“I’ll pay a thousand,” Jack said. He was desperate to keep Reginald talking.
“Sorry,” Reginald said. “Our little rap is over and your number’s up.” As slowly as Reginald had lowered the gun, now he raised it.
Jack couldn’t believe he was going to be shot at point-blank range by someone he didn’t know and who didn’t know him. It was preposterous. Jack knew he had to get Reginald talking, but as glib as Jack was, he couldn’t think of anything more to say. His gift for repartee had deserted him as he watched the gun rise up to the point where he was staring directly down the barrel.
“My bad,” Reginald said. It was a comment that Jack understood from his street basketball. It meant that Reginald was taking responsibility for what he was about to do.
The gun fired, and Jack winced reflexively. Even his eyes closed. But he didn’t feel anything. Then he realized that Reginald was toying with him like a cat with a captured mouse. Jack opened his eyes. As terrorized as he felt, he was determined not to give Reginald any satisfaction. But what he saw shocked him. Reginald had disappeared.
Jack blinked several times, as if he thought his eyes were playing tricks on him. When he looked more closely he could just make out Reginald’s body sprawled on the paving stones. A dark stain like an octopus’s ink was spreading out from his head.
Jack swallowed but didn’t move. He was transfixed. Out of the shadows of the arcade stepped a man. He was wearing a baseball hat backward. In his hand he held a pistol similar to the one Reginald had been carrying. He went first to Reginald’s gun, which had skidded ten feet away, and picked it up. He examined it briefly, then thrust it into the top of his trousers. He stepped over to the dead man and with the tip of his foot turned Reginald’s head over to look at the wound. Satisfied, he bent down and frisked the body until he found a wallet. He pulled it out, pocketed it, then stood up.
“Let’s go, Doc,” the man said.
Jack descended the last three steps. When he got to the bottom he recognized his rescuer. It was Spit!
“What are you doing here?” Jack asked in a forced whisper. His throat had gone bone dry.
“This ain’t no time for rapping, man,” Spit said. He then indulged in the act that had been the source of his sobriquet. “We gotta get the hell out of here. One of those bums back on the hill was only winged, and he’s going to have this place crawling with cops.”
From the moment Spit’s gun had gone off in the arcade, Jack’s mind had been spinning. Jack had no idea how Spit happened to be there at such a crucial time, or why he was now hustling him out of the park.
Jack tried to protest. He knew leaving a murder scene was a felony, and there had been two murders, not one. But Spit was not to be dissuaded. In fact, when Jack finally stopped running and started to explain why they shouldn’t flee, Spit slapped him. It wasn’t a gentle slap; it was a blow with vengeance.
Jack put his hand to his face. His skin was hot where he’d been struck.
“What the hell are you doing?” Jack asked.
“Trying to knock some sense into you, man,” Spit said. “We got to get our asses over to Amsterdam. Here, you carry this mother.” Spit thrust Reginald’s machine pistol into Jack’s hands.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” Jack asked. As far as he was concerned it was a murder weapon that should be handled with latex gloves and treated as evidence.
“Stick it under your sweater,” Spit said. “Let’s get.”
“Spit, I don’t think I can run away like this,” Jack said. “You go if you must, and take this thing.” Jack extended the gun toward Spit.
Spit exploded. He grabbed Reginald’s gun out of Jack’s hand and immediately pressed the barrel against Jack’s forehead. “You’re pissing me off, man,” he said. “What’s the matter with you? There still could be some of these Black King assholes hanging around here. I tell you what: If you don’t get your ass in gear I’m going to waste you. You understand? I mean I wouldn’t be out here risking my black ass if it hadn’t been for Warren telling me to do it.”
“Warren?” Jack questioned. Everything was getting too complicated. But he believed Spit’s threat, so he didn’t try to question him further. Jack knew Spit to be an impulsive man on the basketball court with a quick temper. Jack had never been willing to argue with him.
“Are you coming or what?” Spit demanded.
“I’m coming,” Jack said. “I’m bowing to your better judgment.”
“Damn straight,” Spit said. He handed the machine pistol back to Jack and gave Jack a shove to move out.
On Amsterdam Spit used a pay phone while Jack waited nervously. All at once the ubiquitous sirens heard in the distance in New York City had a new meaning for Jack. So did the concept of being a felon. For years Jack had been thinking of himself as a victim. Now he was the criminal.
Spit hung up the phone and gave Jack a thumbs-up sign. Jack had no idea what the gesture meant, but he smiled anyway since Spit seemed to be content.
Less than fifteen minutes later a lowered maroon Buick pulled to the curb. The intermittent thud of rap music could be heard through the tinted windows. Spit opened the back door and motioned for Jack to slide in. Jack complied. Events were clearly not in his control.
Spit gave a final look around before climbing into the front seat. The car shot away from the curb.
“What’s happening?” the driver asked. His name was David. He was also a regular on the b-ball court.
“A lot of shit,” Spit said. He rolled his window down and noisily expectorated.
Jack winced each time the bass sounded in one of the many stereo speakers. He slipped the machine pistol out from under his sweater. Having the thing close to his body gave him a distinctly unpleasant feeling. “What do you want me to do with this?” Jack asked Spit. He had to talk loudly to be heard over the sound of the music.
Spit swung around and took the gun. He showed it to David, who whistled in admiration. “That’s the new model,” he commented.
With little talk the threesome drove north to 106th Street and turned right. David braked across from the playground. The basketball game was still in progress.
“Wait here,” Spit said. He got out of the car and headed into the playground.
Jack watched Spit as he walked to the basketball court and stood on the sidelines as the game swept back and forth in front of him. Jack was tempted to ask David what was happening, but his intuition told him to keep still. Eventually Spit got Warren’s attention and Warren stopped the game.
After a brief conversation during which Spit passed Reginald’s wallet to Warren, the two men came back to David’s car. David lowered the window. Warren stuck his head in and looked at Jack. “What the hell have you been doing?” he demanded angrily.
“Nothing,” Jack said. “I’m the victim here. Why be angry with me?”
Warren didn’t answer. Instead, he ran his tongue around the inside of his dry mouth while he thought. Perspiration lined his forehead. All at once he stood up and opened the door for Jack. “Get out,” he said. “We have to talk. Let’s go up to your place.”
Jack slid out of the car. He tried to look Warren in the eye, but Warren avoided his stare. Warren started out across the street, and Jack followed. Spit came behind Jack.
They climbed Jack’s stairs in silence.
“You got anything to drink?” Warren asked once they were inside.
“Gatorade or beer,” Jack said. He had restocked his refrigerator.
“Gatorade,” Warren said. He walked over to Jack’s couch and sat heavily.
Jack offered Spit the same choices. He took beer.
After Jack had provided the drinks he sat in the chair opposite the couch. Spit preferred to lean against the desk.
“I want to know what’s going on,” Warren said.
“You and I both,” Jack said.
“I don’t want to hear any shit,” Warren said. “ ’Cause you haven’t been straight with me.”