Clockers Read Free Page B

here any how? You said if I won Thumper, you leave off on us for a month. ”
    “You know not to trust the police,” Big Chief grunted. “What’s wrong with you?”
    “Gah-damn, ain’t that right? Man, I dint even get out of first gear. I was like lopin’. “ Futon was talking to Strike now, as if Strike hadn’t been there. “Thumper was like, huh huh huh. Man, he was huffin’ so bad I thought he was gonna drown me in wheeze snot. You alls drink too much, eat too much, smoke too much.” Futon counted off their habits on his fingers, making a face.
    “See, the problem is, I don’t like to run.” Thumper flashed teeth. “So how ‘bout next time we get into an elevator, push fourteen, and have us a one-on-one?” Strike could almost smell the rage coming off Thumper now, behind the grin. “‘Cause I hate to run.”
    “Yeah? I put my whooping crane style on you?” Oblivious to Thumper’s heat, Futon went up on one leg, wrists high over his head like the Karate Kid, lashing out a kick, switching feet, trying to come off delicate and lethal. “You be beggin’ to get off by three, bawh.”
    The Word came out of 6 Weehawken too soon. Big Chief saw the St. Louis Cardinals hat and went after him with a little hobbleskip, snatching him up against the fence, a big hand on his heart. “What’s up, yo?” Big Chief plucked a fat roll of singles, fives and tens out of The Word’s pocket.
    The Word started to whine. “I dint serve no one, Big Chief! It’s for mah mother’s birthday, I swear. ”
    All the knockos bellowed in chorus, “Mother’s Day! Mother’s Day!,” everybody having a good laugh as Big Chief escorted The Word to the car.
    “Please, Big Chief … My mother, I swear. ”
    Strike forgot about Thumper for a second, thinking, What’s that nigger doing still holding all the money? Was he stealing? Will he set me up? Rodney just met guys in diners, made payoffs over coffee like a gentleman. Strike swore to himself: If I don’t step up, I’m stepping out. I can’t take it no more.
    The bounty run over for now, two of the knockos walked back through the projects toward the second hidden car.
    Thumper came back in his face. “Strike, why you always look depressed? Are you depressed? Are you angry at me?” Thumper looked concerned, waiting for an answer.
    “You gotta do what you gotta do.” Strike controlled himself, the words coming out low and lazy.
    “Yeah? Let me ask you something else. Do you think I’m an effective deterrent in the war on drugs?” He stared Strike in the eye, mouth open, innocent and earnest. Strike turned his head away, but Thumper moved his own head to keep up the eye contact. “Or do you think I’m just a big asshole?”
    Strike caught Peanut looking at him again: Peanut definitely out of work. The Word out too.
    “Oh shit.” Thumper snapped his fingers. “Did we do socks and shoes?”
    Strike breathed through his nose and hunched over to unlace. Thumper said, “Allow me,” then dropped to one knee as if they were in a shoe store, undoing Strike’s sneakers and then slipping off his socks.
    “Let’s go, there, Thumper,” Big Chief yelled from the car. Thumper sighed, rising, shaking out the socks for hidden dope.
    “OK. I gotta go, hon.” Thumper swiveled on his hips like a discus thrower. Strike tensed, bracing himself for the goodbye. Thumper uncorked it, slapping Strike between the shoulder blades, a heavy, bone-rattling pock, sending a shock wave of pain through Strike’s 125-pound frame. “Catch you later.”
    Thumper walked over to a group of little kids who were watching the show, dropped his hand on a six-year-old shoulder: “Walk me, Big Time.” He strolled to the car with the kid as security against a toaster thrown out a window, Strike’s socks dangling from his back pocket.
    Strike pulled on his sneakers over bare feet, clenching his teeth so the porcelain squeak was a hundred times magnified in his head, thinking: Lose all the idiots