The Martini Shot Page 6

  Harry was short and low-slung, a black black man, nearly featureless in the dark. He wore a porkpie hat and his clothes were pressed and clean. He kept his eyes down as I spoke to him over the barks of the dogs. His reaction time was very slow when I asked for a response. I could see right away that he was on a nod.

  Harry had been a controlled heroin junkie for the last thirty years. During that time, he’d always held a job, lived in this same house, and been there, in one condition or another, for his kids. I’d wager he went to church on Sundays, too. But a junkie was what he was. Heroin was a slow ride down. Some folks could control it to some degree and never hit the bottom.

  I asked Harry if he could find a place to sleep that night other than his house, and he told me that he “supposed” he could. I told him I didn’t want to see him again any time soon, and he said, “It’s mutual.” I chuckled at that, giving him some of his pride back, which didn’t cost me a thing. He walked down the alley, stopping once to cup his hands around a match as he put fire to a cigarette.

  I drove back over to Georgia. A guy flagged me down just to talk. They see my car number and they know it’s me. Sergeant Peters, the old white cop. You get a history with these people. Some of these kids, I know their parents. I’ve busted ’em from time to time. Busted their grandparents, too. Shows you how long I’ve been doing this.

  Down around Morton I saw Tonio Harris, a neighborhood kid walking alone toward the Black Hole. Tonio was wearing those work boots and the baggy pants low, like all the other kids, although he’s not like most of them. I took his mother in for drugs a long time ago, back when that Love Boat stuff was popular and making everyone crazy. His father, the one who impregnated his mother I mean, he’s doing a stretch for manslaughter, his third fall. Tonio’s mother’s clean now, at least I think she is; anyway, she’s done a fairly good job with him. By that I mean he’s got no juvenile priors, from what I know. A minor miracle down here, you ask me.

  I rolled down my window. “Hey, Tonio, how’s it going?” I slowed down to a crawl, took in the sweetish smell of reefer in the air. Tonio was still walking, not looking at me, but he mumbled something about “I’m maintainin,” or some shit like that. “You take care of yourself in there,” I said, meaning in the Hole, “and get yourself home right after.” He didn’t respond verbally, just made a half-assed kind of acknowledgment with his chin.

  I cruised around for the next couple of hours. Turned my spot on kids hanging in the shadows, told them to break it up and move along. Asked a guy in Columbia Heights why his little boy was out on the stoop, dribbling a basketball, at one in the morning. Raised my voice at a boy, a lookout for a dealer, who was sitting on top of a trash can, told him to get his ass on home. Most of the time, this is my night. We’re just letting the critters know we’re out here.

  At around two I called in a few cruisers to handle the closing of the Black Hole. You never know what’s going to happen at the end of the night there, what kind of beefs got born inside the club, who looked at who a little too hard for one second too long. Hard to believe that an ex-cop from Prince George’s County runs the place. That a cop would put all this trouble on us, bring it into our district. He’s got D.C. cops moonlighting as bouncers in there, too, working the metal detectors at the door. I talked with one, a young white cop, earlier in the night. I noticed the brightness in his eyes and the sweat beaded across his forehead. He was scared, like I gave a shit. Asked us as a favor to show some kind of presence at closing time. Called me “Sarge.” Okay. I didn’t answer him. I got no sympathy for the cops who work those go-go joints, especially not since Officer Brian Gibson was shot dead outside the Ibex Club a few years back. But if something goes down around the place, it’s on me. So I do my job.

  I called in a few cruisers and set up a couple of traffic barriers on Georgia, one at Lamont and one at Park. We diverted the cars like that, kept the kids from congregating on the street. It worked. Nothing too bad was happening that I could see. I was standing outside my cruiser, talking to another cop, Eric Young, who was having a smoke. That’s when I saw Tonio Harris running east on Morton, heading for the housing complex. A late-model black import was behind him, and there were a couple of YBMs with their heads out the open windows, yelling shit out, laughing at the Harris kid, like that.

  “You all right here?” I said to Young.

  “Fine, Sarge,” he said.

  My cruiser was idling. I slid under the wheel and pulled down on the tree.

  Tonio Harris

  Just around midnight, when I was fixin to go out, my moms walked into my room. I was sittin on the edge of my bed, lacing up my Timbs, listening to PGC comin from the box, Flexx doin his shout-outs and then movin right into the new Nelly, which is vicious. The music was so loud that I didn’t hear my mother walk in, but when I looked up there she was, one arm crossed over the other like she does when she’s tryin to be hard, staring me down.

  “Whassup, Mama?”

  “What’s up with you? ”

  I shrugged. “Back Yard is playin tonight. Was thinkin I’d head over to the Hole.”

  “Did you ask me if you could?”

  “Do I have to?” I used that tone she hated, knew right away I’d made a mistake.

  “You’re living in my house, aren’t you?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You payin rent now?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Talkin about, do I have to.”

  “Can I go?”

  Mama uncrossed her arms. “Thought you said you’d be studyin up for that test this weekend.”

  “I will. Gonna do it tomorrow morning, first thing. Just wanted to go out and hear a little music tonight, is all.”

  I saw her eyes go soft on me then. “You gonna study for that exam, you hear?”

  “I promise I will.”

  “Go on, then. Come right back after the show.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  I noticed as she was walkin out the door her shoulders were getting stooped some. Bad posture and a hard life. She wasn’t but thirty-six years old.

  I spent a few more minutes listening to the radio and checking myself in the mirror. Pattin my natural and shit. I got a nice modified cut, not too short, not blown-out or nothin like that. For a while now the fellas been wearin braids, tryin to look like the Answer. But I don’t think it would look right on me. And I know what the girls like. They look at me, they like what they see. I can tell.

  Moms has been ridin me about my college entrance exam. I fucked up the first one I took. I went out and got high on some fierce chronic the night before it, and my head was filled up with cobwebs the next morning when I sat down in the school cafeteria to take that test. I’m gonna take it again, though, and do better next time.

  I’m not one of those guys who’s got, what do you call that, illusions about my future. No NBA dreams, nothin like that. I’m not good enough or tall enough, I know it. I’m sixth man on my high school team, that ought to tell you somethin right there. My Uncle Gaylen, he’s been real good to me, and straight-up with me, too. Told me to have fun with ball and all that, but not to depend on it. To stick with the books. I know I fucked up that test, but next time I’m gonna do better, you can believe that.

  I was thinkin, though, I could get me a partial scholarship playin for one of those small schools in Virginia or Maryland, William and Mary or maybe Goucher up in Baltimore. Hold up—Goucher’s for women only, I think. Maybe I’m wrong. Have to ask my guidance counselor, soon as I can find one. Ha-ha.

  The other thing I should do, for real, is find me a part-time job. I’m tired of havin no money in my pockets. My mother works up at the Dollar Store in the Silver Spring mall, and she told me she could hook me up there. But I don’t wanna work with my mother. And I don’t want to be workin at no Mac-Donald’s or sumshit like that. Have the neighborhood slangers come in and make fun of me and shit, standin there in my minimum wage uniform. But I do need some money. I’d like to buy me
a nice car soon. I’m not talkin about some hooptie, neither.

  I did have an interview for this restaurant downtown, busin tables. White boy who interviewed kept sayin shit like, “Do you think you can make it into work on time?” and do you think this and do you think that? Might as well gone ahead and called me a nigger right to my face. The more he talked, the more attitude I gave him with my eyes. After all that, he smiled and sat up straight, like he was gonna make some big announcement, and said he was gonna give me a try. I told him I changed my mind and walked right out of there. Uncle Gaylen said I should’ve taken that job and showed him he was wrong. But I couldn’t. I can’t stand how white people talk to you sometimes. Like they’re just there to make their own selves feel better. I hired a Negro today, and like that.

  I am gonna take that test over, though.

  I changed my shirt and went out through the living room. My sister was watchin the 106 and Park videos on TV, her mouth around a straw, sippin on one of those big sodas. She’s startin to get some titties on her. Some of the slick young niggas in the neighborhood been commentin on it, too. Late for her to be awake, but it was Friday night. She didn’t look up as I passed. I yelled good-bye to my moms and heard her say my name from the kitchen. I knew she was back up in there ’cause I smelled the smoke comin off her cigarette. There was a ten-dollar bill sittin in a bowl by the door. I folded it up and slipped it inside my jeans. My mother had left it there for me. I’m tellin you, she is cool people.

  Outside the complex, I stepped across this little road and the dark courtyard real quick. We been livin here a long time, and I know most everyone by sight. But in this place here, that don’t mean shit.

  The Black Hole had a line goin outside the door when I got there. I went through the metal detector and let a white rent-a-cop pat me down while I said hey to a friend going into the hall. I could feel the bass from way out in the lobby.

  The hall was crowded and the place was bumpin. I could smell sweat in the damp air. Also chronic, and it was nice. Back Yard was doin “Freestyle,” off Hood Related, that double CD they got. I kind of made my way toward the stage, careful not to bump nobody, nodding to the ones I did. I knew a lot of young brothers there. Some of ’em run in gangs, some not. I try to know a little bit of everybody, you see what I’m sayin? Spread your friends out in case you run into some trouble. I was smilin at some of the girls, too.

  Up near the front I got into the groove. Someone passed me somethin that smelled good, and I hit it. Back Yard was turnin that shit out. I been knowin their music for like ten years now. They had the whole joint up there that night: I’m talkin about a horn section and everything else. I must have been up there close to the stage for about, I don’t know, an hour, sumshit like that, just dancing. It seemed like all of us was movin together. On “Do That Stuff,” they went into this extended drum thing, shout-outs for the hoodies and the crews; I was sweatin clean through my shirt, right about then.

  I had to pee like a motherfucker, but I didn’t want to use the bathroom in that place. All the hard motherfuckers be congregatin in there, too. That’s where trouble can start, just ’cause you gave someone the wrong kinda look.

  When the set broke I started to talkin to this girl who’d been dancin near me, smilin my way. I’d seen her around. Matter of fact, I ran ball sometimes with her older brother. So we had somethin to talk about straight off. She had that Brandy thing goin on with her hair, and a nice smile.

  While we was talkin, someone bumped me from behind. I turned around and it was Antuane, that kid who ran with James Wallace. Wallace was with him, and so were a coupla Wallace’s boys. I nodded at Antuane, tryin to communicate to him, like, “Ain’t no thing, you bumpin me like that.” But Wallace stepped in and said somethin to me. I couldn’t even really hear it with all the crowd noise, but I could see by his face that he was tryin to step to me. I mean, he was right up in my face.

  We stared at each other for a few. I shoulda just walked away, right, but I couldn’t let him punk me out like that in front of the girl.

  Wallace’s hand shot up. Looked like a bird flutterin out of nowhere or somethin. Maybe he was just makin a point with that hand, like some do. But it rattled me, I guess, and I reacted. Didn’t even think about it, though I should’ve. My palms went to his chest and I shoved him back. He stumbled. I saw his eyes flare with anger, but there was that other thing, too, worse than me puttin my hands on him: I had stripped him of his pride.

  There was some yellin then from his boys. I just turned and bucked. I saw the bouncers started to move, talkin into their headsets and shit, but I didn’t wait. I bucked. I was out on the street pretty quick, runnin toward my place. I didn’t know what else to do.

  I heard Wallace and them behind me, comin out the Hole. They said my name. I didn’t look back. I ran to Morton and turned right. Heard car doors opening and slammin shut. The engine of the car turnin over. Then the cry of tires on the street and Wallace’s boys laughin, yellin shit out. I kept runnin toward Park Morton. My heart felt like it was snappin on a rubber string.

  There were some younguns out in the complex. They were sittin up on top of a low brick wall like they do, and they watched me run by. It’s always dark here, ain’t never no good kinda light. They got some dim yellow bulbs back in the stairwells, where the old-school types drink gin and shoot craps. They was back up in there, too, hunched down in the shadows. There was some kind of fog or haze out that night, too, it was kind of rollin around by that old playground equipment, all rusted and shit, they got in the courtyard. I was runnin through there, tryin to get to my place.

  I had to cross the little road in the back of the complex to get to my mother’s apartment. I stepped into it and that’s when I saw the black Maxima swing around the corner. Coupla Wallace’s boys jumped out while the car was still moving. I stopped runnin. They knew where I lived. If they didn’t, all they had to do was ask one of those younguns on the wall. I wasn’t gonna bring none of this home to my moms.

  Wallace was out of the driver’s side quick, walkin toward me. He was smilin and my stomach shifted. Antuane had walked back by the playground. I knew where he was goin. Wallace and them keep a gun, a nine with a fifteen-round mag, buried in a shoe box back there.

  “Junior,” said Wallace, “you done fucked up big.” He was still smilin.

  I didn’t move. My knees were shakin some. I figured this was it. I was thinkin about my mother and tryin not to cry. Thinkin about how if I did cry, that’s all anyone would remember about me. That I went out like a bitch before I died. Funny me thinkin about stupid shit like that while I was waitin for Antuane to come back with that gun.

  I saw Antuane’s figure walkin back out through that fog.

  And then I saw the spotlight movin across the courtyard, and where it came from. An MPD Crown Vic was comin up the street, kinda slow. The driver turned on the overheads, throwing colors all around. Antuane backpedaled and then he was gone.

  The cruiser stopped and the driver’s door opened. The white cop I’d seen earlier in the night got out. Sergeant Peters. My moms had told me his name. Told me he was all right.

  Peters was puttin on his hat as he stepped out. He had pulled his nightstick and his other hand just brushed the Glock on his right hip. Like he was just lettin us all know he had it.

  “Evening, gentlemen,” he said, easy like. “We got a problem here?”

  “Nope,” said Wallace, kinda in a white-boy’s voice, still smiling.

  “Somethin funny?” said Peters.

  Wallace didn’t say nothin. Peters looked at me and then back at Wallace.

  “You all together?” said Peters.

  “We just out here havin a conversation,” said Wallace.

  Sergeant Peters gave Wallace a look then, like he was disgusted with him, and then he sighed.

  “You,” said Peters, turnin to me. I was prayin he wasn’t gonna say my name, like me and him was friends and shit.

  “Yeah?” I said, not too
friendly but not, like, impolite.

  “You live around here?” He knew I did.

  I said, “Uh-huh.”

  “Get on home.”

  I turned around and walked. Slow but not too slow. I heard the white cop talkin to Wallace and the others, and the crackle of his radio comin from the car. Red and blue was strobin across the bricks of the complex. Under my breath I was sayin, thanks God.

  In my apartment, everyone was asleep. I turned off the TV set and covered my sister, who was lyin on the couch. Then I went back to my room and turned the box on so I could listen to my music low. I sat on the edge of the bed. My hand was shaking. I put it together with my other hand and laced my fingers tight.

  Sergeant Peters

  After the Park Morton incident, I answered a domestic call over on 1st and Kennedy. A young gentleman, built like a fullback, had beat up his girl pretty bad. Her face was already swelling when I arrived, and there was blood and spittle bubbling on the side of her mouth. The first cops on the scene had cuffed the perp and had him bent over the hood of their cruiser. At this point the girlfriend, she was screaming at the cops. Some of the neighborhood types, hanging outside of a windowless bar on Kennedy, had begun screaming at the cops, too. I figured they were drunk and high on who-knew-what, so I radioed in for a few more cars.

  We made a couple of additional arrests. Like they say in the TV news, the situation had escalated. Not a full-blown riot, but trouble nonetheless. Someone yelled out at me, called me a “cracker-ass motherfucker.” I didn’t even blink. The county cops don’t take an ounce of that kinda shit, but we take it every night. Sticks and stones, like that. Then someone started whistling the theme from the old Andy Griffith Show, you know, the one where he played a small-town sheriff, and everyone started to laugh. Least they didn’t call me Barney Fife. The thing was, when the residents start with the comedy, you know it’s over, that things have gotten under control. So I didn’t mind. Actually, the guy who was whistling, he was pretty good.