Randolph drove north on Wisconsin Avenue, looked across the seat at Jackson. The man had been talking shit the whole trip, since he and Randolph had argued in front of the motel over who would drive. Randolph had ended it when he told Jackson to get his seventies-lookin’ ass inside the car. Now Jackson had brought out his pick-a black plastic comb with a black plastic fist clenched on the end of it-and he was raking the comb up the front of his modified Afro. Randolph hadn’t seen a pick like that in years.
Jackson whipped his head to the right, rolled his window down, and yelled something out to a large-breasted, long-legged woman walking up the street in a short leather skirt. The woman kept walking, her alternating-piston ass moving with beautiful efficiency, her eyes straight ahead. Randolph gave the T-Bird gas and sped past.
“Hey, slow down, man!” Jackson said.
“She ain’t look like she want to talk to you, man,” Randolph said.
“I’ll make the bitch talk”-Jackson smiled, ran his fingers across his crotch-“right into the goddamn microphone.” Jackson turned his head once again to get a final look, lowered his voice to a mumble. “She looked like Pam Grier, too.”
Randolph parked a few doors down from Uptown Liquors. The time was a little after eleven, and already there was some early alky action, in and around the shop. Jackson strained his eyes to see through the plate glass of the store: in the back, near the end of the counter, stood Isaac, gathering and breaking down cartons. Jackson knew that Isaac would have to take the cartons out, to the green dumpster in the garage beside the store.
Randolph checked his watch. “We meetin’ Polk here?”
“Uh-uh,” Jackson said. “He’s still shacked up with the nappy, that old freak of his. Said he’d swing by later in the day, check the place out.”
“Then let’s get on it, man. I got to get my ass down to the shoe store, for the noon rush.”
“You go on,” Jackson said. “I done took the tour yesterday.” Through the glass, Jackson watched Isaac head into the back room, the cartons under his arm.
Randolph opened the door, put one foot out on the asphalt. “All right, then. I’ll be right back.”
Jackson put his hand around Randolph’s arm. “Take your time. I know you just the driver, but Grimes wants you to know the place real good. Get yourself an education, hear?”
Randolph pulled his arm away, shifted his shoulders beneath his jacket as he climbed out of the T-Bird. He walked down the sidewalk to the double glass doors of Uptown Liquors, went inside. When the door closed behind him, Jackson bolted from the car, jogged past the store, and entered the darkness of the small garage.
He took off his shades, folded them, hung one stem in the pocket of his shirt. Adjusting his eyes, he moved quickly toward the green dumpster. To the side of it, a door opened, and Isaac stepped out into the garage. Jackson stopped walking, watched Isaac put the broken-down sheets of cardboard into the dumpster. Isaac looked bigger, harder up close.
“What’s goin’ on, brother?” Jackson said.
“Nothin’ to it,” Isaac said, looking at Jackson for only a fraction of a second, the look disinterested, as if Jackson were a salesman who had come to his door.
Jackson said, “Got a minute?”
Isaac closed the lid of the dumpster. This time he did not bother to look at Jackson. “You take it easy, man,” he said, and he turned to walk back through the door.
Jackson reached into his pocket, pulled the hundreds that were bound with the heavy rubber band, used his forefinger and thumb to fan the stack. The sound of it cut the stillness of the dark garage.
Isaac stopped walking. He knew the sound, had heard it every night at closing time, when old man Rosenfeld and young Rosenfeld counted out the money. He had gotten used to hearing the sound. But now the sound was aimed at him.
Isaac turned, squinted his eyes at the hustler with the muttonchop sideburns and the tight green pants. “What you want, man?” he said.
Jackson slapped the stack of hundreds against his palm. “Tomorrow morning,” he said, “quarter past eleven-me and a couple of boys gon’ knock this motherfucker over.”
Isaac shifted his weight. They stared at each other, listened to the hiss of cars passing by on Wisconsin. Isaac cocked one eyebrow. “What you tellin’ me for?”
Jackson smiled. “Maybe I’m takin’ a chance. But I been watchin’ you, man. I figure I’m takin’ a bigger chance walkin’ into that shop tomorrow mornin’, havin’ to face you down. So I’ve told you.” Jackson’s smile faded. “And now I’ve crossed that line.”
Isaac’s eyes went to the money, then back up at Jackson. “You ain’t done talkin’.”
“Isaac,” Jackson said. “That your name, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Sounds like a slave name.”
“Talk about the money.”
“I am,” Jackson said. “See, I been in that shop, heard the way that Jewboy with the Rolex and the chains talks to you. The old man too. ‘Isaac, fetch this, Isaac, fetch that’ Thought it might be time for you to get you some, brother.”
Isaac looked away from the man’s eyes, spoke in a low and steady voice. “What’ve I got to do?”
It was done now, easy. Jackson had not figured Isaac to turn so quick, but it proved what he already knew: a man would do anything, when it came down to it, for the green. Especially a raggedy-ass motherfucker like this.
Jackson fanned the stack, stepped up close to Isaac. “There’s ten grand here, Isaac. I’ll be comin’ in tomorrow with an old white man, a little dude. When I get all the money, I want you to step out of the back.”
“And?”
“I want you to doom the white man. Kill him, understand what I’m sayin’?”
Isaac stared at Jackson without emotion. He reached out, took the money.
“You need a gun?” Jackson said.
Isaac shook his head.
“After you kill the white man,” Jackson said, “I’m gonna put a round over your head. Way over, for show. You drop down behind the counter, and that’s when I get out. You be a hero, I take the money, and everything’s clean. We down, Isaac?”
Isaac nodded. Jackson patted the man’s arm, noticed the torn flannel of Isaac’s shirt.
“Eleven-fifteen?” Isaac said.
Jackson said, “Right.”
Isaac did not shake Jackson’s hand. He folded the stack of hundreds and shoved them down into the pocket of his blue work pants. Then he turned and went back through the door, into the stockroom.
Jackson walked slowly out of the garage, putting on his shades as he moved into the light. He got to the T-Bird, sat in the shotgun seat just as Randolph emerged from the front door of Uptown Liquors.
Jackson relaxed, took a deep hit of the cool April air.
From inside, Isaac watched a tall man in a maroon sport jacket leave the store and meet the hustler at the car. There was something familiar about the tall man-something familiar and good. It bothered him, not knowing what it was. But then he heard the sound of the old man’s voice.
“Isaac,” Rosenfeld said, gesturing toward a man in a tweed jacket, standing at the counter. “The gentleman needs a case of Guinness, please.”
Isaac nodded, and headed for the back room.