frequenting this Coney Island for two decades now, and had produced thousands of sketches of what he considered to be the wretched horde of humanity—the losers and the out-of-lucks. He had filled dozens of sketch books with wasting alcoholics, war veterans with amputated limbs, crack whores, crumbling, crooked and broken souls; page upon page of hopeless expressions, defeated postures and bleak, deadened stares.
“There,” The little girl exclaimed, and set the stamp down in the ink pad with an air of finality. She smiled broadly and held the heart-stamped image up to Malcolm. “Now he’s happy.”
“Why is he happy?”
“Because he has all them hearts to protect him.”
“I see.” Malcolm said, and he carefully tore the page out of the book and handed it to the girl, “You keep that, child.”
“You don’t want it?”
Darnell had appeared in the entrance, his tall and lanky frame draped in dark silk pants and shirt. Their eyes met for a moment and Malcolm looked back down at the girl.
“No. You keep that,” he said. “Now you go on.”
She scooted out, favored him with a final beaming smile and headed off toward her mother. Malcolm remembered his disappointment that the charming child had chosen the heart stamp. Over the years, he had become a known fixture in his corner of the restaurant. And over those years, more than a handful of children had ventured over to see what the big man was drawing with his multi-colored pencils and black brush pens.
Only a small percentage of those children, when invited to add their mark to his work, had ever chosen a stamp that Malcolm approved of. Those were the sketches he didn’t let the children keep, the ones he took back home with him and continued to refine.
“Child,” he said.
She turned around.
“Tell your mother I said you have excellent manners and that you will make a fine technician of some sort.”
Her nose wrinkled and her eyes glossed over. Then she brightened, shrugged and trundled away. Darnell’s slim shape folded itself into the spot she had vacated.
Darnell was one of those stylish men who wore silk well. A slim gold chain encircled his neck and his black leather boots had zippers on the side. His long face would have looked horse-like if not for the gleam of intelligence in his eyes.
As he sat, there was a nervous tension that radiated off him as he found himself within arm’s reach of Malcolm Mohommad. Darnell settled his hands on his lap and stared at Malcolm him warily.
Malcolm let the man sit there for a long moment, aware that Darnell was one bad vibe away from bolting like a rabbit.
“I have questions, Darnell.”
Darnell cleared his throat, gave a shallow nod of his head.
“What questions?”
Malcolm reached down and lifted a leather briefcase up on to the table. He began to gather the scattered art supplies from the table top and set them neatly into the case.
“Why this man?” he said.
“Never asked why before.”
“Never is not an answer. I’m asking now.”
Darnell looked down at his hands, considering something.
“Snitch control,” he said and looked back up into the killer’s eyes. “That’s all. Can’t be running his mouth.”
“It says nothing of that in the papers.”
“The papers? Malcolm, what the fuck are you—“
“It says he was raided by the authorities for illegal firearms. In the papers, he is a gun smuggler. Not a snitch.”
“ I don’t follow, man. Who cares what a newspaper says? That’s just stories for white folks.”
“ Is that so?”
“It make s a difference?” Darnell said, and this time without the meek thread of fear in his voice. This was the only thing that mattered, and the only bit of information he had to be clear about.
Malcolm snapped the briefcase shut. He folded his arms in front of him and turned his head to look fully upon the slim, stylish man next to him.
“It doesn’t matter to you?” he said.
“Ain’t my business. And, no disrespect, but it
“There,” The little girl exclaimed, and set the stamp down in the ink pad with an air of finality. She smiled broadly and held the heart-stamped image up to Malcolm. “Now he’s happy.”
“Why is he happy?”
“Because he has all them hearts to protect him.”
“I see.” Malcolm said, and he carefully tore the page out of the book and handed it to the girl, “You keep that, child.”
“You don’t want it?”
Darnell had appeared in the entrance, his tall and lanky frame draped in dark silk pants and shirt. Their eyes met for a moment and Malcolm looked back down at the girl.
“No. You keep that,” he said. “Now you go on.”
She scooted out, favored him with a final beaming smile and headed off toward her mother. Malcolm remembered his disappointment that the charming child had chosen the heart stamp. Over the years, he had become a known fixture in his corner of the restaurant. And over those years, more than a handful of children had ventured over to see what the big man was drawing with his multi-colored pencils and black brush pens.
Only a small percentage of those children, when invited to add their mark to his work, had ever chosen a stamp that Malcolm approved of. Those were the sketches he didn’t let the children keep, the ones he took back home with him and continued to refine.
“Child,” he said.
She turned around.
“Tell your mother I said you have excellent manners and that you will make a fine technician of some sort.”
Her nose wrinkled and her eyes glossed over. Then she brightened, shrugged and trundled away. Darnell’s slim shape folded itself into the spot she had vacated.
Darnell was one of those stylish men who wore silk well. A slim gold chain encircled his neck and his black leather boots had zippers on the side. His long face would have looked horse-like if not for the gleam of intelligence in his eyes.
As he sat, there was a nervous tension that radiated off him as he found himself within arm’s reach of Malcolm Mohommad. Darnell settled his hands on his lap and stared at Malcolm him warily.
Malcolm let the man sit there for a long moment, aware that Darnell was one bad vibe away from bolting like a rabbit.
“I have questions, Darnell.”
Darnell cleared his throat, gave a shallow nod of his head.
“What questions?”
Malcolm reached down and lifted a leather briefcase up on to the table. He began to gather the scattered art supplies from the table top and set them neatly into the case.
“Why this man?” he said.
“Never asked why before.”
“Never is not an answer. I’m asking now.”
Darnell looked down at his hands, considering something.
“Snitch control,” he said and looked back up into the killer’s eyes. “That’s all. Can’t be running his mouth.”
“It says nothing of that in the papers.”
“The papers? Malcolm, what the fuck are you—“
“It says he was raided by the authorities for illegal firearms. In the papers, he is a gun smuggler. Not a snitch.”
“ I don’t follow, man. Who cares what a newspaper says? That’s just stories for white folks.”
“ Is that so?”
“It make s a difference?” Darnell said, and this time without the meek thread of fear in his voice. This was the only thing that mattered, and the only bit of information he had to be clear about.
Malcolm snapped the briefcase shut. He folded his arms in front of him and turned his head to look fully upon the slim, stylish man next to him.
“It doesn’t matter to you?” he said.
“Ain’t my business. And, no disrespect, but it
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