Part 61 (1/2)

The drugstore was an antique, like the ones I remember from childhood, like Bucky's was, in downtown Dunetown, before it became Doomstown. It had a marble fountain top and wire-rung chairs and smelled of maraschino cherries and chocolate instead of vitamin pills and hair spray. A gray-haired black man behind the counter sized us up and nodded toward the Kid, who was sitting back from the front window, sipping something pink that looked medicinal. He was watching a two-story row house, which stood alone in the middle of the block. A vertical neon sign over the front door of the place said that it was the Saint Andrew's African Baptist Church.

”I didn't know he was the Reverend Graves,” I said.

”Used to be the church,” Mufalatta said. ”When they moved to their new place, the sign ran the wrong way, so Nose bought it. He calls the place the Church.”

”Doesn't that upset the Saint Andrew's African Baptist congregation?” I asked.

”Naw, he's head of the choir,” the Kid said, and left it at that.

”Who's around?” the Stick asked.

”Two carloads of 'em just went inside,” Mufalatta said. ”Man, are they feelin' high. You never saw such grins in your life.”

”How did they waste the shrimp company?” I asked.

”Just drove in, two cars of 'em, pulled up to the front door, got out, and checked to make sure the place was empty. Then they doused it with Molotov c.o.c.ktails and tossed a couple sticks of dynamite in the front door as they was leaving. Man, the place went sky high.”

We all stood there, staring across the street at the Church, wondering what to do next.

”If we're going to arrest him, don't we need a warrant?” I asked.

”Arrest them? Arrest who, man? Graves?” was the Kid's amazed response. ”The four of us are gonna sashay in there and bust Nose Graves and maybe eight of the meanest motherf.u.c.kers south of Jersey City? Us four? s.h.i.+t, man. Death with honor, si; death by suicide, bulls.h.i.+t.”

”Then why don't I just go in and have a talk with him,” I suggested.

Mufalatta looked at me like I was certifiable. Dutch chuckled deep in his throat, like he had just heard a dirty joke. The Stick didn't do anything; he stood there and pro and conned the idea in his head. He broke the silence.

”Why?” he asked.

”He's being suckered,” I said. ”Maybe we can stop this craziness before anybody else dies.”

”Do tell,” said the Kid. ”And you think he's gonna give a royal s.h.i.+t what you think, man?”

”What've we got to lose?” I said. ”Stick and Dutch, keep an eye on our front and back doors. The Kid and I'll go in and gab with Graves.”

”Absolutely crazy as s.h.i.+t,” the Kid said.

”I'll second that,” said Dutch.

”h.e.l.l, why not?” the Stick said. ”Sometimes crazy s.h.i.+t like that works.”

Dutch sighed. ”Let's get some more backup over here,” he said.

”Why?” I asked. ”This isn't the gunfight at the O.K. Corral. We just want to talk.”

”The man just blew up a business,” Dutch reminded me. ”If he knows he was seen doing it, he's not gonna be too receptive to any chitchat with the cops. ”

I shrugged. ”Then we won't tell him yet,” I said, and walked out the front door and across the street with Mufalatta legging it beside me.

”This is crazy, man,” he said. ”This guy has no fuse at all, okay? No fuse, man. You light him up, he blows all over the f.u.c.kin' place. They will hear it in West L.A. s.h.i.+t, they will hear it in West f.u.c.kin' Berlin, is what they'll do. You hear me talkin', man? Am I just makin' my gums bleed for fun?”

”I heard you, Kid,” I said. ”He's got a short fuse.”

”No fuse, brother. None. N-o-n-e. None!”

We entered the club.

”Okay, okay,” Mufalatta said as we walked into the dark stairwell. ”Just let me get us to the man, okay? Let me do that because, see, I think in this case I have a gift of communication which you don't.”

”How's that?” I said.

”Because you're a thick-headed, f.u.c.kin' honky, that's why, and this man don't even trust high yellows.”

”Get us to the man,” I agreed with a nod.

We walked up a short flight of steps to the main floor of the building. It was a cathedraled room with a pulpit at one end and pews shoved back in a semicircle to form a large dance floor. The room was tiered. On the second tier there were low-slung tables surrounded by large cus.h.i.+ons. The color scheme was cardinal red and devil black. Four stereo speakers the size of billboards were booming against visible sound waves. The music was so loud it hurt my Adam's apple. Not a ray of suns.h.i.+ne penetrated the once sacred interior.

Two black giants were sitting in wooden chairs at the top of the stairs. They looked both of us up and down, then one of them said rather pleasantly, ”Sorry, gents, no action till four o'clock.”

”It ain't that way,” Mufalatta shouted. ”We're here to talk with the man.”

The two giants exchanged grins, then laughed loud enough to drown out the music. One of them yelled, ”What you gonna do, turkey, ask him to boogie?”

”Yeah,” I said, taking out my wallet and letting it fall open to my buzzer. ”Here's our dance card.”

”s.h.i.+t,” the Kid said. ”There goes diplomatic relations down the f.u.c.kin' toilet.”

The big guy doing the talking looked like I was waving a pretzel at him. He looked at Mufalatta, then me, trying to put us together, then pointed at me. ”You stay right there, both a you,” he said, and to his partner, ”Keep an eye on them.”

He turned and lumbered across the dance floor, up into the shadows. The other giant stood and glared at us alternately, his eyeb.a.l.l.s clicking back and forth. Obviously he was a man who followed orders to the letter. When you're that big, you don't have to think.

There was a minute or two more of musical torture and then the music magically stopped.

”Up here,” Ape One yelled down. ”Do them first.”

”On the wall,” Ape Two said. ”I'm gonna toss you.”

He patted us down and took a .357 and a switchblade knife away from Mufalatta. All I had that looked threatening was a nail file, which he studied for several moments.

”It's a nail file,” I said finally.

”No s.h.i.+t,” he said. ”I thought it was a toothpick.”

Ape Two led us across the hardwood floor and up into the far corner of the room to the only booth in the place. Inside the booth was a round table and, behind it, a hand-carved chair big enough to suit the Queen. Graves was sitting in the chair with one leg draped over an arm. He was dressed like a Brazilian banker, in tan linen with a dark brown handkerchief draped from his jacket pocket and a brown-and-white-striped tie. Like Zapata, he wore sungla.s.ses in the dark.

Several of his lieutenants slipped back into the shadows. They didn't go anywhere, they just became part of the ambience.

Graves leaned forward and pulled his gla.s.ses down slightly, peering over them.

”Well, what do you know, it's the dog lover.”