The Cocaine Chronicles Part 17

"Was?"

"I got laid off."

"When was that?"

"1992."

Dockery and Braddock rolled their eyes, then Vargas said, "What were you doing after you got . . . laid off?"

Fat Tommy fingered his Martin Luther King, Jr. tie. "Odd jobs, here and there . . ."

"What kind of odd jobs?"

"Church stuff."

"Church stuff?"

Fat Tommy sat up straight in his chair. "I'm a Christian, sir.

And I try to help in the Lord's work whenever-"

"You get that fancy Mercedes doing this church work?"

"Naw." Fat Tommy laughed out loud.

"The street tells us you're a big-time c.o.ke man-that true, Moises? You a big-time c.o.ke dealer, Moises?"

"Oh no, sir. Not no more. All that s.h.i.t is dead . . . I mean, all that stuff is dead . . . I don't do no drugs no more. I don't sling c.o.ke no more. I got a wife and family . . ."

"You high now?"

"What was that?"

"You under the influence of drugs or alcohol at this time?"

"No. Oh Jesus, no." Fat Tommy wished to Christ he was. He couldn't make the cops believe him. They wouldn't give him any more lemonade, even though the girl cop said she made it specially for him. They wouldn't give him any more doughnuts-they said they were all out. Cops out of doughnuts! Now they wouldn't even give him water-and he was dry as s.h.i.t. That Chilean c.o.ke had sucked all the good spit out of his mouth. The cops kept hammering away at his story. He shut his eyes. He was only pretending to listen, nodding yes, yes, G.o.dd.a.m.nit, yes, or gazing up at them with a mournful, wounded look in his eyes.

Their sharp questions droned on unintelligibly like the buzzing of wasps attacking just above his head. Then . . . the cops seemed to go quiet for a moment. Bea's admonitions echoed in his head and gradually, without realizing it, Fat Tommy allowed a wan smile to creep across the corners of his mouth. Still smiling, he opened his eyes into a narrow slit and gazed down at his handsome shirtsleeves, admiring the shiny contours, like little snow-covered mountains really, that the polyester fabric traced along his thick, short arms as they lay across his knees.

Christ, he loved this shirt!

"Somethin' I said funny, Fatboy? Somethin' funny?" Braddock yelled, momentarily breaking through his reverie.

Fat Tommy jumped a little, snapped his eyes tight a moment, then slowly opened the slits again and looked back down at his arms. Braddock continued mocking him. Fat Tommy burrowed himself deeper into his thoughts. He looked at his arms and knees. They were such good arms-good, kind arms; and great knees- great, great knees. He looked down at his hands and knees lovingly as the cops droned on. He decided, with a hot, white tear leaking out of a crack in his right eye, finally, that he loved his knees as much as he loved his d.i.c.k or his a.s.s-better, probably, now that he had found the Lord again. His regard for his a.s.s and d.i.c.k now seemed so misguided, so . . . heathen. And these knees were so much more representative of him-innocent, G.o.d-fearing, above reproach.

They had taken him all over-all over L.A., the Valley, even to Oak Town once on a church picnic. There was plenty of water there, beer and red pop and lemonade and swine barbeque, too.

He was thin then, and pretty. Just a baby boy-so innocent, such a good young brother. The picnic was on the Oakland Bay, and they'd all rode the bus up there, singing gospel songs the whole way. There must have been a hundred buses, the whole California Youth Baptist Convention, someone said. And it was his knees that helped him get through it, basketball, softball, the three-legged race with pretty Althea Jackson. They were nine years old. Those were some of the best times in his life. And he was such a good guy, a regular brother, everyone said so, and now this lunatic murder and this f.u.c.ked-up Pemberton, that devil, poking his b.l.o.o.d.y self like a s.h.i.tty nightmare in the midst of all his plans.

Fat Tommy ached at beholding all these tender scenes-Bea, the picnic, the tears-all the images like flashing detritus in a river streaming across his upturned hands, it was just too much. He closed his eyes, but the river of images burst inside them, flooding the darkness in his head even more vividly than before: his first day at Teddy Roosevelt Junior High; the time he and Bea won third place at the La Caja Boys & Girls Club Teen Dance-Off; and his best pal . . . not that G.o.dd.a.m.n Pemberton . . . but Trey-Boy, Trey-Boy Middleton (rest his soul). That was his best friend. It was cool Trey-Boy who befriended him when everyone treated him like a jerk, and it was Trey-Boy who'd taken pity on him and helped him pimp up his lifestyle.

It was Trey-Boy. Not a murderer. A hip brother. True blue.

Trey-Boy showed him how to affect a gangster's scowl, and helped him adopt a slow, hulking walk that could frighten just about anyone he encountered on the street. He'd showed him how to smoke a cigarette, load a gat, roll a blunt, cop p.u.s.s.y, weed, and blow. He had even showed him how to shoot up once. And Trey-Boy never got mad, even when that f.a.ggot Stick Jenkins b.u.mped him on purpose and made him spill a good portion of the spoon of heroin he had carefully prepared. Trey-Boy had pimp-slapped the f.a.ggot- he called him "my sissy," and Stick had just smiled like a b.i.t.c.h and turned red as a yella n.i.g.g.ah could get-and everyone laughed.

He remembered how Trey-Boy had cooked up what was left of the little amber drops of Boy they could sc.r.a.pe from the toilet seat and floor and showed him how to tie-off and find the vein and shoot the junk, even if he only got a little wacked-it was wacked enough to know he wouldn't do that anymore. It wasn't fun at all. He couldn't stop puking. It felt like now-in this hot room with no water, under this white light. But he wasn't no G.o.dd.a.m.n junkie. None of that puking and nodding and drooling s.h.i.t was for him. He was strictly weed and blow, strictly weed and blow. He wasn't no G.o.dd.a.m.n junkie. Let them try to pin that on him. They'd come up zero. Just like this murder. He wasn't there; he didn't do it. He didn't see n.o.body; he didn't know n.o.body.

Trey-Boy had given him his favorite street moniker-Fat Tommy. When Trey-Boy said it, it didn't feel like a put-down. It was a term of war and affection. Fat Tommy was a lumpy 370 pounds but he didn't feel fat when Trey-Boy called him Fat Tommy-he felt big, as in big man, big trouble, big fun-there's a difference, really, when you think about it. A street handle like Fat Tommy made him feel like one of the hoods in The Sopranos The Sopranos-his favorite story. He'd made a small fortune with that name-not like he made with Cut Pemberton, when the margins and risks got scary and huge, and the f.u.c.kin' Colombians got involved, and people feared him and only knew him by the name Pemberton hung on him, Moises-Moises Rockafella, the King of Rock Cocaine. He didn't make big cake like that with Trey-Boy-but at least he didn't have to worry about a murder beef, and the living was decent.

Such a wave of woe swept over Fat Tommy as he contemplated all this that, softly, he began to weep. His whole bright life was pa.s.sing before his sad eyes: there were pinwheels of light; a whole series of birthdays; his stint as a fabulous dancer; his wife, Bea, again; his kids-Little Tommy and infant Kobe-cuties! cuties! He didn't deserve this. And there was his old job as a.s.sistant man-EMORY ager at the Swing Shop-twelve years ago now-all those great records: Tupac, NWA, Biggie, KRS-ONE, Salt 'N' Pepa, s.h.i.t, even Marvin Gaye. He knew them like the lines in these hands that now stared up at him, glazed and dotted with sweat. All the bright scenes of his life seemed to be fading, all of them diminishing like faces in a fog. Even the fabulous good s.h.i.t that was coming, close on the horizon, that seemed to be diminishing, too. If only he could get a gla.s.s of water, or maybe some lemonade. ager at the Swing Shop-twelve years ago now-all those great records: Tupac, NWA, Biggie, KRS-ONE, Salt 'N' Pepa, s.h.i.t, even Marvin Gaye. He knew them like the lines in these hands that now stared up at him, glazed and dotted with sweat. All the bright scenes of his life seemed to be fading, all of them diminishing like faces in a fog. Even the fabulous good s.h.i.t that was coming, close on the horizon, that seemed to be diminishing, too. If only he could get a gla.s.s of water, or maybe some lemonade.

"I'm dryin' out inside," Fat Tommy pleaded, lifting his head slightly. He could not see Vargas, but could hear his footfalls pacing back and forth somewhere behind him.

"Steady, sweetheart. Steady. Just a few more questions and you're home free," Vargas said.

Tommy waited for the next question with the same despairing apprehension with which he had endured all the last. An hour earlier Vargas had the lights on so bright that when Fat Tommy looked up the next moment, he beheld not a pea-green interrogation room with a trio of sad-sack cops trying to sweat him for a cop murder he didn't commit-the whole room seemed to him as a single white spotlight, a moon's eyeball inspecting him on a disc of light. At many points during the long, arduous interrogation, the men drew in so close on the hulking gangster that the tips of all four men's shoes seemed to be touching. Now when Fat Tommy squinted into the light, it didn't even seem like light anymore but a kind of shiny darkness. And he felt as though he were falling through the brightness like a brother pitched off a 100-story building. Vargas switched the lights back to a single hot light again. The trembling darkness in the distance beyond the spotlight seemed like measureless liquid midnight.

"I need some lemonade!" Fat Tommy screamed. The voice startled him. It did not seem like his own, but rather like the voice of a child or woman screaming from the bottom of a well.

Dockery and Braddock pushed their chairs back from the cone of white light that made Fat Tommy look like a Vegas lounge fly sobbing under a microscope. The sc.r.a.ping of their chairs was like an utterance of disgust, and they meant it to be that. It sent shivers up their own backs, and sent a great hot thunderbolt of fear down the spine of Fat Tommy O'Rourke. Vargas cut a rebuking glance at Dockery and Braddock.

"It's late," Vargas said, looking around for a clock. They had started this session just before 2 p.m.

Braddock pulled out his watch bob. To view the dial, he swept his hand through the cone of light that seemed to enclose Fat Tommy in a brilliant Tinker Bell glow, and the watch flashed like a little arc of b.u.t.tery neon framed in white.

"Almost 6 a.m. Sixteen G.o.dd.a.m.n hours and not a peep from this s.h.i.thead," Braddock said. He smacked the back of Fat Tommy's chair. Tommy shivered briefly and settled deeper into his sob.

Dockery felt around in his pant leg for his pack of b.u.t.ts and stood up. "Just a little longer, sport, and you can get back to beatin' off in yer cell," Dockery said.

"Yeah, beatin' off in yer cell . . ." Braddock repeated.

"I need a p.i.s.s break," Fat Tommy said as politely as he could, then added with a smile, "and a big gla.s.s of lemonade."

"Good idea, a.s.shole. Think I'll go drain the lizard," Dockery said, and looked at Vargas. Vargas nodded and Braddock and Dockery went out.

Fat Tommy sobbed on. He was still crying when Braddock and Dockery came back in laughing. They both held huge cups of lemonade and they were eating fresh Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Braddock tossed a half-eaten doughnut in the trash.

"I'm starvin', officer. I'm sleepy. I don't know about no murder," Fat Tommy tried again. He shut his eyes tight.

"Pale-a.s.s p.u.s.s.y," Braddock muttered. "Yer gonna fry for this. Why don't ya quit yer lying?"

"I don't deserve this beef. I don't know nothin'. I didn't see nothin'. I got a wife and family. I ain't no liar," Fat Tommy complained. "Cut was the one who fount Simpson . . . He told us he was a snitch. Not no cop. It was all his idea. We wouldn't be mixed up in none of this if Cut hadn't . . ."

The room went dead quiet. Fat Tommy strained to hear the shuffling of the cops' shoes behind him, but could only hear his own heart beating, thu-thump, thu-thump thu-thump, thu-thump.

Then Dockery said, "Cut? You never mentioned any Cut."

Fat Tommy could feel the life draining from his chest. He slowly opened his eyes. He began to hyperventilate and for the first time he could feel the jheri curl gel-deluxe begin to drip against his collar.

"You said I could have water. I need some water," Fat Tommy pleaded.

"You can have water, Moises, after you tell us how it went down," DEA agent Braddock growled from somewhere behind him.

"Tell us about this Cut," Vargas continued, piling on. "He got a last name?"

"Cut . . . um . . . Cut Pemberton . . . I think."

"And?"

"I didn't know him that good."

"Go on," Vargas said.

"Gots a cut cross his ear, go straight cross his lip, like he was wearing a veil on one side of his face."

"Yes . . . ?"

"Said he got it in a fight with a cracker when he was in the Marines. But I heard he got it in prison."

"Okay . . . go on."

"He can talk Spanish."

"Go on," Dockery said. "Cut . . ."

"Well, Cut was the onliest one that did it."

"Go on."

"Cut was one of them red, freckly n.i.g.g.ahs from Georgia.

Spotted like a African cat. I didn't even know him good . . ."

"Um-hum."

"Wore plaits standing all over his head."

"Plaits? Really?"

Tears were streaming down his eyes, but Fat Tommy grinned. "My Bea used to call him BuckBeet, 'cause he looked like a red pickaninny. That used to p.i.s.s him off, 'cause of Buckwheat, you know?"

"Yes . . . Cut . . ."

"Yeah, Cut. First I knew of him . . . two years ago . . . when I was staying on Glen Oaks off Paxton . . . him and Karesha-my wife's sister-and my Uncle Bunny banged on my duplex at 'bout 2 in the morning looking for some crack."

"You mean Bunny Hobart-the second-story man?" Dockery broke in again. The detectives had two tape recorders going now, but Dockery never trusted electronic equipment and was transcribing everything Fat Tommy said on a yellow legal pad.

"Yeah, that be him," Fat Tommy said. He slumped back in the hard metal chair, trembling as he recalled the scene. "He knew Cut from the joint. Cut had just got out and was chillin' with Karesha. Cut was already dressin' like a Crip, all blue, talkin' s.h.i.t. I could tell he was trouble. He used to strong-arm young Gs and take their stuff."

"And Bunny told him you were the big-time c.o.ke man," Braddock said. It was not a question.

"I was gettin' out of the business. I was gettin' out," Fat Tommy explained. "It was Cut that f.u.c.ked up all my plans. He wanted to impress the big-time talent . . . I was only stayin' in till he could get on his feets."

"What big-time talent?"

"Colombians, La Caja Crips . . . it was them G.o.dd.a.m.n Colombians that told Cut about Simpson. They said he was a snitch-not no cop! Cut came up with the idea of settin' the guy up. I tried to talk him out of it; I tried to reason with him . . ."

"A regular Dr. Phil," Braddock said.

"Yes, sir," Fat Tommy said quietly. His heart was sputtering like an old Volkswagen.

"Catch your breath, son," Vargas said. "Get our boy King Moises some lemonade, will ya, Dockery?"

Fat Tommy flopped his big grease-spangled head down into his hands. From the top of his jheri curl to the soles of his size-18 Air Jordans, everything about him was huge, extroverted, and showy. Now, he sat hulking in the metal chair, trying in vain to make himself smaller, hoping that the willful diminishment of his great size would in turn minimize in the minds of the cops the appalling grandeur of his recent crimes. He sat there in his bright white tent of a shirt with his Martin Luther King, Jr. tie strung tight round his bulging neck like a painted garrote.

Far above the dull cacophony of the cops grinding away at his statement, Fat Tommy O'Rourke-a.k.a., Moises Rockafella, La Caja's King of Rock Cocaine-could hear a plaintive, high-pitched wail, a shrill, sad voice, strangely resembling his own. He prayed to Christ it was someone else.

Teresa Moody

BILL MOODY is the author of the Evan Horne mystery series. The latest release is is the author of the Evan Horne mystery series. The latest release is Looking for Chet Baker. Looking for Chet Baker. Moody is a jazz musician, a DJ at KSVY in Sonoma, California, and teaches creative writing at Sonoma State University. Moody is a jazz musician, a DJ at KSVY in Sonoma, California, and teaches creative writing at Sonoma State University.

camaro blue

by bill moody

h.e.l.lo? Yes, I want to report a stolen car. Robert Ware. Oh, for Christ's sake. Okay, okay. I don't know when. Last night sometime, I guess."

Bobby Ware tried to calm down. He gave his address and license number and continued to answer questions. "It's a blue 1989 Chevy Camaro Sport." He listened to the other questions and lit a cigarette.

"It was in front of my house. Oh yeah, there was a horn too. What? No, not the car horn. A tenor saxophone in a gig bag. What? Oh, a soft leather case. Yeah, that's right. Okay, thanks."

Bobby hung up the phone and sat for a minute, smoking, thinking. "f.u.c.k," he said out loud. "f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k!" Finally got his dream car and some a.s.shole stole it. Man, I gotta move, Man, I gotta move,he thought. Too much s.h.i.t in this neighborhood. Too much s.h.i.t in this neighborhood.

He got up, paced around. Barefoot, cut-off jeans, sandals, and a Charlie Parker T-shirt, his daytime uniform, trying to think who he could borrow a horn from for the gig tonight.

He was working in a quartet at a club on Ventura, backing a singer who was trying to convince everybody she was the next Billie Holiday, but she wasn't fooling anyone. But hey, a gig was a gig. Three nights a week for three months now, so he couldn't really complain.