Dog Eat Dog (16 page)

Diesel took Moon Man’s arm at the elbow, as police had done to him a score or more times, and guided the drug kingpin to the Chevy, where Mad Dog waited with the rear door open.

“Hey, ol’ rich nigger!” called one of the spectators, “you shoulda done paid them tickets.” The others laughed.

Diesel guided Moon Man’s head down enough to clear the roof. Diesel was glad the crowd was led by a comedian rather than an agitator.

Moon Man was in the car. Diesel slammed the door. Mad Dog was already behind the wheel. Diesel got in and nodded.

The white Chevy started moving. Diesel and Mad Dog forgot their mutual antipathy, at least for now. Act one was over. They had the sucker in hand. Now to break him down and rip him off.

Looking out the back window, Moon Man frowned. “Hey, man, where we goin’? This ain’ no way to the substation.”

“Shaddup,” Mad Dog said.

“What the fuck, man. I can ask where I’m goin’, can’t I?”

“No.”

“Damn!”

“Shaddup.”

Moon Man, leaning to the side as required by the handcuffs behind his back, began nodding his head in a gesture of anger. What kinda shit was this?

The Chevy followed the Mustang. Troy made sure he kept them close. Once he had to pass through a traffic light where they were stopped for the red. He waited on the other side. A black-and-white went by the other way. Would they notice the Sheriff’s Department uniforms?

The light changed. The white Chevy and the black-and-white passed each other. The Chevy went by Troy. He was watching the other car. It kept going. A little luck was always good. Troy took off and passed the white car.

When the cars began turning onto side streets, Moon Man sensed that this was more than a roust for traffic warrants. Not for a second did he doubt that they were deputy sheriffs. His imagination ran toward police hit squads. The idea of a hardcore white robbery crew never crossed his mind. He might have wondered about two niggers in uniforms, but not a pair of honkies.

Troy parked in a factory lot. It had a dozen cars in enough spaces for fifty. It was near enough to the Harbor Freeway so that the traffic’s hum drowned out sound. The few nearby buildings were small shops and factories. Troy got out of the Mustang and walked back to the Chevy. He opened the back door. “Move over,” he said to Moon Man, raising the pistol and extending his arm so the muzzle was a few inches from Moon Man’s eyeball.

Moon Man moved. He jumped to the side and ducked his head. “Hey, man!” It was shrill.

In the front seat, Mad Dog laughed. “Hey, man,” he mocked in a shrill voice. “All the bitch came out in this nigger.”

“Hey, man, what’s goin’ on, man?”

“Shaddup. I’ll tell you in a minute,” Troy said, slamming the door. “Roll on,” he said to Mad Dog. Diesel looked back over the seat. His grinning teeth shone in the streetlight they passed beneath.

As Mad Dog headed for the court bungalows, Troy played on the fear he heard. “Look here, man, you can live through this.”

“You ain’t even gotta snitch on nobody,” Mad Dog said.

“We’re goin’ to get that stash of yours. We’re gonna take you to the door, and you’re gonna tell the dude you got inside to open up. If he opens up, cool. If not, I’m gonna blow your backbone outta your belly. Y’know what I mean, man?”

“Hey, man, I dunno—”

Before he could finish the denial, Troy backhanded him across the nose with the muzzle of the pistol. The crunch of broken nose bone was audible, as was Moon Man’s gasp of pain. A broken nose hurts. “Ohh, man. Damn!” He held his head down. The blood ran down and dripped from his chin.

“You gonna do what I say, man. Right?”

“Yeah, man, yeah. Hey, I’m gettin’ fuckin’ blood all over my rag, man.”

“You can buy some more tomorrow.”

Moon Man said nothing, but he liked what he heard. It meant the head man expected him to be alive tomorrow.

“Look here,” Troy said as they reached the neighborhood. “You can get more money and more coke. But you can’t get more’n one life. So don’t think you can fake me out. I will kill you. All three of us will kill you. Quick! You got it?”

“Yeah. I got it.”

“Good.”

The Chevy turned onto the ghetto street. The headlights flashed over the torn sofa abandoned at the curb, over the trash banked in the gutter, for the Sanitation Department seldom sent street sweepers down here. A wind had risen to drive the usual street loiterers indoors. That was good.

“On the right, those bungalows.”

Mad Dog slowed and made the turn onto the driveway running between the bungalows. It had once been black-topped, but that had worn through in spots, so the car and headlights bounced as it moved ahead. Children scattered to the side and disappeared beside the bungalows.

Mad Dog stopped outside the bungalow. All three jumped out, Mad Dog with the pump .12 gauge, Diesel with a MAC 10 down low.

Troy reached back and pulled Moon Man from the car. It took too long for a handcuffed man to climb out unaided. Troy guided him to the door. Diesel and Mad Dog covered his rear, but they saw nothing except the kids peeking around a corner.

Troy banged on the door. “Tell him to open up,” he said.

“Deuce Man,” said Moon Man. “Open the door.”

No answer.

“Tell him that we ain’ gonna bust him if he opens up.”

“He ain’t gonna believe that.”

“Tell him anyway.”

“Hey, Deuce, these policemen say they ain’t gonna bust you.”

From inside came a voice: “What the fuck you bring ’em here for, man?”

“I ain’ brung the motherfuckers. They done knew.”

“Hey, Deuce,” Troy called.

“Yeah.”

“We’re gonna let you go if you don’t make us blow a hole in the door.”

Behind him, Diesel and Mad Dog watched bungalow doors open. Faces peered out. The crowd was growing in numbers and hostility. “Hey, pig! Let the brother go!” someone yelled. Other voices took it up: “Let him go! Let him go!”

“He better open up,” Troy said, cocking the pistol’s hammer and putting the muzzle behind Moon Man’s head.

“For God’s sake, motherfucker! Open the door,” Moon Man screamed.

“Okay, Moon! This better not be no bullshit!”

The lock clicked, the door opened. Troy shoved in, pulling Moon Man with him. Deuce stood there, a young African-American in baggy clothes with gold chains around his neck. He had his hands up. Troy grabbed him and shoved him out the door. “Hit it, man. You got lucky.”

Deuce ran down the steps past the two uniformed deputies and disappeared into the night. It was great to be free. It was almost a miracle. His passage through the swiftly growing crowd seemed to galvanize it. Someone picked up a chunk of cement and hurled it at the bungalow. It crashed loud against a wall, making Troy jump.

“Get the car!” someone yelled. “Burn the motherfucker.”

“Stop ’em,” Troy said.

“Right,” Mad Dog said, turning back toward the door with the shotgun.

“Don’t kill nobody unless you have to,” Troy said, sorry that he had to make the admonishment.

Mad Dog stepped onto the porch. Near the car, some teenage youths in baggy gang attire were trying to pull up a two-by-four from a bungalow porch rail. “Freeze on that!” Mad Dog yelled, and racked the pump on the shotgun. Only the remonstrance by Troy kept him from blasting them. At twenty feet he would have torn all of them apart with the double-ought buckshot. The unique sound of a shotgun being jacked silenced them. They looked at him, eyes white, and faded back into the darkness. “Gonna kill you, fuckin’ pig!” a voice yelled from out of sight.

Inside the house, Moon Man said, “You dudes are in trouble.”

Diesel stepped forward and smashed a fist into his face. It was a straight right-hand punch from a trained heavyweight prizefighter. It cracked Moon Man’s jaw and dropped him straight down onto his knees. “If we’re in trouble, you’re dead, nigger!”

“Give it up,” Troy said. “Quick.”

Mad Dog backed through the front door. “Hurry up.”

“Where is it?” Troy asked.

“The bathroom.”

A rock came through the window. The house was pelted with missiles. “Lemme waste a couple,” Mad Dog said.

Troy shook his head. He held Moon Man’s handcuffs in one hand and kept the pistol muzzle against his head. The drug dealer led them to the bathroom. It was tiny, and the stall shower door had a crack sealed with masking tape.

Moon Man indicated some built-in shelves. “Lift them all together.”

Diesel pushed in, went to the shelves, and lifted. Jars and bottles crashed on the floor as the whole built-in section came up and out, exposing a niche the size of a large suitcase. It was piled high with polyurethane bags of white powder. They looked like two-pound bags of white flour.

Diesel reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a folded shopping bag. He began filling it with the bags of powder. It quickly bulged. More bags remained.

Holding Moon Man in the doorway and watching Mad Dog at the front door and Diesel behind him, Troy said, “Grab a pillowcase from the bedroom.”

“Right.” Diesel ran to the bedroom and ran back with the pillow, pulling off the pillowcase as he returned.

“Where’s the money?” Troy asked.

“Ain’… money,” Moon Man said; it was hard to speak with the fractured jaw.

“Let’s kill this lyin’ fuck,” Diesel said as he finished sacking up the cocaine. It was thirty kilos. The Greco had promised them twelve grand a kilo for all they got. It was too much for him to figure in the confusing circumstances, but it was a lot of money, any way it was counted. He squeezed out with the bags.

“You gonna jes hafta kill this niggah, ’cause there ain’ no mother-fuckin’ money here, man!”

Was it true? Most dealers kept money separate from the drug stash. They’d ripped three hundred grand in cocaine. Why be greedy?

While he was thinking, six inches from his face a piece of plaster exploded, splattering pieces against his cheek.

He started and turned and saw the hole. A bullet had come through the outer wall and the kitchen wall and just missed his head. His heart jumped and missed a beat, but after that he was in control.

Moon Man had ducked his head. “Motherfucker!” was all he could say.

Mad Dog put his head into the kitchen. “Some asshole got a gun out there.”

“No shit?” Troy said. Then he laughed and Mad Dog laughed, too.

Another shot tore through the front room. It wasn’t even slowed down by the bungalow’s outer wall.

“Put the light out,” Troy yelled to Diesel, who was crouched behind a stuffed chair. Even a tough guy respected wild gunfire. He reached out and pulled the plug from the wall. The bungalow’s front room went dark.

Another shot tore through the bungalow. Troy thought it must be a bolt-action rifle. Otherwise whoever it was would simply unload a volley of shots. Even a six-shooter fired faster than the guy outside.

It was time to leave. He released Moon Man and headed for the door. “Let’s go,” he said, touching Diesel on the shoulder and picking up the pillowcase. He went to the front door and pulled it open while staying back in the shadows.

When he saw the next muzzle flash, he started pulling the trigger at two-second intervals, aiming at the flash. He simultanously walked forward, out the door. Diesel came next, carrying the other bag while shooting the MAC 10 into the bungalows, but at a high angle unlikely to hit anyone. Mad Dog danced along at the rear, whirling this way and that with the shotgun. He would kill anything that moved—but he saw nobody. The firepower had driven them to cover.

Troy opened the driver’s door and slid in behind the wheel. The key was waiting. He turned it as the others piled into the back. The engine roared. Troy rammed the shift into reverse and hit the gas. The tires spit gravel as the car leaped backward, weaving back and forth en route to the street, running over a trash can and knocking down a narrow fence post before Troy spun the steering wheel and turned into the street.

As he threw it into first gear and tromped on the gas, figures appeared next to a bungalow and began hurling rocks. Some banged harmlessly against metal; one cracked a side window.

Tires burned rubber and spit up gravel as the car fishtailed and gathered momentum, turned a corner, and was gone.

A block away, Mad Dog announced that nobody was behind them, and all three burst into the laughter of relief.

Later, however, when they had changed cars and were driving up the Harbor Freeway toward the clustered towers of downtown L.A., the adrenaline drained and Troy felt a great wave of melancholy wash through him. He’d taken off the biggest score of his life. It would buy what money bought: freedom and possibility. To be anything in this time and place necessitated money, unless one had inclinations toward monasticism. Troy had no other way to get money, so he did what he had to. Yet this left him empty. Still, he smiled when his partners laughed and slapped him on the back. In a few days they would cut up about $360,000. It was a lot of money even with inflation.

10

Even at four in the morning the Bicycle Club, a giant poker casino beside the Long Beach Freeway, was so full that erstwhile gamblers had to wait for a seat. Games included Seven-Card Stud and Lowball, but the most popular was Texas Hold ’Em, a wild and woolly poker variation that favored those who bluffed and played loose and relied on luck. The many gamblers were an ethnic stew, heavy on Asian, for awareness of chance in life was deeply imprinted on their culture. It inclined them toward gambling, unlike the stern Puritan streak still running through Protestant America. The Bicycle Club was the size of a football field filled with tables. Each table had seven seats, and every seat at every table had a rump in it, while a blackboard on the sidelines listed each game and had initials of those waiting to play. The humming roar of voices were a counterpoint to the rattling chips, broken by a cursing voice or exclamation of joy.

In the coffee shop booth sat Troy and his gang, drinking coffee and waiting for Alex Aris, who was late as usual.

The waitress refilled their coffee mugs.

“You don’t think anything happened to him, do you?” Diesel asked.