Not Long for This World

by Gar Anthony Haywood

  He was standing among a group of men gathered out in front of a liquor store at the corner of Central and 121st as Gunner and his two tour guides parked their separate cars nearby. Smalltime was lifting his tank top up and out of the way, using both hands, in order to give the diverse crowd of old winos and gangly youngsters surrounding him an unobstructed view of his stomach and the hideous serpentine scar dissecting it. Running diagonally across his swollen abdomen, moving northeast by southwest past his sunken navel, it was clearly the work of a knife, perhaps even several—but not of the variety one could find in the average kitchen drawer.

  A hurried surgeon wielding an arsenal of scalpels had left this mark upon him, Gunner knew; it was the signature physicians often left behind when repairing the damage rendered by gunshot wounds to the lower torso.

  If Smalltime saw his friends approaching, he didn’t acknowledge it; he was too busy reveling in the amazement of his drunken elders and the adulation of his starry-eyed juniors. The scar was just another way of holding their interest, maintaining their awe-inspired worship, which was his most consistent daily purpose, so monotonous had the twenty-year-old’s already-stagnant life become. Rucker and Mullens described this form of occupation for Gunner as simply “chillin’ out”; Gunner’s name for it was something altogether different, and one he decided would be better left unsaid.

  The members of Smalltime’s audience finally caught sight of Rucker and Mullens advancing upon them and the party was abruptly over. The old men took their liquid lunches and wild exclamations a few yards farther down the block, while the younger men crossed in scattered formation over to the other side of 121st, in a hurry, against traffic. They had all been perfectly willing to risk spending an hour or so in the company of one unagitated Imperial Blue, but life in the shooting gallery that was South-Central Los Angeles had taught them that standing out on an open street corner with two or more gang members of any persuasion was tantamount to a death wish very likely to be fulfilled.

  Mullens and Rucker reached Smalltime first, but it was Gunner the big man had his eyes on, even throughout the trio of Blues’s ritualistic greetings. His expression was not easily interpreted, but his interest in the investigator seemed to carry no malice or overt mistrust; he appeared merely to be studying an anomaly, trying to identify an unfamiliar object in his path before it could identify itself.

  Rucker spoke to him briefly, whispering, and then attempted to announce Gunner formally, but Smalltime waved the effort off.

  “I know who he is,” he said, moving forward until Gunner was close enough to breathe upon. He appraised the investigator for a long, silent minute, then said, “You the private eye, right? The one come by my house lookin’ for me Saturday?”

  Gunner nodded his head uneasily. He didn’t care much for his low-angle view of the big kid but could think of no way to improve it, short of standing on a milk crate.

  “Jody told me to be lookin’ out for you,” Smalltime said. “She say Toby’s lawyer done hired a private eye name a Aaron Gunner to try an’ get Toby off, some brother gonna be lookin’ for whoever it was what really killed Dr. Love. She say the man gonna need our help, so we should do everything we can to cooperate.”

  He let the comment lie there, without embellishment. Gunner tried to wait him out, hoping Smalltime would go on in his own time, but that approach didn’t work, and he came to doubt that it ever would.

  “So what’d you tell her?” he asked finally.

  Smalltime shrugged, flexing his giant shoulders effortlessly. “I told her I didn’t know what we was gonna do,” he said. “I told her it was gonna depend, on what kinda shit this private eye gonna ask us, and what he be like. You know, how he strikes me.”

  The younger man grinned, proudly. “I’m a careful man, right? I gotta have me some kinda respect for somebody, ’fore I up and decide to tell ’em all my homeboys’ business, an’ shit.”

  “This process take long?” Gunner asked him.

  “What’s that?”

  “This respect thing you’re talking about. How long’s it take to get? An hour, a day, what? Should I go grab a pizza and a beer and come back, or see you again in a week?”

  Smalltime grinned again, getting the joke. “Can’t be rushed, man,” he said.

  Rucker and Mullens broke out laughing, clowning and stumbling all over themselves for Gunner’s benefit. Smalltime tossed them a short glance, still grinning, then said to Gunner, “But I like you. You like to fuck with people, same as me. Don’t take no week to figure that out.”

  He turned his grin on Rucker, who was suddenly silent. “Cat thinks you’re an asshole, but he brought you here, anyway. That tells me somethin’ right there.” He laughed as Rucker took his abuse quietly, answering only with the shifting of his feet and the closing of one open hand, his left. Mullens stepped farther from his side, gingerly, giving him room to boil.

  “What kind of help you need?” Smalltime asked, turning back to Gunner.

  “He lookin’ for Rookie, same as the cops,” Rucker said, making an accusation out of the statement. “He ‘spects us to tell ’im where homeboy’s at, an’ shit.”

  “Did you tell him?” the giant Blue asked.

  “Hell no,” Mullens said, his eyes full of denial. “We didn’t tell ’im nothin’, ’Time.”

  “We told ’im we ain’t sayin’ shit ’bout nobody ’til we talked to you, man,” Rucker said. “That’s why we here, so you can tell ’im yourself, pers’nally, to go fuck ’imself.”

  Smalltime paused, as if the suggestion was something worth considering. He looked Gunner’s way again after a brief period of rumination and said, “What you want with Rookie?”

  “Same thing the authorities do. I want to talk to him.”

  “That’s bullshit,” Rucker snapped. “You wanna bust ’im!”

  “Fuck busting him,” Gunner said. “That’s not what I was hired for. All I want is to find out who it was in the car with him the night he rolled on Darrel Lovejoy.”

  “How you know he did?” Smalltime asked. “How come everybody so goddamn sure it was us what wasted Dr. Love? Why couldn’t it’ve been the Tees? Or the Troopers? Shit, the fuckin’ Hoods be just as down on him as us, why they always wanna blame everything on a Cuz set?”

  “I don’t know,” Gunner said, not wanting to get into that discussion. “All I can tell you is that your man Toby doesn’t seem to have any doubts. He’s just guessing, same as the police, but he told me he’d bet the farm that Rookie was involved in Lovejoy’s murder.”

  “Toby said it was Rookie what rolled on Dr. Love?”

  “He said the description of the car used in Lovejoy’s killing fits Rookie’s to a tee, and Rookie’s a driver for the Blues, so who else could it have been?”

  “Man, now you know he’s lyin’,” Rucker implored Smalltime, dismissing the validity of Gunner’s testimony with a flip of the wrist. “Toby wouldn’ta said shit like that ’bout Rookie, not to him, not to nobody.”

  “The way Toby looks at it, Rookie screwed him first,” Gunner said, eyeing Rucker, “so he figures he doesn’t owe him much in the way of set loyalty.”

  “The Rook still a Blue,” Rucker said. “No matter what he done. So what if he was drivin’ when Dr. Love got rolled on? It’s the cops what say Toby was the one rode with ’im done the shootin’, not Rookie.”

  “Then Rookie was the driver that night?”

  “No! I didn’t say that. I just said, what if he did? So what?”

  It was a lie told too late. He had already allowed Gunner to hear the ring of truth in his voice, and now the detective could easily tell the difference between the two.

  A snow-haired black man with a dirty apron tied around his waist appeared at the open door of the liquor store behind Smalltime, and the three Blues all turned in his direction when Gunner glanced his way. The store was apparently his, and he had a pained look on his face that said he objected to the assembly taking place out in front of it, but he let t
he look speak for itself and said nothing, cognizant of who a trio of these trespassers were and the myriad ways in which such people often reacted to attempts to dislodge them. To save face, he rubbed his hands on his apron and nodded his head, saying hello, but there was no mistaking his shame as he ducked back inside immediately after, an old man choking on his own fear of children.

  “Look,” Gunner said to Smalltime, “you boys are going to have to make a choice here. You can’t protect Rookie and help Toby at the same time. Something’s gotta give.”

  The Blues were silent. Smalltime scratched his chin to kill time, then said, “What you want us to do?”

  “I want you to quit messing around and start giving me some straight answers. Was Rookie driving the car when Lovejoy was killed or not?”

  Smalltime produced another shrug. “Prob’ly.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means don’t nobody know for sure, but the way he was actin’ that day, he must’ve had somethin’ like that on his mind. And he is hidin’ out, right?”

  “When you say the way he was acting, what are you talking about? How was he acting?”

  “Well, like … he talked a lot of shit that day, way I remember it. Tellin’ guys what he was gonna do to ’em if they didn’t shut up, an’ shit like that. Cappin’ on ’em, an’ stuff. That what the Rook usually do when he nervous, talk smack, like when we about to go ’bangin’ some Tees, or somethin’.

  “And he stayed straight, wouldn’t get high. Phi and Donnell an’ Cube tried to get ’im to do some rock, but he wouldn’t do none. Said he was cuttin’ down, some shit like that. Ain’t that right, Phi?”

  Mullens nodded his head, leaving Gunner to guess the details.

  “The Rock don’t never turn down no rock, man,” Smalltime said. “Never.”

  “Boy’s a head,” Mullens said, agreeing.

  Meaning Rookie was into crack, and not casually.

  “Then there’s the thing with the crib,” Smalltime went on. “We had—I mean we got a place where we keep all our shit—you know, our rods an’ everything. It’s a secret place, ain’t nobody s’posed to know where it is but the homeboys, but somebody still ripped it off. Motherfucker just broke in one night an’ took everything, didn’t leave shit. That’s how we figure whoever it was done Dr. Love got hold of Toby’s piece.”

  “And you think Rookie was the one who stole it.”

  Smalltime just shrugged.

  Gunner asked if any one of the three had an idea where Rookie could be holed up, watching Rucker’s face, in particular.

  Smalltime shook his head. “Not me.”

  “Uh-uh,” Mullens said.

  Rucker said nothing.

  “Or seen him since the shooting?”

  “I ain’t,” Smalltime said.

  “No,” Mullens said.

  Which again brought all eyes to bear upon Rucker, who looked to be as committed to his oath of silence as ever, and not because the deal he and Mullens had struck with Gunner had simply slipped his mind.

  “Quit fuckin’ ’round, Cat,” Smalltime said ominously.

  Rucker appeared to be unmoved, until he said, “I ain’t seen him. But I seen his car, once.”

  “The Maverick?” Gunner asked.

  Rucker nodded. The guilt he was operating under was almost palpable. “The King was drivin’ it. I seen ’im drive it into a junkyard and leave it, one of them junkyards down on San Pedro. You know, downtown.”

  “When was this?”

  “’Bout a week ago. Last Tuesday, I think.”

  “You’re sure it was Rookie’s car?”

  “Yeah, man. I’m sure.”

  “You talk to the King yet?” Smalltime asked Gunner. “That’s Rookie’s old man, the King.”

  The detective shook his head. “I tried his place once, early Saturday morning, but he wasn’t home. I’ll have to try him again eventually, I suppose, but I’d just as soon not. Toby tells me he’s an asshole I’m not likely to get a lot out of, and suggested I talk to Rookie’s brother Teddy instead.”

  “So? You talk to Teddy, then?”

  “I saw him Saturday. He wasn’t much help, either.”

  “No shit,” Smalltime said, not surprised. “Teddy an’ the Rook, they ain’t been gettin’ ’long too good lately. Rookie say they had another fight, an’ Teddy told ’im not to come around no more.”

  “When?”

  “Couple weeks ago. Three or four, somethin’ like that.”

  “You know what the fight was about?”

  “Same thing all they fights is about: Teddy don’t like no little brother of his gangbangin’. He always talkin’ to Rookie ’bout quittin’, pressurin’ ’im to leave ’is set, an’ Rookie don’t wanna hear that shit. So they fight.”

  “You don’t think Teddy would put Rookie up somewhere anyway, under the circumstances?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe. But usually, Teddy gets pissed, he stay pissed.”

  “And the King?”

  “The King? Man, I don’t know ’bout him. I guess he might put Rookie up, Rookie made it worth ’is while. Why don’t you go talk to the man? He the one Cat seen drivin’ the Rook’s car, right?”

  Gunner nodded, conceding the point. He understood that aiming the investigator in the King’s direction was an effort on Smalltime’s part to terminate the interview, to dismiss Gunner gracefully, and he rather admired the approach.

  “I was you, I’d go talk to ’im,” the big kid repeated, trying to be helpful. “’Less you got some more questions for us.”

  “No,” Gunner said, deciding to fold his tent for the moment, letting Smalltime think his diversionary tactic had worked. “Not right now, anyway.”

  “Cool.”

  “But I do have a couple of favors to ask.”

  “Favors? Yeah? Like what?”

  Gunner paused before answering, hoping to make the request sound as harmless as possible. “I need to see the crib you were talking about earlier. The Blues’s old hiding place for weapons. I assume you aren’t still using it?”

  “Uh-uh. No way,” Rucker said, infuriated. “Where we keepin’ our shit ain’t none of your fuckin’ business!”

  Smalltime appeared to agree. “What you wanna see that place for?”

  Gunner said, “If Toby’s gun was stolen like you and Toby say, we find the man who did the stealing and we’re halfway home to finding out who used it on Darrel Lovejoy. Rookie may have just told the gunman where to look; he didn’t have to be the one who actually pulled the theft off.”

  Following his logic, if ponderously, Smalltime nodded his head.

  Rucker was not so easily enlightened. “He’s full of shit, ’Time,” he said. “No way we can show ’im our crib!”

  “I’ll think about it,” the big kid told Gunner, in a way that was meant to warn both the detective and Rucker that the matter was closed to further discussion. “If you gotta do it, you gotta do it. But talk to the King first. Leave lookin’ the crib over for last.”

  “Sure,” Gunner said. He made it seem as if he was giving something up, when in fact he was getting exactly what he wanted.

  “What’s the other thing? You said you had a couple favors to ask.”

  “Yeah. I did. It’s about Michael Clarke. Cube.”

  “What about him?”

  “I hear he’s got a nasty disposition, that he’s a real ballbuster, and all that. He cut up Toby’s lawyer, I understand.”

  Behind Smalltime, Rucker let a smirk slide onto his face. “Sho did,” he said.

  Smalltime shrugged again, not knowing what to say. “Lady said the wrong thing. He scratched her a little. That’s Cube.”

  “Uh-huh. That’s what I mean.” Gunner met the big kid’s eyes directly, reducing the conversation to a one-on-one exchange between them. “I want you to tell that little prick that if he ever tries anything like that with me, I’ll kill him. Not loosen a few of his teeth or blacken his eye—I’ll turn his head three hundred and s
ixty degrees and break his fucking neck. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “I understand you even crazier than I thought, talkin’ like that ’round us,” Smalltime said, gesturing toward Rucker and Mullens as if they were an army of thousands. “Tellin’ us how you gonna fuck up one of our homeboys, an’ shit.”

  “I’m only telling you what I’ll do if the little sonofabitch fucks with me first. I don’t want any trouble with you or any Blue, but if somebody decides they want a piece of me, they’d better want it bad enough to die for it, because I’m not going to play. I’ve got a job to do, Harold, and I can’t do it and watch my back, too. That’s all I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Cube got a mind of his own, man. Don’t matter what nobody say, he gonna do what he wants to do.”

  “Do me a favor and tell him anyway,” Gunner said. “And if he doesn’t care to listen, that’s his privilege. And his funeral.”

  Mullens and Rucker stood at Smalltime’s side while the big Blue thought it over. They were waiting for the word, any word, that would release them to take Gunner apart, like guard dogs straining at the leash.

  Only the word never came. Instead, Smalltime shrugged one final time and said to Gunner, “I’ll tell ’im. If I see ’im ’fore you do.”

  “Thanks,” Gunner said. “You three have been a lot of help.”

  The kind of help, he thought to himself as he walked away, any sane man would have preferred to do without.

  chapter seven

  Gunner’s cousin Dell Curry was an electrician, not a Bible scholar, but he was known to attend 10:30 Mass at Transfiguration Catholic Church on Martin Luther King Boulevard and Third Avenue with something akin to regularity, and that made him the closest thing to an authority on Scripture Gunner could find in his address book. Del had had all of Sunday night and a good part of Monday morning to interpret Deuteronomy 19:18-19, the Bible verses Claudia Lovejoy had claimed her hot-tempered phone caller had used to make whatever point it was he was trying to make, and so Gunner called him from a dis-repaired, off-brand pay phone following his meeting with Smalltime Seivers and company feeling certain that his cousin had come up with something by now.