The Sweet Forever

“Who’s the celebrity, George?”

“Boy named Tony Lewis,” muttered Dozier. “Used to work for Cornell Jones over on Hanover Place, till Jones got busted. Now he’s a lieutenant with Rayful Edmond. See how those kids got all bright eyed seeing that boy? Used to be that kind of respect was shown to cops. I remember the first time I saw a brother in a uniform, when my mother took me down to Morton’s to shop for some Sunday clothes? I saw that man in those blues, the way people were lookin’ at him, I knew that’s what I wanted to be someday.”

“You did it, brother. Got out that uniform and earned your detective’s shield quick, too. But what about Edmond? Can’t y’all put him away?”

“Workin’ on it. But he’s got the layers of his empire, and maybe even the people in power, protecting him. Why, at the Strip, over on Orleans and Morton Place, in Trinidad? Cops don’t even bother. Edmond’s got the alleys trip wired and blockaded so patrol cars can’t give chase. Cars lined up there weekend nights with Maryland and Virginia plates, buyin’ quarters and halves like burgers at the drive-through. And beyond that, they say he’s starting a subdistribution thing with the other dealers around the city.”

“Sounds like a real businessman.”

“Edmond’s become a folk hero, Marcus; I’m not lyin’. Sponsors a basketball team in the Police Athletic league, gives turkeys to the poor at Thanksgiving, all that. Drives a white Jag with gold wheels around town so all the kids can see. A man to emulate, just like Nicky Barnes was up in Harlem.

“I’m tellin’ you, Marcus, we’re losin’ the battle down here. Outnumbered and outgunned. The mayor’s been cutting back on the department every year since he’s been in office. Every time the new budget comes up, our portion’s been less and less. We’re low on cars, and we got no new equipment, not even computers linking us to the national crime networks. And what new recruits we do get, why, plenty of them they’re lettin’ in now are flat unqualified. Heard tell a few are damn near retarded. All of this in the middle of the worst crime epidemic in this country’s history—”

“I hear you, George.”

“And you think that dried-up old husk of a man down on Pennsylvania Avenue cares? How about those horn-rimmed-glasses economic advisers of his, makin’ the rich happy, pushin’ the poor back further than they are? You think those Harvard boys care? Or the president’s wife? ‘Just Say No,’ right? Easy to say no when you get born into alternatives and opportunities and a future.”

“I hear you.”

“It’s gonna get worse. You heard about this crack thing, right?”

“Read about it in Newsweek magazine.”

“It’s comin’ here, you can believe that. Imagine if they opened a Mac-Donald’s in New York and L.A. and Detroit, then it hit ’em they forgot to open one up in D.C. Yeah, rock’s gonna be here real soon. And when it is, ain’t gonna be no weekend warrior thing, not like it is now for the white people out in the suburbs, using snow in the safety of their own homes. Crack’s cheap and highly addictive, a drug tailor-made for the ghetto. Which means nobody’s even going to care. Gutters gonna run with blood for real.”

“George,” said Clay. “Keep your voice down, man.”

“I see dead children, I get emotional, Marcus.”

“I know it, man. I know.”

Clay used his muffin to scoop up some of the rest of his gravy and grits. The big man taking cash at the end of the counter yelled to a waitress, “Miss Mary, by the time you serve this gentleman’s food, he’s gonna be done eatin’!”

Dozier laughed. “That make sense?”

“To him it did.”

“Damn, I love this place.”

“Mmm. Me, too. But those half-smokes ain’t gonna do your ulcer no good.”

“And I guess that gravy’s gonna go straight to your heart and give it a nice big kiss.”

Clay pushed his empty plate to the side. Dozier sat straight and loosened his belt a notch.

Dozier said, “I don’t know, Marcus. Most of the time I can get through all this. But when you see the corpse of a child...”

“Got to be rough.”

“How’s your boy, man?”

“M.J.’s good. Me and Elaine, we’re gonna try real hard to work it out.”

“My two, I don’t have to tell you how much they mean to me. Couldn’t sleep for nothin’ last night, kept goin’ into their rooms, checkin’ on them and all that.”

“I had to go give my boy a kiss, too.”

Dozier turned his knife in the plate. “The Willets boy, got shot in the back? Was clutching this action figure, kind my own kids play with, when they found him in death. Boy had cocaine in his pockets and a toy in his hand. You believe it? Even had a street name; we found out that much from Wallace. Called himself P-Square, whatever that means. His friend Meadows had a street name, too. Called himself Chief.”