Джордж Пелеканос: The Sweet Forever

Tate turned the key on Real Right’s front door as Clay, Karras, and Adamson stood at the window, watching the men get out of two cars parked on the south side of U.

“Tall, ain’t he?” said Adamson.

“And ugly, too,” said Clay. “Tyrell Cleveland.”

“Tall man like that, you take out his kneecap quick, he’d fall like one of those California redwoods.”

“Thought we were gonna talk to ’em,” said Karras.

“Just makin’ an observation,” said Adamson.

“Al,” said Clay, “you watch Rogers, the young man on the left.”

“ I’ll watch him,” said Tate.

“Let Al watch Rogers, Clarence. You and Dimitri keep an eye on Tyrell. I’ll watch Short Man.”

“That’s what the one with the nose mask calls himself?” said Adamson.

“Yeah.”

“Now, how’d I know that? ”

A small bell jingled as the three men pushed through the door. Tyrell ducked his head coming in. Rogers and Monroe followed, Rogers standing to Tyrell’s right, and Monroe standing to his left.

“Gentlemen,” said Tyrell.

Karras and Tate stepped forward, close to Tyrell. Al Adamson walked to the side of Rogers, and Clay moved up and stood two long steps away from Monroe.

Get right up on them, thought Karras, like Marcus had said. Put them on the defensive right away.

“Heard of hospitality,” said Tyrell genially, “but what ya’ll fixin’ to do, give us a kiss? Ain’t you got a back room or somethin’, someplace we can sit quietly, get off our feet?”

“You ain’t stayin’ long, Cleveland,” said Clay.

“You must be Mr. Marcus Clay,” said Tyrell, appraising him. “Can see how you handled Short Man here.”

“Wasn’t nothin’,” said Clay.

Monroe shifted his toothpick from the left to the right side of his mouth.

“Prefer you don’t call me Cleveland, either, Mr. Clay. I go by Tyrell. Cleveland’s one of those Caucasian names.” Tyrell’s eyes slid over to Karras and back to Clay. “They was gonna name me after a city, should have been New York, or Hollywood. They was gonna name me after a president, should have gone ahead and named me after a famous one, don’t you think?”

Clay didn’t answer.

Tyrell looked around the room. “Okay, you’re Karras. That one’s easy. And you’re—”

“Tate,” said Monroe, smiling. “Father of Alan’s girl.”

Tate glanced over at Rogers, who looked away. The boy wasn’t so cocky now; matter of fact, he looked about half ready to turn and run.

“And what about you?” said Tyrell, his eyes on Adamson. “ Damn, you’re about the blackest mothafucker I seen all day.”

Adamson’s jaw muscles bunched.

“Let’s get on with it,” said Clay.

Tyrell took a deep breath. The buzz of fluorescence and the tick of the wall clock were the only sounds in the room.

“Okay,” said Tyrell. “Let’s do that. We’ll talk about the money in a minute. First thing, though, wanna talk about a problem you have with my operation down here. Heard you were shoutin’ out in the street yesterday how you didn’t want our kind around.”

“That’s right,” said Clay. “After tonight, I don’t expect to see you or your boys again. And don’t want those sold-out cops you got in your pocket anywhere near my shop. I earned all this. Proud of it, too. Don’t need you contaminatin’ what I built myself.”

“That a fact.”

“Yes.”

Tyrell’s lip twitched. “We ain’t nothin’ but two sides of the same coin, Mr. Clay. Couple of businessmen tryin’ to get along—”

“Uh-uh. You and me got nothin’ in common. You poison your own people, Cleveland. You’re a killer of children, Cleveland. ”

Monroe said, “I’ll fuck him up, Ty—”

“Shut up, boy!” said Clay. “Don’t make me open-hand you again.”

“Easy, Short,” said Tyrell. “Let’s just keep talkin’.”

Karras was afraid, but a rush of pride had swelled in him, too, standing next to his friend. He studied Tyrell, his long frame, his knees, thinking that Al had been right. If it came to it, hit Tyrell low.

“Sorry you feel that way,” said Tyrell. His eyes narrowed, and he forced a smile. “Well, let’s move on. Let’s get off that other thing and get to the money.”

“The money?” said Clay. “We ain’t got no got-damn money.”

“But you said—”

“I said nothin’.”

Al Adamson saw Tyrell’s eyes dart over to Monroe. He watched Monroe use his right hand to hitch up his jeans, and then he saw Monroe’s hand kind of snake around the belt line toward the back.

“What about my money?” said Tyrell.

“ Fuck your money, Cleveland. Ain’t got nothin’ to do with me.”

“Marcus,” said Adamson, trying to move Clay’s attention back to Monroe.

“What?” said Tyrell. “I’m just supposed to turn around and walk away?”

“You mean you ain’t gone yet?” said Clay.

“Marcus!” said Adamson. “Short Man’s goin’ for his—”

“I see him,” said Clay, calmly stepping in and back-fisting Monroe square in the middle of his face, aiming for two feet behind the mask, connecting deep, the nose giving like the shell of an egg.

Monroe screamed and fell to the floor.

Adamson stepped behind Rogers, twisted his arm up, used his other hand to pull the Ka-Bar knife from where it was sheathed. He put the serrated edge to Rogers’s throat, put pressure on the blade, moved it a hair so it drew a drop of blood.

Tyrell looked at Karras and Tate, who had moved in very close. Tyrell raised his hands.

The packing in Monroe’s nose turned black with blood. He whimpered, got up on one arm, began to reach behind him once again.

“Don’t do it, boy,” said Clay.

“ Don’t do it, Short,” said Tyrell, slowly lowering his hands. “Mr. Marcus Clay is a quick one. There’ll be another time for all that.”

“Tyrell,” said Rogers, off balance, up on his toes, his eyes wide.

“Looks like they got you, Alan,” said Tyrell.

“Your boy goes for that gun again,” said Adamson, “I’m gonna cut this one’s throat. I’ll kill him, Cleveland, I swear to God.”

“ Kill him, then,” said Tyrell.

“Tyrell!” said Rogers.

“You heard me.” Tyrell looked at Clay. “Think I give a fuck about that boy? Got young niggas all over this city give a nut to work for me. Lost two today, and it don’t mean a motha fuckin’ thing to me.” Tyrell looked at Adamson. “So go ahead, man, cut him open! Do it—”

“No!” shouted Tate. “Let him go, Al. Can’t stand to see another young man die.”

Rogers rubbed at his neck as Adamson set him free.

“What I thought,” said Tyrell. “Y’all ain’t hard. Not really.”

“Get out,” said Clay.

Tyrell smiled, reached down, and helped Monroe to his feet. Monroe spit blood on the black-and-white tiles, turned and followed Tyrell out the door. Rogers nodded at Tate and left the store.

Out in the street, Tyrell and Monroe stopped at Tyrell’s car, waited for Rogers to join them. But Rogers kept walking straight for the Z, put his key to the door.

“Alan!” said Tyrell.

“What?”

“Why you trippin’, man? You know I didn’t mean nothin’ in there. Just makin’ a point.”

“Get up with you later on,” said Rogers. “See you back at the house.” He got into the 300 and turned the ignition.

“Alan’s turned punk,” said Monroe, blood still streaming into his mouth, the wet gauze hanging from beneath the tattered mask.

“Boy’s too emotional,” said Tyrell, “that’s all. Not hard like you. You did good, Short. We get back, give you somethin’ to drink, swallow some pills I got, do a couple lines, you’ll feel a whole lot better.”