Clockers by Richard Price Page A

thief no matter how much they took in.
    And Rodney was talking about houses. Strike could just see Rodney giving up his bad-man bottle-king glamour, giving up all that love, to be some landlord chasing down pipeheads for back rent they’d already spent on bottles, giving it to whatever new king had taken over Rodney’s throne.
    All the kilo men and ounce men around town talked about real estate, about getting out, but Strike knew they were all full of shit. They were all stone junkies like Rodney, hooked on a lifetime of hustling, of making it the outlaw way, hooked on their status as street stars. It was just like Strike’s mother said when they’d had their big fight: “How much is enough? How much money do you have to make to retire? Who do you think you’re hustling with that nonsense, me or yourself?”
    As Rodney trolled JFK, Strike conjured up his mother’s face when she spoke those words, saw again the set of her mouth, the unblinking conviction in her eyes. She had been so sure of her knowledge that she hadn’t even raised her voice. Well, now he knew that she was right, knew that he was probably no different from Rodney by now, hooked on the dope of recognition, of adoration. And Strike was just getting started.
     
    They drove along a miracle mile strip of Highway I-9, one side of the road lined with carpet outlets, waterbed showrooms and Chinese restaurants, the other by a dark park bordered by a low stone wall. Strike saw the towers of the O’Brien projects about a mile ahead, but long before they got there Rodney slowed down, coming to a full stop on the park side of I-9 behind a Ford Taurus with New York rental plates. There was no one in the car, but Strike saw three Latinos sitting in the shadows on top of the stone wall and listening to a Spanish radio station on a boom box.
    “Leave the money in the car.” Rodney grunted, getting out of the van. Strike did as he was told, then slipped onto the sidewalk, feeling jittery and exposed. He didn’t know what was happening but would have felt better about it if everybody was indoors.
    The Latinos slid off the wall, and the biggest one clasped hands with Rodney, Rodney drawling, “Papi, my man Papi.” No one looked at Strike, not Papi or the other two, both of them wearing jackets in the warm weather to cover their guns.
    “Where you been, brother? I beeped you like three times.” Papi giggled and danced nervously from foot to foot as if he had to pee. He was huge—six three, 230 pounds—wearing an orange Milwaukee Brewers T-shirt over baggy khaki pants. He had calico eyes, a mustardy cat color, the exact tone of his skin. “I figure my man Rodney’s takin’ care of some heavy business. Your beeper fucked up, man? I figure maybe you dint recognize the number ‘cause I was calling from a pay phone.”
    “Yeah, I knew it was you.” Rodney’s voice was a high singsong. “Anytime I don’t know a number coming in, I know it be Papi.”
    Papi exploded into giggles again, tossing his head like a horse. “Rodney, fuckin’ Rodney, man.”
    Strike saw tombstones and granite angels in the shadows over the park wall. He looked back at the Latinos’ car, and the New York plates made him sick to his stomach: Rodney was getting into something here that might be way out of bounds.
    “‘Cause we waitin’ like an hour here,” Papi said, pushing it. “I got fuckin’ people stacked up like airplanes, you know? So what was it, like you didn’t hear it when the number came in? You like looked down at it later?” Papi smiled, waiting for an explanation.
    Strike noticed one of the Latinos studying him. He was a slender, baby-faced teenager, smaller than Strike. A black watch cap pulled down over his hair made his black eyes enormous. The boy looked away, spit a pearl of saliva over the wall into the cemetery.
    Rodney gave Papi a backhanded wave. “Naw, man, I heard it. I heard it every time. It’s what you said, I was takin’ care of