“Damn straight,” Spit said. He handed the machine pistol back to Jack and gave Jack a shove to move out.
On Amsterdam Spit used a pay phone while Jack waited nervously.
All at once the ubiquitous sirens heard in the distance in New York City had a new meaning for Jack. So did the concept of being a felon. For years Jack had been thinking of himself as a victim. Now he was the criminal.
Spit hung up the phone and gave Jack a thumbs-up sign. Jack had no idea what the gesture meant, but he smiled anyway since Spit seemed to be content.
Less than fifteen minutes later a lowered maroon Buick pulled to the curb. The intermittent thud of rap music could be heard through the tinted windows. Spit opened the back door and motioned for Jack to slide in. Jack complied. Events were clearly not in his control. Spit gave a final look around before climbing into the front seat. The car shot away from the curb.
“What’s happening?” the driver asked. His name was David. He was also a regular on the b-ball court.
“A lot of shit,” Spit said. He rolled his window down and noisily expectorated.
Jack winced each time the bass sounded in one of the many stereo speakers. He slipped the machine pistol out from under his sweater. Having the thing close to his body gave him a distinctly unpleasant feeling.
“What do you want me to do with this?” Jack asked Spit. He had to talk loudly to be heard over the sound of the music.
Spit swung around and took the gun. He showed it to David, who whistled in admiration. “That’s the new model,” he commented.
With little talk the threesome drove north to 106th Street and turned right. David braked across from the playground. The basketball game was still in progress.
“Wait here,” Spit said. He got out of the car and headed into the play ground.
Jack watched Spit as he walked to the basketball court and stood on the sidelines as the game swept back and forth in front of him. Jack was tempted to ask David what was happening, but his intuition told him to keep still. Eventually Spit got Warren’s attention and Warren stopped the game.
After a brief conversation during which Spit passed Reginald’s wallet to Warren, the two men came back to David’s car. David lowered the window. Warren stuck his head in and looked at Jack. “What the hell have you been doing?” he demanded angrily.
“Nothing,” Jack said. “I’m the victim here. Why be angry with me?”
Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he ran his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth while he thought. Perspiration lined his forehead. All at once he stood up and opened the door for Jack. “Get out,” he said. “We have to talk. Let’s go up to your place.”
Jack slid out of the car. He tried to look Warren in the eye, but Warren avoided his stare. Warren started out across the street, and Jack followed. Spit came behind Jack. They climbed Jack’s stairs in silence.
“You got anything to drink?” Warren asked once they were inside.
“Gatorade or beer,” Jack said. He had restocked his refrigerator.
“Gatorade,” Warren said. He Walked over to Jack’s couch and sat heavily.
Jack offered Spit the same choices. He took beer. After Jack had provided the drinks he sat in the chair opposite the couch. Spit preferred to lean against the desk.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Warren said.
“You and I both,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to hear any shit,” Warren said.” ‘Cause you haven’t been straight with me.”
“What do you mean?” Jack asked.
“Saturday you asked me about the Black Kings,” Warren reminded him. “You said you were just curious. Now tonight one of those mothers tries to knock you off. Now I know something about those losers. They’re into drugs big time. You catch my drift? What I want you to know is if you’re mixed up with dealing, I don’t want you in this neighborhood. It’s as simple as that.”
Jack let out a short laugh of incredulity. “Is that what this is about?” he asked. “You think I’m dealing drugs?”