Old friends though they were, Bosco Sam wanted his money back, with interest, and Dukey K. Williams just didn’t have it.
Dukey was hanging around in New York, still living in the apartment he had shared with Margaret, brooding about her murder.
‘Come on, man, you gotta get back in action,’ his manager pleaded daily.
‘Cancel everything,’ Dukey told him. I’m gonna sit still awhile an’ get my head straight.’ Margaret’s murder had left a deep void in his life. He couldn’t come to terms with her death.
He canceled all his work dates, a European tour, and a recording session for a new album.
Several promoters threatened lawsuits.
Dukey didn’t care. ‘Fuck ’em’ was his only comment. He was not making any money, and the royalties coming in from record sales were going straight into the pocket of ex-wife number one and two ‘ex-children.’ He called them ex-children because his wife—the redheaded bitch—had obtained a court order forbidding him to see them.
Bosco Sam was not prepared to give up. ‘I want my money,’ he said, his tone becoming more threatening as each day passed. If it was anyone but you, Dukey…’
They had struggled through school together, known each other a long time.
‘Let’s meet,’ Dukey suggested, thinking fast. ‘Maybe we can cut a deal.’
‘Yeah, let’s do that.’ An ominous pause. ‘While you’re still alive.’
They met at the zoo. Bosco Sam had a thing about privacy; he made sure that all his important meetings took place in public venues.
‘I’ll probably get mobbed,’ Dukey complained. It was a crisp October morning, and the Central Park zoo was almost deserted.
They were hardly an inconspicuous pair—Dukey in his calf-length, belted mink trench coat, boots, and huge shades, and Bosco Sam, a camel-hair-coated, three-hundred-pound man with an attitude problem.
‘Fuckin’ park,’ Bosco Sam complained. ‘Only place a deal can get it on anymore.’
‘Here’s the action,’ Dukey said as they strolled in front of the monkeys. ‘Word’s on the street you’re about ready to dance with the Crowns. You and them make sweet soul music while Frank Bassalino gets the short ones plucked. Beautiful. No sweat. So how would it grab you if I did the plucking? Frank, the brothers, Enzio. The whole Bassalino bag of shit.’
‘You?’ Bosco Sam said, starting to laugh.
‘Jesus! You sound like an elephant farting!’
Bosco Sam heaved with even more laughter.
‘Listen, man,’ Dukey continued. ‘I ain’t layin’ no shit on you, you hear me talkin’? I’m serious. For the two hundred thou—you’re out of it. Your hands are clean. There’ll be no heat knockin’ on your door. Nobody’s gonna know ’bout our little deal ’cept you an’ me. Am I reachin’ you, bro?’
‘Yeah,’ said Bosco Sam thoughtfully. ‘Yeah…’
‘It’ll be cool. Keep up the pressure till it blows. An’ you with a powdered fuckin’ ass nobody can suspect.’
Bosco Sam started to laugh. ‘You still cut it. Big fuckin’ star, but you still foxy as Puerto Rican tail!’
‘Hey—I’ll throw in a song or two at your daughter’s wedding.’
‘The kid’s only ten.’
‘So I’ll be around when I’m needed. How about it? We all set to jive or what?’
‘Yeah, I’ll give you a shot at it. Why the fuck not? We go back a long way. Just remember—you give me results or no deal. Understood?’
‘Right on.’
‘Who you gonna use?’
‘I got my own ideas.’
Bosco Sam spat on the ground. ‘If you’re smart you’ll use Leroy Jesus Bauls. He’ll cost you, but that black motherfucker don’t know no fear—that’s why we call him Black Balls!’
One of the monkeys let out a loud screech.
‘Shit!’ exclaimed Bosco Sam. ‘That fuckin’ monkey just pissed all over me!’
‘It’s lucky,’ Dukey said, managing to keep a straight face.
‘It better be,’ Bosco Sam grumbled. ‘Or your bones gonna be dead fuckin’ bones.’