EYEHEARTZOMBIES

The next week was spent doing jobs. I was teamed up with a local guy named Tony that had been the Saint Louis hood for years on end. He was an older guy, maybe sixty, sixty-five, and he didn’t take shit from nobody. When I first met him, I didn’t think Tony would be very useful to me, but he knew the city and the streets like nobody’s business. And he was respected. It’s hard to get stuff done in a city that you’re not respected in.

Tony was a hick if I’ve ever met one, though. He was originally from Dallas and Texas was thick on him. His slow drawl made me want to rip off my ears a few times, but I wouldn’t have traded him for anything.

One of the last jobs I had to do was a simple muscle job. Some of the local pimps and gun-pushers had been bringing in smaller and smaller shares. I know it makes sense that eventually the gun market would dry up, so Ray and the bosses weren’t as worried about them. Sex is a market that never changes, though. Pimps that kept bringing in less money were pimps we could do without.

Tony and I went to see Marcus, one of the least-paying pimps. He had staked out a few blocks in the lower east side of the city. We found him easily enough; it’s hard to miss a skinny black man with purple shoes and a gold cane. Yes, he was the classic pimp, but it didn’t seem to be bringing him any of the classic wealth.

Tony got out of the Plymouth first, raising a hand in greeting to Marcus. “Hey Marcus. How’re y’all today?” Marcus looked over, a bit surprised, then recognized Tony, smiled and waved back.

“Hey, sugar daddy. I’m doing fine. Just fine.” Marcus called back. He saw me getting out and the smile dropped from his face. I guess I have that effect on people sometimes. “Who’s this with you here, Tony? I don’t know this cat.”

I told him my name and asked how work was. “It could be better, man. It could be worse. What business of yours is my pussy-peddling anyway?” I could see a mean glint in his eyes, but he wasn’t dangerous. He thought he was, though.

“The bosses have noticed that your business seems more on the ‘could be better’ side than the ‘could be worse side,’ Marcus. They don’t like that. They think that you’re skimming off the top. That or your just a shit-lousy pimp.” I didn’t get any closer to him than the front end of my car. I sat on the passenger-side front fender and looked at him, arms crossed. “How about it, Marcus? Are you stealing from the bosses? Or are you just not cut out for this?”

Marcus looked at me, still a bit frightened and unsure if I was for real or bullshitting him. I think his mind decided on “for real” pretty quick, ’cause his face went pale and he opened and closed his mouth a few times. “Talk or close your mouth,” I said. “You look like a fucking trout.”

He closed his mouth, then opened it again and said “I ain’t no embezzler, man. I didn’t skim nothing. And my girls pull in plenty of action. All of ‘em, even the fat ones. Hell, they get more bone than some of the junkies. If anybody’s skimming, it might be one of the girls, but I doubt it. Maybe the bosses are just unrealistic. Yeah, that’s it. Unrealistic goals. They need to set their sights on reality, man.” He was still pale and I could see a few beads of sweat popping out on his forehead.

“Where’d you get the cane, Marcus,” Tony asked. I had almost forgotten that he was there. “And them shoes. They look to be real expensive, Marcus. I know you pimps get a good cut of the hooch-money, but surely you’ve got better things to spend your money on than shoes and gold canes.” Tony took a few steps closer to Marcus and Marcus took a step backward. He was nervous. I still wasn’t sure which it was, though. The skimming would be bad. He’d probably get whacked. That or sent up to the big house to cover for some crime a higher-up had gotten caught for. If it was that he was a piss-poor pimp, though, he’d have to just move on. The Mob didn’t want to deal with people that couldn’t do their own jobs. He might get switched over to doing some of the ghetto hits, but that took a certain talent I wasn’t entirely sure Marcus had.

“I — I saved up, man. Yeah. I saved up and bought me this cane. I’ve had the shoes for awhile. Really, I have. Two, three years. See? They’re scuffed.” He held up his right foot, then his left. “And this left one here, it’s got a hole in the side of it. See? See?” He pointed to a small hole near the sole where some of the threading had come loose. He looked back and forth between us, nervous.

I had decided. He was skimming. That wasn’t a hole. Not a real one, at least. It was just some loose threads. And you don’t save up when you’re a pimp. Not when you’re a real one, at least. You just take some of that hard-earned cash and buy what you need or what with it. A gold cane was definitely on the want list.

“I don’t think so, Marcus,” I said, standing up again. “I think you’re skimming. Those shoes are new. So’s the cane. If you just come clean, Marcus, it’ll all go a lot easier. So, again, are you skimming? Or are you just a shitty sex-dealer?” I took a couple of steps toward him and he didn’t back up. I could feel the nerve rising in him. He was going to argue, then he was going to fight.

“I told you,” he said, “that I bought these shoes a year ago. More than that! And I saved for the cane. Now, why don’t you believe me, white boy?” His eyes lit up and his hackles raised. This one had lost his flight response somewhere in the gutter. It was going to cost him.

Before he could do anything, and without any further comment from me, Tony grabbed Marcus’ cane and whacked him in the small of the back with it. Marcus gasped out “help” and then fell to his knees. Tony smacked him again with the cane, this time across the shoulders, and Marcus fell forward, catching himself on his hands. He was on all fours, panting for breath. I stepped toward him and kicked, catching him just below his ribs. I heard the air he had managed to suck in fly out of him and he coughed. He raised one hand and held his stomach with it. I kicked him again and heard a couple of bones pop. I don’t think I broke anything, but I’m sure some of his knuckles would never be the same again.

Tony brought the cane down on the small of Marcus’ back again with a satisfying thwack sound and Marcus went flat on the ground. Tony hit him again then stomped his ankle, breaking it. The wet sound of the stomp signaled the end of our muscle job. I hunkered down next to Marcus’ head and placed a business card in his hand. “Call this number before the day’s over, Marcus. Someone there’ll tell you what you need to do next. You don’t steal from those that pay you, Marcus. You don’t bite the hand that feeds. You should remember that next time. If you have a next time, that is.”

Tony and I got back in the car and drove off. Tony kept the cane. He sent me a picture of it a few years later. He had it mounted on a board and he hung it over his fireplace. It was his trophy.