Джордж Пелеканос: King Suckerman

Clay grinned. “Guess Hero didn’t notice those shoes of yours.”

“Have to point them out to him,” said Karras, “next time we do some hoop.”

Clarence Tate sat on the edge of Marchetti’s desk, let his leg swing kind of casual as Cooper and his boys walked into the room. This Cooper dude, it was clear as daylight he was the leader of the crew: It was in the way he walked, out front but not in any kind of hurry, kind of regal-like. And his clothes, too, pressed jeans hooked up with a maroon shirt, a nice wash-’n’-wear job gaping at the buttons from the pull of his running-back chest. A slick boy, that’s what this Cooper was, a slick, survivin’ motherfucker, the kind of dude who walks out of the prison yard every day on his own two feet. Cooper had the look of a smart con, and Tate knew that look, had been acquainted with plenty of boys just like this one back in the Petworth neighborhood off 13th Street, where he had come up.

The two dark-skinned brothers — not just black brothers, but brothers for real — it was obvious that one of them had done a couple of bits himself: hard and cut, not just in the body but in the face as well, like a sculptor had made him in a studio. The second, narrow-assed brother, with his big, open mouth, a hint of a goatee like a badly shaved pussy on his weak, dimpled chin, he wouldn’t have lasted in the joint but a few weeks. But different as they looked, Tate could see straight off that they were kin. It was how they moved together, attached, almost, not because they wanted to be but because they had to be. Not like partners but like blood. A couple of stone Bamas on their first trip north to D.C.

And then the white boy. A light blue rayon shirt patterned with navy blue seashells, coffee-stained white bells, a wide black belt, and cheap black stacks with four-inch heels, a white line curlicued across the vamp. Chili mac — lookin’ face. Small, stupid eyes. Trying to do some kind of pimp walk into the room, the downstroke kind of walk they tried to pass off as fly on TV. Doing it awkward, even for him, on account of the long gun slid down inside the hip of the bells. Tate couldn’t figure out where this white boy fit in.

Slick said, “Afternoon. Wilton Cooper.” He reached across the desk to where Marchetti had stood out of his chair.

“Mr. Cooper.” Marchetti imprisoned Cooper’s thumb, gave Cooper his idea of the soul shake. Tate saw a glimmer of amusement in Cooper’s eyes. “Eddie Marchetti. They call me Eddie Spags.”

“Eddie Spags. That right.”

“’Ey.” Marchetti shrugged, spread his hands. “Got to jive to stay alive, right?”

Tate tried not to wince. Cooper looked at Tate out the side of his eyes. “And you are?”

“Clarence Tate.”

Tate got off the desk, stood to his full height, noticed with some relief that he was at eye level with Cooper. They shook hands.

Tate put his ass back on the edge of the desk. Cooper pulled a folding metal chair over in front of the desk, had a seat, crossed one leg over the other, rubbed one hand along his muscled thigh. He looked back at the fine Oriental girl who sat legs-up on the wine-colored couch against the wall. She leaned forward a little, like she was interested in hearing what would be said next.

Cooper made a hand-sweep around the room, where the ones who had come in behind him stood, the brothers together, the white boy alone, all of them awkward, like rejects at a dance floor’s edge.

“My boys,” said Cooper. “Like you to meet the Thomas brothers, Ronald and Russell. Ronald, I met him in Angola. We kind of partnered up down there for a while, watched each other’s backs. I like to call him Mandingo, with affection, understand, though I don’t recommend that you do. His brother, Russell, he came along for the ride. Picked them up down in North Kakilaki, right from their uncle’s farm.”

Tate looked at the hard, chiseled features on the one called Mandingo — he was a Rafer Johnson — lookin’ brother — watched him shake a Kool from the bottom of the pack where he had torn open a hole. Opening the pack from the bottom, that was just like a tobacco-road Bama — like the ad said, you could take Salem out of the country, but you couldn’t take the country out of Salem.

“Gimme one of them double-O’s,” said Russell, the unfortunate one. Ronald Thomas handed his brother the deck. The two of them said something to each other and both of them laughed.

“Here goes my friend Bobby Roy Clagget,” said Cooper. “Young man from Carolina way himself. Had the good fortune to meet him down there, thought he might like to come along for the ride.”

As if on cue, Clagget pulled the sawed-off from his pant leg, curled his finger inside the trigger guard, let the shotgun hang down along his side.

“You can call him B.R.,” said Cooper, “if you’d like.”

“Nice to meet you gentlemen,” said Marchetti. “All of you.”

Vivian chuckled. She was stoned and she couldn’t help but laugh. The one called Cooper, alone, he was dangerous for sure, but together as a group, even with the gun, she just couldn’t take them in a serious way. They were pathetic, really. The idiot brothers and especially the skinny white one, with his ratty, shoulder-length Afro, the bad-dream Soul Train threads, disco-country with the ruined face.

Marchetti shot Vivian an annoyed look. Cooper looked back at her and smiled. He didn’t mind her laughter. He and his boys, they were a funny sight. He knew it, and he didn’t mind. You could laugh at them if you wanted, the way you could laugh at the big cats in the lion house. From outside the cage.

“Why the gun?” said Tate to Cooper carefully, like this whole scene wasn’t digging a tunnel right through his gut. “You fixin’ to knock us over?”

“Don’t mind B.R.,” said Cooper. “He means you no harm. The shotgun, in a funny kind of way, it’s his friend.”

“Sure,” said Marchetti. “We’re all on the same page. Clarenze here, he’s the worrier of my staff. Needs to get down a little. Boogie. Know what I mean, Wilton? Can I call you Wilton?”

Cooper rolled his eyes toward Tate. “I’m a little confused. Your boss here called you Clarenze. Thought you said your name was Clarence.”

“It is,” said Tate.

“Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t losing my mind.”

“So,” said Marchetti, “how’s my buddy Carlos doin’?”

Wilton Cooper said, “Carlos is good. Stylin’, too. Looks about a million miles away from when you knew him. What was he, a busboy in your daddy’s place?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, he ain’t no busboy now. Likes the warmer climate, too. More natural for him. But you know how it is, you improve your station in life, all you’re doin’ sometimes is tradin’ in one set of troubles for another.”

“Things aren’t going so good for my friend Carlos down there?”

“Don’t misunderstand me, now. Things are all right. But the goods Carlos trades in, well, the competition in South Florida, it can get a little fierce. And you get locked in to certain distribution channels, all of the sudden they start owning you.”

Got to keep the vendors on their toes, thought Tate. Competition beats negotiation every time.

“So,” said Cooper, “Carlos was talkin’ to you, and you claimed you could hook him up with a sweet deal on a few keys of ’caine. Something we could take back home, step on a little, make a nice profit. At the same time, let our suppliers know in a subtle way that we can always buy somewhere else, but out of town, not in our own backyard, so we don’t be startin’ no wars down there and shit.”

“That’s exactly what I told him. I have a source—”