Through the venetian blinds—noiselessly spread with an index and middle finger, just enough to peek outside—Dread could see, still, his bodyguards across the street.

In the beat-up Buick Cutlass about which they'd bitched, in the apartment parking lot. Just like he'd told them to do. Lately they'd been grumbling too much like those two fools he hadn't disciplined properly—wanting to be driving around in his custom Mercedes, with the gold mags and power bubble roof, high-performance engine and exhaust system. Your brain gone to oatmeal, nigga? Damn. That car be nothing but a po-po magnet. Now don't be no lightweight and park in the lot, not on the street, you dig?

He'd checked in here yesterday, a little time and space to think. He didn't need anybody showing up at his house at 3 A.M with some piece or another of business that the fool would swear up and down had to be taken care of right away. That little monkey business two of his lieutenants had pulled with his new bitch had made his house feel cold as a tomb to him, too, now he shivered uncontrollably every time he walked through the door.

When he was home he'd usually be up at the break of dawn—jogging down to and around Lake Merritt. Summertime especially he loved how the air was so fresh and clear in the morning, the day just beginning, the cars and people and machinery not yet having filled the sky with their sickass orange smog.

Today, though, he'd slept in on the still made bed until the early afternoon heat made the cheeks of his face trickle with sweat.

Despite the television before him, bolted to the ceiling, being on mute from the night before still—despite his having remembered, as well, to put the "No Maid Service" sign on the outside door knob—a bolt of panic had shot through him upon awakening and he'd jumped to his feet. In the mirror before him, the eyes in that shaved head, wiry nigga were so white around the edges that he'd had to smile, relax, be himself again maybe in spite of himself again...

He went over to the motel room phone, dialed up his takeout food service. Damn good deal they had, you could pick from a dozen restaraunts and they'd deliver it for you for next to nothing.

"Yes, hello, this is Mr. Kennedy," he said, when the line answered. "Fine, I'm fine today. You know, today I'm in the mood for some

They always loved to be asked what was good. On the phone, too, he made himself sound like a white dude—was always a kick when the delivery boy showed up and asked, with surprise on his face at seeing him, "Mr. Kennedy?"

Was something the dude who was the only man he'd ever really considered friend had taught him. Something about when ole J. Edge Hoover and Tricky Dick Nixon were recruiting "affirmative action snitchjackets" to bring into their plantation system, why they gave the step-n-fetch-it foo's Irish-American names, so's if there were any leaks ever they'd be looking for some poor Mick instead of the nigga...

Dude—Irish-American, or, like he'd say, "Celtic," himself—had dropped this little ancedote as one of his cautionary tales, telling him to be careful, that you might think these Fed's are stupid about black people, but they a lot more clever than they lettin' on...

Dread walked over and sat down at the crummy little motel desk, cut himself a piece of rock on the cheap veneer. Firing it up in his Pyrex beaker turned water pipe, he drew in deeply the sweet. pungent smoke. He still had about half-a dozen big, pure rocks, and he was gonna leave his mind alone, and just get high..., as the "Allman Brothers" tune went.

Dude and he had gone to see Gregg Allman one night over in San Francisco. His lady had wanted to see—personally he was kind of skeptical, Yeah, right, some Oaktown street nigga gonna go hear some Southern whi' boys play, wid not only a whi woman but a blonde-haired, fine-skinned one on his arm?...

Dude had said, though, it'd be cool, he was friends with the musician owner. Sure enough, they'd been given a reserved table right up front and treated like visiting royalty.

One thing about that Dude, he was never wrong. Dread glanced up at the television screen—same dog of a Showtime movie from the night before was on again. He clicked the remote, saw he had time for another hit before his food arrived, so he cut himself a big one and fired it up.

He held the sweet euphoria as long as he could before exhaling. Some dogs did too much of their own product and got thier tweak-asses addicted, but not him. He only smoked every once in a while—when he needed to get philosophical, as he and Dude used to call it. Smoke would curl around, play tricks with your mind, get you thinking that words were being formed in answer to your questions, you just had to know how to read it.

Dude would have known, too, how to read him—like that clever ass ole whi'boy, Mich Jagger, he didn't need no whore. But the two bloods he'd put outside were too new to handling his protection, and had asked him if he wanted one; he'd said, Hell no, what I need some toss-up chattering away with fake-ass compliments when I know as soon as she out of here she gonna go and snitch me off?

Like the bitch he'd just tossed out of his house was probably doing. He could not for the life of him imagine what possessed her to let herself get wasted on "Ecstasy" with those two dogs and think that it's okay to share...

Like some really bad B-movie he'd walked in the door to his own house (admittedly unexpectedly) and had to see her looking like any other fool nigga toss-up—those small braids she'd dyed blonde trying to be more white (thinking, somehow, it might please him more) flying away as she sucked one of them off and was being banged from behind by the other...

He'd been cool, hadn't even gone for his piece. With his hands raised to his sides, he'd restrained his bodyguards, too. He just told them—all of yous—to get the fuck out, now.

He'd sensed this one coming. Dude had always said, Put Judas in the hotseat, right next to you, so you can see for yourself what's going on. Said it was an ancient Irish warrior tradition. He'd smiled and said, Hell, dude, I got Celtic forebearers too, you know...

He gave himself another long look in the mirror. Dude this, Dude that, he thought, maybe I am getting to be a weak-ass fool. He gave himself the look in the mirror, then exulted Yes, still got it!

When he'd just been really getting started, branching out into cocaine from just grass, sometimes at night he'd stand in front of the mirror at his house and practice Dude's look. Eventually he'd gotten it down—which Dude had found pretty funny, he had this way of smiling slowly and broadly, which, if he did when somebody was giving him shit, promised trouble for the fool. So, I guess you don't need me around anymore do you?

He'd laughed back, said, Well, you tell me your nickname and I guess not. You the one who said he don't want to be no major leaguer. But all he'd tell him was T.C., as in Too Cool. Said he got it in college cuz nobody could believe he was so hip and cool having come from such a little, old-fashioned American town.

Dread sat back down, clicked the tube to put on some music videos. He'd known, from word on the street, that Dude was connected with some heavy-hitting Italian-Americans, but Dude had never breathed a word about it. Subject would come up and all he'd talk about was the parameters he'd put into his life because of some philosophical paradigm he was seeking to bring into being now; this town's getting too hot for the old days, my friend, is all he'd say.

From the tube now, some all too familiar words:

Dread looked away from his heroes on the screen, towards the window hot with the afternoon, summer heat. Letting his eyes gaze at nothing, soft focus—mushin eyes—he watched the specks of dust dance off the three-quarters turned, darkened blinds, in the little bars of light.

He bit his tongue, hard enough to draw blood, but those fool tears just kept coming.

June 19, 2001, Finn MacChumaill, a.k.a. Tom Noonan...

Lyrics to "The Message" by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five, 1982, SugarHill Records.

film noir images courtesy of:

imagesjournal.com