Marcus powered off his MP3 player. “You know ‘renaissance’ means rebirth? They rediscovered the ancient world and Europe was reborn. You know that?”
“No.” I twisted the newspaper.
And you never knew till you heard it. Now we both know. Aren’t we smart?
“Hm?” He took out his earbuds. They dangled from his starched collar. “You didn’t know that?” He pulled his cell phone from his coat. “By the way, does this one charge for texts?”
Do I have to remember this? Every Friday, a new cell. The rest of the week, ignorant questions on how to use it. Then he tosses and the cycle begins again. Why can’t I remember Sophie? Lavender. Think about her. Can’t.
“Not sure. Who do you need to text?”
He pressed a few buttons. “Forget it. I miss the old days. All a man needed was a pay phone and a dime.”
“Was this during prohibition?”
“Don’t get lippy.”
Marcus, you’re ashamed of your sense of humor and you despise everyone else’s and I never saw you happy.
“By the way, the kid was right.” I unrolled the Dispatch and laid it on his desk. “Section B, page 3.”
“What’s it say?” Marcus took a toothpick from the top drawer and picked at his fingernails.
“It says the kid was right. During a sting, a cop shot a fleeing suspect. Darryl Cooper. A second suspect got away. Don’t give a name. Drugs were recovered. Now some cops are under investigation. Here’s the really interesting part. You ready? One of the cops is our old friend in blue. Ravella.”
His came to a stubborn clump of dirt.
“Well?”
He wiped the toothpick on his pants. “I’m waiting for you to tell me something I don’t know.”
Bullshit. Used bullshit to beat down my pride. What a man.
“The point is Bobby didn’t rip you off.”
“Why not?”
“It says--”
“It says they confiscated the drugs.” He fanned out his fingers, looked over his work. “Isn’t that what you’d say if you was the cops? Papers don’t print the truth. They print what they’re told. And half the time they can’t get that right. Paper changes nothing. Kid still owes me.”
Which was a raw deal. Everyone knew it.
Lucas pouring a drink: “This has to be about something else.”
Benny before drinking: “Yeah. A bug crawled up his ass and he’s blaming it on the kid.”
And more. And a lot I didn’t get a chance to overhear.
Marcus himself knew it was bullshit. I don’t care how broke he was. It wasn’t fair. He knew it. And he knew we paid Bobby next to nothing. But once he said it he had to stick to it. A man never takes back his word no matter how mistaken the word is. That’s a rule.
I collected the newspaper and rolled it up.
Marcus put the toothpick in his mouth and chomped it in half, threw it away, pointed his manicured index at me. “Do I run a charity? Is this the United Way? No. It’s The Do What the Fuck I Say Way.” The earbuds bobbed. “Today’s no different than yesterday. Won’t be different tomorrow. Paper changes nothing.”
“But Ravella?”
“What about him?” Marcus took a fat cigar from his desk. Uncut, but he’d chewed one end to bits. He puckered his lips and sucked on the end he hadn’t mangled.
He never lit one, like he didn’t know they were for smoking. Lungs can’t handle smoke but you can’t deny yourself the status symbol, like only big bosses can afford a stogie. Like sticking one in your mouth gives you muscle and respect. I’d buy a box and still be a nobody.
“Think this was on purpose?”
He rolled the cigar across his mouth. “Strike you as the type who has accidents?” The cigar hopped as he spoke.
“But why?”
Marcus took the cigar out of his mouth. It stretched his index and middle finger. Looked like he was giving the peace sign. “Motivation doesn’t mean too much, now does it? Was he trying to send me a message? Fine. Message received. He can kill people. Great. He wants me to keep quiet about our deal? Okay. I will. Next. Or maybe I bunched his panties when I called off the deal. Revenge. Hope he got it out of his system.”
“But why risk it? We know where this shit heal lives.”
He gazed into the dark.
He wasn’t working out what to say. He knew what to say. He just wasn’t sure he wanted to say it. Say it to me, at least. At one time, seemed like he was grooming me to take over. Then he changed his mind because of something I did wrong or didn’t do right, or because my body didn’t fill in like he had hoped. My money’s on Benny taking over.
“Because it’s hard to do your shit when the police department’s up your ass. He knows that. He knows I know that. It burns me that you don’t know that. If we were some dago outfit maybe we could get away with capping a cop, but we ain’t. Thank God.” Again, quieter: “Thank God. Anyway, dirty cops don’t retire. He’ll get his some day. Besides, revenge never solved one problem without creating five more. Seems that’s a truth I know and he doesn’t. Ever read Hamlet? Didn’t think so.”
“Actually, I did read Hamlet actually.”
Marcus crunched the cigar on his back teeth.
“But I don’t remember much.”
He turned and spit some paper into the dark. “It’s about revenge and folks bullshitting each.” He threw the cigar under his desk. It hit the can with a metal clank. “That’s done. By the by, I need you collect some payments. Rebus Jefferson’s pissed off so many folks, we’re getting paid to take care of him. Yesterday, Rebus cost me money. Today, he’s gonna make me some. And right on time to pay the property tax.”
“Want Benny to take care of him?”
“Oh, was it Benny who set up the deal?”
I squeezed the newspaper.
“And do the warehouse thing.”
I tried to squeeze out the ink.
He might’ve been harder on me. It wouldn’t have been fair, but I would’ve understood. It was my deal that turned bad. Not my fault, but in a way it was. Just my bad luck to set up a deal while he was turning everyone’s trust into a big pay day with the cops. He was old enough to known better. But he went for it, out on a limb. And the thing broke beneath him and killed Darryl, himself, and now two more. At least.
“Is that all?”
Marcus rifled through his desk and took out a sheet of paper to write out an address list. “You know Monet?”
No. Never met the man. But I can read his name on that poster. Aren’t I smart? I’m so smart, I’m dying in a bathtub with some lead in my back.
“I’m listening to this thing on art. They’re gonna get to him. French. One of the greats. One these days, y’know, I’m gonna buy some nice pieces and throw a party. I’ll invite Columbus’ elite to oo and aw over my shit. Don’t loose this.” He handed me the list. “I’m not describing a fantasy. It’s gonna happen. That’s when I’ll know I’ve arrived.”
It might happen. He’s alive, so can’t say never. Life might take him where he wants to go. Or it might get tired of his ass and shuffle him off. One or the other or something else. Life’s not fair, so anything could happen.