“So we return to the idea of it being personally owned?”
“Right. Personally owned, personally driven. Who wants to make that kind of statement, Ho?”
I shrugged, indicating my lack of knowledge on the subject.
“A pimp,” Lamont said, flatly. “If you’re a pro athlete, or a rock star, or whatever, you get one of your posse to drive. But whoever heard of a pimp letting anyone besides himself behind the wheel of his ride?”
“I know nothing about such things,” I acknowledged.
“The woman Michael saw, she was a young woman—”
“Michael did not say so,” I protested.
“It’s what he didn’t say, Ho. If she had been an old lady—you know, the kind that’s used to riding in the back seat—it would have been strange to see her climb out of the driver’s seat. But Michael didn’t say anything about that. And a white mink? That’s a young broad’s coat, not a dowager’s.”
“So you believe the young woman herself was a …?”
“Hooker? That’s right. And how is a hooker ever gonna be driving her pimp’s car?”
“I do not understand how such things are done,” I said. “If there is some sort of protocol—”
“We gotta get a newspaper, Ho,” Lamont interrupted my unnecessarily defensive speech. “Not this morning, it’s too soon. But maybe there’ll be something about it later on.”
“About …?”
“A dead pimp,” Lamont said, nodding to himself, as if confirming a complex proposition.
45
We strolled past a small vacant lot. Temporarily vacant, of course. Every square inch of ground is valuable here. New construction is as much a part of the fabric of this city as greed itself. It is immune to economic cycles, because it takes so many years to obtain the necessary permits that creating new luxury housing in the midst of economic disaster is commonplace.
A group of men and women were practicing t’ai chi, led by an elderly Chinese man dressed in a red jogging suit. His forms were quite good, but his transitions lacked the flow one would expect from a master of the art.
“You did stuff like that, right?” Lamont asked me.
“Something like it,” I said. “Not the same.”
We cut through an alley. As we reached the end, a large man with a shaved head spotted us. “Fucking nigger!” he shouted at Lamont.
We continued to walk toward the large man. “Fucking nigger!” he screamed again.
“You seeing things, man,” Lamont said, grinning coldly. “I’m an albino.”
The large man continued to scream his one phrase, but made no attempt to impede our progress.
In our world, such occurrences are commonplace.
46
“Perhaps the news might be on the radio?” I wondered out loud.
“Good call, Ho. Let’s look for one.”
Our search was not successful. Those establishments which had radios playing did not welcome those with no money to spend. We fished for a couple of hours to accumulate sufficient funds to enter a bodega and purchase a loaf of bread and a large bottle of apple juice. But even when we became paying customers, despite our most polite request, the proprietor refused to change the station on his radio.
The liquor store was also not accommodating. The man behind the thick curtain of bulletproof plastic recognized Lamont as a regular customer, but his only response was to repeat, “Buy something or get out,” in a robotic, non-human tone.
We did not even consider trying one of the many coffeehouses that are sprinkled throughout the neighborhood. We knew from experience that those who inhabit such places might fervently advocate for “The Homeless” when conversing among themselves, but would not continue to patronize any place that allowed us to loiter. Owners would advertise this policy in a variety of ways, the most common being a sign warning that use of the bathrooms was reserved for customers.
By early afternoon, the landscape was overpowered by the sun, bleaching rather than beautifying. Lamont and I turned our steps toward a tiny decrepit cement park that might once have been used by children.
“That’s what we want,” Lamont said, pointing out a group of teenagers lounging at the base of a decapitated statue. The object of his attention was a large radio, the kind with speakers attached to its sides by wires.
As we moved closer, the noise from the speakers became as violently intrusive as a jackhammer, albeit less musical.
The young people showed no wariness at our approach. This was not due to any soporific drugs they may have consumed, or a deliberate pose adopted to demonstrate indifference. As Lamont never tired of repeating, those not from our world simply do not see us.
“Hey, brother,” Lamont greeted a young black man with beaded dreadlocks who stood on the fringe of the group. “Me and my partner wonder, could we ask you to dial your box for a few minutes? There’s something we need to listen to on the radio, bro.”
“What’s that, man?” the youth replied. “The stock quotes?”
His wit was rewarded with a palm slap from a white teenager dressed in a grossly oversized shirt with the number 23 on it, hanging down over extremely baggy pants that did not fully cover his ankles.
“I ain’t asking to hold the box, bro. Just to listen for five, ten minutes,” Lamont wheedled, almost servilely. “Means nothing to you; could mean a lot to us.”
“Thing is, you don’t mean nothing to me,” the black youth said, glancing around to be certain the others understood how well he was playing the role he had chosen for himself.
Whether the others fully comprehended this, I could not know. But I remembered Lamont’s lesson: when seeking something from another, always allow him to preserve his image. So I approached the dreadlocked youth as if he were a man of power and importance. In his world, “getting paid” would be a hallmark of such a position.
“Perhaps we might rent the use of your radio?” I offered, humbly.
“Yeah? For what, a bag of aluminum cans?” the black youth said, drawing the obligatory laughter from the group that had assembled around us.
“Certainly not,” I said, as if I had better manners than to expect a man of his stature to accept trivial offerings. “Would, say, ten dollars suffice?” I asked.
“You got ten dollars, old man?”
“We do not,” I told him honestly. “But we will pledge that amount to you, and return with it as soon as we have earned it.”
His group reacted as if I had been seeking their contempt, two of them nearly convulsing with laughter.
I felt no anger, only sadness that the concept of a man keeping his word was so alien to them that it would inspire hilarity. I stepped back, having nothing more to offer. But Lamont was not so easily deterred.
“I read you, bro,” Lamont said. “But no cash don’t make us trash. So how about if we trade you, instead? A little magic for a little dial time?”
“Magic?” a young girl with spiked purple hair immediately responded.
“Magic,” Lamont solemnly confirmed. He pointed at a medium-height, very muscular youth, whose only upper garment was a yellow sleeveless shirt. “You go, what, about two twenty?”
“Pretty close,” the muscular young man said, folding his arms to emphasize his biceps.
“Bench, what, four fifty, four seventy-five?”
“So what?” the young man said, not acknowledging that Lamont had overestimated his lifting capacity by a considerable amount.
“So this, bro. Magic! I say, even those big guns you’re packing, you still can’t move my partner here.”
“The old man?”
“Yeah,” Lamont said, his teeth forming an ice-smile that went unrecognized by the younger man. “I’m saying, you can’t budge him an inch, okay? My man, he got powers. All he has to do is say this spell he knows, and he can root himself right to the ground, like he was a tree.”
“Lamont …” I said, very softly. But it was too late.
“I can’t move this o
ld man?” the heavily muscled youth said, jabbing a stiffened forefinger at my shoulder. I flowed with his gesture, so that his finger felt only the illusion of contact.
“Magic,” Lamont answered calmly. “Ten bucks’ worth.”
The muscular youth did not reply. Instead, he grabbed my coat in his fists and rammed his shoulder into my chest. I turned into his thrust using an ebb-and-flow technique, being careful not to move my feet.
“Fuck!” the youth said.
“This will not work,” I cautioned Lamont.
“You motherfucking right it won’t work,” the youth said, grimly, as if to announce to the others that his earlier attempt had not been in earnest.
“Whoa, bro! You don’t get to play for free,” Lamont told the young man, loudly enough so that all in the vicinity could hear.
“Knock him on his ass!” the dreadlocked leader authorized.
Instantly, the muscular youth’s features contorted, announcing his strike well before he committed to it. I transformed the energy of his awkward punch so that his face was urged to become one with the concrete.
But when I looked up, I saw that instead of honoring their agreement the others had fled … taking their radio with them.
Only the girl with the purple-spiked hair remained. I recognized the look on her face, so I locked Lamont’s arm against my body and walked him rapidly out of the park.
“Why must you constantly do such things?” I asked him.
“Hey, Ho, that wasn’t me; it was him. His desire to do you an injury is what injured him, right?”
I bowed slightly, accepting that Lamont was mocking that part of me I had yet to fully cleanse.
“And yet we still have no radio,” I pointed out, gently.
“Plenty of rounds left in the clip,” Lamont replied, undiscouraged. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
47
Brewster’s library is on the top floor of a building that was once an arsonist’s playground. The interior first-floor walls have crumbled, leaving only a single huge room which has become a public toilet.
Even the most desperate of our tribe would not venture to sleep in such a place. The first floor is urban quicksand—human waste alive with voracious rats. And the only remaining stairway to other floors is not trustworthy, its slimy treacherousness amplified by the ever-present darkness.
Brewster has contrived to make the passage to the highest floor—the fourth—even more difficult, by use of strands of razor wire purloined from construction sites. He knows that none who enter the building would be seeking anything more than a place to relieve themselves, aware that the price of sleep could be death. Nevertheless, Brewster must be absolutely certain his treasures are safe in his absence—even the thick bales of rat poison that line the space he uses are constantly refreshed.
As a further precaution, all Brewster’s paperback books are carefully sealed inside multiple layers of plastic storage bags.
Maintaining his library is hard labor; Brewster’s diligence to his task is remarkable. I was impressed by the extent of his precautions, especially in regard to personal hygiene. Each time he enters the building, Brewster carries a complete change of clothing inside several thick trash bags. When he exits, he removes all his fouled clothing and throws it away. Then he cleanses his body with antiseptic wipes, and changes into the clothing he brought with him.
Even though Brewster can accomplish all this at amazing speed, he has twice been apprehended by the police while still in a state of undress. Apparently—I do not actually understand how this works—Brewster carries certain identification that allows him to avoid arrest on such occasions.
Although Brewster acquires his books only by honest means, be they purchase or laborious scavenging, his personal code allows him to shoplift anything required to maintain them. The book-storage bags he uses are apparently sold in numerous comic-book stores throughout the city. Brewster is a very successful shoplifter, because he always presents a neat, clean appearance and is unfailingly polite. Additionally, he does make occasional purchases, so his “browsing” is not viewed with suspicion.
Lamont explained that Brewster’s “no fall” history is due to the fact that such stores will zealously guard their most expensive merchandise, but pay no real attention to trivial items such as storage bags.
Michael and Ranger had once managed to procure several large cartons of these plastic bags. I do not know how they achieved this, although it was clear they had meshed their respective skills to collaborate on the project. Brewster was almost overcome with gratitude. Michael was quite proud of the achievement, but provided no details. Ranger was silent.
“I just hope that psycho didn’t ice some delivery guy,” Lamont had whispered to me at the time.
Brewster’s older sister allows him to visit her home whenever he wishes. Each time, he returns with fresh clothing, and small amounts of money. He can visit only in the daytime; his sister’s husband objects to his presence.
None of us has ever asked him why he chooses to live our life.
For many years, Brewster was able to spend every night in his library. Inevitably, his collection grew so that it took up all the available space, and he was never insane enough to try sleeping downstairs. Now any agreement to “meet at Brewster’s library” actually signifies that we will assemble outside the building. From there, we move as one until we find a place to discuss whatever is necessary.
That evening, immediately upon his arrival, I noticed that Michael was wearing a new pair of running shoes. “New” as in “different,” to be more precise. Between the privileged joggers who fervently believe such gear must be replaced every few months, and the sheep who would rather suffer physical pain than be seen wearing out-of-fashion footwear, the Dumpsters throughout the city provide a steady supply for those of our tribe.
Outwardly, Ranger was dressed as he always is, but his body posture spoke clearly to me.
“Did we not agree there would be no weapons?” I said, taking care to phrase it as a question, not a command.
“But, Ho, we’re on a mission,” Ranger said, plaintively.
“An undercover mission,” I reminded him. “And the presence of weapons might compromise our position if the police were to … intervene.”
Ranger reluctantly nodded agreement. Somehow, his brain had retained sufficient cognitive function to process the fact that his intermittent hospital stays were always greatly extended when preceded by a weapons charge. He extracted a large, formidable-looking knife from his coat and handed it to me.
“That’s a Ka-Bar,” Lamont said, whistling. “Looks brand-new, too. Got a sheath for it, Ranger?”
“Roger!” he replied, producing a complicated-looking black nylon harness.
“Now, this, this is exactly what we’ve been looking for!” Lamont said, excitedly.
“A knife?” Brewster asked, puzzled.
“Knife! Life! Wife! Strife!” Target muttered.
“I can get us a sweet radio for this,” Lamont vowed. “With plenty of batteries, too. Have to go uptown, though.”
The others listened closely as I explained Lamont’s theory that the car we sought might have belonged to a pimp. “A dead pimp,” Lamont added. I watched Michael’s eyes flare with gambler’s lust, but he remained silent.
Once it became clear that a radio was vital to our mission, all agreed that we should do whatever was necessary to obtain one, and that Lamont should be entrusted with the task.
Michael and Brewster understood they could not accompany Lamont. Their understandings came via different channels, but reached to the same depth. Ranger saw obtaining the radio as a “one-man job.” Target is capable of attaching himself to any of us, but only when at least one more is present. Two is a number he fears.
In addition to his new shoes, the day’s fishing had gone well for Michael. This even though Ranger had never left his side, which usually creates a significant handicap. There was enough money for us all to eat a h
ealthy meal of noodles and rice. It had taken me a very long time to wean the group away from the filthy, chemically processed foods they had previously preferred. But now the eating habits had become part of our band’s culture, an accepted fact of life. Several Japanese restaurants in our part of the city had come to expect my periodic appearances.
Whenever we decided on a variation—Korean, say, or Vietnamese—Brewster or Michael would be sent in to make the purchase. It is another comic-book myth that all Asians consider themselves brothers. The truth is quite the contrary. Although being able to converse in Japanese had undoubtedly produced larger portions of food in some of the take-out places we frequent, it would have a distinctly adverse effect were the proprietor to be Chinese.
Dividing our food never presents a problem. Ranger is in charge of this, and believes that troops should share their rations in the field. He is meticulously fair, to the point of self-denial, and is trusted unequivocally. By now, all of us are passably competent with chopsticks, but Target is by far the most adept.
48
When Lamont rejoined us later that night, it was nine minutes past one o’clock. Ranger announced the time.
“I had to keep this sucker under wraps,” Lamont said, as he removed a small portable radio from under the black wool overcoat he wears year-round.
As we all visually admired his acquisition, Lamont proudly demonstrated how the radio had multiple bands, accessible via its extendable antenna. “You can pick up the BBC on this little jewel easy as the local weather,” he told us, pointing out various listening options as he spoke.
“You did well,” I told him.
“Goddamn right!” Michael agreed.
Ranger had not spoken. Lamont reached in his coat pocket, and handed him something.
“What’s that?” Brewster asked.
“It’s a … compass, man!” Ranger said, temporarily overcome with emotions he has long since lost the ability to comprehend. “Damn! I needed one of these. Thanks, Lamont!”
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