Munson probed his wound through his jacket. His finger came back dark and wet. “Whatever happened to that girl you used to have around the office?” he said. “Marie.”
“She got married. Had a kid. Left, came back.” A Munson envelope pickup, in the old days, was preceded by a short flirt with Marie. She feigned shock at the detective’s banter but wore her “nice earrings” and her special lipstick on collection days. When it came to her attitude toward Munson, you had to infer from details. She kept her mouth shut about various aspects of Carney’s store, and it was the same with her own business. It was clear her husband, Rodney, was bad news; whether she was capable of changing her life was less so.
“Husband’s no good, huh?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“It’s how you said it.”
Carney had never met the cop’s missus. Taught art in an elementary school, if he remembered correctly. Brassy Irish broad in Munson’s characterization over the years, recognizing flaws, forgiving some, occasionally drawing a line. If she was out of the picture, it helped explain Munson’s behavior, the dishevelment and the cornered-animal aspect on display.
“Angela coming along with you on this trip?” The moment Carney said it, the thought popped up: He’s killed his wife.
Munson checked his gun. “My blushing bride has decided to visit her sister in Pittsburgh. Perhaps she will join me at a later date. You can’t force people into things.”
“But a gun helps,” Carney said.
Munson ignored him. “Even if I didn’t have a rain of shit coming down on me, who wants to live in this dump?” Munson said. His voice an exhausted growl. “Used to be the ghetto was the ghetto—now the whole city is the ghetto. Shitheels dumping newborn babies down garbage chutes. Thirteen-year-olds carrying their daddies’ babies. Woman gets put through the wall so many times she blows out her old man’s brains, then eats the gun herself. Old ladies chained to radiators while their grandchildren steal their welfare checks.”
“Cycle of life.”
They laughed.
“Asking about my wife,” Munson said. “Pissing me off like we’ve been riding around for years.”
“The gun. With Webb—it’s the one you took from the Liberation Army.”
“Yeah?”
“So you can plant it somewhere.”
“Here I was, doubting you.”
With that, they shut up for a time.
Once again he’d been swept up in someone else’s scheme. True, Carney had called Munson first, but the detective had taken advantage of his salesman’s personality, out to please. Seven years ago, Freddie spent his final days trying to undo a catastrophic robbery. Carney hadn’t gotten his cousin killed, but he’d been along for the ride. Like he was now, on Munson’s kamikaze run through Harlem, riding shotgun to his rampage. Hurt who you want, take what you want. Kill who you want. When Munson talked about ringolevio, he was talking about the thrill of impunity, of bending the city to his will, then and now. What were civilian rules to white cops like Munson and his ilk? The last two hours had proved it plenty times over: Nothing.
Ringolevio—everybody played for different reasons. Carney cherished those days because no matter what happened, Freddie was there to bust him out. When he got nabbed, it was only a matter of time before his cousin sprung him. And vice versa—if Freddie went down, Carney started drawing up plans for the jailbreak. Half the time they got caught, it was for breaking the other one out of jail. The sun throbbed on windows and chrome and broken glass and then came Freddie’s head popping out from behind the moving van, scoping out the territory, gauging his chances. Carney hopped on the stoop like a base runner, arm outstretched: I’m here, get me outta here.
Freddie wasn’t around to spring him anymore. He’d have to do it himself.
* * *
***
The movement drew Earl’s attention from yesterday’s New York Post. He sat in his chair outside the back room, from which he had not stirred for hours. The sentry frowned. Carney was aware that his own expression curdled whenever Munson showed up for his envelope; he hadn’t been aware it was a universal response. Earl rose and unlocked the door.
The radio was playing “I’ll Be There” by the Jackson 5. Carney shivered. If Munson recognized the song, he made no sign.
Earl said, “Detective Munson.” His affect reminded Carney of a rascal installed outside the saloon in a Western, slow-talking and too long unchallenged.
“Let’s head back there,” Munson said to Carney.
Earl took a step back. He appraised Munson, then Carney. The gun in the detective’s hand made his intentions obvious, but the mind resisted. “So it’s like that?” Earl said, with distaste.
Munson waved his gun, indicating for Earl to walk ahead of them to the count room. He patted him down. He stuck Earl’s pistol in his waistband and tossed the blackjack onto a barber’s chair. Munson noticed Carney. He’d told Carney to skip the gun this time and merely do as directed, but had not anticipated that the furniture peddler would raise his hands, don’t-shoot style, once business started.
Munson shook his head. “Open the door, will you,” he said.
The public face of Clyde’s was dingy and yellow, the signs on the walls speckled with greasy clots of dust, the labels on the canisters and jars peeling and faded. The count room in back was the opposite, chipper and inviting. If you were going to spend long shifts tending the wheels and levers of a proper numbers operation, you might as well be comfortable. The oak paneling was a vestige of the building’s life as a luxury townhouse on a once well-to-do stretch of Harlem, the icebox and stove were new-model avocado-green Frigidaire jobs. A chandelier full of bright glass hung over a ’68 Collins-Hathaway dining table, upon which were the vestiges of a late supper of ham and potatoes. Carney hadn’t eaten since noon.
The counting station—a cedar table with a neat array of automatic bill counters, task lamps, and organizers—was shut down for the night. A big Eureka Co. safe squatted next to the table, and on top of it a Panasonic portable TV showed a Christopher Lee Dracula picture with the sound off. Probably Channel 9, and John staying up past his bedtime to watch it. Carney wished he was home to scold his boy and then join him on the sofa to watch Drac do his thing.
The two back-room operators were Carney’s age. Same make, different mileage. The short, sour-faced man was named Driscoll, Carney found out later. His dark trousers were held up by wide-band suspenders over a shirt of stiff white cloth. He had the probing gaze of a mechanic as he tries to figure out how much he can soak you. The cigarette stuck to his bottom lip whipped up and down when he spoke.
The taller man was Popeye. A lattice of small slashes marked Popeye’s face, from close combat or a protracted torture session. His lifeless eye was a white teaspoon of milk. Popeye’s spare, skeletal build and the tufts circling his bald head gave him a meek air, like he was a broken old man they kept around to sweep up. As the episode proceeded, Carney understood the man was completely feral.
Carney didn’t recognize them. He’d tangled with Chink’s drivers and muscle before, but there had been churn over the years. Hazards of the profession. Carney knew their boss, of course, and before he opened the door, was cursed with a brief vision of Chink Montague himself behind the door, glaring from his throne. Notch Walker was in ascendance, but Chink still owned a good share of uptown. Carney was relieved to find only these two men back there.