Drama City

ELEVEN

Lorenzo Brown went through his voice mail and got his paperwork up to date before clocking out of the office. He said good night to Mark, Irena, and his other coworkers, and patted the heads and stroked the bellies of his favorite animals, those who ran free and those caged in the basement kennel. Many were not pleased to be in cages, but all were better off than they were before they had been impounded. The lucky ones would be adopted and get second lives in good homes.

Out on the sidewalk, Lorenzo went two doors down to the spay clinic to check on Queen, the old lady’s cat from over near Kennedy Street. The calico was shaking in the back of her cage.

“You all right,” said Lorenzo, putting his index finger through the links. Queen edged forward and rubbed her face against his skin. “You gonna feel different, is all, when this is done. More calm.”

The Humane employees parked their work trucks and personal cars on Floral Place, a residential court behind the office alley, accessible through a break in a narrow stand of trash trees and brush. Parking stickers for that particular zone were available to residents only, so the employees were constantly dodging tickets from traffic control. The court folks were cool; the residents back there did not complain, knowing they could call on the dog people and get a quick response if they had a problem on their street.

Lorenzo got into his Pontiac Ventura, a 1974 he had bought on the cheap from the brother of a man he’d befriended in prison. The man had tipped him to the car and given him his brother’s address, over in Far Northeast. The Ventura, GM’s sister car to the Chevy Nova, was a green-over-green two-door and held that strong 350 engine, highly regarded in its time, under the hood. It had been in poor but serviceable shape when Lorenzo bought it, but at eight hundred dollars the price was right. After he turned it over to his boy Joe Carver, who had always been good with cars, the vehicle was more than right. Joe had installed new belts, hoses, plugs and wires, ball joints, and shocks. He’d replaced the muffler and the dual pipes, injected Freon into the cooling system, and reupholstered the back and front bench seats. Once that was done, Lorenzo had washed and detailed the Pontiac under an oak on Otis and stepped back to admire it. The Ventura had nice, clean lines.

The Pontiac was old and needed a paint job and new chrome, but it was a runner. Young men driving drug cars, who knew only of German luxury automobiles and upscale rice burners, laughed at him at streetlights, but he got compliments occasionally from men older than he was. They called it “that Seven-Ups car,” and when he asked them what they meant, they said, “The movie, youngun.” If it was a movie, it was before his time, but Lorenzo said politely that he’d have to check it out someday. He’d never been one to watch movies, but it was something he was meaning to get around to. He had gotten into books in lockdown some, for the first time in his life. The prison librarian, a pale man named Ray Mitchell, had turned him on to street stories by writers like Donald Goines, Chester Himes, and this dude Gary Phillips, had his picture on the dust jackets, big man with Chinese eyes, looked like the real. So movies, yeah, maybe he would start to check out some of those. He’d like to read more books too. He sure did have time.

Lorenzo drove south on Georgia, into the city. Dusk had fallen on the streets.

Down near Fort Stevens, in the retail strip between Brightwood and Manor Park, he parked and entered the Arrow Cleaners. Lorenzo had his uniform shirts cleaned and pressed there. It was an extra expense, but he felt that a man needed to look right, like he cared about what he was doing, when he was on the job. This place here always gave him good service. The owner-operator, a Greek named Billy Caludis, showed him respect. Caludis had hung a Dick Gregory poster up on the wall, another reason for Lorenzo to patronize the shop. Lorenzo had read Nigger in prison too.

“No starch, on hangers,” said Caludis, handing Lorenzo his order across the counter. “Right, Mr. Brown?”

“Right,” said Lorenzo. “You have a good one.”

Coming out of the store with his shirts in hand, he saw Nigel standing on the sidewalk with two of his people out front of his place, NJ Enterprises, on the other side of Georgia. Lorenzo opened the back door of the Ventura and laid his shirts flat on the seat. Those hooks they put in most cars were long gone from this one.

“Hey, Renzo!” said the booming voice of Nigel Johnson. “Hey, man, what you doin’?”

Lorenzo turned, stayed where he was, shouted across the lanes of north and southbound traffic to his friend. “Just got off work. ’Bout to head home.”

Nigel put his hands on his hips and bugged his eyes theatrically. “And you just gonna, what, drive that race car away without stoppin’ to say hello to your old boy?”

Lorenzo hesitated, then locked down his car. Nigel was right. Wasn’t any harm in visiting now and again. It sure wasn’t like Nigel was gonna try and make him reenlist. It had been a while since they’d spoke. Lorenzo waited for a break in traffic before crossing the street.

They hugged briefly and patted each other’s backs. Lorenzo stood back and had a look at Nigel. He seemed fit.

“You pay rent on this place,” said Lorenzo, “and you out here standing on the sidewalk.”

Nigel’s eyes went to the live cigar in his hand, a Cuban, no doubt. “Just stepped out to have a smoke. I don’t like the smell settlin’ in my office.”

“Nice hookup,” said Lorenzo. The powder blue Sean John warm-up was draped exactly right on Nigel’s large frame.

“Had it tailored,” said Nigel, “to accommodate these extra el-bees I been carryin’.”

“Nah, you lookin’ all right.”

Nigel nodded. “You too. But then, you always did keep your physical self together.”

“I’m tryin’.”

“How’s Joe? You see him much?”

“All the time. He’s got steady work, layin’ bricks. Joe’s doin’ good.”

Lorenzo looked at Nigel’s employees, over by a black Escalade curbed in front of the office. The older of the two, wearing the same Raiders cap and bright orange FUBU shirt he’d seen him wearing that morning, the one who’d laughed at him as he was walking Jasmine, was slouched against the truck. The younger one, no more than a boy, had gentle eyes. Both looked like they were high.

“Meet Lorenzo Brown,” said Nigel. “This here’s DeEric Green.”

“Been hearin’ about you a long time,” said Green, who did not move off the truck. It was meant to be a compliment, Lorenzo supposed, but Green’s dull look said he was unimpressed.

“And this young man here is Michael Butler,” said Nigel, a hint of pride in his voice.

Butler stepped forward and shook Lorenzo’s hand. “How you doin’?”

“I’m good,” said Lorenzo.

This Michael Butler looked like one of Nigel’s personal projects. Nigel liked to pick the most promising, most intelligent ones out and take them under his wing. It never did work out. None who stayed on came to a good end. This was the one definite of the game. Still, Nigel kept trying to promote the ones he felt had promise. He was an optimist that way.

“Your job goin’ all right?” said Nigel.

“Everything’s good,” said Lorenzo.

“You need anything?”

“I’m straight,” said Lorenzo, looking at Nigel deep, telling him that he would never need anything from him again.

There was no animosity in their eyes, no bad blood between them. They were friends and would always be friends, but nothing would ever be as it was. Both had fulfilled their end of the bargain, and now that part of their lives, the part where they’d been together in business and as running boys, was done.

In the interrogation rooms at the time of his last arrest, and in court at his trial, Lorenzo had stood tall. He had not flipped on Nigel, as they had tried to get him to do, and had in fact refused to speak Nigel’s name. He had given up no one, not even enemies. He’d made no deals and done his time.

For his part, Nigel had staked Lorenzo with a package as soon as he’d come out of prison, a common practice for those who had fallen and returned. It was a relatively small amount of heroin, which would finance Lorenzo’s reentry into the world. The package was delivered to Lorenzo by one of Nigel’s boys without a word. Lorenzo accepted it, knowing what it was without having to open it. He moved it quickly and quietly, took the proceeds, and used the money to cover the first month’s rent on his apartment and to buy his car. He never thought about getting back into the life again. Between Lorenzo and Nigel, all of this remained unspoken.

“How’s your little girl?” said Nigel.

“All right, I guess.”

“You ain’t seen her?”

“Not to speak to.”

“That woman ain’t right,” said Nigel, meaning Sherelle, the mother of Lorenzo’s child.

“Time gonna fix it,” said Lorenzo, roughly echoing the words of Miss Lopez.

Nigel dragged on his cigar. “You still follow ball?”

“I watch it when I can.”

“At MCI?”

“Not on my salary.”

“I got club seats for the season.”

“What, you can’t afford the floor?”

“Go on, man. You know they got Gilbert, right?”

“He can play.”

“Boy’s sick. You and me should check out his game this winter.”

“Yeah,” said Lorenzo, “we should do that.”

“We damn sure should.”

“Look, Nigel…”

“What?”

“I gotta see to my dog. She been inside all day.”

“Go ahead, then,” said Nigel. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Lorenzo and Nigel executed their old handshake, as natural as putting one foot in front of the other, then went forearm to chest. Lorenzo nodded at the two employees and crossed Georgia to his car.

“That your boy, huh,” said DeEric Green.

“Yes,” said Nigel, watching him go. He turned to Green and Butler. “Y’all headin’ out?”

“You got somethin’ special you need us to do?” said Green.

“Just check on the troops and pick up the count. Tell the soldiers I realize they runnin’ low, but I got a package comin’ in later this week.” Nigel turned to Butler. “Mind DeEric. Man’s a veteran. You watch close, you gonna learn.”

Butler nodded. DeEric Green, energized by the compliment, got off the truck and stood straight.

“By the way,” said Nigel. “My mother called me, said you brought her some of that Breyers. That was real nice.” Nigel looked from one to the other. “Watch yourselves out there, you hear?”

Nigel went up the steps and entered his storefront door. DeEric Green and Michael Butler got in the Escalade.

Across the street, Lorenzo Brown pulled away from the curb and hit the gas. Through the intersection, parked just past Rittenhouse Street, he saw the same silver BMW from the dogfights over in Fort Dupont, and the two he’d encountered, Melvin Lee and his shadow, in the front seat. They turned their heads to stare straight ahead as he passed.

Lorenzo understood the codes of respect and disrespect, and the consequences of breaking same, but their minor confrontation at the dogfight hadn’t seemed like it was all that big an incident. Not enough to warrant them tracking him down. Maybe they were there to watch Nigel and them. Lee did work for Deacon Taylor; leastways that’s what Joe Carver had told him. Anyway, it was no business of Lorenzo’s.

He kept on driving. He thought of his daughter, Shay. Down by the Fourth District Police Station, at Quackenbos, he hung a left.

In the BMW, Melvin Lee and Rico Miller watched the black Escalade come off the curb and head south.

“Let’s go,” said Lee.

Miller ignitioned the 330i and drove north, then swung a U in the middle of Georgia and got in, four or five car lengths back, behind the Cadillac.

“What you suppose the dog man be doin’ over there with Nigel?” said Miller.

“Brown worked with Nigel,” said Lee. “Brown was Nigel’s boy.”

“He comin’ back?”

“He too soft to come back,” said Lee. “You saw how he acted today.”

Yeah, I saw, thought Miller.

“Prison broke that motherfucker,” said Lee.

Same way it broke me.

“They bookin’,” said Miller.

“Get up ahead of ’em. You know they gonna be goin’ up Otis. We’ll block ’em there, have our talk.”

“They gonna run that light,” said Miller as the Escalade accelerated toward the next traffic signal, gone yellow.

“Then you gonna need to run it too.”

Miller blew the red.

Sherelle stayed on 9th Street, around the corner from the police station and the tall radio towers, in one of a series of boxy brick apartment buildings grouped back from the street. The apartments had back porches, many of whose screens were ripped and hanging from their wooden frames. Between the buildings there was plenty of green grass, worn grass, dirt, and open space for kids to run. Though dusk had gone to dark, kids were out there now.

Lorenzo Brown parked his Pontiac on the street in front of Sherelle’s unit. He knew Sherelle’s schedule. She worked a noon-to-eight shift at a makeup-and-hair shop over on Riggs Road. After Sherelle got off, she picked up Shay from her mother’s duplex near Riggs, on Oneida Street. Sherelle and Shay got back to the apartment on 9th Street every evening at about this hour. Lorenzo knew because he’d watched them many times.

Soon they arrived in Sherelle’s new-style Altima. Too much car for that girl to be carrying on her budget, but then Sherelle always did spend beyond her limit. Lorenzo could see his little girl in the backseat, Sherelle behind the wheel, and a big man beside her in the passenger bucket. That would be Sherelle’s new George.

The three of them got out of the car and walked up onto the sidewalk. Sherelle, always on the full-figured side, looked like she had put on weight. She kept her style fresh, though, the way those hair girls liked to do. Shay, in a sleeveless shirt and shorts, looked plain pretty and sweet. She skipped along the sidewalk and reached for her mother’s hand.

Lorenzo, seeing Shay, got out of his car without thinking on it. He was just a half dozen automobiles away from Sherelle’s. The sound of his door made them stop and turn.

Sherelle’s face hardened. She pulled Shay along. Shay looked back at Lorenzo and then up at her mother.

“Who’s that, Momma?” said Shay.

“Nobody,” said Sherelle. “You come along.”

The big man, heavy and tall, wearing khakis and a loose silk shirt, stayed behind. He wore a crucifix outside his shirt. He stood on the sidewalk under a street lamp, staring at Lorenzo, waiting for his girlfriend and her daughter to get inside their place.

“I don’t want no trouble,” said Lorenzo.

“Ain’t gonna be none,” said the man.

“I’m her father.”

“I know who you are.”

Lorenzo shifted his feet. “I just want to talk to her.”

“That’s not gonna happen,” said the man. “You already made your choice. You care about Shay, you got to let her be.”

Lorenzo did not challenge the man or what he said.

“Go home,” said the man, his eyes softening. “Your little girl is loved; you don’t need to worry about that. She gonna be all right.”

Lorenzo walked back to his car. He sat behind the wheel and watched the hulking silhouette of the man cross the grounds and head toward Sherelle’s apartment. Time was, he would have stepped to that man for being so bold. But Lorenzo had come to a point in his life, he was old enough to know, and admit to himself, that the man was right.

“Who’s that, Momma?”

“Nobody.”

Lorenzo started his car.

That’s right. I ain’t shit.