Ray did a couple more lines of coke and had a seat in Tyrell’s chair. Felt good sittin’ there, too. Tyrell ever got tired of it, or went down, maybe Ray’d make this seat his own.
Ray shook a Newport from his deck, lit it, and dragged deep.
Tyrell, he’d always had brains. Could’ve been a real businessman, wearing a fine suit and shit, he’d had the opportunity. But he’d never been incarcerated, and it showed.
Ray, he’d been on the soft side himself when he’d first gone in on that armed robbery beef. Course, he’d had his priors, done plenty of violent shit before he took the long one. Wasn’t till he was in Lorton, though, that he killed his first man. Had to prove yourself real quick in there, sleepin’ in that dorm-style room in the Occoquan facility with all those other hard brothers, most of them scared inside but even more afraid to let it show. So you had to make a point. Ray made it when some skinny, light-skinned nigga cut across him in the prison barber shop, took the chair he’d been next in line to get. Friends of this light-skinned boy, they laughed right in Ray’s face, all of them tryin’ to take him for bad. Ray figured that before he knew it they’d be punkin’ him out in other ways, too. So he waited for that light-skinned boy when he was comin’ out the showers, and Ray cut him with a razor blade he’d melted into the stem of a toothbrush, slashed down with pressure and ripped him open from his chest down to his cock. Mothafucker bled right out, his legs kickin’, screamin’ for his God to save him, tryin’ to hold his hands over the long slice while the blood pumped out from between his fingers, and his life left his eyes. None of his niggas talked, either. And nobody laughed at Ray after that.
Ray closed his eyes. It wasn’t all bad inside. There was this one bitch he had, his very own house mouse, with these thick, fine-ass lips... Ray could almost see him there in front of him, wearin’ eyeliner, how pretty he looked.
Antony Ray stroked his cock through his jeans. He butted his cigarette and got up from the chair. He walked to the window and stared at the night.
“Fuck it,” he said.
Ray went back to the hall, opened the bedroom door, walked inside. He switched on the light.
“Golden boy,” said Ray, moving toward the bed. “That wing of yours is lookin’ like some August fruit.”
Eddie’s feet sought purchase on the mattress.
“Where you goin’? I ain’t gonna hurt you, boy.”
Eddie lay still. “I’m thirsty.”
“Figured you would be.” Ray chuckled. “Why I came in here, matter of fact. Gonna help you out there, Golden boy.”
“Please.”
Ray moved closer and smiled. “You ever suck a dick, Eddie?”
“No,” said Eddie, making a small choking sound.
“Get ready, then,” said Ray, unzipping his fly. “’Cause you gonna suck a good one now.”
Twenty-Eight
Go ahead, Clarence,” said Marcus Clay. “Unlock the door.”
Tate turned the key on Real Right’s front door as Clay, Karras, and Adamson stood at the window, watching the men get out of two cars parked on the south side of U.
“Tall, ain’t he?” said Adamson.
“And ugly, too,” said Clay. “Tyrell Cleveland.”
“Tall man like that, you take out his kneecap quick, he’d fall like one of those California redwoods.”
“Thought we were gonna talk to ’em,” said Karras.
“Just makin’ an observation,” said Adamson.
“Al,” said Clay, “you watch Rogers, the young man on the left.”
“I’ll watch him,” said Tate.
“Let Al watch Rogers, Clarence. You and Dimitri keep an eye on Tyrell. I’ll watch Short Man.”
“That’s what the one with the nose mask calls himself?” said Adamson.
“Yeah.”
“Now, how’d I know that?”
A small bell jingled as the three men pushed through the door. Tyrell ducked his head coming in. Rogers and Monroe followed, Rogers standing to Tyrell’s right, and Monroe standing to his left.
“Gentlemen,” said Tyrell.
Karras and Tate stepped forward, close to Tyrell. Al Adamson walked to the side of Rogers, and Clay moved up and stood two long steps away from Monroe.
Get right up on them, thought Karras, like Marcus had said. Put them on the defensive right away.
“Heard of hospitality,” said Tyrell genially, “but what ya’ll fixin’ to do, give us a kiss? Ain’t you got a back room or somethin’, someplace we can sit quietly, get off our feet?”
“You ain’t stayin’ long, Cleveland,” said Clay.
“You must be Mr. Marcus Clay,” said Tyrell, appraising him. “Can see how you handled Short Man here.”
“Wasn’t nothin’,” said Clay.
Monroe shifted his toothpick from the left to the right side of his mouth.
“Prefer you don’t call me Cleveland, either, Mr. Clay. I go by Tyrell. Cleveland’s one of those Caucasian names.” Tyrell’s eyes slid over to Karras and back to Clay. “They was gonna name me after a city, should have been New York, or Hollywood. They was gonna name me after a president, should have gone ahead and named me after a famous one, don’t you think?”
Clay didn’t answer.
Tyrell looked around the room. “Okay, you’re Karras. That one’s easy. And you’re—”
“Tate,” said Monroe, smiling. “Father of Alan’s girl.”
Tate glanced over at Rogers, who looked away. The boy wasn’t so cocky now; matter of fact, he looked about half ready to turn and run.
“And what about you?” said Tyrell, his eyes on Adamson. “Damn, you’re about the blackest mothafucker I seen all day.”
Adamson’s jaw muscles bunched.
“Let’s get on with it,” said Clay.
Tyrell took a deep breath. The buzz of fluorescence and the tick of the wall clock were the only sounds in the room.
“Okay,” said Tyrell. “Let’s do that. We’ll talk about the money in a minute. First thing, though, wanna talk about a problem you have with my operation down here. Heard you were shoutin’ out in the street yesterday how you didn’t want our kind around.”
“That’s right,” said Clay. “After tonight, I don’t expect to see you or your boys again. And don’t want those sold-out cops you got in your pocket anywhere near my shop. I earned all this. Proud of it, too. Don’t need you contaminatin’ what I built myself.”
“That a fact.”
“Yes.”
Tyrell’s lip twitched. “We ain’t nothin’ but two sides of the same coin, Mr. Clay. Couple of businessmen tryin’ to get along—”
“Uh-uh. You and me got nothin’ in common. You poison your own people, Cleveland. You’re a killer of children, Cleveland.”
Monroe said, “I’ll fuck him up, Ty—”
“Shut up, boy!” said Clay. “Don’t make me open-hand you again.”
“Easy, Short,” said Tyrell. “Let’s just keep talkin’.”
Karras was afraid, but a rush of pride had swelled in him, too, standing next to his friend. He studied Tyrell, his long frame, his knees, thinking that Al had been right. If it came to it, hit Tyrell low.
“Sorry you feel that way,” said Tyrell. His eyes narrowed, and he forced a smile. “Well, let’s move on. Let’s get off that other thing and get to the money.”
“The money?” said Clay. “We ain’t got no got-damn money.”
“But you said—”
“I said nothin’.”
Al Adamson saw Tyrell’s eyes dart over to Monroe. He watched Monroe use his right hand to hitch up his jeans, and then he saw Monroe’s hand kind of snake around the belt line toward the back.