The Sweet Forever
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Серия: D.C. Quartet #3
- Год: 1998
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-69109-3
- Жанр: Криминальные детективы
Электронная книга - «The Sweet Forever». Краткое содержание книги:
“What kid?”
“One stands out front of Medger’s all the time.”
“Yeah,” said Tutt. “I know the kid you mean.”
Murphy thought back on the conversation he’d had with Anthony Taylor. “I saw what happened,” the kid had said. And when Murphy had told him that a lot of people had seen what had gone down, the kid had said, “After, too.” Like he’d seen something else.
“I’ll talk to the kid,” said Murphy.
“Well,” said Tyrell, smiling. “The man speaks.”
“That youngun always be there,” said Monroe. “Calls himself Tony the Tiger, some shit like that.”
“Calls himself T,” said Murphy. He repeated, “I’ll talk to the kid.”
“Don’t care who talks to who,” said Tyrell. “Long as I get what’s mine.”
Linney and Bennet laughed raucously from the other room. They had turned the porno tape back on, and Chink Bennet was in front of the set, air-humping Suzie Wong.
“I thought I told y’all to cut that tape off,” said Tyrell.
Bennet pointed at Linney. “Jumbo did it, Tyrell.”
“Damn, Chink, why you be lyin’ like that?”
“Turn it off and come in here. We talkin’ business; I want y’all to know what’s up.”
Tutt nodded at the silent man in the hard chair. “Who’s the new man, Tyrell?”
“Antony Ray. Cousin of mine. Just got out of Lorton, three weeks back. Served four on an eight-year armed robbery bit. Not sure what his role’s gonna be with us, but I am sure he’ll fit in somewhere. Right, cuz?”
Antony Ray nodded.
“Antony’s great-uncle,” said Tyrell, “was a big man down on Seventh Street, way back in the forties. Fellow by the name of DeAngelo Ray.”
“Yeah,” said Tutt. “Good to know we got some royalty bloodlines comin’ into the organization.” Tutt tilted his chin up at Ray. “Nice meetin’ you, An-tony.”
Ray said nothing.
Murphy said, “Gonna get me some water out the back.”
Murphy walked into the kitchen. A couple of girls were back there, couldn’t have been more than sixteen. They were dancing in place to the Whodini record playing in the other room. One of them, wearing a tight barber pole — striped shirt, looked him over as he passed. Murphy nodded. The girls giggled. Murphy saw a vanity mirror lying on the kitchen counter with lines tracked out on it, and a rolled twenty lying next to the lines. Murphy found a clean glass in a cabinet, ran some tap water into the glass. He drank the water with his eyes closed as he leaned over the sink.
“What’s goin’ on, Stuff?” said one of the girls.
“You big, too,” said the other, and both of them laughed.
This is wrong. I’m wrong. Father in heaven, this is all wrong.
Murphy placed the glass in the sink, walked out of the kitchen and back to the front of the house.
When he got there, Tyrell was looking up at Tutt, saying, “So you didn’t catch them.”
“No,” said Tutt. “I had the one kid dead to rights in the alley. Would’ve caught his ass, too, if it wasn’t for all the obstacles your people got set up back there.”
“You know who these boys are?”
“I know,” said Monroe. “One of them calls himself Chief.”
“The kid I chased, he was wearin’ some bright green knit cap. Kid might as well go on and wear a target next time.”
“They just younguns, Ty,” said Rogers. “They be playin’ like they in the life.”
“They tryin’ to beat me on my own strip,” said Tyrell. “Ain’t no game to me.”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Tutt.
“Not if I take care of that shit first,” said Monroe.
Tutt said, “This ain’t about makin’ noise, Tyrell. This ain’t about startin’ a war. This is about control.”
“Man’s right, Short,” said Tyrell. “We don’t want no high drama. Just want to keep everything nice and quiet down there. Under control. Why we got our men in blue here on our side.”
Linney and Bennet laughed, touched hands.
Murphy said, “Let’s go, Tutt.”
“Hey, King Tutt,” said Bennet. “Those are some sporty shitkickers you got on, man. Where you goin’ tonight, some kind of hoedown and shit?”
“What, you don’t like my boots, Chink? And here I was gettin’ ready to say somethin’ to you about that suit you’re wearin’.”
Bennet looked down at his lime green parachute-material jogging suit as if he were seeing it for the first time. “This suit is bad!”
“It’s bad, all right. Matter of fact, I’d own two of them if I was you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. One to shit on and one to cover it up with.”
No one laughed. Murphy saw Monroe point the Glock at Tutt, mouth the word pow.
“Let’s go, Tutt.”
“Yes,” said Tyrell, “maybe you two better get on your way.”
Tyrell stood from his chair, uncoiling his gangly frame. Tyrell went six foot six. He was light-skinned and freckled, with long equine features, a hint of beard, pointed teeth, pointed ears. Reminded Murphy of one of those stone figures perched atop white people’s churches.
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” said Tutt.
“Find my money,” said Tyrell.
Tutt nodded and made an elaborate good-bye wave of his hand to Monroe. He and Murphy walked from the house, heard the door shut behind them.
In the yard, Tutt looked back at the house and grinned. “Shit. An-tony Ray. Couldn’t be just ‘Anthony,’ had to be ‘An-tony.’ And you hear Ty-rell in there? ‘I’ll ax them what I want to ax them. Right now I’m axin’ you.’ ”
“He said ‘ask.’ ”
“What?”
“Nothin’.”
“All right, partner. I’ll check with you tomorrow, hear?”
“Yeah. See you then.”
Tutt climbed up into the Bronco with the oversized tires. Murphy settled into his new Trans Am. He hit the ignition and drove back out to 214.
From the bay window, Tyrell Cleveland watched the truck follow the car out to Central Avenue while Linney and Bennet returned to the couch.
Tyrell went to the hearth and picked up the poker that lay on the bricks. He squatted down before the fire. He moved the logs around and found new flame.
Short Man Monroe lifted his leather jacket off the back of his chair. He put it on, picked his Glock up off the table, fitted it in the waistband of his Lees. He dipped his finger into the cocaine heaped on the mirror, rubbed a generous amount on his gums. He nodded at Alan Rogers.
“We gone, Ty,” said Rogers.
“Where you off to?”
“Gonna check out the Chuck Brown show at the Masonic Temple.”
“Make the pickups while you’re down there.”
“Right.”
Monroe walked out, leaving the door open. Rogers opened his mouth to speak. He had practiced what he was going to say, said the words aloud to the bathroom mirror just a half hour before: Yo, Ty, for tonight, why can’t I be like any young man, forget about the business, just have fun? He looked at Tyrell, squatting there, his face lit by the flames. Damn if Tyrell didn’t look like the devil himself.
Rogers kept his mouth shut. He followed Monroe out the door.
Seven
Eddie Golden paused on the steps of his Aspen Hill apartment house, put fire to a Marlboro red, and had a quick look around the parking lot. As far as he could tell, no one had followed him home. No brothers in drug cars, and no cops. No phone calls, either, which meant everything had to be cool. So far, at least, Eddie had made out all right.