cuts that pronounced him a badass. Wraparound shades and a shaved head completed the look.
I parked catty-corner to them and watched for about an hour. Ruffy and B-Dog joked and hassled the girls who walked by. Tyrone kept his arms folded and scared the pigeons away. Three, maybe four times, junkies approached them. They’d talk for a minute then Ruffy would lead them into the park a little ways. The exchange would be made, or so I assumed, and the junkie would shuffle off to Buffalo. Ruffy would come back to the corner and he and B-Dog would pick up where they left off.
I got out of the car. They spotted me before I was halfway across the street and I could see them subconsciously straighten up as they made their assessments. I was a clean-cut, middle-aged white guy in a predominantly black suburb walking towards two known street dealers and their bodyguard. From their perspective, chances were good that I was a cop.
I stood in front of them for a second. When I didn’t say anything, B-Dog put a toothpick in his mouth and said, “Help you?”
“I was looking for the Three Stooges, but you guys will do in a pinch,” I said, then pointed at each one. “Moe, Larry, and Curly.”
“Cop,” Ruffy said to no one in particular. Tyrone tried to stare me into the sidewalk.
No reason to deny it. “Guy got killed around here, not too long ago. I’m looking into it.”
“People get offed all the time,” B-Dog said. “Don’t make it our bidness.”
“Yeah, but this guy was a policeman,” I said. “A cop you knew. You boys grew up around here. You knew Officer Witherspoon. You called him T.”
They didn’t say anything.
“He used to give you rides from the pool in the summer, take you home when he caught you out on the streets and promised not to tell your parents. His wife taught you in elementary school. Their son’s just a few years younger than you.”
They still didn’t say anything. Ruffy fixed me with a slack stare, B-Dog focused on something over my shoulder. Tyrone continued to try to disintegrate me with his eyes.
“The way I heard it, T watched out for the neighborhood. And when he didn’t like something, he took it personally. He probably wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what you’re doing now, but if he could cut you a break, he would.”
“T was all right,” Ruffy said.
“Shut up,” B-Dog said to Ruffy. He looked at me. “Fuck is it to you?”
“The thing is,” I said. “He was looking into something going on around here. Something that was rocking the neighborhood. Something that would’ve concerned you three. A lot. Like a source outside the, ah, family, shall we say?”
“Man, you don’t know what the fuck you talking about,” B-Dog said. “’S a quick way to get yo ass kicked.”
“I don’t know, B-Dog. I’ve been watching you and scoring deals three or four times an hour might seem good to some, but you’re used to doing a lot more than that, right? You guys losing ground to someone, maybe?”
“Man, shut yo mouth. We ain’t losing shit.”
“Your real name is Bertrand, isn’t it? I mean, no one’s actually named B-Dog. Then again, no one’s really named Bertrand, either, are they?”
B-Dog had decided that, cop or not, he wasn’t going to be dissed. He jerked his chin towards me. “Tyrone, shut this silly muthafucka up.”
Tyrone started to unwrap the two ham hocks he disguised as arms so he could open his personal can of whoop-ass on me. Which he would’ve, no doubt about it. Hell, I know a couple of tricks, but they won’t do much for a fist backed by a twenty-two-inch bicep. But he’d only gotten his arms half undone when I slapped him with the lipstick-sized stun gun I’d been palming while I talked to them. Somewhat ineffective through clothing, just fine for exposed flesh. Like the kind sprouting out of Tyrone’s Lakers jersey.
A strangled howl erupted from him as something like 200,000 volts went rocketing through his system and then he hit
I parked catty-corner to them and watched for about an hour. Ruffy and B-Dog joked and hassled the girls who walked by. Tyrone kept his arms folded and scared the pigeons away. Three, maybe four times, junkies approached them. They’d talk for a minute then Ruffy would lead them into the park a little ways. The exchange would be made, or so I assumed, and the junkie would shuffle off to Buffalo. Ruffy would come back to the corner and he and B-Dog would pick up where they left off.
I got out of the car. They spotted me before I was halfway across the street and I could see them subconsciously straighten up as they made their assessments. I was a clean-cut, middle-aged white guy in a predominantly black suburb walking towards two known street dealers and their bodyguard. From their perspective, chances were good that I was a cop.
I stood in front of them for a second. When I didn’t say anything, B-Dog put a toothpick in his mouth and said, “Help you?”
“I was looking for the Three Stooges, but you guys will do in a pinch,” I said, then pointed at each one. “Moe, Larry, and Curly.”
“Cop,” Ruffy said to no one in particular. Tyrone tried to stare me into the sidewalk.
No reason to deny it. “Guy got killed around here, not too long ago. I’m looking into it.”
“People get offed all the time,” B-Dog said. “Don’t make it our bidness.”
“Yeah, but this guy was a policeman,” I said. “A cop you knew. You boys grew up around here. You knew Officer Witherspoon. You called him T.”
They didn’t say anything.
“He used to give you rides from the pool in the summer, take you home when he caught you out on the streets and promised not to tell your parents. His wife taught you in elementary school. Their son’s just a few years younger than you.”
They still didn’t say anything. Ruffy fixed me with a slack stare, B-Dog focused on something over my shoulder. Tyrone continued to try to disintegrate me with his eyes.
“The way I heard it, T watched out for the neighborhood. And when he didn’t like something, he took it personally. He probably wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what you’re doing now, but if he could cut you a break, he would.”
“T was all right,” Ruffy said.
“Shut up,” B-Dog said to Ruffy. He looked at me. “Fuck is it to you?”
“The thing is,” I said. “He was looking into something going on around here. Something that was rocking the neighborhood. Something that would’ve concerned you three. A lot. Like a source outside the, ah, family, shall we say?”
“Man, you don’t know what the fuck you talking about,” B-Dog said. “’S a quick way to get yo ass kicked.”
“I don’t know, B-Dog. I’ve been watching you and scoring deals three or four times an hour might seem good to some, but you’re used to doing a lot more than that, right? You guys losing ground to someone, maybe?”
“Man, shut yo mouth. We ain’t losing shit.”
“Your real name is Bertrand, isn’t it? I mean, no one’s actually named B-Dog. Then again, no one’s really named Bertrand, either, are they?”
B-Dog had decided that, cop or not, he wasn’t going to be dissed. He jerked his chin towards me. “Tyrone, shut this silly muthafucka up.”
Tyrone started to unwrap the two ham hocks he disguised as arms so he could open his personal can of whoop-ass on me. Which he would’ve, no doubt about it. Hell, I know a couple of tricks, but they won’t do much for a fist backed by a twenty-two-inch bicep. But he’d only gotten his arms half undone when I slapped him with the lipstick-sized stun gun I’d been palming while I talked to them. Somewhat ineffective through clothing, just fine for exposed flesh. Like the kind sprouting out of Tyrone’s Lakers jersey.
A strangled howl erupted from him as something like 200,000 volts went rocketing through his system and then he hit
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