C H A P T E R • 12
Obsidian walked over to the police car and stayed for a minute talking. He was angry. I could read his body language even at a distance, even in the uniform. I know that body.
When the police car drove away, he walked over to two men standing beside another parked car. It was conspicuous, unmarked, but official.
I tried to get some reactions from the police and fire department crowd in uniform while I waited for him to come back. I got nada.
Obsidian was hardly better. I asked him, “Why did the police beat him up? Nobody told him you don’t cuss out the police?”
“Clarence has no impulse control. But whoever beat him up did it before we got here.”
“Tom Sawyer is the one who needs impulse control. Why do they assign those rookies to Harlem with their paramilitary training and their big eyes and their big guns—frightened and armed? And his partner was worse.”
“Tom Sawyer? Oh, the redhead. He’s new. Not from around here. The other policeman wasn’t the rookie’s partner. His partner will walk with him and give him the experience that trumps the paramilitary training. This is where they learn their jobs. Wherever they come from, their real training starts when they get here. And if somebody taught Clarence some respect he wouldn’t be in a squad car right now.”
“Respect goes both ways.”
“Heavy will get out in the morning, if he doesn’t do anything else stupid while we’re holding him. As it turns out, he’s part of the operation making bootleg videotapes. I suppose it pays better than his job as the bouncer over at the Kit Kat Klub.”
“Heavy? I thought you called him Clarence.”
“Actually, his name is Clarence. But lately he started wanting us to call him Heavy. And we do.”
“He wants the police to call him Heavy?”
“No. I mean all of us. I’ve known him since he was a kid.”
“I can see the Journal doing a couple of stories about the Harlem police.”
“I can give you some people to talk to. I would actually like to read a story about what it looks like and feels like from the inside being a Harlem cop.”
“Really? You want a story about how making black-market videotapes is a crime you need to get beat up for?”
“Heavy will be released. But, ironically, he’s at risk of being busted for stealing movies. And it is a crime; although we usually don’t have the time or resources to arrest them. Those clowns sitting over there in their jive Chevy are some freelance hotshot rent-a-cops from the coast who have been watching locations over the last few months where videotapes of movies are being made.”
My feelings changed in an instant from indignation to curiosity. I could see the headline:
“Who are they investigating?” I asked and wondered about Al and the African vendors on the sidewalk in front of the Journal.
He looked at me and shook his head. “I’ve already said too much. Got riled up. That’s off the record.”
“You should have said so.”