Fourteen
Anthony Taylor heard that drug boy Monroe, called himself Short Man, yell “Hey” from across the street. Taylor knew to keep walking, act like he thought Monroe was talking to someone else. But there wasn’t anyone else around, and that would be a mistake. It would also be a mistake to run, since Monroe would only catch up with him sometime later on. Probably at night, which would be way worse. Anthony thought about it, decided he’d see what this Monroe boy wanted. Maybe, if it was just a question he could answer, he could trade what he knew for something good. Anthony thought if he did have something he could trade, maybe he’d get paid.
Anthony crossed the street, looked behind him and down the block toward Real Right, wondering if Mr. Clay was out on the floor or anywhere near the front window. Anthony walked slow. But a car came east on U, rolling along kind of fast, and he had to quick-step to get out of its way. Then he was on the corner before he wanted to be, not quite ready in his mind, without a plan. He found himself standing before Monroe.
“Yo, wha’sup, little man?” said Monroe.
“Ain’t shit,” said Anthony.
Monroe wasn’t so tall, but he had show muscles, and eyes like the kind they put in stuffed birds. Anthony shivered in his coat.
“Heard tell you saw that accident yesterday, one where my boy Junie got himself burned up.”
Anthony shrugged. “That’s right.”
“What’d you see?”
“Piece of steel went through the car, took off that boy’s head.”
“After that.”
“Ain’t see nothin’, man.”
“That’s some boolshit.”
Anthony stepped back.
Monroe stepped forward. “Only gonna ask you one more time.”
Anthony felt his legs weaken and begin to shake. He couldn’t make them stop. He tried not to let it show on his face.
Gotta be hard. Can’t let no one punk you out.
Anthony said, “What you gonna give me, man?”
Monroe looked around, kind of smiled, looked back at Anthony and said, “How about I give you your life?”
“W-what you mean, man?”
“W-w-what I mean? M-m-mean I’m gonna cut your m-m-motha-fuckin’ head off, you don’t start tellin’ me what I want to hear.”
Anthony looked back toward the store. He felt his eyes tear up.
Monroe said, “Who you lookin’ for, huh? Go ahead and cry all you want. Ain’t nobody in this world gonna give a good fuck about you, little man. You just another nigga out here, and you are mine. This ain’t no bad dream you gonna wake up from, your momma strokin’ your head, sittin’ by your bed and shit. I’m real, hear? Your very own killer-clown.”
“Okay.” Anthony closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “I saw some shit, okay?”
“Talk about it.”
“Saw this white dude, parked on the street. Walked right up to Junie’s car while it was burnin’, took out this pillowcase and shit, put it in his car. Saw him drive away.”
“White dude, huh? What he look like?”
“I don’t know... white. Skinny, kinda, I don’t know. Had a girl with him, but not when he left.”
“Where’d this girl go?”
“Came out later, with another white dude, works at the record store.”
“What about the car? What kind of car? You remember the color, boss?”
Anthony didn’t answer.
Monroe grabbed the kid’s jacket, turned at the sound of someone yelling his name. Anthony saw the Rogers boy running toward them. Anthony saw Monroe look at his friend and smile. Anthony felt Monroe lift him off the ground. Then Anthony was in the air, feeling the give of the fence as he bounced off it and rolled to the ground. He fought to bring in breath.
Anthony’s feet slipped in the gravel spread about the concrete. He tried to get up and run, but Monroe lifted him by his jacket and stood him up against the fence. And there was no place to run; Alan Rogers had arrived and blocked his way.
A vein pulsed in Monroe’s temple beside his right eye.
“Gonna fuck you up right quick, little man. You know that I’m not playin’. Now, look here: I want to know the license plate off that car.”
“Was one of those Plymouths they got, look like all the rest. Gray... Aw, shit, come on, you’re hurtin’ me, man.”
“Wanna know what you saw!”
“Short!” said Rogers, cupping a hand around Monroe’s bicep. “C’mon, man, lighten up on that shit!”
“Fuck off me, Alan!” Monroe shook off Rogers’s hand. He bunched up Anthony’s jacket tight to his neck.
Anthony whispered, “Appliance Installers Unlimited.”
“Short!” yelled Rogers.
Monroe ignored Rogers. “Say it again.”
“Appliance Installers Unlimited,” said Anthony. “That’s what it was. What the sign said on the white boy’s car.”
“Anything else?”
“Had an address; don’t recall the numbers. Someplace out in Maryland. Beltsville, wherever that is.”
Monroe let go of Anthony’s jacket, dropped him on the ground.
“Short,” said Rogers.
“What!”
“Look over there, man.”
Monroe turned his head. A big, wide-shouldered man was running across the street, straight toward them. Behind him ran a white dude with gray hair.
“I know that nigga?” said Monroe.
“Look like he knows you,” said Rogers. “Way he’s comin’, he don’t look like he’s gonna stop.”
Anthony got to his feet. “Mr. Clay,” he said.
Monroe said, “Who?”
“Tried to tell you,” said Alan Rogers to Monroe. “You were too busy, though, beatin’ up on that little kid.”
Marcus Clay had just finished moving the “Word Up” twelve-inch bin to the front of the store when he happened to look out the window. He saw Anthony Taylor a block down, crossing the street around 10th. Then he saw that drug boy, Short Man, standing on the corner there by the construction fence, waving Anthony ahead.
Clay went and stood by the window.
“Turn that music down, Cootch,” said Clay over his shoulder.
Cootch cut back the volume on the house stereo. “That better?”
“Yeah. Can’t see nothin’ with that music up so loud.”
“What are you lookin’ at?”
“You send Anthony out for somethin’?”
“Gave him a couple of ducats for a soda from the market. Told him to buy one for himself, keep the change. There a problem with that?”
“Not sure just yet.”
Dimitri Karras came out of the back room. He crossed the floor and stood next to Marcus Clay.
“What’s goin’ on, Marcus?”
“Just lookin’ at—” Clay stopped speaking, noticing Karras. Karras’s jaw was knotted tight.
“What?”
“You eat today?” said Clay.
“Had a piece of toast this morning. Why?”
“You don’t look so good.”
“I feel fine.”
“I bet you do. But you sure don’t look it. Ought to see just how pale you look. And those jeans of yours are about ready to drop right off your ass. Startin’ to look like that Mitch Snyder, been fastin’ for twenty-seven days.”
“I just need to eat. Food and a good night’s sleep, that’s all I need.”
“Uh-huh.”
Karras looked through the window. He squinted his eyes. “That our new employee?”
“That’s Anthony, yeah.”
“Who’s he talkin’ to?”
“Goes by the name of Short Man. Deals coke for our neighborhood kingpin, someone named Tyrell Cleveland. That boy got burned up yesterday, he worked for Tyrell, too. Tell me, man, what was the name of Donna’s boyfriend again?”