Clockers Read Free

hips.
    Strike had no idea why, but the Fury definitely had a thing for the Weehawken benches. Knockos, whether Housing, City or County, were just like that, getting fixated on one corner, one building, one dealer, even though their arrest turf took in entire cities. It was known as the Knocko’s Prerogative.
    “Pea-nut, Pea-nut, gimme some bottles, Pea-nut.” Big Chief towered over him, crowding him against the fence. “You ain’t no raiser, Pea-nut. Where them bottles?” Then he saw the bang on Peanut’s cheek. “You do something bad, Peanut?”
    Big Chief turned slowly, looking over to Strike.
    Strike stared at his own sneakers, taking a breath, recalling the exercise the speech therapist had taught him back in school: envision a scene that relaxes you, she’d said, and now Strike conjured up a picture of palm trees and ocean, literally a picture, since he had never seen a real palm tree.
    “Strike,” Big Chief said, “Peanut do something bad?”
    Strike took a swig of Yoo-Hoo, shrugged, said nothing. Futon ignored it all, bobbing his head to his Walkman, his fingers orange from Cheetos dust as he scraped the bottom of the bag.
    Peanut did his gooney-bird dance: arms raised, elbows cocked, wrists curled. “C’mon, Big Chief, you know I ain’t do nothin’, ‘cause how come I ain’t run nin’ nowhere?”
    Big Chief pulled at the front of Peanut’s pants, looked down into his crotch, growling, “Pea-nut, Pea-nut, lemme see ya pea-nuts.”
    “Watch out it don’t bite you.” Peanut laughed. Big Chief laughed right back.
    Strike heard the white guy going on to Crunch about how he just got engaged, how he did A.A., a hundred meetings in a hundred days, how his father was a fireman in Jersey City. Strike could see Crunch’s eyes going dull.
    White people. Strike thought the Fury was OK but most of the others, in his experience, were for shit. Whenever they got grabbed, they got so scared they babbled; at least most of the boys around here knew to get stony stupid when the police came down. No matter what the knockos did to you, whatever they called you, all you had to do was weather it out, because the knockos couldn’t do shit if they couldn’t find nothing, so anybody who understood survival out here just hung tight and took the abuse until the knockos went away.
    But if Big Chief or Thumper caught one of the boys dirty, someone like Peanut, then got him alone … well, everybody was out for himself. Peanut was being cool and funny with Strike sitting there, but Peanut went to Catholic pay school, his mother was a working woman and he was scared of her. If Peanut ever got caught, he might turn.
    Big Chief had finished with Peanut, and now both of them were looking over at Strike. Big Chief knew Strike was clean, but here it came anyhow, just like always. Strike took a swig of Yoo-Hoo to brace himself.
    Big Chief clomped over, six foot five, reddish-gray hair, bounce-lurching on the toes of his sneakers like a playground Frankenstein, wearing his Fury T-shirt—six wolves hanging out of a police car—growling, “Strike, Strike, Strike.” Thumper shoved Ahmed away and chimed in, “No, Big Chief, it be S-S-S-Strike S-S-S-Strike.”
    Strike eased off the bench top, raising his arms, looking deadpan, solemn, enduring.
    “You got bottles there, Strike?” Big Chief began finger-walking his front pockets, pulling out Strike’s money—ten dollars, never more—his house keys and the house keys for three other people who held his dope, his money.
    “What are you, a janitor?” Big Chief jingled the keys, giving them to a baby in a stroller, and lazily scanned the curious and growing crowd around the benches.
    Strike’s eyes went straight to Big Chief’s throat, then shifted over his shoulder, across the projects to where his mother lived with his brother, Victor. Strike imagined them looking out now, seeing this, drawing down the shade.
    Thumper barked to a few eight-year-olds, “What’s up, yo, you