on his last few pulls of that Uptown Girl named Billy Joel.
[Editor's Note: all characters in this story—even those based on real people—are fictional or used in a fictional context.]
BEFORE IT HARDENS
BY EDDIE JOYCE
Annadale
His parents called it his graduation barbecue but Mikey knew better. This was their party, their chance to show off their oldest son. So he stood there, in the tiny fenced-in backyard, and answered the same questions over and over. Yes, he was glad that school was over. Yes, he was excited to go up to LeMoyne. No, it wasn't a full scholarship, just half. Baseball was different than basketball. The coach only has a dozen scholarships to divide among twenty-five players. He wasn't sure what he would major in. No, he probably wouldn't start freshmen year.
After a few minutes, his cheeks started to ache.
When they were done congratulating Mikey, the well-wishers—neighbors, old friends, twice-a-year cousins—walked over to his father, cooking burgers at the grill, and slapped his back, or they sidled up to his mother, standing on the small brick patio drinking Chardonnay, and kissed her cheek. They all said something and then glanced back at Mikey. Something like Good job or Great kid, like it was all his parents' doing, like Mikey had played no role at all. His graduation party. Right.
Sure, Pete and Benny were there. Jenny, of course. And Jenny's best friend Amy. But that was it, as far as his friends went. Mikey didn't even mind because these were the only people he might actually stay in touch with when he went away to college. At graduation, all the kids around him were crying and hugging, promising to hang out this summer, swearing they would keep in touch. But Mikey just smiled and shook hands and wished them good luck. His life, his real life, was in front of him, not behind him, and he saw little sense pretending otherwise.
As soon as he could, Mikey retreated to the picnic table in the back of the yard.
"Dude, how long do we have to stay here? This is boring as balls."
"Benny, do you have to use 'balls' in every sentence?"
"Yes, Amy, I swear on my hairy balls that I do."
Amy stuck her tongue out at Benny, who gave her the finger in response. They'd been flirting all year; nothing had happened. Mikey sat down, picked at a plate of pasta salad. He looked back toward the patio and saw his uncle Tommy letting himself in through the chain-link gate at the side of the house. His uncle—squat, mustachioed, and grim, raising three kids on his own—was wearing construction clothes. He'd come straight from a job, on a Saturday.
Tommy plucked two tall boys of Bud from the enormous white cooler stationed near the grill and walked over to their table. Every stiff-legged, achy stride pushed a wince across his face. He handed Mikey one of the cans and took a long, foamy pull on his own.
"Congrats, Mikey." Tommy brought his beer can down, knocked it into the one he'd put in Mikey's hand. He looked around the table at the others. "Having fun?"
Mikey cracked his beer, took a surreptitious sip.
"Yeah, I am now."
Tommy laughed. "Good. Well, enjoy your day. Enjoy your day."
He turned away and then turned back, a quick pirouette that caught Mikey in the middle of rolling his eyes at Jenny.
"Because a week from Monday, you come to work with me. Gonna teach you a little something about hard work before you head up to that country club."
He walked over to the other adults huddled on the patio. Benny started to laugh. Mikey told him to shut up.
"Sorry, bro. That sucks. That really sucks."
Pete shrugged his shoulders. "At least he gave you a beer."
* * *
The next morning, Mikey got up early and went down to the kitchen. His mother was cooking bacon and eggs. A white box from Galluccio's bakery peeked open on the kitchen table, the red and white twining already cut. He walked up beside his mom and kissed her cheek. He glanced out the window above the sink to the backyard. Already clean. The chairs folded, the trash collected in four tidy white bags.
"Mom, you should have waited. I would have helped you clean up."
"It was nothing. Took no time at all."
With her spatula, she lifted a few pieces of bacon out of the hissing pan and dropped them on a plate covered with a paper towel. Mikey grabbed a piece of bacon and put it in his mouth.
"Christ, Michael, at least wait for it to cool off." She laughed. "You know, I saw that beer Uncle Tommy gave you yesterday. I let it slide but don't get used to it. You're still living under my roof."
"Jesus, Mom, it was one beer."
"I don't know what my brother is thinking sometimes."
Mikey reached for another piece of bacon from the plate. His mother put the last of the bacon in the fat-filled pan and it crackled before fading into an agitated sizzle.
"Yeah, Mom, about Uncle Tommy, I don't know about this construction job. I thought I'd work at the CYO camp again."
"Michael, the pay is great. You'll make three times what you did at the camp. You'll have some pocket money at school."
"I don't need money for school, Mom. I have a scholarship."
"That doesn't cover everything. You want a bike to get to class? Or some CDs? Or what if Jenny comes to visit, you want to take her out to dinner? These things cost money." She pointed the grease-coated end of the spatula at him to accentuate each point.
"But Coach Whelan said I need to gain weight this summer. He said I need to gain ten to fifteen pounds of muscle."
"This job will help. You'll be lifting things all day."
Mikey knew he wouldn't win. He retreated to the kitchen table and flopped into one of the chairs.
His mother talked at him over her shoulder, her voice raised so he'd hear her above the frying bacon. "Michael, you know how things are right now. Money is tight. This will really help."
She turned off the burner, brought the plate of bacon over to the table. She sat down next to him.
"And look, you have a week before you start. Go and have some fun. No moping."
Mikey's pout eased into a reluctant smile. He knew he was being selfish but he couldn't help it. He'd worked hard for four years. He hadn't slacked off his senior year like most of his friends. He'd kept his grades up even though it didn't come easy, had never come easy. He'd busted his ass, in the classroom, in the batting cage, on the field. He'd earned that scholarship. He figured he was due a breezy summer.
Mikey's dad walked into the kitchen, took a crumb bun out of the bakery box. He'd probably overheard their conversation and waited things out in the living room. Left all the heavy lifting to Mom. As usual. He stood there for a minute, taking small
bites out of the crumb bun. He'd been on furlough for four months. Not sure when it would end. Money was tight.
"Tommy told me that you'll be working out at Shea Stadium. That'll be cool, right?" Powdered sugar stuck in the corners of his father's mustache. He said this seriously, like it made up for the fact that Mikey's summer was ruined.
Mikey stood up, put on his baseball cap, and stared straight at his father. He was already a few inches taller and now he was actually taking his father's place, bringing in money for the family. He pointed to the emblem on his cap, filled his voice with sarcasm. "Yeah, it'll be cool. Except for the fact that I'm a Yankees fan and except for the fact that Shea is a fucking dump."
Mikey didn't wait around to be reprimanded. He walked out the side door into the bright morning sun. He didn't see his father turn to his mother for an explanation, didn't see his mother shrug her shoulders in response.
* * *
Mikey did what his mother suggested: he tried to squeeze a whole summer into one week. Went down the shore with Pete to his parents' house for a few nights. Took the 4 train up to the stadium and caught a Yankees game with Benny. Bought a twelve-pack of condoms and made his way through them with Jenny. Picked her up from work in the afternoon, went straight to her house, up to her bedroom, her parents still at work.
One night, he took Jenny into Little Italy for dinner. Mikey ordered a carafe of red wine. The waiter didn't react, didn't give him the once-over or ask for ID. He just brought over two glasses and a full carafe. They giggled at their good fortune. Mikey poured some for each of them and made a toast, like a big shot.
On the ferry back, they sat outside looking at the long, graceful span of the Verrazano, lit up against the night. Jenny's head was on his shoulder, her hand rubbing his leg, just above his knee. Her fingers were tucked inside his shorts, touching the inside of his thigh, the spot that drove him nuts. His face felt hot, flush with wine.
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