"Now, I may not be a very smart man, but I do know this," said Carver. And, fuck, wasn’t that bullshit, knowing a cop’s name. And he wasn’t even a fucking dirty cop.
But name or not, no way Bodie wasn’t going to jump all over that. "I really don't know where to go with that. I mean, the stupid thing alone-"
But Carver didn’t stop fucking talking. "Shut up, my point was, the thing that I do know is-"
"That you are a drunk-ass nigger blocking my way to the bar?" And Bodie fucking needed to get to the bar. If he missed this drop his plans for an independent corner would be fucked.
"Yes. Also, that you, my young friend, are not old enough to be here."
"You an artist Officer Carver?" asked Bodie. Maybe if he pissed him off Carver would storm off and leave Bodie the fuck alone.
"Sergeant Carver." He flailed his hand up at his shoulder, like it was supposed to mean something,
"So sorry," said Bodie, trying to load the words down with enough sarcasm to sink down through Carver's alcohol cloud.
"You should be." And apparently not enough. How much had this fucker had? Enough that he had approached Bodie, crossed that line.
"OK then," said Bodie as he turned, trying to work his way around to the bar. "Don't make me cry harassment."
"Don't make me cry 'under-aged' to the bouncer," said Carver, the drunken loose tone he’d been using turned tight and edged, as he reached out and put a hand on Bodie’s arm. Fuck that shit. He knew he wasn’t supposed to cause no scene, but some things just couldn’t be fucking helped.
But really, what the fuck kind of threat was that? Not worth the shit that would come down if he got caught bawling with a police officer with a package on him. Instead, Bodie just reached down and pulled the thin piece of plastic out of his pocket, waving it in Carver’s face.
"Really. You're showing your fake to me." The last word was shrill, said through an exaggerated grimace.
Bodie shrugged. "Why the hell not?"
"OK, let me spell it out for you. Me: police officer. You: criminal." He even did shitty little hand gestures. Motherfucker.
Two could play at that, though. "So let me go and it will be, you: over here and me: over there."
"Why are you here anyway?" asked Carver. Bodie pointedly yanked his arm back, not quite managing to shake Carver's grip.
Clearly the nigger was deranged. This crazy was more than drunk. "To drink?" Carver just looked at him some more. This was some seriously gay-ass shit. Next thing you know, Omar was going to show up and shoot fucking rainbows out of his shot gun.
Mostly just to make Carver leave him the fuck alone, Bodie said, "Was supposed to meet up with someone."
It even was the truth. “Lie? Don’t fucking lie. Tell the truth and then they can’t catch you up,” Bodie remembered Stringer telling D that, years ago, before they both were gone. But it was still fucking good advice.
"And drink," said Carver skeptically.
"And drink.” OK, so that had been a fucking lie. But Bodie wasn’t stupid. He wasn’t going to let Carver in on why he was there. “Because this is a bar you motherfucking retard, why are you here anyway? Shouldn't you be at one of those fucking cop bars pretending to be Irish?"
"I will have you know there is no pretending about it. There is a reason I'm so lucky," said Carver.
"Right. You're a cheerful little leprechaun. And speaking of rainbows, I almost didn’t recognize you without your boyfriend."
“Fuck you,” said Carver, but it didn’t sound like he meant it. “A bunch of us were celebrating his transfer down the street at Cybil’s.”
“Fuck, and you came here?” Now, Cybil’s wasn’t any fucking Hollywood night club, but it was sure as fuck better than this fucking dive.
“I will have you know this place holds a key place in the life and times of Ellis Carver.” He dropped his hand then to make some big fucking gesture about the room, like he was fucking presenting it to Bodie. Like a fucking bar with more grease caked to it than a stripper, was worth showing off.
“What, this the first place some big dude bent you over in the bathroom?”
“Bodie, Bodie, Bodie,” said Carver in a fucking little sing-song. “Do not disparage those bathrooms. This is the first place I got a number.”
“She was,” said Carver, a goofy smile plastered across his face.
Bodie did not want to know. “Shit, you that excited about getting a fucking number?”
Carver just kept smiling, “Oh, I got more than that.”
Like they were actual friends, shooting the shit and talking about the girls they had fucked. Bodie felt the weight of the package against his thigh, sunk low in his pocket. “Well, nice as it has been to catch up with you, and by that I mean, let’s never fucking do this again-”
But Carver fucking cut him off. "My point is, that you have to be an idiot to come to a bar to get drunk. Can't you just go rob a fucking liquor store?"
"Well, let me just go do that then," said Bodie, nodding his head toward the bar.
"Hey, I'm not keeping you here," said Carver with a shrug.
Bodie raised an eyebrow at that shit. “You gonna call in SWAT if I go grab a drink?”
And if Bodie had had any fucking kind of luck that would have been it.
But no, Bodie has used up all his fucking luck on fucking over the police by calling entrapment. Not that that was all that lucky; Barksdale got locked up, now Bodie was a fucking errand boy trying to earn enough cred for his own corner.
He had made the drop. Any fucking kid could have. All he did was approach this hard white dude at the bar, wearing this stupid fucking Steelers Jersey and do a little hand-off.
The dude, and fuck was he big, had grabbed his arm and asked, “Who was that?” like he was ready to go to town on Carver for just being in a fucking bar, the roid-head. Bodie just muttered something about him being a friend and shook free.
No, the drop wasn’t no fucking problem. It was only afterwards, as he walked out the door that Bodie realized that maybe karma was fucking alive and well.
"People will talk," slurred Carver after Bodie had fucking walked right into him, trying to walk out the door.
"What the fuck. Why are you still talking to me?" asked Bodie.
"Apparently I have to learn to make nice with the locals." Carver didn’t sound like he was talking to Bodie, though. More like he was lost in a drunken remembrance, eyes all glazed over and shit.
"What, ain't you from Baltimore?" asked Bodie, trying to dodge getting caught up in whatever sick fucking things existed in Carver’s memories.
"Of course I'm from fucking Baltimore. What, did you think I just moved here one day thinking, 'Oh, I know where I want to live! High crime is a must."
"Whatever," said Bodie. "You're fucking following me. You chat up my fine jailbait ass at the bar and then leave with me. Is that it, officer Carver, you wanted to get me fucking alone. Or maybe I should switch those words you sick fuck-"
Carver starts swinging. This was getting way too familiar.
But Carver’s swings were looser, and it was easy for Bodie to dodge out of the way. "Damn, how you stay a cop with that temper?"
"You got that one wrong. I’m a cop because of the temper," said Carver, even as he took a last swing.
Bodie dodged it easily. "I mean, being a fine upstanding citizen with only the utmost respect for the law-"
Bodie ignored the interruption, "I obviously don’t understand what you mean. I mean, cops never jump fucking teenagers or beat down suspects." He turned, pulling his hood up, ready to fucking get away.
"Bodie. This isn’t your turf. You got a way back?" asked Carver.
Bodie thought about it. It was late and cold enough that the wind was cutting through his jacket with each second he stood outside, and more importantly, this was East Side. But-
"I'm always OK, motherfucker," said Bodie.