Dirt Merchant Read online

  “They the ones responsible for the nuclear plants?”

  “Plants never got built,” he replied. He tapped his cane. Once. Twice. “Newspapers should’ve been all over it, but guess who owns them?”

  I smiled. “The honkeys who run Jacksonville?”

  “Now you got the right idea, my young friend,” he said. He laughed, coughed, and spat the resulting phlegm out the window. “Everything in this city revolves around the pursuit of money.”

  “That doesn’t sound special to this city.”

  “Yeah, well. Can’t say it is. But the same bastards been running things here since the end of the second World War. And they don’t plan on letting the rest of us have none of it. Not a dime.”

  I turned right on a street full of run-down government housing and came to the pharmacy where I’d been directed to take the old man.

  “Drive-thru?” I asked, and Mino shot me a look of utter contempt.

  He said, “I ain’t dead or crippled yet. I can go in and get my own damned prescriptions.”

  I offered to help him out of the car, but he huffed and puffed until I gave up and let him go on his own. While he hobbled around the CVS, I listened to the radio and watched a group of kids riding bikes around an adjacent parking lot.

  Somehow, it reminded me of the first conversation I’d had with Uncle Mino back when Deuce and I had rolled into town. He’d been telling me a story of breaking out of jail or some such craziness, but he didn’t get to finish.

  I considered asking him to finish the tale of his daring escape, but he was having none of it when he sat back down in the car. He was already off on another one of his rants about being old, and since everything he said was insightful — or at least entertaining — I let him go off on his rant.

  “Wish I could say I was proud to be living this long,” he said, “but every day, life robs you of a little more dignity. The bastard.”

  He laughed, tugged on the overhead handle. Staring out the passenger side window, he said, “White boy, I like you.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “You don’t mind taking an old man to the store.”

  “Shaw, man. No big deal.”

  “You ain’t even afraid to get liquored up to drive somewhere.”

  “Didn’t plan on driving today,” I said.

  “Now, don’t go and ruin my opinion of you,” he replied. “I was beginning to get a real bead on you, young man.”

  “I don’t think of myself as young,” I responded.

  “The hell you say,” he said. “You ain’t even forty yet, are you?”

  “I’m getting there,” I responded, “but no.”

  He tapped the cane. “See what I mean? No sense of perspective. You see sixty, then we’ll talk. Until then, you a young man.”

  “That so?”

  “It’s strange,” he said. “I was a young man for most of my life. I kept moving the goalposts back on old age, until I woke up an old fuckin’ man. Then I thought, ‘Nothing’s ever going to be all right ever again.”

  “How’d you know? How’d you decide, ‘Welp, I’m old?’”

  “Prostate went out on me. Started pissing all the time, on the hour every hour at night. Hurt to go to the bathroom. Hurt to get myself off. All the things that make you feel virile, like you got a claim to the world. That whole process, spending so much time thinking about my nether regions, took something from me.”

  “Spent a lot of time thinking about death, I bet.”

  “Oh, the whole time. When you’re young — when you’re middle-aged — somebody dies, and it brings your whole life, mortality and all that, to bear. It’s a tragedy. Somebody clocks out, and it throws you. Really throws you. But it makes you feel more alive, know what I’m saying?”

  “I think I do.”

  “You see life for what it is.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, death is just a constant reminder. Nothing more than that. You see? Death used to be like the stars. Gotta look up and really look to figure out that, oh shit, we’re just these tiny things on this tiny place. Buncha crazy shit to think about. You think about how time doesn’t stop when you do. You close your eyes, and that’s it for you. The world might as well be over. But it ain’t. I used to think that was a real tragedy. Now, I’m not so sure that’s true.”

  The family was cheerful in a formal way, smiling whenever their eyes met. Everybody sighed a lot, plucking at the hem of their garments or offering to help with this or that, carrying dishes or trash or whatnot. I was treated like a nearly visible ghost, and mere acknowledgement was enough for me. I snuck beers with regularity and was blissed out by the time we piled into the cars for the trek over to the funeral home.

  I took a seat in the back and tried to keep my head upright. My hangover was legendary, and Deuce had all but ignored me most of the day. A man possessed of his sins, he was especially delicate with the remaining family members, giving wide berth, even, to his cousin Reginald, who was surly most of the day. Both men hid behind dark glasses and calm demeanors, but something nagged at them.

  A few quick swigs from a plastic bottle of Old Turkey put me back in business. I sat between two old ladies outfitted in bright green dresses. They shook their heads disapprovingly at my choice of mid-service beverage, but the cracking ache of my skull meant I didn’t give a damn. I was sure I smelled like the underside of Jack Daniel’s boots, but it was better than the other side of it all. I wasn’t prepared to get good and sober. Who knew when that would even be? I’d been sober once, but it had to be on my terms. I wasn’t ready, knew I wasn’t ready.

  The service itself was calm but was covered in a devastated silence.

  I made conversation with the old ladies, but they didn’t really know anything. They occasionally went to church with Deuce’s mom and only saw Taj when he passed through the house on their post-Sunday School luncheons.

  I got up and moved. No help for the wicked, I supposed.

  The group I chose next was decidedly more…youthful. I eavesdropped from the row behind them, careful not to be too obvious, but at some point I must have belched.

  I held the cup aloft and said, “Irish means of grieving,” and they went back to their conversations.

  “I mean, them niggas don’t play,” a kid in a black shirt and dark tie said.

  “I heard the reason they had to keep his body was because they had to log all the pieces of him,” a girl in braids responded. “Like, he was so fucked up, they couldn’t release him to the family until they were sure they had everything.”

  “Yo, it gets even more fucked up than that,” a kid in a vest said. “My boy Sam Money told me they cut off his dick and stuffed it into his mouth.”

  The others leaned in conspiratorially. “What, like he’s a snitch?”

  “Heard he was fucking somebody’s girl,” vest kid responded. “You know Taj — he was always chasing pussy.”

  “Pssh, Taj was fake as fuck and everybody knew it,” the girl said. “Love that boy, shit, but he was not hard. Pretty boy, coming from a family with a pro ball player.”

  “Shit, I wish I’d had his problems,” the kid in the black shirt and tie said. “He should have just kept his narrow ass of the streets. Is that true, though — the part about them stuffing his dick in his mouth?”

  The one dude made a gesture in the air. “Swear ‘fo God,” he said. “Them niggas fucked him up. His boy Reg been trying to pick up on who did it.”

  The guy in the vest smiled. “Like that big-headed mufucka’d do anything,” he said. “He more pussy than Taj, and half as hard.”

  The girl plucked at her braids. “Shit, he better watch it, or else he’s gone end up with a dick-mouth himself.”

  Just as the conversation was revealing something, however, the service began. I settled back and dipped into my 80 proof meds.

  It wasn’t that I was being disrespectful or self-indulgent, though I think you’d have a case if you suspected me of both. Truth be told, I
was looking to pull some of the old mojo back out of my time from the Junction. Taj’s funeral was not the first one I had attended while under the influence. When a younger guy named Emmitt Laveau died some months back, I went to the funeral and ended up hearing licks from an old Blind Willie McTell song pulsing from the coffin like somebody had stuffed a ham radio in there with him.

  However, as I sat there, all I experienced was the growing sensation that the floor was spinning beneath me. I leaned back, as if preparing myself for a theme park ride, and drove my heels into the ground to put an end to the swaying.

  The young man in the coffin gave off no ghostly vibes. Not even the hint of sound. Instead, all I got was the subdued hum of the lights above us, intermittently broken up by the shrieks of inconsolable family members.

  I zoned out for a bit, hoping I wouldn’t be sick, paying attention to the pulsing of my head. It synced up with the swell of the preacher man’s voice. He was a passionate, sweaty man, even in November, and he had this habit of daintily patting at his forehead whenever perspiration slipped into his eyes.

  Halfway through the service, I excused myself to go outside for some private drinking.

  A young woman in a muted blue dress was smoking among a group of friends, down where the hearse was parked.

  “Spare one of those?” I asked, offering my flask in return. The young woman laughed off my gesture but gave me a smoke. She flicked her lighter, ran the flame over the end of my butt, and continued chatting with her friends, even after I’d walked away from the group.

  Her eyes were beautiful.

  I kept a good distance but listened in. They were talking local bullshit involving a beef over drug dealings. People getting killed over weed that was supposed to be “legit.”

  The young woman caught up with me at the graveside, as people filed out. I had been watching Deuce, waiting for him to give me the nod for our exit. We had talked briefly the previous night to check out leads low-level dealers had given us.

  “Enjoy that smoke?” she asked me.

  I nodded and smiled. “I did.”

  “Not much of a talker?”

  I said, “Not when I’ve got a mind as full as mine is right now.”

  She nodded, glanced out over the headstones. “Should be beautiful out here,” she said. “Everything around here is cold concrete, and it’s only getting worse. Hard to imagine the only green land in this town has to be full of bodies. Soon, it feels like, won’t be anywhere else to put them, so we’ll just end up stacking them right on top of one another.”

  “Morbid thought,” I responded.

  “It’s a morbid time,” she responded. “You and Darron good friends?”

  I nodded. “I would say I’m a family friend, but I’m not. Not really. I’m along for the ride, helping out an old buddy and all that.”

  “How’s he doing?”

  “About as bad as can be imagined,” I said.

  “Has he told you anything?”

  “Just the bare minimum. He and Reginald said—”

  I looked over and saw Deuce watching me, then I tried continuing on. “He and Reg said Taj got dragged along in some shady business, spent the last six months of his life trying to hit bottom. I filled in the blanks.”

  “He don’t know the half,” she responded.

  She held out one hand.“My name’s Tyra,” she said, “and you are?”

  “Rolson.”

  “Well, Rolson, I know you want to help Darron out, but it’s a viper pit you’re walking into. Reg, I expect this sort of nonsense out of. He’s been walking dead since he stole his mama’s car when he was thirteen, but Darron, he’s always had a good head on his shoulders.”

  “Huh,” I said.

  “And don’t think I don’t see him mugging us from way over by the casket. He asks you about me, you pass along what I said to you. He may be hurting about Taj, but he’d be best to leave it along. These aren’t just boys selling skag on the corner. They’re into way more freaky shit.”

  “Why don’t you pass along the message yourself?”

  “He and I aren’t exactly on speaking terms.” She paused, rifled through her purse, and brought out a half-finished pack of cigarettes. She handed me one and lit the both of them. “We had a falling out some time ago about his little brother, and I don’t think he ever forgave me.”

  “Y’all two date or something?”

  “Me and Darron? Hell no. He’s always been too quiet, too modest, like his shit don’t stink. Can’t stand a man like that. No, it was me and Taj. Back in high school, the whole first love thing.”

  “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “Because I know you’ll pass it along for me.”

  “What else can do you have on Taj, before we go and do something mighty stupid?”

  “Whatever he did to get where he is, it was probably enough to put him there.”

  She started to walk away, blowing a dissipating plume of smoke above her and ignoring an approaching Deuce. I quick-stepped to catch up with her.

  “If I need to call you, in case something else happens that brings up questions…”

  She smiled knowingly. “Sure,” she said. “Give me your phone.”

  I checked my pockets. Must have left it back at the house. “I guess I’m unprepared for a life in the modern world.”

  “Well, here,” she said, fishing a small slip of paper from her purse and writing on it. “Don’t go and lose this, because it will be the only one you get, you hear?”

  I tapped it against my forehead and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  7

  Deuce waited until we were halfway to the middle of nowhere before he spoke. “Rol,” he said, “I know you want to help, and I appreciate all that you’ve done so far — honestly, I couldn’t have done it with you — but Tyra…”

  “She was forthright,” I said. “I’m not trying to make her my primary source, but I think she may be able to help.”

  From the driver’s seat, Reg said, “She’s cursed, man. Everything she touches turns to shit, and if y’all weren’t already boned, I’d have blamed your predicament on her, too.”

  “What’s so bad that I can’t trust what she says?”

  Reg turned to me, allowing the car to drift precariously toward the center line. “What’s she going to tell you that I can’t?”

  I leaned back, tried to get comfortable. “How close were you and Taj toward the end?”

  “Man, we was always tight, Rolson,” he replied. “I’ve got secrets on secrets on my homie.”

  I cleared my throat, sipped from my flask until that familiar wavy feeling returned.

  “What was he into?” I asked. “Really, Reg. What was he into?”

  “Best I could figure—”

  “Not your best estimation,” I said. “Tyra said we’re stepping into something poisonous, and if that is true, I want to know what kind of rattlesnake is on the other end of it.”

  Deuce said, “At firs, Taj’s extracurricular activities didn’t concern me, but if he was in some major dirt, we need to know.”

  Reg hesitated. His hands clenched the steering wheel.

  “Reg, don’t make me embarrass you in front of your boys. I’ll drag you down to Pearl Wood and beat your ass sideways.”

  I could practically hear Reg’s brain toking on a single thought: What should I tell them? He was in Nixon territory with me. What did he know, and when did he know it? If he was stalling for time, there was a good chance he had some secretes he didn’t want to share, and he wasn’t smart enough to prevaricate with believability.

  There was a long, slow rolling of the eyes on Reg’s part, a physical reaction to an emotionally-charged question, but finally he came out of his self-imposed silence.

  We turned onto a darkened street, in the shadow of a house that itself had no lights. Two men in tattered jeans and baggy shirts half-jogged across the street in front of us, the glare from the headlights reflecting in their ey
es.

  Reg closed his eyes and ran one hand from back-to-front over his head, a calming gesture.

  “Man, shit,” he said. “It wasn’t never supposed to be like this.”

  Our silence cued him to continue.

  “D, you know how Taj was, man. He was always looking for something to get into. He was never bad, but you know better than anybody he didn’t do well with idle hands. You could lock him up, but the first second he caught you not looking, he was off, doing his thing.”

  “And what, he slipped into dealing for the Zone 5 boys?”

  “He used to run with Peep Laroche, you remember him?”

  “Fat dude? Used to chop cars with your uncle on your mama’s side?”

  “That one. Anyway, Taj bumped up against him for something — he never told me that much — and he said he owed that blind old bastard a favor. The favor, of course, involved the Black Reapers.”

  “That how it start,” Deuce asked, “or is that all there was to it?”

  “Nah, it goes into a few directions after that, cuz, and just let me say—”

  “Just say it, Reg,” Deuce commanded. “Can’t get any worse than the end result.”

  Reginald shrugged. “It does go some dark places, I ain’t gonna even lie.”

  “Get to it,” Deuce said.

  “He was never a dealer, never sold drugs, but he had an aptitude for moving them, so that’s what he did. He pulled me in because he needed help with the quantity, and I know the neighborhoods, know the people. Taj, he was hyper, but he never done anything bad like this before, you know?”

  “That it? He just missed a shipment, and they ganked him for that?”

  “I promise you, cuz. That’s all he told me. I helped him out when he needed it, but he never said anything more than maybe he done fucked up. That’s the for real truth of it all.”

  Deuce’s fist snapped across the car. I heard the impact before I saw it. Sounded like thunder, and I had to press my hands against my ears to ward off the ringing.

  Reg swerved unintentionally, reached his right hand out. It caught the volume knob on the dashboard. Music screamed to earsplitting volume as the car whipped back and forth on the road. I felt the world go squishy as I tried to keep my whiskey down.