Part 7 (1/2)

But Jump's face appeared in the crack between door and jamb a second later, bisected by the chain-lock. He flicked his eyes at both of us, then closed the door, slid off the chain, and opened up. He was rocking black basketball shorts, a white wife-beater, and some dirty-a.s.s sweatsocks. If he hadn't been asleep, he sure looked it.

”f.u.c.k time is it?” He rubbed a palm up and down the right side of his face as he followed us inside.

”Early.” Next to Jumpshot, Laz looked like a gaunt, ancient giant. ”But I been up for hours.”

”Yeah?” Jump said, sitting heavily on his unmade bed and bending to pull a pair of sneakers from underneath the frame. ”Why's that?”

Lazarus reached into his jacket and pulled out the .38, held it at waist height so that the barrel was pointing right at Jumpshot's grill. ”I think you know the answer to that,” he said calmly.

Jump looked up and froze. Just froze. Didn't move, didn't say s.h.i.+t. I gathered he'd never stared into that little black hole before.

Lazarus smiled. ”Where's my s.h.i.+t, Jumpshot?” he asked conversationally. I gulped it back fast, but for a sec I thought I might puke. It wasn't the piece, or the fact that Jump suddenly looked like the seventeen-year-old kid he was. It wasn't even the weird f.u.c.king sensation of another dude's life pa.s.sing before my eyes the way Jump's did just then. What turned my stomach was that Lazarus looked more content than I had ever seen him. Like he would do this s.h.i.+t every day if he could.

Jump opened his mouth, made a noise like nhh nhh, and shook his head. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. I'd expected more of the dude. Some stupid Tony Montana bravado, at least: f.u.c.k you, Lazarus. You gonna hafta kill me, n.i.g.g.a. f.u.c.k you, Lazarus. You gonna hafta kill me, n.i.g.g.a.

”T.”

”Yeah, man.”

”Go take a look around, huh? I'ma have a little chat with my man here.”

”Sure.” I headed for the bathroom.

”What are you looking at him for?” I heard behind me. That rabbi voice again. ”Look at me. That's better. Now listen carefully, Jumpshot. You listening? Okay. Here's the deal. You give me everything back, right now, no bulls.h.i.+t, and you get a pa.s.s. You get to pack your s.h.i.+t up and roll out of Dodge.” There was a pause, and I could almost see Laz shrugging. ”Who knows, maybe a broken leg for good measure. To remind you that stealing is wrong.”

Finally, Jumpshot found his voice. It was raspy, clogged, but it cut through the stale air like a dart. ”I didn't steal nothing.” Like if he spoke deliberately enough there was no way Lazarus could not believe him. ”I ... have ... no ... idea ... what you're talking about.”

I walked back into the room right on cue, and threw two bricks onto the bed. Jump started like I'd tossed a snake at him. ”That was all I could find,” I said. Jumpshot's face was a death mask now, so twisted that any lingering trace of sympathy I might have had for him straight vanished.

”Oh, and this.” I handed Laz the gun. Jump raised up so fast I thought he might salute.

”I never seen that s.h.i.+t before in my life!” The veins in his neck strained; I could see the blood pumping.

”What, that?” Lazarus pointed at the bricks and raised his eyebrows. ”That's weed, Jumpshot. Collie. Ishen. Ganja. Sensi. Goat s.h.i.+t. People smoke it. Gets them high. Or did you mean this?” Lazarus held up the Glock, and as soon as Jumpshot looked at it, bam: bam: Lazarus swung the gun at him and hit Jump square in the face, the orbit of the eye. Knocked him back onto the bed, b.l.o.o.d.y. Jump let out a clipped yelp and grabbed his face, and Lazarus leaned over him, gun in the air, ready to pistol-whip the kid again. Lazarus swung the gun at him and hit Jump square in the face, the orbit of the eye. Knocked him back onto the bed, b.l.o.o.d.y. Jump let out a clipped yelp and grabbed his face, and Lazarus leaned over him, gun in the air, ready to pistol-whip the kid again.

”At least this s.h.i.+t is loaded,” Laz said, eyes flas.h.i.+ng. ”At least you robbed me with a loaded gun, Jump. Next time, change your f.u.c.kin' shoes.” Bam Bam Lazarus slammed the gun down again-hit Jump on the hand s.h.i.+elding his face. Probably shattered a finger, at least. Jump screamed and twitched, curled like a millipede, this way and that. Nowhere to go, really. Lazarus slammed the gun down again-hit Jump on the hand s.h.i.+elding his face. Probably shattered a finger, at least. Jump screamed and twitched, curled like a millipede, this way and that. Nowhere to go, really.

Lazarus straightened, a gun in each hand, and swiped a forearm across his brow. ”Ten minus two leaves eight,” he said. ”So where's the rest, Jump?”

”f.u.c.k you.” Jump said it loud and strong, as if the words came from deep inside him.

”No, Jump,” Lazarus said. ”f.u.c.k you you.” He turned and pulled the biggest television off its stand, whirled and heaved it toward Jumpshot. Missed. Thing must have been heavy; Lazarus barely threw it two feet. It landed upright. The screen didn't even break.

Lazarus glanced over at me, a little embarra.s.sed. ”f.u.c.k this,” he said. ”Sit up, n.i.g.g.e.r. I'm through f.u.c.king with you. Sit up!”

Jumpshot did as he was told. Blood was smeared across his face, clotting over one eye. ”Laz-”

”Shut up. Believe me, Jumpshot, I could f.u.c.k around and torture you for hours. Trust me, I know how. I even brought my knife. But I don't have time for all that. So I'm going to wait five seconds, and if you don't tell me where the rest of my s.h.i.+t is, I'm going to shoot you in the f.u.c.king chest, you understand? Go.”

”I don't f.u.c.king know, man. You gotta believe me, Abraham, I swear to G.o.d I never seen that s.h.i.+t be-”

”Four.”

”Please, man, I swear on my mother's-”

Lazarus s.n.a.t.c.hed a pillow off the floor and fired through it. Didn't m.u.f.fle s.h.i.+t. Whole building probably heard the sound. Jump fell back flat. Lazarus wiped off the Glock and tossed it on the bed. Crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Jumphot. The blood was spreading beneath him, saturating the blankets. ”What could this fool have done with eight pounds of weed in two hours?”

”Maybe we should talk about it someplace else,” I suggested.

”Mmm,” said Lazarus. ”That's probably a good idea.” But we stood rooted to our spots, like we were observing a moment of silence. I watched Laz's eyes bounce from spot to spot and knew he was wondering if there was anything in the apartment worth taking. Watching him was easier than watching Jumpshot.

”All right.” The moment ended and Laz spun on his heel. We stepped outside. After the dimness of the apartment, the block seemed almost unbearably bright.

We drove back to the crib and ordered breakfast from the Dominican place. Laz had steak and eggs. ”Aren't you supposed to be a vegetarian?” I asked.

”Usually,” he said with his mouth full, swiping a piece of toast through his yolk. He shook his head. ”Eight f.u.c.kin' pounds.”

”Only thing I can come up with is that he took it straight to one of the herb gates on Bedford,” I said. ”On some pump-and-dump s.h.i.+t.”

Lazarus nodded. ”That's the only thing that makes sense. Anybody else would ask questions.” He slid his knife and fork together neatly, as if a waiter was going to come and clear our plates. ”I'll never see that weight again, basically.”

”At least it was paid for, right?”

”Half up front, half on the re-up. That's how Cornelius does business.” He steepled his hands and tapped his fingertips against his chin. ”I'm gonna have to leave town, T. Take what I've got left, go down south, and bubble it.” He lowered his head, toyed with a lock. ”I swore I'd never do the Greyhound thing again. But it's still the safest way to travel.”

”How long you talking about?” I asked.

Laz shrugged. ”A month or so. I'll go see my bredren in North Kack, bubble what I need to bubble, let s.h.i.+t blow over. You can mind the shop, right? Keep the business up and running so the Rastas don't start looking for a new connect?”

”If Cornelius will f.u.c.k with me, I can.”

”He will. I'll set that up before I go.”

”When you gonna bounce?”

Lazarus reached over and grabbed the duffel with the bricks in it. He walked over to his closet and dumped an armload of clothes inside, then bent down and pulled a floor-board loose. Inside the hollow was a roll of dough and one more brick. He tossed those in, too. I neglected to mention that it was my bag he was packing.

”I'm ready now,” he said.

Laz took a shower, made a few phone calls. I went up to my crib and did the same, then came back down and rolled us one last spliff. We smoked in silence. Always the best way. When it was over Laz stubbed the roach, pushed off palms-to-knees, and stood. ”Everything is set,” he said, and tossed me his car keys. ”You might as well get used to driving it.”

We were quiet all the way to Times Square. I kept wait-ing for Laz to start peppering me with instructions, but he just leaned back in the pa.s.senger seat, rubbing his eyes. Occasionally, he'd sing a little snippet of a Marley song to himself: Don't let them fool ya/or even try to school ya. Don't let them fool ya/or even try to school ya. Maybe it was stuck in his head and he just had to let it out, or maybe the song made him feel better. He had a good voice, actually. Maybe it was stuck in his head and he just had to let it out, or maybe the song made him feel better. He had a good voice, actually.

I parked the car, walked him up to the ticketing desk, and then down to the terminal. The bus was already boarding. I offered Laz my hand; he clasped it, then pulled me into a shoulder-bang embrace. ”Hey, listen,” he said. ”That s.h.i.+t with Jumpshot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call him a n.i.g.g.e.r. I was heated. You know I didn't mean anything by it, right?”

”I know,” I said.

He leaned in for another soulshake. ”Hold it down for me, bro.”