The Product Line (Book 1): Product

by Ian McCain

  --Yo, open dis shit up. It’s Treece.

  The poorly-thought-out tattoo running the length of his forearm is pressed against the glass door as he looks in. He can hear Tronix fumble with boxes and some wood beams that hold the doorway open.

  --Hold up. Lemme move dis shit.

  Treece leans back from the doors as one is pushed out from the middle. Tronix uses a salvaged two-by-four to hold the door open and Treece ducks into the building.

  To an outsider the building simply looks like one of the many abandoned storefronts in Harlem, but in reality it houses the brain trust of the growing criminal empire of the New Harlem Players. With their membership swelling each month and the rumors of their ruthless violence inspiring their members to reach further and further into the heart of Manhattan, the NHP are positioned to push out some of the even more established gangs. The Black Devils, Chacas and Jamaican Posse have already ceded street corners. Rumor is that the NHP came in and eliminated every member of the Hattock Assassins, leaving no trace that they ever even existed, except for the empty clubhouse and a yellow handkerchief.

  The NHP’s primary business channel is heroin, but their enterprising crews are also known to sling rock, jack cars and peddle out some bitches on the side. Anything that can generate quick returns is on the menu. Aside from their legendary brutality, what makes the NHP so different from other gangs in the town is that they stay informed on issues that extend far beyond their current reach. Unlike other outfits who wear their colors and puff their chests out, NHP do research, send out plainclothes members into other territories. They recon and find out where they can score, who runs the cash. They know who to take out first, how to hit the stash house and get out surgical.

  It makes them smarter, faster and quicker to see the bigger picture. They can capitalize on that. It’s how they’ve expanded so quickly. It’s how they keep other gangs guessing. When they roll into a rival corner, they already have it mapped out. Hostile takeovers are quick, brutal and effective.

  Gullah, one of the original founders and the current president of the gang, made a decree early on that the NHP will be smarter and know more than the rest. He wants the inside scoop on anything scoopable. He isn’t worried about the turf they control now, he’s worried about the turf they don’t control yet.

  ***

  Treece slides past the old mobile clothing racks and rolling end-caps, steps over the flamboyant blue-and-gold patterned suits or “ghetto formalwear,” as his grandmomma used to call them, and walks into the Chapel. What was clearly the old break room when the store was functional has been converted into the war room for the NHP elite. Gullah and some of the newer captains sit at a break room table as if they are attending a business meeting. In a way, they are.

  Gullah stands up.

  --Bout time! Yo’ watch keeping different hours than ours?

  --Nah, Gullah, just getting some info. It’s gonna be worth my tardy, or I stay afta’ and write on the blackboard.

  Treece gestures in the air like he is writing. Great big letters.

  --Sorry I is late, Massa’ Gullah, oh please fo’give a nigga, Massa’ Gullah.

  Gullah leans back in his chair, his eyes fixed on Treece, and lets out a big laugh.

  --Man, you fuckin’ crazy.

  Treece keeps the higher-ups pleased with the intel he spills. He explains he has heard from a respectable source that there is some “covert shit going on near Tsao Korean BBQ in Midtown.” He tells them about the dark SUVs making regular stops, men loading briefcases into the cars then spreading out through Midtown.

  Treece has made plenty of plainclothes recon runs before and knows the signs of a drug deal going down. Best he could tell money didn’t change hands, so this must have been a re-up for the stash house, some internal business. Probably the cleanest junk you could find, shit that wasn’t stepped on already. He tells Gullah about how he’d managed to catch them on one of their bi-weekly treks through an abandoned alleyway full of garbage and rats and shit—watched it from the fire escape across the way.

  Gullah listens intently to Treece as he recaps the info he could gather.

  --All right, I like it. I see where dis is goin’, but let me get myself straight on these details. You don’t know what they moving?

  --Nah, man, but it’s sumfin’ valuable, don’t nobody put worthless shit in shiny metal briefcases. ’Sides, them wheels is tight too. I suspect that they the kinda folk wouldn’t involve no po-po if they ride gets gone. Know wha’ I mean?

  --Okay, okay, so downside new whip, upside some free product?

  Treece nods in affirmation.

  --If we looking to make this happen, best we jump out now. Them wheels only slide by but once every other week. Right on the number.

  Gullah stands up, taps Treece on the shoulder.

  --Grab some a’ da young bloods and let’s ride out. Time they get they hands dirty.

  Gullah signals to the rest of the group.

  --Ya’ll muh’fuckers make yo rounds. Let’s get some dues in this bitch. Hit them corners. Make sure them niggas is fundraising!

  ***

  Treece and Gullah stay ducked down, near where the back alley turns and pours out onto Third Avenue.

  --They gonna haff to pull through here. This is they path. They stop up that way, grab the goods, then roll out through here. This is where we pinch ’em.

  --Ya’ll fuckers strapped? Ready to do some bidness?

  The crew all nods to Gullah, ready to prove themselves to their higher-up. Pull up yellow handkerchiefs around their faces. Check that their weapons are fully loaded and equipped to blast.

  A black SUV pulls into the alleyway in the distance. They ready themselves.

  Chapter 3

  Ernie watches in terror as Mr. Armani and Gullah hold their ground. An impasse, one that cannot be left standing. With no one willing to back down, Ernie knows that there will be bloodshed.

  Tired of waiting for Mr. Armani to recognize that he is outgunned and outnumbered, Gullah makes the call.

  --Treece, hose these fuckers.

  Ernie braces himself as the sound of semi-automatic fire from multiple weapons fills the alley. Every form of animal—cat, rat, bird and insect—in the corridor scatters from their hiding places as Ernie simply squeezes himself tighter, thoughts of his daughter and his own foolishness racing through his head. The slapping sound of Mr. Armani and his men, their bodies dropping to the floor like wet lifeless meat, pulls him from his mind.

  He knows that this is when he will die. Some primitive switch in him flips. He has to escape, he wants to live. In one second he goes from a self-loathing bum to an animal that simply wants to survive. He starts to pull himself through the other end of his box, slinking low and close to the ground. With his left hand he clutches his dog tags, hoping to prevent any sound that could give his position away.

  The back door to the Korean restaurant opens and a middle-aged Asian man steps out, his white apron stained with all forms of questionable sauces. He is in the midst of cursing in some dialectic Korean when he realizes that these are not just cats or kids making a ruckus behind his rarely frequented establishment. His butcher’s blade will have little effect on these gang members. Before the man can return to his business Treece simply turns and puts two bullets in him.

  The bangers start to make their way to the car when one of them sees the movement from Ernie’s broken-down body. He pulls his handkerchief down around his neck and yells out.

  --What the fuck? Hey! Hey!

  He shouts down the alley toward Ernie, who is slowly starting to round the edge of the building into another even smaller alley.

  --Where you think you going?

  Ernie makes it completely around the corner as a spatter of bullets hits the wall just above him.

  Ernie can hear the SUV reversing toward his new location. He attempts to stand and squeeze further into the narrowing gap, but is still too drunk for the balance needed and his body too broken to or
ganize itself agilely. The red brake lights of the SUV come into view through the narrow slit of the alley. Treece, the banger who has been calling out to him, moves into clear view at the opening to the alley, his skinny but tall frame all but blocking out the light of the SUV.

  --Whatchu think you doing, little man?

  Ernie tries to stammer out a thought through his fevered booze haze.

  --I’m not, I… I… I… didn’t, I’m… I’m not g… go… gonna—

  --That’s right, you not… g… guh… gunna nothing.

  Treece pulls his weapon up to shoulder height and cants the handgun to the side. Ernie—pinned now between two buildings, nowhere left to run to, paralyzed with the knowledge of his certain death—begins to cry. His tears stream down his cheek as urine begins to uncontrollably spill down his thigh.

  --You a nasty mothafucka, little man!

  Ernie closes his eyes, hoping that getting shot won’t hurt as badly as he remembers it does.

  Treece squeezes the trigger and a bullet flies through the meat of Ernie’s upper thigh. It burns with an unfathomable yet oddly familiar pain. He keeps his eyes tightly closed but the flash of the gun is like a spotlight on his retina and the sound echoing through the tight corridor all but eliminates what is left of his hearing. At least it’s finally over, he thinks to himself as another bullet whizzes by him, hitting the wall near his face, showering him in hot sharp flecks of brick. Between the fire in his thigh and the muted hum pounding his ears, he knows it is over. Finally…

  Silence.

  No more bullets, no more sounds from the gun. He can’t make out the sounds at the end of the corridor, but it sounds…

  It sounds like—like crying.

  Frantic pain-filled tears.

  The queered silence of his now-bleeding eardrums is like listening through glycerin. Cautiously, Ernie opens his eyes.

  One at a time.

  Slowly.

  Treece is on the ground, rocking side to side, writhing. Ernie can’t tell for sure, but it looks as if he is holding his shoulder. The air around Treece is filled with a thick spray of blood, lingering like red fog.

  Ernie attempts to move a little closer to Treece, but as he puts weight on his leg, the pain is unbearable. The bullet must have struck bone. The shattered chips of his femur grind into the muscle like his thigh is chewing gravel.

  Ernie drops to the cold damp ground, looking at his own mortal wound. The blood is pouring out of him at a rapid pace. The pain is lessening though as icy tingles start to take hold in his fingertips and toes. He’s bleeding out and he knows it. Ernie lowers his head to the ground, his vision becoming cloudy and fogged over. In his mind he is holding his Marie, just a baby, so full of joy and contentment. He can remember the smell of her angel-soft hair, how she called him “Datty.”

  Through the corner of his eye he sees something. A man? A ghost? The figure gets closer, close enough for Ernie to make out the face through the fog. It is Mr. Armani who is now standing over Ernie, hands in his pockets, holes and blood covering his shirt and pants. Mr. Armani again sniffs at the air around Ernie. Ernie lets out a little chuckle, then closes his eyes. Still clutched in his hand is the picture of Marie.

  Mr. Armani reaches down and pulls the picture from Ernie’s hand.

  Chapter 4

  Ernie’s eyes open, peeling apart the sandy gel of sleep and tears that had crusted them closed. His pupils, unable to adjust to the light, tremor between apertures. He feels like he is staring straight into a spotlight in the middle of the night. After a few moments of painful fluttering his pupils begin to shrink down, quiver into pinpoints, allowing him to take in his surroundings.

  He has no idea where he is or how or even if he is still alive. More details of his surroundings begin to drip into focus. He is lying on an old barracks-style bed. His feet and arms are secured to the steel tubes with two sets of handcuffs. His skin is on fire, a burning hot sweat has drenched his armpits and back and he has a horrible thirst. A band of pain and bright light runs across his face like a steaming hot towel.

  His head pounds as if with each heartbeat his skull is being slammed into a brick wall. He breathes in deeply, expecting to expel bits of blood and lung as usual, but no phlegm comes up—in fact there is no tickle in his lungs at all. The weight on his eyelids becomes strong and they close for what seems like only moments. In that time the sun has shifted its position in the sky, moving closer and closer to the horizon.

  Ernie’s eyes open again and he struggles to focus against the glare radiating from the blades of sunlight cutting horizontal slices of yellow across his face and the wall. He looks down toward his chest at the medical gown he is wearing. His eyes land on the pattern and are able to zoom in on the intricate nature of the fabric, not woven but more like a pressed paper. White, red and black flattened mush, like the homemade recycled paper his daughter made for her fourth-grade science project. How did I remember that? It stings his eyes to look so closely. He throws his head back and closes his eyes again, the fever making him nauseous.

  Clearly I am dead, he thinks. Either hell is a little comfier than the Good Book would lead one to think, or upstairs isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. Either way, at least my leg doesn’t hurt. He looks down at his thigh, where the bullet shattered his bone. With the little slack that he has with his hand he pulls the edge of the gown up to look at his leg, which he half expects not to be there. Instead of a gaping, festering wound there is only a small eraser-sized scab. How long have I been out? On the bed beneath his thigh are several different-sized bits of metal. One looks like a bullet, the others like pieces of fragmented old sheet metal.

  As his mind wanders, his tongue explores an irritated section in his mouth where his right incisor used to be, before it was dislodged by some youths “trying to clean up Washington Square Park.” He slides the tip of his tongue over and around. It feels like a hard kernel or sea shell or something. If he didn’t know better he’d think it was the beginning of a baby tooth cutting in.

  Ernie rolls his head to the side, trying to shake off the pain of the fever, and sees that there is a mirror hanging on the wall. As he struggles to focus on the reflection he can quickly tell that the face looking back at him from the mirror is not Ernie. It looks like—heck, it looks like some kind of pretty-boy male model who has had a line of acid painted across his face. He has a full head of hair and sparsely placed luminously white teeth, but everywhere that the sunlight is touching looks like wrinkled old man flesh and skin pitted with acne scars. He looks closer at the hole where his tooth used to be, and indeed there is a small tooth growing down into his mouth.

  Where the hell am I?

  The fever takes him and he fades from consciousness.

  Chapter 5

  Marie has always considered herself lucky, despite the heaping portions of difficulty her life serves up for her. Growing up on the edge of Spanish Harlem means that hers is a story of familiar woes. In fact, most the problems she has experienced could have come as part of the “welcome to the neighborhood” checklist. Raised in a single-parent home, check. Crippling financial difficulties from sunup to sundown, check. Alcoholic parent, check. Her childhood worries were nothing novel—what is novel is that she and her father care for each other despite the ever-growing divide between them. This is the rub. This is the reason that she finds herself out walking the streets on her free time from the age of sixteen to twenty-seven looking for her father.

  The thing is, her father isn’t a bad man. She knows bad men. She’s been with plenty of them and seen their marks on the faces of many of her friends growing up. Sure, Ernie is a gross drunk, a walking breathing pile of filth, an embarrassment on every level, but even with all those smudges against him, he is still her father.

  Marie remembers when she was younger, when they used to be so close. Before everything changed. Before her mother gave up her painful battle with ovarian cancer. Long before Ernie started chasing his sorrow with bourbon.

&
nbsp; When she was a kid he would tell her stories at night, fantastical tales of magical kingdoms ruled by the loveliest of princesses, Princess Marie. He would finish her bedtime story, tuck her in with his big strong hands and kiss her on her forehead. He had all his teeth then, and his breath didn’t reek of an open garbage pail.

  What makes her the saddest is to think about his hugs. He would give her the best hugs, the strong embrace of a loving father holding something so precious to him. Now, when she sees him, if she sees him, she gets the weak hug of a decaying old man, and she has to spend most of her effort trying to hold back her gag reflex.

  She loves her father regardless of his appearance, and smell, and failing health. She’s always known that he loves her too, no matter his descent into an ever darkening place—he loves her.

  ***

  Marie walks south down through the west edge of Hell’s Kitchen towards the Meatpacking District. This used to be the fringe of the city. The further south you headed the more the area would fill with prostitutes of indeterminate gender, drag queens, trannies. They were the nightmares painted in the minds of Midwestern fathers who viewed New York as the modern-day Sodom. A lot has changed since then, since it was the homosexual and deviant panacea—a lot of gentrification.

  Marie knows what to look for, she knows how to think like Ernie. She looks for areas with comfortable grass inlets to sleep on, sheltered overhangs or architectural nooks that would allow for an inconspicuous nap, always close to a source for drink. Local bars with discards out back for him to drink from, or older back doors that would allow for a quick in-and-out nab of some nearby inventory.

  Ernie has been caught a few times before while trying to pinch liquor. Most of the time he would be shooed away by the bartender or owner, if for no other reason than to avoid coming close to offensive smells, or God forbid actually trying to detain him. One time she found him huddled in a ball with two broken ribs after trying to steal liquor from a bar with a less than hospitable attitude toward thievery. A shoe to the rib was his punishment, but “at least he was able to hold on to the vermouth.”