Pipe Dream (3 page)

“Yo, Rock,” he said suddenly. “You see a white boy come in the house tonight?”

“No, I ain’t see no white boy tonight,” Rock said, his voice a little harder because Leroy had embarrassed him. “You know them white boys don’t come through after Friday. What, that shit got you hallucinatin’ again?”

“I don’t know,” Butter said, but the image stayed in his mind as he handed Podres’s I.D. to Rock. “Throw this out the window on your side.”

“All right,” Rock said, already feeling his authority slipping away. “Pull over by this sewer, Leroy.”

Leroy pulled over. Rock got out, stood with his back to the car, and threw the I.D. and the gun holster into the sewer. But he stuck the gun back into his underwear.

Rock, like everyone else in the car, knew that Leroy had just taken his heart—humiliated him in front of a woman. He couldn’t leave a slight like that unanswered. Not ever. So, while he realized that it would have been stupid to kill Leroy at that moment and in that place, Rock knew that when his chance came, he’d take it. He was one of the big boys now. He was a killer. And in his mind, he couldn’t allow anyone or anything to return him to the status of a mere piper.

“Come on,” Pookie said, interrupting Rock’s thoughts.

“Shut up, Pookie,” Rock said as he opened the back door and got in the car.

Satisfied that Rock had thrown the gun and the I.D. into the sewer, Leroy pulled off, just as the police car that had passed them a moment before turned on its dome lights and made a U-turn.

When Leroy looked in his rearview mirror and saw that the cop was following him, he floored it.

Officer Harry Flannagan, a rookie assigned to the 39th District, had lucked out and been assigned to work steady last out, the midnight to eight
A.M.
shift that was coveted by most officers because it allowed for a somewhat regular life. That’s if being a constant target for bad guys with better guns can be viewed as regular.

He learned during his first two months of duty that the things that happened on last out—burglaries, murders, and the like—weren’t discovered until the morning shift. And that shift, he learned, was manned by pissed-off guys who had to rotate every two weeks between eight to four and four to midnight. They weren’t like him, guys who slept on one schedule and saw their wives regularly. More often than not, the day-shift guys were the type of cops who would sooner bust somebody’s head than give them a ticket.

Flannagan, on the other hand, was the type of guy who loved people. He distributed more warnings than tickets, and he generally gave people a break whenever he could. So when he passed three guys and a girl in a car that was parked on the side of the street, he figured they were just having some fun. And when he looked in his rearview mirror and saw a guy get out of the car and throw some stuff down the sewer, he wasn’t immediately suspicious. But he took a second look when he saw the guy coming back to the car trying to stuff something in his waistband. And when Harry Flannagan had to take a second look, he knew it was always for a good reason.

Flannagan hung a U-turn and picked up his handset to call for backup just as a message went out over the police radio for East and Northwest divisions.

“Cars, stand by,” a dispatcher said. “Committed at Park Avenue and Pike Street within the last five minutes, a founded shooting. Suspects may have fled from Broad and Erie in a vehicle. No flash. All units use extreme caution when . . .”

In the middle of the message, the car Flannagan was trying to stop suddenly darted toward Hunting Park Avenue. Flannagan couldn’t wait for the dispatcher to drone on anymore.

“3910, priority!” Flannagan screamed into his handset to make it known that he had an emergency. “I’m in pursuit of a brown Impala, Pennsylvania license tag Tom Edward X-ray Andy Nathan, west on Erie from 21st.”

“3910 is in pursuit of a brown Impala, license tag, TEXAN, west on Erie from 2-1,” the dispatcher repeated. “3910, occupants?”

“Three black males, one black female, wanted for investigation at this time,” Flannagan said loudly.

“What’s your location?”

“West on Hunting Park from 2-7.”

“39A, put me in, I’m at 2-6 and Hunting Park,” the sergeant said, joining the chase.

“396, put me in, I’m at 2-8 and Pike, approaching Hunting Park.”

“3910, I’m going north on Henry from Hunting Park.”

The brown Impala turned at Roberts Avenue, and Flannagan skidded around the corner in pursuit.

“East on Roberts from Henry,” Flannagan screamed into the radio as a popping sound erupted in the background. “3910!”

The radio hissed for half a beat.

“Shots fired!” Flannagan said loudly as the radio began to hiss and crackle again.

“3910, your location!” the dispatcher said. “3910!”

“3910, they’re . . .” There was another popping noise, then a loud crashing sound in the radio, followed by a tortured scream and an abrupt end to the transmission.

“Cars, stand by,” the dispatcher said, flicking the switches that would allow her transmission to go out over every division. “Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio. Henry and Roberts, assist the officer, police by radio!”

Every car within ten miles of 3910’s last location, except the ones that were still at the house at Park and Pike, started toward Henry and Roberts. It seemed like a hundred sirens went off at once.

Leroy knew what the sirens meant. Every cop in Philadelphia would be looking for them now. They would know what they were driving and how many people were in the car, all because Rock had shot at that cop and made him crash.

In his rearview mirror, Leroy could still see the flames from the police car shooting ominously toward the sky. If the cop hadn’t made it out of the car, he was either dead or so burnt up he would wish for death. Leroy knew what that meant, too. If he didn’t get that gun from Rock before he killed somebody else, and if he didn’t figure out a way to get out of Philadelphia before first light, they’d all be dead by daybreak.

Cop killers don’t live long in Philadelphia.

Chapter 3

W
hen Black was sure that the men weren’t coming back, he crept out the back door carrying a band saw, the microwave, a jigsaw, and a power drill. There was a chain-link fence topped with barbed wire that separated the backyard from the alley, so he had to put the stuff in a plastic trash can cushioned with wrinkled newspapers, hoist it over the fence, and hope the mud in the alley would soften the fall and keep the stuff from breaking. He climbed over the fence after it, then carried the can to the wooden gate at the end of the alley and hoisted it up and over again, this time hoping a little harder that it wouldn’t break, since there was only a concrete sidewalk to cushion the fall. When it hit the ground, he picked up the can and set off for Tone’s house, looking over his shoulder once or twice to make sure no one was watching him.

Tone, of course, was the dope man. With him, Black could sell the stuff for caps, get straight cash, or get half and half. That, and the fact that Tone had the best dope, made him option number one. Pop Squaly, the other dope man, would pay in caps, no cash, so he was option number two. Option three was Mr. Paulem. He would pay in straight cash, but he was cheap. He would try to get the microwave, the band saw, the jigsaw, and the power drill for thirty dollars. Paulem was definitely a last resort.

Having worked out his options, Black started toward Broad Street, heading for Tone’s. He was counting up how much the stuff would be worth when he turned the corner of 15th and hit Butler Street. That’s when he heard the sirens. There were dozens of them, twenty or thirty maybe, coming from every direction. For an instant he thought they might be coming for him, but he knew that if they were trying to catch a burglar, they would come maybe three or four cars deep, lights out and sirens off. There wouldn’t be twenty cars. And they certainly wouldn’t be coming from every direction. To be on the safe side, though, he carried the trash can to the curb, like it was garbage, and walked away from it. Anybody who hadn’t seen him climb over the fence would have thought he was taking out the trash—he hoped.

After Black tucked the trash can safely behind a tree, he started walking toward Broad Street, trying hard not to look over his shoulder and get a clue as to what the hell was going on. Within five seconds a police car rolled past him, going the wrong way down Butler Street. A second later, another one flew up 15th Street toward Hunting Park, again in the wrong direction.

“Somethin’ musta happened to a cop,” he mused to himself, “’cause ain’t no way in hell they rollin’ like that for no nigger.”

Satisfied that they weren’t looking for him, Black went back to retrieve the trash can and walked quickly across Germantown Avenue to Broad Street, his mouth watering and his stomach flipping as he thought about that first hit. As he got closer to Lee’s Chicken, though, he noticed something odd, something that caused him to stop in his tracks. It was a rescue truck. And it was right in back of the house.

Black knew that no one would call rescue for a piper. If anything, other smokers would shoot through his pockets to see if he had any more dope or any more money. Then they would leave him for dead. And if the cops happened to roll up and he wasn’t dead yet, they would do everything they could to finish the job. If they were nice, they might even lock him up. Or if they were really nice cops, they might take him to the hospital. But rescue?

Something big had happened in the house. That much was apparent. And Black wasn’t trying to be around anything big. Cops tend to grab anybody and everybody when something big happens. He’d seen it too many times—guys who had never done anything remotely illegal doing life for someone else’s crime. Black wasn’t trying to go out like that. Which meant he’d have to catch Tone on the next go-round. Taking a left, he headed up to Pop Squaly’s, mumbling, cursing, and trying unsuccessfully to convince himself that Pop Squaly’s dope was just as good as Tone’s.

“I need a blast,” he said in a barely audible grumble.

A lady coming out of the bar looked at him and said, “Who you talkin’ to?”

“Do it look like I’m talkin’ to you?” he said, and readjusted the trash can, switching the weight of it from his left to his right side.

The lady, barely fazed, looked at him and resumed her drunken stumble from the bar next to the barbecue place to the bar up the street.

Black picked up the pace, walking quickly toward Pop Squaly’s, and watched police cars, one after another, turning left on Hunting Park Avenue. Since they hadn’t stopped, Black knew that he was safe for a while. As long as they were going to help one of their own, he could smoke fifty caps in the middle of Broad Street and the cops wouldn’t care.

But in spite of his newfound feeling of security, something kept nagging at him, pulling at him like a pinched nerve run amok. The faster he walked, the more intense it became, until it was almost an actual pain pounding against his head. Then, as he dragged the trash can up Pop Squaly’s steps, it hit him. Leroy. Could he have had something to do with what happened in the house?

It wasn’t like they were friends or anything. People don’t become friends out there. At most, they might become partners. And Leroy—stuttering-ass, crazy-ass Leroy—was one of the best partners Black had ever had.

You had to be one of the best to bring rescue to a crack house. That’s why Black knew that Leroy had something to do with it. Trouble was, the same instinct that told Black that Leroy had gotten away with doing something in the house was telling him that Leroy wouldn’t be getting away for long.

Leroy looked in the rearview mirror at the police car burning against the median that separated Roberts Avenue from the expressway off-ramp and tried to think of a way out. When he thought he’d figured something out, he spoke quickly.

“Pookie, when we get up to Wayne Avenue, get out the car and lay down in the street,” he said.

“Nigger, you must be on ALPO,” Pookie said, rolling her eyes and snapping her neck at the very thought.

“I said lay down in the street!” Leroy screamed.

“Ain’t nobody givin’ no orders up in here but me,” Rock said, once again aiming the gun at Leroy’s head. “Matter fact, just pull over.”

“All right, I’ll pull over,” Leroy said, then made a hard left and slammed the accelerator to the floor as he came around the curve leading to Wayne Avenue.

The sudden turn caused Butter to slide across the backseat and bump into Rock, who sat stuck against the door, struggling against Butter’s 130-pound frame. In the front seat, Leroy opened his door and crouched, waiting for a second before he jumped. Pookie followed suit, fighting desperately against the door handle before she finally got it open.

Rock, his eyes wide open, was yelling something no one could hear as Butter, his terror-stricken face flush against Rock’s chest, pulled at the door handle. When Leroy and Pookie rolled from the vehicle, barely avoiding the stone curb that buttressed the asphalt street, the car barreled into the steps of a row house. The last thing Pookie saw before the car burst into flames was Rock’s horrified expression as he pounded against the rear window. Neither Pookie nor Leroy saw Butter crawl from the other side and collapse a few feet away. And neither of them cared.

Leroy got up quickly, ignoring the flame-riddled car. He started toward Wayne Avenue, trying to walk normally in spite of the rapidly increasing swelling in his right knee. Pookie, her face scraped badly along the left side, tore her gaze away from the burning vehicle, got up from the oil-slicked asphalt, and jogged half a block to catch up with him.

“Pookie, go lay in the street,” Leroy said. “That’s the only way we gon’ get outta here.”

There was a gentleness in his voice that hadn’t been there before. She looked at him to see where it had come from and their eyes met. They connected. But as quickly as the connection had appeared, it hid behind the reality of the moment. Yet somehow, Pookie knew in her heart that it was there.

Leroy walked to the curb and knelt behind a parked car. Pookie lay facedown in the street. She knew they only had about ten seconds before the police arrived. And she knew that Leroy was her best and only chance of getting out of this thing alive. So no matter how crazy he sounded, she was going to listen to him. And if they ever got out of this thing alive and got their lives together, she would follow him to something better. Because anything was better than this.

As soon as Pookie lay down, an elderly couple in a late-model Cadillac—church folk from the look of them—stopped. When the man started to get out of the car, Leroy walked up behind him, jammed a stick in his back, then directed him back to the car. Pookie, knowing full well that Leroy would just as soon leave her lying in the street as take her with him, got up and slid into the backseat behind him.

“Just d-d-drive, man, nice and slow, that same thing you do every Sunday—holdin’ up traffic—just d-d-drive!” Leroy said.

“Okay, son. Calm down,” the old man said, glancing at his wife. “Which way you—”

“Nigger, j-just drive!” Leroy said. “I’ll tell you which way.”

“All right, son,” the man said, taking in Leroy’s quick stutter and believing that he was just nervous and afraid enough to kill him and his wife. “The Lord—”

“This nigger don’t understand English, do he, Pookie?” Leroy said, glancing at Pookie, then fixing his gaze on the old man. “Drive, man, the Lord ain’t got nothin’ to do with this here.”

The man fell silent, just as two fire engines and a police car approached from the opposite direction, going toward the two car fires that burned within the next three blocks.

“And don’t try to make no signals and signs to nobody,” Leroy said, indicating the police car and fire trucks. “ ’Cause I’ll blow so many feathers off your woman’s Sunday hat, you’ll think it was a chicken coop up in here.”

The man drove on as if he hadn’t seen the police and fire engines. But when they had passed, he said, “Boy, why don’t you just take the car? You can have it. Just let my wife go. I don’t care what you do after that. Just please, let Mother Jones go.”

“Mother Jones?” Leroy said. “You call your woman ‘mother’? What y’all into, somethin’ kinky, Pops? Probably be tearin’ it up, don’t you?”

Pookie grinned. Mother Jones patted her hair, turned toward the window, and tried hard to stifle a grin of her own. Pops, who didn’t find Leroy the least bit amusing, pursed his lips and gripped the steering wheel tightly.

“Make a right on Germantown and make a right on Clarissa,” Leroy said. “We gotta find Black.”

“Black?” Pookie said, trying unsuccessfully to hide her exasperation.

“Yeah, Black,” Leroy said. “He ’bout the only one I know smart enough to get us outta this.”

Pops started to accelerate, causing everyone in the car to grab for something.

“Slow down, Pops,” Leroy said. “We ain’t tryin’ to get no tickets.”

The old man looked at Leroy in his rearview mirror, then eased his foot off the gas pedal.

“Now make this left on Hunting Park,” Leroy said, taking in the dozens of police cars that were darting along Hunting Park Avenue, turning up and down the maze of one-way streets that ran along either side of one of North Philadelphia’s major thoroughfares.

“Look at these nuts,” Leroy said, talking more to himself than to anyone else.

He looked to his left and saw five or six officers with flashlights walking through the Simon Gratz High School football field. On his right, a K-9 cop in front of the Amoco station was getting out of a Jeep with a remarkably docile-looking German shepherd.

“Make a right on Broad Street,” Leroy said, as the old woman turned her head slightly toward him.

“Turn around, Mother Jones,” Leroy said quickly. “I can’t let you live if you see my face.”

Pops looked in the rearview mirror again.

“That’s why Pops gon’ get his ass out that mirror,” Leroy said. “Ain’t that right, Pops?”

The old man fixed his eyes on the road and nodded.

As the car turned onto Broad Street, Leroy began to scan both sides of the street. Except for two police cars and a bus going south on Broad from Rockland Street, there were maybe five or six cars going in either direction.

“Go in this Roy Rogers like you goin’ through the drive-through, Pops,” Leroy said, watching the approaching night-owl bus that he knew only stopped at subway stops after midnight.

The old man pulled into the parking lot.

When they entered the drive-through, Leroy said, “What time is it, Pops?”

“It’s twelve-twenty.”

“Black probably around Pop Squaly’s by now,” Leroy said to himself.

“Huh?” Pops said.

“Nothin’. Just pop the hood and give me the keys.”

The old man handed over the keys. Leroy broke the lock handles on all four doors and got out of the car, beckoning for Pookie to do the same. When she did, Leroy opened the old man’s door and employed the power locks. Then he looked under the hood and disconnected the battery. With no electricity, the car was all but useless, and there was no way to disengage the locks.

“Catch that bus,” Leroy said to Pookie as he bent down and pretended to tie his shoe.

She walked hesitantly toward the bus, thinking that Leroy was going to leave her.

“Go ’head, girl, ain’t nobody gon’ leave you,” he said, sensing her hesitation.

Pookie looked back over her shoulder at him, wavering between the bus and the car, then fell in line with the other three people waiting at the corner of Broad and Hunting Park for the bus. One woman looked at her strangely, staring at the long red abrasion down the side of her face, but as quickly as Pookie had gained the woman’s attention, she lost it. A skinny, dirty girl with a fresh scrape along the side of her face was nothing compared to the other sights and sounds of North Philly after dark.

“Fare, please,” the bus driver said when Pookie climbed up the bus steps.

Pookie just looked at him.

“I’m only going to ask you for your fare one more time, miss,” the driver said as he reached for the button that would change the flashing
ORANGE LINE
sign on the front of his bus to the
HELP, CALL POLICE
sign.