Their cocky expressions were curdling, but one of them managed, “Why don’t you shut the fuck up, Gran’pa?”
Richie shook his head. “Okay. Have it your way. Now I’m gonna kill your punk asses.”
And from under his jacket he snapped the revolver off his hip and aimed it at the one who’d just spoken.
One at a time Richie gave each formerly mocking face a look down the short but impressive barrel of the weapon. Instinct made them cover their heads, as if keeping the sound of a bullet from their ears would be enough to shield them.
One kid squeezed a few frightened words out: “What do you want from us, mister?”
“I want you,” Richie said, smiling terribly, “to pick up that fuckin’ glass!”
They almost dove to the pavement and the nearby grass, complying, finding every fragment, from jagged-edged chunk to splintery shard, and taking them to a nearby trash can, under Richie’s casual but strict supervision, his gun still in hand.
Other people had noticed the confrontation, from the prettiest moms to the ones Richie’s eyes hadn’t bothered with, and the blonde whose inventory he’d earlier been taking asked nobody in particular, “Shouldn’t somebody call the police?”
Laurie, having already collected Michael, passing by on the way out of the park toward her car, said, “He is the police. Hard to believe, I know.”
Richie didn’t see or hear any of this. He didn’t even see his son’s puzzled expression as the boy looked back at his father holding the gun on those bigger kids. The child felt a sensation that was far too complex for him to parse: shame intertwined with pride. But he would feel it again.
And by the time Richie had made the teenagers clean up after themselves, his wife and son were long gone, and so were most of the other moms and kids, leaving him alone on the grassy patch where, minutes before, his son had played under a blue-gray sky on a day that seemed suddenly colder.
Richie Roberts’s apartment in Newark was nicer than a junkie’s.
Barely.
Though the way he lived offered no proof, Richie was human and could hardly help but glance around his bleak little pad without thinking of the Manhattan town house or lovely suburban home he could be living in, if he weren’t a stick-up-his-ass fool. He had no choice but to think about the great food — French cuisine maybe (though he’d never really had any, unless you counted fries) — that he could be eating right now, as opposed to standing at his gas stove pouring a can of Campbell’s into a pot with his stitched-up black-and-blue hand.
But it wasn’t just the nice digs he could be enjoying or the great food he might be chowing down on. It was denying those things to his family; that’s what grated.
What kind of fucking idiot walks away from a cool million? Walks away, knowing he’s alienated not just his own partner, but every goddamn cop in New Jersey and, when word got out (which it probably already had), New York to boot?
He could still feel the eyes on him when he’d walked out of that Newark police station, all by himself — even Javy Rivera hadn’t been up to accompanying him — knowing this quiet, staring response was not out of awe or respect over Richie turning his back on all that crooked bread, no. These looks spoke of contempt, on the one hand, and fear on the other.
He would never be trusted again by his fellow cops.
The saving grace was that he wouldn’t have to be a cop much longer.
He got himself a spoon and hauled his pot of soup over to the little cluttered desk, piled with law textbooks. Almost at random, he cracked open a text and started his night’s studies for the upcoming New Jersey Bar exam. On the wall nearby, casting silent encouragement his way, was a framed photograph of one of his heroes: heavyweight champ Joe Louis, standing over the sprawled, vanquished Billy Conn.
When the soup was gone, the hunger sated but the tension gnawing, Richie went to the small wooden box that was his stash, where an ounce or so of grass waited along with rolling papers and clips.
He rolled a joint, smiling to himself at his hypocrisy, and soon was mellowed out and deep in his studies, smoke swirling to the ceiling like his conscience trying to find its way to freedom.
5. Ding Dong
A sprawling jumble of a city, Bangkok had all the humid heat, rank pollution, snarled traffic and diseased prostitutes its ragged reputation promised. Despite the colorful if grotesque palaces and temples, this was a world chiefly of weather-beaten cement with occasional splashes of tropical green poking through. Dirty, poor, crowded, its sidewalks clogged by stalls selling knock-off T-shirts and cheap jewelry, Bangkok made Harlem seem a paradise.
In the deceptive candy flush of neon at night, Frank Lucas — in a short-sleeved sportshirt and chinos, just another anonymous tourist — rode along in back of one of the three-wheeled motorized vehicles called a tuktuk. Bicycles darted around like flies (and flies were darting around everything and everyone else), but the tuk-tuk did its own share of weaving in and out of the impossible traffic.
Frank had checked into the Dusit Thani Hotel, where he’d skipped any tourist bullshit to catch the three-wheel taxi to his destination: the Soul Brothers Bar, which he’d been told back home was the top hangout for black GIs on R & R.
This was Frank’s first trip to Southeast Asia, and — though he didn’t impress easily — the sights and sounds and smells had overloaded his sensory system. What a shock it was to enter the Soul Brothers Bar and find the kind of black joint you might find in a funky corner of Atlanta or Chicago or Harlem itself.
The only way the joint could have been smokier was to be on fire. Otis Redding was singing “Dock of the Bay” courtesy of the Rockola jukebox, and at tables and booths and along the bar, black soldiers — Frank was the only man other than the two bartenders not in uniform — were putting the moves on slit-to-the-thigh-silk-dress Thai girls, who didn’t look hard to seduce.
Frank ordered a Coke at the bar and found his way to a small table, where he sat and surveyed the scene. And some of what he saw would not have been allowed in the funkiest hole in Atlanta, Chicago or even Harlem...
Not every GI had a hooker on his arm or in his lap; a few were zonked out, slumped in booths laughing lazily or flat-out sleeping, and a few others were drunk out of their minds. Dope was being rolled and smoked and even shot up. A staircase, up which went soldiers and their “dates,” meant the second floor wasn’t so restrained.
After a while a trio of ex-GIs started playing Southern blues tunes — “Gone Dead on You” by Blind Lemon Jefferson was their opener. Authentic-sounding shit, Frank had to admit.
Just as authentic were the smells that found their way through the smoke and general bar stench to tickle both his nostrils and his memory: ham hocks and collard greens served by waiters in stripeless army uniforms. Home away from home for Uncle Sugar’s boys.
One uniformed figure stood out from all the others, perhaps because he wasn’t wasted on dope or booze, and didn’t have a hooker hanging on his arm, either: an army master sergeant. The tall, commanding figure, whose Apache cheekbones added an edge to affable, handsome features, threaded through the tables and patrolled the booths and bar as if on inspection.
At first the sarge seemed to be checking on the GI customers’ well-being. Then at one booth, he shook hands with a patron and, through the smoke, Frank could barely see the pass-off of cash from the client for some packets of white from the sarge.
Frank must have been staring, because the sarge was suddenly squinting at him through the smoke, the guy’s expression sinister at first, then shifting into a kind of loose-lipped shock.