Rage Is Back (9781101606179) (18 page)

A thought occurred to me and I turned to Zar, who was trudging along with his hands pocketed and his head buried in his shoulders like a bloodshot, dreadlocked James Dean. “It's too early for a tournament, right?”

That was Jumpshot's other hustle. He had eight or ten TVs set up in his two-room basement crib, each one equipped with a PlayStation. For five or ten bucks, shorties from the neighborhood could sign up and play NBA Live or Madden Football or whatever, winner take all. Even the older kids, the young-thug set, would be up in Jump's crib, balling and smoking and betting. Jumpshot handled all the bookie action, in addition to selling the players beer and weed—at a markup, no less, like the place was a bar. It was kind of brilliant, really.

“Way too early,” said Zar.

We stopped in front of Jumpshot's door. “Play it cool,” I reminded him.

“We'll see,” said Zar, and a little bit of that Brooklyn-Jew accent, that soft, self-assured intonation, surfaced for a second. For the first time, it occurred to me that maybe this wasn't the first time he'd done something like this. Maybe he didn't own a gun because he didn't trust himself with one. I don't know if the thought made me feel better or worse.

“He's got a loose ceiling tile in the bathroom,” said Zar. “Right above the toilet.” And he pressed the buzzer, hard, for about three seconds.

Static crackled from the intercom and then a grainy voice demanded
Who dat?

Zar bent to the intercom, hands on his knees, and over-pronounced his words. “Jumpshot, it's Isaac. I've got to talk to you. It's very important.”

I tried to catch Zar's eye, wanting to read his thoughts from his face. But his stare was frozen on the door. This much I was sure of: the longer Jumpshot took to open up, the worse for him.

But Jump's face appeared in the crack between door and jamb a second later, bisected by the chain-lock. He flicked his eyes at both of us, then closed the door, slid off the chain, and opened up. He was rocking black basketball shorts, a white wifebeater, and some dirty-ass sweatsocks. If he hadn't been asleep, he sure looked it.

“Fuck time is it?” He rubbed a palm up and down the right side of his face as he followed us inside.

“Early.” Next to Jumpshot, Zar looked like a gaunt, ancient giant. “But I been up for hours.”

“Yeah?” Jump said, sitting heavily on his unmade bed and bending to pull a pair of sneakers from underneath the frame. “Why's that?”

Eleazar reached into his jacket and pulled out the .38, held it at waist height so that the barrel was pointing right at Jumpshot's grill. “I think you know,” he said calmly.

Jump looked up and froze. Just froze. Didn't move, didn't say shit. I gathered he'd never stared into that little black hole before.

Eleazar smiled. “Where's my shit, Jumpshot?” he asked conversationally. I gulped it back fast, but for a sec I thought I might puke. It wasn't the piece, or the fact that Jump suddenly looked like the seventeen-year-old kid he was. It wasn't even the weird fucking sensation of another dude's life passing before my eyes the way Jump's did just then. What turned my stomach was that Eleazar looked more content than I had ever seen him. Like he would do this every day if he could.

Jump opened his mouth, made a noise like
nhh
, and shook his head. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. I'd expected more of the dude. Some stupid Tony Montana bravado, at least:
fuck you, Eleazar. You gonna hafta kill me, nigga.

“T.”

“Yeah, man.”

“Go take a look around, huh? I'ma have a little chat with my man here.”

“Sure.” I headed for the bathroom.

“What are you looking at him for?” I heard behind me. That rabbi voice again. “Look at me. That's better. Now listen carefully, Jumpshot. You listening? Okay. Here's the deal. You give me everything back, right now, no bullshit, and you get a pass. You get to pack your shit up and get the fuck out of dodge.” There was a pause, and I could almost see Zar shrugging. “Who knows, maybe a broken leg for good measure. To remind you that stealing is wrong.”

Finally, Jumpshot found his voice. It was raspy, clogged, but it cut through the stale air like a dart. “I didn't steal nothing,” he said slowly, like if he spoke deliberately enough there was no way Eleazar could not believe him. “I . . . have. . . no . . . idea . . . what you're talking about.”

I walked back into the room right on cue, and threw two bricks onto the bed. Jump started like I'd tossed a snake at him. “That was all I could find,” I said. Jumpshot's face was a death mask now, so twisted that any lingering trace of sympathy I might have had for him straight vanished.

“Oh, and this.” I handed Zar the gun. Jump raised up so fast I thought he might salute.

“I never seen that shit before in my life!” The veins in his neck strained; I could see the blood pumping.

“What, that?” Eleazar pointed at the bricks and raised his eyebrows. “That's weed, Jumpshot. Collie. Ishen. Ganja. Sensi. Goat shit. People smoke it. Gets them high. Or did you mean this?” Zar held up the Glock, and as soon as Jumpshot looked at it,
bam
: Zar swung the gun at him and hit Jump square in the face, the orbit of the eye. Knocked him back onto the bed, bloody. Jump let out a clipped yelp and grabbed his face, and Zar leaned over him, gun in the air, ready to pistol-whip the kid again.

“At least this shit is loaded,” Zar said, eyes flashing. “At least you robbed me with a loaded gun. Next time, change your fuckin' shoes.”
Bam
. Zar slammed the gun down again—hit Jump on the hand shielding his face. Jump screamed and curled like a millipede, this way and that.

Zar straightened, a gun in each hand, and swiped a forearm across his brow. “Ten minus two leaves eight,” he said. “So where's the rest, Jump?”

“Fuck you.” Jump said it loud and strong, as if the words came from deep inside him.

“No, Jump,” Zar said. “Fuck you.” He shoved the guns into his pockets, turned, and pulled the biggest television off its stand, whirled and heaved it toward Jumpshot. Missed. Thing must have been heavy; Zar barely threw it two feet. It landed upright. The screen didn't even break.

Zar glanced over at me, a little embarrassed. “Fuck this,” he said. “Sit up, nigger. I'm through fucking with you. Sit up!”

Jumpshot did as he was told. Blood was smeared across his face, clotting over one eye. “Zar—”

“Shut up. Believe me, Jumpshot, I could fuck around and torture you for hours. Trust me, I know how. I even brought my knife. But I don't have time for all that. So I'm going to wait five seconds, and if you don't tell me where the rest of my shit is, I'm going to shoot you in the fucking chest, you understand? Go.”

“I don't fucking know, man. You gotta believe me, Isaac, I swear to God I never seen that shit be—”

“Four.”

“Please man, I swear on my mother's—”

Eleazar snatched a pillow off the floor and fired through it. Didn't muffle shit. Whole building probably heard the sound. Jump fell back flat. Zar wiped off the Glock and tossed it on the bed. Crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at Jumpshot. The blood was spreading beneath him, saturating the blankets. “What could that motherfucker have done with eight pounds of weed in two hours?”

“Maybe we should talk about that someplace else,” I suggested.

“Mmm,” said Zar. “That's probably a good idea.” But we stood rooted to our spots, like we were observing a moment of silence. I watched Zar's eyes bounce from spot to spot and knew he was wondering if there was anything in the apartment worth taking. Watching him was easier than watching Jumpshot.

“Alright.” The moment ended and Zar spun on his heel. We stepped outside. After the dimness of the apartment, the block seemed almost unbearably bright.

We drove back to the crib and ordered breakfast from the Dominican place. Zar had steak and eggs. “Aren't you supposed to be a vegetarian?” I asked. “Usually,” he said with his mouth full, swiping a piece of toast through his yolk. He shook his head. “Eight fuckin' pounds.”

“Only thing I can come up with is that he took it straight to one of the herbgates on Bedford,” I said. “Pump and dump.”

Zar nodded. “That's the only thing that makes sense. Anybody else would ask questions. I'll never see that weight again, basically.”

“At least it was paid for, right?”

“Half up front, half on the re-up. That's how Cornelius does business.” He steepled his hands and tapped his fingertips against his chin. “I'm gonna have to leave town, T. Take what I've got left, go down south, and lay low.” He lowered his head, toyed with a lock. “I swore I'd never do the Greyhound thing again. But it's still the safest way to travel.”

“How long you talking about?”

Zar shrugged. “A month or so. I'll go see my bredren in North Kack, bubble what I need to bubble, let shit blow over. You can mind the shop, right? Keep the business up and running so the Rastas don't start looking for a new connect?”

“If Cornelius will fuck with me, I can.”

“He will. I'll set that up before I go.”

“When you gonna bounce?”

Zar reached over and grabbed the duffel with the bricks in it. He walked over to his closet and dumped an armload of clothes inside, then bent down and pulled a floorboard loose. Inside the hollow was a roll of dough and one more brick. He tossed those in, too. I didn't bother to mention that it was my bag he was packing.

“I'm ready now,” he said.

Zar took a shower, made a few phone calls. I went up to my crib and did the same, then came back down and rolled us one last spliff. We smoked in silence. Always the best way. When it was over Zar pushed off palms-to-knees, and stood. “Everything is set,” he said, and tossed me the keys to the Cutlass. “You might as well get used to driving it.”

We were quiet all the way to Times Square. I kept waiting for Zar to start peppering me with instructions, but he just leaned back in the passenger seat, rubbing his eyes. Occasionally, he'd sing a little snippet of a Marley song to himself:
don't let them fool ya/or even try to school ya
. Maybe it was stuck in his head and he just had to let it out, or maybe the song made him feel better. He had a good voice, actually.

I parked the car, walked him up to the ticketing desk and down to the terminal. The bus was already boarding. I offered Zar my hand; he clasped it, then pulled me into a shoulder-bang embrace. “Hey, listen,” he said. “That shit with Jumpshot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to call him a nigger. I was heated. You know I didn't mean anything by it, right?”

“I know,” I said.

He leaned in for another soulshake. “Hold it down for me, bro.”

“No doubt,” I said.

“I'll see you in a month. And I'll call before then.”

“Do that.”

“Alright, bro. One love.”

“Be safe,” I said.

“No doubt.”

“Peace.”

“Peace.” He glanced over his shoulder, hefted the duffel bag, and disappeared up the steps.

I walked to the far side of the terminal and checked my watch. Zar's bus was due to depart at 1:15. It was 1:13 when the two DTs I'd tipped off cut the line, flashed their badges at the driver, and boarded.

I didn't wait to see them haul Zar off, just got on the escalator, made my way back to the Cutlass, and rolled to Brooklyn. Climbed the stairs to my apartment, triple-locked the door, and rolled myself another joint. Slipped on my brand-new Jordans, stacked my eight bricks into a pyramid, and just stared out the window, taking in my domain.

So long, Eleazar
, I thought.
I never liked your fake ass anyway. Damn near shit yourself when I put that nine to your dome. Probably serve your whole sentence and never figure out what happened. Probably call me every week from the joint, talking about “What's going on, bro?” Probably expect cats to remember who you are when you get out.

—

I turned the story on its back. “I don't know what to say. He barely even bothered to change the names. It's practically a confession. It
is
a confession.”

“People write what they know,” said Karen. “You ought to see some of the creepy shit that comes in. I forwarded a serial killer story to the cops one time, I was so sure the guy had done it.”

“I mean, why change Abraham Lazarus to Isaac Eleazar, but leave Jumpshot's name the same? Because he's dead? Because it's a nickname? What the fuck?”

“Eleazar is Hebrew for Lazarus,” Karen said. “I looked it up. And Isaac was Abraham's son. Pretty half-assed. Is Cornelius the dude's real name?”

“Nah, Everton. But he didn't bother to flip the name of the juice bar.”

Cloud rolled his copy into a telescope, tapped it against the table. “Lazarus was in the pen with me. Only whiteboy down with the Jamaican Posse. Most niggas make shanks in prison? Those guys scraped cooking pots down into machetes. Hack-through-bone type shit.”

I fingered the pages. “Theo Polhemus. I never heard anybody call him anything but T. Dude can write, huh? What do you think his other stories are about?”

“You're wandering a little off the point, youngblood.”

“Which is?”

“The raising of funds.” Cloud tipped his chair onto its hind legs. “Lazarus got sent up what, more than a year ago? If Polhemus is about his business, he should have three, four hundred K stacked by now.”

“He is. From what I've seen, anyway.”

“Good enough for me. We'll sting him for a hundred.”

“Why not all of it?” asked Karen. “Certain members of the Immortal Five have got to get back on their own two feet.”

“We wanna make this a simple decision, something he can live with. Strip a dude naked, you gonna find out more about his true nature than you care to know.”