Staten Island Noir by Patricia Smith

Author:Patricia Smith
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ebook, book
Publisher: akashic books
Published: 2012-11-05T23:00:00+00:00

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Mease woke up in a cold sweat, drenched and so scared that he'd pissed on himself. Mease wasn't scared of po-lice, but had a pinch of fear when it came to Lillmann, because D2 had the power to take his freedom. He'd done it before to other dudes in Stapleton, Park Hill, Richmond Terrace, and every other hood on the Rock. But since Mease had nothing to care for anymore and no one to keep, he figured he'd body a cop before going to jail.

"Shit . . ." was all he could say when he realized he'd just awakened from a nightmare. He rolled over toward the window, saw that daybreak wasn't yet approaching. He could hear American Splendor on the TV, the part when Harvey is diagnosed with cancer and tells his wife, "I can't do it . . . I'm too scared and not strong enough to fight it."

Mease responded: "I feel you, homie."

Shit. Mease was pissed because he pissed, but couldn't really flip. Instead, he collected the soiled sheets and made moves from the Richmond Terrace apartment he'd acquired from an old customer just before crack got her evicted. Richmond Terrace was ideal—the hilly concrete terrain enclosed a murky urban underbrush perfect for the movements Mease needed to make. He hopped in the whip with the saturated laundry bag and skated from the Terrace over to CNB Laundromat—the twenty-four-hour spot—at three thirty a.m.

Mease watched the sudsy clothes and sheets spin through the glass window while reflecting on his dream. Every day was hard since he lost Sy, no doubt about it. And somewhere along the way, he'd lost it all . . . and not by bad decisions, but simply by choice. Without Sy around to balance him out, Mease quickly fell—from crime boss controlling the majority of illegal operations in Killer Hill to low-level crime flunky. He now commuted from Richmond Terrace to finish jobs for Quentin, who had been one of his workers and at one point had owed Mease money. He couldn't care less, though. Without Sy, he did the bare minimum to survive. No more smart maneuvering, no more planning and calculating. Mease would go in, kill you, drop the gun at the crime scene with his prints, and dare you to detain him.

Now, six years after Sy had been shot, Detective Schmidt was frantically searching for Mease, always just a step behind. But Mease's whole existence resembled the motion of the soiled fabrics in the washer. He watched as his pissy shit got clean.

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