Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

She pressed the button again but I could see no benefit in answering.

She had the keys to my door, the combination to my inner locks, but she wouldn't use them.

I closed the drawer and picked up the office phone.

After seventeen rings he answered.

"Who the fuck is this?" Luke Nye bellowed into my ear.

"I wake you up, Luke?"

"Oh, hey, LT. What's up, man?"

The pool hustler wasn't intimidated. We just had an understanding like fellow soldiers from the same regiment fighting the good fight on foreign soil. Day or night, we were on call, and there was no use making any kind of big deal out of it.

That's the career criminal way of life-you're always behind enemy lines, you're always at war. And even though I was trying my best to go straight, I couldn't erase years of training.

"A guy named Gustav who works out of a pool hall down on Houston-"

"Shandley's," Luke said before I could get the word out. "Pretends like he's a Russian gangster but he's from Rumania. Got some Russians workin' for him, though. They say he's got the biggest dick in the tristate area. I don't know for a fact, I'm just sayin'."

"What about him?"

"He runs the pool hall as a kind of office. Asian kids come there to sharpen up their skills, but the real action is a few blocks east, where he's got a warehouse filled with foreign ladies just waiting to please."

"Pimp?"

"Sex-slaver. Brings 'em in from all over the world promising freedom, a hundred thousand dollars, and papers if they make a million on their backs-or thereabouts. Some of them make it but he has a lending policy for clothes and drugs; charges interest. Most of the ladies work until he sells them to less reputable thugs."

"Dangerous?"

"Smart. He knows that there's no more cowboys. He tries to keep it steady and nonviolent as long as no one messes with his product. But he's willing to go as far as necessary to protect his offshore accounts… You got a problem with Gutsy?"

"You could say that."

There was a short silence on the line. I could hear faint, indefinable music in the background.

"You don't need Hush or anything like that," Luke said at last. "I mean, Gutsy knows a player when he sees one."

"Thanks, Luke. I'll pay you when I see you."

"Soon?"

"Day or two."

I TOOK A TAXI down to Shandley's. It was on Houston, a few blocks east of Elizabeth, on the north side of the street.

It was a clean place with a few youngsters shooting pool, trying their best to look cool without the benefit of cigarettes dangling from their lips. Most were Asian, none were black. I wondered what that meant.

It was a long, shallow, and dark space with sixteen tables, two deep.

At the back of the room was a set of double doors guarded by the big guy that I'd wailed on the night before. I didn't recognize his face but the bruised cheekbone, swollen nose, and bandages on his left wrist were definite clues.

The tough guy bristled when I approached. He made a forward move with his shoulder and I held up a finger.

"I'm not here to fight," I said.

"I need to search you before you can go in."

"Touch me and I'll touch you back," I said.

He didn't quite understand the phrase but he got the meaning.

"Tell Gustav I'm out here alone and if he's not scared or nuthin' maybe we could talk."

The sentry went through the right door, closing it behind him.

I stood there feeling like I was wasting time. There was a lot to be done, but your kids come first. That was a lesson I got in the negative space of my father's abandonment.

The door opened and the big guy waved me toward him.

Approaching, I stopped at the threshold and gestured for him to precede me.

It was a medium-sized, windowless room filled with the smoke of foreign cigarettes. There were five men in attendance. Four bullets, I figured, was more than enough for that crowd. After all, one of them was already wounded, and I had a knife, too.

My other assailant was sitting next to a red-faced guy who looked big even sitting down. This, I was sure, must be Gustav. Behind them stood two slender guys in nice suits. They might have been brothers but one was ugly with bad skin and exaggerated features, while the other could have been a matinee idol.

"Have a seat," Gustav said.

Eyeing the banged-up guy next to me, I said, "No thanks."

"If you don't want to visit why are you here?"

"I was going to see my girl last night and these guys jumped me," I said by way of explanation.

"Vassily lost two teeth," Gustav said, patting the shoulder of the man sitting next to him. "And Bruno had to have thirty-six, what you call them, stitches, on his arm. It is me who should be mad at you."

"I can't help it if you got pussies workin' for you."

The one called Vassily tried to rise but Gustav put a hand on his shoulder again.

"What is your name?" the big boss asked me.

It's funny how a simple thought put into words, or even just an intonation, will affect you sometimes.

My response to his question was unexpected fear. It wasn't that I minded telling him some name, or that he might somehow catch me in the lie. It was the weight of all the moments that led me into this closed room with rough men who hated me for reasons that were older than America. I was afraid of being killed by them. And also of killing them.

These men are not your enemies, my father whispered into my right ear.

Thou shalt not kill, my mother said in my left.

"John Tooms," I stated with certainty. "And I don't want to think that I got to be lookin' over my shoulder because these guys are too stupid to go after the right mark. I mean, if you and me got trouble we settle it right here, right now."

I meant every word I was saying. I had a license for a concealed weapon, and the men in that room were all criminals. They were after my son. I had to hold back from attacking them right then and there.

Hubris.

Gustav smiled.

"Calm down, Mr. Tooms," he said. "You are not our enemy. It was mistake. My men made mistake. Two mistakes, by the look of their faces. You like girls, Mr. Tooms?"

I said nothing, pretending not to understand the question.

"Joe," Gustav said to the matinee idol. "Bring out Diamond."

Joe opened a door behind him. I moved my thumb in such a way that the pistol could be in my hand in no time.

For the next few seconds my shoulder listed imperceptibly to the right. Gustav would be the first to die, or maybe Joe. Bruno would probably be last. I'd get shot, at least, but that didn't have to be fatal.

When Joe came back into the room he was accompanied by a white teenaged girl. Completely naked, she had all the so-called charms of a woman, but I could see the vestiges of adolescence in her face.

"This is Diamond. You could take her in back room or she could go with you somewhere," Gustav said. "She just has to be back by two. I give this to you for apology."

Diamond, without being asked, turned around slowly so that I could further appreciate her beauty. The only blemish was an angry bruise on her left buttock.

"No thanks," I said.

"You want boy?" the boss asked.

"No," I said, forcing a smile to my lips. "No. I got my own girl. All I need to know is that you're gonna leave me alone when I'm over at her house."

"I have no business with you, Mr. Tooms."

"Because the next time I see any'a your men near me I'll do more than loosen some teeth."

I walked eight blocks north, wandered a little to the west, and stopped at a rare phone booth I knew of on St. Marks Place. There I dialed a number that I shouldn't have known.

"Hello?" he said on the second ring.

"What's this shit about Russian gangsters, Twill?"

"Pops?"