“No, we’re not doing that, Henry,” Malone says. “If you heard something, tell me what you heard.”
Henry looks around, then he says, “I heard it was Spades.”
“You’re full of shit,” Malone says. “The Spades are with Carter, too.”
“You asked me what I heard,” Henry says. “That’s what I heard.”
If it’s true, it’s bad news.
The Spades and the GMB have had an uneasy but viable truce, enforced by Carter, for a year or so now. If that’s broken, St. Nick’s is going to tear itself apart. A war inside the project, with 129th as no-man’s-land, will be a catastrophe.
“You hear anything more,” Malone says, “you call me.”
“Who’s he?” Henry asks, pointing at Levin.
“He’s with us,” Malone says.
Henry looks at him funny.
He don’t trust him either.
They meet Babyface up in Hamilton Heights behind the Big Brother Barber Shop.
The undercover sucks on his pacifier as Malone tells him what Henry said about the Spades.
“It’s not crazy,” Babyface says. “The shooter was definitely a brother.”
“Not a dark Dominican?” Monty asks.
“A brother,” Babyface says. “Could have been a Spade. They’re sure as shit gunning up.”
He looks at Levin.
“Dave Levin,” Malone says. “He came over from Brooklyn.”
Babyface nods at him. About as much of a welcome as Levin’s going to get. Babyface says, “Shame about that lady.”
“What are you hearing about the guns?”
“Silence,” Babyface says.
“Anyone talking about a white guy?” Monty asks. “A cracker named Mantell?”
“Biker?” Babyface asks. “I’ve seen that dude around, but no one’s talking about him. You think we’re looking for an Iron Pipeline gun?”
“Could be.”
“I’ll keep an ear.”
“Be careful, huh?” Malone says.
“Always.”
“Anybody hungry?” Russo asks.
“I could eat,” Monty says. “Manna’s?”
Russo says, “When in Nairobi . . .” He drives down to 126th and Douglass and parks in front of the Unity Funeral Chapel across the street. A kid who looks about fourteen is standing on the sidewalk.
“Why aren’t you in school?” Monty asks him.
“Suspended.”
“What for?”
“Fighting.”
“Dumbass.” Monty slips him a ten. “Look after the car.”
They go into Manna’s.
The place is long and narrow—a checkout counter in front by the windows, then double cafeteria racks with trays of food. Malone takes a large Styrofoam container and fills it with jerked chicken, fried chicken, macaroni and cheese, some greens and banana pudding.
“Take what you want,” he tells Levin. “They charge by the pound.”
Most of the other customers, all black, either look away or give them hostile, empty looks. Contrary to myth, most cops don’t eat in their own precincts, especially the predominantly black or Hispanic ones, because they’re afraid the staff will spit in their food or do something worse.
Malone likes Manna’s because the food’s already made and he can control what he eats, and, well, he just likes the food.
He gets in line.
The counter guy asks him, “Four of you?”
Malone takes out two twenties but the guy ignores them. He hands Malone a receipt anyway. Malone walks to a table in the back. The rest of the team get their food and sit down with him.
Stares follow them all the way to the table.
It’s gotten worse since the Bennett shooting. It was bad after Garner, but now it’s worse.
“We don’t pay?” Levin asks.
“We tip,” Malone says. “And we tip large. These are good people up here, they work hard. And we don’t come more than once a month—you don’t want to beat a guy to death.”
“What, you don’t like your food?” Russo asks.
“Are you kidding? It’s dumb good.”
“Dumb good,” Monty says. “Are you trying to sound hood, Levin?”
“No, I just—”
“Eat,” Russo says. “You want a soda or something, you buy it because they have to account for that.”
They all know it’s a test. If Levin is Sykes’s boy, or an IAB field agent, this will come back on them. But Malone has a receipt ready and can say that Levin is full of shit.
Unless Levin’s out for bigger game, Malone thinks. He pushes it a little to feel the guy out. “We alternate tours—days, nights, graveyards—but that’s just a technicality. The cases define the hours. We’re flexible, you need lost time, call me, don’t put it through at the house. We make good overtime, some good side jobs, you’re interested. But don’t take any off-duty work you don’t clear through me.”
“Okay.”
Malone goes into teaching mode. “Those projects towers, you never go in alone. The roof and the top two floors are combat zones—the gangs always take them over. The stairways are where the bad shit happens—dealing, assaults, rapes.”
“But we do mostly narcotics, right?” Levin asks.
“You ain’t ‘we’ yet, College,” Malone says. “Yeah, our main mission is dope and guns, but the Task Force teams do what-the-fuck-ever we want, because it’s all related. Most of the robberies are junkies and crackheads. The rapes and assaults are mostly gangbangers who are also slinging.”
“We play them back and forth,” Russo says. “A guy you bust on a drug charge might give you a murderer for a lesser charge or a walk. An accessory to a homicide might give you a major dealer if you’ll let him plead down.”
“Any Task Force team can follow a case anywhere in Manhattan North,” Malone says. “This team mostly works the Upper West Side and West Harlem. Torres and his people work Inwood and the Heights.
“We work all the streets and the projects—St. Nick’s, Grant and Manhattanville, Wagner. You’ll learn our turf and theirs—OTV, ‘Only the Ville’; Money Avenue crew; Very Crispy Gangsters; Cash Bama Bullies. The big thing we got goin’ on now is the Domos up in the Heights—the Trinitarios—aren’t content with just wholesale anymore. They’re moving in on the black slingers down here.”
“Vertical integration,” Monty says.
“So where are you from, Levin?” Russo asks.
“The Bronx.”
“The Bronx?” Monty asks.
“Riverdale,” Levin admits.
The crew cracks up.
“Riverdale isn’t the Bronx,” Russo says. “It’s the suburbs. Rich Jews.”
“Tell me you didn’t go to Horace Mann,” Monty says, naming the expensive private school.
Levin doesn’t answer.
“I thought so,” Monty says. “And then where?”
“NYU. Majored in criminal justice.”
“You might as well have majored in Bigfoot,” Malone says.
“Why’s that?” Levin asks.
“Because it don’t exist, either. Do us all a favor, forget everything they taught you,” Malone says. He gets up. “I gotta make a call.”
Malone walks outside and gets on the phone. “Did you see him?”
Larry Henderson, a lieutenant in IAB, sits in a car parked in front of the funeral home. “Levin’s the tall one? Black hair?”
“Jesus shit, Henderson,” Malone says. “He’s the one who’s not us.”
“He’s not ours, either.”
“You’re sure.”
“I’d pull your coat if I heard anything,” Henderson says. “IAB doesn’t have you up.”
“You’re sure about that, too.”
“What do you want from me, Malone?”