In swift, practiced motions, he picked the largest of the shelves and braced it upright on the side of the table facing the street. With one hand he held the shelf, with the other he reached into the canvas bag and came out with a large C-clamp. Twirling it with sharp snaps of his wrist, he opened the jaws just enough to slip over the shelf and the table edge. He tightened the clamp, and moved to repeat the process on the other side of the table.
More shelving and more C-clamps produced a display stand.
Now the van disgorged Ngame’s merchandise in large nylon bags and sturdy blue plastic storage boxes. Soon, Gucci and Kate Spade handbags hung alluringly from the vertical shelving while Rolex watches and Serengeti sunglasses marched in neat ranks across the top of the church-basement folding table.
He slow today, said Voice.
“He did good,” Solomon contradicted. He didn’t want to give Voice shit. He did that, give Voice any slack, Voice start up. Voice need his pills? Solomon tried to remember the last time he trucked to the clinic, then gave it up. Long as it was only one Voice, he could handle it. It only got bad when he had to put up with the whole goddamn family yelling and screaming, scrambling things inside his head.
Ngame climbed into his van. That was Solomon’s cue. He got out of his chair and walked to where the alley ran into Wisconsin. There, he could keep a closer eye on Ngame’s stand.
Ngame eased the van across Wisconsin and into the alley, waving to Solomon as he passed by. He pulled the van into a slot by the florist shop on Thirty-first Street where he had a deal with the manager. Locking the van, he walked back up the alley toward Solomon.
“Nobody bother the stand, Waverly.”
Ngame palmed Solomon a folded five.
“A good day, Solomon.”
As a boy in Lagos, Ngame had learned his English listening to BBC. He sounded like a Brit announcer except that he had a Nigerian’s way of softly rounding his vowels and stressing the final syllables of his sentences.
Solomon shook his head. “Watch yourself today.”
Ngame gripped Solomon’s shoulder.
“Voice tell you that?” he asked. He searched Solomon’s face with clinical curiosity.
Ngame’s concern irritated Solomon. “Hunh! Voice don’t know shit,” he said crossly. “Solomon telling you.”
Something passed behind Ngame’s eyes. He looked serious. “You hear anything?”
“Just feel,” Solomon whispered to keep Voice from hearing, “just feel.”
Ngame smiled. “You are a belt-and-suspenders man, Solomon.”
Solomon pouted and tucked the five away. “You don’t have belt and suspenders, Waverly, you lose your ass.”
Ngame took that in with a laugh. He squeezed Solomon’s shoulder, then turned and made his way across Wisconsin.
In the street by Ngame’s stand, a crow worried at the flattened remains of a road-killed rat.
And down the block from the stand, Solomon saw two men get out of a maroon Crown Vic. One black, one white. Both big. Both cops.
With a little finger, Ngame made a microscopic adjustment, poking a pair of sunglasses to line them up just so with its neighbors. He didn’t look up from putting fine touches to his display.
“Detectives Phelps and Kearney. Good morning, sirs.”
“How’s business, Waverly?” José Phelps asked.
Ngame gave the sunglasses a last critical look, then turned to face José and Frank. He smiled a mouthful of perfectly straight glistening teeth.
“This is America!” Ngame exploded with exuberance. A-mare-uh-CUH! “Business is always splendid!” A wave of his large hand took in the sidewalk. “One is free to sell and free to buy… buy and sell.” He caressed a handbag. “This purse, for example—”
José pulled Ngame’s string. “Mr. Gucci gets his cut?”
Ngame got the tired look of a long-suffering teacher with a slow student. “Detective Phelps! Do you suppose this is a real Gucci purse?” He swept a hand over the watches. “Or that these are real Rolexes?”
José’s eyes widened. “They aren’t?”
“And do you suppose that any of these good people who come to my stand believe they are buying real Guccis or real Rolexes?”
José opened his eyes wider.
Ngame spun up more. “And do you suppose that my customers could buy a real Rolex?”
“Oh?” José said, egging him on.
“So who is hurt?” Ngame was deep into it now, eyes wide in enthusiasm, hands held out shoulder-high, palms up. “Not Mister Gucci! Nor Mister Rolex! As a matter of fact, Mister Gucci and Mister Rolex ought to be pleased with me! Yes, pleased! My customers have learnt good taste here at my stand.” Ngame’s chin tilted up. “When they get wealthy, they’ll buy the real Gucci and the real Rolex.”
“Like Skeeter Hodges,” Frank Kearney said.
Ngame gave Frank a heavy-lidded somber look. “He didn’t buy here. He kept the real Mister Rolex in business.”
“What’s the talk?” José asked.
Ngame scanned the sidewalk. He did it casually, but he did it.
“Conjecture?” Con-jec-TURE?
Another glance, this time across the street. “The Puerto Ricans say it was the Jamaicans. The Jamaicans tell me it was the Puerto Ricans. And the American blacks” — Ngame shrugged — “they all point their fingers at one another.”
“No names?” Frank asked.
Ngame shook his head. “No pretender to the throne. But then again, Detective Kearney, it was only last night.”
Ngame paused a beat, then came up with a watch in his hand, gold-gleaming in the morning sun.
“A Rolex President? I will give a discount.”
Solomon watched the two cops get in their car and leave. In the street the crow continued working on the dead rat.
“You watch yourself today, Waverly,” he whispered, and swung his gaze along the alley, past Ngame’s van, toward Thyrty-first Street.
Motherfucker’s runnin’ late. Voice came up inside Solomon’s head, peevish, accusing.
“He be along,” Solomon told Voice, “he be along.”
When?
As though on cue, tires squealed. A white Navigator roared in off 31st. Sprays of gravel ricocheted off dumpsters. Partway down the alley the Navigator turned right and disappeared into the Hamilton Court garage.
“See?” Solomon whispered to Voice.
Moments later, Asad the Somali appeared, coming up the ramp carrying a large brief case. A tall, thin man, he had a snaky, boneless way of moving. His tight-fitting yellow suit had a long jacket with five buttons and his skin was a light cocoa and his black hair lay slicked in thinning waves against his skull.
As usual, Asad’s two goons flanked him. Gehdi and Nadif. Solomon had decided they were brothers. Maybe twins, whose orangutan mother had fallen out of an ugly tree.
Two weeks ago, Asad had come to Georgetown and leased a dingy storefront, paying cash. Solomon knew that storefront. A single window displayed garish men’s clothes. The display had never changed. For years, players came and went. But he’d never seen any of them wearing those clothes. That shit only fools or Somalis would wear. Place never had sold anything legal. The Somali wasn’t going to start now.
Asad didn’t waste time setting up his network. He and his goons started with the street vendors. The vendors signed on to buy watches, sunglasses, and handbags from Asad. Asad gave his new partners discounts on the junk. C-phones came with the deal. In return, Asad got a cut on the profits and he would know what was going on the streets. All the vendors had bought in except the Nigerian.