Gettin place 97814013060.., p.56
Gettin' Place (9781401306069), page 56
He squinted at his keys, on the chain with the shining stone. In his pocket, he had the finger bones and his pocketknife. He went to the storage lot and opened the gate. Three police cars cruised down the riverbottom road. Walk slow. Walk on by. Walkin in rhythm.
Two stopped at the edge of the hills. No. Not SaRonn’s; Agua Dulce. He left the fence corner, his father’s land, and felt naked. More police. He walked into the riverbottom. Bamboo. Cane. He pushed into the leaves.
Demetrius’s house across the river—he could stay there. He fingered the bones in his pocket. The river was pink silver when he crossed the shallow.
The walls were pink, too. The roofs red. Red house over yonder. Which house? Crosstown traffic on the road. Which house? He walked along the walls, leaping to peer over into yards. Which yard? D’Junior got toys. Which yard? He saw a blue ball on the grass and clung to this part of the wall. Then he pulled up hard and dropped over.
The house was still too warm from being shut up all day. Enchantee lay on the couch. D’Junior and Dylan had whined; D’Junior had whined more when they’d got home and Enchantee had refused to turn on the TV. “No,” she’d shouted. “Go upstairs and play in your room.”
She’d seen the beginnings of the fists and fires at Abby’s, glanced at the TV and stopped cold, the chill of fear like liquid fanning her back. Not again. Fires, shooting, the National Guard. Abby had come into the living room behind her, and Enchantee had turned quickly to leave the room. She didn’t want to talk about it. She saw Web Matheson walking down the hallway, heard the same newscaster’s voice from the library TV. Enchantee heard him call, “I gotta run, Abby, I got something urgent. Tell Connie I’m working late, okay?”
Now she heard D’Junior calling from upstairs. “Mommy! Mommy!”
She wasn’t turning it on just to keep him quiet. She could switch from channel to channel, and he’d see it, either the fires or the damn video, Rodney King’s heavy head rising slowly like a just crawling baby unsure even of his knees. If she put in a video, D’Junior would pop it out to see the fires. He and Dylan had stood, fascinated by the flames, their mouths hanging wide.
“Mommy!” he called again. Her aunt would have slapped him, she thought drowsily, turning her cheek to the couch cushion.
Demetrius Junior stared out his bedroom window at the backyard next door. The Tin Man was out there, watering. Not really a Tin Man. The boys across the street said he was nice sometimes and mean sometimes. Their mama said he was old and lonely. But he had silver hair. Silver glasses. A big chest like the Tin Man. He went inside.
The ball was over there. Demetrius kept throwing it over by accident. He saw a man come over the back wall now. The bright lights by the wall came on. A man from Grampa’s? The man picked up the ball. Then the Tin Man came back out. He yelled, “What do you want? You want the VCR?” The other man dropped the ball. The Tin Man was yelling bad words. Cussing. He said, “You’re a fucking African warrior? You think this is a fucking store and you can loot me like a Korean?”
The other man didn’t move. The Tin Man had his silver gun. Demetrius Junior wanted a gun like that. Silver. His mama said no. Dylan’s mama said no. The other man had braids like a girl. He put his hands over his ears. The Tin Man shot his gun. The other man fell next to the wall.
Demetrius Junior heard his mother on the stairs. The Tin Man was crying. He said, “No, shit, no. Why’d you do that? I thought you…” He touched the other man’s back. The other man must be dead. His face was in the dirt. The Tin Man was crying. He reached in the other man’s pockets. Demetrius Junior saw a toy knife. The Tin Man opened the knife and put down his silver gun and scratched his hand with the knife. It wasn’t a toy. It made red blood. It was messy. The Tin Man dropped the knife next to the other man and turned around. He was crying.
When her son turned around, away from the window, he looked into the bedroom light, and Enchantee saw the spokes inside his irises, the dark lines spacing the translucent brown of his eyes.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Marcus saw the lights on in her house. “SaRonn!” he called.
Her eyes were surrounded with coronas of red from crying. “It was awful, Marcus, I couldn’t believe it,” she said, in his arms. “The shop’s gone—I saw it go up on TV just now. She put a sign in the window saying ‘Black Owned,’ and they didn’t care.”
“You weren’t there? You were on the road?”
“Bennie and I saw all the fighting, and we knew we had to go, but Trudy was scared. She was afraid to stay in her shop and afraid to leave it. We took her home, and down the street, me and Bennie saw this white guy taking pictures of a burning building. And three guys started chasin him, they were gonna beat the shit out of him. He was runnin, I guess to his car, and—” She wiped at her tears. “One brother started shootin at him. I backed up the car, and Bennie opened the door and told him, ‘Get your white ass in here.’ ”
“Sounds like Bennie,” Marcus said, trying to smile.
She was trancelike now. “He was laying all across the front seat, and Willa was screamin in the back, and I heard more shots. He said, ‘Silverlake, take me to Silverlake.’ I was trying to calm him down, tellin him I used to live in Echo Park. He hugged me and Bennie at the hospital. Our clothes are washin right now. Blood all over. But he showed me—the bullet just went across hi—”
She was touching his arm. Marcus said, “His bicep.”
SaRonn nodded. “He was so scared.”
“You were hella brave,” Marcus said, her head on his chest again.
“No,” she whispered. “I was scared, too. Scared of brothers. Of everybody.”
When someone knocked, she jerked up from his arms. “Eight was worried.”
But it was B-Real. “Mr. Thompson? I saw your Bug. I gotta talk to you.”
Outside, Marcus heard people talking in the yards up and down the street, sitting under the trees, cigarette embers rising and falling, voices louder and then soft. “They always talk shit about me, about One World,” B-Real said. “But I ain’t down for smokin brothas. I ain’t down for smokin nobody, and I can’t tell who they gon cap. Maybe Samana, man, maybe somebody else.”
“What the hell you talkin about?” Marcus said.
B-Real told him about the AK tattoos, about the guns and Sketch. “I think my brother Finis tried to tell me Samana shot Usher,” Marcus said, frowning.
“I told you, I don’t really know who they goin after,” B-Real said. “I didn’t know who to tell, man.” He paused. “When we were writin, on the walls, we were writin ‘Treetown Anybody Killa $.’ And Mortrice said somethin about money tonight.”
“Thanks, man,” Marcus said, turning to go into SaRonn’s for his keys.
B-Real said, “I can go to the movies, you know, see all that cappin. But I can’t watch people gettin beat down, like in the face—like the trucker dude or Rodney King. It’s like—” He turned toward his van, shielding his face from Marcus, and drove away.
Marcus stood in SaRonn’s living room. “Ain’t no way I can stop Samana or Mortrice,” he said to himself. “Not me. Shit. I gotta call Harley.”
He dialed, thinking that anyone he knew from Treetown would slam the receiver out of his hand. But he spoke to the answering voice that said, “Homicide.”
“Can I talk to Detective Harley?”
The voice was harrassed. “Everyone’s out in the street tonight, okay? Are you calling to report a homicide?”
“No, but…”
“Call back if somebody’s dead, okay?” The voice was cut off.
“Damn,” Marcus said, seeing SaRonn peer out into the short hallway.
“I gotta go, SaRonn. I’ma be back, and I’ll holler so you know it’s me.”
He drove slowly up to the corner of Pepper and Grove, looking at a small white truck backing out of his father’s gate. The truck had gardening equipment in the back, and a logo painted on the door. Darnell Tucker, he thought. Demetrius was closing the gate in the dark, the chain link glinting, and Marcus turned up Pepper toward downtown, not having any idea except to stop at the doughnut shop.
When he approached the underpass, he saw several figures running in the vacant lot before the minimall, and then small tongues of flame rose from the edges of the last store, the liquor store. Darnell Tucker’s truck veered off the road and into the parking lot, and Marcus followed.
Darnell and another man ran for the back of the store, and Marcus saw the Korean owner with a hose. When the man saw the three of them running toward him, he began to shout, “I shoot you, motherfucker, don’t come over here!”
“I’ma help you with the fire!” Darnell shouted, and the small Mexican man with him grabbed the hose. Darnell went into the back doorway of the store, and he came out with a fire extinguisher.
The Korean man was sobbing, screaming at the store itself. Marcus looked beyond him to where a group of men was gathered at the back of another store, and then he heard Som’s voice.
Running down the narrow parking lot, Marcus saw Som waving his arms and shouting at three men who were advancing on his doorway. Larry Cotton—Marcus saw Cotton’s face, heard him say, “Get out the way, Jap, cause I ain’t playin.” Then he saw Cotton back away and stumble, and all three men scrambled along the cinder-block wall in the back.
Samana was holding his gun, walking slow. “Fuck a Jap,” he said. “I am Khmer, motherfucker, you don’t even know that is a country.” He fired at the men, and the bullet sent sparks off the wall. Cotton and the others ran along the edge. Marcus shouted, “Samana! Som! It’s Marcus, don’t fire on me, man! Marcus!”
Samana kept the gun leveled at him, and Som pushed the barrel down. “Teacher! Come inside before somebody shoot!”
A police car hurtled down the back lot now, and Marcus heard a fire engine’s siren approaching. He stayed in the doorway, letting Som go out, waving his arms. “Right here!” Som screamed when the car stopped.
Salcido peered out of the window, and Marcus saw Tommy Flair driving the patrol car. “Marcus?”
“Salcido, man, I need to talk to you!” Marcus shouted. “No, not this!” He peered into the shop, knowing Samana had run. Som was shouting wildly at Tommy Flair, who’d gotten out of the car and was walking down the lot with his gun drawn.
“This is fucked up,” Flair shouted. “I gotta cover the firefighters.”
Salcido was panting. “Man, they’re firing on the EMTs in L.A., firing on everyone. Better not happen here.”
“Darnell Tucker and some dude are over there,” Marcus shouted at Tommy Flair. “They’re puttin out the fire, man, don’t shoot them!” He turned to Salcido. “One of my kids at school told me somethin’s about to go down,” he said, “and I think the other kid just booked up. Out the front.” He could smell the mentholatum and incense from the small back room, and Som came from the front counter, shaking his head.
“He is go,” he said. “He run again.”
“How you know he drive a Blazer?” Chris said. Teddy was driving one of the Proudfoots’ old cars, an ancient brown Cadillac.
“I heard my mama’s uncle talk about him,” Mortrice said, watching the blue towers that were purple now in the dark, except for jack-o’-lantern eyes and mouth lights. Teddy was cruising slow around the parking lot, and Mortrice was watching for The Finest or the helicopter, but so far he’d seen only the Blazer and two other cars in the spaces.
He’d told Chris to keep the music low, and Chris sang, “When I pick up my AK, every fool gon have to pay.”
But Mortrice held the buffalo gun in the backseat, touching the etched stock and the brass cutouts, feeling the long, heavy barrel when he raised it toward the window. When the dude came out, he’d have to put this away and bring out the .9. But he wanted to hold this one now. Kenneth had the AKs. Black, ugly, small: He had the buffalo gun.
“That the dude?” Teddy said. Mortrice saw the suited guy striding from the doorway of the lobby, a briefcase in his hands, his gleaming forehead like a valentine. The car alarm beeped like a tiny alien.
“Yeah,” Mortrice said. “The one in the paper. Drive up slow, man.”
When Teddy was alongside the Blazer, Mortrice got out and pointed the .9 at Matheson, who turned quickly with keys in his hand.
“Don’t holler, man, I ain’t gon shoot, I just don’t want you to run away,” Mortrice said. He didn’t want to talk so much. “The man on Lowell Street send me. Mr. Roberts. Send me for the Treetown job. The—conflagration.”
He waited. The man was breathing so hard he couldn’t talk. “I thought you wanted the car,” he said finally.
“I want the car,” Teddy said out of the open window, and Mortrice glared at him.
“Mr. Roberts already called you?” Matheson said, his shoulders slumping a little, his key hand falling to his leg. Then he looked around. “We can’t stand out here and talk.”
Mortrice slipped the gun into his pocket. “Get in the back,” he said.
“No, I—”
“Come on,” Mortrice said. “We ain’t got time.”
Matheson’s face was tight when he slid into the backseat, putting his briefcase between his feet. “I can’t believe this, I mean, I just called Roberts, and since there are so many fires anyway, he said this would be a good time. But he said he’d call me back.”
“We ain’t got time,” Mortrice said again, and Teddy pulled slowly away from the Blazer.
“What about the money?” Matheson said, his voice shaky. “Did he pay you?”
Chris turned slantwise to stare at Matheson from the shotgun seat. “You the one always payin ducats, right?” he said. “Cappin for ducats. Niggas for dollas.”
“Excuse me?” Matheson looked back at Mortrice, his eyes smaller now. “Did he pay you half?”
“Ain’t no half-steppin,” Chris crowed. “We all the way live.”
“I don’t know what your friend’s talking about,” Matheson said.
“Stall out,” Mortrice said to Chris. He turned to Matheson. “He said you gon pay, cause we in a hurry.”
“How do I know you know what you’re talking about?” Matheson said, his open fingers cupping his knees hard now. “This could be a fucking robbery.”
“Teddy,” Mortrice said. “Go.” To Matheson, he said, “Cause we gon take you by the place for the job, and then you know if we right. Huh?”
Teddy drove past the Kozy Komfort, and Mortrice heard Chris singing softly to himself, facing the window. Under the freeway, he could hear Matheson’s shallow breath shuffling from his nose. Teddy slowed at the old packing house, turning onto the shoulder and sliding the Cadillac’s tires into the two grooved lines cutting through the tall weeds after the crumbled stone. The headlights cut off, and the hulking wooden building was pale gray in the moonlight, the empty windows dark. Teddy nosed up around the back and turned the Cadillac around in the dusty ground near the pig fence, circling around a huge pile of pallets.
Mortrice pointed to the packing house and then to the trees past the canal curving around to the right. “This one and that one, right?” he said.
“Yeah,” Matheson said, frowning. “Both of em. Something happened last time—you guys didn’t do it.”
“Wasn’t us,” Chris said, but Mortrice took out the .9.
“Go inside and make sure you gettin what you payin for,” he said. Matheson stared at the gun. “I don’t know what the hell…”
“Get out.” Mortrice pushed the gun slightly forward. He felt the buffalo gun near his feet. Matheson opened his door and half-fell out onto the dirt, leaving his briefcase on the car floor when Mortrice swayed the gun over it. “You don’t need that.”
They walked into the broken doorway under the splintered wood. The first room was small and completely black, smelling of piss, and then they were inside the cave of the packing house, where old broken tables had been partially burned for heat. Mortrice saw a heap of blankets in the far corner, but he didn’t want to know what was in them or not. He saw Matheson trying not to breathe, holding his chest up like a pigeon, saying, “You’re really screwing up now. How do you expect to get paid?”
“We gettin paid,” Chris sang.
“Why you want to burn this, man?” Mortrice asked him, and the man’s face tightened to a fist.
“Because it’s fucking useless,” he said. “What the hell do you care? Do you want the money or not?”
“Yeah, I want the money,” Mortrice said. “You want the dirt.” He smiled. “Who’s your great-grandpa, some goddamn Pilgrim or some shit like that, huh? He ain’t even from round here. Indians was here first.”
“You’re losing me,” Matheson said, his voice steady again. “If you’re not the ones hired to do the job, then why don’t we…”
“I’m a motherfuckin sand moth, man,” Mortrice said, and Chris stared at him. “I’m a nectar-lovin nigga, okay?”
“Mortrice,” Teddy called from the doorway of the small room, his voice muffled by wood. “Come here, man. Hurry up.”
“Chris, man, you got him?” Mortrice said, seeing Chris nod over his own .9. Teddy had the little .25. Mortrice walked carefully along the edge of the room and peered out into the doorway. “What, man?”
A tall woman with skin like beige paper stepped out in front of him and said, “You Sofelia boy. Put that gun down. Cause I got two right here.”
Mortrice saw the tiny derringer in her hand, only a foot from his chest. He lowered his .9, and she took it away from him, putting it into a deep square pocket in her apron. Then she backed him up into the big, echoing room.
“You Sofelia boy,” she repeated. “She come and tell me what you think you doin. You ain’t doin nothin. Come here.”
She walked him over to Matheson and Chris, who stared at her. “Miz Thompson?” Chris said. Mortrice saw her eyebrows, crooked black lines drawn too high over silver, puckered crescents in her forehead.
“Move, now,” she whispered. “Right here by the table.” Then she turned to Matheson, his mouth as wide as an envelope, his lips moving.
