King Suckerman

“All right. Now open that back door an inch.”

“Why?”

“I ain’t ask you nothin’, nigger. I told you to open that got-damn door.”

Rasheed deactivated the back door alarm by punching a numeric code into a grid. It was not a silent alarm, and he didn’t want the man with the gun to panic. He then used his keys to turn a series of locks. He opened the door and stepped back.

A half minute later two people came through the door. One of them, a white boy, held a sawed-off shotgun at his side and the other, a black man, carried a revolver.

Cooper closed the door tight, did not lock it.

“Everything all right out there, B.R.?”

“Everything’s cool, blood.”

Rasheed checked out the white one called B.R. Maroon snap-button-fly bells and a jungle-motif maroon and green rayon shirt with long collar points. Boy had some Flagg Brothers — lookin’ kicks on his feet, too, and a pale, fucked-up, toothless face.

“Good,” said Cooper. “You okay, Russell?”

“Everything’s chilly,” said Russell.

Rasheed searched Russell’s blank face for a hint of compassion. He saw nothing there.

Cooper turned to Rasheed. “What you say your name was again, boy?”

“Rasheed.”

“Wilton Cooper’s mine.”

Rasheed’s eyes widened slightly. He had taken a call from the mother of Marcus’s Greek friend, Dimitri Karras, earlier in the night. She had been trying to reach her son to tell him that a man named Cooper had been over to her place, asking a lot of funny questions about Marcus. Rasheed had left a note for Marcus detailing the message out on the counter.

“Somethin’ wrong?” said Cooper, noticing the change in Rasheed’s expression.

“No,” said Rasheed.

“All right. Now look here, Rasheed. We come here tonight to get back somethin’ your boss took. Somethin’ that was mine. I got nothin’ against you, man. Shame it had to be you standin’ here and not your boy Marcus Clay. But we gonna deal with the situation that we got. I just want to be clear: You don’t tell me what I want to know, I will fuck you up. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“I’m just gonna leave it up to you. It makes no difference to me.”

“I understand.”

“Good. Now take us to the place where the boss keeps the money.”

Rasheed hesitated. The white boy pointed the shotgun in his direction.

“All right,” said Rasheed. “Come on.”

Rasheed felt unsteady on his feet. He noticed a shake in his knees. He said a short prayer as he led them to the island counter, prayed to God to let him be a man in the face of all this. To be a man, that was important; also, to honor his word with Marcus Clay.

“Money’s in the register,” said Rasheed.

“Open it,” said Cooper.

Rasheed turned a thin plastic key on the face of the register. A small bell announced the opening of the drawer.

“Ding,” said Russell with a wide grin.

“What you got in there, Rasheed?”

Rasheed stared into the drawer. Some light spilled in from the street lamps of Connecticut, but the store was awfully dark, and it was difficult to see. “’B-bout a hundred, hundred and twenty, maybe.”

B. R. Clagget stepped through an opening and got inside the island, stood a few feet from Rasheed. He cocked his hip.

“Sounds like you’re a little short,” said Cooper.

“What’s that?” said Rasheed.

“You talkin’ about a hundred and twenty. I was thinkin’ more like twenty thousand.”

“Shit, man—”

“Don’t be cursin’ Mr. Cooper,” said Clagget.

Rasheed moved back a step, stopping on the throw rug that covered the trap door. He felt the rug beneath his feet. Standing there, protecting the money, it sent a rush of courage and pride into his spine. Rasheed stood straight. He imagined how it would be the next morning, standing around with Marcus and Cheek, telling the story of how he fooled these country motherfuckers, Marcus looking at him, admiration in his eyes—

“About that twenty thousand,” said Cooper.

“Look, I swear to you, man, I don’t know nothin’ about no twenty grand. What we got in the register is what we got to get us started for tomorrow’s business. I mean, I just made the deposit myself a half hour ago.”

Russell Thomas took an album from its sleeve, sailed it across the room. It shattered against the Chaka Khan poster taped to the painted cinder-block wall.

“Hey,” said Rasheed. “You don’t have to do that.”

Russell said, “You tellin’ me what I can do, boy? I’ll come over there right quick and slap the taste out your mouth.”

“Talk about it, Russell,” said Clagget.

Russell pointed to a black-covered album that sat face out on display. He held the album up so Cooper could check it out. “Hey, Cooper, look. They got Wild and Peaceful.”

Russell dropped the record, kicked the display over. Albums slid across the floor, many of them breaking into pieces. Russell got his shoulders behind another rack, pushed the rack over on its side.