Deacon King Kong(79)

But the going was difficult. He was so bent on trying to figure out Mr. Bunch’s strategy behind Earl’s getting punked that he was losing sleep. He woke up in the mornings feeling achy and with bumps on his arms from rolling against the wall. His ear, what was left of it, still hurt all the time. He needed sleep. And rest. And this fly girl Phyllis, seated with him at Vitali Pier, was the perfect distraction. He needed this break. Otherwise, he was an explosion waiting to happen. He’d seen in his own housing project what happened to the dealers who didn’t ease up and figure things out. Mr. Bunch and Earl had a plan. What was it? He wasn’t sure. But if he busted hard on Earl now, or even defended himself against Earl should he attack, his plan to get with Joe Peck could come crashing down before it even got started.

Peck, Deems knew, was the World Series. He was the man with the means. Deems couldn’t toss a pitch for Peck till he got his own team together; he was still working on that, adding muscle to his crew, figuring the costs, the risks, the allies in the Watch Houses, in Far Rockaway, and the two trusted guys in Bed-Stuy from his days in Spofford, all of whom he needed to be in tight shape before he could approach Joe Peck. He’d sent Beanie, his most trusted crew member, out to Queens to sound out some fellow dealers in Jamaica, to ask if they’d buy from him if he sold to them at 20 percent less than Mr. Bunch. The answer was a quiet yes. He just needed to tighten things a little more before he approached Peck. Just be cool a few more weeks, then make his move.

But the stress was difficult to handle. There were so few people to trust. More and more, Deems found himself leaning on Beanie, who was more mature than the others and could keep his lips closed and not say dumb things. Outside of that, everything had gotten complicated. His mother was drinking more. His sister had disappeared someplace and hadn’t been seen in months. Deems found himself unable to get out of bed in the morning. He’d lie in place, pining for the old days, hearing the crack of a baseball bat on a warm summer day, watching Beanie, Lightbulb, Dome, and his main ace boon coon Sugar shag balls in the outfield while Sportcoat hollered at them, sitting them down in the rancid dugout and telling them stupid stories of the old men in the Negro leagues with funny names. He’d recall the days he and his friends used to lie on the roof of Building 9 waiting for the ants in fall. They were innocent boys then. Not now. Deems at nineteen felt like fifty. He got out of bed each morning feeling like he’d slept on the edge of a dark abyss. He actually toyed with the idea of running away to Alabama, where Sugar had moved to, and cooling out at Sugar’s house, just giving up the whole business altogether and finding a college down south that had a baseball team. He still had his stuff. He could still throw ninety miles per hour. He was sure he could still make a good college team as a walk-on. Mr. Bill Boyle, the baseball coach at St. John’s, had said so. Deems had known Mr. Boyle for years. Mr. Boyle used to come around every summer asking about him, watching him throw. He kept scorecards, and ratings, and notes on him. Deems liked that. All the way through his days at John Jay High School, where his pitching took the team to the state championship, Mr. Boyle said, “You got a future if you don’t screw up.” But Deems screwed up. The summer after he graduated from high school, already enrolled in St. John’s, Mr. Boyle came to visit, and by then his dope business was booming. He saw Mr. Boyle coming and scattered his dealers and pretended nothing was going on. He walked Mr. Boyle to the old ball field in the Cause and showed him he could still toss at ninety miles per hour and even faster. The old coach was excited. He called Deems when the fall semester began, and Deems said, “I’ll be there,” but something came up in his business—he couldn’t even remember what it was, looking back, just some bullshit. And that was it. Mr. Boyle hadn’t heard from him so he showed up in the Cause, unannounced, and spotted Deems at the flagpole, surrounded by dopers, moving heroin. “You’re a waste of talent,” he said to Deems, and was gone. Deems wanted to call him again, but he was too embarrassed.

Then again, he told himself, Mr. Boyle drove an old Dodge Dart. My Firebird, he told himself, is nicer than his car. Besides, Mr. Boyle didn’t live out here in the Cause, where life was hard.

Sitting at the edge of the dock with the flyest girl he’d ever had a chance to put his arm around, with his feet clad in brand-new Converse sneakers with the star on the side, $3,200 cash in one pocket and a .32 caliber in the other, Beanie serving as his bodyguard because now he never went anywhere without crew, Deems dismissed the baseball idea and forced his mind back into the other game. The real one. He had to keep focused. He had gotten a call that afternoon from one of his boys in Bed-Stuy who’d served time with him in Spofford. His hunch was right. Bunch was about to make a play.

Bunch was on to him, the guy said. Bunch somehow learned that Deems wanted to cut a deal with Joe Peck to take over Bunch’s distribution. Earl was just a feint to lull him to sleep. “Earl ain’t the guy to look out for. Bunch sent for somebody else.”

“Who?” Deems had asked.

“Some motherfucker named Harold Dean. Don’t know nothing about him. But he’s a shooter. Watch your back with him.”

So that was it. Okay. Curveball. Harold Dean. He sent out an alert and got his crew ready, moving them into every building. Any strange dude not from the Cause, who walked through Buildings 9, 34, 17, all his strongholds, any man or kid who lagged through the flagpole plaza looking suspicious, watch him. It could be Harold Dean. Don’t do nothing. Just report to him. That was the word. He’d made it clear. He spent some money and sent out a few extra bodies. There wasn’t a corner of the Cause he hadn’t considered. Every roof. Every building. Every alley had someone in his crew watching it, including his own Building 9, where he placed Stick on the roof, along with a second kid named Rick working the hallways, along with Lightbulb.