THIRTY YEARS AGO
The dictionaries have it all wrong. So do the history books.
They say that mines go down, under the ground. And that all the gold in America was to be found out west. Neither of which can be so, George Carrick thought to himself. Because he’d just found his very own gold mine, right there in Queens. And there was nothing subterranean about it, except for maybe the basement, which he wasn’t interested in anyway because there was no rentable space down there. He was focused on the twenty-two floors that rose up above the sidewalk. The eight apartments that shared each of those floors. The fact that he’d just secured the job of rental agent for the entire building. And based on the quick and dirty door-to-door survey he’d just done, it was high time for some of the units to change hands. For new tenants to come in. Tenants with a lot more cash to spend on their rent. Oh, yes. The building’s turnover rate was about to skyrocket. And as a result, truckloads of commission were about to come his way.
Carrick stepped out into the street and the pleasant visions of giant stacks of cash instantly vanished. They hadn’t gone permanently, though. Nothing was going to rob him of his dream. They’d just been chased temporarily to a safer place by his sixth sense. Because he was looking at his car. It was parked diagonally across the street. Close enough to the building to be convenient, but far enough away for a casual observer not to necessarily peg it as his. There was no specific reason for him to pick his spot like that. It’s just the way your instincts lead you to behave when you grow up in a place like Alphabet City. And it was the same kind of instincts that had attracted two kids to his car. It wasn’t a nice car, by any means. It would be an embarrassment in most parts of the city. But it was a little too nice for that neighborhood. Which made it a problem. The only question in George Carrick’s mind as he crossed the street was how big of a problem was it going to be?
Carrick reached into his briefcase, grasped his wrench, and stopped ten feet short of his car. He was ready to fight if necessary. The kids hardly looked formidable. There was a time when he would have welcomed the chance to deal out such a straightforward ass-kicking. But the months he’d spent in Sing Sing had altered his perspective. They’d given him a more strategic outlook. He now knew that violence is best avoided. Unless you can get someone else to do it for you, which didn’t seem like an option in this particular situation.
“Five bucks.” The first kid stepped up closer. He looked around eighteen. He seemed reasonably lively, but was so scrawny Carrick figured he’d snap if someone stared at him hard enough.
“How much?” Carrick bounced up on the balls of his feet. He didn’t know what to do with a demand like that. It was a similar type of half-assed racket that had landed him behind bars. The experience hadn’t been pleasant. He was older and wiser now. Part of him felt he should encourage the kids to take a different course. But five bucks? He was shocked at their lack of ambition.
“You heard.” The kid took another step and behind him his buddy straightened up, ready to weigh in if necessary. “Give me the dough, asshole. Right now.”
Before he could respond, another solution occurred to Carrick. He was going to be in the neighborhood a lot over the next few months. Mining every last vein of new tenancies in the building would take time. It could be useful to have his car looked after while he worked. To have some eyes on the street. But five bucks? Could he trust anyone who set their sights so low? He decided to test the water.
“I could give you ten bucks.” Carrick tightened his grip on the wrench. “Or I could break your legs. Tell me why I should go with option A.”
“Is there a problem?” It was a man’s voice. Coming from behind him. And it wasn’t friendly. Carrick should have anticipated that such green kids wouldn’t be allowed out on their own. He should have been more aware of his surroundings. His instincts had gotten rusty. He’d been spending too much time in libraries, researching real estate opportunities, and going to job interviews. But this was no time for self-recrimination. So Carrick spun around, pulling the wrench out of his case as he moved.
The man he now faced was holding a length of lead pipe in one hand. He had a bicycle chain in the other. He was broad. Powerful. The black leather of his boots was torn at the toes, revealing the glint of the steel caps beneath. His jeans were ripped at the knees. He wore a leather vest over a stained denim jacket. Several buttons were missing and an approximation of a Maltese cross had been clumsily embroidered on the left side of the chest.
The guy was taller than Carrick by about six inches. That gave him an advantage when it came to reach. He gained even more through his choice of weapons. Carrick automatically stepped back, even as it dawned on him that he recognized the guy’s face. From Sing Sing. He was named Donny. They’d never shared a cell, but had been in the same block in the jail. It was well known in there—don’t get on the wrong side of Donny, or you’ll end your sentence in the prison infirmary. Donny lunged forward. Carrick braced himself, thinking, I don’t know the neighborhood yet! Where’s the nearest ER? Then Donny’s face, usually a snarling mask of pure hate, suddenly softened. His arms shot out, but the pipe didn’t connect with flesh or bone. Neither did the chain. Instead, Donny pulled Carrick in close for a hug.
“Georgey? Man, am I glad to see you.” Donny uncoiled his arms after fifteen suffocating seconds. “You wouldn’t believe the kind of schmucks I’ve had to deal with since getting out of the joint.”
Ten minutes later, Carrick and Donny were in a bar two blocks away. Its scarred wooden floor hadn’t seen varnish in a decade, but it was safe to assume it had seen other fluids—like blood—much more recently. The mirror behind the line of grimy second-tier spirit bottles was cracked. The half-dozen tall stools looked like invitations for back surgery. The smell lingering in the air was part abattoir, part chemicals from an industrial laundry. And Steppenwolf was on the jukebox, on a seemingly endless loop.
Donny led the way to a table with two chairs in the back corner. A giant photograph of a crying, naked kid after a napalm attack in Vietnam was on the wall near it. Carrick couldn’t tell whether it was there as a protest or a celebration. He was still trying to figure that out when the bartender brought them some drinks without waiting to be asked. He left a beer for Carrick, and a beer plus two generous shots of whiskey for Donny. The guy quickly deposited the glasses then hurried away. He avoided making eye contact with Donny but couldn’t help taking a curious glance at the newcomer.
“So.” Donny downed one of the whiskeys. “What’s new?”
“Not much.” Carrick tried a sip of his beer. It was watery with no discernible beer taste, but he wasn’t worried about that. He was straining to pick up traces of other flavors. He didn’t want to give offense. But he didn’t want botulism, either. “Just making a living. Or trying to.”
“How’s that working out?” Donny started on his own beer with much more enthusiasm. “Got anything going?”
“There’s a couple of irons in the fire. I’m optimistic.” Carrick didn’t want to deliberately mislead anyone, but sharing wasn’t part of his plan. “You?”
Donny shrugged. “Things are getting back to normal, I guess. It’s better than being in the joint. But I’ve got to tell you, the place went downhill fast when I was away. None of the old crew is still around. I’ve got to start again, train up the kids. And man, talk about scraping the barrel. You saw those cretins out on the street. That’s the level I’m dealing with. It’s depressing.”
“You need to work with good people. That’s true.” Carrick took a larger swig. He figured he needed to finish his glass before he could safely get away. “No one can argue with that.”
“That’s why I was so happy to see you.” Donny reached across the table and slammed his fist into Carrick’s shoulder. “Old times’ sake aside, I like you, Georgey. You’re a good man. A safe pair of hands. And you know what? I have a couple of things going on that are right down your street. Your business was protection, right? So you could help me out. School these stupid kids. Free me up for other things.”
Carrick took another sip of beer, but this time as cover so he could scan the room. Although, even as he was doing that, he was asking himself why. There could be no one between him and the door, or an army of a hundred. Either way, he wasn’t escaping the table if Donny didn’t want him to. He knew the ice beneath his feet was thin, and he could feel the cracks beginning to form. “I appreciate the offer. Really. But here’s the problem. I’m not as strong as you, Donny. I only just survived the last stretch. I can’t risk going back again. I just can’t.”
Donny downed his second whiskey and Carrick saw that the regular, dangerous sneer was returning to his face.
“But I do like the idea of working together.” Carrick nodded with as much sincerity as he could muster. “And I have an idea. That building you saw me leave? Pretty soon, some tenants are going to be vacating their units. It’s going to be in their best interests. Only some of them don’t know it yet. They need someone to explain it to them. You mentioned schooling people. Do you think that’s the kind of lesson you could teach?”
“Is there money in it?”
“Oh, yes.” Carrick smiled. “Plenty.”
“Then I’m in.” Donny crashed his empty glass onto the table. “But I have one more question. These people. Any of them black? Or Mexican?”
“Some of them.” Carrick hesitated. “Why?”
“Because them I’ll teach for free.”