Pete Hamill - Brooklyn Noir

She has no intention of going on that trip in those weeks ahead. If that’s what she wants, she never would’ve told me about it. She knows how determined I am. And she knows that even though I write, I am also a man of action when it comes to handling my business. So she also has to know that there’s no way in hell I’m going to let her roll anywhere below the equator with that clown. I’ll have this sewn up by the end of the day, no problem.

“Twenty-three-hundred, forty-seven, ninety-six,” Winston utters, his eyes never leaving the calculator on his computer screen. “You want me to book it now?”

The Bogart Travel Agency is a custom-made 2000-megahertz computer system hacked into the DSL substation box at Fulton and Classon. In other words, Bradley siphons all his business and info from the big travel agency up the street. It’s nothing personal. They just happen to have what he needs for this season’s hustle. Come December he’ll be into something else, somewhere else.

I’ve got about six yards in my stash box over at Carver Bank, which is far from enough. Winston doesn’t have a layaway plan, nor does he accept bad checks. And his price is the best I’ll ever see on such short notice.

Winston’s almost forty years old and he still lives in the house he was born in, not far from the room he’s renting to accomodate his bootleg travel setup. Lewis and Madison used to be a whole lot worse than it is, which just means that you no longer need someone to cover you with a pistol every time you get the mail. He always talks about moving back to Guyana with his grandma, even though she’s on oxygen and hasn’t left the house for years.

“How long can you hold the fare?” I ask.

“End of the day, max,” he replies, his eyes now locked on Judge Hatchett’s new hairdo, which means it’s after 11 and I need to get moving.

“So that’s 5 p.m., right?”

“It’s actually 6 in the travel biz.”

“Then I’ll be here at 5:55.”

“White people got ahold of everything now,” Shango Alafia tells me between bites of french toast at the Doctor’s Cave, this little hole on Marcy where I take a meal every once in a while. Shango’s there every day though, mainly to eye Jean, the dreadlocked and beautiful better half of Tim, who prepares all of the meals he loves so much. Shango also happens to be Winston’s brother-in-law and third cousin twice removed. But that’s an entirely different story.

“I put in the best bid on that pair of brownstones down on Greene. Had the shit locked for like three days, and then eight hours before the cutoff some whiteboy coalition comes in and chops my head off.”

“Hey, real estate’s a cutthroat business,” I say. The frown on his face softens into a smile. He knows something I do not.

“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 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 fuckin’ 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 compass 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 coke 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 arsenal. You come to him for both offense and defense, for gaining ground and covering your ass. For pistols, rifles, hollow-tips, and even explosives, he’s the undisputed motherfuckin’ 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 shit?” he asks, just before doing another line, his gray t-shirt 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 dayshift 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 coke 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.