“What market?”
“It’s now a bodega, but same thing then. Selling whatever people wanted, legal or not.”
Cross shone his flashlight on the plastic crates and reached down. Hooks saw that not all the crates were empty. Cross removed a large blanket from one and handed it to Hooks.
“We’ll be here a little while, so better wrap up,” Cross said.
As Hooks did so, Cross sniffed once, then again, and added, “What’s that stink from? Is it that blanket?”
Cross pulled out another blanket, sniffed it, and said, “This one’s okay.”
Hooks did not say anything.
After a long, quiet moment, Cross began chuckling.
“Oh, man, don’t tell me. .” he said.
“I ain’t ever been shot at before,” Hooks said quietly. He sounded deeply embarrassed.
“Shot at!” Cross parroted, then could not contain himself. He laughed so loud it echoed down the tunnel.
“What’s. . what’s so damn funny? Those bullets went right past me!”
After a moment, Cross forced himself to stop laughing.
He said: “It’s just that the big badass rapper singing about capping the police hears a gun go off and shits his pants!”
“Fuck you,” Hooks said meekly.
“And I shouldn’t say. .” he began, chuckling again. “Oh, this is funny. . but it wasn’t. . it wasn’t. .”
“It wasn’t what?” Hooks said.
“He was shooting blanks!”
–
Nearly three hours later, a grinding sound startled them. The wooden wall that had looked like it could be a dead end started moving, sliding to the side like the one under the ministry’s row house.
Light flooded into the dark tunnel.
Hooks squinted as his eyes adjusted enough to see Cross quickly get up from the plastic crate and then slip through the opening.
Hooks heard DiAndre Pringle’s voice: “What was so funny, Rev? The guys said they heard you all the way upstairs. Ugh. And what the hell is that smell?”
“Tell you later,” Cross replied. “Everything okay?”
“Yeah, Rev.”
“Then let’s get upstairs.”
“C’mon, Ty,” Pringle called.
Hooks paused a moment to let them get a head start, then went through the opening.
On the other side of the panel was another basement, packed with shelving and cardboard boxes carrying everything from potato chips to Tastykakes to cases imprinted with VIKTOR VODKA-SIX (6) 750-MILLILITER BOTTLES in large red Cyrillic-like lettering. Hooks, who drunk cheap liquor, knew that, despite the genuine-looking “Imported Russian Spirits,” the small print on the back of the clear plastic bottles, also in red Cyrillic-like lettering, stated that the cheap booze had been made in a Kensington distillery.
There were also cases of Pabst Blue Ribbon in cans stacked next to cases of forty-ounce bottles of Colt 45 malt liquor. The latter was a favorite of Hooks’s-he liked to call it “liquid crack”-because it was beer brewed with more sugar to create six percent alcohol for a stiffer, and cheaper, kick.
He watched Pringle and Cross disappear up the back stairs.
As Hooks passed one stack, and no one could see, he grabbed a bottle and stuffed it in the belly pocket of his hoodie.
Need this to help me calm down.
–
The back stairs led up to the street-level floor that was the bodega.
The top of the stairs opened into the back storeroom, which Hooks saw had a half-bath with a filthy toilet and sink-its door was open, the light burning-and on the opposite side of the room a second staircase leading up to the next level.
Hooks started to head for the half-bath, but Cross pointed to the staircase.
“No, use the one upstairs,” he said. “Follow me. But be quiet!”
After ascending the second set of stairs, Hooks saw that the next level was a full two-bedroom apartment. It had a living room area with a dirty gray fabric couch and a fairly new flat-screen television, a small kitchen with a wooden table and four chairs, and a single full bathroom.
“In there!” Cross said, pointing into the bathroom as he headed for one of the two windows that overlooked North Twenty-ninth Street.
Cross, standing to the side of the window, carefully pulled back the outer edge of the curtain and scanned the street.
A single marked police cruiser was parked in front of the mission, its overhead red-and-blue lights pulsing. Maybe a dozen uniformed police officers were milling about.
“There’s only the one car,” Pringle said. “That Sergeant Payne said there’d be one there until you turned up. Dead or alive, he said.”
“Really? We can use that,” Cross said, turning to look at him. “And what did you tell our Public Enemy Number One about what happened?”
“Like you said: not a thing. Let them have a look around-they said they were going to even if I didn’t-but then I didn’t say anything. And they found nothing.”
“Good job. You bring your computer pad?”
“Yeah, and I already got the next one set up-asterisk-MarchForRevCross-with the Liberty Bell labeled BEATDOWNTHEMAN on the Philly News Now website.” He paused. “But there’s something you got to know about the rally. Here. Wait. Hear it from Smitty, Rev.”
Pringle pulled out his phone, and a moment later said into it, “Tell Rev what you said.”
Cross took the phone.
“Smitty,” he said, “what the hell is going on?”
“Hey, Lenny, look,” Smitty Jones began, “I did what I was told to. But I thought I was the only one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I was in the crowd, right where I was supposed to be in front of the stage, and waiting for you to finish your speech, before, you know, before shooting those blanks I got at the sporting goods store Chester.” He paused, and chuckled, then said, “You know, when I was buying them, the kid behind the counter asked me if I was getting them for horses or dogs, and I said, ‘What?’ and he said, you know, there’s small blanks-ones that don’t make too loud a bang-for training a horse or hunting dog, to get used to hearing a gun going off-”
“Smitty-” Cross said, trying to interrupt.
“-I said I wanted the louder blanks. You believe that, Lenny? That’s what those rich folks do. Shoot fake bullets to get used to the sound. I about said just come on in to Philly, ’cause we’re used to lots of shooting going on-”
“Smitty!” Cross snapped. “Tell me what the hell happened in the damn crowd!”
“Oh, yeah,” Jones said after a moment. “Sorry. So, like I said, I was doing what I was told, waiting for you to finish your speech-gonna shoot when you said, ‘I won’t be stopped’-but then King Two-One-Five jumped up on the stage and started getting the crowd chanting. I was afraid I missed when I was supposed to shoot, so I got out the gun and-BAM! BAM! BAM! — some bastard starts shooting next to me. Couldn’t see who-bunch of white folks there holding posters. So I aimed at King and started squeezing the trigger.”
“Someone else was shooting?” Cross said slowly.
Cross’s eyes shifted to DiAndre Pringle, who was shaking his head.
“It was just supposed to be Smitty alone,” Pringle said.
“Yeah, it was someone,” Jones said, “but I dunno. .”
“I’ll call you back, Smitty,” Cross said, then broke off the call and handed the phone back to Pringle.
“Who you think it was?” Cross said.
“No idea, Rev,” Pringle said, shaking his head. “Except it could be anyone.”
Cross glanced at Hooks, who was thumbing a message on his cellular telephone.
So, Cross thought, he didn’t shit himself? No, he did do that. He said he saw the gun.
But they were shooting at him?
Or me, too?
[THREE]
Queens Club Resort