So, he says. What’re you readin?
I look over at my new pal Jinx. He takes off his sunglasses, polishes at them awhile, then slips them into his jacket pocket. He nods at my lap.
The book, he says. You readin your Bible?
There’s something in the way he says those words, something that says the idea of my reading the Bible is the most ridiculous and most important of things.
No. Not the Bible, I tell him. Tried one time but I couldn’t get past all those begats. No, this is my book. It’s called Crime and Punishment.
Then I show him the cover, as if he wouldn’t take my word on it.
Yeah, he says. Nice book.
Nice book? I say to him, and catch myself, ease back before I laugh. Did you read it?
Suddenly he’s the one who’s laughing.
Read it? Hell, man, I wrote it.
And we’re both laughing then, and somehow it happens, somehow, before I know what I’m doing, as the morning winds its way out of the dark and into the time when the children wake, when the alarms and clock radios roust the sleeping people from their dreams and into the nightmares of their lives, when CK and Mackie and Juan E and the others climb the stairs to the tenth floor of the Hotel Excelsior, I tell my new pal Jinx the story, the one about the book, the one I’ve never told to anyone, not Renny Two Hand, not even Fiona.
It’s my mother’s book, I tell him. One of them. She had lots of books, my mom, shelves and shelves of books, up in the bedroom of the old house. About all she did, the last few years of her life, was read. It was about all she could do, lying in bed and letting the cancer eat at her insides. I was there when the doctors told her about the cancer, told her about the time she had left, and they might as well have been telling her about fall fashions for all the attention she paid them; it was like what they had to tell her wasn’t anything she didn’t already know. She let them drift away, one by one, and then she got back to reading her books.
One time I asked her, I just flat out asked her about the books. I’d visit her a couple times a week, up in that bedroom, and she’d have a book in her hands, on her lap, at the nightstand, and I had to ask her:
Mom, why do you sit here and read all these books?
And she looked at me with eyes so clear that I could see right into her. She folded over the corner of the page and she closed the book, and it was this book, this Crime and Punishment book, and she put it right into my hands. And after a long while, she said to me:
Take this book, Burdon, and you’ll see.
Read it, she said. Don’t look at it, really read it. When you read a book, she told me, you get to the end of a page, and then, well, you turn to the next page. Another page. You get to the end of a chapter, and then there’s another chapter. There’s always another page, another chapter, another story, another book. You’re never done. Even when the words say THE END.
That was the last time I saw Mom cry, but she was smiling, too.
There’s always another page, she said. Another chapter.
You’re never done.
I don’t know what I’ve said, I don’t know what I have done, until Jinx hands the book back to me and says:
Yeah.
Which is when the Motorola rings and I pull it from my belt.
Hello?
It’s CK: Your turn.
I hear you, I tell him.
Click.
Click.
And with enough minutes, the Motorola rings again.
This time it’s Renny Two Hand: We got company, he says. Three guys and I don’t like them. Not at all. They’re—
Stay loose, I tell him. Stay in that deli and stay loose.
I click down on the cellular and I know I don’t have to tell Jinx a thing. Because down the steps they come, three suits in rumpled raincoats, looking for all the world like Wall Street bankers seriously lost on their way to lunch. Quiet faces. Tight faces.
White faces.
So this is it: The Connection. The Make. The Meet. I’ve heard a hundred words for this thing but none of them works, not in the real world. Like shit, this thing just happens. You can make plans, you can figure all the angles, you can get busy and get ready. But then it just happens.
There’s this awful feeling every time a major deal goes down. Not a rush, no way, none of this nerves-on-edge adrenaline highball that they serve up to the mall zombies in those caper movies. It’s nothing but this cold thing that sleigh-rides up your spine. A gremlin born down somewhere in your butt just shoots into the back of your brain and sits there, whispering for you to run like a whippet and not to stop running till tomorrow.
This message has astounding clarity. It hurts your head. Sometimes it hurts your stomach too, makes you want to drop your pants and let go.
You want to listen to this thing. Every once in a while it’s right, and you don’t know it until you just … know it. That’s when you cut your losses. If you don’t feel this thing, you’re an idiot or you’re dead. Probably both.
Right now it’s telling me lies.
White faces. And not just the faces, it’s the haircuts, the overcoats. It’s the way these guys are walking toward the van, the way that not one of them is looking back, looking over his shoulder, worrying about what might be back there behind them.
White faces.
Jinx knows what I’m thinking.
Yeah, he says. Who the fuck are these albinos? But hey, you know what? Somethin look this wrong, it’s just got to be right.
He takes the pistol from his lap.
It’s cool, he says. Nobody gonna get capped. Them Bravos may be niggas, but they sure ain’t stupid niggas. So they get some white bwanas to do their dirty work. Just like you went and got yourself some natives to do yours. Makes about as much sense as anything else on this ride. Come on. Let’s get dancin.
Wait a second, I tell him, and I dial Rose, standing watch on the roof.
Yeah?
What’ve you got?
Three in, nobody out.
Okay, I tell him. Stand by.
I dial Jeffers.
What?
Got anything?
Got nothing. Just tell me when.
Okay, I tell him. Stand by.
Jinx?
He’s halfway out the door to the van when he turns back and says: Yeah?
Keep your mouth shut and your finger off the trigger. Just remember one thing: If you hear me say something original like, oh, kill them, well, that’s when you kill them, okay? But for now, I’ll take Mr. Branch Manager. You go get chummy with his buttboys.
Jinx blows wind over his upper lip and he’s out of the van, right arm curved to hold the Ruger behind his back.
I shove my Glock into the front of my belt, where it can be seen.
Mr. Branch Manager hauls up about ten feet shy of the van, sticks out a pale white hand, and says:
How you doon?
That’s how he says it, one syllable, like a big pile of sand: Dune.
I’m doon just fine, I tell him back. But I don’t shake his hand. I say to him: You got the paper?
Oh yeah, he says. I got the paper. Pause. You got the keys? He cuts his eyes to the van and then back to me.
Oh yeah, I tell him. I got the keys.
Great, he says. So you give me the keys, and then I give you the paper.
No, sir, I tell him. That’s not the way it works.
Look, he says. Maybe there’s been some misunderstanding, but my job is to come to this garage. Your job is to give me the keys.
No sir, I tell him. Maybe your job is to come to this garage. But if you want the keys, you’re gonna have to take them. Because I’m giving them up only at the point of death. Unless, of course, you want to give me the paper first.
His face drops. He glances back at his friends, who are looking a bit worried now that they’ve met my new pal Jinx. He shows them the pistol and then he shows them the way back to the stairs. This has got to go down one-on-one.
Hey, I
tell Mr. Branch Manager. Hey. This time I get his attention. Listen, fella, why don’t we start this all over again? Pretend you just walked in here, okay, and that you said to me: How you doon? That’s when I tell you: Hey, I’m doon just fine. Then here’s what you say to me: Here is the paper that I was asked to give you. And you want to emphasize the word give, because this is no trade. This is nothing like that. Okay? So: Ready? Now’s when I tell you …
Hey, I’m doon just fine.
Mr. Branch Manager glances back at his friends again, and Jinx has them nearly to the stairs, and he looks at me with more impatience than a junkie waiting on a fix.
I tell Mr. Branch Manager: You gonna give me the fucking paper or what?
He’s losing it, little beads of sweat at the temple, the whole nervous works, and that’s when he says: Look, you got to give me the keys.
I don’t got to give you jack, pal. And you know why?
I reach for my belt and the guy flinches, I kid you not, he flinches, but all I do is pull the cellular and punch up Two Hand.
Yeah?
What have you got?
Nothing.
Cool.
I click down and then I have my say with Mr. Branch Manager:
Here’s why. You walk in here with these pieces of paper, right? You, him, and him, just the three of you and these pieces of paper. Which are where? Probably in your shirt pocket. So now I’ve got you and I’ve got the paper, and my pal over there has got your two dinner dates and my buddy across town has your Bravos and the other pieces of paper, and … well, maybe I’m missing something, but tell me, okay, why don’t you tell me: Just why am I supposed to give you the keys to this van?
He gulps, and now it’s like he doesn’t want to turn around to look at his friends for fear of what he might see. At last his voice comes creeping out:
Because we had a deal?
Sorry? I say. I can’t hear you.
Because … we had a deal?
Bingo, I tell him. Now give me the fucking paper.
I was right, he’s got them folded in his shirt pocket, and they look real, and I take the pieces of paper, check them out, the CUSIP numbers match, and I fold them up and put them into my shirt pocket and then I tell him:
The keys are in the van.
Jinx sticks his pistol in his pocket, and he’s up the stairs with the two other guys.
Then Mr. Branch Manager says the last thing he says to me. He says:
And?
And I walk back to the van and grab my duffel bag, and then I walk away. I pull the cellular phone from my belt and I call CK and I tell him we’re done, and do you know what CK says to me? He says:
Hang on.
There’s this long silence, then he’s back to me and he says:
Had to get some privacy. You there?
I say yes, and he says:
Get the hell out of New York.
His voice is like a whisper, deep-fried by the airwaves.
Go to the second place or go to Wilmington, the train station, maybe. Get way out, get close to home. Find someplace off road to take a blow. You get there and you hunker down.
A distant voice, so soft and suddenly so very clear:
And as soon as you get the chance, kill the nigger.
the shit goes down
When I click down the Motorola and hook the phone back onto my belt, I remember why it was I hated math:
Two plus two doesn’t always mean four.
This I remember in the moment it takes me to realize that Jinx is up the stairs and out. Gone. Shit. Back to the phone. I punch up Two Hand’s number. He takes it on the first ring.
Yeah, what?
I’m coming up, I tell him. Have you seen Jinx?
Who? he says.
The Yellow Nigger, I tell him.
No, he says, and then: He’s with you.
No, I tell him. He’s not with me, and that’s a problem. A big problem. Our problem. Keep your eyes open. Call Jeffers and tell him. I’ll be right with you.
The van revs up with a tired dog growl, and I stand there staring until I catch the eye of Mr. Branch Manager. I don’t like what I see. The guy didn’t even check the back of the van. I don’t like it at all.
I’m through the door to the stairs and up and back out on the street. No one on the sidewalk, no one in sight. Jinx and Mr. Branch Manager’s spear-carriers are gone. Across from the entrance to the garage, through the gauntlet of light Sunday morning traffic, Two Hand is standing at the window of the deli. He shakes his head side to side: No. So I shove my hands into the pockets of my raincoat and make like a New Yorker, head down, jaywalking, intent on cappuccino and a bagel.
Renny meets me at the door, gives me a lost look.
Jeffers and Rose—
Let me guess, I tell him. They took their Chevy and booked.
Yeah, but—
Were they following Jinx? The U Street guy?
No, no, Renny tells me. I didn’t see him, but look, Burdon, I couldn’t have missed him. No way. I was—
You did fine, kid, I tell him. But we have to move, and I do mean move. Something is squirrelly.
I dig in my pockets: Here.
I hand the valet parking stub to him.
Warwick Hotel. That’s 54th and, shit—I can never remember—Sixth Avenue, I think. Cabbie’ll know. Take the Olds from the hotel and get your ass to Jersey. But whatever you do, stay away from Morristown. Listen to me. This is important. Don’t go to Morristown, okay?
I take the pen out of his shirt pocket and write the directions on a napkin.
This is the other rendezvous, I tell him. South Jersey. Some warehouses. I’ll meet you there. By one o’clock. Don’t wait any longer than one. If I don’t show … shit, man, if I don’t show, go home and find Trey Costa, okay?
But if I—
I turn my back on him because I know he’s a good soldier, just like me, he’s a good soldier and he’s going to go to the Warwick, he’s going to take the car, he’s going to drive to the second rendezvous, he’s going to stay out of trouble.
Me, on the other hand? I’ve got business. Jinx is gone, and he’s either talking money market accounts with the banker guys or he’s heading for Juan E and the rest of his crew. This is a no-brainer. I’ve got to keep Jinx out of that hotel. And find out what kind of shit is really going down.
I flag a taxi and tell the cabbie, one of those guys with a turban, the destination. His eyes sort of glaze over and he starts digging at a Frommer’s Guide to Manhattan. By now most of the world knows its name, but at right about 9:30 a.m. on this particular Sunday morning, most of Manhattan had forgotten, if they ever even knew about, the Excelsior Hotel.
Shit, I tell the cabbie, and then I give him the street, the avenue, the intersection. Move it, Gandhi, I tell him.
The Excelsior. Nice enough name for a hotel, though a bit grandiose for a place that hasn’t housed a paying guest for twenty or so years. Way up across 110th Street in a DMZ, the edge of Harlem.
The cabbie is still dicking around with his guidebook and his maps.
Move it, I tell him again. I rap once on the Plexiglas.
He doesn’t blink, just puts the maps aside, and we start uptown. He takes the west side of Central Park and I never know whether I’m being had by one of these guys or not and I watch the brownstones give way to blocks of buildings at the fringe of a fantasy of urban renewal that went down hard in the late sixties. Apartment complexes that look like junkyards. Each new cross street offers some pathetic vista, a burned-out building, a burned-out car, and among them burned-out men and women and kids who look out at you like refugees from a war.
As the cab hits the intersection, pulls to the curb, I see a line of police cruisers and nearly say out loud what I’m thinking: Oh, shit. But then I see the people gathering across the street and their faces, smiling faces, black faces on black bodies decked out in their Sunday best, a restless tide of pink and blue and yellow and white that seems to wash against the
wide and welcoming mouth of the Free African Methodist Church, and I’m thinking: Leave it to CK to set up a meet in the middle of a Sunday-morning church service.
I give the cabbie a ten, tell him to keep the change, a buck tip, nothing too memorable, and then I’m on the street, moving slowly, huddled up in my New-Yorker-in-a-raincoat pose that sweeps me past more cops than I’m likely to see in a week in Virginia. They look bored, journeyman duty, and the street is blocked off for the service, must be one hell of a popular church, and across the way I see a short line of NYPD wagons, plus a couple limos, even some radio and television vans.
On this side of the street is an apartment building, some kind of subsidized housing, a retirement home, still looking good, and flush against it leans the weary Hotel Excelsior. The weathered hood of an awning offers the ghost of its name. The shattered windows on each side of the entrance are guarded by wrought-iron grates that spin into ornate webs. What’s left of the building, the bottom few floors, has been taken over by the Methodists and turned into some kind of fleabag flophouse, what they call a shelter, for the homeless and the helpless and, of course, the crackheads.
It’s a perfect place for a meet. A place of the vague, the anonymous, the unnoticed, the lost. A place where faces, black and white, could mingle. Even on Sunday.
In the lobby of the Excelsior the usual scum are lounging around, most of them with the heroin nod, and the smell is astounding, a wet stew of Lysol and spent semen. Wood Williams pretends he’s half asleep behind a newspaper, but he grins when I stroll past. I lamp the bank of elevators and can’t believe that the door of one is open, the insides lit, because I’d rather take the ten flights of stairs in a wheelchair than commit my life to that wretched box.
The stairwell says it all: The building is dead and rotting from the inside out. Paint and plaster have peeled back, urban leprosy that exposes decaying wallboard and cinder blocks. Holes gape in the walls. The landing of each floor is a mix of busted concrete, shattered glass, beer cans, crack pipes, used Bic lighters, and empty prescription bottles. The stairs seem to give with each step, and each new floor offers new wounds in the structure. At seven I have to jump over steps lumped with broken plaster and brick that have fallen from the ceiling.
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