Street Pharm Page 15

  “Ty!” He gave me a rough, one-arm hug. “Where you been?”

  I followed him back into his apartment, closing the door after us.

  My voice was far away, like it came from outside me. “Where’s Desarae? She in there with the cops?”

  “Her sister came and got her. When the cops told her Sonny got killed, she flipped out. She just kept screaming and screaming. . . . ”

  “What happened?”

  “The cops ain’t saying nothing about the circumstances—just that they found him at Brighton Beach.” He took hold of my arm, like he thought my legs were gonna buckle. “I’m so sorry, man. Y’always been Sonny’s dog.”

  I stepped back and leaned against the wall. Sonny was dead. Sonny. I was living one of my nightmares.

  “Ty, you better sit down. Let me get you a beer or something.”

  “No thanks, Gary. I have to talk to the police.”

  Gary did a double take. “You ain’t serious. What you gonna say?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  “Then stay out of it, son. Trust me. Pigs ain’t nothing but trouble.”

  “They’ll come knocking, anyway. Better I go to them. I got nothing to hide.”

  “Ty, you tripping! You want the cops to know that you a hustla?”

  “They already know.”

  “So? You wanna give them reason to ride your ass from now on? You wanna live like that?”

  I didn’t have an answer to that. I went toward the door.

  Gary said, “Man, whatever went down at Brighton Beach, thank God you wasn’t there.”

  “Maybe if I had Sonny’s back, he’d still be alive.”

  * * *

  The next few hours went by in a blur. I went to the local precinct, told them I was a friend of Sonny’s and wanted to talk to someone.

  They took me into an interview room. One of the officers put a cup of coffee into my hand. It tasted like mud, but I drank it.

  Akindele came in. He didn’t look surprised to see me. I bet nothing surprised him anymore.

  “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Johnson. We appreciate your voluntary cooperation.”

  “I want to help any way I can. Did you talk to Sonny’s girlfriend yet?”

  “No. She’s very distraught. Her sister asked us to conduct the interview tomorrow morning. Now, could you tell me the nature of your relationship to Sonny?”

  “We friends. He been a friend of the family for years.”

  “Was he, specifically, a friend of your father’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do you know about what happened today?”

  “Sonny was supposed to make an exchange with a couple of guys. He never told me their names.”

  “What sort of exchange are you referring to?”

  “Drugs for cash.”

  “What kind of drugs?”

  “I don’t know.” It was true. Since I wasn’t taking Sonny’s calls for the past few days, I didn’t have the 4-1-1 on the shipment.

  “Will you guess?”

  “Coke. Maybe heroin.”

  “Did your friend tell you how much money he was taking with him?”

  “No, but he said the deal was pretty big. The money . . . it was probably in a blue nylon Nike bag. Sonny had a whole stash of them.”

  “As far as I know, we didn’t see a stash of blue Nike bags at his apartment.”

  “Well, he probably keeps them someplace else.”

  Akindele nodded. “What do you think went wrong?”

  “Sonny got scammed. They must’ve planned to kill him the whole time.” I ran a hand over my scalp, trying to stay calm. I couldn’t lose it now. This interview was too important.

  “Did he say anything at all about the guys he was going to meet? What they looked like, where they came from, where he met them. . . . ”

  I shook my head. “We hadn’t talked for a few days. I only knew about the deal because he left me phone messages.”

  Akindele flipped back in his notepad. “His cell phone records show that he called you nine times recently.”

  “Yeah, but I never answered the phone.”

  “Why not? You and Sonny on the outs?”

  “No. I had other things on my mind.”

  “Like what?”

  “I decided to go back to school. I tried to, anyway.”

  Akindele raised his eyebrows, but left it alone. He wrote some notes while I sat there staring at the lines in his wide forehead. Grief ate away at my insides.

  I asked, “You got a plan to find Sonny’s killers? I mean, I hope this is a real murder investigation, even though Sonny was a hustler.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Johnson. It will receive the same attention as any other murder investigation.” He opened the folder on the table and took out two pictures. “Do you recognize these men?”

  I looked at the pictures, but had to shake my head. “Why? They got something to do with Sonny’s murder?”

  “That’s what I intend to find out. There was a similar incident in the Bronx a few months ago. The victim was shot, but he survived and was able to identify the shooters. Their names are William Mathieu and Devin Harrison. We’re trying to track them down. Do you have any idea where Sonny might have first come into contact with the men who killed him?”

  “No.”

  “You must know some of Sonny’s hangouts.” He flipped his notepad to a new page and gave me a pen. “I’d like you to write them down for me.”

  I stopped. The guys at those places didn’t talk to cops.

  “You want us to solve your friend’s murder, don’t you?”

  “Yeah.” I wrote down a couple of places, figuring my best bet was to get there before the cops did and ask questions myself.

  I slid the pad back to him. “Can I get copies of these?” I picked up the pictures. “In case I run into somebody who knows them?”

  Akindele’s eyes narrowed, but he nodded. “I’ll get copies for you.”

  Over the next few minutes he kept questioning me, but I couldn’t give him any good information. Finally he said, “You’ve been helpful, Mr. Johnson. If you think of anything else, please call me.” He gave me his card.

  “Thanks.” I knew that I hadn’t been helpful, not really. I just didn’t know enough to help the investigation.

  But that was about to change.

  * * *

  Desarae’s sister, Maydean, lived in a housing project on Avenue X, across from Sheepshead Bay High School. I was at her place for parties a few times. I buzzed her apartment.

  “Hello?”

  “Maydean, it’s Ty Johnson. Can I come up?”

  She buzzed me in.

  I stepped into the elevator, staring at the floor the whole way up. I tried not to think or feel, but instead focus on what I had to do.

  When Maydean opened the door and I saw Desarae sitting on the couch, I almost lost it. She looked up at me through dead eyes. I went to her, wrapped my arms around her. I felt her nails digging into my shirt.

  I held her for a while. Nobody spoke.

  She broke away to blow her nose. There was a distance in her eyes, a blank something that told me she was on tranquilizers. I didn’t blame her.

  I said, “I gotta ask you a few questions so that we can catch the guys who did this.”

  She nodded.

  * * *

  Around ten o’clock that night I went into a bar so shady that it didn’t have a sign outside with a name. If it wasn’t for Desarae, I wouldn’t even know this dive was here.

  The place had the stink of stale beer, old vomit, and cigarettes. It was almost empty, with a few loners sitting at little round tables. I went up to the bar and sat down two stools away from a drunk guy who was talking to himself.

  The bartender—dark hair, maybe thirty-five, needed a shave—came up to me. “How are ya?”

  “A’ight. You?”

  “Surviving. What can I getcha?”

  “Corona.”

  “Lime?”
<
br />   “No thanks.”

  He gave me the drink, and I paid him up front. “Hey, have you seen Sonny Blake tonight?” I asked.

  “If he said he’ll be here, he’ll be here.” He used a rag to wipe some drops off the bar. “That guy doesn’t disappoint.”

  “I ain’t really meeting Sonny tonight. I just wanted to make sure you knew him before I told you what happened. What’s your name?”

  “James.”

  “James, Sonny was shot today—by guys he met in this bar last Thursday night.”

  He blinked. “What?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Holy shit.”

  “You remember seeing Sonny with two guys last Thursday?”

  James wouldn’t look at me. He kept wiping the bar.

  “Did you set up the meeting between Sonny and those guys?”

  His head shot up. “I don’t get involved in what goes on here.”

  “Right. But do you know what I’m talking about?”

  “You sound like a cop.”

  I laughed. “No way. Hell, I ain’t even old enough to be in here.” I showed him my driver’s licence.

  “That could be fake.” He looked closer. “Wait . . . Ty Johnson?”

  “Heard of me?”

  “Sonny talked about you. Said you’re Orlando Johnson’s son. You’re business partners.”

  That was Sonny. He trusted people too much.

  “I’ll be straight with you, James. I only care about one thing: Sonny’s killers going down. I need your help.” I put the pictures in front of him. “These the guys?”

  He nodded. “I never saw them before three weeks ago. Then they started coming in every other night. They kept to themselves. One of them had a strong accent, Haitian, maybe.”

  “You hear what they talked about with Sonny?”

  “No. I figured they were making a deal of some kind. Do the cops know what happened?”

  “All they know is that Sonny was found at Brighton Beach with three bullets in him. I told them why he was there.”

  “You told them Sonny was a dealer?”

  “They already knew that. I didn’t have much more to tell them.”

  “Well, can my ID of these fellas help?”

  “It can help a lot. If you don’t want the cops questioning you here, go to the precinct and give your statement. Ask for Detective Akindele.”

  “I’ll go over in the morning.”

  “Thanks, man.”

  When I walked out of the bar, the cold January wind slapped my face.

  Sonny was really gone.

  BLACK JANUARY

  When I got out of bed at 12:30 the next day, it was just because my body wouldn’t sleep no more.

  The crib was cold. Damn landlord turned the heat down because he thought people were working during the day. Not this tenant. I’d call him later and give him hell.

  I stared at my blinking phone like it was covered with bugs. I didn’t want to touch it. But I had to.

  The message was from Desarae. She told me that she was meeting Sonny’s mom and sister at the Jamieson Funeral Home on Flatbush at four o’clock. She hoped to see me there.

  Funeral arrangements for Sonny? My stomach felt sick.

  There were other messages from homies asking about Sonny. I paid them no mind.

  No message from Alyse. I don’t know why I even thought there might be.

  I went to the kitchen. In the fridge, I had a half-carton of milk, but the only cereal box around was sticking out of the garbage. I didn’t have nothing in the cupboards but a box of crackers, instant coffee, and sugar. No way I was touching those crackers, not when Monfrey’s hand was in there.

  I made the coffee and sat down in front of the TV. I surfed from channel to channel, finally choosing a sports station. Sonny kept popping up in my mind. I turned up the sound to get my mind somewhere else.

  Out of nowhere, my stomach heaved. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. When it was over, I hugged the toilet, worn out, resting my head on the toilet seat.

  I sniffed. Tears squeezed out from under my eyelids. They kept coming. Memories of Sonny kept coming.

  He was gone, that crazy-ass nigga who was the closest thing to a brother I ever had.

  He was gone.

  And it might’ve been my fault.

  If I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my own problems, I could’ve convinced him not to risk the deal.

  If I hadn’t let him down, Sonny could still be living and breathing right now.

  And I had to live with that for the rest of my life.

  HONORING THE DEAD

  The day of the funeral was blue-skied and freezing cold. I walked to the church, thinking the air would do me good. Instead, I got there with frozen hands, ears, and feet.

  Inside the church, organ music played. The room was more than half full. Not a bad crowd, but Sonny would’ve wanted more.

  I walked up a side aisle. I saw a bunch of homies from the hood, including Sonny’s neighbor, Gary. Most of them had on suit jackets, some even had on ties, and their hats and do-rags were off out of props for Sonny. A few of our long-term customers were there too.

  I squeezed into the first row beside a woman who said she was Fayola, Sonny’s aunt. His sister, his mom, and Desarae all said hi to me.

  The organ music stopped, and the minister walked in. He was a big-shouldered man about sixty, in a black robe and a red stole. When he reached the pulpit and started to speak, his voice was deep but soft.

  I hadn’t gone to church in years. When I was little, I actually wanted to go to church, mostly because of the great music. But as I got older and started to understand what the minister was saying, I didn’t like it anymore. Too much of the minister’s talk was about the temptation of the streets and the evil of drugs. I didn’t feel comfortable in a place where they told me my dad was a sinner.

  Sonny’s aunt read the scripture. Then it was my turn to talk. Taking a deep breath, I walked up to the pulpit.

  “Sonny was one of a kind. He was family to me.” My throat tightened around my words.

  Get it together. Ty Johnson don’t lose control.

  I cleared my throat and raised my head. “Sonny was the type of guy who liked to be noticed, huh?”

  People nodded and chuckled. One shouted, “Amen!”

  “One of his favorite things to do was go to fancy restaurants decked out one hundred percent gangsta, just to see the look on people’s faces. Sonny didn’t care what people thought of him, because he knew who he was. He knew what was important to him, and that was people. The people here today. He was always taking care of his mom and his sister. He was so into his girl Desarae that he wanted to get the words ‘Desarae, My Queen’ tattooed on his arm. He would’ve done it too.”

  I glanced at Desarae, who tried to smile.

  “To me, Sonny was a great friend. He was the type of guy you could call at three in the morning with a problem and he wouldn’t complain. And he wasn’t shy to give a homey a hug if he needed it. I ain’t saying I ever needed it.” People laughed.

  “Some of you know that a few weeks ago, I was in the hospital. For a couple days, it was pretty serious. They wouldn’t let nobody in but family. Well, Sonny wouldn’t have it.” I looked up to see people nodding, smiling. “The hospital staff knew I didn’t have a brother, but Sonny was tripping so much that they let him see me, just to keep the peace.”

  I waited until the laughter died down before going on. “I don’t know if anybody can picture a world without Sonny. I know I can’t. Maybe we don’t have to. Maybe if we keep remembering him, all the good times we had with him, he’ll still be with us. I know that’s what he’d want. Sonny, we’ll never forget you. Peace.”

  A WALK IN THE PARK

  That night I took a walk in Prospect Park, carrying Sonny’s loss on me like a lead backpack.

  I walked because my crib felt like a prison closing in on me. I walked because I had nowhere to go.

  I didn’t wanna f
ace the truth.

  Nobody lasts in this business. Not for long, anyway. Not Dad. Not Sonny. Even Jimmy Pennington couldn’t last at the top.

  Why the hell couldn’t I admit that until now?

  The reason was at Sing Sing, probably lifting weights and talking trash with his buddies. He used me, and I knew it. But I let it happen. It wasn’t just because I made stacks of cash. It was because I felt sorry for him, being locked up and all. He always told me that knowing I was running the business was what kept him going.

  Fuck it.

  Day by day, year by year, the business took away anything good in my life. Alyse, Mom, Monfrey, Sonny—everybody I cared about was getting hurt or killed.

  Hell, I didn’t even have school no more. At least there, I felt normal. As wack as school sometimes was, I kind of missed the debates in Mr. Guzman’s class or chilling with my homies in the cafeteria.

  Fact was, I didn’t even know who Ty Johnson was anymore.

  I sucked in cold air. I thought that after bringing Darkman down, I’d be on top, the King of the Streets. But I was wrong.

  You are becoming your father.

  There it was again, those thoughts in my head so intense, they were like voices.

  You are becoming your father.

  But if I was becoming my dad, why did I have a guilty conscience? One of Orlando’s strengths was that he did whatever had to be done without hesitation or emotion.

  Did that make him strong, or did that make him a fucking psycho?

  DEAR DAD

  The next morning I got a call from a prison volunteer that my dad wanted to see me.

  I knew it was coming.

  Orlando was always keeping tabs. He would’ve known the funeral was yesterday, and he’d want to talk about what Sonny’s death meant for the business.

  There was no point in putting off the visit. When Orlando called, I came.

  I walked up to the gates of Sing Sing. I felt the cold concrete and slippery black ice under my feet. The sky was dark gray. I knew there wouldn’t be sunlight today.

  In the visitors’ room, Dad gave me a strong pat on the back and a shoulder squeeze. “Son.”

  We sat down.

  “What the hell happened, Ty? How’d you two end up dealing with those thugs?”