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your wheels while you're watching someone and you don't know a damn thing about it. The trick is, get out in the
open, sit on your hood, you become part of the landscape. Act like you own the place. Then nobody messes with you.'
'But Savant knows we're not part of the landscape.'
'Savant knows nothing. Look at him up there. He's got money, but he hasn't a clue what to do with it. He feels outta
place. You can't buy class, Starkey. He's bought himself out of the real Harlem into this fairy-tale version, and he's not
sure whether he likes it. He's restless.'
'He might be restless because we're here.'
'He's restless because he's got ants in his pants. He'll be over here before long, wondering what we're up to.
Curiosity'll get the better of him.'
I accepted a solitary French fry. It was cold and there was no vinegar on it, and I thought of home. And Patricia.
Patricia liked her chips swimming in it. It would be early evening at home; she'd be curled up in front of a fire with her
baby, and maybe her lover.
To give him his due, Smith had done his homework. His contacts in the area were obviously good. From whatever
source, he'd managed to put together a list of some twenty-five employees at the Shabazz, a silver-domed mosque
eight blocks away which served as the headquarters of the Brothers of Muhammad. He'd checked out a number of
them and reckoned if anyone was making good money moonlighting as a Son of Muhammad, then it was Savant.
Janitors just didn't live in apartments in Morningside.
'Maybe he has family money,' I ventured.
Smith shook his head. 'Not unless his dad's the local drug baron.'
'You're very cynical about your own people, aren't you?'
'My own people? You make me sound like Kunta Kinte. You try living here for fifty years. You'd get cynical
about a box of Cheerios.'
He thought Savant was probably a minor player in the organization, he reasoned that if he was going to watch
anyone it was better to watch someone relatively unimportant than a prime mover who'd be more likely to watch his
tail.
I chanced another look up towards Savant. He caught my eye. I tried to make it seem like I was just panning round.
I turned back to Smith. 'I take it you don't think Mary is in there.'
He shook his head. A little piece of batter flew off his upper lip. 'No, if they have her she'll be in a safe house
somewhere. It would be too obvious to keep her in one of their own places. If I can get hold of their membership list,
then I suspect the police can, though it might take them a little longer.'
'So what's the point in watching him?'
'Nothing else to do,' he said simply. He cast his eyes up towards Savant. He nodded. 'If you're going to take part in
this charade,' he said dryly, 'at least pretend to write something. He may be dumb, but he's not blind.'
'You think he's dumb?'
I wrote BULLSHIT in capital letters.
'I think he's dumb.'
'Based on what?'
'Instinct. I never met a smart foot soldier yet.'
I wrote DOUBLE BULLSHIT. I showed him my notes. I didn't think he'd risen much above the level of foot
soldier in the police.
He shrugged. As a speciality of mine, I regretted the fact that it was beginning to catch on so widely. Maybe I
should have patented it in the early days and made some money. Then he nodded again. 'Make your own mind up.
Look at him, he never made it out of Moomin Valley.'
I turned. Savant was off the stoop and halfway across the road towards us in big, easy strides. I flipped the page in
my notebook and studied Smith for a moment. Then in my best reporter's voice: 'And you wereborn in this very
street? It must have been a tough childhood?'
'Tough but happy.'
'Tough but happy,' came a none too good mimic from behind me.
I looked round at Savant. I pretended to be nervous. I gave him a half-smile. 'Hello,' I said. A little tremulous.
'Can I help you, son?' Smith asked, mock weary.
'I'm kinda insatiable to know just what you guys are up to.' He nodded at Smith. 'You someone famous?' One hand
rested inside his jacket, like there might be a gun in there.
Smith had a gun, but he looked far from concerned. 'You don't recognize me?'
Savant shook his head slowly. He looked at me. 'Who is he?'
'Don't you know?'
He kept shaking.
'Did you ever see Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous?' said Smith.
'Sure.'
Smith pointed at me. 'Well, he's a researcher for Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous.'
'And you?'
'I'm just rich and famous.'
'You don't look rich and famous.'
Smith rubbed at his chin. 'Son, clothes and jewellery and a big flashy car don't make you a man, they just make
you a slave to the consumer society. I keep my feet on the ground and my head outta the clouds.' He smiled paternally
at Savant, who looked confused. 'I never lost touch with my roots, son. In fact that building over there, that one where
you been wastin' the day sunning yourself in the clouds, that's where I was born. Before they all went and gen-tri-fied
it all up.'
'Better now than it ever was,' said Savant defensively.
Smith shook his head. 'Shouldn't mess with the past, son. Let it stand as,- monument to our mistakes.'
He nodded sagely. I nodded at him and at Savant. I wrote
ABSOLUTE BOLLOCKS
in shorthand.
'Me and seven other kids shared a room in that block, son. I'll bet you got more room than that.'
'I've a duplex apartment, man, top floor, all the luxuries you could ever want.' Said with pride.
'You done well for yourself then. Where'd you make your money then, drugs?'
'You insultin' me, man.'
His hand slipped further into his jacket. I tensed up, ready to dive out of the line of fire, or wrestle him to the
ground. I hadn't quite decided.
Smith raised his palms. 'No insult intended, my friend. In my day, you saw a rich brother round here, he either
running the numbers or running the dope. What you in, son, computers?'
Savant shook his head. 'I'm in religion, man.'
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