“ …and he’s still my best friend.”
Carrie is not convinced.
“He could go to prison for helping us,” she says. “He must know that. Isn’t it going to worry him?”
“No, it won’t worry him – not Marty,” I assure her, “because, though it might cause most men some concern. Marty is one big black motherfucker – and he ain’t afraid of nothin’.”
*
I remember the night on West 42nd Street.
Me and Marty, with our backs to the flashing neon and the peep shows and our gazes directed towards a group of six white youths.
They’d been on a break-in spree.
We knew it, and they knew we knew it.
Two of the kids had their hands in their pant pockets, probably fingering switchblades. Another’s hand was dangerously close to his waistband, and I figured he was packing heat. They outnumbered us three to one – and still Marty had not drawn his pistol.
“What I want you to do,” Marty told them softly, “is to go over to that there chain-link fence there, and assume the position.”
“The position? What position?” asked the kid I had figured for the gun – the leader of the gang.
“Legs spread, fingers clutching the mesh,” Marty explained, like he thought the kid was willing to co-operate, but just didn’t understand what was required.
The boy didn’t look intimidated. And why should he? After all, he had numbers on his side.
“Listen to me, Black Meat,” he sneered, “you don’t want trouble, you’d better back off.”
Marty did not back off. Instead, he took a step closer. The boy was big and well-built, but Marty is massive. My partner leant forward, balancing on the balls of his feet, so that their faces were almost touching.
“You listen to me, White Trash,” he said in a voice which was frightening low and deep. “I am one big black motherfucker, an’ if you don’t want I should mess with your insides so much you got real shit coming out of your mouth, you better do what I tell you.”
There was a moment of silence – of tension – when it could go either way. Then the boy shrugged.
“What the hell,” he said. “My lawyer’s gonna have me out by morning anyways.”
And he walked to the fence and assumed the position, just like Marty had asked him to.
*
“What’s he like as a person?” Carrie asks.
“Marty?”
“Yeah.”
I look at her, and see that she is smiling in a way I can’t quite pin down.
“Why the sudden interest?” I ask.
“I just wondered what kind of man gets to be your best friend,” she says, and the smile is still there.
“So the question is as much about me as it is about Marty?”
“Sort of.”
Psychology? At this time of the morning? Jesus!
“Well, the way Marty tells it, he was brought up as a white nigger,” I say.
“His words?” Carrie says, frowning like she thinks she may just have discovered that she’s sitting next to a closet racist.
“Yeah, his words,” I assure her. “His family was well-to-do, and acted like they were WASPs. Marty says the only thing that stopped them from actually being WASPs was the color of their skin. Anyway, they had his whole life mapped out for him. He was supposed to go to Harvard and study Law. Only he went to NYU instead, and came away with a degree in social anthropology. Then he joined the Force.”
We are at Columbus Circle. I signal left and follow Broadway along the west side of the park.
“Anything else?” Caroline asks.
“Yeah. You’ll never catch Marty acting like a WASP. He’s into blackness.”
“In a big way?”
“In a very big way.”
*
We abandon the Corolla where it is likely to get cannibalized or stolen – or both. And just to make it easier, I don’t even lock the door as we leave. I make a mental apology to the car’s owner as we walk away. I hope he’s over-insured.
There are no cabs around – not at this time of the morning, not in this part of town. We wouldn’t have taken one anyway. A cab would be a link with us, a line of enquiry for the police to follow, and what we need is to disappear completely. We walk down to 72nd and Broadway and catch the subway line which goes across the Harlem River to the Bronx.
*
Marty’s house is dwarfed by the crumbling tenement blocks on either side of it, but – like the man himself – it stands proud and unintimidated.
“Why does he live here?” Caroline asks.
“He inherited it from his grandfather. He likes it. Besides, this is where he works.”
There are three steps up to the front door. The door itself is amazingly flimsy by current New York security standards, and has only one simple lock. But the house does not need bolts and steel plates to protect it. Everyone in the neighborhood knows it belongs to Marty – and that is enough.
I ring the bell and Marty answers. I remember him as big, but have forgotten in the last three years just how huge ‘big’ can actually be. He dominates the entrance, blocking it almost as effectively as the closed door had done.
“Hello Marty,” I say.
There’s no surprise on his face. He’s not even looking at me anymore. Instead, he’s checking up and down the street, to see if anyone is following us.
The check completed to his satisfaction, he turns back to me.
“I been expecting you for over an hour,” he says. “You better get your asses inside pretty damn quick.”
Once we are safely on the other side of the door, Marty grabs me in a bear hug.
“Good to see you, man,” he says.
“Good to see you,” I reply, but as he squeezes the wind out of me, I decide it would probably be more comfortable to be hugged by a real bear.
Marty releases his grip, and while I am assessing whether any of my ribs have been broken, I look around the room. It takes up about three-quarters of the lower floor of the house, and it is full to bursting with stuff Marty has collected on his trips to Africa. Some of the things – ibeji and Benin bronzes from Nigeria, assegais and shields from South Africa, beads and jewelry from Kenya – I recognize, because you do not work stakeout with Marty Johnson without picking up a little knowledge of African art. Other objects which line the shelves and fill the display cabinets are new to me. But it is an altogether impressive array.
“Place changed much since the last time you were here?” Marty asks.
“More souvenirs,” I say.
“Artifacts, man,” Marty growls. “Artifacts.” He turns to Caroline, who is looking round the room in wonder. “This honky likes to make fun of us simple black people,” he says.
“This particular simple black person was one of the consultants they used when setting up the National Museum of African Art in Washington,” I tell Carrie. “Isn’t that right, Dr Johnson?”
Marty grins. “Yes sir, massa!” And then, suddenly, he becomes serious. “You two better take a seat,” he says, pointing to a teak couch covered in zebra skin.
We sit down. Marty goes over to a carved wooden cabinet which is standing against the far wall, opens the door and produces a bottle of Jim Beam.
“Too early in the day for you?” he asks.
“No,” I say.
“No,” Caroline echoes.
It seems pretty late to both of us.
Marty pours out three shots of bourbon – no water, no ice. He hands us a glass each.
“I was on night shift when the call about you came through,” he says. “According to the Harrisburg Police, you’re cop killers. Armed and dangerous. We’ve orders to shoot you on sight. Are you surprised?”
“No,” I admit. “Not surprised at all.”
“So – you going to tell me about it, or what?”
I go over the whole thing, right from the start. Caroline sits silent for most of the time, only speaking when she thinks I’ve
forgotten something.
When I’ve finished, Marty says, “So what the fuck are you gonna do now?”
That’s what I’ve been puzzling over all the way up from Virginia.
“If we go back to Harrisburg, we’re dead meat,” I say. “If we get arrested anywhere else – that’s assuming the local cops can hold off firing long enough to arrest us – we get sent back to Harrisburg and won’t live long enough to stand trial.”
“So you keep on running?”
I shake my head. “We will go back to Harrisburg, but only when we’ve got a weapon – something we can give to the only man who can help us.”
“This Craddock guy,” Marty says.
“Craddock,” I agree. “He’s the one man who’s both open-minded enough to believe us and powerful enough to be able to do something about it. But before he’ll be convinced, we’ve got to give him some rock-solid proof that the whole thing stinks.”
“The weak link is Lawyer Tait,” Marty says.
“Lawyer Tait,” I agree. “If we can show Craddock that Tait is corrupt – that he’s the sort of man who’s likely to let himself be bought by Pine – then the rest of our story hangs together.”
“You’re going to have to go to Boston, aren’t you?”
“I don’t see any other way.”
Marty chews on it for a while.
“I don’t see any other way either,” he says finally. He pours us another drink. “I owe you, man. What can I do to help? Just tell me what you want.”
“Your car and your credit card.”
Marty unfastens the button of his shirt cuff, and rolls back his sleeve. A thick, black arm, the size of a small tree trunk, is exposed. He walks over to me and holds it in front of my face.
“You want to hurt me?” he asks. “Then take this. A right arm, I can learn to live without. But a man just ain’t a man without his American Express Gold Card.”
I look over the arm at his face. He is wearing a broad grin, and I know he will give me everything I need.
I shower, shave and eat one of the down-home breakfasts that Marty has been cooking ever since he got into ethnicity.
Then Caroline and I go to bed.
Chastely.
In separate rooms.
26
I wake up slowly, and as I look around me through sleepy eyes, I can’t work out where I am. This is not the house I used to share with Joanna. It isn’t even the shit-box apartment I live in now. Then I see the witch doctor’s mask snarling down at me from the wall, and it all comes back to me – including the fact that I am wanted for murder.
It’s like somebody has thrown a bucket of icy water over me.
I check my watch. Four-fifteen! I’ve been asleep for the last eight hours, but you can bet your last dime that the guys who are looking for me haven’t.
I spring out of bed and reach for my clothes.
Underwear, shirt, pants.
How long is it going to take for somebody to come up with the connection between Marty and me?
Maybe they already have.
Fully dressed, apart from my shoes, I pad along the hall to the top of the stairs. Down below, I see Marty and Caroline sitting on the couch, their heads close together, talking like they are old friends. I start to descend the stairs. One of them creaks and Marty and Caroline look up. From the guilty expressions on their faces, I can tell that they have been talking about me.
There is an embarrassed silence until I reach the bottom of the stairs, then Marty says: “What time are you planning to leave?”
For his sake, I want to say that we are going right now, but I know that simply isn’t practical.
“As soon as we can,” I tell him. “But first, we need you to do a little bit of shopping for us.”
“Do you want me to come with you to Boston?” Marty asks. “I used to date this foxy lady from up there, so I know my way around. Besides, the police are on the lookout for a man and a woman, not a girl with a salt ’n pepper act.”
I’m touched that he’s prepared to go all the way for me, and I really, truly, could use him in Boston. But I’ve already put him at more risk than I feel comfortable with, so I shake my head.
“You’re more valuable to me here – near the police computer,” I lie.
*
We are on the freeway, heading north in Marty’s Eldorado. I have my window rolled down, and the wind rushes past my face. Through the windshield, I can see the fading sun. It is the pleasant evening of Day One after the lonely death of Bobbie Hopgood.
I turn to look at Caroline. Her hair, constrained in a tight bun, seems shorter than it was a few hours ago. It is also mousey brown instead of the brilliant gold corn it used to be. She is wearing a severe check suit. Her white blouse is held together at the top by a quasi-antique pin. Marty has done well with the costume. Caroline looks like a country school teacher. She isn’t unattractive – nothing could make her unattractive – but she gives the impression of someone who is screwed up about her own sexuality, and so does her best to pretend that it doesn’t really exist.
I glance in the rear-view mirror at my own face. My hair has been cut, and it makes my face look longer and more pinched, an effect which is reinforced by a pair of thin metal spectacles. All this is missing from my new bank-clerk face, I decide, is one of those narrow, disciplined moustaches.
Neither of us would fool anyone who knew us for more than a second or two, but we are not planning to meet any old friends – or enemies – and though there is an APB out for two cop killers, there are so many couples touring the East Coast at this time of year that nobody is likely to take too close a look at us.
Or so I tell myself.
“I think it’s really great that Marty was actually expecting us,” Caroline says.
“What?”
“I mean, he hears that you’re in big trouble and he just knows that he’s the one you’re going to turn to.”
All along, I’ve been telling myself that I’ve only used Marty because there was no choice. But now I realize that Carrie is right – even if I’d had a dozen options open to me, I’d still have picked Marty.
“Must be wonderful to have a partner you can really rely on,” Carrie says wistfully.
“You don’t think you can rely on me?” I ask.
Carrie frowns.
“I don’t know, Mike,” she admits. “I don’t think you can ever truly know till it’s been tested.”
“And what happened on Barker’s Ridge wasn’t a test?”
Carrie shakes her head. “You were terrific up there, but you’d have acted in the same way if you’d been alone. Partnership’s something different. It’s about sharing the risks. It’s about putting your life in somebody else’s hands. Like you and Marty. He told me you saved his life once.”
“Marty has a big mouth, and an over-developed flair for the dramatic.”
“He says you took a bullet in your chest, but you still managed to burn the two guys you were up against.”
“I just got lucky,” I say.
There is a long silence, but I know there is one more question she wants to ask. It’s a question that any cop who has ever drawn his gun – who has felt his finger on the trigger – must have asked himself.
Finally, it comes. “What’s it like to shoot a man, Mike?”
What’s it like? To be lying on the floor of a fur warehouse, with a burning in your chest which, any second now, is going make you pass out? To see the two punks, waiting to ambush your partner – and to know that unless you take them out, they’ll kill him? To raise your weapon, ignoring the pain it costs you, and pull the trigger? To watch one of the punks drop? To loose off a second shot and see the other one fall?
“It’s almost like being God,” I say. “It’s like having all of God’s power, but none of His certainty. Most things come easier after you’ve done them once – killing a man just gets harder every time.”
“You think about things a lot, don’t you?” Carrie says.<
br />
“Yeah,” I agree. “But maybe, with analysis, I’ll get over it.” I see a turn-off ahead, and flick my indicator. “It’s getting late. We’d better find a motel.”
*
We book in at a Best Western, which is the first motel we come to. The clerk has the intelligent, tired eyes of a kid who is trying to work his way through college. He looks down at the credit card that I have given to him.
“I hope you enjoy both your stay with us, Mr Johnson,” he says.
“I’m sure we will,” I reply, trying to look as ‘Johnsonish’ as possible – and offering up silent thanks that Marty didn’t go ahead with his plan to change his surname to Ademolekum.
The room we are given is standard motel Americana: ice bucket, TV, a couple of armchairs, a coffee table – and two beds.
Each bed is large enough to hold both of us.
If that’s what Caroline wants.
If that’s what I want.
I feel uncomfortable. Last night, on a foundation of pasta eaten from plastic plates and Moosehead beer drunk straight from the bottle, we made wild, abandoned love. Tonight there is the death of Bobbie Hopgood – and the whole mess we left behind us in Harrisburg – standing like a barrier between us.
I do not look at Caroline as I undress, but she must be looking at me, because she says: “I noticed that scar on your chest when we were back in my apartment. I didn’t know what it was then. It looks too small to be a bullet hole.”
“Some scars heal more easily than others,” replies Mike Kaleta – always the philosopher.
I am still not looking at her, but I can feel her now – her finger stroking the edge of the scar, her hair brushing my neck, her firm breasts pressing against my torso.
I raise my arms and place them on her shoulders, pulling her tighter to me. We ease backwards and are falling onto the bed, wrapped around each other.
We make love. It’s not quite like last night. We started out great together – and we’re getting better.
27
Late afternoon.
I am standing on the sidewalk, right in the center of a mainstream version of the American Dream. To the left, to the right, before me and behind me, are proud houses with aluminum window frames and neat front yards. There are no abandoned cars on this street, there is no graffiti on the walls. It is the sort of road which would have been called Elm Street before the Nightmare films. Safe, prosperous, the values of the upper-middle class soaked into every timber, enshrined in every double carport.
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