Half of his shirt was balled in my fist. I’d shook him with every other word as I spoke. I let go and took a half-step back, but kept my gun out. Give and take. If I let him pick his dignity back up off the ground, maybe he’d talk. B-Dog straightened his hat and glanced out at the street, but he didn’t move off the horse.
“Three, four months ago, some Spic muthafuckas start driving through the ’hood. Every day, they come through, driving slow, checkin’ out the park. The street. Never cause no trouble. Just watchin’. But that mean they lookin’ for an opening. They gonna close us down or take a cut.”
“What do you mean, Spics? Mexicans? Cubans? Salvadoran?”
“I don’ fucking know. Spics, man.”
“How would a Hispanic gang take a cut in a black neighborhood?” I asked. “Would that ever happen?”
He shrugged. “Crackheads buy from anybody that got product.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tyrone getting to his feet. He stood and shook his head like a bull moose, then looked around. He spotted us in the park and started to move our way. I turned a little in place so he could see the gun about the same time B-Dog put a hand out. Tyrone stopped and watched us from a distance.
I turned back to B-Dog. “You know who they were? Which gang?”
“Fuck if I know. One of them Spic gangs. Logan Circle, Woodbridge, Bowie. They everywhere, man.”
“What then?”
“My boy Tone tell us, get ready for a war.”
“Tone is your boss,” I said.
A head tilt. Maybe yes, maybe no. B-Dog didn’t want to think he had a boss, even though he was the one that stood on a street twelve hours a day dealing crack. “Tone get an idea and he tell T about the Spics. Tell him if he don’t want a war in his ’hood, maybe he should do something about it.”
“It warms my heart to see citizens cooperating with local law enforcement,” I said. “So, Tone sicced Witherspoon on these other guys, hoping he’d do his job for him.”
B-Dog said nothing.
“Did it work? You guys didn’t look like you were ready for a war when I showed up, you don’t mind me saying.”
“Things was tense for a while. Dudes stop coming ’round. Maybe a month ago, Tone say all clear and we go back to dealin’.”
“Who killed T, then?”
Shrugging seemed to form a large part of B-Dog’s repertoire. “Spics, man. He put the squeeze on them and they took him out.”
“That matter to you?”
Shrug. “We didn’t off him. And he be after us if he wasn’t on them.”
“Sentimental, too,” I said. “So what’s happening now?”
“Bidness as usual. We see any more dudes, we s’pose to tell Tone.”
“And that hasn’t happened?”
“Nope,” B-Dog said.
“Why is business so slow?”
“Man, I look like I got an MBA? Fuck if I know. Maybe the crackheads still scared there gonna be a war.” B-Dog was getting some of his swagger back now that his eyes weren’t streaming anymore. He glanced out at the street again. “We done yet?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you’ve been very helpful.”
He reached up and rubbed his forehead. It was puffy and swelling. “Man, you ain’t a cop, what the fuck are you?”
I thought about it. “That is a really good question, Bertrand.”
i.
It was his favorite thing to do, playing the scenes over and over in his mind, rolling them back and forth. Watching himself in his mind’s eye from a distance, like a camera in a movie. He liked remembering how things went down, how he’d acted, how cool he was during it all. Each time he killed, it was a little different, but they all spooled out in his mind like an action flick and he loved sitting there and letting them play.
This one, though. It had been too easy. Disappointing.
The lock had been no problem. Torres thought he was a bad motherfucker and had only locked the knob. There were no roommates and it was still early on a Saturday morning, no random visitors to worry about. Nosing
“Three, four months ago, some Spic muthafuckas start driving through the ’hood. Every day, they come through, driving slow, checkin’ out the park. The street. Never cause no trouble. Just watchin’. But that mean they lookin’ for an opening. They gonna close us down or take a cut.”
“What do you mean, Spics? Mexicans? Cubans? Salvadoran?”
“I don’ fucking know. Spics, man.”
“How would a Hispanic gang take a cut in a black neighborhood?” I asked. “Would that ever happen?”
He shrugged. “Crackheads buy from anybody that got product.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tyrone getting to his feet. He stood and shook his head like a bull moose, then looked around. He spotted us in the park and started to move our way. I turned a little in place so he could see the gun about the same time B-Dog put a hand out. Tyrone stopped and watched us from a distance.
I turned back to B-Dog. “You know who they were? Which gang?”
“Fuck if I know. One of them Spic gangs. Logan Circle, Woodbridge, Bowie. They everywhere, man.”
“What then?”
“My boy Tone tell us, get ready for a war.”
“Tone is your boss,” I said.
A head tilt. Maybe yes, maybe no. B-Dog didn’t want to think he had a boss, even though he was the one that stood on a street twelve hours a day dealing crack. “Tone get an idea and he tell T about the Spics. Tell him if he don’t want a war in his ’hood, maybe he should do something about it.”
“It warms my heart to see citizens cooperating with local law enforcement,” I said. “So, Tone sicced Witherspoon on these other guys, hoping he’d do his job for him.”
B-Dog said nothing.
“Did it work? You guys didn’t look like you were ready for a war when I showed up, you don’t mind me saying.”
“Things was tense for a while. Dudes stop coming ’round. Maybe a month ago, Tone say all clear and we go back to dealin’.”
“Who killed T, then?”
Shrugging seemed to form a large part of B-Dog’s repertoire. “Spics, man. He put the squeeze on them and they took him out.”
“That matter to you?”
Shrug. “We didn’t off him. And he be after us if he wasn’t on them.”
“Sentimental, too,” I said. “So what’s happening now?”
“Bidness as usual. We see any more dudes, we s’pose to tell Tone.”
“And that hasn’t happened?”
“Nope,” B-Dog said.
“Why is business so slow?”
“Man, I look like I got an MBA? Fuck if I know. Maybe the crackheads still scared there gonna be a war.” B-Dog was getting some of his swagger back now that his eyes weren’t streaming anymore. He glanced out at the street again. “We done yet?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But you’ve been very helpful.”
He reached up and rubbed his forehead. It was puffy and swelling. “Man, you ain’t a cop, what the fuck are you?”
I thought about it. “That is a really good question, Bertrand.”
i.
It was his favorite thing to do, playing the scenes over and over in his mind, rolling them back and forth. Watching himself in his mind’s eye from a distance, like a camera in a movie. He liked remembering how things went down, how he’d acted, how cool he was during it all. Each time he killed, it was a little different, but they all spooled out in his mind like an action flick and he loved sitting there and letting them play.
This one, though. It had been too easy. Disappointing.
The lock had been no problem. Torres thought he was a bad motherfucker and had only locked the knob. There were no roommates and it was still early on a Saturday morning, no random visitors to worry about. Nosing
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