Deacon King Kong(98)

“That’s my business. But I don’t wanna leave no debts behind. I want out clean. You know the people I work with. You know how they are.”

“If you’re worried about that, you should’ve picked better friends. Your buddy Joe Peck’s in trouble, by the way.”

Elefante was quiet a moment. “You wired?” he asked.

Potts snorted. “The only wire I wear is the one the captain uses to run up my ass. They hate me at the Seven-Six. Here’s the truth, Tommy, take it or leave it: If you’re a cop, be a cop. If not, then be a square like me. Or be a bum like Peck. Or one of these dope runners selling crap to these kids. There’s no in between. The Gorvinos are so busy selling dope to the Negroes with one hand and saluting the flag with the other they can’t see what’s coming. Their kids are gonna be dope addicts. You’ll see. You think the Negroes around here are stupid? They got guns and like money too. It’s not the good old days, Tommy. It’s not like it was.”

Potts felt his anger surging and tried to control it. “I’m not going out like the old guys before me,” he said. “Mad and pissed and screwed.” He glanced at the church and again he thought of Sister Gee. At the moment she seemed distant. A far-off dream. Then he said it.

“I think it’s a woman,” he said. “Not your gardener. If it was me, I’d move to the Bronx for a woman.”

Elefante didn’t reply.

Potts changed the subject. “The shooting at the pier. You know anything about that girl?”

Elefante shook his head.

Potts sighed. “There’s an old bum I know who stays around the paint factory at Vitali Pier,” he said. “He more or less lives there. You know him. Dub, they call him.”

“I seen him around.”

“Old Dub was sleeping off a binge that night, right beneath the first-floor window, fighting it out with the rats. He woke up to some talking on the dock. Peeked out the window and saw what happened. Saw the whole thing. I picked him up for vagrancy and a shower the next day. For a four-dollar bottle of wine, he spilled everything he saw.”

“Was it good wine?”

“It was my four dollars. Damn good wine.”

“Then it was money well spent.”

Potts sighed. “Now I’ve shared my song, you got one to share?”

“I can’t do that, Potts. I don’t mind kicking around a few scruples to make a living, but talking to the cops can make a guy keel over. And not from old age.”

“I understand. But let me ask you this. There’s a colored fella out in Bed-Stuy. Smart fella. Name of Moon. Bunch Moon. That name sound familiar?”

“It might.”

“Do the Gorvinos know that name?”

“They oughta,” Elefante said.

Potts nodded. That was enough. He placed his hat on his head. “If you’re gonna retire, this would be a good time. Because when things get rolling, it won’t be pretty.”

“They’re already rolling,” Elefante said.

“See? I told you it won’t be pretty. But the girl is.”

“What girl?”

“Don’t play dumb, Tommy. I’m giving you some skin here. It’s a girl. A Negro girl. A shooter. A good one. For hire. From out of town. That’s all I know. She’s a looker. And she’s got a name like a man. Shoots like a man too. Your buddy Peck oughta watch himself. Bunch Moon is ambitious.”

“What’s her name?”

“If I told you, I’d hate myself in the morning. Especially if I have to drag her out of the harbor.”

“I got no bone to pick with any girl. What’s in a name anyway?”

Potts stood up. This interview was finished. “When you retire to the Bronx, Tommy, would you send me a card?”

“I might. What you gonna do when you retire?”

“I’m going fishing. What about you?” Potts asked.

“I’m gonna make bagels.”

Potts stifled a smile. “You’re Italian, in case you forgot.”

“Grazie, but since when did that monkey stop the show?” Elefante said. “I’ll take what I can get. That’s the thing when you get out and you’re still breathing. Every day is a new world.”

Potts glanced at Five Ends Baptist Church down the street. The lights were on. In the distance, he heard singing. Choir practice. He thought of a lovely woman sitting at the front of the choir pew, dangling her house keys in her hand as she sang. He sighed.

“I understand,” he said.





22





281 DELPHI



The brownstone at 281 Delphi Street near the corner of Cunningham Avenue sat hunched and alone, with weeded lots on both sides. It was the perfect defensive spot. Inside, on the second floor, Bunch Moon sat near a window, staring at the street below. From his position, he could see anyone who turned the corner and approached. Children played in the hulks of the cars on the street. It was an unusually warm October day, and the kids had opened the fire hydrant again. He made a note to pull his dilapidated pickup truck up to the hydrant later to let the kids make a few quarters washing it. There were a couple he had noticed, and they were almost ready for employment.

He opened the window and peered out, looking to the right, then left, then right again. The right was not a problem. He could see several blocks, clear down to Bedford Avenue. To the left was trickier. Delphi Street came to a T at the corner. He had wanted a house on a dead-end street. But when he first came to look for a secret meeting place on that deserted block, there were so many boarded-up, empty brownstones, he’d had his choice of several along that street, and he’d decided the block would work fine. He’d chosen 281 because it had a better view of approaching traffic than any other house. To the right he could see anyone coming down from Bedford for blocks. To the left, the T formed at an empty weeded lot, with several dilapidated houses to the left of the intersection that he could not see. To the right of that, within view, was an abandoned warehouse that he could only see part of. Whoever came down that side street from the right, if they came in a car, would be in sight for about ten feet before they turned onto Delphi Street and could make a rush up his steps. It wasn’t ideal, but the spot worked. It was as close to a lookout spot as he could get without attracting attention from the cops. He rarely drove there; he usually took the subway. He always wore an MTA uniform, so the neighbors believed he was a transit worker as he moved in and out. Few of his crew or his employees who processed his raw heroin shipments knew about 281. It was safe. Still, he could never be too careful. Standing at the window, he took one long look in both directions.