Gunmetal Black Read online

I bit into a cherry empanada. “How many of these accounts you servicing right now?”

  “Right now, only eight. But yuppies keep moving in. They already own the whole other side of Western. This area’s getting more commercial.” A light dusting of powdered sugar decorated Tony’s goatee and shirt. He talked with his mouth full. “I figure I’ll grow with the neighborhood.”

  We parked in front of a hot dog stand with a faded picture of a Vienna sausage.

  Tony brushed himself off. “One more quick stop.”

  “I’ll wait in the car.”

  “What, and miss all the fun? C’mon.”

  The place was a dump. It looked like you could use your finger to trace your name in the grease that coagulated on the walls. Fly tape swung from the ceiling, peppered with dead flies. In the seating area the only customer, a large black woman, sat and began to unwrap her food. Behind the counter a young Korean man in a fresh white smock put his newspaper down and wedged a cigarette in the ashtray.

  “For here or to go?” said the Korean, without an accent.

  Tony looked past the man at the Korean woman, no doubt the young man’s wife, washing and cutting vegetables by the sink. He looked back at the Korean cashier. “For here, chief. Let me get some fries.”

  The man began to bag French fries for Tony from under a heat lamp.

  Tony pointed at the deep fryer. “Naw, man. Fresh ones. Who knows how long them turds been sitting out there?”

  The Korean kept bagging fries. “Sir, these fries are fresh.”

  Tony raised his tone half a notch. “Hey, do I know you?”

  The Korean stopped bagging and turned to stare at Tony.

  “We don’t know each other, do we? Let me get some fresh fries.”

  The man dumped the bagged fries back under the heat lamp, then threw a handful of frozen ones into a wire basket and lowered the basket into the bubbling oil. Steam rose.

  The Korean said, “Anything else?”

  Tony placed the twenty on the counter. “Naw, friend, I already ate.”

  The Korean rang up the order, took the twenty, and replaced it with Tony’s change.

  Tony looked at the change without picking it up. “Yo, what the fuck is this?”

  The Korean blinked. “Excuse me, sir?”

  Tony pointed at the change on the counter. “This. What is it?”

  “Your change.”

  “Right. Where’s Kim?”

  “Kim?”

  “Kim, the owner. Call him. Tell him to get his ass down here pronto, like instant noodle. What the fuck does he think this is? Some kinda game?”

  Understanding flooded the Korean’s eyes. “Kim? Oh! Mr. Kim. No, he is not here anymore. I just bought this place.”

  Tony said, “You bought it?”

  “Yes.”

  “From Kim?”

  “That’s right.”

  Tony looked at me. I shrugged. He turned back to the Korean.

  “Listen, what’s your name?”

  “Soo.”

  “Sue? Is that short for Susan or something?”

  “No,” said the Korean. “S-O-O. Soo.”

  “Oh. OK. Listen, Soo, Kim and I, we had, like, an agreement.”

  Soo narrowed his eyes. “An agreement?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You mean like. . . a contract?”

  “Something like that.”

  Soo tightened his lips. “Are you a supplier?”

  “Sort of. Basically, I come here every week. I order something from the menu. I pay with a twenty, like the one I just gave you.”

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Now, when you bring back the ‘change’ ”—Tony emphasized the word by saying it slowly and making quotation marks with his fingers—“I want the same exact twenty that I handed you, OK, Soo? Plus two hundred-dollar bills on either side of it. You got that?”

  Soo made a face like he didn’t follow. I noticed then that Soo’s wife had stopped chopping and was watching us with her hands on her hips. The knife was in her right hand. I glanced over at the lone black diner as she bit into her cheeseburger and left a perfect half-circle.

  Tony grinned. “Look, Soo, it’s not like you won’t get your money’s worth.” Tony lifted the countertop and walked behind the counter.

  Soo contorted his face. “Hey, mister, you cannot come back here!”

  Tony made the “silence” gesture with his index finger to his lip. “It’s OK, Soo, it’s all right. I’m just gonna show you what I can do.”

  Tony walked past Soo, toward where Soo’s wife stood next to the sink and the chopped vegetables. In one slick move Tony had the woman by the right wrist. The knife fell from her hand. She screamed as Tony spun behind her, grabbed her hair, and restrained her.

  In a soft voice Tony said, “Scream again, bitch, and I’ll cut your tongue out and drop it in the fryer.”

  Soo’s wife swallowed the next one. Tony kicked the knife under the sink, beyond anyone’s reach.

  I looked over at the black woman. She began to get up to run with her food in her hands.

  I pointed straight at her and spoke firmly. “Sit. Do not move. Turn your face away.”

  The customer eased back down and did as I said.

  Tony dragged Soo’s wife to the fryer. Soo had his hands out in front of him, like he was bracing, but he did not move. His wife’s pleading eyes made me wish that Tony would just let go.

  The husband’s hands shook. “Sorry, mister. Look, look. Money.” He hit the register, opening it. “Take it. Take the whole thing.”

  But Tony didn’t stop. He extended the woman’s hand to just above the bubbling oil. She emitted a low sob, and you could see her strain, but she was no match for Little Tony. Droplets from her wet fingertips sizzled as they hit the surface of the hot oil.

  Tony held her in place and looked at her husband. “Please, Soo, focus. I don’t want to get ugly here: The routine is, I pay with a twenty. You give it back to me with two hundreds kissing either side. Capische?”

  Soo fumbled through the cash drawer, rattling coins. “I have only one hundred-dollar bill,” he said. “The rest in twenties.”

  Tony paused as if considering. “Fine, Soo.” He released Soo’s wife, and the woman jumped away, clutching her hand to her chest. “I don’t wanna be too much of a hard-on, but from now on, Soo, make sure it’s in hundreds, OK? Too many bills makes my wallet hard to fold. It throws my balance off.”

  Soo paid the ransom.

  Tony counted it. He looked Soo in the eye for a few seconds. “Listen, don’t hold it against me, all right, partner? Let’s start fresh. I just needed you to understand.”

  Soo remained still, but his mouth twisted.

  Tony snagged one of the fries that Soo had originally tried to serve him from under the heat lamp. He popped it in his mouth, made a face, and spit it into a napkin. “You see, Soo? I told you them shits is cold.” Tony looked at me. “How ’bout you, Eddie? You need anything?”

  “I’m all right.”

  “Good. Now you ready for some real fun?”

  We passed beneath two giant metal sculptures of the Puerto Rican flag, with its lone star, arching across Division Street, Paseo Boricua. We headed west, then drove zigzag patterns up alleys and side streets. Eventually, we came to Tony’s intersection.

  Streetlamps lit the rest of the city, but not this part. Someone had cut the power to the streetlights, throwing a black veil over the entire spot.

  I shifted in my seat. “Looks like yuppies haven’t quite discovered this block, have they, Tony?”

  “Not yet they haven’t.”

  Even if you’ve never been to the city, or you steer clear of low rent, you know about these pockets. You’ve seen them in movies, or on the news. Maybe you’ve dreamt that you made a wrong turn somewhere and got lost there, turning in circles, a breath ahead of the Minotaur. Tony parked next to a hydrant and pointed at the opposite corner.

  “La Esquina Caliente,” he said.

&
nbsp; I knew the spot. Back in the day we stood there in parachute pants and zipper jackets, moonwalking, laughing, staving off cold, selling small bags of marijuana, and making out with rebellious girls. We never imagined we would ever be anything other than cool.

  A new crop of teenagers stood with less energy now. They wore circus-tent jeans slung low on their asses, big hooded sweatshirts, and unlaced boots. They leaned a lot, shot dice, sucked 40s, and puffed weed like it was a chore. I would say at least half had their ears pressed against a cell phone.

  I took a deep breath. “What are we doing here, Tony?”

  “One last bit of business.”

  “Whyn’t you drop me off first? I’m tired.”

  “Relax.” Tony powered his window open. “You’re back in Chi-town now. This is my turf.”

  A skinny punk with a heavy gold medallion ran over to Tony. “What up, T?” The skinny kid glanced at me, then back at Tony. “I thought you wasn’t coming by till later.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m here now. You got my money?”

  The kid pulled a small canvas bag from his waistband.

  Tony snatched it and weighed it in his palm. “Feels light, Moco.” He looked inside, then shot the kid a look. “Yo, Moco, what the fuck’re you assholes doin’ out here? Jaggin’ each other off?”

  Moco said nothing.

  Tony shoved the bag under his seat. “Come ’ere.”

  The kid took a step toward the car.

  Tony reeled him in with an index finger. “Down here, Moco. Close to me.”

  Moco leaned until his face was within Tony’s reach. In the dark the orange glow from Tony’s cigarette made a jack-o’-lantern effect on Moco’s sharp features.

  “Tell me the truth, Moco. You pinching my stash?”

  “Naw, bro.”

  “Adding any cut to my shit, Moco? I know all the tricks.”

  “No, Tony, I swear.”

  “What the fuck is the problem, then?”

  “We ain’t been able to sling.”

  “Why not?”

  “Them narcs keep rolling through here, breaking everything up.”

  Tony said, “Coltrane and Johnson?”

  Moco nodded. “I tried calling you, T, but it keeps going into voice mail.”

  Tony’s face went south. “Jesus! Why can’t those pigs keep their snouts out my goddamn business?”

  Moco shrugged. “They’re crazy, bro. Johnson punched JJ in the eye. Almost knocked him out.”

  Another skinny punk swaggered over. He removed his hood to verify Moco’s story. A purple lump of flesh stretched the rim above his eye so that his eyebrow looked like a black caterpillar feeding on a soft dark plum.

  Tony examined the wound. “Man, ain’t this about a bitch?”

  The kid with the shiner stuck his chest out. “Yo, T, I can take whatever them pigs got.”

  Tony waved him off. “Shut the fuck up, JJ. Get back on post.”

  JJ flipped his hood and swaggered back to his spot next to the fire hydrant.

  Tony turned to Moco again. He thumbed at me. “Moco, you see this man?”

  Moco eyeballed me.

  Tony said, “This is my boy that I was telling you about. Remember?”

  Moco nodded. “Palo, right?”

  “Call me Eddie.”

  “Eddie, yeah.” He shook my hand. “Bro, you a straight-up legacy around here. Everybody knows about you. I been hearing about you ever since I was a shorty.”

  I barely nodded.

  Tony said, “Moco, make sure everybody on the block knows he’s my boy, all right? He comes by, you give him whatever he wants.”

  I said, “That’s OK, Tony.”

  Tony ignored me. “You talk to him, Moco, it’s like you’re talking directly to me, you got that?”

  Moco said, “Got it.”

  “Good. Now let me get a deck.”

  Moco looked up and down the block, then whistled. Another kid broke from the pack and hustled to a gangway, the cell phone still pressed against his ear. He disappeared into the gangway, then reappeared and hustled back, handing Moco a small bag, all the while chatting. Moco looked up and down the street again before leaning in. He handed Tony the bag.

  It was a tiny glassine envelope with a small amount of white dust in it. Tony lit the Cadillac’s interior.

  “I wanted you to see my product.”

  Tony held it up. The small plastic Baggie was stamped with an image of a bull’s head on it, like a cheap imitation of the Chicago Bulls logo. Tony pointed at the horn. “You see that? Cornuto.”

  “Congratulations, Tony. Now can we break the fuck out?”

  Tony said, “What, you got a hot date or something?”

  “I just ain’t feeling this.”

  “You’re paranoid, right? Like the COs are just about to walk in on you. You keep expecting the old ‘face the wall and spread your butt cheeks’ routine. I went through that when I first got out.”

  “It’s not that, Tony. It’s just—”

  Suddenly, a skinny man emerged from a gangway across the street and shuffled toward us, with his shoulders hunched and both hands in his pants pockets. He was bony, but he had a thick, uneven beard and a head of hair grown wild.

  Tony tossed his cigarette. “Great. Here comes buzzkill.”

  Moco pulled his sleeves up. “You want me to get rid of him, boss?”

  “Just chill, Moco. Post up.”

  Moco x-rayed the intruder with his eyes as he walked off.

  The man stepped to Tony’s window and saluted. “¡Capitán!”

  “Don’t start, B.”

  The skinny man grinned and nodded. “How you doing, papi? Everything tight? How’s your moms?”

  Tony said, “You really peel yourself from the gutter for small talk?”

  The man’s grin widened. He was missing several teeth and the dark spaces staggered between the remaining ones meant his smile resembled the keys of a piano. There were dark circles under his eyes. He scratched his head.

  “It’s that, um, you know, Tone, I’m gonna get my Social Security check next week, and, um, how do you call it, as soon as I cash that, I was, um, I swear on my mother, I was gonna get straight with you, right? My hand to God. You know I’m good for it, right? But, today, I—”

  Tony said, “Beto, stop trying to cop over here without cash, aw’ight? Go talk to Roach. I ain’t carrying you no more. And where’s your manners? Don’t you see who this is sitting next to me?”

  That was when I realized that I knew Beto. I mean, I really knew him. We went to high school together and dropped out around the same time. We ran in the same crew, hung out in the same clubs, pulled capers together. During our heyday we called Beto “GQ” because of his dapper style. The ladies loved him.

  Beto looked at me. He appeared to be about half of his original size. His yellow eyes widened. He slapped his hands together. “Oye, pero, look who it is!”

  He came around to my side of the car. I got out. Beto hugged me and I noticed that he stank mildly of urine. He felt real thin under his wrinkled shirt, which was damp. His face was sweaty.

  Beto tugged at a knot in his beard. “Palo, wow, what a trip. The ‘Man with the Plan,’ huh? Wassup, gangster? How long you been out? You was still inside, right?”

  “Until today. But you can call me Eddie.”

  “Eddie, yeah, that’s good, papi, that’s good, you look good. ¿La buena vida?”

  “Something like that. What’s up with you?” I said, and felt embarrassed the instant the words tumbled out of my mouth.

  Beto bit his lip, scratched, and tilted his head forward enough to suggest that I take a good look. “Holding on, papi. You know how it be. I—I got the virus and everything. Fucked myself up.”

  “Sorry to hear that, Beto. I been reading they’re working wonders with the drugs for that now.”

  “Yeah, so they say. But that shit costs. Anyways, you know me. Can’t be on no kind of program.”

  I nodded.


  Beto rocked in place and rubbed his forearm. “Yo, Eddie, you know—I wanted to thank you, you know? For never ratting me out on that thing.”

  “Forget about it.”

  “You could’ve done yourself a solid by stabbing me in the back, and I really, I just. . .” He leaned in and gave me a quick half hug. “De corazón, bro. For not opening your mouth.”

  “Never thought of it, Beto.”

  “That was never your style.” Beto flashed his piano keys. “Eddie, you think, you know, for old times’ sake, maybe you could hit me off with just a couple dollars? Just for a few? I’m solid for it. I get my SSI check—”

  “Well—”

  “Remember ladies’ night at Eddie Rockets, bro? Erik’s North? Prime and Tender, back in the day?” Beto began singing the chorus from Exposé’s “Point of No Return.” He launched into a dance move called “the Running Man.” “Remember, Eddie? When we used to battle?”

  “I remember.”

  Beto froze the dance in midstride, with a leg in the air. “We used to be tight, Eddie, remember?” Beto popped back into action for a couple more steps, then froze. “I’ll get the money back to you with interest, Eddie, I promise.”

  “That’s not it, Beto—”

  He popped back into song and dance for a wild breakdown, then froze. “C’mon, Eddie. You can call it money in the bank.” He moved again, pop-locking and doing the chorus, then froze. “I’ll never bother you again.” Beto hopped and repeated just the chorus until he ran out of breath. He bent with his hands on his knees, huffing. “Remember, Eddie? The good times?”

  “You always were the best dancer.” I began to reach for my wallet when Tony piped in.

  “Yo, Eddie, you givin’ this títere legal tender? You may as well light that shit on fire.”

  Beto begged with his eyes. “C’mon, Tony, why you gotta be like that?”

  “Beto, the guy just got back. Already you’re hittin’ him up with your pity party? Show some respect.”

  I waved Tony off. “I’m all right, Tone.”

  “I know you are. That’s your flaw. You’re soft. Beto! Here!” Tony tossed the sack of heroin he showed me out the window onto the street.

  Beto jumped on it.

  Tony snapped his neck for me to get in the car, which I did.

  Beto leaned in to Tony’s side with a bigger grin. “See, Tony? You always come through. Man, you got a heart of gold!”