Queens Noir (33 page)

Was he any different from the CEOs of big corporations in
this country? He was just as charismatic, as visionary, as tough
as a Steve Jobs. In fact, you could say he was tougher. He had
never operated any business at a loss. If his businesses were
listed on the stock market, the share values would rise every
year. His underlings worshipped him just as shareholders worshipped the Bernie Ebberses or Jack Welches of the world. He
did whatever he had to do to get the job done. Just as they did.
And just as they were celebrated and applauded by their peers
and profit-worshippers for their willingness to take chances, to
be aggressive and visionary, so was he by the many people who
depended on him for their survival.

There were two codes he lived by. They were ruthless,
but effective. His first motto: Snitches must die. The silencing
of witnesses was the rule he lived by and everyone in his orbit, including all the Baisley Projects, paid heed. Neither the
NYPD nor the Feds had ever built a case against him.

The second motto: Accept no disrespect.

Which was why he had no choice but to put down Fred
Lawrence in view of everyone in the playground in Baisley
Pond Park. It was as necessary as any CEO firing a junior executive who disrespected him in public. As much as he liked
the youngster, if he let the upstart get away with this, the mystique of being Phisto Shepherd would be destroyed. Forever.
The youngster had stepped to him in a way that no one in
their right mind should be tempted to do. And bragging on
top of it. You disrespect Phisto and walk around bragging?
That's asking to be cut down. There's no surer way to commit
suicide than to disrespect Phisto Shepherd and brag on it.

When Phisto claimed a woman, she was his for life. Only
when he said the relationship was done could the woman walk
away. And until such time, all other suitors were expected to
wither way, to drop into the gutter like rats running from the
exterminator. This young pup, Fred Lawrence, had laid some
pipe on one of his women and then told the world that the girl
had begged to be his bitch. Said she would give up Phisto and
all his money for another night with him.

Phisto had reached a point in his life where he seldom
handled disputes personally. There were any number of young
guns in his organization he could call on to quash a beef. Of
any sort. If the resolution needed to be quick and permanent,
he had enough specialists for every day of the week. If gentle
nudging or mediation was required in a sensitive matter, there
were people who could be trusted to be discreet.

But he had to show the world that he was still Phisto
Shepherd. That the Phisto who survived his father's beatdown, who remade himself into a fire-breathing dragon to
create the baddest outfit in Queens, wasn't finished, as many
were beginning to whisper on the street after word got around
that Fred the bailer had fucked Phisto's woman. He'd taken
on the dreaded Jamaican Shower Posse for turf and sent them
scampering back to Miami. He'd ordered the hit on a corrupt
cop who tried to shake him down, and he'd gotten away with
it. Why hadn't this youngster heeded his warning? When the
message was conveyed to the kid, he'd signed his own death
warrant with a laugh.

Once in a while, even with the large army at his disposal,
Caesar still had to go out and slay somebody to remind his
soldiers why and how he became Emperor. This one wasn't a
head-cracker. The youngster had to be bodied, and he would
do it himself.

Fred Lawrence was a talented young bailer who'd just finished his senior year at LSU. Some pundits thought he was
sure to be drafted by the NBA. Maybe not a first-rounder,
but definitely a second or third. He was that good. Phisto had
seen him play and didn't like the kid's game as much as others did. Not enough range on his jumper, but the quick first
step and the physical nature of his game reminded Phisto of
Stephon Marbury. Fred could have gotten his shot.

That is, had he not come back from Louisiana thinking
he could spit in King Kong's eye. Thinking he could steal Fay
Wray and not suffer the consequences. Thinking his dribbling
skills would get him a buy after dissing Phisto.

Like everyone else who tried to fuck with Phisto's program
without considering the consequences, the young man had to
pay. The beating and humiliation Phisto took from his father that day in the mortuary taught him never to bluff. Once you
bluff you have to back down. And when you back down you
lose respect.

His core crew had advised him to let the matter drop.
Why knuckle up with this young stud? But he knew they were
begging for the youngster's life simply because they were in
love with his game. Phisto knew they converged on the park
on Saturdays and Sundays, just like everybody else, to watch
the muscular youngster play. Everyone on the southside loved
this young man, wanted to see one of their own make it in the
NBA. Putting the grip on him wouldn't go down well with the
residents.

Nevertheless, Phisto's code was his code. The situation
reminded him of when his father was shot to death on 121st
Avenue during a robbery in 1995. By that time his father had
disowned him and he and the old man hadn't spoken in more
than ten years. But everyone in the neighborhood knew this
was Phisto's father, and accorded him due respect. Phisto found
the young killer, and in sight of other customers spaded him as
he sat in the barber's chair. Phisto was arrested the next day.
But the case never made it to trial. The man who had identified him to the police was Bobby Tanner, a retired postal worker.
Tanner got a bullet in the back of the head for his trouble. Word
soon got around that Bobby Tanner got tagged for snitching.
The next Sunday, Phisto visited the church where another of
the witnesses worshipped. The bloated man saw Phisto's sixfoot, 275-pound frame blocking the sidewalk and, fortunately
for him, fell down in the street from sheer fright. No one ever
appeared in the grand jury to finger Phisto.

Contrary to what his advisors believed, Phisto didn't actually want to put the youngster under at first. He would've let
the matter go had the young stud not been stupid enough to woof that he had more dog in him that Phisto. After that, his
hands were tied.

That summer evening, the sun had left a band of endless
purple across the sky. An unusually high wind curled the young
tree limbs and stirred leaves and dust in the park. It blew hard
and heavy against the houses on Sutphin Boulevard, rattling
the sign on the Crowne Plaza Hotel on Baisley Boulevard.

A storm was coming. Colored balloons, left over from an
abandoned family picnic, hung from tree limbs. Yet the approaching inclement weather wash t enough to delay the fitness
fanatics doing laps around the track, or to arrest the pick-up
game on one of the three courts behind the racquetball wall.

The few daring souls on the sidelines that evening who'd
scoffed at the looming bad weather witnessed a near flawless
performance from Fred Lawrence on the court. The perfection
of his long lean body, snaking through small spaces, piercing
the tough wind and a tougher defense, twirling and swerving
around defenders with precision, left most people shaking
their heads in disbelief.

Fred scored on a driving, twisting lay-up off the glass, using a classic crossover move that left his defender flat on his
back. The small crowd screamed. Fred ran back down the
court pumping his fist in the air, yelling, "You forgot your jock,
bitch!"

The next time down the court, Fred took a pass on the
wing and without breaking stride elevated past a closing defender for a rim-rattling dunk.

People were whooping and hopping up and down and
spinning around in circles of disbelief.

"Did you see that?"

"No he didn't!"

"Replay! Replay!"

"Jordanesqe."

"Better than Jordan."

Phisto's black BMW pulled up on 155th Street behind a
white Explorer. The doors of the truck were open and Jay-Z's
latest joint was blasting full force. Phisto wanted to tell the idiot
to turn his music down, but decided to ignore the disturbance
and walked the short distance across the grass to the courts.

There was a hush as Fred got the ball back on a steal. He
veered left and was met by an agile defender. He slipped the
ball between his legs and dribbled backward, looking for another opening. Shifting the ball from side to side, through his
legs, and then a glance to his left as if searching for someone
in the crowd. Everyone knew what was coming. Fred jabbed
to the right and the defender bit on the fake. The elusive
youngster changed direction and in a split second flew by his
defender for another dunk.

Oh, the ecstasy of the crowd. Fred soaked up their response for a full second, posing under the rim.

And then, praack! praack!

Heads jerked around. Too loud for a firecracker. Too close
to be the backfire of a car. People scattered when they saw
Fred stumble and fall to the ground. Even his friends on the
court ran and left him.

Seconds later, only five people were left. Phisto handed
the .45 to someone in his three-man posse to dispose of it. He
walked over to the only person who hadn't run away.

"Do I know you?" Phisto said.

"I don't know."

Phisto took hold of the man's face, digging his fingers
through his scraggly beard into his jaws. "Do you know me?"

"Yeah, I know you."

Phisto laughed. "Why didn't you run away like the rest?"

The man hesitated. "Why?"

Phisto's eyes screwed up and he lifted the man's dark
glasses from his face. "What'd you say, muthafucker?"

"Why? I didn't think the game was over."

Phisto laughed. "You think you're funny."

"I mean, he was so amazing, the way he defied gravity. I
thought he was Superman. I thought he would get up and fly
above that rim again."

"He was amazing, wasn't he?" Phisto said.

"Yeah. Amazing."

Phisto said, "Did you see anything else here?"

The guy took his sunglasses from Phisto's hand and put
them back over his eyes. "What do you mean?"

"Exactly. That's what I mean," Phisto replied, turning
away. "You better bounce. Cops gonna show any minute."

"I am a cop," the man said.

Phisto turned slowly, his face scarred with a dark smile.
"For real?"

The man adjusted his dark glasses and smiled. "Just fucking with you."

Phisto relaxed. "I should kill you for fucking with me."

"Actually, I wasn't. I'm really a cop."

The man opened his jacket. An NYPD detective badge
hung from a chain around his neck. Phisto also noticed the
9mm stuck loosely in his waistband.

Phisto gauged the distance between him and the man.
"You gonna arrest me?"

"No."

"If you ain't gonna arrest me, what you gonna do?"

"Shoot you between the eyes."

Phisto laughed.

The man wriggled his fingers. "What's so funny?"

"You're gonna shoot me between the eyes?"

"Yeah."

Pointing at the dead bailer, Phisto said, "For him?"

"No."

"Is this personal?"

"Remember the cop you ambushed in that crack house?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"He had a son. That son became a cop."

"And that son. . ."

"Would be me."

Phisto turned to the member of his crew holding the .45.
"Shoot this muthafucker."

Nobody moved.

Phisto made a quick grab at the .45. His hand closed on
the grip and that's when he felt a jolt to his chest as if he'd been
kicked by a mule. He bounced against the white wall of one of
the racquetball courts and slid to the ground on his back.

Phisto had often thought of what this moment would be
like for a person. The moment that separated life from death.
Was there some brilliant light to illuminate your path into the
next world, as some people claimed who'd had so-called neardeath experiences? Was there such a thing as coming close to
death? He knew what death looked like. His father had made
sure of that.

He looked up and saw streams and streams of white clouds.
And then he felt a strange relief swell in his chest, a sort of
bonding with an energy entering him. A sadness overcame him
and he wanted to cry. He saw the faces of his crew and knew
that he'd been betrayed. By one or all of them. He also knew it
didn't matter anymore. The light was approaching fast.

rankie tapped his foot and wished the clerk would hurry
up. How long could it take to scan a couple of items
and punch the keys on the cash register? He lifted his
baseball cap and wiped the sweat off his forehead, then slipped
it back on, pulling the bill lower. The heatwave was taking its
toll on everyone. The air-conditioning inside the store helped
a little, but the customers still looked like they were wilting.