He laid out lines. They talked and talked. Donna jumped up to call Eddie Golden for the third time that night.
“His machine again,” said Donna.
“Oh,” said Karras. He hadn’t told her that Eddie had taken something from that burning car. I’ll tell her tomorrow, he thought, or maybe not at all. Why does she need to know? Why fuck things up for tonight?
Karras pulled her to the couch and kissed her. He broke off, gave her the thousand-dollar smile. His charm was full on. They made out until their mouths were dry. Karras put his hand up Donna’s T-shirt, massaged her breasts through her bra. Her nipples were pebble hard.
“Mr. Karras,” whispered Donna.
“That’s me.”
They drank some more, talked much more, laughed. They did the rest of Donna’s coke. They listened to Psychocandy, The Replacements Stink, and cranked up Zen Arcade in a beer-and-blow rush. Karras finished off the night doing an improvised thrashing jig to a Pogues tune off Rum, Sodomy and the Lash, leaving his feet and knocking an old end table over as the last Heineken finally kicked in.
On his ass, feeling the bass of his big Polk speakers, he looked across the room. Donna was standing near the coffee table, her hair in her face, licking the snow-seal clean. When she had gotten every last taste, she dropped the paper from her hands. He watched her eyes sadden as she tracked the leafy float of the empty snow-seal to the floor.
Marcus Clay said, “How’s that dog taste, Youngblood?”
“Dog taste good, Mr. Clay. Thanks for gettin’ it for me.”
“Ain’t no thing.”
They sat at the counter of Ben’s Chili Bowl, near the old Lincoln Theater on U. Clay had taken Anthony Taylor there after he had closed up the store. He had given Anthony a five-spot for sweeping the place out, told the boy he’d drop him off at home. But the Taylor kid had hunger in his eyes, so they made a stop down the street. Clay had nothing going on for the evening anyhow, and there wasn’t anything much better than a late-night stop at Ben’s.
Clay sopped up the chili on his plate using the heel of his bun. “You want another?”
“Okay,” said Taylor.
Clay signaled the counterman. “Two more. And another grape soda for the young man.”
They were served, and Taylor dug in straight away. He turned his head to look out the window at a Metrobus that was passing on U.
“That’s a nice bus,” said Taylor.
“You like buses?”
Taylor nodded as he swallowed a gulp of Nehi. “Like to drive one my own self someday.”
“Shoot, boy, you could own a bus yourself, you work for it hard enough.”
“For real?”
“Why not? You can do anything, you set your mind to it. I grew up near here, up around Thirteenth and Euclid. When I was a kid, I wanted to own my own record shop. Now I got four of them myself.”
“Dag.”
“Just remember, though, it took a whole lot of focus. Wasn’t no quick way to get it. These young drug dealers today, living large like they do, it might look real good to you now, but you got to realize, that good life’s only temporary. Either death or jail waits for those boys on the for-real side.”
“I know. Like that boy got burned up today. Name of Junie, worked for Tyrell Cleveland.”
“Cleveland, huh.” Clay knew the name.
“Yeah, he’s runnin’ the action in the neighborhood down around your store. Junie, that boy got burned up today in that fast Buick? He worked for Tyrell.”
“You see too much, boy, for your young age.”
“I see everything! Saw this white dude get out of a Plymouth, take a pillowcase out of Junie’s Buick this afternoon.”
“Yeah?” Clay didn’t look at the boy.
“Sure. A whole lot of cash money in that pillowcase, too. Saw some of it fly up out of the Buick when it was on fire.”
Money. So that’s what it was for sure. Clay wondered if Karras knew that his cokehead girl was running with a man fool enough to steal from a dealer.
“Good-lookin’ white girl got out of that Plymouth first, went into your shop, came out after the accident with this white dude had gray hair. I seen him over at your shop plenty of times. And somethin’ else.”
“What?”
“There was this sign on the side of the Plymouth door. I memorized the phone number and the address they had there on the sign. See, I told you I seen it all.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I was gonna tell this po-liceman, too,” said Taylor. “Man I seen around, rides with this mean-lookin’ white cop in our district. But he didn’t ask.”
“What you gonna do if he does ask?”
“What should I do?”
Clay took a bite of his dog to buy some time. He didn’t want his friend Dimitri involved in any of this. And he sure didn’t think it was healthy for the kid to get involved, either. But here Clay was, acting the role model to the kid, giving him advice. What was he supposed to do, be selective as to what he told Anthony Taylor when it came to right or wrong?
“This black cop asks you,” said Clay, “you tell him to come talk to me.”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that. Way my friends at school tell it, you shouldn’t talk to the po-lice about nothin’.”
“Your friends are wrong. But in this case... it’s just better this time, he talks to me. Hear?”
“Okay.”
“You want another chili dog?”
“Nah, I’m kinda full.”
“Gettin’ full myself. But it sure tastes good, doesn’t it?”
“Damn sure does.”
“Watch your mouth, boy.”
“All right.”
Short Man Monroe hated that Jeffrey Osborne tune, “You Should Be Mine,” ’specially when the deejay called it “The Woo Woo Song,” which made it sound like something a punk would be into for sure. Monroe couldn’t square with that love music. Now he was listening to it, driving down U with Alan Rogers and his new skeezer, the one his boy Alan kept calling Neecie. They were both squeezed into the passenger seat of the Z, Neecie on Alan’s lap. Alan was givin’ the girl a little tongue.
“Where we goin’, man?”
Alan Rogers moved his mouth off the girl’s. “Gonna drop Neecie off up around the way. Gotta be gettin’ her home, man, ’fore her pops be buggin’.”
“Your pops,” said Monroe, “he work in that record store, right?”
“He works for all of them,” said Denice. “He’s the controller. Handles the money.”
“Didn’t know he was so important,” said Monroe, chuckling low. He moved his toothpick to the other side of his mouth.
Denice Tate pulled Alan Rogers back to her, gave him a long kiss. It felt so good to kiss him, strong and looking good like he was, and sweet as he had been to her all night. And he hadn’t tried anything more than those good kisses he had been giving out for free. A gentleman, that’s what he was, someone her father would probably like if he’d only give Alan half a chance.
“Good show,” said Rogers, “right, girl?”
“Chuck Brown was the bomb,” said Neecie. “Gonna remember that show for a long time.”
Rogers smiled. “Yeah, me too.”
Monroe got low in his seat. Good thing wasn’t none of his other boys around to see him drivin’ around Rogers and this girl, Rogers actin’ like he was livin’ in some soap opera, little birds flyin’ round his head goin’ tweet tweet and shit, everything all pretty and nice. Monroe thought, Why doesn’t he just do what he wants to do, get a deep nut with this bitch, hit it and split it and kick her the fuck on out of their ride? They had business to attend to, didn’t concern no girls.