Street Pharm (18 page)

I listened to her message again. Did she miss me? I listened to
it a third time. It came at 11:30 last night. Did that mean she was thinking about me at midnight?

When she said “you don’t need to call back,” did that mean
don’t call back
or
you don’t have to call back, but I want you to
?

Women! No, not women. One woman: Alyse. I lay back on my bed, thinking about how it felt to hold her in my arms.

Damn.
Why she gotta be so stubborn? Why couldn’t she accept the real me?

Or was I wrong about that? Maybe she wanted to accept who I was, just not what I did for a living. Maybe they weren’t the same thing.

If she called me, did that mean she might take me back? All I had to do was quit the business.

All I had to do was quit the business.

It was the first time I thought of it. I could quit.

But who would I be if I walked away?

So much went through my brain, it felt like my head was gonna burst.
How would I leave the business how would I make money how would Dad react what would Sonny do without me what would I do with my life? You can’t get out it’s not realistic you the King of the Streets you have a vision a vision of where you’ll be and what you’ll be—a hustler who makes mad dough and never ever gets caught . . .

Thoughts of all kinds came at me, like a crocodile spinning in a death roll. I just let it happen.

T
he next day I went through the metal detectors at Les Chancellor.

“Johnson, you look good. How you feeling?”

“Real good, Rosie. I’m coming back to school.”

“Yeah? Thought we’d seen the last of you.” She looked across the machine to the other guard. “Pete, you hear that? He’s back.”

“Good for you, Johnson.”

“Thanks.” I walked toward the main office to speak to Ms. Gottlieb, the principal. I’d never talked to her before, but I’d seen her around. The lady was always in the halls, ready to scream at anybody who wasn’t where they were supposed to be.

In the office, I went up to the main desk. “Excuse me, ma’am?”

A middle-aged secretary with poofy black hair looked up from her computer. “Yes?”

“I’m here to see Ms. Gottlieb. Could you tell her Ty Johnson’s here?”

Her head snapped sideways. I knew right away that she was the secretary I dicked around on the phone a few months ago. “Have you scheduled an appointment,
Mis-ter
Johnson?”

“No, but it’s real important.”

“I should hope it’s important if it’s the principal you’re wanting to see. Unfortunately, this is a very busy time of year for her. I can book you an appointment for next week.”

“Next week? Are you kidding?”

Her face wasn’t kidding. “Should I book it or not?”

I took a breath. Could I wait until next week?

No, I couldn’t.

“Don’t book it. This can’t wait.”

“I can’t imagine what it is that can’t wait until next week. You are no longer attending this school. Did you forget something?”

“Look, I only need a few minutes of her time. I’ll wait, it don’t matter how long it takes. Please just tell her I’m here.”

“I’ll tell her. But I’m not making any promises.”

“That’s fine. Thanks for your help.”

I took a seat and waited. I wasn’t gonna budge.

An hour went by. I wouldn’t let myself check my phone messages. It would just be Sonny cursing me out for missing the exchange, and I didn’t want to deal with that right now.

More time went by. A few kids came to sign out early, always with notes from parents, doctors, or parole officers.

And then Alyse walked in. Without seeing me, she signed the attendance book. “I’m taking my son to a doctor’s appointment,” she told the secretary. “I don’t have an appointment slip with me, but I’ll bring one tomorrow.”

On her way out, Alyse saw me. Her eyes widened. “Ty!”

My tongue froze. All I could do was nod.

“What are you doing here? Are you seeing Ms. Gottlieb?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re coming back to school?”

“I hope so.”

“Great! I’m really glad for you. Anyway, I better go—I’m taking Gavin to the doctor. See ya.”

She hurried out.

Over the next hour, I saw the principal twice, once leaving her office, and then returning a few minutes later. She didn’t even look in my direction. I started to wonder if the secretary ever told her I was there.

Then the principal’s door opened, and finally,
finally,
she looked my way. “Tyrone Johnson. Come in quickly.”

I didn’t need no encouragement.

“Sit. Now tell me what this is about.”

I cleared my throat. “I wanna come back to Les Chancellor.”

She glanced at a piece of paper on her desk. The paper was part of a file. My file.

“I know of your hospital stay. The school was unable to contact you after you were released. You were no longer living with your mother.” She looked at me over her glasses. “Is this accurate?”

“Yes, ma’am. I know I should’ve come back sooner, but I was really busy. I had to do lots of physical therapy.”

“It was your responsibility to inform the school of your status, Mr. Johnson. On what grounds do you want us to consider your reapplication?”

“Well, as you said, I had serious medical stuff. Plus, I never got kicked out or nothing, so I figure . . . on those grounds.”

“Truancy for more than three days without justification is the equivalent of expulsion. I’m sure that was explained to you when you first came here. I will ask you again, why should we let you back in?” As I was opening my mouth, she reminded me, “The truth, please.”

“After I got shot, I admit, school was the last thing on my
mind. I never been a big fan of school, but here, things were okay for me. I learned a few things, met some good people. Most of my teachers were cool. Coming here gives me a reason to get up in the morning.”

She took off her glasses. “Most of the students who ask for readmission have an ulterior motive. It’s usually that they have a court date coming up and want to impress the judge by saying they’re in school.” Before I could say anything, she went on, “But I do not believe that is the case with you.”

I relaxed a little.

“I’ll send memos to your teachers asking for their recommendations. If they feel you would benefit by readmission, I will place you on our roster for the fall.”

“Huh? It’s only January. The second semester’s about to start.”

“That isn’t the issue. There is currently a waiting list to get into this school. At present, the list has eighty-four students. Your position has already been filled.”

I was speechless.

“I will do my best to ensure that you will be with us in the fall. I can do no more than that. I recommend that you find another school that will take you. If you like, you can schedule an appointment with a guidance counselor who will help you find a space in another school.”

I felt like sinking through the floor. Going back to Les Chancellor was the one thing, the only thing, I was set on. How could I wait until September to come back?

“I’m sorry, Tyrone. Don’t get discouraged. You stay on the right track, and we’ll be pleased to have you in the fall.”

“Thanks, Ms. Gottlieb.” Like a zombie, I got up. I walked out of the office and through the empty hallway.

Outside, the sky was darkening. It was cold, and the breeze was picking up.

I stood at the bus stop, not caring when it came. I wasn’t even sure it was the wind that made my eyes water.

Taking my cell phone from my pocket, I saw six messages.

’Course, one after the other was from Sonny, asking where the hell I was at.

The next message was from Desarae. She was hysterical. I couldn’t make out what she saying.

The last one was from Gary, Sonny’s neighbor. He was choked up.
“Ty . . . God, some bad shit went down. They found Sonny at Brighton Beach, all shot up. He didn’t have a chance.”

B
y the time I got to Sonny’s, police were everywhere. Gary was barefoot in the hallway.

“Ty!” He gave me a rough, one-arm hug. “Where you been?”

I followed him back into his apartment, closing the door after us.

My voice was far away, like it came from outside me. “Where’s Desarae? She in there with the cops?”

“Her sister came and got her. When the cops told her Sonny got killed, she flipped out. She just kept screaming and screaming. . . . ”

“What happened?”

“The cops ain’t saying nothing about the circumstances—just
that they found him at Brighton Beach.” He took hold of my arm, like he thought my legs were gonna buckle. “I’m so sorry, man. Y’always been Sonny’s dog.”

I stepped back and leaned against the wall. Sonny was dead.
Sonny.
I was living one of my nightmares.

“Ty, you better sit down. Let me get you a beer or something.”

“No thanks, Gary. I have to talk to the police.”

Gary did a double take. “You ain’t serious. What you gonna say?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“Then stay out of it, son. Trust me. Pigs ain’t nothing but trouble.”

“They’ll come knocking, anyway. Better I go to them. I got nothing to hide.”

“
Ty,
you tripping! You want the cops to know that you a hustla?”

“They already know.”

“So? You wanna give them reason to ride your ass from now on? You wanna live like that?”

I didn’t have an answer to that. I went toward the door.

Gary said, “Man, whatever went down at Brighton Beach, thank God you wasn’t there.”

“Maybe if I had Sonny’s back, he’d still be alive.”

*  *  *

The next few hours went by in a blur. I went to the local precinct, told them I was a friend of Sonny’s and wanted to talk to someone.

They took me into an interview room. One of the officers put a cup of coffee into my hand. It tasted like mud, but I drank it.

Akindele came in. He didn’t look surprised to see me. I bet nothing surprised him anymore.

“Thanks for coming in, Mr. Johnson. We appreciate your voluntary cooperation.”

“I want to help any way I can. Did you talk to Sonny’s girlfriend yet?”

“No. She’s very distraught. Her sister asked us to conduct the interview tomorrow morning. Now, could you tell me the nature of your relationship to Sonny?”

“We friends. He been a friend of the family for years.”

“Was he, specifically, a friend of your father’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you know about what happened today?”

“Sonny was supposed to make an exchange with a couple of guys. He never told me their names.”

“What sort of exchange are you referring to?”

“Drugs for cash.”

“What kind of drugs?”

“I don’t know.” It was true. Since I wasn’t taking Sonny’s calls for the past few days, I didn’t have the 4-1-1 on the shipment.

“Will you guess?”

“Coke. Maybe heroin.”

“Did your friend tell you how much money he was taking with him?”

“No, but he said the deal was pretty big. The money . . . it was probably in a blue nylon Nike bag. Sonny had a whole stash of them.”

“As far as I know, we didn’t see a stash of blue Nike bags at his apartment.”

“Well, he probably keeps them someplace else.”

Akindele nodded. “What do you think went wrong?”

“Sonny got scammed. They must’ve planned to kill him the whole time.” I ran a hand over my scalp, trying to stay calm. I couldn’t lose it now. This interview was too important.

“Did he say anything at all about the guys he was going to meet? What they looked like, where they came from, where he met them. . . . ”

I shook my head. “We hadn’t talked for a few days. I only knew about the deal because he left me phone messages.”

Akindele flipped back in his notepad. “His cell phone records show that he called you nine times recently.”

“Yeah, but I never answered the phone.”

“Why not? You and Sonny on the outs?”

“No. I had other things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“I decided to go back to school. I tried to, anyway.”

Akindele raised his eyebrows, but left it alone. He wrote some notes while I sat there staring at the lines in his wide forehead. Grief ate away at my insides.

I asked, “You got a plan to find Sonny’s killers? I mean, I hope this is a real murder investigation, even though Sonny was a hustler.”

“Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson. It will receive the same attention as any other murder investigation.” He opened the folder on the table and took out two pictures. “Do you recognize these men?”

I looked at the pictures, but had to shake my head. “Why? They got something to do with Sonny’s murder?”

“That’s what I intend to find out. There was a similar incident in the Bronx a few months ago. The victim was shot, but he survived and was able to identify the shooters. Their names are William Mathieu and Devin Harrison. We’re trying to track them down. Do you have any idea where Sonny might have first come into contact with the men who killed him?”

“No.”

“You must know some of Sonny’s hangouts.” He flipped his notepad to a new page and gave me a pen. “I’d like you to write them down for me.”

I stopped. The guys at those places didn’t talk to cops.

“You want us to solve your friend’s murder, don’t you?”

“Yeah.” I wrote down a couple of places, figuring my best bet was to get there before the cops did and ask questions myself.

I slid the pad back to him. “Can I get copies of these?” I picked up the pictures. “In case I run into somebody who knows them?”

Akindele’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I’ll get copies for you.”

Over the next few minutes he kept questioning me, but I couldn’t give him any good information. Finally he said, “You’ve been helpful, Mr. Johnson. If you think of anything else, please call me.” He gave me his card.

“Thanks.” I knew that I hadn’t been helpful, not really. I just didn’t know enough to help the investigation.

But that was about to change.

*  *  *

Desarae’s sister, Maydean, lived in a housing project on Avenue X, across from Sheepshead Bay High School. I was at her place for parties a few times. I buzzed her apartment.