King Suckerman

Eighteen

Karras stopped off on P Street at the Fairfax Market for chips, onion dip, smokes, and a couple of six-packs of beer. He hit a liquor store for a fifth of Mount Gay rum and piña colada mix, and took it all back to his apartment at the Trauma Arms.

As he came through the door, Vivian Lee stood with her back to him, wiping down the kitchen with a damp sponge. She wore the red-and-white striped tube top Karras had bought for her, jeans ripped at the knee, and cork-heeled sandals. Karras stood in the door frame, studying the shine of her long black hair falling over her bare white shoulders.

“Hey.”

“Hey,” said Vivian, turning around. Her eyes looked a little funny, but not in that recognizable, just-stoned way. Beyond stoned, like they were looking back in on themselves.

Karras took the party materials to the counter. He watched Vivian scrub at a clean spot on the Formica.

“Have a good day?” said Karras.

Vivian laughed.

“My day was a trip,” said Karras.

“Mine, too.” Vivian laughed again. “Literally.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Ran into a couple friends at the circle.”

“What, you dropped some acid?”

“Uh-huh. This guy I know, Danny? He had this blotter, man.”

“You okay?”

“I’m all right. We went to a movie, man. Went and saw The Man Who Fell to Earth, at the Dupont? Whew. Bowie was weird, man. I guess I didn’t get it. Bowie was weird. I didn’t get it, I guess.”

“All right.”

“Bowie was so fucking weird.”

“Vivian, you okay?”

“I’m all right.”

Karras put the beer in the refrigerator. He took his T-shirt off, rolled it, and hung it around his neck.

Vivian checked him out. “You look healthy.”

“Thanks.”

“You look really good.”

“Thanks a lot. Listen, Vivian. I’m gonna take a shower, get changed. Marcus and his lady, Elaine, they’re comin’ over. You up for that?”

“Sure.”

Karras said, “Your cigarettes are in the bag.”

He took a long cold shower. It had been more than a few years since he had dropped acid. He had tripped plenty of times as an undergraduate, but he was past that now. He thought of the nineteen-year-old girl out in his kitchen, scrubbing away at a clean spot, out of her mind on blotter. He thought of the old Greek in the dingy grill on Fourteenth Street, and the old man’s grandson, to whom he could not bring himself to give advice. He pictured the kids in the park, passing him money, him passing them back a bag of dope.

“Fuck,” said Karras.

He closed his eyes.

But Dimitri Karras forgot all about who he had become once he smoked his first joint of the night.

Marcus and Elaine came through the door as he was tucking his Hawaiian shirt into his jeans. He cracked a beer for Clay, mixed a batch of piña coladas in the blender, served a tall cool one with an orange slice hung on the rim of the glass to Elaine. He opened a beer for himself and one for Vivian. The four of them stood in a circle and touched drinks.

“To the Bicentennial,” said Karras.

“To equality,” said Elaine, glancing at Clay.

“Party down,” said Vivian.

They smoked a jay. It brought Karras out of his funk and calmed Vivian down. She had been going from one subject to the next with Elaine, who had patiently listened without a break while Clay and Karras went through Karras’s albums. They settled on Call Me, which got the party off to a good start. Karras turned up the volume. Elaine and Marcus put down their drinks and began to dance. Karras and Vivian came out to the center of the room, joined them. They all did the bump to the title tune, then slow-dragged to Green’s Bee Gees cover. Afterward, Clay got Karras alone.

“Hey, Dimitri. Elaine was askin’ me, did you pick that shirt out for Vivian yourself, man?”

“What the hell?”

Clay grinned. “You know, that tube top she’s wearin’.”

“Marcus—”

“You got to admit, it would be just like a pussy hound like you to pick out a tube top for your lovely young houseguest. For easy access and shit.”

“I found it in a store down the street,” said Karras. “Thought it would look good on her, that’s all.”

“Oh, she does look fine. But I was wonderin’, did you happen to get her anything more practical?”

“Well, there was this halter top, see—”

“Yeah, Dimitri. I see.”

Duncan Hazlewood, the resident manager, and his girlfriend, Libby Howland, came through the unlocked door. Hazlewood had a fifth of scotch in his hand.

“We got tired of waiting for an invitation, damnit,” said Hazlewood.

“You don’t need one,” said Karras from across the room. “Duncan, Libby, c’mon in. Glasses are in the cabinet, ice is over by the sink.”

Another joint was lit and it went around the party. Karras had a good hit, then waved Clay over by his side. Clay knew what Karras wanted.

“Naw, Dimitri. I’m too high.”

“‘Too High.’ Stevie Wonder.”

“I’m tellin’ you, man, I don’t want no shotgun.”

Karras put the lit end of the joint in his mouth. He blew on the joint, sent a concentrated jet of smoke into the room. Clay stepped up, took the smoke into his lungs for as long as both of them could stand it.

“Now you do me,” said Karras.

Clay coughed out his hit. “Aw, fuck you, man.”

Karras went to his record collection, withdrew an album from the stack.

“Got Bloodshot if you want it,” said Karras. “J. Geils.”

“Jay North,” said Clay.

“You tellin’ me you’re not into a little Jerome?”

“Go ahead, man.”

“Even got the red vinyl, too.” Karras did an impromptu duckwalk over to the stereo.

Vivian filled a bong hit while Karras put on the record. He dropped the needle on the third cut, “Back to Get Ya.” Karras danced by himself to the first couple of verses, turned up the volume at the harp break.

“Do the robot, Mitri!” yelled Clay.

Elaine leaned against the kitchen wall, smiled, rolled her eyes as Karras went into his stiff, jerky dance. Duncan and Libby stood behind the couch, laughing and moving a little themselves. Vivian Lee lit a cigarette.

They all had another round of drinks and smoked a little more weed, and then Duncan and Libby decided it was time to go. Elaine, who had an eye for art, promised to catch Hazlewood’s next show. Duncan and Libby left, arm in arm.

“Whyn’t you put on a slow drag, Dimitri?” said Clay. “I’m tired of watchin’ you try to get on the goodfoot.”

“Whaddaya wanna hear?”

“You got ‘Brown-Eyed Girl’?”

“Yeah, I got Van.”

“I ain’t talkin’ about no Van. I’m talkin’ about the ‘Brown-Eyed Girl.’ The Isleys, man.”

“Yeah,” said Karras, “I think I got that one.”

He found Live It Up, placed the needle on the second track on side one. Marcus and Elaine came together immediately. Vivian came to Karras.

They danced to the beautiful song, Ronald Isley’s wistful tenor filling the apartment. Karras saw Elaine put her head on Clay’s shoulder and close her eyes. He wondered if anyone would ever love him that way. Vivian ran her hands up and down Karras’s back. She crushed her breasts against his hard stomach. He felt the vibration of her slow moan and the hardening of his cock in his jeans. Vivian looked up at him with damp eyes.

“Dimitri?”

“Yeah?”

“I gotta go to the bathroom.”

“Want me to go with you?”

“Okay.”

Karras followed her there because he knew that was what she wanted. Because that was what he wanted, too. He had told himself before that it was wrong, but he was high now and told himself that it was right. He felt Elaine’s eyes on him as he passed.

In the bathroom, Karras closed the door behind him. Vivian faced him, leaned back against the sink. She shook her black hair off her pale shoulders, pulled the tube top down to her waist. Free, her lovely breasts bounced one time. He put his thumb and forefinger to the pink nipple of her right breast, squeezed it until her lips parted.

“Nice lollipops,” whispered Karras, noticing his stupid, open-mouthed reflection in the bathroom mirror.

She’s a kid, you fucking...

She crushed her mouth against his; he kissed her back. He felt his breath shorten and pulled her against his groin.

Her heard Elaine’s voice, calling his name: “Dimitri! Dimitri, come out here!”

“Hold that,” said Karras.

Vivian said, “I will.”

He walked out of the bathroom, through the hall to the living room. Elaine was by the stereo, wide eyed, clumsily turning the music all the way down. Marcus had opened the door and was standing there, his head slightly bent, his hands hanging limply at his sides. A uniformed cop stood in the open frame.

“Hey, pull over, Ronald,” said Russell Thomas. “I’ll ask that blue freak on the corner where that shop is at.”

“That okay?” said Ronald to Cooper.

They had been searching for the record store for the last fifteen minutes. Cooper had looked up the address in the yellow pages, but with the traffic on Connecticut Avenue and all that, even at this time of night, it was difficult to slow down, get a good look at the numbers on the storefronts without attracting attention.

Cooper said, “Sure, man. Go ahead.”

Cooper and Clagget sat in the backseat of the Dodge, Clagget pressing the sawed-off tightly to his leg. Ronald drove, with Russell at his side up front. Ronald cut the wheel, stopped the car in a bus zone at Connecticut and Q.

A dark-skinned woman wearing white bells and a short-sleeved print shirt stood on the corner. She glanced at her watch impatiently, as if to let the men in the car know that she was waiting for someone to come pick her up. Behind her, a kid had set up a portable eight-track and an overturned hat on the sidewalk. The kid was robotting wildly to James Brown’s “The Payback.”

Russell Thomas leaned out the window, raised his voice so the woman could hear him over the J.B. He put a smile behind the voice. “Hey, girlfriend, what’s goin’ on?”

The woman looked away. She coughed into her fist and blinked her eyes. The Daytona was putting out some serious exhaust.

Russell tried again. “Look here, dark and lovely. I would never harm a sister as fine as you. See, baby, I’m from out of town—”

“Who don’t know that,” said the woman, suddenly staring Russell dead in the eye.

“Anyway, I was wonderin’... Where go Real Right Records, sugar? We’re just lookin’ to cop some sounds for the weekend, and we heard that Real Right was the place.”

“Real Right?” The woman’s features softened. “Well, you’re only a block away. Real Right is up there above R, on the right.”

“Thank you, precious. I do appreciate it.”

The woman fanned carbon dioxide away from her face as Ronald Thomas pulled away from the curb.

“Freak was way into me, man,” said Russell. “Matter of fact, maybe afterwards, I’ll have you drive me back here. A girl like that could suck on my jolly stick for real.” Russell rubbed his dick through his purple pants.

“Russell,” said Ronald, “one of these days, someone’s just gonna go ahead and kick your monkey ass.”

“Then their momma’d be wakin’ them up out of their good dream,” said Russell, “tellin’ ’em it’s time to get off to school.”

Clagget tapped Cooper’s shoulder. “Wilton?”

“Uh-huh?”

“That girl looked somethin’ like Carol Speed. You notice that?”

Cooper said, “I surely did.”

Clagget touched the cranberry riot of acne splattered across his face. “You know, Wilton, that woman’s gonna remember our car.”

Cooper nodded, staring straight ahead.

They drove slowly by the store. Through the window, Cooper noticed a young dashiki-wearing man, no one else. He motioned Ronald, told him to take a long swing around the block. They came back out on Connecticut where the young lady had been standing moments earlier. The dancing kid was still there. They drove north.

Twentieth Street broke off of Connecticut just above R, giving the avenue stores backdoor loading capability and dual window frontage. Cooper pointed Ronald up 20th. Ronald steered the Daytona into a space.

“Cut it, Ronald,” said Cooper.

Ronald Thomas killed the engine. For a while, all of them watched the flow of tourists and Washingtonians out on the street. Then Clagget pulled two double-aught shells from the loops of his hunting vest.

“Whole lotta folks out tonight,” said Clagget. He thumbed the shells into the shotgun.

“That Bicentennial thing,” said Cooper.

“You got some kind of plan, Coop?” said Ronald.

“I’m gonna get myself in through the front door on Connecticut,” said Cooper. “Now, B.R. and Russell: When that back door cracks open, I want y’all to get your asses out the car and into the shop. Ronald, you just sit tight. Fire up that ignition again when you see us all comin’ out the back. Everybody down with that?”

None of them replied. Cooper pulled his .45 from the waistband of his slacks, pulled back on the receiver, let a round drop into the chamber. He replaced the gun, left his shirttail out over his slacks.

“Keep that hog’s leg down, little brother.”

“I will, Wilton.”

Cooper said, “Let’s take it to the bridge.”

Cooper got out of the Dodge, walked around the triangular point where 20th and Connecticut converged, went quickly to the front door of Real Right Records, keeping his chin tucked in to his chest. He tried the handle, then rapped on the glass two times. He smiled at the young man who stood behind the island counter in the center of the store, counting out bills. The young man made a cutting motion across his throat, mouthed the word “closed.” Cooper smiled again, did a “come on over” thing with his hand. The young man shrugged, put the bills in the register, closed the register drawer. He went to the front of the shop, turned a latch lock, opened the door enough to put his head through the space.

“We’re closed,” said the young man.

“I can see that, blood.” Cooper noticed the red, black, and green Africa cutout hung out over the brightly colored dashiki. “But I got a wad of cash money in my pocket and a stone freak sittin’ in the shotgun seat of my ride. Freak loves her Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes, man. Teddy’s voice makes that man in the boat of hers fall in and drown.”

The young man laughed. “Like to help you, brother, but I can’t. My boss says not to let anyone in after closing time.”

“Your boss want you to throw away potential ducats, too? ’Cause I got a Ben Franklin in my wallet, and I’m fixin’ to spend half of it in your shop right quick.”

“I don’t know...”

“What’s your name, man?”

“Rasheed.”

“Rasheed, brother, come on... you got to help me out with my woman.”

“All right. Make it quick.”

Rasheed opened the door, let Cooper in, flipped back the latch to where it had been.

“You got To Be True?” said Cooper.

“Yeah, we got it.”

“Take me to it, man, so I can get on out of here and leave you to your J-O-B.”

Cooper glanced behind him at the foot traffic on the street as he followed Rasheed Adamson to the Soul section of the store. When he was satisfied that they were partially hidden by an aisle divider, Cooper pulled the .45 from behind his waistband. He moved forward quickly and jammed the muzzle of the automatic savagely into Rasheed’s kidney.

“Uh!” said Rasheed. “What the—”

“Nigger,” said Cooper, “don’t even turn around. Don’t say nothin’ ’less I ask you a question, hear?”

Rasheed nodded his head.

“Good. Where the lights at in this joint?”

“G-got a set by the door and a set next to the stockroom.”

“To the stockroom, then.” Cooper pushed in on Rasheed’s kidney. “Go.”

They walked close together into the stockroom. Rasheed extinguished the store lights without asking; he knew what Cooper wanted him to do.

“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.

“We need peace,” said Russell. “We need uni-tee.”

Clagget laughed.

“Hey!” shouted Rasheed. “There ain’t no need—”

“Talk about the money,” said Cooper, sharply cutting him off.

“I don’t know... I’m tellin’ you, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man.”

Cooper stepped forward. Rasheed took a step back. Clagget looked down at Rasheed’s feet. He smiled and racked the shotgun’s pump.

“You know what that sound is?” said Clagget.

“Huh?” said Rasheed, wincing at the sudden rise in his voice. He stared openmouthed at the sawed-off, now pointed at his face.

“That there,” said Clagget, “is the sound of your own death.”

Rasheed looked at Cooper, smiled weakly.

“Hey, blood,” said Rasheed.

Clagget squeezed the shotgun’s trigger. Flame erupted from the sawed-off’s muzzle. Papers flew off the countertop and floated in the air.

“Damn,” said Russell.

Cooper looked out at the avenue. The sound had attracted a few faces at the window. The pedestrians saw black men in the shop and quickly got on their way. He figured one of those good citizens would be on a pay phone real quick.

“Little brother,” said Cooper. “You didn’t even give the boy a chance to speak.”

“Didn’t need to,” said Clagget, pointing at the floor. “Look.”

Cooper looked down to where Rasheed had been standing. The rug had been moved aside when Rasheed stepped back. There was the outline of a trapdoor cut into the hardwood floor.

Cooper got down on his haunches, lifted the piece of wood. He pulled out the cash box, opened it. He counted out ten thousand dollars joylessly, folded the money, put it in the pocket of his slacks.

“Cooper,” said Russell. “We best be on our way.”

All of them could hear the sound of a siren now in the distance.

“Get the money out the register, B.R.”

“Right,” said Clagget.

Cooper stood over Rasheed’s body. The double-aught shell had cleaned off the side of the boy’s face. It looked as if an animal had taken a bite from Rasheed, crown to jaw. Chunks of brain and clumps of damp hair dripped off the shelving beneath the counter. The blood looked black in the absence of light.

“Boy?” said Cooper softly, looking at the corpse. “Didn’t your people ever tell you? White man gonna find a way to fuck you up every time.”

“Got it,” said Clagget, holding up a short stack of bills.

“All right,” said Cooper. “Let’s go.”

The three of them ran out the back door, guns drawn. A couple of people on 20th had been hanging around since the shotgun sound had reached the street, and these people backed up quickly at the sight of the men. One of them, a student in his twenties, got on his belly and slid beneath a parked car.

Clagget dropped the sawed-off behind the front seat, got in first. Russell and Cooper were in soon after. Ronald had cooked the ignition and was pumping the gas against the clutch.

“Go on, Ronald,” said Cooper. “Show us what Big Bird can do.”

Ronald Thomas eased off the clutch pedal; the Daytona screamed away from the curb. The four of them were pinned against their seats as Ronald pulled back on the pistol-grip gearshift and caught long rubber in second. He double-clutched out of the Florida Avenue right turn. The Dodge fishtailed for fifty yards before straightening out on the way to 16th.

“Whewee,” said Cooper.

“That was bad, Wilton!”

“Yes it was,” said Cooper.

Bobby Roy Clagget yelled, “Man, we’re blowin’ this town all to hell!”

“Bo Hopkins,” said Cooper. “Right?”

“The Wild Bunch,” said Clagget, nodding his head.

Russell extended his hand, palm up, to the backseat. “You’re one crazy white boy, man! You all right.” Clagget slapped Russell’s palm.

Cooper found his Salem longs on the seat at his side. He lit one for himself, lit one for Clagget.

“Hey,” said Russell to Ronald. “Gimme one of them double-O’s.”

Ronald drew the deck of Kools from the visor, shook two out of the bottom of the pack.

The bright yellow Dodge with the big spoiler hit eighty miles an hour going east across the city. The men inside it were laughing loudly and giving each other skin. They could no longer hear the sirens of the police cars and ambulances converging on the record store at Connecticut and R.