Clockers Read Free Page A

got bottles?”
    “I ain’t got no bottles,” said one little kid, rearing back in disdain.
    “Who’s Mister Big?” Thumper leaned down, growling like Big Chief.
    ” This Mister Big,” the kid said, grabbing his own crotch, then running away.
    “Open your mouth there, Strike.” Big Chief checked his teeth as if he was a horse, or a slave.
    Strike, yawning wide, saw Rodney roll by in the beat-up rust-colored Cadillac that he’d bought from a pipehead for two hundred dollars cash and another hundred in bottles, kicking the guy in the ass on his way out the door. Rodney in his Jheri curls, his gold wraparound sunglasses and his Cadillac: an old-timer, thirty-five, maybe older.
    Strike saw Rodney smirk in disgust, shake his head and raise a lazy hand off the seat back. But he kept moving; he never even slowed down.
    “OK.” Big Chief looked right, left, then moved close. “Drop your drawers there, Strike. Dicky check.”
    Strike hesitated as always, holding it in, weighing his options, finally unzipping and pulling down, some of the tenants in the crowd looking away and talking under their breath, some cursing out the Fury, some cursing out Strike.
    “Drop your drawers, bend over, say ah-h-h,” Thumper said, getting in on it now.
    Strike held his underwear band out so Big Chief could look in.
    “Short and sweet there, Strike.” Big Chief frowned. “Let’s see under your balls, there. See what you got taped under your balls.”
    “Strike’s balls,” Thumper drawled. “Strikes and balls, three and two, full count.”
    Strike pulled up his scrotum, caught Peanut grinning on the sidewalk and then looking away quick when he saw Strike watching him, Strike thinking, Peanut’s a dead man.
    Thumper peeked in. “Jesus, Strike, you got some bacon strips in there, brother. Where’s your hygiene?”
    Strike bugged out: it was a damn lie. Nothing sickened Strike more than filth, any kind of filth. He was clean, cleaner than any of them. Losing it, Strike looked right into Thumper’s eyes, totally blowing his own play.
    “W-w-w-what’s a m-m-m-matter, S-S-Strike? Y-y-you OK?”
    Strike looked away, pulled up his pants, took his keys back from the baby. It was all Thumper’s show now, Big Chief moving off to look under the bench for bottles.
    “How come you never smile, Strike? You’re clean, man. Crack a smile.”
    Strike looked off sourly, although he was smiling a little on the inside as he caught sight of the twelve-year-old mule with his two-hundred-bottle lunch box zooming right by Big Chief—Big Chief even stepping out of the way, the kid going into 6 Weehawken to make his delivery.
    “Look at Futon.” Thumper used his chin as a pointer. “We bust Futon every month, right, Futon?”
    Futon smiled, holding the bottles in the Gummi Bear jar.
    “See? Futon smiles all the time. What’s your problem, man?”
    Strike stayed mute, glancing over at Futon doing the gooney bird.
    “It takes six muscles to smile, two hundred forty-eight to frown, you know that?”
    “C’mon there, Thumper.” Big Chief rummaged in the garbage can now like a hungry bear. “Strike’s got rights.”
    “I never said that,” Strike protested, flinching as soon as he opened his mouth. Shit.
    “Hey, you didn’t stutter, that was very good.” Thumper put out his hand, forcing Strike to shake it. “Now say, ‘She sells seashells by the seashore.’”
    Strike’s stomach turned red, pulsing. Thumper held his hand, waiting.
    Big Chief yawned, going up on tiptoe, then grabbed a bunch of Gummi Bears from Futon’s jar, chewing them open-mouthed and then lazily sticking his big paws in Futon’s pockets, feeling around in his socks, up his legs.
    ” Cold, Big Chief, cold, cold … warm, getting warm now,” Futon said. He offered the Gummi Bears to Thumper. A dumb play, to Strike’s eye, but at least Thumper let go of Strike’s hand to take some candy.
    “Yo, Big Chief,” Futon said, feigning anger. “What you doin’ back