because the white boy was just so obedient that it kind of warmed his heart. It had been a while since anyone had listened to him the way Kruger did.
“Anything?” said Kruger.
“Nah,” said Baker. “Nothin. Didn’t even find a dollar.”
Baker went to the bar on wheels and scanned the bottles. He wasn’t much of a liquor man, preferring the control that came with the predictable effects of beer. The occasion did call for a little something, though. He passed over a bottle of vodka, had white birds flying across its side, and picked up a bottle of scotch, Glen something or other, aged for fifteen years. He sloppily poured a few fingers’ worth into a tumbler and had a taste. It was smoky and it bit, and he walked it over to a chair set across from the couch. It was a matching chair, covered in red linen, and he noted the height of it and that it would be a good place to take the boy when the talking got to something else.
“So,” said Baker, swirling the scotch in the tumbler. “Let’s get down to why we here.”
“It ain’t good,” said Dixon bitterly. “You forced me into my own place at the point of a gun.”
“You and me gonna get along better if you don’t try to act so big and bad.’Cause we both know you’re not that type.” Baker looked at Kruger. “Lower that gun, Cody. We don’t need it. Leastways, I don’t think we do. Do we, Dominique?”
“What do you want?” said Dixon, the air gone out of him.
“I’m gonna get to that. Want to tell you a story first.” Baker had a healthy sip of scotch and placed the tumbler on the glass of the table before him. “When I was up at Jessup, I got to know a lot of fellas out of Baltimore. That’s a different breed of criminal they got up there. I’m not sayin they more fierce than the boys come out of D.C. Just different.’Cause they do all kinds of unnatural shit to get what they want. I knew this one hitter, shot his victims with a little old twenty-two. Shot’em in the same place every time, somewhere down at a special bone in the neck. He said it was guaranteed darkness. This other dude, Nathan Williams, went by Black Nate, used to take off drug boys by cracking a bullwhip right on the sidewalk. I’m sayin, this man carried no gun. Only a bullwhip. Wore it coiled up on his side, like a gunslinger wears a holster. Corner boys would give it up immediately, just drop their packages right at his feet. That was Black Nate.
“But there was this one cat, he outdid them all. I’m gonna call him Junior. When Junior was a teenager, he hooked up with some stickup boys, rip-and-run artists who were robbing drug dealers. Eventually, the rest of his crew got doomed or went to prison, and he lit out on his own. Junior only went after the big boys, never the kids on the corner. What he wanted was to find out where the money was, and he’d do anything to get that information. Threatening to kill a dude doesn’t work all the time,’cause they know they dead anyway if they give up the bank or their connect. And torture, that’s just loud and messy. So Junior, he got to sodomizing motherfuckers to make them talk. You know what that word means, don’t you, Dominique?”
“I know,” said Dixon, the corner of his lip twitching on the reply.
“Yeah. A dude just responds to the mention of it. You tell him you’re gonna steal his manhood, and he gonna answer any question you ask, all the livelong day.”
“What do you want? ”
“I want your inventory, man. I want your list of clients. I want to have all these nice things you got. You don’t deserve to keep havin them,’cause I’m stronger than you. Law of the jungle, right? I know you heard of Darvon.”
Dixon nodded his head. He knew the name that Baker was reaching for, but he did not correct him.
“Now, we both aware that you’re movin weight. So why don’t you tell me where you keep it at?”
“I don’t have it here.” Dixon spread his hands. “I don’t have it any where right now. I already moved it to my dealers.”
“Not all of it, man. Don’t talk to me like I’m stupid, because I am not.”
“It’s gone.”
“Gone, huh. You just sold Cody and Deon a couple pounds, what, two nights back? And you, supplying half a zip code of dealers? Nah, I don’t think it’s gone. You got plenty left, I reckon. So you lyin to me. And I don’t like that, Domi-nique.”
“Look, man -”
“Thought I told you to call me Mr. Charles.”
“Mr. Charles. Let’s call Deon. Deon knows how my operation works. He’ll tell you I move it in and out real quick.”
“Deon got no say in this.”
“Where’s he at?”
“He ain’t here.”
“I can see that, but -”
“What I mean is, he can’t help you.”
Baker finished his scotch in one long pull and placed it loudly on the glass tabletop. He stood from the chair as if sprung and moved behind it.
“Get up, boy, and come over here.”
Dixon stood slowly from the couch. He walked unsteadily to where Baker stood. Baker backed up to give him room.
“Now turn around and face the back of this chair. Put your hands on the shoulders of it.”
“What for?”
“Right now.”
Dixon did as he was told. His hands gripped the back of the chair. He had to bend over to do it, and as he did he realized what was happening, and he said, “No.”
Baker produced a knife from the right patch pocket of his jacket. There was a button on the imitation-pearl handle, and he pushed it forward. A blade sprang from the hilt. At the unmistakable sound of it, Dixon shut his eyes. Baker, close behind him, touched the blade to Dixon’s neck, brushed it delicately there until he came to the bump of Dixon’s carotid artery, where he applied more pressure but did not break the skin.
“Where the marijuana at?” said Baker.
Dixon could not raise spit or speak.
“Let me help you find your tongue, boy.”
With his free hand, Baker reached around and undid Dixon’s belt buckle, then tore the button from the eyehole on the front of his slacks. He pulled down roughly on the slacks until they dropped to the floor, gathering at Dixon’s booted feet. Dixon stood in his boxer briefs, his bare legs skinny and shaking. His eyes had filled with tears.
Cody Kruger was nearby, the gun hanging at his side, the color drained from his face. He seemed to have lost his bravado. He looked very young.
Still holding the knife to Dixon’s throat, Baker stepped in and pressed himself against Baker’s behind.
“You feel kinda emotional now, huh,” said Baker. “But see, from where I’m standing, this ain’t no thing. All that time I was inside? Shoot. Your asshole is just another hole to me. I feel the same way about your mouth.”
“ Please, ” said Dixon. A string of mucus dripped and hung from his nose.
“Please what? You want me to?”
“I’ll tell you where it is.”
Baker chuckled. “For real?”
“In a white van. Parked beside my car. The keys are in my pocket, the left pocket of my pants.”
“Get the keys, Cody,” said Baker.
Kruger retrieved the keys, gingerly, from the pocket of the slacks heaped at Dixon’s ankles.
“I’ll take care of it, Mr. Charles,” said Kruger. He seemed eager to leave the apartment.
“You go ahead,” said Baker. “Take your car and put it behind the van. Load whatever he’s got in there into the Honda. Mind that no one’s watching, hear?”
“I will.”
“Hit me on my cell when you’re ready to go.”
Baker stayed behind Dixon, hard and tight against him, after Kruger had gone. Baker could feel a quivering in Dixon’s shoulders.
