Detective Sal LaBarbera, the purported inventor of the “One Knock” policy, rapped his punched-through-many-a-wall knuckles on the black metal security door, rattling it like a gigantic tuning fork. Five seconds later, King Funeral, all 220 rock-hard pounds of him, opened the door and shook his shaved head. “I’d know that knock anywhere.”
“Damn, Fune, I figured you’d have a butler opening and slamming doors for you by now.”
“Cut the shit, Sal. You know I can’t trust no one. No one but the police and my rivals. One to lock me up, one to shoot me. Least I know where they coming from. Everyone else, you gotta be leery.”
“Thomas, we ain’t coming to lock you up,” said Hart. “Been there often, often done that.”
“Don’t remind me. C’mon, c’mon in. I don’t want my neighbors to see me associating with riffraff.”
Funeral was dressed casual nice, loose-fitting black slacks, a green-and-orange silk short sleeve and orange Nike Air Jordan 3 Joker sneaks. “Nice wheels, boss,” said Li’l Mayhem. “The Jokers are sweet.”
Funeral ignored him and led the cops into his living room, offering them a seat on a cushy seven-foot orange leather couch. A rust-colored carpet was strewn with big pillows and a chrome coffee table displayed two big books—one about Rome, one on Muhammad Ali. Li’l Mayhem pointed to the Rome tome and said to Hart, “Capital of Italy.”
“Fuck you, asshole.”
“Hey, King,” said Mayhem, “did you know that Muhammad Ali won his Olympic Gold medal in Rome, or is that why you put them books out together?”
Funeral shook his head and looked at Hart and LaBarbera. “Almost nothing more annoying than a young brother who thinks he can educate a man. Maybe, I should tell you to wait outside with my rotty-shep or go wash my Escalade or clean my gutters, but just go in the den there and get us something to drink. You know what a den is, right? It’s a nice room.”
“I know what a den is, boss,” said Mayhem. “I even know what it stands for. D.E.N. Decorated extra nice. Maybe you didn’t even know that.”
“Your boy is one annoying piece of a shit,” said Hart to Funeral. “What I don’t understand is how you haven’t had him shot yet.”
“It is a mystery,” said Funeral. “Now, boy, spare us your bullshit and get me a drink before I decorate your face extra ugly. Get one for yourself, too. Then shut the fuck up. Detectives, how about some con yak? Relax for a minute with an old enemy.”
Hart glanced over at Sal who just shook his head once.
“Get the Rémy, youngin’. The fancy bottle.”
“Not a bad place,” said Sal.
“Compared to what? My old dump my momma raised us on 74th? Yeah, it’s a long way from there. But I ain’t forgot my peeps.”
“We know.”
Li’l Mayhem returned with Rémy XO and two snifters that he set on the coffee table and poured two deep drinks.
Funeral lifted his glass. “To all the guys, mine and yours, who didn’t make it through their tours.” The detectives nodded. Funeral poured a smidgen on the glass-topped chrome coffee table. It pooled up like balsamic on extra virgin, settling into a small glowing amber pool.
Hart surveyed the room. Sony eighty-inch HD TV. Bose sound system. Some framed photos, including one of King Funeral in an orange tux next to a gold Lamborghini Aventador J roadster. “Gangster life has been good to you,” said Hart. “Anyway, you know why we’re here. Get the tape. Let’s hear it.”
Funeral took his nose out of the snifter. “This some sweet stuff. I remember when you was at the Seventy-Seventh, Sal. I always had my forty of Olde English whenever you came by. ‘Member that one time I talked you into taking a swig?”
“Stuff was nasty,” said LaBarbera. That was ten years ago, and the stale taste of the warm malt liquor still registered on his taste buds’ memory.
“But, I gotta tell you, you showed my Hoovas that a cop could be a human,” said Funeral. “I’m serious. For a lot my niggas, that was the first time they saw a cop be kinda cool. They used to them uniformed motherfuckin’ robots. Anyway, I always kinda appreciated that in a strange way.”
“Great,” said Sal. “Get the tape.”
“Hold on, Sal,” said Funeral. “I’m gonna get it in a minute. I even made a copy for you, but I’d like to know what kind of goodwill is comin’ my way offa this. I know this is big-time important for y’all. I’ve been reading the Times stories. I see the TV news. I know y’all under a whole lotta pressure. I need serious credit here. Look, I know where we stand. I know I done a lot of wrong in my life, but I been trying to go legit. But I still have some boys to consider like Tiny Trouble. He’s my sister’s boy. So I’m just going to ask you two, you gonna forget how you got this tape?”
“No,” said Sal. “You been up front with me and I appreciate it.”
Hart shot the senior detective a look.
Funeral continued, “On the other hand, I can’t have it out there that I gave up this tape. Can’t have the streets know where you got it from. Just say police have discovered in a search or something, but you cannot say I gave it to you. Even if it is just to nab a journalist. Any cooperation at all with the police and well, ya know, the boys, young-and-old school, don’t approve of that. A man could get shot offa this. Even me. I’m only doing this, and I want you to understand this, I’m only doing this to score some points for my sister’s kid and maybe get a little grace in the future. Plus, I really don’t give a fuck about Lyons. He been making a career writing about our misery and he try to come off like a brother, like he down with us. Now he trying to be a hero, when he ain’t nothing but a fuckup. If this tape was some Sixty confessing he kilt Jesus Christ, I would not give it up. You feel me? But the reporter, shit.”
“Jesus. Play the fuckin’ tape, Thomas.” said Hart. Funeral shot him a look but pushed the remote’s play button. Silence in the house. The tape rolled.