Harlem Shuffle(48)

“I’m acquainted with the drug scourge, Carney.”

“Of course. It’s ripping Harlem apart. Like last week, that shootout on Lenox. Broad daylight. People are saying it was Biz Dixon’s guys who shot that little girl walking by.” He had been making salesman hand gestures, as if trying to close the deal on a dinette set. “What I’m saying is, I know where he operates—where he keeps his stash.” Stash wasn’t in his vocabulary and it showed. “I think it’s a raid you’d like to have your name on. Roust. Bust.”

“Man, what do you know about what I like and don’t like?” Munson sat up. “Who’s Dixon to you?”

    “I grew up with him. Knew him then, know who he is now.”

“And what’s your angle?”

Carney gave him the name: Cheap Brucie.

Munson cocked his head. “The pimp? What do you care about him for?”

It was a good question. Carney had been asking that himself lately. A month ago he hadn’t even heard of the man. “He’s a crook,” he said.

“If being a crook were a crime, we’d all be in jail,” Munson said. “He’s got friends.”

“A man’s got friends so you don’t do your job?”

“It’s not my job to pick up a man because a civilian, who I know happens to be bent, asks me to. Your envelope ain’t that fat.”

“He should be locked up.”

“I should be locked up, this loony bin bullshit.”

At Carney’s expression, the detective took off his hat. He spun it around on his fingertips by the brim.

“It’s like this,” Munson said. “There is a circulation, a movement of envelopes that keeps the city running. Mr. Jones, he operates a business, he has to spread the love, give an envelope to this person, another person, somebody at the precinct, another place, so everybody gets a taste. Everybody’s kicking back or kicking up. Unless you’re on top. Low men like us, we don’t have to worry about that. Then there’s Mr. Smith, who also runs a business, and he’s doing the same thing if he is a wise and learned soul and wants to stick around. Spreading the love. The movement of the envelopes. Who is to say which man is more important, Mr. Jones or Mr. Smith? To whom do we give our allegiance? Do we judge a man by the weight of the envelope—or whom he gives it to?”

He seemed to be saying that Dixon paid protection, and that there was another peddler also laying out ice, and that some sort of arbitration had to occur. So where did that leave matters?

Munson stuck his arms into his sports jacket and beat it to his next shakedown. The jacket was a plaid number that made him look like Victor Mature, second feature in a matinee. Had Victor Mature played a mouthy deputy? Carney was sure of it. More than once. “I’ll look into it—both things,” the detective said. “Ask around if Dixon’s up or down these days. Maybe someone’s interested in what you got.”

    On the way out, Munson asked Marie when she was going to make those little snack cakes again, the ones with that stuff on top.

The circulation of envelopes. It reminded Carney of his idea about churn, the movement of merchandise—cabinet TVs, easy chairs, stones, furs, watches—in and out of people’s hands and lives, between buyers, dealers, and the next buyer after that. Like an illustration in a National Geographic story about the global weather, showing the invisible jet streams and deep-fathom currents that determine the personality of the world. If you took a step back, if you were keyed in, you might observe these secret forces in action, how it all worked. If you were keyed in.

Had it been a dumb play, to make his pitch to the cop? Last night he’d spent the entire stretch between his first and second sleep scrutinizing the setup as if it were something out of Moskowitz’s safe, the most precious of stones. Tilting it to and fro, challenging the light to reveal its planes and facets. Checking for color, identifying flaws. He approved. And with that, his midnight plans broke through to his other, daytime life.



* * *



*

The rest of the day was store business. He summoned Rusty for his opinion on when they should put the rest of the fall line on the floor.

“I’d like to see it out there,” Rusty said. “I think they’ll be keen on it.”

He was confident. It was nice to see. Carney thanked him for picking up the slack the last few weeks.

    “Thank you for letting me do more, Ray,” Rusty said. “Any time you want to spend more time with family, I’m here.”

“It’s been nice, seeing them every night.” Carney described his routine lately. Hanging out with his family, going to bed early, getting up again. Minus the revenge part.

“So you go to bed at eight? That’s a lot of sleep.”

“No, I get up and do paperwork. Read. Then I go back to sleep again.”

“Why not go to bed later? Do all that stuff before you go to bed.”

“It’s not like that. It’s your body telling you what it wants, and then you do it. That’s how we did it in the old days.”

“Like how now?” The appearance of a prospective ottoman buyer spared them more discussion. They got a bunch of customers toward the end of the day and before Carney knew it, it was quitting time.