“Crazy? You never saw better shots — of you, the homies, or life in the projects — have you? That was a great spread.”
“Yeah. Got you some kinda award, didn't it?” he asked. “What it get us?”
“Got your face all over the front page of the Trib. That was serious pub, my man, better than you ever seen before, and you didn't have to go to jail to get it, did you?”
“There is that.”
“Was I fair?”
“Oh, yeah. You was fair. Ah'll give you that much, Lil’ Sister.”
To our left, the outbound train roared into the station and ground to a halt. In the lead car, the motorman looked at us with round, terrified eyes as he saw what was going on, but it was too late for him to do anything about it. The train stopped, the doors automatically opened with a loud hiss, and a dozen black passengers stepped out onto the open platform. They took one look at the gang, at us, and at the cop cars with their sirens and flashing lights, and thought better of it. In unison, they stepped back inside the cars and prayed the doors would quickly close.
As they did, I heard a voice shout up at us from the track bed to our right. “You, up on the platform, stay the fuck where you are.” I looked down and saw Tinkerton's dark-suited goon standing on the tracks below us.
“I'd do what he says, Pete,” Ralph Tinkerton's sarcastic, hardscrabble twang joined in. His usually cold, gray eyes were red-hot and angry as he tasted his impending victory. “You too, Miz Kasmarek.”
I looked longingly at the El cars behind us, but we had blown our chance. The doors closed with a loud “Hiss” and the train immediately started up. It gathered speed and pulled away as quickly as the anxious motorman could make it move, to the obvious relief of his frightened passengers. That was when Tinkerton's goon raised his Glock and pointed it up at us. That was a big mistake. All around us, I heard shuffling feet and loud clicks as a dozen other handguns suddenly materialized in the gang member's hands, one and often two per man. There were matte-black Glocks, a wicked .357 Magnum, a long barreled .38, a .45 Colt, and a huge, chrome .44 Magnum “Dirty Harry” cannon among others, and they were all pointed down at Tinkerton and his goon.
Jamal folded his arms across his chest. “This really be some morning,” he crowed. “Everybody be forgettin' themselves today, forgettin' where they be.”
“Ralph,” I smiled down at him. “This isn't the Columbus Rotary Club up here. I'd be real careful if I were you.”
Tinkerton burned with anger, but that didn‘t make him stupid. “Pete,” he managed a smile. “You and I need to talk.”
“I don't think so. The last time we tried that, I got cut and you got that bruise on your cheek and that big, ugly bandage on your hand. Is that from the fire?” Tinkerton glared and said nothing. “Too bad it didn't fry your sorry ass.”
Jamal and the rest of the gang broke up laughing, pointing down at Tinkerton, and chattering. “He diss'ed you, Chuck.” “The White Boy diss'ed you good.” “Swish!” “Two points. Two points for White Boy.”
Tinkerton could barely contain his rage. “Look, Talbott... Pete.” He tried another tack. “You can't win this thing. You can't run fast enough or far enough. I can reach out and grab you by the throat anywhere you try to hide.”
“So far, your grab ain't been too good, Ralph,” I said.
“Two more points for White Boy.”
“He be killin' you, Chuck.”
“You been poster-ized, my man.”
“No mas, no mas!” another homie ridiculed him.
Tinkerton's eyes flashed up at them. “If you continue with this folly, you're only going to earn yourself a lot of pain. You should remember that before you go dragging other people into it with you.”
“Nobody dragged me into anything,” Sandy snapped.
“No, no!” Someone in the crowd called out. “The bitch don't count. Dis be one-on-one.” And, “Yeah, dat be a technical. She be on da bench.”
“You be right, Doughboy,” The others joined in. “Jus’ White Boy and Chuck. Da bitch don't count.”
“Yeah, 'cause she could kick both their sorry asses, she want to.”
They all broke up laughing, all except Toothpick who was still holding his crotch. “Yeah, ya'll got that right,” he added warily.
“The score still White Boy four, Chuck zip.”
“Look, Pete, you're an intelligent fellow,” Tinkerton said, pointedly glancing around at the homies. “I won't scam you or try to scare you anymore. The world's full of two kinds of people — those who understand the moment and seize it, and those who let it run roughshod over them. As I told you in Columbus, we're the good guys. We're cleaning up this country, putting the low lifes and the riff-raff in jail where they belong.”
“Low lifes? Riff-raff?” I heard from the crowd. “Who he talkin' 'bout Jamal?”
Tinkerton ignored them and kept his eyes focused on me. “We'll be running this country soon enough and we can use someone with your determination and your resourcefulness on our side,” he said with a big Texas smile. “Unfortunately, you haven't had a chance to see the big picture yet.”
I looked down at him with an equally big smile and said, “Ralph, if you're the big picture, it's time somebody tore it down off the wall and hung up a new one.”
The gang went crazy. “A trey, a trey!”
“Shit, a trey from half-court, man.”
“He be da white Kooo-beee Bryant.”
“Das it, game over. White Boy win.”
“I want them.” Tinkerton turned and shouted at Jamal, pointing at us.
“Like, I'm supposed to give a shit?” Jamal laughed.
“How much do you want for them?” Tinkerton looked at me then back at Jamal with a thin, sinister smile. “I'll buy them.”
“Reparations? Now thas a different story.”
“How much?” Tinkerton seethed with anger.
Jamal thumbed his chin for a moment and pointed. “That gold Rolex on yo' arm.”
“He's with the government. He wants to kill us,” Sandy said.
“That right, Chuck?” Jamal asked. “You gov'ment?”
“Why do you care?” Tinkerton answered as he pulled the big, solid-gold watch off his wrist and tossed it up to Jamal.
“The man do have a point, Lil’ Sister,” Jamal said as he slipped the watch over his wrist, admiring the way the solid-gold band gleamed in the bright morning light. He turned and looked at Sandy, then shrugged. “Why
Tinkerton smiled, supremely confident now, figuring we were cheap at twice the price as he motioned for the goon to climb up on the platform.
“Not so fast, Chuck,” Jamal raised his hand. “All the green in yo' pockets, too. Toss it on up here.”
Off to our right, we all heard the unmistakable sound of another El train coming in. Heads turned. This time the train was on the northbound track where Tinkerton and the goon were standing. They saw it, and so did we. Tinkerton was on the verge of losing it, but he did what Jamal said. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a money clip with a thick wad of bills and tossed it at the feet of the young black man.
“Done!” Tinkerton answered through clenched teeth. “Now toss them down.”
“His too,” Jamal said, pointing at the goon.
The goon frowned. “Give it to him!” Tinkerton shouted at him as the train came closer and closer. The goon did what he was told. He pulled out his wallet and tossed his loose cash onto the platform.
“Shee-it, Jamal,” one of the gang laughed as he picked the money up and started counting. “Gov'ment sho don't pay like it used to. You think Richie Daley or Jesse Jackson make chump change like this? Ah don't think so.”
“The guns, too,” Toothpick added.
“The guns?” Tinkerton glowered up at him. “No deal.”
“Your choice, Chuck,” Jamal smiled. “Put the guns up here or go fuck yo'self, ‘cause we don't want nobody
