Murphy stood in the kitchen, basting a chicken while greens cooked in a tall pot atop the gas stove. He was expecting his son Kevin and Kevin’s wife, Wanda, for dinner; he’d spent the morning and afternoon reading the Sunday Post, attending services at his Baptist church, and preparing the meal. They’d come over, recite the Twenty-third Psalm with him, and all of them would sit down to eat.
Cooking for three, it wasn’t so difficult. Not like when Teddy, his older son, used to bring his wife and children by, too. Teddy was a reverend and a fine young man, steady and strong of will. The lymphoma had taken him three years back, and shortly thereafter his wife had gone off with a slick young insurance man, gone and left without a word to some town up in New Jersey. Andy Murphy had received a card and photography from his grandchildren that first Christmas and nothing since.
He often thanked the Lord that he still had Kevin and Wanda. Cooking for them once a week, it gave him a little something to do. And it seemed to comfort Wanda. He expected it wouldn’t be long before God called him home to be with his wife, Paulette, gone ten years. But until then, a man needed distractions to pass the time. Maybe he shouldn’t have retired so quickly — he’d been an engineer at the old Brown Building on 19th, between M and N, for the last fifteen years of his career — but you had to step aside eventually, make room for the young. It was their world, after all. He was only renting a small piece of it now.
The bell chimed. Andy Murphy went through the living room and opened the front door.
“You’re early,” he said.
“Can’t make dinner today. Thought you and I could kneel down and say the psalm.”
“You don’t look well.”
“I was troubled,” said Kevin Murphy, smiling strangely. “But I’m better now.”
Twenty-Three
Tyrell Cleveland cradled the phone on the table beside his armchair.
“Who was that?” said Short Man Monroe.
“One of our runners,” said Tyrell. “Cops been shakin’ most of them down this morning, askin’ questions about Chief and his friend. Askin’ about me.”
“Those runners don’t know shit,” said Monroe. “And if they did know, they’d know better than to talk.”
“I ain’t worried about them. You hadn’t gone and done those younguns, they wouldn’t have nothin’ to talk about.”
“Little nigga had a gun, Ty.”
“Hmm. Hope you threw that gun of yours away.”
“Damn sure did. Pitched it in the Anacostia.”
“No witnesses and no weapon. We shouldn’t have no problem, then.” Tyrell looked at Alan Rogers. “And where were you when all this shootin’ was goin’ down?”
“Seein’ his girl,” said Monroe.
“Tyrell—”
“Got to get your priorities together, Alan. You do have yourself together, right?”
“You know I do.”
“That’s good. Real glad to hear that, Alan.”
Antony Ray, Rogers, and Monroe sat at the round table near Tyrell. Chink Bennet and Jumbo Linney were sitting on the couch, quietly playing a game of Atari.
“How’s our boy Eddie doin’, Antony?”
Ray snapped ash off a cigarette. “Sleepin’ again.”
“Look like he’s hurt bad,” said Rogers. “Could be goin’ into shock.”
“Don’t worry,” said Ray. “Gonna put him out of his misery soon enough.”
“Not yet,” said Tyrell. “Alan, you know anything about a white dude, works at that record store?”
“He knows,” said Monroe. “White boy with the gray hair stood his ass down.”
“Nothin’ I could do, Ty—”
“Here’s the thing. Antony got a little too rough with our boy Eddie last night. But before he passed out, Eddie said something about that white boy and the money.”
Rogers shrugged. “Maybe he took it from Eddie’s girl.”
Tyrell looked into the fire. “Seems like it all leads to that record store, y’all know what I’m sayin’?”
Monroe smiled. “I do.”
“Maybe we ought to pay that Marcus Clay a visit. Meet him and his people all in the same room. Talk about money and some other things, too. ’Bout how we gotta... co-exist there in that neighborhood. ’Cause, you know, way things are goin’ with him, shootin’ his mouth off ’bout how he don’t want to see our kind around no more, one of us is not gonna last down there. Think if I talk to him, maybe he’ll see the light.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Monroe.
“How about you, Alan? That okay? Or would that, how they say it in those soap operas, jeopardize your relationship with that girl?”
Ray and Monroe laughed. Rogers’s lip twitched as he forced himself to break a smile.
“We go now?” said Monroe.
“Nah,” said Tyrell. “Wanna catch that Maryland game first. I’ll call Clay after the game, set it up. Tutt and Murphy’s supposed to come by later, too. Need to talk to them, make sure we still got our understanding in place. Even bad cops get nervous when you start cappin’ mothafuckers on their beat.”
“I’ll say it again,” said Monroe. “We don’t need those two, Tyrell.”
“Relax, Short. I’ll throw a little more money at ’em. That’s all they really care about. All anybody cares about, you get down to it.” Tyrell stretched his long frame. “Anyway. With all these distractions and shit, I almost went and forgot about the business. Chink! Jumbo!”
Bennet and Linney made their way over to Tyrell. Linney carried Cheetos with him, his hand rustling the bag.
“Y’all busy?” said Tyrell.
“Nah, Ty, we ain’t busy,” said Bennet.
Tyrell eyed them with amusement. “You don’t mind, I need you two to go down and collect what you didn’t get last night while you were busy fuckin’ up those kids.”
“We ain’t have nothin’ to do with that,” said Linney.
“Hey, Short,” said Bennet, “let us take the Z, man. Think we ought to chill with the Supra down there, for a little while, anyway. Someone might have seen it last night.”
“You know your boy Jumbo can’t fit in that Z,” said Monroe. “Take the mothafuckin’ Supra.”
“Tyrell,” said Bennet, “we gotta go now?”
“Yes,” said Tyrell. “Now.”
Kevin Murphy said hello to Cootch and walked into the back room of Real Right. Marcus Clay, Dimitri Karras, and Clarence Tate sat in chairs semicircling the store’s battered television. Anthony Taylor stood beside Clay, sipping from a can of Nehi grape.
“Officer Murphy!” said Anthony.
“Anthony,” said Murphy. “Wha’sup, fellas?”
“You missed the first half,” said Clay.
“Had some things to do. Listened to it on the radio on the way down. Maryland’s down by six, right?”
“Yeah,” said Clay. “St. John’s lost to Auburn today, you believe that? Chuck Person had twenty-seven, made Walter Berry look like nobody’s All-American.”
“Big East is out of the tournament,” said Karras. “Didn’t even place one team in the Sweet Sixteen.”
“And that means Bias ain’t gonna have that hookup with Berry,” said Clay, “everyone’s been waitin’ for.”
“Don’t look like Maryland’s going to the next level anyway, Marcus,” said Tate.