Munson directed Carney to park across the street. He asked for the keys before setting out across the avenue.
“Detective Munson!” the taller man yelled. “Making the rounds!”
Carney couldn’t make out Munson’s reply; its physical expression was plain. Munson grabbed the man by the coat and beat him repeatedly across the face. The man staggered and sank, and Munson battered him to the pavement.
The one in the black trench said, “Oh, my man, my man,” and split west, clacking in his crocodile-skin Cuban heels.
Munson kicked the man in the purple suit in the stomach twice. He was out of breath. He walked to the corner and dragged an aluminum trash can over with his good hand. He dragged it onto the man’s body, and started kicking him through the can.
It might have been a terrible dream but for the old bat who threw open a window on the second floor and screamed at Munson to knock it off, she was trying to get some goddamn sleep. That’s how Carney knew he was in the real New York City and not the nightmare one. Perhaps there was no difference anymore.
Munson returned to the Cadillac. He didn’t rob the pimp; the beating was the point. The man moaned and squirmed on the sidewalk, so Carney knew he was not dead. Munson gave Carney the keys and waved his hand northward.
“I always hated that fucker. Everybody’s bad, but some are worse, Carney.” He popped a pill. “He’s worse.”
At the third and fourth stops, he told Carney to stay in the car but didn’t ask for the keys. He thinks I’m trained now, Carney thought. Letting out a little more leash.
The bottle club was on 145th, a few doors in from Amsterdam. The front window was painted black and a line of red bulbs above it served as a sign. It was a weeknight, sneaking on midnight, but men and women milled around the entrance, refreshing themselves from the steamy interior. Smoking cigarettes and reefer and sipping booze out of disposable cups. Carney didn’t believe Munson would start shooting up the joint but he’d certainly hurt someone if they stepped to him. Others came to the same conclusion, as evidenced by the stampede that boiled forth after he went inside. They followed Harlem Safety Rules, withdrawing far enough so as not to be the first cut down when the action spilled outside, but close enough for a good look at whatever craziness went down next. Tomorrow they’d shame friends who went home early.
Carney sank down in the front seat of the DeVille. Two men at the poker game were customers. （He confessed to a twinge of pride.） There was no telling how many of those carousers across the street were fans of quality, affordable home furniture. He’d advertised his holiday weekend sale in the Amsterdam News and two Caribbean papers; it was perfectly reasonable that some of these souls had come by for bargains. He started the car and waited.
Munson charged out of the club, cradling a dark blue bank pouch like a football. He whooped, stood disoriented in the middle of Amsterdam, then found Carney and the Cadillac. “Let’s go, let’s go!” The detective jumped in. Best he could, Carney hid his face from the crowd as they pulled away.
The fourth stop was quieter. The bodega was the only thing open on 132nd and Eighth. Munson checked the street, uptown and downtown, walked inside, and was out two minutes later. No person, no sound—gunshots, say, or agonized cries—exited the premises during his visit. The bodega money was in a rolled-up paper bag. “I’m like Robin Hood,” Munson said, “except it’s all for me!”
Carney didn’t ask.
Munson added the cash to the briefcase and assured Carney he’d return it to him at the end of the night.
The fifth stop was Clyde’s.
You didn’t go to Clyde’s Classic for a cut. The barber—there was only one—would fuck it up so bad, turn you into such a walking humiliation that you’d never return. Which was the point. Nonetheless, there was steady traffic in and out, and odd hours kept. The barber punched out at six P.M., and a very large man commenced his shift on a wooden chair outside the door to the back room. At all times the radio was tuned to 1600 AM—“The Big RL!”—at excruciating volume. From time to time the man in the chair tapped his foot to one of the new Motown numbers, or one of the increasingly slick sounds emerging from Philadelphia, but for the most part he kept his arms crossed, his chin sloped, and his lizard gaze level. His name was Earl.
Clyde’s was a long-running front for Chink Montague’s policy racket, confirmation of the longevity of his Harlem operation and his arrangement with the police. There had been two previous attempts to rob this numbers bank, in 1960 during Chink’s war with Bumpy Johnson, and two years ago. The day after the 1960 attempt had been Earl’s first shift at Clyde’s; in addition to replacing his dead predecessor, he had helped sweep up the glass. The more recent raid was put down quickly. The would-be thief had been a neighborhood lowlife named Dizzy Huntley, immediately recognized despite the fake mustache and dark-rimmed glasses. It had been a slow night so Earl steered him into the back room, where he and the boys taunted and belittled Dizzy over his shoddy robbery skills and generally lackluster criminal sense until they got bored and punched his ticket.
Chink had assumed control of the location from Smiling Rick in a 1958 territorial expansion. As a souvenir, he kept the man’s picture on the wall, where Rick posed star-crossed and Zoot-suited in front of the Cotton Club. Chink’s runners dispersed over southeast Harlem, collecting slips from housewives and war vets, plumbers’ assistants and bail bondsmen, working men of every stripe, the doomed and the blessed alike, as they bet the three-digit combination that might unlock the Vault of Happiness. The money and slips traveled from the network into the back room. After the day’s races posted, determining which numbers had hit, the runners paid the winners their portion of that day’s take. The majority remained in Clyde’s back room until Thursday, when couriers picked it up to take to another of the gangster’s headquarters.
“If I could wait two days,” Munson said, “I’d really be in the money.” He lit a cigarette. “But I ain’t waiting around that long.”
Carney and Munson had been parked twenty yards down from the barbershop for half an hour. Clyde’s occupied the ground floor of a townhouse on Lenox off 121st. A residential block with a smattering of first-floor businesses. It got livelier up Lenox, as you approached 125th Street. Here it was quiet.
Carney asked what they were waiting for.
“You asked, what’s a stakeout? Sometimes it’s sitting and watching. Sometimes it’s the wait for one last confirmation of what you’ve already decided to do. A man appears. Someone leaves. And the switch is pulled and it’s time to go.”
The dark green M102—OUT OF SERVICE—chugged up Lenox, as bright as it was empty. May and John took the 102 sometimes to New Lincoln, in the more honest hours. Were they worried he wasn’t home yet, or glad for a night without parents? Who’d pay their tuition if Carney bought it tonight? He heard a whisper sometimes when he thought about Elizabeth’s trip, that goblin voice. How did Munson put it, about partners and spouses? They will drive each other batshit. Was she sick of him, was that why she split town? A work trip. Or a man from the old days who lived in Miami or Chicago now, maybe a colleague from a satellite office she dreamed of meeting in person. He didn’t detect anything when they talked on the phone. Still: the whisper. May and John’s dad turns up dead in the gutter, their mother has started a new life in Chicago with some slick motherfucker. No, she had sounded fine when she called from the hotel and sincere that she missed them. If he ended up dead tonight, she’d be home tomorrow to take care of the kids. An image of Buck Webb’s demolished face brought him back to 121st Street.