“Two or three times since we opened this store.”
“Damn. By the way, where’s the professor?”
“Karras? He’ll be in.”
Clay went out to the floor. Cootch was behind the counter, ringing up an Atlantic Starr cassette for a customer. Denice Tate stood by the front door, staring through the window out to U.
“Thank you, brother,” Clay said to the customer, trying not to wince at the boy’s vines. Jheri-curled fool was wearing a red-and-black leather jacket straight out of a Michael Jackson video, one where Michael danced with all those dead mugs coming out of the grave.
“Thank you,” said the young man, slipping one fingerless glove on his hand as he headed out the door.
“There’s one for you, Neecie,” said Cootch. “Was asking after you when he bought his tape. Called you Billie Jean. That your name?”
Denice said, “Be for real.”
Cootch put a recent George Clinton, Some of My Best Jokes Are Friends, on the turntable. Clay felt the urge to dance a little as he walked over to Denice. He never would have imagined a flute solo on a P-Funk jam. But it worked. Long as he had been around, Clinton was still bad.
Clay said, “Hey, girl,” trying to open things up in an upbeat way.
“Marcus.”
“Good time last night?”
“It was okay. I just went over to my friend Ashley’s, watched some videos.”
Clay glanced behind him to make sure that Clarence had not come out to the floor. Clay stared into Denice’s eyes and said, “Look here. I saw you with a couple of boys last night, out on the street.”
Denice looked down at the black and white tiles, breathed out slow. Clay let her take her time. He had decided to talk to the girl alone first, see what she had to say.
Denice said, “You gonna tell my father?”
“I haven’t yet,” said Clay. “Doesn’t mean I’m gonna lie to him, either. What I want to talk about here is you.”
Denice nodded. “All right.”
“That boy you’re runnin’ with, what’s his name?”
“Alan Rogers.”
“This Alan Rogers, he’s into dealing drugs. You know that, don’t you?”
“You don’t even know this boy. Alan’s good.”
“That might be true. I’m old enough to see the world in all kinds of shades. But, good or bad, what he is for sure is trouble. Your father’s put in a lot of good years with me, honey, and I love you like my own. Been knowin’ you since you weren’t nothin’ much more than a baby girl. Just don’t want to see no harm come to you, that’s all.”
“I know. And I appreciate it, Marcus. But see, I wasn’t in any kind of danger last night. Alan wouldn’t let that happen. I saw him at the Chuck Brown show, and he was just ridin’ me home.”
“With that boy he runs with, tough-lookin’ boy. You can’t stand there now and tell me he’s good.”
“No, but—”
“What, that white cop who was talkin’ to you all, he stop you on some kind of suspicion?”
“You saw that?”
“Drove right by y’all.”
Denice looked down. “The white cop, they call him Tutt. That man is mean.”
“How so?”
“Got mean eyes, Marcus. He and Short Man—”
“Rogers’s partner?”
“Uh-huh. Tutt and Short Man were arguing over some kid named Chief. Alan didn’t even act like he knew what they were talkin’ about. Didn’t act like he cared. You know what I’m sayin’, Marcus? It was something between those two.”
“Okay.” Denice was clouding the issue, confusing him, avoiding what she had to know was good advice. “Look, Neecie, all I want you to do is think about what you’re getting into. Just think.”
“I will, Marcus. I promise. And thanks for keeping this between us. Thanks, okay?”
“You hearin’ me?”
Denice gave him a quick series of nods. “I’m gonna think real hard on it, Marcus.”
“Go on, girl. Don’t play me, hear?”
“Marcus, I’m not.”
Denice looked out the door, saw Tutt’s partner, the one named Murphy, in uniform and crossing the street with some kid, headed toward the store. Marcus hadn’t asked about the cop named Murphy, and Denice hadn’t thought to bring him up. This Murphy, he had been pretty nice last night; in his own quiet way he had calmed things down. But she didn’t want to be around the store if he was coming by.
“I’m gonna go for a walk, Marcus.”
Clay was looking at the cop and the kid now, too. “Sure, Denice. You go on.”
Denice pushed through the door, caught the cop’s eye as she went west on U. His eyes met hers, but he didn’t say a word. Denice thought it strange.
Clay watched the cop approach. This was the cop who was partnered up with that white patrolman Denice had been talking about, the one named Tutt. Now this uniformed brother was approaching with Anthony Taylor practically under his arm. Clay wondered if Anthony had said anything about the drug car, about that Donna girl’s boyfriend, or about the money.
Clay figured he was going to find out real quick. He opened the door to let them in.
Kevin Murphy took note of Marcus Clay’s height and build as he stepped into the record store with the boy. Clay had kept himself in shape, even with the fifteen, twenty pounds of added weight that a man couldn’t help but pick up as he went down life’s road. Murphy remembered seeing Clay in this one Interhigh game, when Clay was full grown and Murphy was not quite in his teens. Those five years between them had seemed so much wider then.
“Hey, Mr. Clay.”
“Anthony.”
Murphy extended his hand. “Kevin Murphy.”
“Marcus Clay.”
“I know your name.”
“You do?”
“I went to Cardoza, same as you.”
“Not with me, you didn’t. You’re too young. I graduated in sixty-seven.”
“I came out in seventy-two. But I saw you play. Y’all were up against Spingarn, I think. You had a nice touch from the outside.”
“Thanks. You still live in the District?”
Murphy nodded. “Takoma.”
“How about that partner you ride with?”
“Tutt?” Murphy smiled. “Not for his likin’. Tutt lives in Silver Spring Towers, little ways over the line.”
Clay nodded at Anthony. “He in some kind of trouble?”
“No trouble. We were talkin’ about that accident out front of your shop yesterday. Anthony here said I should talk to you.”
Clay said, “You ready to do some work today, Anthony?”
“Sure.”
“Grab yourself a dust rag and some spray and go over those racks. Cootch will show you where everything is.” Clay said to Murphy, “Come on, we can talk in my office.”
They walked together toward the back room.
“Nice shop,” said Murphy.
“We’re tryin’,” said Clay.
“You been at this since you got out of school?”
“Made a little involuntary detour overseas first.”
“Vietnam?”
“Uh-huh.” Clay eye-swept Murphy. “You play for Cardoza, too?”
“Didn’t make the cut. Couldn’t go to my left is what it was.” Murphy touched his mustache. “Still like to play a little bit. And you know I like to watch.”
“Good. ’Cause I got the Hoyas on the box right now.”
“Was watchin’ it myself over at Ben’s. Took the Taylor kid there for lunch.”
Clay glanced at Murphy. “Between the two of us, we’re gonna fatten that boy up.”
“Good kid,” said Murphy.
“Yeah. Figure I can keep him off that corner out there, give him a little busywork around the store.”
“Can’t hurt.”
“Boy wants to be a bus driver when he grows up. He tell you that?”
Murphy said, “He did mention something.”
In the back room, Clay introduced Murphy to Clarence Tate, who was seated at the desk, working under a lamp and making notations into a long green book.
Tate lifted himself out of his chair as they shook hands. He had the same raw-material kind of size as Clay, but Murphy saw that Tate’s bulk had edged toward fat. Tate’s brow was set serious, too, with that pinched, strained look common to numbers men.
Murphy noticed a photograph of Len Bias taped over the desk where Tate sat. It was that one of Lenny that the Post had run, where Bias was smiling into the camera, wearing his Terps jersey, palming two basketballs with ease.
“That’s my desk,” said Clay, who had seen Murphy checking out the shot. “I guess you think it’s funny, thirty-seven-year-old man having a picture of a college kid over his desk. I just, you know, haven’t seen anything quite like that kid in a long time. Boy’s got a lot of promise.”
“I don’t think it’s funny at all,” said Murphy.
“Most merchants,” said Tate, “got their projections taped over their desk.”
“Clarence does half my worryin’ for me. Course, he’s got a girl he’s gonna be sendin’ off to college in a few years.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Murphy.
Clay said, “Clarence here is the father of that girl you saw walkin’ out the store when you came in.”
Murphy had recognized the girl as the one who had been with Rogers in the street the night before. He knew the girl had recognized him.
Murphy avoided Tate’s eyes. “Looked like a nice young lady.”
“Denice is her name,” said Tate proudly. “And, yeah, she’s doing very well.”
“Come on over here, Murphy,” said Clay, standing in front of the TV set, his eyes widening. “Goddamn, man, you gotta see this, you know they’re gonna show it again!”
Murphy watched the slo-mo replay, Scott Skiles charging down the court, leading a three-on-one fast break. The guard dribbled behind his back, then went across his body with an on-the-money pass to the forward, who laid it right in.
“Skiles,” said Clay.
“Looks like they’re on a run,” said Murphy.
“Got thirteen minutes left to play,” offered Tate, looking up from his paperwork.
Georgetown was down by five. One of the Hoyas signaled the ref for a time-out.
A worn-down-looking white man with prematurely gray hair entered the back room. Murphy looked him over. The guy seemed like he was up on something, dark circles contrasting his overly bright eyes.
“Gentlemen,” said the man.
“Hey,” said Clay. “Dimitri Karras, meet Kevin Murphy.”
“How you doin’?” said Murphy.
“Great,” said Karras, shaking Murphy’s hand a little too vigorously. “Really great.”
No question, thought Murphy, this Karras is up on something for sure.
Clay said, “Michigan State’s up by five, Dimitri. Looks like Skiles is gettin’ ready to light it up.”
“Thompson better slow down the pace,” said Karras.
“He just had Broadnax call time,” said Murphy.
“Any action out there?” said Clay, his eyes on the game, which had resumed.
Karras said, “Not much,” lining himself up next to Clay.
Murphy pulled a chair over and had a seat. He felt comfortable here. Out on the street, in the bars and the lunch counters around town, he always got some kind of reaction wearing his blues. None of these men had backed away or made a thing about his uniform. None of them had made him feel defensive about being a cop.
Skiles hit a bucket from just inside the perimeter, followed it on the next possession with a reverse layup driving to the hole.
“What is he, Dimitri,” said Clay, “six two?”
“Six one,” said Karras.
“Damn.”
The Spartans handled the Hoyas for the entire second half. Georgetown was eliminated from the tournament. Clay turned the sound down as Karras went into the bathroom.
“Now,” Clay said to Murphy, “you wanted to talk about something?”
“Right,” said Murphy, suddenly remembering why he had come into the shop. He pulled out his pad, the one on which he had written Anthony Taylor’s address, and a pen. “Wanted to ask you a couple of questions about that accident yesterday.”
“What about it? That was just an accident, right? I mean, if it was a homicide or somethin’ they’d be sendin’ a homicide detective around here, right?”
“It was an accident, far as we know. Procedure, though, you understand.” Murphy felt himself begin to fumble. “I need to follow up on a few things about it, that’s all.”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, I need to know, was there something suspicious, anything you might have seen that was suspicious around the scene?”
Clay made a decision. Clay said, “No.”
“Nothing at all, right?”
“Not a thing.”
Murphy nodded and closed the cover of his pad. He didn’t want to pursue it. Suddenly, finding Tyrell’s money didn’t seem all that important.
“All right. Thanks. I’ll be around if you think of anything.”
“Glad to help.”
“And thanks for the hospitality, hear?”
“Ain’t no thing,” said Clay. “You come back anytime. Matter of fact, we’re gonna be watchin’ the Terps tomorrow. Why don’t you swing by, you don’t have plans.”
“I’m off tomorrow,” said Murphy. “Maybe I will.”
Clay shook Murphy’s hand.