King Suckerman
- Автор: Пелеканос Джордж
- Серия: D.C. Quartet #2
- Год: 1997
- Язык: английский
- Год: Little, Brown and Company
- ISBN: 978-0-316-69590-9
- Жанр: Триллеры
Электронная книга - «King Suckerman». Краткое содержание книги:
“It don’t sound nothin’ like bullshit to me,” said Clay. “Matter of fact, I could use a man like you right here.”
“Say what?”
“I’m offering you a job. You can start on Tuesday morning, when I get this place clean and opened back up. Got a lot of plans, Clarence. Soon as we get rollin’ here, I’ll be lookin’ for another location. Gonna need a good man to manage it for me, and the one after that, too.”
Tate smiled. “Thanks, man. But like I say, I been counting on that money from the fence.”
Clay rubbed his jaw. “Okay. How about this? I’ll find a fence for Eddie. Let me take care of that. Eddie’ll make whatever he can make. In the meantime, I’m gonna give you a grand, out of that ten thousand I got left, to come to work for me right away. Call it a bonus, Clarence. Call it anything you want.”
“Thousand dollars?”
“That’s right.”
“Need to think on it, man.”
“Think on it hard.”
“I will.”
Clay wrote his phone number on a slip of paper and handed it to Tate.
“You call me later, hear?”
“Soon as I talk to Cooper.”
“Right.”
They walked to the door. “Where you off to now, Clarence?”
“Got something to take care of for you over at Meridian Heights.”
“Then?”
Tate shrugged. “Go home, I guess. See my little girl.”
“No celebration tonight?”
“Ain’t my independence day,” said Tate.
“I heard that.”
“Anyway, tonight’s Sunday, right? Round ten o’clock tonight, I usually be watchin’ Petey Greene’s Washington.”
“Petey Greene’s somethin’.”
“You know he is.
“Marcus—”
“Don’t say it. Don’t be wishin’ me no good luck. It’s all luck, man. If there’s one thing I learned overseas, that’s all it is.”
“All right, man.”
“All right.”
They shook hands. Clay unlocked the door. He let Tate out and watched him walk down the street.
Clarence Tate double-parked his Monte Carlo across from the Meridian Heights condo on 15th. On his left, people milled about and partied in Meridian Hill Park, staking out their spots for the evening’s festivities. The park sloped from the edge of the plateau to the beginnings of downtown, and its high ground afforded a clear view of the city, the monuments, and the Mall. Meridian Hill was a prime viewing point for the city; the park was going to be happening tonight.
Tate went up the steps, entered the condo building. Andy, the security guard, was not behind his desk. A bulletin board where notices and local ads were hung was mounted near the elevator. On the board, a handmade flyer advised residents that the doors leading to the roof would be padlocked on July 4, as insurance restrictions prohibited parties and other group activities on this, the most desirable of outdoor party nights. Tate went back out to the street.
A boy dribbled a basketball on the sidewalk out front, putting it through his legs and around his back, occasionally punctuating a particularly good head-fake with a simulated, get-up J. Then he went back into his dribble. The kid, Tate thought, had pretty good moves.
Tate approached the boy. “Hey.”
“Hey, wha’s up.”
The boy gave Tate a quick appraisal but did not stop dribbling the ball.
“Want to make some money?”
“Ain’t dealin’ no drugs.”
“I ain’t ask you to run no drugs, boy. I’m talkin’ about straight-up money for five minutes’ worth of honest work.”
The boy stopped dribbling. “What I gotta do?”
Tate made a head motion. “Step on over to my short.”
They went to the black Monte Carlo. Tate reached inside, withdrew a brown paper bag wrapped around a bottle. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill from his slacks and showed it to the kid.
“Okay,” said Tate. “Here’s what I want you to do. ’Bout seven-thirty, eight o’clock tonight, when the sky starts to darken up, I want you to take this bottle of scotch into that building over there.”
“Meridian Heights?”
“Yeah. There’s a security guard works the desk inside.”
“Old white dude. I seen him.”
“That’s right. I want you to give the bottle to the white dude. Tell him you found it out here on the street, that you got no use for it, something like that. Be friendly, man, like you mean it. Wish him a happy Fourth of July.”
“Okay.”
“He might be down in the boiler room by then. You know where that is?”
“You mean where the rats are at.”
“But you know where it is.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now, for all I know, he might already be deep into a drunk. Even if he is, I want you to give this bottle to him anyway.”
“What you got in that bottle, some kind of poison and shit?”
“Watch your mouth, boy. And no, it ain’t nothin’ like that. I mean the man no harm. Just a plain old bottle of King George scotch is all it is, still got the seal on it. Like I said, it’s a present, that’s all.”
The kid wiped his runny nose. “If there ain’t nothin’ to it, why you not takin’ it to him your own self, then?”
“You want the money or not, boy?”
“I want it.”
“Then do as I say.” Tate handed the kid the bottle and the twenty-dollar bill. “One more thing, now. Anybody asks about me later on, you never seen me or talked to me, hear?”
“Sure.”
“I come around here once a month, might want you to watch my M. C. from time to time while I got it parked on the street.”
The kid stuffed the twenty into his pocket. “Cool.”
Tate placed his hand on the kid’s shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Michael Hill.”
“Look here, Michael. You handle that basketball pretty good.”
Michael smiled. “Gonna play in the NBA.”
“I believe you will. But don’t forget about readin’ those books, hear? Tough as it is out here, a man needs some kind of edge. Schoolin’ will give it to you. And stay away from those knuckleheads be tellin’ you it’s uncool to learn.”
“What my mom says.”
“Your moms is right.”
“Take it easy, man,” said Michael, before he turned.
“Yeah, young brother,” said Clarence Tate, watching the boy cross the street. “You take it easy, too.”
Dimitri Karras woke to the sound of the phone ringing by his bedside, his shirt soaked in sweat, his hair wet on his forehead. He checked his wristwatch, saw that he had been asleep for hours. He closed his eyes, tried to remember if he had dreamed. The phone continued to ring. He reached over and snatched it out of its cradle.
“Yeah.”
“Mitri.”
“Marcus. What’s up?”
“You all right, man?”
“I’m fine. What’s up?”
“I gotta see you, man.”
Karras didn’t ask for an explanation. There was something in Marcus’s tone that he had never heard before.
“Now?”
“Soon as possible. We need to talk.”
“Okay,” said Karras. “Where you want to hook up?”
“I’ll meet you on the beach. Say, a half hour?”
“Right, Marcus. I’ll see you then.”
The line clicked off to a dial tone. Karras racked the receiver and sat up on the edge of the bed.