JULY 8, 1977
SOUTH BRONX, NEW YORK
If anything, the remainder of the journey north was even louder than it had been before. High on adrenaline, the boys in the back of the wagon talked loud and fast about what they’d just done. Hopper couldn’t follow any of it, their conversation a mix of street slang that was both foreign and just far too fast for him to even process. He felt nauseous, and cold, and when he moved his head the world seemed to move at a different speed than his own body.
Hopper closed his eyes. He could feel the cracked leather underneath him, Martha’s hip against his, Leroy’s leg moving as he worked the pedals of the now fully laden station wagon. How they had fit everything in, Hopper didn’t know, but the car now sounded as sick and tired as he felt, the motor’s death rattle replaced by a deep, hollow growl that surely heralded the end of the road for this particular example of General Motors engineering.
“Hey, look alive, look alive,” said Leroy.
Hopper snapped his eyes open and looked at the driver. As the car slowed, Leroy lifted a finger from the wheel and pointed ahead.
They’d crossed into the Bronx seemingly only a few minutes before. Now, they’d come into an alley of sorts. They were surrounded on three sides by flat, high walls. Dead ahead was a featureless expanse with a huge set of double doors set into it. As the headlights of the station wagon crawled up the doors, a smaller, regular-sized portal opened on one side and a couple of men filed out. The one in front gave a wave to the car, then the pair moved to the double doors. Together, they operated the chunky levers of the door’s mechanism, then pushed, swinging the doors inward. When there was enough space to pass, Leroy drove forward.
It was a warehouse, the space cavernous and far from empty. The car rolled past containers, some stacked two-high, around which were smaller piles of packing crates, some exposed, others covered under thick tarpaulin. Farther in, Hopper saw a row of angular, almost skeletal motocross motorbikes, parked up along a wall. There were other cars here too, and next to them a large flatbed truck, the rear covered with more tarpaulin, concealing something large and angular beneath.
Leroy stopped the car at the end of the row. Straight ahead, in the corner of the warehouse, a social area of sorts had been established, and was alive with activity. Flames licked out of four oil barrels, and spread around them was a collection of furniture—couches and chairs, some still wrapped in plastic. There were tables, too, beanbags, folding chairs, camp chairs, dining room chairs that could have come from the governor’s mansion.
As soon as the vehicle came to a halt, they were surrounded, the doors and trunk opened as the unloading began. The trio in the back hopped out and were welcomed by the others with backslaps and hoots.
In the front of the car, Martha, Hopper, and Leroy sat. Leroy killed the engine.
“Welcome home, welcome home, welcome home,” he said. He looked across at Martha. Hopper sat in the middle, looking at both of them, then Martha got out of the car.
Leroy let out a long, slow breath.
“You good, man?” he asked, quietly.
“Ask me later,” said Hopper, and he got out of the car.
Immediately, everyone in the warehouse froze. Hopper felt every eye on him and heard nothing but the crackle of the fires. He looked around him, making an effort to meet the cold gaze of everyone as they stared. It might have been Martha’s pill, and some of the pot, but he suddenly felt conspicuous, like he’d walked into the middle of the Vipers dressed in his old beat-cop uniform, badge shining proudly on his breast pocket.
Leroy moved next to him and wrapped his arm tightly around Hopper’s neck.
“Hey, let me introduce you to some folks, my brother!” he said, very loudly, with a laugh. At this, everyone else seemed to relax, just a notch. The unloading of the stolen goods from the wagon resumed, but people glanced at each other as they worked. Hopper watched as Martha extracted the cash box from the back of the car and stalked off with it under her arm toward the other side of the warehouse, where there was a stack of offices jutting out into the space, an external metal stairwell rising up along one side. There were lights on in the offices. Hopper’s eyes followed the stairs up—and then he saw him.
He was standing in the window of the top office, four levels up. The lights were on and bright, rendering the man into nothing but a black silhouette.
Was that Saint John himself?
Hopper felt a wave of vertigo sweeping over him. He closed his eyes and pointed his face at the floor.
“Hey, brother, you feel me?”
Hopper blinked and looked up. There were several gang members milling around, all watching Hopper. Men and women, black, white, Hispanic, Asian. The youngest looked very young—barely teenagers, Hopper thought—and the oldest were a pair of white men, gray and grizzled, both with long beards like they were twins from a forgotten fairy tale. All the faces were hard, expressions set.
And, as Hopper had expected, all wore the same sleeveless leather jackets that Martha’s three pals wore. Hopper glanced around, noticing for the first time the red serpent symbol emblazoned on the backs of the men who were shifting the AV equipment from their raid. But apart from the addition of the jackets, it seemed that the others still felt the need to retain the colors of their previous gangs.
“Okay, Smoker, Cookie, Betty, Liz, Jackie O.,” said Leroy, pointing to each member of the gang in turn. Hopper gave them a nod, which was returned only by the one called Smoker, a clean-shaven young man with long brown hair in perfect Farrah Fawcett style, the zipped, one-piece light blue jumpsuit underneath the Viper jacket more suited to a night at Studio 54 than the grungy Bronx warehouse.
Next to him, the trio of black women looked at Hopper, their jaws working gum almost in unison as they looked him up and down. The three of them were wearing identical denim overalls over white T-shirts, the legs cut short to show the height of their heavy combat boots. The women leaned on each other’s shoulders, the only difference in their outfits being the color of the elasticized ribbons used to hold their high ponytails in place—red for Betty, blue for Liz, white for Jackie O.
Hopper pursed his lips, and Jackie O. popped her gum at him. Standing beside her, Cookie was the odd one out, clad in tight black jeans and matching T-shirt, his dyed-black hair—which contrasted sharply with the pallor of his skin—cut into a long, soft bob, his bangs hanging at exactly eye level. Hopper wasn’t even convinced the man was looking at him.
Leroy guided Hopper around the next grouping. “This here is Bravo, City, and Reuben.”
Bravo was a woman with long blond hair, wearing a tight T-shirt with the curled title logo of Three’s Company flowing across it. The T-shirt was tucked into denim shorts and she had her thumbs looped behind a huge belt buckle shaped like a sheriff’s star, which went with the tasseled suede cowboy boots on her feet.
City was a shirtless, rake-thin teenager, his ribs painfully obvious, his hair as long and flowing as Bravo’s. He made a clicking sound at the back of his throat, which Hopper realized was a laugh, and nudged Reuben, who stood more than a foot taller, his arms folded, his impassive expression mostly hidden behind a tight black beard only a fraction darker than his skin.
Reuben’s attire of striped Mets T-shirt—number 42—and jeans was, at least, approaching somewhere close to normal, thought Hopper.
Whatever normal is these days.
“And Leroy Washington forgets his own again.”
Leroy spun around at the voice. Hopper watched a heavyset black man approach, wiping his hands on a greasy cloth. He was wearing the standard jacket over a bare chest slick with sweat, and over one shoulder was slung a pair of heavy-duty gloves. The man’s face was smeared with soot and grease, like he’d been working on something mechanical.
“My boy, my boy, my boy,” said Leroy. “Damn!” The two men grabbed each other’s hands and drew together for a chest-bumping hug, the big man thumping the much smaller Leroy on the back with the hand holding the rag.
“You were gone too long, Leroy. Too long. People were worried. People were talking.”
Leroy pulled away and shook his head. “No, man, we’re good, we’re good.”
At this, the big man stopped smiling. “No, Leroy, people were talking. You feel me? People were talking.”
Leroy licked his lips and shrugged. “Well, you know, what can I say. I just needed a little time and space, that’s all. Hell, this ain’t no kindergarten. You know what I’m saying? A man’s gotta get some clean air once in a while. You know?”
The big man stared at Leroy, then his face cracked into a wide smile. “I feel you, dude, I feel you,” he said, “and I heard you had some good hunting, too.” He turned to Hopper. “This the new one?”
“Aye, aye,” said Leroy, putting his arm around Hopper’s neck again. “This here is my man Hopper. And he’s all good, man, all good.” He turned to Hopper. “You good, right?”
“Oh yeah, all good,” said Hopper.
The big man looked Hopper up and down, then he chewed something and spat it onto the cement floor. Leroy patted Hopper on the chest.
“This here is my main man Lincoln.”
Hopper nodded a greeting. Lincoln held out his hand. Hopper took it, only to find Lincoln grabbing his forearm, his vise-like grip tightening around the crook of his elbow. Lincoln pulled Hopper toward him; Hopper tensed, then realized the big man was giving him the same welcome thud on the back as he had with Leroy.
As Lincoln hooked his chin over Hopper’s shoulder, Hopper felt his hot breath in his ear.
“You better be real, man,” whispered Lincoln.
Hopper pulled away from Lincoln. Lincoln just stared at him.
“Hey, you call this a welcome party?” asked Leroy, slapping Lincoln on the arm. “I am disappointed, truly I am. Come on, we got to celebrate.”
Lincoln raised an eyebrow, then chuckled and shook his head. He turned and headed toward the couches set up in a low orbit around the burning oil drums, Leroy right behind him.
Hopper stayed where he was and looked around. Most of the others had got back to whatever the hell it was they had been doing. The goods from the station wagon had been stacked over on one side of the space, alongside the other crates and boxes.
Hopper looked back toward the office area. There was no sign of Martha, and looking up at the top level, he saw that the man in the window had gone.
“Hey, you need a drink or what?”
Hopper turned and saw Lincoln silhouetted by the fires, holding up a bottle of something.
Hopper took a breath and headed over.
Hopper could hold his own, this he knew, but even so, it was getting ridiculous. There were three empty beer bottles by the dirty recliner on which he sat, and he had nursed the half-full fourth in his lap for who knew how long. The beer had been warm but there was no shortage of it, crates of the stuff stacked up against the far wall. The heat from the oil drum fires wasn’t as intense as he had thought, the vast warehouse space soaking up the heat in the air high above their heads. Hopper looked up, and could see now the rusting struts and girders that held the roof in place, some of which had come away from their fittings and hung partway down like broken tree branches.
The others gathered around the motley collection of furniture had long since moved on from beer. Bottles of whiskey, vodka, and other liquors Hopper couldn’t place were shared. Several spliffs had been lit up and passed around, Hopper managing to keep them moving without partaking himself.
To Hopper’s surprise, the gang members didn’t really seem that interested in him. He sat and listened and watched, nodded and laughed when the others did, even if he couldn’t follow most of what was said. As the newcomer, a stranger brought right into the middle of the gang, Hopper knew he needed to play it cool. He was the invited guest, and he knew the hospitality of the Vipers could turn on a dime if they decided that they didn’t like him, or that he didn’t belong, or that he was here for a reason other than the one Leroy had given them.
He also knew that he was being watched. Lincoln sat opposite, and Hopper felt his eyes on him a lot of the time. No doubt he would be reporting back on the new recruit to Saint John.
Then Martha reappeared, to the hollers of some. She smiled and laughed and headed straight for Hopper. To his surprise, she sat down on the arm of his chair, eliciting a series of wolf whistles and more laughter.
She looked around at the others, then looked down at Hopper. She grabbed the beer from his hand, took a long swig from the bottle, then stood. She held out her hand to him.
“Come with me,” she said.
Hopper glanced at the others, then took her hand and let himself be pulled up. The wolf whistles returned; Hopper glanced over his shoulder, and caught Leroy’s eye. He gave a slight shake of the head, his expression set, before taking a swig from a bottle of what looked like tequila. Lincoln continued to watch in silence.
Hopper allowed himself to be led by Martha’s hand as they left the circle and headed toward the office area.
“Ah, where are we going?”
“The Saint wants to see you.”
Hopper stopped where he was. Martha let go of his hand, but kept on walking, glancing once over her shoulder at him before continuing to the stairwell.
Hopper looked behind him. The rest of the group had gotten back to their evening.
Then he turned around and looked up. There, standing in the window on the top level, was the outline of the man again.
Saint John. Leader of the Vipers.
Suddenly sober, clearheaded—and afraid—Hopper followed after Martha.