‘Last time I saw you,’ Livingston said, ‘you were in Fulton Superior Court apologizin’ for boosting car radios.’
‘That long ago, hunh? Shit, time do fly. You mind tellin’ me what the fuck all this Wild West shit’s about, comin’ in here, bustin’ up my people, wavin’ all that iron around? No need for that shit. You here to bust my ass?’
‘This is a social call.’
‘Shit. What d’ya do when you come on business, kill somebody?’
‘Flowers went for his piece, man. You think I’m gonna stand around, let some dumb nigger blow my ass off?’
‘He is a dumb fuckin’ nigger, no question about that. Good help’s hard to come by these days.’ He looked through the car window. Steamboat was standing by the front of the car, watching. ‘Now Steamboat’s a whole nother case, baby. You fuck with Steamboat, you better have your plot paid for.’
‘Used to tight, didn’t he?’
‘Light-heavy. Mean son-bitch. Cat’s never been knocked out. Too slow was his fuckin’ problem. He was instant death when he was in-fighting but the fast boys would lay out there, cut him to pieces at arm’s length. You just let that motherfucker get in one good shot, though. Shit, they’d think they was run over by a goddamn freight train. What you want, nigger?’
‘Told ya, man. It’s a social call.’
‘Un hunh. How long you knowed about this here travelin’ bookie parlour of mine?’
‘About three years.’
‘Aww, don’t shit me, nigger. We grew up on the same fuckin’ street, man, remember?’
‘Look here, brother, long as you keep your operation clean, I ain’t interested in bringing’ anything down on you. You ain’t connected. You strictly cash and carry, don’t take no markers, so nobody gets their head stove in, any of that shit. I ain’t in any rush to turn you up to some white dude on the Gamin’ Squad just so’s he can make some goddamn points. I’d rather know what you doin’, Zipper, have some motherfuckin’ stranger come in here bustin’ nigger ass all over town, you dig?’
Zipper thought it over, then smiled.
‘How about a little wine there, for old times’ sake?
‘Thanks anyway, man. It gives me heartburn.’
‘Heartburn! Man, that shit’s fifty dollars a bottle. Ain’t no fuckin’ heartburn in this shit.’
‘I’ll still pass. I got a partner downstairs starin’ down Cherry. I got to get back before they get bored, start hurtin’ ass.’
‘Okay, so get it on. What the fuck you doin’ here?
‘I need some information.’
Zipper sat up as though he had been slapped. At first he seemed surprised, then surprise turned to anger.
‘Shee-it.’
‘Listen here, motherfucker . .
‘Sheee-it, man. What you handin’ this nigger? Come in here, think you can . . . goddamn, hey, Zipper ain’t no fuckin’ stoolie. Zipper don’t rub ass with the heat. Man, you forgot where you came from.’
‘You ain’t changed a bit, sucker. Still put your fuckin’ mouth up front of your brains.’
‘Well, you changed, motherfucker. Shit, give a nigger a piece of goddamn tin and a peashooter, motherfucker thinks he’s Father fuckin’ Devine.’
One of the phones rang and Zipper snatched it off the hook. ‘Closed for lunch,’ he snapped. ‘Call back in ten minutes.’ He slammed the phone back.
‘Look, I ain’t interested in your goddamn bookmaking, I told you that. I got a problem and I think maybe you can help me with it. Now, the dude I’m lookin’ for is white.’
‘Shit,’ Zipper said, ‘I don’t do no business with honkies. Ain’t you heard? They’s a lotta fuckin’ rich niggers in Atlanta now.’
Livingston looked at the floor. ‘You tellin’ me you don’t do business with whitey, I’m tellin’ you I’m talkin’ to one lyin’ nigger. You takin’ layoff bets from half the highpocket white bookmakers in town, Zipper, and I know it.’
‘Layoff bets? Man, that’s different. I don’t see none of them turkeys. M’bagman picks up the takes, brings me the bread and the slip. Then be takes back what we lose. All I do, I count the money and put down the bets. I don’t know any of them motherfuckers personal.’
Zipper poured another glass of champagne, buffing while he poured.
Livingston looked around the back seat, stared out the window, finally lit a cigar. He said, ‘We gonna talk or are you gonna get that fuckin’ bard head of yours dragged downtown and let a couple of white cats play good guy-bad guy with your ass?’
‘I told you my position. Zipper don’t hand out no suit to the fuzz. I don’t care we was street brothers fifteen years ago.’
‘I ain’t here ‘cause we ran together,’ Livingston said. ‘I’m here ‘cause you got information I need. And I don’t have time to fuck around.’
Zipper looked at Livingston with contempt. ‘Know somethin’?’ he said. ‘You was one bad motherfucker. Nobody shit with you on the street, man. You bust ass. Now look at you. Two dollar fuckin’ suit, wash ‘n’ wear shoes, bookie goddamn haircut. And you want me to turn fuckin’ stoolie. I ain’t believin’ you, now.’
