Munson glared at Notch and Carney in turn, unable to decide which man he hated more.
“What for?” Notch said. “He never hurt anyone.”
“Of course he did,” Munson said.
“As far as pimps go…” Notch shrugged. No point in nit-picking. He noticed Carney. “My mom bought a living room set offa you. Way back. Still has it.”
“I like to think people come back because it reminds them of home.”
“Nicky Boots says you’re a fence.”
“Formerly.”
“Because I have some stuff I’m trying to off—nice stuff.”
“I’d be happy to find it a nice home. For your mother.”
The Ukrainian had been sitting quietly in the director’s chair by the window, where he’d been assigned after they frisked him. The forger squinted at the rest of the cast; he had joined an improbable ensemble of cops, furniture salesmen, gangsters, and black revolutionaries. Dangerous theater. It couldn’t be said he did not meet interesting people in his line of work. The Ukrainian knit his fingers and held them between his thighs, like a dunce who’d been sent to the corner. “Life’s rich pageant,” he mumbled.
Malik approached him, stopping to kick Munson on his way over. “Who are you?”
“I’m what they used to call a scratcher,” the Ukrainian said. “Dupes, counterfeits, identification. Turn wrong names right. I was making a delivery.” He reached into his windbreaker pocket—slow—and gave Malik a folded manila envelope.
Malik examined the driver’s license inside and asked if the man had a card. “Never know when you might have to run to Cuba.” The Ukrainian wrote his information on one of the blank business cards he kept in his wallet and gave it to him.
Munson asked for a cigarette. Malik said they cause cancer and smacked him.
Notch’s men banged about, punching holes in the bathroom’s drop ceiling, pulling drawers to the floor, cutting up the mattress and the living room couch. They didn’t uncover any treasure beyond the steamer trunk of firearms in the bedroom closet—pistols, shotguns, a submachine gun. They dragged it into the living room. Malik Jamal smiled.
“We’ll split that,” Notch said.
“Of course,” Malik said.
“Right.”
Notch nodded at Carney and said he’d be in touch about the bounty and the merchandise he wanted to get rid of. Malik looked over and opened his mouth to speak, but thought better of it. A request? A warning? Carney never found out.
Did you play ringolevio uptown? Everybody played, but maybe the rules were different place to place. Munson had been straightening things out like a white man all night. He was about to learn how Harlem sorted things out.
The detective had stopped muttering and cursing and now fixated on a spot between his shoes. One of Notch’s men hoisted him up, Munson groaning at his manhandled arm. The pistol jabbed between vertebrae kept him docile. The gangster took the briefcase and the revolutionaries carried the sample cases. Notch’s other man tugged the crate of guns behind him, scoring the parquet floor in grooves. Carney hated to see a nice old wood floor get nicked up.
Munson didn’t look at Carney as they led him out. The Ukrainian brought up the rear. He doffed his cap. The door clicked shut.
That left Carney and the statue. Two witnesses who would never testify.
The odds of recovering his briefcase from the mobster were poor. Best to think of it as part of the price of escape.
There was the matter of why Munson had been so protective of the bedroom. It wasn’t the guns. Apartment 8B had been slovenly, but the current shambles was absolute. Notch’s men had tossed the bedroom with dedication and ardor, jumbling the dresser drawers in a pile, flinging Munson’s few clothes—a spare tan suit and some undershirts—on top of the ripped-open mattress. The white envelope caught Carney’s eye. Inside were two tickets to the July 16th Jackson 5 concert, fifth row Rotunda at Madison Square Garden.
The rain splashed off the sill so he closed the windows. He hoped the kids had shut the windows at home before they went to bed. He’d be there soon either way. As Carney closed the crow’s nest windows, he spotted two fires in lower Harlem, the big blazes roiling and scheming in the dark. Burning ships on black water. Fire trucks were on the way, from the sirens.
NINE
He asked May why they went by the Jackson 5 when there were six of them.
“Johnny Jackson’s on drums. They say he’s a cousin but he’s a friend they grew up with.”
The Jackson boys were up front, three of them dancing and singing center stage, flanked by the guitarist and bassist.
“Who’s that on guitar?” Carney asked. “Marlon?”
“Tito! Shh!”
The opening act was some combo Carney had never heard of, the Commodores. They were fine. He knew all the Jackson 5’s songs from May’s endless replays—the speakers in that portable record player of hers infiltrated every corner of the house—and now that they were onstage he was really enjoying himself. It was his first time in the new Madison Square Garden. The bowl was huge, a massive arrangement of tiered bleachers and boxes. The payoffs, kickbacks, and overall construction grifts must have been a magical thing.
Carney was a last-minute substitution for Elizabeth. Once he got the tickets—after all that struggle and blood—the concert was swiftly classified as a Girls’ Night Out deal between mother and daughter. Their squabbling ceased on Elizabeth’s return, and now she and May were in a new romance. Six weeks later, however, the big Alabama floods forced Elizabeth to the office to rebook travel. Catfish were swimming in the lobby of the Birmingham Grand, they said. Carney was delighted to escort May after paying for the tickets in various currencies.
The crowd was mixed, mostly under twenty-one. Carney and the other dads exchanged nods and pretended to enjoy the proceedings less than they did. The young girls screamed at every flirty remark from the stage and smacked their hands together at the choreography. The music was loud, the clothes louder. The Jackson boys capered and twirled in tight costumes with multicolored zigzag patterns. Rainbow vests with layered spangles swished and snapped, and the guitarist’s red satin applejack cap was big enough to smuggle in a Christmas ham. Carney’s upbringing was such that he couldn’t help but opine that flare trousers were well suited for quick access to an ankle holster.
Munson’s Garden connection had come through with primo tickets. There had been two hours between Carney leaving with the Benson haul and his return. Munson must have gotten the tickets then, and got stabbed or shot in the arm while doing it. Unless he’d robbed someone else on his way back—he’d crammed a lot into that final night.
So had Carney. He was lying on the parlor sofa, sore and exhausted, when Elizabeth got home that Wednesday. She wore a smile, partially because of her mood, which had improved, and partially because she wanted to see his reaction to her hair. She had cut it off and now wore a natural, inch-high. She posed, showing off her profile, the exquisite curve of her skull. The Afro suited her. “I got the name of a woman on the South Side.”
He groaned when he stood to embrace her and explained he’d been preyed upon by two young men. One of them had a gun. The other one socked him in the stomach. Luckily he didn’t have any money on him. “Oh, you poor thing. This city is something else.” He said he’d bruised up. She said, let me see. One thing led to another. She was back.