Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

“At least this shit is loaded,” Laz said, eyes flashing. “At least you robbed me with a loaded gun, Jump. Next time, change your fuckin’ shoes.” Bam Lazarus slammed the gun down again — hit Jump on the hand shielding 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?”

“Fuck you.” Jump said it loud and strong, as if the words came from deep inside him.

“No, Jump,” Lazarus said. “Fuck 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 embarrassed. “Fuck this,” he said. “Sit up, nigger. I’m through fucking 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 fuck 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 shit is, I’m going to shoot you in the fucking chest, you understand? Go.”

“I don’t fucking know, man. You gotta believe me, Abraham, I swear to God I never seen that shit be—”

“Four.”

“Please, man, I swear on my mother’s—”

Lazarus snatched a pillow off the floor and fired through it. Didn’t muffle shit. 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 fuckin’ 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 shit.”

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 shit 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 fuck 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 waiting for Laz to start peppering me with instructions, but he just leaned back in the passenger 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. 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 shit with Jumpshot. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to call him a nigger. 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.”

“No doubt,” I said.

“I’ll see you in a month. And I’ll call before then.”

“Do that.”

“All right, bro. One love.”

“Be safe,” I said.

“No doubt.”

“Peace.”

“Peace.” He glanced over his shoulder, hefted the duffel bag, and disappeared up the steps.

I walked to the far side of the terminal and checked my watch. Laz’s bus was due to depart at 1:15. It was 1:13 when the two DTs I’d tipped off cut the line, flashed their badges at the driver, and boarded. I didn’t wait to see them haul Laz off, just got on the escalator, made my way back to the car, and rolled back to Brooklyn. Climbed the stairs to my apartment, triple-locked the door, and rolled myself another joint. Slipped on my brand new Jordans, stacked my eight bricks into a pyramid, and just stared out the window, taking in my new domain. So long, Lazarus , I thought. I never liked your fake ass anyway. Just another punk whiteboy beneath it all. Damn near shit yourself when I put that nine to your dome. Probably serve your whole sentence and never figure out what happened. Probably call me every week from the joint, talking about, “What’s going on, bro?” Probably expect cats to remember who you are when you get out.

Brooklyn Heights

CATCHMEFUCAN, late 30s, divorced, graduate school type, nipple and foot bottom, descriptive tinkle torture, only literary straps, no working class ropes or common place marks. Looking for a little pen pal punishment.

This enticed me for solely one reason: This would be the notice I’d post were I hunting for me. Circular logic to most, but to me this entry was bait for a sting. Still, I figured, I have the willpower to finger the flames with-out getting burned. To CATCHMEFUCAN, I wrote back, I’d love to try to be more than a pen pal — GOTCHU.

Well, GOTCHU, you can always try. Just be prepared to join the graveyard of so many others that failed, cause you won’t succeed.