Free The Straight Man - Roger L Simon by Roger L. Simon Page B

that said Tremont Avenue
Dunk Club. I stood there watching them a moment, wondering what
politician was reaping what benefit keeping this particular housing
project in such classy shape, when a Rolls-Royce Silver Cloud drove
past me and slowed by the Dunk Club, three brand-new basketballs
flying out of the Rolls's window and over the fence into the hands of
the club members, who cheered and waved as the Rolls drove off.
    I looked from them over to the forbidden 179th Street
entrance. A couple of junkies were weaving between the two
seven-story buildings past a baby in a carriage, but nothing seemed
particularly ominous until my gaze drifted up to the tops of the
buildings where, on each side, two men in berets oddly reminiscent of
the old Black Panthers were standing on opposite roofs surveying the
area. They each held walkie-talkies and crossed back and forth along
the roof' s edge in paramilitary fashion. Before they noticed me, I
turned and headed around the block, moving at the pace of the average
Bronx pedestrian, which meant fast enough to avoid trouble but not
too fast to attract attention. In five minutes I came around the
other side of the project on Knox Avenue. The street was narrower
there and I stayed close to the building
to
avoid surveillance. Nothing had happened, yet I felt a tingling,
urgent sensation on the edge of paranoia. I kept my eyes straight
ahead and moved with the purposefulness of someone who knew where he
was going. By the time I reached the rear entrance to the project, my
hands were damp and I was feeling a little light-headed. I made a
quick right through a gate and came through the entrance where two of
the buildings formed a cul-de-sac. I walked straight through the
nearest door into a stairwell. A couple of dozen men, most of them
looking pretty stoned, were lined up on the stairs, shuffling about
and talking to themselves as if they were waiting for a store to
open. They stared at me blankly as some guy came lurching down the
stairs, clutching a small balloon. I was about to turn and leave,
when, from out of nowhere, someone grabbed my arm. It was one of the
watchmen in the black berets. When I looked at him, I saw he was
sixteen, maybe seventeen, just the age of my older son. He grabbed
the sleeve of my jacket and yanked it upward, revealing what appeared
then to be a very pale white inner arm clearly devoid of tracks.
    "What're you doing here?" he said.
    "I'm looking for Seventeen B."
    "Oh, yeah. Well, you got the wrong building.
You're lying to me. You're a narc, motherfucker!"
    "I'm not a narc. I'm looking for a girl in
Seventeen B."
    "Sniffin' poontang, Charlie'?" someone
shouted.
    Everyone started to laugh. I began to back out of the
building as quickly as I could, but I hadn't gotten five feet when
two more guys, both about the size of New York Jets linemen and both
wearing the obligatory berets, were at my side, lifting me off the
ground as they escorted me out the door, through the gate, and into
the backseat of the same Silver Cloud I had seen, moments before,
dispensing basketballs like the lead vehicle in a drug dealer's
antipoverty program.
    10
    "Do you like Eastern seafood, Mr. Wine? The
scrod is good. I particularly recommend the scrod this time of year."
He pronounced it "scrahd" like a proper Bostonian.
    "Fine. I'll take the scrod."
    "Two scrod, Eddie," he told the waiter.
"Lightly grilled with lemon. And bring us a side order of your
cottage fries. I feel like going off my diet today."
    Eddie nodded and slipped off. I was sitting opposite
King King in Nick's Sea Grotto on City Island, a minute enclave of
the middle-class good life floating incongruously off the eastern
shore of the Bronx. Through the window to my right was a tiny marina,
a pier, and some rustic Cape Cod frame houses. It could have been
Falmouth or Hyannis. King himself fit in perfectly, the well-groomed
but casual professional in a pale green Fila jogging suit, Sperry
Top-Siders, and a beeper on his belt.