Haiku (10 page)

“Got boys all over this city driving those dumbass pickup trucks like they live on a fucking farm,” Lamont mused.

“You move ordnance, you draw fire,” Ranger warned.

“This ain’t no—” Lamont began, before catching my warning look, and smoothly ending his sentence with: “—job
for a pickup. What we need is a van. Not one of those soccer-mom things, something like they use to deliver things.”

“Who delivers at two in the morning?” Michael said, as if we had already agreed that deep darkness was an essential element of our plan.

“We don’t want to draw fire,” Ranger repeated, his voice hardening.

“Sure. But we wouldn’t be exposed long. If we tried it in daylight and we had to go crosstown, we could be sitting ducks,” Michael pointed out.

“Flowers!” Lamont said.

“Showers! Towers! Hours! Powers!” Target erupted. But instead of ignoring him, we all turned in his direction. For the first time any of us had ever observed, Target was clanging in a barely audible whisper, instead of his usual shouting or angry muttering.

“The flower joints on Second, they’re all open at like four in the morning,” Lamont said. “Open for deliveries, I mean—they gotta have
fresh
, they want to stay in business. I don’t know where they pick up from, but those flower vans, they run all over the Lower West Side, every night.”

“Capacity!” Ranger barked.

Silence reigned. When it became obvious that Ranger was not going to amplify his statement, I spoke as if responding to the question I believed he had asked.

“That is a most valid point to consider,” I said. “Michael has given us a perfect calculation of weight, but it is not as if we are moving a one-ton brick—everything must fit inside whatever we use, because we will not have more than a single opportunity to relocate Brewster’s library.”

“Cubic feet,” Michael said.

I nodded.

“None of that’s a secret,” Michael went on. “The library will have all the specs.”

“Job One,” Ranger confirmed. It required no translator to understand this. That we had no place to store a stolen van—much less the cargo we intended to transport in it—was less important than making certain we obtained the correct vehicle in the first place.

“Tomorrow?” I asked.

“First thing,” Michael promised.

Those of our tribe quickly learn that sleep, which rests and refreshes those in the other world, brings little comfort to us. Sleep means exposure to danger, both the mind and the body open to attack. So we rise early, and we stay in motion, resting only when necessary.

Some regard this adaptation as a survival tool. Ranger will refuse sleep entirely unless we all agree to take turns on watch. Some become so highly amped that they are susceptible to sudden onsets of unconsciousness, as if an unseen switch had been thrown. Michael calls this “crashing,” and tells us he saw it occur many times during his life on Wall Street. Target is also prone to this. But, unlike Michael, he is terrified of the prospect, which is why he cannot bear to be alone.

Only Lamont is utterly indifferent. Awake, he displays a finely tuned balance: neither an easy target nor a threat worthy of challenge. Asleep, he projects the same
ki
.

As I age, I find I need sleep less each year.

But each time I close my eyes, it is with the silent prayer that I not dream.

So, early that morning, Ranger was on a scouting mission, presumably for an unguarded van; Michael was waiting for the public library to open; and Lamont and I were visually appraising the task we had accepted.

Target was with us. Perhaps it was his sudden switch to whispering the previous night that made me look closer, but it seemed to me that his movements were now markedly less spasmodic than I had ever observed.

Brewster was at his sister’s, the sand draining from his hourglass.

“Light stuff,” Lamont said to me. “Between us, we got all the skills we need to crack this crib.”

“Do we?” I asked, in the tone of one seeking to confirm the assurance Lamont was offering.

“Come on, Ho. I was just a young buck when they took me down on my last bit, but that warlord stuff never paid the rent. Me, I was an ace burglar. And you, you’re like a ninja, right?”

“A burglar is a thief,” I reminded Lamont.

“What’re you saying?”

“The skill in burglary is to take items of value without being detected, yes?”

“Sure. But—”

“The finest burglar should be able to bypass any security
system, enter the area, remove whatever he sought, and not leave a trace of his presence.”

“Man, I could do
all
that, bro. Learned from the best. One time, I slipped in a window—you know how it gets in the summer around here; back then, lots of folks didn’t have no A/C, always left the windows open at night—and there was this woman, sound asleep. Now, if I was one of those sickos, I’d’ve said, ‘Damn! This one’s ripe for the taking.’ And if I was an amateur, I’d’ve just split. But me, I went about my business. Professional. Got some decent stuff, filled my bag, and went back out the same way I came in. That woman, she never even woke up.”

I bowed in respectful acknowledgment of the skills he had described. Then I said, “But, Lamont, there is no security to defeat in Brewster’s library. And the goods we need to remove will not fit into a bag any man could carry.”

“Okay …” Lamont paused, then said, “What about you, Ho? I mean, a ninja—”

“A ninja is an assassin,” I told my friend.

Lamont took a long drink from the large plastic cup he was holding. He closed his eyes in concentration.

“Brewster got them
up
there,” he said, thoughtfully.

I said nothing.

“But that was, what, three, four at a time? Took him years to stuff that place to the brim.”

Again, I waited.

“When I was Upstate, there was a white guy who
ruled
the joint. More of us than them, even back then, but the white boys saw it coming before we did. So, even when we all got ‘conscious,’ it didn’t hold us together.

“Never mind that East Coast–West Coast thing the Panthers had going—even the fucking
Muslims
were splitting up and shanking each other. The PRs could have had the whole thing, the way they were pouring in.
Seasoned
guys, too. Young, maybe, but already blooded. You’d think, Inside, they’d stop flying their colors, get down with their race. Not a chance; motherfuckers stayed as stupid as we were. So busy jacking each other, it’s like we all
made
the white boys stick together.”

Lamont took another drink. I waited for him to return from wherever he had gone. His eyes blinked rapidly, as if he were awakening from sleep, but he snapped into focus as if he had never left:

“So, anyway, like I was saying, when I first got there, the wheel—this white guy—he had a ton of swag. Mostly cigarettes, commissary stuff, fuck-and-suck books … anything you could juggle—”

My raised eyebrows were a long-established method of interrupting Lamont when I did not understand his terminology.

“Juggling is like loan-sharking, Ho. Guy’s got no smokes, okay? You let him take a couple of crates. Next month, he’s got to come up with three to pay you back, see?”

I nodded.

“So I’m saying, this guy had so much stuff in his house that he couldn’t even get to his bunk, never mind the toilet.”

“How did he solve that problem?”

“Juice,” Lamont said. “The wheel, he was connected outside, too. Can’t be greasing the hacks with cigarettes. Those
dumbass farm boys they hired probably never even saw a nigger until they started working in the joint, but they learned quick—all they wanted was cash. Take care of them, they take care of you.”

“So the guards were bribed?”

“Every day,” Lamont said. “You could buy anything in there you could buy on the streets. Except pussy. And you could even get
that
on Visiting Day … provided you had the long green. The hacks’d let you take a woman into one of the bathrooms, even stand watch outside. It was like bonus pay for them.”

“So much money? Inside a prison?”

“Nah. Soft money—actual cash in your hand, not money on the books—that’s a real bad ticket. Only reason you’d want cash is if you were planning to go for the Wall. You get caught holding some, you’re looking at
years
in the bing. Solitary, okay?”

“Then …?”

“It’s a different economy, Ho. Say a guy wants a deck of H, how’s he gonna get it? From another con, right? Lots of ways to pay that got nothing to do with cash. Question is, how’s the con you buy from get
his
supply?”

“The guards bring it in.”

“Bingo. But they get
paid
on the outside. Cash in an envelope. The Mafia guys, they had that all rigged. But that wasn’t the only way. One guy I remember, big-time pimp: man had so much game that his girls were
still
out there working for him. That’s money. Gang men—men like me—your boys would be looking out for you. Some guys had wives
who could come up with the tolls. It was known which of the hacks would take some. One greedy motherfucker even had his own damn PO box!

“Later on, when the dope game really hit, there was more cash out there than you could ever imagine. The white guys couldn’t hold us off—we were getting a bigger and bigger piece all the time. Even the Latins were getting theirs. Money, money, money. And the hacks were making more from the cons than they were from the State.

“Take booze. If you were an off-brand—no gang connect—you had to stick with pruno … home brew. But if you could reach out, you’d be drinking bonded whiskey. A little portable radio might cost a hack thirty bucks, but it’d cost a con a couple a hundred, see?”

“And everyone knew—?”

“Oh,
hell
, yes!” Lamont said. “Just like when a dirty cop rolls up a dealer and finds out he’s packing a fat wad. You think that cop’s lieutenant isn’t getting a piece of that score? And the captain, too?

“That’s just the way it was. Even when one of the hacks got caught, it was no big deal. Except for bringing in a gun—for that, they’d drop the hammer. But if you needed a twenty-two bullet for a little zip you made, no problem.”

“So this man with the crammed-full cell …?”

“Oh, they just put him in the cell next door to that one. Motherfucker had him
two
private cells, while they were double-bunking other poor bastards all over the joint.”

“Yes,” I said. “But such solutions are not available to us.”

“’Cause we don’t have the coin?” Lamont drawled, in a sleepy voice I knew was no indication of his actual mental
state. “Well, you know how people say you can always make money? They don’t mean you can print it up—not saying plenty haven’t tried, though—they mean you can work for it, right? Where I’m from, the way you
make
money is, you
take
money.”

“Fake! Shake! Cake! Trafe!” Target whispered.

“Let’s see what’s out back,” Lamont said.

We had never previously explored the area around Brewster’s library. Those of our tribe own nothing we cannot carry, so we do not concern ourselves with defending space as others do. For us, the most desirable feature of any place we might occupy would be ease of exit.

That was what caused the initial resistance to construction of our dugout sleeping quarters on the pier. In a world where some will kill to acquire what others have discarded,
all
things have value. Those who desperately sought shelter on the street itself were always on display, looked down upon from glass boxes as if the pantomime of poverty was some form of performance art. But we were not trapped in our dugouts, we were invisible.

The original resistance to the dugouts had come only from Michael and Brewster.

Michael had once been torn from under a shelter he had constructed of cardboard and wood, by a madman who beat him with a lead pipe so severely that only the fortuitous passing of a police car had saved his life. Brewster had no actual experience with violence, but the catechism of his paperbacks
taught him, “You always gotta know where the back door is.”

Brewster rarely spent his nights with us. His fresh-faced appearance, his newly laundered clothing, and the fact that he possessed a full set of identification allowed him to sleep in public places we could not even visit. If questioned by the police, he would act as if his medication had caused drowsiness. Since he did not touch alcohol, he gave off no contrary signals. Brewster told us he had never been arrested.

Michael’s fears were eventually mollified by Ranger’s assurances that he could catch the scent of approaching enemies at a great distance, and could hear the softest of footsteps in his sleep. Michael was also aware that Lamont is physically quite capable, and that I myself am never defenseless.

Target’s only fear is to be alone. If we walk away, he follows; if we stay, he stays.

Exploring the area for the first time, we discovered that behind Brewster’s library was a narrow alley, separating the backs of two different sets of buildings.

“Wide enough for a garbage truck,” Lamont observed, noting the various green metal Dumpsters marked with the name of a private carting firm.

We walked the length of the alley in the early sunlight, not surprised to find it unoccupied. The Dumpsters would already have been emptied, and those who scour them for nourishment—human and otherwise—would not return
until after the food establishments closed for the night. In this part of the city, it is not uncommon to find an exclusive restaurant next to a tiny storefront dispensing cheap, near-rancid take-out. Michael explained that such establishments would disappear as soon as their leases expired.

“This one,” Lamont said, stopping behind a four-story building. All the glass was gone from the windows, so there was no barrier to the elements. The sole exception was some plywood-and-plastic sheeting covering two windows on the top floor.

Lamont turned his back on Brewster’s building. I followed his example. The building we faced was two stories taller, and obviously occupied.