At The Stone: The Evening after the West 150th Street Murders
Snipe said to one of his lieutenants, the one nicknamed "Cheese," "They all in their apartments; they all tucked in good and tight?"
Cheese nodded. "Uh-huh." He came over and glanced at the TV Snipe had pulled his chair in front of. "What'cha watchin', Snipe?"
"Nothin'," Snipe grumbled. "Just some show about predators, that's all. I'm thinkin'."
Cheese pulled another chair over and set it next to Snipe's. "Oh, yeah? What're you thinkin' about? What're predators, anyway?"
"I'm thinkin' that I'm bored. I been thinkin' about it since yesterday. Predators are like lions and tigers and wolves. Coyotes, too. Coyotes are predators."
"You mean, like animals that kill other animals. Is that what'cha mean?"
"Yeah, sure," Snipe answered, making a show of impatience with his lieutenant's ignorance. "Like lions and tigers. Like I said."
Cheese thought a moment, then asked, "You think we're predators, Snipe? You and me and Tramp and Ding and the rest? You think that's what they'd call us?—predators?"
Snipe harrumphed. "No, dumb shit, 'cuz we don't eat what we kill. Predators eat what they kill. That's what they kill for. Christ, you're dumber than used gum."
Cheese sulked. "It was just an idea, Snipe."
Snipe harrumphed again.
Cheese shrugged. "I heard Mrs. Haritson movin' around inside her apartment today. I heard her banging some pots and pans around. I yelled through the door at her, 'You old slime bag,' I yelled. 'You come on outa dere!' Then I said if she didn't come out we were comin' in to fry her brains up and have 'em for our fuckin' supper, Snipe." He chuckled. "That's pretty good, huh?—'Fry her brains up and have 'em for our fuckin' supper!' Pretty damned good!"
Snipe grinned at him. "You wouldn't eat no scuzzy old lady's brains. You're fulla shit!"
Cheese seemed momentarily surprised by the observation. Then he shrugged, "Sure I would. Why not? I ate a pig's brain once. And a cow's tongue, too."
Snipe continued grinning. He reached over, shut the TV off, and turned his chair around so he was facing his lieutenant. He whispered huskily, conspiratorially, "Yeah, and I still say yer fulla shit, and I'm gonna prove it, too." He paused; Cheese looked suddenly uncomfortable.
"How you gonna prove it, Snipe?" he asked, conjuring up a little grin of his own that quivered with nervousness.
Snipe chuckled shortly, silently, in the middle of his chest. He lowered his head and shook it slowly, as if in condemnation.
His lieutenant said, "You want me to eat some old lady's brains, Snipe?" He considered a moment, then continued, "Which . . . which old lady's brains?"
Snipe looked up slowly; his timing and delivery were perfect—under vastly different circumstances he might have been a comedian. "The bag lady's," he said.
Cheese's nervous grin faded at once, then reappeared, quivering mightily. "But she's down at the bottom of the elevator shaft, with the super." Actually, she lay on top of the elevator itself, which was stuck almost at the subbasement level. The two sets of doors above it had locked themselves shut years before. "How I gonna get at her, Snipe?"
"How do you think yer gonna get at her?" Snipe said.
"Climb?" his lieutenant guessed. "I'm gonna climb down there to her, Snipe? Is that what I'm gonna do?" Snipe's grin broadened. He said nothing.
"Jees, Snipe—you know I'm scared of heights. Jees, they make me wanta puke, Snipe! I get up on top of a building or I look out a window, and shit!—I wanta puke! And I can't do nothin' about it—"
"Pussy meat!" Snipe growled.
"No," Cheese protested, "I ain't pussy meat, Snipe." He looked away in search of some other excuse that would keep him from having to climb down the elevator shaft. He looked back suddenly. "And besides, Snipe—that woman, she's been lyin' down there for a week now. She's probably all rotten, Snipe, and if . . . I . . . I mean, she's probably full of food poisoning or something."
"You are pussy meat, and I don't need pussy meat hangin' around me!"
"Jees, Snipe, Jees—"
"You understand what I'm sayin' to you?"
"Sure I do, Snipe, but, Jees, it's like asking some guy with two broken arms to go and have a boxing match or somethin' . . . I mean, I gotta get ready for it, I gotta think about it—"
"Think about it? You wanta think about it?"
"Yeah, Snipe. Just for a day or so. I mean—I'm gonna do it and everything, I just gotta—"
"You got till Saturday. After that, I don't want you around me. Okay?"
"Okay, Snipe."