The Vulture (9 page)

I got a tremendous surprise when I knocked at the door. I could see the whole situation turning around in my hands. Debbie did not seem surprised to see me. I was a bit let down.

‘I'm watchin’ a late-late-late,’ she said. ‘C'mon in.’

I followed her. The door opened onto a wide red carpet that needed a vacuum cleaner's services.

‘I came about the letter you wrote Crystal,’ I said.

‘I know,’ she admitted, looking back. She plopped down on the couch in front of the idiot box and stared at Humphrey Bogart, my man. She was eating an apple.

‘I want to know why you did it?’ I asked.

‘I needed the money.’

‘Well, just how much was my soul worth?’

‘Tsk. Tsk. Let's not be like that. Five hundred.’

‘From who?’

‘John Lee.’

Of course. Why in the hell? What in the world? Why in the devil hadn't the image of that fat idiot appeared on my screen. Of course. What had I been thinking of?

‘I went to John and told him that I needed money. He said he would give it to me if I wrote the letter. It's that simple.’

‘You have the abortion yet?’

‘Day after tomorrow.’

‘Did you tell dear John I wuzn’ sleepin’ with you?’

‘No . . . Would you believe that?’

She was perfectly in control of everything, at ease with the
world. I was the one who wasn't sure what was going on. I could not even look at her.

‘Pardon me,’ she said in Spanish. ‘Have a drink?’ I nodded.

She nodded in return and went off behind me somewhere in the kitchen, coming back with Old Grand-Dad, two glasses, and ice.

‘You want to mix?’ she asked. I shook my head no.

‘How you gon’ make out?’ I asked.

‘Okay,’ she said.

‘Five hundred ain’ a whole lotta bread.’

‘It'll do. When I'm well I'm gonna dance with Faye down at their club. That's where they're at now.’

How much she had changed since I had last seen her. She had aged so much that she hardly seemed like the same girl. She had decided just what she was going to do, and she was making the most of it. I wondered how many girls I had known who came up pregnant and decided that life was over and started screwing for a living?

‘You know,’ I said, ‘You're carryin’ my kid, an’ I never went to bed with you.’

‘So?’ She smiled.

‘I wuz wondrin’ if I gave it to you by proxy or somethin’.’

‘No. Nuthin’ like that.’

We both had a good laugh at that. The drinks I had originally poured were now warming our midsections and loosening the initial discomfort. I dished out refills.

‘You sold me out,’ I told her.

‘I had no choice,’ she said softly.

‘You're the one who had this crush on me . . . and you sold me out twice. Once to get rid of Lee. Once to get money from Lee.’

‘Don't act hurt, Spade,’ she said. ‘Nothin’ ever really hurt you. You came to my house with one thought. That was getting into bed with me. I got you into a corner before you got me on the sheets. You know how the game is played.’

I lit another cigarette. She was so right and so wrong at once. I wanted to scream and break the silence that surrounded us. Yes! We were out to use each other the first time, and you won, but not the second time. You were wrong the second time. You swung a long way below the belt when you took Crystal from me. I noticed that Debbie wasn't kidding me. She hadn't known how much Crys meant to me. It was all part of being Spade, the man with a death mask for a face. The man with a tombstone for a heart. The man without a solitary soul who knew how he felt, what he wanted, or how much he was alone. The silly actor who could never get off-stage long enough to tell the one girl who mattered that he loved her.

But John Lee knew.

John Lee had to have known how much Crystal meant to me, or else he could never have done such a perfect job of destroying me. He was in the street just like I was, and the only thing that kept him going had been Debbie. Even though he probably knew that he was buying her love. Bought love is better than no love at all.

John Lee knew! He must have seen me on the shore with Crys, and he wanted me out there trying to swim next to him. Too far out of reach to swim to safety or be rescued. Two men who could not survive. Two men in a cave-in with no air to breathe. Two men in the desert without water, watching the vultures circle overhead.

‘Let's go to bed,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Let's go to bed,’ I repeated.

I thought for a second that I was going to be Humphrey Bogart one more time. Then I realized that I was going to be Spade again. The truth was that Bogart and Spade never battled. It was always Spade and Eddie Shannon who fought for control. Deb followed me into the bedroom, whoever I was.

July 12, 1969 / New York City

I was on my way to work. The only exception was that for the first time I really felt like I knew what my job was. I could no longer be detached. There was nowhere else to look except into the eyes of the junkies and streetwalkers and pimps. They were my people. I felt that I was killing them just as surely as Smoky would if they didn't pay. I felt dead.

It wasn't even the same type of feeling I had before I met Crystal. I hadn't known what love was then. You can never miss something until you have experienced it and have to do without. I was now a man without love.

At about ten o'clock I stood in back of the church on 127th Street and Seventh Avenue in the park, waiting for one of my men to deliver. He would be the first of fifteen. The breeze came in with token force and swirled the charred ashes of a burned newspaper around my feet. When I looked up at the sound of footsteps, it wasn't Kenton, but Smoky.

‘Happnin’, Smoke?’ I asked.

‘Nuthin’ much. i come tell you they ain’ no work t'night. i try to call an’ git you at home. zinari give a l'il thing in his crib startin’ ‘bout twelve.’

‘Oh? That sounds pretty good.’

‘yeah, man! menny girls, much tas’, l'il smoke.’

‘I think I'll make that,’ I said, nodding.

‘want me to pick you up?’ Smoky asked.

‘No, I'll be getting there a little late. Could you give me a lift home now?’

‘sholy, sir. my limazine iz alwaze at yo’ service.’

We hopped into the Cadillac, and Smoky burned rubber getting away from the curb at 127th Street. It would be good to do a little partying. Parties do a lot for the nerves.

Phase Two

John Lee died last night

July 13, 1969

The squat captain was speaking into the mesh microphone of his intercom.

‘You can send Mr Watts in now, Sergeant,’ he said.

‘Right, sir,’ came the reply.

The captain turned to his partner, who sat directly in front of the whirling, three-blade fan. The office was large and comfortable, but the air-conditioning was on the blink. The working officers, confined to paperwork in the bowels of the station on 18th Street, hurried through the technical chores in order to hit the street and work on unsolved cases that would take them near coffee houses and bars where they could sneak away for a hit.

‘This guy is mighty cool,’ the captain said. ‘If anyone in the area can give us a hand with the case, it's probably him.’

There was a knock, and a shadow was seen crossing the frosted glass that spelled out the captain's name backwards.

‘C'mon in, Watts,’ the captain yelled. He was ripping the wrapper off a cigar with a mouthpiece.

The man came in. He was short and black, cigarette dangling from chapped lips, and sunglasses in place. He wore a light topcoat in spite of the merciless heat. There was a sport hat with a red feather on his head, and a wedding band on the smallest finger of his left hand.

‘Have a seat, Watts,’ the captain said, motioning toward the small swivel chair opposite him at the desk. The second officer turned and waved perfunctorily at the visitor but maintained his seat in front of the fan.

‘Hot as hell today,’ Watts said, sitting down.

The captain merely grunted.

‘Watts,’ the captain began, ‘d'ja ever see this man before?’

Watts studied the enlarged photo of a black teenager. Yes, it was the baked-bean-colored character with a pimply face and large bone structure.

‘Yeah,’ Watts said.

The second officer turned his profile to the fan.

‘Describe him,’ Watts was asked.

The police guest removed the sunglasses and wiped a dirty handkerchief across his eyes.

‘A guy named John Lee. He was ‘bout eighteen. Six feet, maybe less, weigh ‘bout two hundred poun's. Make that height closer to five-ten. He wuz fat. Lived somewhere aroun’ 15th an’ Seventh.’

‘You said wuz,’ the captain said, flattening his accent.

‘I said wuz ‘cauz he ain't,’ Watts said. ‘He's dead.’

The two policemen looked at each other furtively. The conversation skidded to a halt. The only audible sound was the clicking of the fan as it battled to get a breeze together for the perspiring officers.

‘Captain Mason said that you might have some help with this one.’

Watts grimaced at the thought and pulled out a package of filter 100's and lit one up.

‘What's the word?’ the captain asked.

‘They tell it like suicide,’ Watts began. ‘Accidental O. D.’

‘I ain’ here for no bullshit. We know it wuzn't that!’

The phone rang at the desk, and the captain picked it up. He introduced himself and then sat in silence for about a minute. He hung up and jabbed at the intercom button.

‘Yes, sir?’

‘Lay out fresh shirts for me an’ Lieutenant Thomas. We'll be going out in about twenty minutes. Have the car ready, too.’

‘Yes, sir.’

There was a click, and the captain turned his back to Watts.

‘We need some information,’ Watts was told. ‘Some names.’

The black man was already sweating. His eyes fidgeted in their sockets.

‘Lee wuz dealin’ pills an’ a few reefers on the side. You remember a Puerto Rican named Isidro Valsuena?’ Watts asked. The captain nodded. ‘Well, his brothers always thought that Lee killed Isidro, and they been after Lee for ‘bout six months. That's all I know.’

‘Was Lee shootin’ dope main line?’

‘No chance.’

‘Did Lee kill Isidro?’

‘No chance.’ Watts seemed confident of both of his answers.

‘All right,’ the captain said. ‘Keep your eyes open.’

The black informer got up and put both his coat and sunglasses back in place. He and the captain both laughed at the last line.

The intercom buzzed, and the sergeant came on.

‘Everything's ready, sir.’

‘Good,’ the captain said. He and the lieutenant got up to leave.

‘Where to now?’ the lieutenant asked.

‘The woman that found the body called in. She said she was too sick to talk to anyone last night, but she's ready now.’

The two men went through the frosted-glass door of the office and up the stairs that led to the dressing room. They would shower and shave before interrogating the woman who found John Lee's corpse.

‘What was that thing you and Watts were laughing about?’ the lieutenant asked.

The captain smiled again. ‘I told him to keep his eyes open. He's one of those phony blind men you see in the subway. He does it to support his dope habit.’

‘I was looking for tracks when he took that coat off, but I didn't see any.’

‘The smart junkies nowadays shoot in their thighs and in the veins under their balls. A whole lot of ways to do it.’

They turned into the dressing room, and the conversation was turned off as they faced the heat and steam from the showers.

‘I can use a cold shower,’ the captain said.

‘Yeah. This is a filthy city.’

‘Bite yo’ tongue.’ The captain laughed. ‘You s'pose to “give a damn.”’

Junior Jones

July 17, 1968

‘Anybody get caught?’ I asked, dragging on a cigarette.

‘Naw,’ Cooly reported.

‘Good.’ I laughed, and so did everyone else.

My laugh was one of relief more than anything else. I knew I had a lot of faint hearts running with me. If anyone had gotten caught, it was a sure thing that the Man would've been knocking on my door.

‘You sho save Lee's ass.’ Cooly giggled. Cooly was my main man, really the only cat that I could count on. He and I had been hanging together since junior high, when stealing beer and cigarettes was a kick. I was closer to him than any of the other cats, but it still got on my nerves when people commented that he and I were both in charge of the group. I wanted everyone to know that it was me all by myself, just like it was Spade all by himself. I knew that there was really no way to have a gang and be a loner, but cats got over by themselves, like Spade, and then seemed to hold check over an entire area.

‘Where'd Lee go?’ I asked Cooly.

‘I think he wuz headin’ fo’ Chelsea,’ Cooly drawled. ‘I seen the Man gainin’ on him near the co'ner, but when the cah blew up, the cops hit the brakes an’ Lee wuz runnin’ jus’ that much fastuh.’

‘What the Man do?’ I asked.

‘Well, when the cah went up, they turn aroun’ an’ try to git back to it, but wudn’ no way. The damn thing wuz hot as hell. Dey lookin’ sad as hell, boy. Whut dey gon’ tell the boss?’ Cooly started laughing again.

I scanned the faces of the group. There were a few Puerto Rican cats, but we were primarily Bloods. There were about fifteen of us in all. Spade called us the Junior Jones boys. To call us a gang isn't entirely right, although I say it sometimes. There aren't really any more gangs in the city. It was just a thing where we all generally got high together and made sure that we didn't get bunted by a lot of goofs and old head dealers.

What had happened to Cooly and me in Harlem had been enough to tell us that we weren't as hip as we thought. The two of us got out of the IND train at 125th Street and came upstairs on Morningside Avenue. The directions we had been given were hazy, but we figured we could find our man. We went through the projects between Eighth and Seventh Avenues and came out on 127th Street.

‘Nex’ block up,’ I told Cooly. ‘If we don't see nuthin’ that looks like whut Tiger said, we got to check somethin’ else.’

Cooly nodded agreement. This was about a year ago, I guess. School was still in session, and a guy told us how we could get some really hip pills. Neither Cooly nor I had ever had any before, but it seemed like the next thing to try. I knew that a lot of the cats from the 17th Street park were talking about ‘ups’ and ‘downs’ and a lot of other stuff. We had run through wine and beer and cough-syrup. We had put glue down as a bad ride when I damn near fell off a roof after sniffing. So when Tiger put the word on us about pills, we were interested. We told him most of the cats who were trading on the block had gotten busted and asked him where we could cop. He told us to take the A train to 125th Street, walk to 128th and Seventh Avenue, where we would see an old amputee selling pencils and comics. We were to ask him where we could start flying, and he would tell us where to meet the dealer. The dealer met his load in a different spot every day.

As Cooly and I crossed 128th Street, we saw the old man. He was seated under an awning with the pencils and junk. We
came up on him warily. As I look back on it anyone who saw us must have read the guilt on our faces.

‘Batman! Superman! Archie! School supplies,’ the old man said.

‘We want to fly,’ I said out of the corner of my mouth.

‘Oh?’ The old man looked at me rather sadly. ‘There's the park behind the church one block down. A guy sitting in the swing with a blue straw hat – well, that's the pilot.’ He managed a grin. ‘Batman?’

Cooly and I turned and headed toward the park, walking south on Seventh. I didn't even look back at the old man. He was nothing but a shell. It looked like some kind of bug had gotten inside of him and eaten all of his bones and everything that had given him structure. He was burned a crisp brown from the sun, and his face was covered with hair, most of it gray. His clothes had only been shreds of torn this and that with suede patches sewn over the open pants legs that would have exposed stumps. He sat there eternally, from the looks of things. The wrinkled funny books and pencils were his only company. At a time like this, when the sun rested and ended the heat, the old man probably praised God.

Cooly and I waded through the little kids as we entered the park. There were the older cats playing ball and girls playing records and doing various dances. The guy we were looking for sat swinging slowly in the shade of a tree. It looked as though he had reserved a section. There was no one near him.

‘Whuss happnin'?’ he asked as we approached.

‘Nuthin’ too tough,’ I said.

‘Whuss the word, fellas? Batman
and
Superman, or choose?’

‘Batman.’

He reached into an inside pocket of his lightweight jacket and pulled out a carrying case for his sunglasses. He forked a cellophane packet from the case with his index finger and thumb and replaced the holder.

‘Ten dollars,’ he said, throwing the filter cigarette he had been smoking to the ground and squashing it with the heel of his shoe.

I handed him a ten-dollar bill, and he passed the pills.

‘Have a good flight.’ He grinned. I grinned as best I could.

I shoved the packet into my back pocket, and Cooly and I headed back for the park entrance. Before we could get there, we were stopped.

‘Thass good right there,’ someone said from behind us. ‘Now, don’ neither a yawl turn ‘roun. Jus han’ the pills an’ yo money. What I got here is a .32-caliber automatic that you can jus’ think uv as a gun fo short.’

I reached into my hip pocket and handed the pills back. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a short black with a process palming a gun, with the nose buried in Cooly's back.

‘Money. Money too,’ he said.

I squeezed a couple of dollars backward, and he snatched them.

‘Now, yawl take off walkin’ slow. I'm gon’ watch till you git to the corner, an’ if you turn aroun’, you dead.’ He paused. ‘It's been a business doin’ pleasure wit yawl. Come agin.’

We walked with our hands at our sides, and I started counting. Just after we turned the corner I looked back to see if the thief was still in view, but he had vanished. I was sure that someone in the park had noticed, but no one was looking our way. What was even more strange was that the guy who sold us the pills was gone too. The only reminder of him was the swing, still swaying slightly. I ran back to the entrance of the park, but there was no trace of anything. We had been had.

From that time on, any pills that I bought were from cats in the neighborhood. Cooly and I were hanging with a bunch of kids who were as tired of getting bad stuff as we were. Most of the time the pills were flour and the smoke hadn't been
cleaned. Because of the group, many times I had been able to get high when I was flat. The fourteen and fifteen-year-olds would do a lot to be tight with me and Cooly, just as I did to be tight with Spade and I.Q. Soon after the group began, however, Isidro, the P.R., started selling stuff. It was the beginning of 1968. Most of the big-time dealers didn't want to be bothered with smoke and pills. The first reason was that the big money was in cocaine and skag. The second reason was that mainly the younger cats smoke and pop pills, and a young cat will blow your cool when the Man applies the heat. When we found out that Isidro was dealing, we figured we were set. There would be a man on the block, and no more paying older guys to go to Fox Avenue and Tinton Avenue in the Bronx.

Isidro proved to be just as bad as everyone else. He sold us smoke that had so much sand in it nobody could get high. He gave us low-count smoke when we did get a decent bag. Maybe you could roll ten joints for a nickel bag. The pills were messed up too, and some were packed with less than others. For over six months we took that. We took it because every time we complained, the stuff would be better for a while. Then we would get beaten for a good night, like Friday, and he would have it all made back.

The end of June was when John Lee came on the scene. I was in the 13th Street park drinking beer at a card table. John walked up and sat down.

‘Whuss the word, Lee?’ I asked.

‘I need to talk to you, man. I think we might be able to help each other out.’

‘Howzat?’ I asked. ‘You want some beer?’

‘Naw.’ Lee sat and wiped the sweat off his face. ‘I'm gonna be dealin’ startin’ tomorra, an’ I thought we might be able to work sum'thin out. I know Seedy been fuckin’ wit’ you an’ yo boys, an I know you don’ dig it.’

I took a swig of the beer. ‘What's the play?’

‘Today is Wednesday the twenty-sixth, right? Well, I got a l'il smoke for t'night, but I rilly won't be togethuh till tomorrow. I wan’ to know if I can count on you cats to deal wit’ me. I got a good play from the boats, so you won’ be cheated. How much you want, and how often?’

‘We'll deal with you,’ I said. ‘Tomorrow night, not much. My boys iz primarily git-high-on-the-weekend men, you know. But the las day a school is tomorrow, so after that we'll be tightnin’ up regular . . . What time on Friday, an’ where?’

‘Early Friday. ‘Bout five meet me here. I'm havin’ a l'il gig Friday night. You invited.’

‘Bring about ten nickels for smoke, ten red devils or purple hearts. Thass a hundred right there.’

‘I'll have some smoke tomorra. Cheebo an’ Panam Red. Treys, if you want.’

‘You already sound like a goddamn commercial, man.’ I laughed.

‘Whut you say?’

‘I'm tight till Friday . . . Hey, wait!’ I called Lee back as he drifted across the park. ‘How you know Seedy been buntin’ my boys?’

‘Aw, he wuz high a night or two ago an’ started runnin’ off at the mouth about blowin’ yawl's mind wit’ weak shit an’ that all yawl had wuz psychological highs.’

‘When does he ship?’ I asked.

‘His shipments hit on Sundays,’ Lee said. ‘Somewhere near Eleventh Avenue and the pier. Maybe 9th Street.’

‘How much?’

‘He pulls off about sixteen hundred dollars a week raw,’ John said. ‘Including the coke an’ heroin.’

‘He ain’ pullin’ nuthin’ this Sunday, ‘cause we gonna hit him for alla his shit,’ I said.

‘You got a buyer if you come up with it.’ Lee smiled.

I didn't say anything else. Lee waddled off across the
park, and I tried to figure out ways to catch Isidro on Sunday night.

‘Hey!’ I said suddenly. ‘Where's Ricky Manning?’ In exploring the faces of the group, I had somehow gotten lost in thought. I suddenly realized that someone was missing.

‘He's wit’ I.Q.,’ Cooly reported.

‘I.Q. iz aroun'?’

‘Yeah. He wuz stannin’ by the bar, but you wuz probably too busy to notice when you went by.’ Everybody laughed again.

Lee had been true to his word. Friday afternoon we met him in the park at five, and as far as I could see, the pills and the smoke were both good. I ended up with some reefer.

Everything had been running smoothly for three weeks, until tonight. Lee would show up on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. We met him at a table in the park and got our stuff. Then it was every man for himself.

Tonight when Lee showed up, there was almost an omen of bad luck in the air. There were too many new cats in the way – guys from Chelsea Houses and other men I didn't know. Before anyone could get together and buy their stuff, everything was interrupted by the arrival of the Man, live and in living color from the Tenth Precinet. The prowl car hit the brakes on the corner of 13th Street and Ninth Avenue. The two cops hit the sidewalk, and everybody who had congregated to buy a high found running more interesting. The group meeting broke up and turned into a track meet, with John Lee, bag of dope in hand, leading in the hundred-yard dash. Several of us who hadn't heard the opening gun were caught in the rear of the pack. We ran behind the park maintenance house and back through the same entrance the cops used. When I arrived at the corner where the idling patrol car sat, I turned and saw the two cops directing each other in terms of who they should try to catch. They were at the other end of the softball field with
their backs away from me. Parked directly in front of their wagon was a New York City Housing Authority maintenance truck with what looked like the day's refuse from some set of apartments. On the tailgate was a can of gasoline that was leaking onto the street. I pulled the can out and dumped the gas into the front seat of the copmobile, backed off, and lit a match. I heard the dispatcher's voice reach out for me as I threw the match and fled toward the docks. The car ignited with a roar and a lot of crackling like a dead Christmas tree. Just as I turned for the last glimpse of the Man's reaction, there was an explosion. Chips of metal and paint decorated Ninth Avenue. I ran down to Tenth Avenue and lay under a car away from the streetlamps, panting for breath.

Once I grabbed my wind, I took my shirt off and left it under the car. I knew that at least two or three old white checker players had dug on my red Banlon. I doubt if much more than that could be identified. Until the car went up, all the activity was at the other end of the playground.

I circled the neighborhood and turned finally into the park on 17th Street and Eighth Avenue. I knew that eventually the guys would come in. Less than half an hour after the raid, we were all huddled together again.

I lit another cigarette. Cooly and the rest of the guys were still discussing the speed I had when I passed I.Q. and Ricky at the bar.

‘I.Q. wuz there, huh?’ I asked Cooly.

‘He seen it all.’

If I.Q. had seen everything, then I was sure that Spade would hear about it. Spade was the man around the block. The guy in the area who can beat anybody at any time and get any chick he wants. I wanted Spade to hear that I burned the cop machine so that he could tell everybody I was coming to get him. Spade told all the older cats that I was going to be the man. He would come up on us in the park sometimes when
we were getting high, and all the guys would ask him about the days when the Berets were running the neighborhood. It was surprising how they talked to him like he was an old man, even though he was just a little older than we were. We all wanted to know about the time when everybody was in a gang. At that time anybody who was anybody was falling off a corner and kicking so much ass that nobody could keep score. It took a whole lot of heart to walk out on the block and get high with nobody to back you up. Everybody knew about Spade, though. He had been his own gang. Now, he said, the block had been turned over to white hippies and young faggots who couldn't tell a gang from a tea party. I always wished I had been on the scene when Spade was taking over. Me and Spade would have been too much to handle.