Gumbo

by Tiana Laveen

  “What are you even doing here? You said you were out looking for a job!” Tony asked, but he didn’t wait for his brother to answer. Jerking the bastard up by his frail arm, he yanked him so hard, he fell atop the bed.

  “It’s not what it looks like, Tony!” His brother’s pale, ghostly skin looked almost blue as his flesh clung to his bones. His hair was thinning, his face skeletal. He could barely look at him.

  “I don’t want to hear it, Dante! All ya do is lie! You promised me you’d get help a million times! You said you could lick it, but ya can’t! Now you’re in here scrounging around, lookin’ for two nickels to rub together, anything you can get your hands on to go get high again. Did ya know Ma is broke? There is no money, Dante! Ya see why I keep my door locked at all times now? ’Cause of you! We’re prisoners in our own house because of ya!”

  Dante’s eyes glossed over; the once handsome young man looked like death warmed over. He brought his knobby knees up to his chin and cradled his legs, his vacant gaze on the floor.

  “Tony, he’s gonna kill me.”

  “Who’s gonna kill ya?”

  “The… the guy I get my stuff from. I owe him a lot of money, can’t pay it back. I was just tryna pay him back.”

  Tony stood straight, put his hand on his waist and glared at him. “How much are we talkin’?”

  “$990.00.”

  “A thousand dollars?! Are you fuckin’ insane?! You borrowed $990 worth of drugs from a dealer and thought you could pay that back?!”

  “No, see, it has interest on it now.” Dante blinked several times, as if trying to wake up. I borrowed, like, only a little bit over $500, but the interest, ya know?” He shrugged his skinny shoulders, his tank top barely staying on him. “He said that if I don’t give him his money today he’s gonna, you know, off me. He’s killed before… I’ve seen him shoot a guy in the head.” Dante swallowed. “I didn’t wanna have to go through Mom’s stuff, but I’m desperate! Do you have any money? Can you borrow some from Cassidy or Maize?!”

  “I’m not askin’ Cassidy for money for this bullshit! She had to pay a bunch of fees for her college applications and she doesn’t have it even if I asked. Maize may have some cash on him, but I doubt he can come up with $1000 today. Nobody has that sort of money. Fuck! You’ve really done it now, Dante!” Tony ran his hands through his hair. “If someone comes by the house, they might even kill Mom. Look what you’ve done. You’ve put us all in danger!”

  “I know! I’m sorry, Tony! I’m sick!”

  “Keep your ass in the house. Don’t answer the phone, don’t answer the door, don’t stand by any windows. Go in your room and stay there!”

  Dante nodded and Tony headed to his bedroom, removing the special key for his doorknob from his jeans pocket. Once he was inside, he retrieved an old sneaker box from the top shelf of his closet, where he kept photos and love notes from Cassidy. Buried beneath it was his Glock-17. He hadn’t told anyone about it, but due to his runs for Fred and a couple of close calls with robbers, E.T. had let him know where he could get some protection. He shoved the gun into his jacket and went to make sure Dante was in his room.

  He knocked on the guy’s door.

  “Dante, I’m leaving. I’m gonna try to get the money. I’m not giving it to you though. I am delivering it straight to the dealer. What’s his name?”

  Dante hesitated a little before he answered. “He just goes by Sly.”

  “That’s it? Sly?”

  “Yeah…”

  “Where does he stay?”

  “Tony, please don’t go over there! It’s dangerous. I can’t let cha go and end up—”

  “Just tell me where he stays!”

  “North East 21st street… an orange building, the only one like that. Across the street is a gas station.”

  Tony headed out, jumped in his car, and made his way to Fred’s house, a small but sturdy structure made mostly of concrete. Tony headed to the backyard, a space littered with piles of bike parts, plastic cartons filled with hangers, empty trash bags, and a series of recycle bins. That was where the man would have all his runners come to pick up their parcels for delivery—never the front door. He stood on the back porch and gave it a good knock. Moments later, Fred, a milk-chocolate-colored man with a patchy snow-white beard hobbled to the back door wearing a greasy white tank top and faded black jogging pants. The old man’s brow furrowed between two sprouts of scraggly hair on either side of his head, making him look like an angry brown clown.

  “What chew doin’ here, Tony? I was watchin’ the game.”

  “Do you have any more deliveries you need made tonight? I need a big one. I need some cash. I’ll go two or three hours away if you need me to.” The man cocked his head to the side and looked at him for a spell.

  “I ain’t got nothin’ else right now. Come by tomorrow and check—some liquor might be in.”

  “Can I get an advance, then? Look, my brother is really sick, Fred.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked about nervously. “He needs his medicine.”

  Silence reigned for what seemed like a long while before Fred responded.

  “Mmm hmm, I see. I can give you a $50 advance, but you gotta pay me $60 back by the end of next week.”

  “No, I need way more than that. How about $500?” Fred’s eyes bucked then he slapped his knee and burst out laughing.

  “Tony, you crazy! What I look like givin’ you $500?! This ain’t Wheel of Fortune! Now look, I can give you the fifty and I got a couple bags of weed in here. Could net you ’bout $10 apiece. You bring me back $2.00 each, total of $4.00. And I got some Hostess pies, Kool-Aid, and—”

  “No, none of that piddly shit, Fred. I need to move some real weight! Don’t you have some furniture or something? Designer clothes or brand new sneakers? Something really bad is going to happen to my brother if I don’t help him out. I’ll take anything you have that’s at least $100 take home.”

  “Do you know how many dope fiends come runnin’ ’round here askin’ for jobs like that from me? Everybody want tha big load! This ain’t Christmas and I ain’t Santa! The biggest catch was ’round $300 for one run, and that was years ago. Back then, they do it for half of what you and your little punk friends charge me, tryin’ to shake me down so you can stuff all that damn gold in ya mouths and show off for these girls! Bring ya ass back here tomorrow mornin’ and pick up these boxes of candy. It’s an easy $20.00.”

  “Boxes of candy?! Do I look like a damn fifth grader to you? A boy scout going door to door? Did you hear what I said? Someone is gonna die if I don’t get this damn money!”

  “Well, he shoulda thought ’bout that before he danced wit’ tha Devil.”

  “So now you want to get religious on me? You’re a man of the cloth now, huh? I don’t have time for this shit.”

  “Make sho’ you bring yo’ ass back ’round here in the mornin’, Tony!”

  “Yeah, for Sunday School… Bye Reverend Fred! I’ll pay my tithes with the candy!” Tony waved him off and headed out of the backyard, a ball of angry nerves.

  Jumping into his car, he sped away. He made a detour to Maize’s house, explained the situation, and got $55.00. On his way to Sly’s home, he suddenly felt a heavy presence over him, a sense of foreboding. It was the same feeling he’d had when Ma had woken him and Dante up in the middle of the night with tears in her eyes, but couldn’t form the words to say, ‘Dad is dead…’

  He turned on his radio, blasting Ziggy Marley and the Melody Makers’ ‘Tumblin’ Down’ at high volume. After a lengthy drive, he spotted the orange building across from the gas station. It was the color of Tang. Black people were loitering about, some speaking Haitian creole. He recognized it from listening to E.T.’s mother when she would be on the phone while he visited. The building was about four stories high, and music blasted out of several apartment floors, all of it blending together and creating a concoction of earsplitting noise. Little children with no shoes raced about, grinning, their faces full of
crud, while young women pranced about, cigarettes dangling out of their mouths or babies hanging off their hips.

  An older gentleman was poking at a barbecue drum, turning over large pieces of meat… could’ve been rabbit. “Hey,” he yelled at him. “I’m tryna find Sly. Do you know what unit he stays in?” Tony pointed to the big building. The man stared at him as if he were crazy. “Come on, please tell me. I have something he needs.”

  “If he needs somethin’ from you, then you’d already have the address. You the damn police!”

  “I’m not old enough to be the police!”

  “Yeah you are. These narcs look younger and younger. Get yo’ ass way from ’round here ’foe you get blown away. You gotta lotta nerve comin’ ’round here.” The old man huffed, then turned away.

  Tony stormed off and headed into the building. The sun from outside was a distant memory as he stood in a dismal, depressing, dark gray painted wall area with fluorescent lights that blinked or barely worked at all. The smell of incense and piss stung his nostrils. As he walked past several apartments, he heard televisions playing, more music, arguments…

  He climbed up to the second floor, then the third. As he was about to make his way to the fourth, one of the apartment doors opened and out popped a teenage boy holding his pager.

  “Hey man, where is Sly at? I wanna buy somethin’.”

  The boy looked him up and down. “Buy what?”

  “You know…” Tony winked at him.

  “Stay right here.” The boy disappeared back into his apartment and locked the door. He heard him soon thereafter on the phone, but couldn’t make out what he was saying. Soon, the apartment door swung back open, the boy stretching the cord of the phone as he craned his neck out the door.

  “What’s yo’ name?”

  “Tony Romano. I’m Dante’s brother… Dante owes him something. I wanna give it to him.”

  “You hear that?” the boy said into the phone. After getting a response from the other end of the line, the boy pointed down the hall. “315.”

  “Thanks.”

  Tony made his way down to apartment 315, the trek seeming longer and harder with each step he took. Before he could even reach the door, someone opened it. There stood a dark-complexioned man, about 5’8”, who was exceptionally muscular and his head shaved bald. Wearing a red and white Adidas shirt and pants, he regarded him, pure hatred in his dark brown eyes.

  “You got my money, homie?” The man brandished a gun. He didn’t point it at Tony, but he sure as hell made certain it was seen.

  “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I have part of it.”

  “How much is part?”

  “$88.00 total but see—” Sly began to close the door in his face. “Please! I want to make a trade, okay?”

  The man hesitated for a good while, then cocked his head to the side. “What kinda trade?”

  “Let me work off what he owes you, all right? I’m a runner. I’m used to making drop offs, been doing it for over a year. It’s not dope, but it’s wine, cigarettes, weed, food, perfumes, shit like that. I know how to get in and out of town without drawing attention to myself, I have loyal customers already set up. They trust me and some of them do cocaine… I know they do. Let me work off the thousand dollars he owes you, I will have it made back in less than two weeks if you just tell me where to go.”

  The man sighed and seemed to contemplate what he just told him.

  “Come in… let’s talk.” Sly opened the door further and revealed an apartment that looked nothing like the exterior of the building.

  Tony stepped onto some of the most unusual carpeting he’d ever seen. It was plush, bright red. The sofas and chairs were all shiny black leather and a gold and diamond chandelier hung from the ceiling. Three lava lamps sat on end tables, a large, lush plant stood in the corner, and the television was absolutely huge. Three women, one of them half naked, lounged about gazing at some game show on the screen. A woman was cooking what appeared to be fried chicken legs in the small galley kitchen … in a skimpy top and see-through panties.

  “Sit down.” Sly pointed to one of the couches, which was devoid of female energy. “Now, who do you run for?”

  “This guy named Fred Kirkland.”

  “I don’t know this Fred guy. How’d you get put on?”

  “My friend Maize.” Sly sat down in between two of the women, his legs sprawled, and looked across at him with hooded eyes.

  “Give me whatever cash you have on you…”

  Tony gave him a confused look.

  “GIVE ME YOUR FUCKIN’ MONEY!”

  Tony fiddled about and pulled the dollars out of his pocket. One of the women quickly got to her feet, took it from his hand, and gave it to Sly. The guy counted the cash, then shoved it into his pocket.

  “We’ll consider this a little house warmin’ gift, from you to me. Look here, Tony. I admire you tryna save your brother. It takes guts to come over here, to my fuckin’ home, unannounced, a White boy stickin’ his nose in shit that don’t concern you. You’re a target. Dante was a good customer but then he took shit too far. I only let you in because he mentioned you a couple times… said he was proud of you, that you’re doin’ something with your life.” He drew quiet for a while, then continued. “Here’s the deal.” The man leaned forward and clasped his hands. “I’m going to take you up on your offer. However, I want you to make $1500.00 in two weeks. If yo’ ass bring back, $1499.99, Dante gets smoked, no hesitation, period point mothafuckin’ blank. Do you understand me, nigga?”

  Tony nodded.

  “Fix the fuckin’ gun in your jacket, man. It is hangin’ out,” the guy barked, the diamonds in his teeth now showing and shining like bursting stars. “You look sloppy! You young mothafuckas don’t know what the fuck you’re doin’! You don’t know how to move, how to keep yo’ shit together.” Tony quickly grabbed the gun and placed it out of eyesight. “Do you even know how to shoot that damn thing, White boy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right, good, ’cause chances are, you’re gonna have to use it eventually. Do you have a beeper?”

  “No.”

  The man stood to his feet, disappeared for less than a minute, then returned with a pager. He tossed it at Tony and he caught it in mid-air.

  “Now you do. If I call you on that pager,” he said, pointing to it, “you better return my call within five minutes. I don’t care what time of day or night, do you understand me?”

  “Yes…I, uh, I go to school though.”

  The man grimaced and sucked his teeth.

  “Okay, yes, I understand.”

  “I’m going to give you a test run first. I’ve got a customer waiting this very second. If you do this fine, then I’ll give you others. If you get at least two of your customers from this Fred guy to buy some of my product, I’ll drop the price for payback down to $1,200.00. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t say shit to anyone about this, do you understand me? Don’t tell yo’ boys, don’t tell whatever bitches you fuckin’, don’t tell no fuckin’ body, not even God in your hopes, dreams, and prayers, you got me?!”

  “Yes.”

  Sly disappeared again, this time returning with a small baggie filled with white powder. He shoved it into his palm, along with a little piece of paper.

  “That’s an eightball. The place to drop it off at is written down. You have twenty minutes from the time you leave this apartment to sell this at $160.00. If you don’t, the deal is off, and then you can go home and tell Dante to pick out his best suit. He’ll be buried in it.” Sly shoved him out the door, then slammed and locked it.

  Tony’s heart was thumping out of his damn chest as he made a mad dash down the hall, the address in hand.

  In less than two minutes he was in his car, speeding, trying to get three blocks away.

  There it is… that’s the address.

  A big light gray building with tropical paintings all around the base o
f it stood there, an American flag waving in the wind out of one of the apartment windows.

  Checking that the cocaine was still in his pocket, he made his way inside, keeping a grip on his gun that was wedged in his jacket pocket. The place smelled of strong reefer as he navigated the narrow hallways to the apartment in question. He rapped on the door several times, then heard movement inside.

  “Who is it?”

  “Montana.”

  Someone looked through the peephole. “Montana?”

  “Tony Montana… Sly’s guy.” He realized giving his actual full name would be a dire mistake around such circles of people; his nickname would have to suffice. The door slowly opened.

  “Give it to me,” someone said in a thick Haitian accent.

  “No. Give me the money first.” A head peeped around the door… bloodshot eyes. The door slammed closed, then, seconds later, it opened again and a hand slid out, holding money. They quickly exchanged at the same time, and before he could say another word, the man closed and locked the door again. Tony leaned up against the wall and counted the wad of wrinkled cash.

  Fuck!

  It was only $125.00. He pounded the door, but no one came.

  “Hey, man! You’re $35.00 short!” He kept pounding on the damn door. Nothing. His body burst with heat, and his world spun. All he could see was Dante’s head split open from a bullet, Mom crying her eyes out, and his entire world crashing in. He pulled out his gun and cocked it. “I said, open this fuckin’ door or I am going to shoot my way in! You wanna die over $35 dollars, man?!”

  Several seconds passed.

  BAM!

  Tony shot up in the air. People began to scream in the other apartments on his floor. Suddenly, the door swung open and out flew two twenty-dollar bills before it was slammed shut once again, and locked. Tony grinned, snatched up the money from the ground, and hightailed it back to Sly’s. He was panting, out of breath by the time he reached the guy’s door.

  Tony knocked and Sly opened up, bursting out laughing at the sight of him.

  “Look at you, man! Sweatin’ like a stankin’ ass whore in church. You’re back in eighteen minutes.” He clapped, clearly impressed. Tony shoved his hand in his pocket, grabbed the money, and handed it over to Sly.