Sinner's Ball (18 page)

He shook his head.

“Well, maybe your roommate's hungry?”

“After what he's been through?”

“What's his problem?”

“The guy is eighty-nine and just came out of quadruple bypass surgery. They cracked his chest. Attached his heart to a machine. Worked on him for hours. He's got so many tubes attached to him, when they wheeled him in he looked like he was entwined in latex vines.”

I kept my voice real low. “I don't want to be a spoilsport,” I said. “But at eighty-nine he doesn't have a whole hell of a lot of sand left in his hourglass. Why would he put himself through this?”

“For a woman. And you can speak up. The guy's so far out of it, they can lop off his limbs and he wouldn't know it.”

“I'm not following the
woman
part.”

“The nurses tell me he got married about a year ago. She's eighty-five. And wants a—how did they put it?—a robust sex life. But every time he tried to get
robust
, he thought his chest would explode. So here he is lying there like a lox.”

“I wish them mazel tov.”

Kenny made a face. “I'm sure he'd appreciate that. Not right now, but when he wakes up in six months and looks in the mirror and sees a schmuck staring back.”

“The things we do for sex.”

“The things we do for women,” he said. “My wife came to visit me.”

“Oh? How did that go?”

From the look on his face, not well.

“You didn't ask how come she knew I was here.”

“I figured someone in your family called her.”

“She saw what happened in front of the Yeshiva.”

“I didn't know that. I figured she scattered with everyone else.”

“No way you should. She came to pick up the kids and spotted my car. She was dialing 911 to have the cops haul me in for violating the restraining order when the gun-fight at the OK Corral broke out.”

“She told you this?”

He nodded. “Not a lot of sympathy there. She also told me that this was God's punishment for my profligate ways.”

“She actually used the word
profligate?”

“Oh yeah. Sarah's quite the wordsmith. English lit major at Brooklyn College. Read all the dead white guys. She went on to say that if she ever sees me near her or the kids again, she'll have me thrown so far into jail they'll have to feed me with a slingshot.”

“And she knows how to turn a phrase, too,” I said. “I'm really sorry I got you into this, Kenny.”

“You didn't get me into anything. It's all on me. It's like they say. You've got to take ownership of your problems before you can solve them.”

“It's the alcoholic's creed. So, what now?”

“The docs are releasing me tomorrow. Then it's back to an empty apartment and shooting people for profit. Welcome to my life, Steeg.”

Further conversation was mercifully interrupted by the sound of my cell phone playing George Jones's classic “He Stopped Loving Her Today.”

It seemed like the perfect sum-up.

T
he phone call was from Nick.

He and Dave were at the Yellow Dog, a Harlem after-hours club. He gave me the address. I hopped a train at Times Square.

Even with the address, finding the Yellow Dog turned out to be a chore. After I'd traversed the block twice with no luck, a very large black man with a gold medallion the size of a coffee table book dangling from his neck pointed to a door behind and below him.

The club consisted of a small bar against the back wall, about a dozen tables scattered about, a plywood bandstand, and no customers. It smelled like an ashtray.

Dave and Nick sat at a large round table with two black guys. One was in his fifties and morbidly obese. The other, wearing a Mets cap turned backward, was
much younger and a hell of a lot leaner. The younger guy sat with his head in his heads.

Dave waved me over.

I took a seat next to him.

He skipped the introductions.

“What took you so long?” he said.

“Track problems. What's up?”

“I don't understand why you can't take a cab like a normal human being.”

“I like mingling with the masses. Any chance of telling me why I'm here?”

“We think we got them.”

“Define
think.”

“We've had a couple of little missteps or two,” Nick said.

“Weren't so little,” Dave said, glaring at the older man, who scowled at the young guy.

“Curtis, here,” Nick said, pointing his chin at the young guy, “seems to think all white people look alike. Nailed two white guys and an Asian if you can believe it, with their girlfriends. Wasn't pretty, and wasted our time.”

Curtis's expression turned morose.

“Would've helped if Biggie gave me a photo or somethin',” he said.

Biggie hauled off and slapped the back of Curtis's head, sending his hat flying like it had been launched from a cannon.

“Would've helped if God gave you the brains he gave a parrot,” Biggie said.

I stared at Curtis with utter disbelief. “You shot them?”

“Nah,” Biggie said. “Curtis just scraped them around the edges a touch.” He threw Curtis a decidedly baleful look. “What happens when you send a boy out to do a man's work.”

“Anyway,” Nick continued. “On his fourth try, Curtis brought me along. Definitely Ennis.”

“Where did you find him?” I said.

Curtis jumped right in.

“Put the word out to my dealers,” Curtis said. “You never know, right?”

“Right.”

“And sure enough, one of my homeys came through. Said this white dude and this black chick wearin' her hair in a Bob Marley do came by lookin' to score.”

“Crack? Blow?”

“No. The dude interested in roids. Don't get much call for that. My boy, knowin' there's a reward out for a white guy and a black gal wearin' Rasta shit, gets suspicious and calls me. Tells the white guy to meet him in hour. He tells me. And I call Nick.”

“Smart kid,” I said. “Deserves a bonus.”

“Deserves what I give him,” Biggie said.

“So Nick gets a
cab,”
Dave said, “and boogies up here.”

“I'm standing up the block kind of out of the way, and sure enough Ennis shows up,” Nick said. “Alone.”

“Told him I'd have his shit tonight,” Curtis said, looking at his watch. “'Bout an hour from now.”

“And that's why you're here, Jake,” Dave said.

“Got a plan?”

My brother smiled his shark grin.

“Soon as Ennis shows, we nab him,” he said. “And persuade him to take us to your friend Martine.”

“Kind of loose on the details, don't you think?”

“Don't worry about it,” Dave said. “Everything's under control.”

Not from where I sat. My brother was manic. Not in the clinical sense of the word, but in the
Dave
sense. The situation had spun out of my control, leaving only a dark chop of regret in its wake.

T
he street that served as the backdrop for the outdoor bazaar where Curtis's crew did business had an eerie gloominess about it. It didn't help that the streetlights had been shot out.

Boarded-up buildings. A botanica shut down for the night. The sign for a long-gone gypsy cab service hanging at a crazy angle. A steel-shuttered fried chicken take-out joint. The corner bodega was the only retail operation that appeared to be functioning. What little light there was came from burning garbage cans over which the dealers warmed their hands.

Beacons in the night for hypes to steer their ships by.

The temperature had dipped into the low teens, and a light snow dusted everything white. Despite the weather, business was brisk. By foot and by car, dopers descended on the street like it was bargain day at Walmart. And
Curtis's crew, mostly young teenagers, was raking in the cash.

The four of us sat in the comfortable warmth of Dave's Mercedes—Nick and Curtis in front, and Dave and me in back—and waited for Ennis to appear.

“What makes you think he's coming, Curtis?” I said.

“Know my customers,” he said. “Walk barefoot over broken glass to get that happy feeling.”

With the resolve of a dreadnought plowing through enemy waters, a young woman, barely out of her teens, pushed a baby carriage through the gauntlet of buyers and sellers.

“She and her child shouldn't have to deal with this crap,” I said.

“Ain't got no kid in there. Making a delivery. She mules for me.”

Dave hooted. He was manic again, high on the prospect of the violence.

“That's my brother for you,” he brayed. “Heart as big as all get-out. And never saw the sucker punch coming.”

“Screw you, Dave!”

He gave me a brotherly pat on the back. “Why're you getting all serious? It was a joke. By the way, are you strapped?”

My hand strayed to the hard outline of the Glock nestled in my pocket.

“Locked and loaded,” I said. “While we've got a few minutes, let's review the plan. And this time, details would be very helpful.”

“Ennis shows up to make the buy,” Nick said. “And Curtis here passes him the package. During the transaction, one of Curtis's guys whacks him with the bat hard enough to put him on the ground.”

“More than a love tap,” I said, making certain we understood each other, “but less than a swing for the fences. We need a reasonably alert Ennis, with all of his faculties more, not less, intact. Got that, Curtis?”

He flashed me a sullen nod, then turned his cap around, pulled the lid over his eyes, and settled in for the wait.

“Then,” Nick continued. “I pull up. Pop the trunk. You and me throw the fucker in. And off we go to the Yellow Dog for some R & R.”

“My favorite part of the evening,” Dave said, wearing a manic look.

A half hour after the appointed time, Ennis still hadn't made an appearance.

Dave moved forward in his seat, his mouth next to Curtis's ear. “Where is he, Curtis?” Dave crooned.

“Fuck if I know,” Curtis said.

“You said you know your customers.”

Dave's fingers massaged his cheek.

Curtis couldn't see Dave giving his cheek a workout, but he heard the menace in his voice.

“I do.”

Dave's voice was low and tight.

“Why do I get the feeling you don't know shit?” he said.

I put a hand on my brother's knee.

“Why don't we all relax?” I said. “Give it a bit longer.”

He pushed my hand off.

“Why don't you mind your own business?”

“Dave, this is my deal, not yours.”

He settled back in the seat.

“Not anymore.”

“When did that happen?”

There was that shark grin again.

“Just now.”

“I've got a real problem with that,” I said. “You were supposed to find them and gracefully bow the hell out.”

“I've got my reasons.”

“I don't give a damn—”

He flashed me a deadeye look that said reason just went out the window.

“Someone looking to hurt you hurts me. Done talking about it. Don't push it, Jake.”

And I didn't.

For now.

Twenty minutes passed, and still no Ennis.

Dave looked at his watch.

“Here's the deal, Curtis,” he said. “You wasted my time. Not a good thing. I want this guy. If I don't get him, I'll take you. You've got three days to find the fucker. Or you're going into the barrel. One way or the other, I'm gonna have me a party. Anything you don't understand about that?”

My brother was getting real close to his personal tipping point.

Curtis opened the door and left without saying a word.

As much as I wanted Ennis, something inside of me hoped that he—and Curtis—had split to a more congenial spot in another part of the galaxy.

F
reud said dreams were the royal road to the unconscious.

That insight came gratis from one of the many frustrated AA sponsors I had run through over the years. This guy happened to be a big-time psychoanalyst. And it was the only thing he said that stuck. Before he came along, I equated dream interpreters with shamans.

These days I'm not so sure.

In my dream I was back in the Bowery, and Sailor, the bum I'd met after seeing Cady's body, was front and center. Trying to tell me something. Grabbing my jacket. Pulling at me. Trying to get me to listen. But clawing my way awake was the only thing on my mind.

If Freud was right, my unconscious was giving me a wake-up call. I decided to go find out what it was trying to tell me.

T
he Majestic looked sadder than the last time I had been there. To the left of the entrance someone had erected a shabby little shrine commemorating Cady's demise. There was a rough wooden cross—two pieces of wood torn
from a crate and nailed together—on which someone had inscribed his name with a Magic Marker. A couple of empty beer cans. And a sodden, brown teddy bear that looked like it had been plucked out of a garbage can.

A middle-aged guy with acne scars and a head shaped like it had had a bit of a misadventure as it traveled down the birth canal sat in Cady's old spot behind the metal-gated counter, reading a newspaper.

I gave him my card.

He was unimpressed.

“Whattya want?” he said.

“Looking for a guy named Sailor.”

He went back to his newspaper.

I wrapped a five spot around another card and laid it on the counter.

“Why don't we try this again,” I said.

The five disappeared into his shirt pocket, and my card elicited more than a flicker of interest.

“Wish I could help, but he's not registered at this establishment at this time,” he said.

I was surprised he could string so many words together.