Part 18 (2/2)
”You're right. That's actually why I called you down here.”
Shango and I never use land lines, cells, or even e-mail. If he needs to see me, the right corner of the front page of my Daily News Daily News will be missing. If it's a little piece, I'll find him at the gym over on Kingston. If it's a lot, he's over at Jean's. will be missing. If it's a little piece, I'll find him at the gym over on Kingston. If it's a lot, he's over at Jean's.
Shango's sort of like my agent in this maze of a neighborhood, and has been ever since I moved here five years ago. He helped me out with a certain situation, involving certain people that you don't need to know about, or at least not in the context of this particular tale.
”So what's the deal?” I ask him.
”Reuben's got a problem,” he says, dabbing his lips with one of the moist towelettes he carries everywhere he goes.
Reuben Goren owns a nice piece of Fulton Street, mostly storefronts that have been in the family for almost two generations. Needless to say, any problem he has is likely to be an expensive one.
”What kind of problem?”
”Yardies want that corner building he's got on Fulton and Nostrand, you know the one with the optician and the furniture store up top?”
”I see it every time I go to the train,” I say. ”So what, they've got him under pressure?”
”You could say that. But more importantly, they've got us under contract.”
”Under contract to do what?”
”A little FYI.”
”FYI?”
”We need to let him know they're not f.u.c.kin' around.”
”And let me guess, he wants me to come up with a plan.”
”Plan and execution.”
”For how much?”
”Five.”
”That's a little low, isn't it?” I say, knowing that it's more than I need. Greed is the most deadly of all sins.
”It's more than what you need for those Brazil tickets,” he says, signaling Jean for coffee just so she can show him her behind while she pours.
”Always ahead of my game, huh?”
”I gotta be to take fifteen percent.” My brain calculates options at the speed of light. Then my compa.s.s points me north. ”I already took my fee out of the number by the way.”
”Figured as much,” I nod, still pensive. Then it comes to me. ”I'm gonna need to see Sam.”
Shango smiles again. ”I told him you'd be there in thirty minutes.”
”You know anybody that needs four .45s with no firing pins?” Sam asks, twenty-three minutes later.
He's a barber by trade. But he picked up a few other skills during the early nineties, when that nappy 'fro trend kept a lot of his usual cake out-of-pocket. On the table before him are four lines of c.o.ke and a plate of short ribs. He snorts and chews in twenty-second intervals, using the nostril that isn't outlined with crusted blood.
”I might,” I say, the most strategic answer to give.
The rear of Sam's Shears is the local a.r.s.enal. You come to him for both offense and defense, for gaining ground and covering your a.s.s. For pistols, rifles, hollow-tips, and even explosives, he's the undisputed motherf.u.c.kin' man, and the key element to my equation on this particular Thursday.
”But what I need,” I continue, ”is something that blows. Compact with high impact.”
”What for?”
”It's on a need-to-know basis, my friend,” I say with the wave of a finger. ”Besides, curious cats end up in the carry-out.”
”You make any money from that writing s.h.i.+t?” he asks, just before doing another line, his gray t-s.h.i.+rt now smeared with barbecue sauce and pork grease.
”Sometimes,” I say.
”What about the rest of the time?”
”I do this. But look, Sam, I'm kinda on a schedule. Can you get me what I need?”
”Already got it. It's right there under the blanket.” I remove the fabric to reveal a half-liter nitro glycerin charge with a twelve-second trigger. He makes them for a third of what seasoned pros might charge. A half-liter is a little much, but it'll have to do.
”Did I hit the nail on the head?” he asks.
”More like a fly with a hammer. But I'll take what I can get.”
Sam and I don't deal in cash. Favors are our particular currency. So while such equipment would easily go for five figures on the Stuy market, I'll take it off his hands for no money down, as long as I get him what he wants.
”You know, there's only one cruiser in each precinct with a shotgun?” he asks, as if making small talk. But I know what's next. I'm finally one step ahead of somebody.
”Nabors,” I begin. ”He's the days.h.i.+ft patrolman for the Marcy projects. Pump-action Mossberg with a wood-grain slide. Takes a large curry chicken for lunch at 4:55 every day. Corner of Fulton and Nostrand.”
”Right across the street from the optician and the furniture store.”
”What a coincidence,” I grin. ”That's what you want?” He nods. For some reason the c.o.ke makes him subdued instead of hyper. He doesn't want the gun to sell, but for something more inventive. Perhaps one of his clients would enjoy the irony of killing the officer with his own weapon.
”Yup, that's it.”
”I'll send my man by for the hardware,” I say on my way out. ”And pencil me in for a shape-up tomorrow at 4.” a.r.s.enal or not, Sam gives the best cuts in The Stuy.
”I miss jail,” Brownie tells me from the beanbag recliner by the window. He did six months in Otisville for intent-to-distribute before they gave him time served for rolling over on some whiteboys, one of whom, Brownie had discovered, was f.u.c.king his girl.
He is the clinical definition of a sociopath, a man who has raped and killed, six feet and 295 pounds of evil that just happens to deal the best weed in the neighborhood. Thus, I allow him into my home from time to time, for as long as the high lasts.
”What do you mean, you miss jail?” I ask, pulling on what that remains of the once-ample spliff. He is called Brownie because of his fudge-colored face. His real name can only be found on the lips of his elderly mother or on the rap sheet longer than my bedspread, or duvet, as Jenna describes it.
”A n.i.g.g.a like me needs some discipline,” he says. ”I realize that now. In there they told me what to be and where to go. Kept me in a cage and made me follow the rules. Out here I just get into s.h.i.+t. Out here I'm a fuse ready to blow.”
<script>