King Suckerman

Twenty-Nine

Dimitri Karras waited for Marcus Clay’s Riviera to take the turn onto Brown. He found his wristwatch underneath the driver’s seat of the Karmann Ghia and checked the time: 5:10 A.M. Too late to get a good night’s sleep. And there was nothing to do at his apartment, and no one waiting for him there. He got into his car and headed uptown.

People stood at bus stops on 16th, some still stranded from the night before. A few stray partyers wandered on side streets, staggering, talking to strangers, holding on to lampposts. Others sat on their lawns or were stretched out sleeping atop cars.

Karras drove over the District line into downtown Silver Spring. He went into Tastee Diner, found a booth in the station of his favorite waitress, a kind elderly woman named Hannah.

Hannah placed a cup of black coffee in front of Karras. “Rough night, Dimitri?”

“Didn’t everyone have a rough night?”

“Everyone but me, I guess. Worked a double shift. Shoulda seen the folks we had in here.”

“I can imagine.” Karras put the menu down unopened. “Two over easy with scrapple, Hannah, side of white toast.”

“Be right up.”

Hannah sat in the booth across from Dimitri while he ate his breakfast. In the booth behind him, a man played a Merle Haggard tune on the table’s miniature juke.

“Your feet are dirty, Dimitri.”

Karras looked under the table at the bottoms of his bare feet. The soles were close to black.

“Thanks, Hannah.”

Hannah smiled. “And you could run a straight razor over that face.”

“Thanks.”

Karras paid up, leaving five on three-twenty, and walked out of the diner. The sun had come up, and the sidewalk felt warm beneath his feet. He crossed Georgia Avenue to the all-night Drug Fair and bought a pair of Japanese sandals for ninety-nine cents and also a pack of Marlboro reds.

Karras walked down Georgia a few blocks, going through the B & O tunnel that ran beneath the tracks, and went along the Canada Dry plant to a green area known as Acorn Park. He sat on a bench in the shade of an oak and lit a cigarette. He was not a smoker, and he grew dizzy after the second drag. He stubbed the cigarette out against the wooden bench.

He folded his arms, leaned back, and went to sleep.

When he woke, the day was hot, and the sun had crawled across East-West Highway and reached his feet.

He pulled his hair back off his face and buried his face in his hands.

“Mind if I get a smoke from you?” said a man in a torn T-shirt who stood before him.

“Keep ’em,” said Karras, opening his eyes.

Karras stood up and walked the half mile back to his car.

At ten in the morning on Monday, Marcus Clay parked his Riviera behind a black Monte Carlo on Half Street in Southeast and walked across a hot, dusty asphalt lot. He pushed a faded yellow button beside a windowless door, heard a buzzing sound, turned the knob on the door, opened the door, and entered a narrow stairwell. He took the stairs up to another door, pushed on it, stepped into a large room.

Eddie Marchetti sat behind his desk, watching Celebrity Sweepstakes on the Sony. Clarence Tate sat on the edge of the desk, one leg brushing the concrete floor.

“Mr. Clay,” said Marchetti in a businesslike way. He touched the remote, and the television clicked off.

“Eddie,” said Clay, nodding one time. “Tate.”

“Glad you could make it,” said Marchetti.

“I said I would.”

Marchetti pretended to arrange some papers on his desk. “So let’s get down to business. You bring the rest of my money with you?”

Clay said, “No.”

“How’s that?”

“Couldn’t bring something I don’t have.”

“Explain.”

“Your assistant, Clarence here, he set up a meeting with me and Wilton Cooper, like he said he would. I met Cooper, gave him the ten grand. Then, later in the night, Mr. Cooper and his boys met with an unfortunate series of accidents.”

“I know about the accidents. Any idea what happened to ’em?”

“One of those freakish things, I guess. Said something to the wrong guy, or fell into an armed stickup. Or maybe they got hunted by the friends of the bikers they smoked up in Howard County. You know about that?”

“I read the paper.” Marchetti tapped his finger on the Post lying flat on his desk. “Got the final edition right here.”

“You read it all?”

“Yeah, I—”

“Had you read it all, you’d know something else. They found Cooper’s car outside the place he got murdered. Trunk was full of money and drugs. Some of that money was your ten grand, I’d expect. Or maybe the triggerman took your ten off Cooper after he got himself greased. Either way, I don’t have it; that’s plain as day.”

Marchetti sighed. Tate shifted his hands in his lap.

Clay said, “You run with some bad people, Mr. Spags.”

“Got to pay if you want to play,” said Marchetti, giving it the hard-guy squint, the tough routine coming easy to him now that Cooper and the rest were dead.

“So,” said Clay, “like I been sayin’, I just don’t have it.”

“Well,” said Marchetti, “you didn’t come here just to let me down, did you? I mean, you owe me, after all the trouble you caused. Is it the girl? Is that it? You got Vivian waitin’ to come in, out in the hall, right? Like a surprise.”

“Sorry, Eddie. The girl is gone. Ran away from my Greek friend into the arms of a young buck she met on the street. Would’ve happened to you eventually, if you want my opinion. Anyway, Spags, a stud like you is way too much for a little girl like Vivian Lee. You ought to be lookin’ out for a woman can match you as a man.”

Marchetti’s face brightened at the compliment. He sat up straighter in his chair. Then he looked at Clay oddly, studied his face.

“Wait a second,” said Marchetti. “You came here for something, though, didn’t you?”

“Matter of fact,” said Clay, “I did. Figure I did owe you something for all the trouble I caused.”

Marchetti lifted his double chin. “Go ahead.”

“I know you been lookin’ to off all that merchandise out of your warehouse, and I know how hard it is to get rid of the load you got. So I heard about this fence, dig, that’s doin’ some serious acquisition work in town. Under the roof of a place called G and G Trucking, on Twelfth Street in Northwest, between U and V.”

“G and G.”

“That’s right. Went by there my own self, talked to the man behind the desk. Asked him some questions without using my own name. Implied I had some weight to move, if you know what I mean. He implied back that they could handle all I could truck on in.”

“You think it’s on the up and up?”

“Like I say, I don’t know these cats. But he gave me no reason to doubt him.” Clay reached into the back pocket of his pressed jeans, pulled out a sheet of paper. He walked to the desk and slid the paper in front of Marchetti. “Here you go, Spags. Wrote the address down for you and everything.”

“Thanks. I’ll look into it next week.”

“Better get over there the next day or so. They’re gettin’ ready to close down the operation.”

Tate reached over and took the paper off the desk. “I’ll handle it, Eddie. Get a truck loaded up tomorrow morning and roll right over there.”

“That’s not a good idea,” said Clay, looking hard into Tate’s eyes.

“Why not?” said Marchetti.

“See,” said Clay, “it’s a bunch of brothers runnin’ the operation. Word is, they been payin’ top dollar to the white men been comin’ in. Figure they can take the bloods for a lower price, I guess. Now, they see a man of your stature walkin’ through the door, a Caucasian gentleman they figure knows how to negotiate professionally, they’re gonna have to be a whole lot more generous.”

“He’s right, Clarenze,” said Marchetti. “I better handle this one personally. No offense, of course.”

Tate said, “None taken.”

“Thank you, Mr. Clay,” said Marchetti.

“Well.” Clay reached across the desk, shook Marchetti’s hand. “I best be on my way.”

“Pleasure doin’ business with you,” said Marchetti.

Clay smiled, nodded meaningfully at Tate, turned and walked across the room. Tate watched Clay move with that head-held-high way of his, and Marchetti gave Clay a final once-over as he disappeared out the door. They listened to his footsteps on the stairs.

“You know, Clarenze?” said Marchetti. “Even with everything that went down, I like that guy.”

“I kind of like him, too.”

“Now all I got to do is turn over that merchandise and I’ll be on my way.”

“You leavin’ D.C., Eddie?”

“I am. Gonna take my winnings and head back up to Jersey.”

“Smart move. You want to know the truth, this ain’t your town, Eddie. You don’t belong here.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Marchetti and Tate heard the Riviera’s engine turn over outside the warehouse.

“You know something, Clarenze?”

“What?”

“I was lookin’ at Clay just now, walkin’ out of here? That’s one big man, you know it? I never realized how big he was!”

“Up till now,” said Clarence Tate, “neither did I.”