Deacon King Kong(20)

Elefante glanced at his father’s old file cabinet, tucked in a corner of the boxcar. He’d been through it a dozen times. There was nothing in it. “Pop didn’t write letters,” he replied. But the old man had already stepped out the door, slipped into the dark empty lot across the street, and was gone.





6





BUNCH



From the dirty window of a worn second-floor brownstone apartment, the great lights of Manhattan’s skyscrapers danced in the far distance. Inside the dark parlor, a tall, slim brown man, wearing a colorful African kente kufi cap and dashiki, held a copy of the Amsterdam News newspaper in his hands and roared with delight. Bunch Moon was thirty-one, head of Moon Rental Cars and Moon Steak N Go, and codirector of the Bedford-Stuyvesant Development Corporation, and was seated at a polished dining room table, grinning as he held the latest edition of the city’s major black newspaper and read the good news before him.

His laughter eased into a smile as he turned the page and finished the story he was reading. He folded the paper, fingered his goatee, then spoke softly to the twenty-year-old man seated across the table from him who was scratching at a crossword puzzle: “Earl, Queens is burning, brother. The Jews are burning it up.”

Earl Morris, Bunch’s right-hand man, was clad in a leather jacket, the features of his smooth brown face etched in concentration as he worked his crossword. He had a pencil in his right hand and a lit cigarette in his left. He was having trouble negotiating both while trying to fill in the puzzle squares. Finally, he placed his cigarette in the ashtray and said without looking up, “Dig thaaaaaat.”

“The city wants to build a housing project in Forest Hills,” Moon said. “Them Jews out there are pissed, bro!”

“Dig thaaaaaat.”

“So Mayor Lindsay goes out there and they give him hell. He gets mad and calls ’em ‘fat Jewish broads.’” Bunch chuckled. “In front of the press and everything. Captain Marvel. You gotta love this guy.”

“Dig that.”

“Guess how many ran with it in their newspapers. Not one. Not the Times. Not the Post. Nobody. Just the Amsterdam News. He goes out there and insults the Jews and nobody says a drop about it. Except us. The Jews hate us, man! They don’t want no projects out there in Forest Hills.”

“Dig thaaat.”

“And the whiteys hate the Jews, because the Jews run everything. You dig?”

“Dig thaaaat.”

Bunch frowned.

“Can’t you say anything else?” he asked.

“Dig thaaat.”

“Earl!”

Earl, scratching at his crossword puzzle, snapped to and looked up.

“Huh?”

“Can’t you say anything else?”

“About what?”

“About what I just said. ’Bout the Jews running everything.”

Earl pursed his lips in silence, looking puzzled. He took a quick puff of his cigarette, then said softly, “Which Jews now?”

Bunch smirked. I’m surrounded by idiots, he thought. “How’s the kid from Cause Houses? The one who was shot yesterday.”

Earl sat up straight now, recovering. He could tell the boss was heating up. “His ear’s messed up,” he said quickly. “But he’s okay.”

“What’s his name again?”

“Deems Clemens.”

“Sharp kid. How long till he’s on his feet?”

“Maybe a week. Two at the outside.”

“How’s sales up there?”

“They fell off a little. But he got a man in place.”

“Did he get arrested after he was shot?”

“Naw. He wasn’t holding. He had a stash man. So the cops got nothing. Just the cash in his pockets.”

“Okay. Pay him back his cash. Then get him off his ass and back on the street again. He gotta defend his plazas.”

“He can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He ain’t all the way well yet, Bunch.”

“Shit, the nigger lost an ear, not his little Ray-Ray. He got a crew.”

“Dig thaaat.”

“Will you put a lid on the dig-that crap?” Bunch snapped. “Can he get back on his feet sooner? If his crew ain’t tight, his sales are gonna fall off quick. Can he keep his crew selling at least?”

Earl shrugged. “Bunch, it’s kinda hot over there. The cops are still looking for the shooter.”

“Who was it?”

“An old man. Some bum.”

“Narrow that down. They’re a dime a dozen in the Cause.”

“Dig th—” Earl coughed and cleared his throat as Bunch glared. Earl quickly hunched over the crossword puzzle, facedown, his chin inches from the page. “I’m using this here, Bunch,” he said hastily, pointing at the crossword puzzle, “to get outta that habit. Finding new words every day.”

Bunch sucked his teeth and turned away, heading to the window, his good humor gone now. He peered worriedly out to the street, first at the glistening Manhattan skyline in the distance, then at the tired, dilapidated brownstones lining the block. Piles of trash littered both sides of the street, along with several hulks of abandoned cars parked at the curbs in random fashion, hunched over like giant dead bugs, their motors missing and tires gone. He watched a group of kids playing atop one of the piles, vaulting like frogs from garbage bags to piles of refuse and ending at a broken fire hydrant. Amid the garbage and refuse along the bleak street, in front of the brownstone sat Bunch’s gleaming black Buick Electra 225, which stood out in front of his place like a polished diamond.