Джордж Пелеканос: King Suckerman

Clagget nodded. “I do thank you.”

“Glad to help.”

“What now?”

“We’ll be out of here tonight. Pick up a couple of local boys I know, get you some clothes, get ourselves on the road.”

“I never even been out of this state.”

“You’re fixin’ to have yourself a little adventure now.”

Clagget looked out the open window. “You know, Wilton, I never did take to work much.”

“Neither did I.”

“But I sure am gonna miss that drive-in. Free movies all the time.”

“You’ll get over it.”

“I know it. I was waiting on this real special one, though, was gonna open next week.”

“Which one was that?”

“ King Suckerman .”

“One about the pimp?”

“Uh-huh. But like no pimp there ever was.”

“Rougher than The Mack ?”

“Shit, yeah. Way rougher.”

“Who’s playin’ the player?”

“Ron St. John.”

Cooper nodded, pursed his lips. “Ron St. John is bad, too.”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t worry, little brother. They got plenty of movie theaters where we’re goin’, I expect.”

“Where’s that?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Chocolate City?” said Clagget.

Cooper said, “Who don’t know that. ”

Marcus Clay pulled the Hendrix out of the rack, walked it from Soul to Rock, slid it back where it belonged, in the H bin, in the mix between Heart and Humble Pie. That slim boy Rasheed — Karras liked to call him Rasheed X — kept filing Hendrix in the Soul section of the store. Rasheed, with his picked-out ’Fro, red, black, and green knit cap, and back-to-Africa ideology, keeping the flame for racial purity. Clay understood what the young brother was trying to say, and he respected that, but this here was a business — Clay’s business, to the point. What if some pink-eyed white boy with an upside-down American flag patch on the ass end of his jeans came in looking for a copy of Axis: Bold as Love, couldn’t find it, and then, too stoned and too timid to ask one of the black clerks, walked out the door? For what, some kind of statement? Marcus Clay didn’t play that. And anyway, Jimi? That boy did belong in Rock.

“Hey, Rasheed!”

“Yeah.” Rasheed, not looking up, standing behind the counter, tagging LPs with the price gun, mouthing the words to Curtis Mayfield’s “Back to the World” as it came at three-quarter volume through the house KLMs. That was the other thing about Rasheed: always playing the music too loud in the shop. At least he had Curtis on the platter, though. The boy had enough good sense for that.

“I’m not gonna tell you again about moving Hendrix into Soul. I’m getting tired—”

“I hear you, boss.” Copping to it, but still not looking up.

“See that you do hear me, man.”

“Solid.”

“Just see that you do,” said Clay, turning his back.

Rasheed said, “I guess you ain’t heard Band of Gypsys, then.”

There it was. Clay closed his eyes, breathed deep. He stared at the Rufusized poster on the wall, let his eyes linger on Chaka Khan — man, she was fine — to make himself relax. “I heard it. So what?”

“With Buddy Miles on the sticks? Jimi steps up and plays some serious funk, no question. ‘Machine Gun’ and all that. So now you gonna make the claim his catalog don’t belong in Soul? Cause you know funk was where he was headed when—”

“What you think you are, man, the Amazing Kreskin, some bullshit like that? You gonna tell me now where a dead man was headed with his shit? I’m telling you that where he was when he died was rock, and that’s where his shit’s gonna get filed long as it’s in my shop. Dig?”

“I dig, boss,” Rasheed said, with his put-on white-boy enunciation. “I do dig your heavy vibratos.”

The front door opened then, which was a good thing for Rasheed since right about then Clay had gone about as far with all that as he would go. It was Cheek, Clay’s big-as-a-bear assistant manager, entering the store. Cheek, a half hour late and higher than a hippie. Despite his Sly Stone oval-lensed shades, Clay could see from his tentative steps that the boy was damn near cooked.

Cheek stopped, grinned, cocked an ear in the direction of the speakers, cupped his hands around an imaginary mike, went right into a Curtis falsetto. Truth was, Cheek’s tone was too high, closer to Eddie Kendricks than it was to Mayfield. But Clay had to admit the boy was pretty good.

“You’re late,” said Clay.

Cheek stopped singing, removed his shades, wiped dry his buggy eyes. “Yeah, I know it. And I do apologize. But I was out late last night—”

“Gettin’ some of that stanky-ass pussy,” said Rasheed, “from that Hoss Cartwright — lookin’ bitch of his over in Capitol Heights.”

“Naw, man,” said Cheek. “And shut your mouth about Sholinda, too, nigger.” Cheek looked at Clay. “Guess where I was last night, Marcus.”

“I suppose you’re gonna tell me.”

“Listening to some funk. Or should I say, listenin’ to some uncut funk.”

“You went to the P-Funk show?” said Rasheed.

“Damn sure did,” said Cheek. “I’m talkin’ about the Bomb.”

“Dag, boy!” Rasheed shook his head. “I wanted to check that motherfucker out my own self!”

“Well, you missed it.” Cheek paused, waited for Rasheed to lean forward. “Yeah, Cole Field House, man. Seven hours of festival-style throwin’ down with the Funk Mob. Bobby Bennett emceed—”

“The Mighty Burner was there?”

“That’s right. Introduced the opening act.”

“Who was it?”

“The Brothers Johnson. Thunder Thumbs and Lightnin’ Licks.”

“ Fuck the Brothers Johnson.”

“Yeah, I know. They was there is all I’m sayin’. But Gary Shider came out next. Wearin’ a diaper and shit. Then Bootsy with the Rubber Band, played the fuck out that bass of his and then let loose with the Horny Horns. Fred Wesley and Maceo. Right after that? Starchild, citizen of the universe. The niggers was trippin’! Doin’ it in three-D...”

“All right,” said Clay, “we get it.”

“We gonna turn... this mu-tha... out,” sang Cheek.

“I said we get it. I’m goin’ out for a couple of hours, so it’s time you got to work.”

“You ain’t gonna be too late, are you?” said Cheek.

“Why?”

“Thought I’d check out this new one they got opening up at the Town.”

“I won’t be late,” said Clay.

“What new one?” said Rasheed.

“ King Suckerman, ” said Cheek.

Rasheed looked up. “That the one about the pimp?”

“Not any old pimp. The baddest player ever was. ‘The Man with the Master Plan Who Be Takin’ It to the Man.’ ”

“ Who be. That’s what the ad says, huh? I bet some white man wrote that movie; produced it, too. Even wrote that line about ‘the Man’ that’s gonna get you in the theater. Like by goin’ to that movie, givin’ up your cash money, you gonna get over on the Man yourself.”

“So?”

“So it’s you they gettin’ over on, blood. Don’t you know it’s those Caucasian producers out in Hollywood makin’ all the money off you head-scratchin’ mugs, pushin’ your dollars through the box-office window for the privilege of watchin’ two hours of nothin’? Puttin’ money back into the white machinery so that they can go right on back and do it again? And all the while they be gettin’ richer, and you just stuck where you’re at, not goin’ anywhere at all.”

“It’s called havin’ a little fun, Rasheed. Ain’t you never heard of that?”