"This is not good relations, Napoleon." The dude with the gun was holding one side of his head in pain. The gun was at his feet.
"Zelmont," Nap said, throwing the cat off his bar. He moaned as he hit the floor. "Help them find the exit." Nap picked up the gun and pointed it at the guy on the floor.
I made the guy on the bar and the one I'd hit with the ashtray carry the one I'd stepped on outside. The fourth guy, the gunman, Nap roughhoused outside.
"You must learn to relax," the guy said. "Discuss these matters in a rational manner."
Nap tossed the gun back to the cat, and I about peed on myself.
"Nigga, is you crazy?" I screamed, not knowing what to do.
The four chumps stood there but none of them did anything. Nap walked back inside. I hurried after him, shutting the door and locking it. "What in the fuck was that all about?" I was happy to hear their rides fire up.
Nap walked to the bar, and for a second it looked like he was gonna actually pour himself a real drink. But he was true to his tofu-loving ways and got one of those liter bottles of ginger ale from underneath.
"If you want something with more kick, help yourself, brah." One of his knuckles was bleeding. He closed his fist on some ice and tossed the cubes in a thick glass.
"Naw, I'm cool." I copped a seat on a stool at the bar and watched him.
Nap tipped his glass and poured his soda carefully, like a scientist mixing a secret formula. He held it up to the electric lights and swished the ice around.
Nap's gift as a tackle was his calm. His life off the field was as wild as a sixteen-year-old nympho pulling a train in the back of a Monte Carlo. But in the game, Napoleon Graham was famous for not blowing his top. Offensive linemen from various teams compared notes in the off-season on how to get underneath my man's exterior. When he was contained like that, that's when the brain power was churning, his mind snapping shit into place.
"So who the hell were those guys?" I asked again.
"Little Hand," he said, taking a gulp from his glass.
"Your new nickname?"
Nap leaned on the bar next to me. He scratched the side of his face with a long turquoise nail. "I'm into them for some large green, Zelmont."
"Your partners in this?" I waved a hand around.
"Yeah." He tipped his glass, looking at the bottom.
"Say, Nap. You was the one always advisin' me to get off the pipe and blow and save my scratch. You was the one who made all the good investments."
He straightened up, his biceps flexing and loosening as he placed his hands flat on the bar. "And I did too. But don't forget I've got two ex-wives and had my share of palimony suitwomen and men." He showed his horse teeth. "I know you understand how it's tough keeping your dick out of trouble when junior gets an itch."
"That guy on the cell phone the other night, the one with the accent," I said.
"Chekka. He's the local don, or whatever the hell the Serbs in Little Hand call the leader."
"And they came to you? Black folks, even brothers like you, don't run in that crowd, do they?"
"They do if, like me, they've put some money into a certain commercial waste hauling business headquartered in San Pedro." He poured some more ginger ale, letting it sit in the glass. He picked up a swizzle stick whose head was shaped in the Heisman Trophy pose, then started tapping it on the bar.
I always had a problem learning my playbook. My degree in communications from Long Beach State said more about my worth to the athletic program than it did about my focus on schooling. But once I got my mind around the information, I was on it, baby.
"You mean Stadanko's in on this?" I said. Stadanko owned a solid-waste retrieval business called Shindar over near the docks. Hell, 'cause of Nap, I used to have some stock in the company myself.
Nap stopped tapping the swizzle stick. "I'm not sure to what extent Stadanko is involved in the criminal end. Rudy is his cousin and seems to be the one true gangster in the family. Near as I can tell, Chekka launders cash through Shindar and other legitimate fronts."
"Then Stadanko is his front man," I said. "But he must know what Rudy does and get his cut of the strong-arm stuff."
"Yeah," Nap agreed, shaking his head, "I think you're right. It appears that on a day-to-day basis, Stadanko runs the franchise and Rudy runs the solid-waste business as a way to control his other enterprises. I checked, and on paper Stadanko is supposed to have sold his shares to Rudy."
"That would make sense," I said. "Stadanko can't be linked to any thug shit, what with Weems on the warpath."
"Yeah," the big man added, "gives him plausible deniability."
I wasn't sure what that meant but I went on. "And he's got the city officials watching his every move too. But why'd you have us invest in his trash business in the first place?"
Nap made a sound with his tongue. "What better way to get in good with the dude? Remember, back when I said it was a good idea to invest with Shindar, he was only one among several cats hoping they'd get the nod to be majority owner of the Barons."
"Always keeping that back door option open, huh?" I cracked. Nap gave me a big ol' grin. "Why not? When I got out of football I had enough to live okay on."
"But you wanted to stay in the zone, still be an operator," I finished.
He hunched his tackle's shoulders. "You know what I'm talking about, Zelmont. Doing that play-by-play thing on ESPN wasn't gonna get it."
"And a upscale club kept you high steppin'. But you could have gotten a regular loan, couldn't you?"
Nap finally drank some more. "That means straightening out some credit them ex-hoes of mine fucked up. That means collateral and a business plan. That means time to line that shit up, get through the bank committee, and so forth. Meanwhile you had some other ballplayers backed by new money kids in Newport Beach salivating to get this land 'cause it's right by the new sports complex."
I adjusted my butt on the stool. "So you had to move quick. Now what?"
Nap looked at me dead on. "I need you and Danny to watch my back."
I laughed. "Why don't you get your brother and his Victoria Avenue poot butts to roll up on this Little Hand?"
"Come on, Zelmont," he said, irritated. "Those gents ain't got enough discipline to walk in a straight line if there was free Olde English at the other end. But I got to put Danny in on this, otherwise he'd get insulted."
"We wouldn't want that."
"But you got the savvy to keep him in line. And we can put him and his boys in motion when it's needed."
"You soundin' like that's a for sure thing."
"I expect to get out of this box I'm in. Come on."
We went into his office. The room was done up in dark woods, and there were different kinds of African carvings, gargoyles, and demon statues all over. On top of a tall bookcase was a row of Nap's trophies. Of course there was a frou frou touch, with a pink and blue toilet set on a marble slab, an umbrella over it. Modern goddamn art. Through a large arched window I could see the Staples Center.
Nap walked over to a large squat stone head sitting on a thick wood shelf. It had those ancient Mexican features with black blood in its face. He stuck his index finger in each eye, then pressed the nose, followed by flicking something behind the left ear.
I heard a panel slide open somewhere in the room. Nap crossed to a curtain pulled back from the arched window. He reached behind and, like Blackstone the Magician who my mom took me to see once, produced the rabbit that made me smile. He laid a thousand and five in cash on me.
"Every week I can pay you the same. No reporting, no trace. And if things go right, there'll be a bigger payoff."