Michael Harvey - We All Fall Down

He took a quiet look down the block. Buildings looked back like toothless old men-chipped faces of brick gapped with black cavities where windows and doors once stood. Inside, dopers shared floor space with “families”-ten, twelve kids traveling in a pack, older ones looking out for the youngest, all of them slinging rock for the gangs.

“You with the Fours?” Quin said.

No answer.

“What did I tell you about this corner?”

Still nothing. Quin snapped out the baton again, slashing once across the ribs.

“What’s your name?”

The blank eyes that looked up told Quin the kid had been beaten by the best. The cop slid his baton back into his belt and left it there.

“Marcus,” the kid said.

Quin nodded, like he knew the name all along. “What did I tell your boss about this corner?”

“Dunno.”

“Grammar school’s a block that way.” Quin hung a flat thumb over his shoulder. “Can’t have you going after that market. Not without paying.”

The kid named Marcus raised his head a fraction. “How much?”

“Tell Ray Ray I’ll get him a number. Tell him there’s some changes coming.”

Marcus blinked and waited. Thirteen, maybe, and already knew when to shut up.

“Tell him the Korean’s out. Your crew’s gonna be dealing directly with us for product.”

Marcus cocked his head, like he’d heard it wrong. “Police?”

“I’ll talk to him next week and explain how it’s gonna work. Meanwhile, today’s shipment is the Korean’s last. If it disappeared, I’d expect to be remembered. You got all that?”

Marcus nodded.

“Good.”

Quin kicked at a notebook and some colored pencils scattered on the ground.

“That yours?”

Marcus made a quick move. Quin stepped on his hand, bent down, and picked up the notebook. The drawings were fashioned in thick strokes. Sure, fast, breathtakingly good.

“You do these?”

Marcus drew up his shoulders and wrapped his arms around his body. Quin leafed through a few more pages. Bangers, lounging on corners, hustling cars, pushing product, laughing, posing. More from inside the kid’s house, wherever that was. An ancient addict with his works. Another kid with a shotgun, smoking. Two more, arms tangled around each other, sleeping on a floor. On the last page, a single flower, blood orange, each petal beautifully articulated, an exercise in grace.

“Not bad.”

Quin threw the notebook back to Marcus, who grabbed it and tucked it away. At the end of the street, a mom and her three kids walked past, on their way to school. The mom was talking to one of her young ones, but her eyes were working over Quin. Probably scouting for the Fours. Or looking for some product. The cop stuck out his belly and dulled his features. Just then the ground swayed and rippled under his boots. Quin grabbed the side of his cruiser for ballast.

“You okay?” Marcus was watching, eyes on the cop’s gun.

“I’m fine.” Quin reached for the door handle. The world spun one or two more times, then slowed and settled. Quin saw his own fear reflected in the kid’s face.

“Get out of here. And don’t work this corner until your boss pays.”

Marcus limped into an alley and disappeared. The mom and her brood had disappeared as well, leaving Quin alone. He slid behind the wheel and laid his forehead against the cool plastic of the steering wheel. His hands were slick with sweat, and the cop’s thick heart thumped and rolled in his chest. Probably the flu, he told himself. Just what he needed.

Quin turned over the engine. Best thing he could do was get his ass out of K Town. One way or another, fucking place would kill you.

Two miles west the cop pulled up to the M amp;T Food Mart and went inside. He drank a cup of black coffee and had two sugar doughnuts at the counter. He was feeling a little better and chalked it up to the doughnuts. Through the front window, Quin saw a Crown Vic with tinted windows roll to a stop in the parking lot. Quin approached the driver’s side. A voice seeped out from a crack in the window.

“You find someone to talk to?”

Quin looked around the lot. He would have preferred a little privacy, but this was what the guy wanted. And he was calling the shots. For now.

“Yeah, I talked to someone. Why don’t we take this somewhere else? I know a place down near the Ike. No one will bother us.”

In response, the driver popped open the trunk to his car. “Take a look.”

Quin walked back and found a black duffel bag with gold piping. He zipped it open and saw the dope, twenty-five, maybe thirty keys, flat packages wrapped in clear plastic. Quin zipped up the bag, closed the trunk, and walked to the front of the car.

“Couple of ’em still have evidence stickers,” Quin said.

“Think the Fours will mind?”

“We’ll clean ’em up before we deliver.”

The window slid down another six inches. The driver wore dark sunglasses and didn’t look at Quin as he spoke. “Who’d you talk to?”

“A kid. One of the runners.”

“That the best you can do?”

Quin shifted his feet and searched for a way to get a handle on the conversation. “Actually, that’s the best for us. Kids don’t usually have an angle. Take the shit seriously. And they’re not too fucked up yet, so they remember what you tell ’em.”

“Fours will get the message?”

“The guy who needs to know is named Ray Ray. Real name’s Ray Sampson. And yeah, he’ll get the message. Question is: how you gonna cut out the Korean?”

“Let me worry about that.”

Quin lifted his hands and took a step back. “Not a problem.”

“You afraid of the Korean?”

“Word is he’s got some muscle. Can hit pretty hard.”

“He’d hit cops?”

“Why not?”

“How much is he paying you?”

Quin tipped a hand back and forth. “Maybe twenty a key.”

“And how often you have a shipment for him?”

“We’ve been able to deliver three, four times a year. About twenty keys each time.”

“So you clear four hundred K, three, four times a year.”

“That’s about right.”

“One point five mil. Split a dozen ways?”

Quin squinted at all the higher math. “Roughly.”

“Korean steps on the shit, sells it to the Fours. They step on it three more times. Fuck. You should be clearing six times that.”

“They have distribution.”

“And you have product, Quin. Or, rather, I have product. And a lot more of it.”

Quin let his gaze drift back to the trunk. The driver nodded. “Make sure the Korean gets his today.”

“Price?”

“Keep it at twenty.”

Quin chuckled to himself. Wholesale on the street was twenty-two a key. He’d push for twenty-three and pocket the difference.

“Couple of the uniforms are gonna take it down,” Quin said.

“They deliver it in a marked vehicle?”

The cop grinned. “Fuck, yeah. Bangers love it.”

“I bet. What about the Aces?”

“Aces are weak right now,” Quinn said with a shrug.

“So we don’t sell to them?”

“Didn’t say that. Five years ago, they were on the verge of pushing the Fours out of business.”

“What happened?”

“Ray Ray happened. Guy’s smart. Keeps things tight. Good for business. Good for us.”

The driver nodded to the back again and popped the trunk a second time. Quin took a quick look around the lot and transferred the duffel to his cruiser. Then he returned to the driver’s-side window.

“You look like shit, Quin.”

“Got the flu. After I finish up with this, gonna go home and hit the sack.”

The Crown Vic shifted out of neutral. “Take care of the dope first.”

Quin stepped away from the car and thought about the different ways he might shoot his new boss in the face. Detective Vince Rodriguez rolled up his window and drove off to find some breakfast.