Kill Kill Faster Faster (6 page)

J
oey want to talk frank with you. Joey want to talk how it is.

Joey don’t want to pull no punches. Joey on a mission. Joey on a search. At the bottom, Joey want to be an honorable man. Joey want to understand honor and live honorable. He want to do the right thing, have standards. Joey want people to say, Joey One-Way, he a ace number-one cocksucker, but he an honorable cocksucker. Joey want people to say that.

Joey know.

Joey know from the git-go.

Joey know the city. Joey know the street. Joey know the culture. Joey know the game.

Joey been away a long time, but when he come back, you know what, not that much have change. Joey see the game and Joey know the game the same.

Joey always know that. Maybe people be hanging out, maybe their faces screwed up, or unshaven, sour in the mouth and tight in the nose, maybe their clothes are different, the way they dress, maybe their walks are something else, maybe they the sons and daughters of those who come before. But maybe not. Maybe not. Maybe they be the same, despite the years.

They the same motherfuckers.

The calls echoing down the street, down the avenue, the cries on the West Side and the East, maybe the bajando and the feo, maybe the guns, and the lack of knives, maybe the punches never thrown, maybe the boy in you face, twelve years old, standing chin to chin with you, saying, What you want today, man? What I do for you. Huh? What I do?

Not a whole lot of nothing, not change, in the increment of the cosmos, the cosmos the street, the smell, the drive, the noise, the headache, the march.

When Joey go to the lockup, the city he knew was up in flames. The big boulevard was a smoke screen, the fire burnt nightly, now he come back and there is cafes and there is restaurants, there is gallery and there is clubs. His girl take his hand, say, Come with me, baby, come with me, I know this after hours, we have fun.

What be with that, bro? Fun after hours. There is only one hour and that is always. It never end. The party go on.

It is confusing.

The intercom crackle. Joey, phone call, voice on the intercom say.

Clinique, he call one day. He call from upstate, from the lockup, from the public phone reserve for prisoners, he call Joey at the office of
El Pistolero
and he wait on the line when the receptionist say, Can you hold, and he wait on the line until she come back and say, Can I help you?

Yeah, you got a cat name Joey One-Way there?

Can I tell him who’s calling?

You tell him it’s the man. You tell him the man is calling on the telephone. He’ll know. Joey know.

T
here is love and there is passion.

There is love and there is passion between men. Men is men. And their lovemaking…

… their lovemaking …

… can be brutal lovemaking.

And their lovemaking can be tough, tough-in-the-trenches lovemaking.

And their lovemaking can bring blood.

And their lovemaking can bring bruises.

And their lovemaking can bring anguish.

And their lovemaking can bring, surprise surprise, touch me gentle, asshole, and a blast of pain it bring, their lovemaking, bring you to your knees, and curses, too.

It can bring you pain, it can bring you to your knees, like I already said, their lovemaking, and it can bring your voice echoing against the stone, down the corridor, against the metal, against the flesh, it can bring you to the ground, to the ground, and below, below, way below, bitch, get down on your knees, bitch, get down on your haunches, bitch, because here it is, here it come, here’s what I got, take it, you fuck, take it all. Take me. Take it. Take it all. Take it, you fuck. Take it, you bitch. Take it, you cocksucker. Take it. I’m giving it to you, and you taking it and you liking it, you better like it. Or else. O my brothers.

First time Clinique fuck Joey it pure power. Pure power.

It something between them. It something between men.

It unsaid.

It go unsaid.

And it better.

It better, sure as shit, go unsaid.

It one thing their lovemaking, then it another. Always the same for Joey. Nothing ever simple. Nothing ever straight up.

First time they met, first time they ever see each other, Clinique said, You better kill that man. You better not leave that man that way, you leave that man that way, he come back and kill you, so Joey go back and he do what have to be done, no questions asked, and no one ever the wiser, even those who seen, no one ever say nothing, ‘cept how the man shit himself on his face, suffocate in his own feces and vomit, how he do that?, sort of remarkable when you think about it.

Joey remember he worry for a couple of weeks maybe they run DNA or some shit, some tests, but come to think of it, maybe DNA don’t exist back then when Joey iced that dude, so what the fuck Joey worrying about anyway back then, maybe not DNA at all if it don’t exist, maybe some snitch.

But Clinique, he’s owed a lot of favors, have his own ideas, his own ulterior motives, how you say, lot of people owe Clinique, so it ain’t surprising, no it’s not, Joey wind up in Clinique’s cell, and Clinique say, once Joey got there, moved in, Now, white boy, you kinda sexy, now you owe me.

What you gonna do for me, Clinique say, Clinique wants to know. What you gonna do for me, make up for what I done for you, what I know about you, what I’m not gonna tell.

You ain’t a snitch, Joey says.

No, I’m not.

Then I don’t owe you fuck all, do I? But if you change your mind, and you is a snitch, Joey says, then I find a way to deal with you. I don’t care you the nigger here. I don’t care you the toughest tough guy, the blackest black guy who ever come down the pike, I find a way or I is dead.

Tha’s right.

That is right.

For hot’ of us.

For both of us.

Tha’s how it is.

That’s how it is.

Couldn’t say it better myself.

No, you couldn’t.

Aw right.

All right.

They was friends. And they was what you call lovers. Of a sort. In the joint, man, no one has to know, and it is nature, and everyone knows. It’s just the way it is, but they was both smart guys, and people needed them, and they bridged gaps, and they was serious, and they helped people, that was their philosophy. Clinique showed him. He showed Joey. Clinique been in lockup a long time. From the time he was still a boy and now he was a man. And Clinique, he taught Joey. There is a world in there which is unlike any other world, yet it is the world in its most pure and primitive state, and no one has to tell me, no one has to tell Joey, how it is done. And it is done with a kindness and with a caress and with using your head and saying what has to be said at the most opportune moments, and Joey was not above saying I love you to Clinique, to whomever, if it marched him on his way, and his way was one-way, Joey One-Way, and his way was out, by hook or by crook, his way was out.

D
on’t eat and run, Joey’s mother said, don’t tell tall tales in school.

Joey listen. Joey listen to his mama and Joey pay attention. Joey listen to Clinique’s voice on the phone and pay attention.

So’s what’s happening? Joey says.

You don’t sound like you feeling no pain, Clinique says.

Joey shrug. It’s a whatso, he says. You wake up one morning, buddy, and you is delivered.

On his end, Clinique nod. Smile. He say, Yup, that’s what I’m waiting for. To be delivered. Just like you, Joster. You think it’s coming?

I think so, Joey says, as if he’s truly thinking about it, truly considering. I really do, Clink. I really do.

Nah, Clinique says. Not for me, man. Me is someone different from you. You is a product of this country, bro. You ain’t no nigger. No matter what you make yourself out to believe. You is the privileged class and I am the underclass. So be it.

So be it.

Joey had heard the rap before. Heard it more times than he care to remember, lock in an eight-by-four with this dude, longer than he care remember.

Remind me again, he says to Clinique, when did we become join-at-the-waist, asshole-to-belly-button victims?

Clinique laugh. I like you, Joey, he says. I always have. I told the girl who answered the phone you the man and you is, you is the man.

Joey have no argument. Him and Clinique have a rapport, always have, ever since that day in the shower room. Joey trying his best. Joey always try his best. Joey try never do no bad or Joey try his best never do nothing
but
bad. All according to when you talk to Joey. Know what I’m saying?

I
been shot.

The bullet hit me in the face, drove me back against the wall.

Second caught me top of the head, near the crown, shattered my skull. Splattered my brains against the wall.

I manage to scream.

I scream, Stop! Stop! Why you doing this to me? Why you doing this?

Motherfucker.

Cocksucker.

Where you want me to start? At the beginning? There is no beginning. This is been going on and on. On and on forever. It’s always been this. It’s a loop. It go round and round.

I’m sitting at my desk and my boss comes in. I owe him everything. His name is Markie Mann and I’m in a love affair with his wife. He lays a piece of paper in front of me on my desk.

I glance down at what’s written. They’re words, like a poem.

What’s this? I says.

Lyrics, he says. I hear it on TV, on the Conan show, transcribe it off the tube.

Cool, I says, looking it over. Who sing it?

Don’t make no nevermind. Ruben Blades. Markie say it Spanish, Blah-des. I want you should make it into a script. Use the lyrics as a jumping-off point. Think you can handle that?

Sure, no problemente.

You’re the best, boyo. The best. Loved what you did with that script. You walk the walk, you talk the talk. Keep up the good work.

You don’t know what it is.

LIFE.

Life, you know.

Betrayal.

You try to comport yourself in a like manner.

Let me tell you something. This might sound funny, but this is the truth. I try to comport myself with honor. I try to be an honorable person. It’s not easy. Honor in this world. It’s something else. There are forces afoot. You try to do your best. I’m trying.

I’m outta the lockup, and I’m fucked. I’m living with a bunch of other guys, guys on parole, mentally ill, homeless, guys fucked and fucking, sleeping with them, trying to keep my balance, trying to keep things in perspective, conduct myself well among these lost souls.

Markie instructed me, he says, Joey, you just go there, you go to the shelter, you do what you have to do. You make your appearance, you sign in, you sleep. But don’t think about it. It’s not you. It’s like an outer-body experience. You’ll be out of it soon enough. It’ll be over. We’re giving you enough bread, man. Pretty soon it’ll all be over and you can pick up the pieces of your life. You’ll have plenty money if you’re smart. Okay? Okay, dude?

Okay.

If you’re smart. Don’t keep nothing valuable at that shelter, bub. They’ll steal it from you.

At the shelter some old guy, looks like he should be my grandfather, not a bad-looking guy, but one worse for wear, maybe he don’t have no teeth and somebody stole his dentures, asks me, You a prize fighter?

I look at him. Why you ask me?

Your face seems all broken up. You scarred all over, son.

I peer in the mirror.

We in the washroom.

Twenty sinks in a row.

Twenty urinals.

Twenty stalls.

I say, No. No. A prize fighter, no. Nothing like that. There ain’t no prize to be fighting. Not me. No. Never was.

He touch me.

You skin so soft, tough guy.

I shove him away. Stay away from me, cocksucker.

I look back at the sheet on my desk. The lyric. The jumping-off point. It a piece. Start out:

A metal shark cuts into the night,

spilling the colors of the neon lights.

Papo, the hitman, is driving with his crew,

the Pérez boys. All born and raised in Barrio truth.

They’re looking for a man

named “Sweet Tyrone.”

In better days he was a friend

but is no more.

He broke the main rule that controls the street:

don’t double-cross the ones you love, the ones you need.

 

Don’t double-cross the ones you love.

Don’t double-cross the ones you need.

‘Cause you never know. ‘Cause no one can say

when you’ll need a friend out on the street.

Don’t double-cross.

 

I look at Markie. Go back, look down, read on.

The metal shark parked across a downtown bar.

The barrio boys slid off the car.

The sawed-off shotguns pressed against their legs.

They’re wearing raincoats and a dead-end face.

Inside the bar, the jukebox played a song

about a woman and a long lost love.

It’s Friday night. The crowd is loose and loud.

It smells of piss, of beer and working clothes.

The boys went in behind the colors.

 

You translate this from the Spanish? I ask him.

He sang it.

In English?

You heard of him? Ruben Blades?

Yeah, I heard of him, but I thought he sang in his mother tongue.

He look at me, grin. He does. This is crossover. Perfect for us.

“Sweet Tyrone” was on a corner, drinking rum and cokes,

holding a young girl he thought he owned.

When he saw the homeboys coming, he turned

and backed against the wall.

The girl broke off his last embrace and ran.

And before Tyrone could draw his gun,

two shotgun blasts ended his evening’s fun.

In the bar, nobody turned around.

This part of town won’t stand for clowns.

 

The barrio boys slowly walked and left the bar.

They slapped some high fives and got inside the car.

The girl came out and Papo paid her as agreed.

Into the night, they disappeared.

The street had spoken.

Don’t double-cross the ones you love.

Don’t double-cross the ones you need.

‘Cause you never know. ‘Cause no one can say

when you’ll need a friend out on the street.

Don’t double-cross.

 

So what you think?

Cool. Cool beans.