Marcus was getting to something now. It made Karras uncomfortable, that too quiet, too polite tone in Clay’s voice. It had been a while since he’d heard Marcus speak that way.
“Eddie Golden,” said Karras.
“Eddie Golden. Well, this Tyrell, the one I told you about? He’s the one Eddie stole all that jack from.”
Clay watched Short Man get up in Anthony’s face. Clay made a small humming sound through closed lips.
Karras cleared his throat. “But why’s Short Man talkin’ to the kid like that?”
“’Cause the kid managed to get himself in the middle. Yesterday, when that boy in the Buick got his head tore off and Eddie Golden took that pillowcase? Anthony saw what went down.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Karras saw Clay unfold his arms and ball his right fist.
“Thought you weren’t going to get involved,” said Karras.
Clay said, “I’m tryin’ my best.”
Short Man threw Anthony up against the fence. Anthony went down, tried to scamper off. The Rogers kid came up on the two of them, blocked Anthony’s route. Short Man snatched Anthony by his jacket and stood him back up.
“Aw, shit,” said Clay very softly. “You done went and did the wrong thing, now.”
Clay stepped quickly toward the door. Karras followed.
“Marcus, what you doin’, man?”
“Find out when I get there.”
“I’m comin’ with you.”
“All that energy you got, you might as well.”
They pushed through the door and hit the street.
Cootch stepped out from behind the counter and walked to the window, watched Clay and Karras in full sprint.
“Damn,” said Cootch. He never would have thought a couple of old-school mugs like Clay and Karras could move so fast.
Short Man Monroe watched the big dude approach, the gray-haired white dude just behind. Big dude was coming on fast. One of those Vietnam-time, Richard Roundtree — lookin’ mothafuckers, way past his prime. Monroe figured he’d listen to what the man had to say, then talk him down. If Vietnam wanted to throw a punch, he’d cover up at first, let the old mothafucker punch himself out. Then he’d step to him, fuck this old, broken-down nigga up.
The man kept coming, though. Didn’t look like he was gonna stop to talk.
“What you want, nigga?” said Monroe.
The man was stepping fast. He was close enough now.
“You don’t see no nigger here, boy. The name’s Marcus Clay.”
Monroe gave him a sucker smile and planted his back foot. He threw a right toward the man’s face.
Clay stepped to his side, slipped the punch. He whipped out his hand, turned it for a nice, quick snap at the point of contact, drove his palm up into Short Man’s nose. The blow lifted Monroe off the ground.
Monroe flew back, his eyes hot as fire. He watched his own blood splash up before his face, felt it run over his lip and into his mouth.
“Respect!” yelled Karras to Alan Rogers, who had moved forward.
Rogers stayed where he was. The white dude looked like some mad professor and shit, lit by a hundred tabs of speed.
Anthony Taylor backed himself away along the fence.
“How you like that, short stuff?” said Clay. “You like it when a bigger man than you roughs you up?”
Monroe stood up, rolled his shoulders, smiled red. Pain tears streamed down his cheeks. He came forward in a crouch. He brought his hands up to protect his face, bobbed, saw blood hit the sidewalk.
“Stay where you are, man,” said Clay. “You don’t want no more.”
Monroe kept coming. He hooked a right toward Clay’s middle. Clay brought his elbows in, took the shot. Monroe led with a left jab, threw another right.
The blow was weak and off. Clay swatted it to the side. He slapped Monroe hard with an open hand. He backhanded him, hammer-slapped him again square on his broken nose. Monroe yelped like a stick-beat dog and went down to the concrete.
“Dag,” said Anthony Taylor.
“Get out of here, boy. Go on back to the store now, hear? Go.”
The kid looked at the bloody heap curled on the sidewalk and walked away. A couple of old men had gathered down along 10th, and they were shouting words of encouragement to Marcus Clay.
“You,” said Clay to Rogers. “Pick your boy up and get him to a doctor. Now on in, you stay out of sight of my shop. Don’t even want to see your kind around this neighborhood, you hear?”
“Tell ’em, Clay!” yelled one of the old men.
Rogers helped Monroe up off the ground. He began to walk him back toward the Z.
“C’mon, Marcus.” Karras tugged at Clay’s shirt.
“Another thing, Rogers. That your name, right, boy?”
Rogers and Monroe kept walking.
Clay raised his voice. “You keep away from that girl, Rogers. Keep away from Denice Tate!”
“All right, Marcus,” said Karras. “You made your point, buddy. Let’s go back to work.”
They headed across U.
Monroe stopped, pulled his arm away from Rogers. He turned toward Clay. “Gonna fuck you up, nigga!” You hear?” He stared at the old men on the sidewalk, gestured wildly. “Gonna fuck all a y’all up!”
The old men turned and walked back toward their homes.
“Gotta get you to D.C. General,” said Rogers.
“Gonna doom that mothafucker, Alan,” said Monroe.
“All right, black,” said Rogers. “Need to fix you up, though, first.”
Alan Rogers looked back at Clay and the white dude, crossing the street slow. Clay, he’d handled Monroe, crippled his ass and then slapped him down like he was breaking a child. Rogers thought, How’d I ever get with the people I’m with?
Rogers wanted to see his girl. He wanted to run away.
Karras and Clay reached Real Right’s front door.
“Damn, Marcus, haven’t seen you move that fast since—”
“Ten years back? Don’t say it, man.”
“Where’d you learn that hand strike?”
“Been training a little bit with my cop friend, George Dozier. Just brushin’ up, really, on what they taught me in the service.”
“We’re gonna see those guys again; you know that, don’t you?”
“I reckon.”
Karras touched the handle of the door. “How’d it feel, Marcus?”
“What?”
“You know.”
“Felt good, doin’ it. Gonna feel foolish about it later on tonight. Way it always is, Mitri.”
“What was that shit about Denice? She hangin’ out with that Rogers kid?”
“Yeah.”
“Clarence know?”
“Haven’t told him yet.”
“You just told the whole neighborhood, though.”
“I know it. Guess it’s time I let Clarence in on it, too.”
Karras pulled on the door and held it open. Clay stepped inside.
Fifteen
Mr. Clay,” said Anthony Taylor, “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry about what?”
“I did wrong.”
“No,” said Clay, “you did no wrong.”
“You did fine,” said Karras. “You okay?”
“Back’s a little sore,” said Anthony.
“You’re gonna feel it tomorrow, Anthony,” said Clay. “Young as you are, though, you’ll rebound quick.”
Clarence Tate came into the back office. “What’s goin’ on, Marcus? Just got back from droppin’ Denice at home. Cootch said you had some trouble.”