New York, 4 a.m.
The city’s not sleeping, just taking a gasping spell after another night of rioting that broke out with renewed violence when the Bennett video hit the screens.
Rioters came down Broadway from Harlem, smashing windows, looting stores first around Columbia University and Barnard, then down into the Upper West Side, turning over cars, robbing cabs, beating any whites who hadn’t locked themselves in their buildings, setting fires until the National Guard formed a line on Seventy-Ninth and fired first rubber bullets and then live rounds.
Thirteen civilians, all of them black, were shot; two were killed.
And it wasn’t just New York.
Protests turned into riots in Newark, Camden, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, DC. By night—like embers flying in a ferocious wind—riots were touched off in Chicago, East St. Louis, Kansas City, New Orleans, Houston.
Los Angeles went up later.
Watts, South Central, Compton, Inglewood.
National Guard units were called in, federal troops sent to LA, New Orleans and Newark as the Michael Bennett riots turned into the worst since Rodney King, and the long hot summers of the ’60s.
Malone watched it from a barstool at the Dublin House.
Saw the president come on and plead for calm. When the president finished up, Malone went into the men’s room and chased the three Jamesons with four go-pills.
Going to need them.
He knew they’d be looking for him.
Probably already been to his apartment.
He left the bar and got into his car.
His own car, his beloved Camaro he bought when he was first promoted to sergeant.
Got the Bose cranked up now as he follows another car up Broadway.
The drive uptown is a trip through shattered dreams.
Decades of progress burned down in days of rage and nights of torment. Malone’s been cruising these streets for eighteen years, seen them when they were ghetto wasteland, seen them bloom and grow, now sees them going back to boarded windows and charred storefronts.
Inside, people still have the same hopes, the same disappointments, the love, the hate, the shame, but the dreams, the dreams are on hold.
Malone drives past Hamilton Fruits and Vegetables, the Big Brother Barber Shop, the Apollo Pharmacy, Trinity Church Cemetery and the mural of a raven on 155th. Past the Church of the Intercession—but it’s too late for intercession, Malone thinks—past the Wahi Diner and all the small gods of place, the personal shrines, the markers of his life on these streets that he loves like a husband loves a cheating wife, a father loves a wayward son.
He follows the car as it goes up Broadway.
Illmatic pumped up:
I never sleep ’cause sleep is the cousin of death
Beyond the walls of intelligence, life is defined
I think of crime when I’m in a New York state of mind.
Last time you drove uptown this time of the morning, Malone thinks, you were with your brothers, your partners—laughing, busting balls.
That was the night Billy O died.
Now Monty is as good as gone.
Russo, he ain’t your brother anymore.
Levin, the one you were supposed to protect, is dead.
And your family, who you told yourself you did it all for, they’re gone and don’t want to see you.
You got nothin’.
It’s 4 a.m. in New York.
The time for waking dreams.
The time to wake from dreams.
The car he’s following turns left on 177th and drives west past Fort Washington and Pinehurst Avenues until it takes another left onto Haven Avenue, crosses 176th and pulls over on the east side of Haven, just uptown from Wright Park. Malone watches Gallina, Tenelli and Ortiz get out, not even bothering to disguise the assault rifles—M4s and Ruger 14s—as they go into the building.
The Trini lookouts let them in.
Why not? Malone thinks. They’re on the same side now. Tenelli made the move and it was the smart bet.
He sees a black Navigator pull up in front of the building and Carlos Castillo get out of the backseat. Two shooters get out with him and flank him as he goes inside. Malone drives down the street, pulls off on Pinehurst Avenue and parks at the end of the cul-de-sac.
I lay puzzle as I backtrack to earlier times
Nothing’s equivalent to the New York state of mind.
Malone has a Sig Sauer and a Beretta, the knife at his ankle, a flashbang grenade.
But no Billy O, no Russo or Monty, no Levin to take his back.
Climbing into his vest and Velcroing it tight, he wishes he could hear Big Monty bitch about the vest again. Tilt his trilby, roll his cigar.
He flips the lanyard with his shield over his chest. Then he grabs the Rabbit out of the trunk, walks through the park and into an alley beside Castillo’s building.
He climbs the fire escape to the edge of the roof.
The Trini lookout is looking out the other way, toward the street. And he’s not looking that hard—Malone can smell the weed.
Malone moves across the roof.
Wraps his left forearm around the Trini’s throat and pulls him up, close and tight so he doesn’t scream as Malone pumps two rounds from the Sig into his back. The body slumps and Malone lets it down easy.
No one is going to notice the shots—there’s sporadic gunfire all over the city, the sector cars have stopped responding to the 10-10s—and the die-hard Fourth of July partiers are still setting off fireworks.
Malone looks downtown and sees the eerie orange glow of fires burning and thick black smoke rising against the night sky.
Then he goes to the roof door.
It’s locked, so he jams the Rabbit in and squeezes. Wishes again that Monty were here because it’s hard, but he keeps pressing and the lock finally gives it up and the door swings open.
Malone goes down the stairs.
My last vertical, he thinks.
He holds the Sig in front of him.
Another door, but this one’s not locked.
It opens into a hallway.
A dim fluorescent light hanging from a rusty chain casts sick yellow light on the face of the surprised sentry outside the wooden door at the end of the hallway.
His mouth forms a vacant O.
Brain rushing to send a message that never gets to his hand because Malone shoots him twice and he crumples in front of the door like a rolled-up welcome mat.
The last door, Malone thinks.
Flashbacks to Billy O.
And Levin.
So many goddamn doors, so many things on the other side.
Too many dead.
Dead families, dead children.
A dead soul.
Malone presses himself against the wall and edges toward the door. Bullets come out. Heavy, spinning rounds shattering wood.
Malone hollers as if in pain and drops face-first to the floor.
The door opens.
His gun in front of him, Gallina’s eyes are adrenaline wide, his neck swivels as he looks for the threat then sees the dead man at his feet.
Malone fires a burst into and through his chest.
Gallina spins like a top.
A sprinkler spraying blood.
The gun drops from his hand, clatters on the floor.
More bullets come out, splintering the wall above Malone’s head. He rolls across the floor to the other side of the wall as a Trini gun peeks out from the doorway, searching for him.
Malone pulls the safety pin on the flashbang grenade and tosses it in and pushes his eyes into the crook of his elbow.
The noise is horrific, sickening.
The white light washes everything out.
He counts to five, then lunges to his feet and dives for the open door. His balance is fucked from the blast, his legs rock like he’s drunk. A Trini staggers out, screaming, his face burned, the green bandanna around his neck on fire. Grabbing at his throat to rip off the flaming noose, he bounces off Malone, sending him to the floor. The Sig drops from Malone’s hand and he can’t see to find it so he pulls the Beretta from his waistband.
Ortiz looks down at him.
Ortiz raises a Ruger.
Malone shoots as he shuffles on his ass to get his back against a wall. Ortiz groans heavily and falls to his knees, the Ruger still out and pointed. Malone hits him with two more shots.
Ortiz falls on his face.
Blood pools beneath him.
The heroin, fifty kilos of Dark Horse, is stacked neatly on tables.
Castillo sits calmly behind one of them, behind his dope like Midas counting his gold.
Malone gets up, pointing the Beretta at him.
“I thought you’d be Carter,” Castillo says to him.
Malone shakes his head. “You killed one of my brothers. Another one is brain dead.”
“It’s a dangerous game that we play,” Castillo says. “We all know the risks. So what are we going to do here?”
Castillo smiles.
Satan’s smile on meeting Faust.
A quick look tells Malone that the Dark Horse is all there. They were just cutting it to put it out on the streets.
His streets.
Last time he stood in this spot he made the worst mistake of his life. Now he says, “You’re under arrest. You have the right to—”
Malone hears the two pops.
They drive him forward like punches and he falls face-first but rolls before he hits and looks up to see Tenelli.
His finger squeezes the trigger and keeps squeezing.
The four shots hit her low to high, running up from her groin to her stomach, her chest and then her neck.
Her black hair whips her face.
She swats at the wound on her neck like it’s a mosquito.
Then sits down on the floor and looks at Malone with this funny little smile like she’s surprised she’s dying, like she can’t believe she’s stupid enough to let herself get killed.
A croak comes deep from her chest and her eyes pop and she’s gone.
Malone pushes himself up.
The pain is awful.
He hollers and then spews vomit. Hunches over, pukes again and then looks down and sees blood coming out from the exit wound below his vest. He touches the wound and blood seeps through his fingers, making them red, hot and sticky.
Malone aims the gun at Castillo’s head and pulls the trigger.
Hears the metallic click and knows it’s empty.
Castillo laughs. Gets up from his chair and walks over. Puts his hand on Malone’s chest and pushes him down.
It doesn’t take much.
Malone’s on all fours.
Like an animal.
A wounded animal that needs to be put down.
Castillo pulls a pistol from his jacket.
A slick little Taurus PT22.
Small, but it will do.
He puts the barrel against Malone’s head. “Por Diego.”
Malone don’t say nothing. He pulls the SOG knife from his ankle, raises up and stabs behind him.
The pistol goes off with a deafening roar but Malone is still alive in a world of red light and red pain as he gets up, turns, and slashes the knife up through Castillo’s leg, severing the femoral artery.
He looks into Castillo’s face, pulls the knife out and then plunges it into his stomach and rips up.
Castillo’s mouth opens wide.
An inhuman sound comes out.
Malone pulls the knife out and lets Castillo fall.
His blood smears Malone’s chest.
Malone staggers to the table and starts loading the bricks of heroin into duffel bags.