Naz stepped back to see the boys just about on top of them while Harvis put his hand on top of Soul’s fist.
“What about Coach. He’s not gonna be too happy about Soul quitting?” Naz put his hand on top of the two-hand pile.
“I’ll talk to Coach.” Harvis gave a rare smirk. “Railsplitters on three, Railsplitters on three. One, two, three.”
“Railsplitters,” they murmured in unison as the team entered their space.
“We’ll meet you outside,” said Harvis as he and Naz exchanged stone-faced looks with the older boys and then left the locker room.
The three boys walked until it was completely dark, which wasn’t that late this time of year. Naz wanted to find out everything he could about Union High School. He hadn’t put on his detective hat yet; he was excited about being home, and he could tell Harvis felt pretty much the same way by the pep in his step. Soul also walked with a bounce, happy to be a part of the three musketeers again. He kept smiling as they caught up on all that they had missed together in the past months.
“So what y’all wanna do next?” Soul pulled out his phone. “We should take a picture. This is a day to remember.”
Naz and Harvis looked at each other and shrugged. Soul beckoned them closer to either side of him and then extended his long arm outward to accomplish the selfie. The phone made a simulated camera sound, Soul examined the picture, laughed, and then shook his head.
“Oops! Hold up.” Soul fiddled with the phone. “It’s the flash. One more time.”
This time, he took several pictures with the boys looking severe and intimidating in every shot. The flash lit up the dark street intermittently, causing the three to make squinting faces, adjusting to the darkness again.
“Let’s see,” said Naz.
Soul showed them the pictures. “What do you think?”
Harvis shrugged.
“I don’t like ’em,” said Naz. “We look like the three stooges.” He laughed.
“I think they’re perfect,” said Soul.
A text came through as the boys were still looking at the pictures and Soul snatched the phone away.
“What?” said Naz
“Yeah, what are you hiding?” asked Harvis.
“Nothin’.” Soul forced out a pretend cough.
“It’s some girl … some girl he doesn’t want us to know about.” Naz reached for the phone.
With his free hand, Soul held Naz off with ease, and Naz marveled not just at Soul’s size but his strength as well.
“Naw, he wouldn’t care about a girl like that. It’s something else,” said Harvis.
“I told you it’s nothing.” Soul stuffed the phone in his pocket as they all milled around.
Naz tried to break the awkward silence. “This place sure hasn’t changed much.” Naz peered down a dark alley, remembering his peaceful run earlier that morning in the plush valley of Cedarville—careful what you wish for.
“That’s what makes it special. You can actually feel the city’s heartbeat. It’s alive.” Soul stopped, put his hands up and head down as if he was concentrating. “Listen! Do you hear it?”
It was a stark contrast to the silence Naz had experienced for the past six months with Dr. Gwen and John, a symphony of city sounds, characterized by the disharmony of voices in conflict and agreement, the hum of cars on the nearby highway, and the buzz and pop of faulty streetlights. Naz played along. “Yeah, I hear it all right; the sound of somebody getting carjacked.”
Harvis smirked.
“What are you worried about anyway, Tin Man? You’re safe out here with me and the Wordsmith; nobody wants to throw hands with us. We’re like … we’re like Athos, Aramis, and Porthos,” Soul said as he pointed to Naz, Harvis, and then himself. “Remember how we handled Roffio and his gang—”
“We?!” said Harvis.
“All for one and one for all,” said Soul as he put his hand out for Naz and Harvis to cover.
They looked at Soul, ignored his gesture, and then erupted in laughter.
“What?” asked Soul, as he punched his palm with his fist and snarled. He looked at Naz. “If Tin Man wouldn’t have gone all possessed on us.”
Harvis coughed as they all started walking again. There was a buzzing sound, and they all met eyes with curiosity.
“Besides it’s been all quiet around here lately.” Soul took the buzzing phone out and typed something into it.
Naz peered over Soul’s shoulder, but before he could get a peek, Soul jammed the phone back into his pocket.
Naz raised an eyebrow to Harvis and Harvis smirked.
“What do you mean?” asked Naz.
“Word is … the gangs are spooked. The leaders won’t show their faces. All summer long there was talk of some new ghost gang terrorizing all the other gangs. At school, they’re talkin’ about how it was one guy in all black with no face who could disappear and then show up on the other side of town or be in different places at once. Somebody said it’s always two guys, like a good cop, bad cop. Maybe it’s the master/apprentice thing, or it’s a new ninja gang that only shows up in pairs to confuse people or make everybody scared.”
“Sounds like it’s working,” said Naz with his best poker face.
“If you ask me,” continued Soul. “I think people around here are getting sick of these punks running the streets and they’re finally complaining to…” Soul picked up a rock and tossed it underhand down the street.
They walked in silence for a moment. Soul’s bombshell was the first time Naz had heard any version of what he assumed was his activities six months earlier, and he was all ears as Soul did what he did best: chronicle the latest word on the streets.
“Complaining to who?” Harvis finally asked.
“I don’t know … downtown … the police.”
“Police? I haven’t seen any since I got here.” Naz kicked a can down the street, making his contribution to the sounds of the Marshal Park. It felt good being the reason there was less gang activity on the streets, and he didn’t know if that was right. He remembered Harvis’ words about pride being one of the deadly sins. It didn’t help when Harvis gave him an elbow to the ribs.
“Maybe because Batman and Robin cleaned up the streets.” Soul spied his phone again.
“Who you texting?” asked Harvis.
“Nobody.” Soul gave a sheepish grin.
“I wish it were that easy …” said Harvis. “That gangs weren’t the only thing we had to worry about around here. Listen.”
Close by, the familiar sound of a siren wailed.
“That didn’t last long.” Naz laughed.
“I think that’s an ambulance,” said Soul.
“What’s the difference?” Harvis chimed in. “One heads to trouble and the other away from it.”
“True story, and look.” Naz pointed across the street. There were shanties and cardboard boxes lined up and homeless people milling about in the shadows. Naz’s shoulders dropped. “Well, guys.” Naz pulled out his phone to check the time. “It’s been real but—”
“What’s your hurry?” asked Soul.
“Mr. Tesla was expecting me over an hour ago. It’s been a while. I don’t wanna start off on the wrong foot.”
“What about you, Wordsmith?” asked Soul.
“I’m stayin’ with Coach again, so I guess we should head back together,” said Harvis.
“What? You mean Coach knew you were coming and didn’t say anything?”
“You know Coach … always full of surprises,” said Harvis. “There’s nothin’ to do anyway.”
“There’s always something to do,” said Soul.
Naz and Harvis both looked at Soul.
“What are you up to … Animal?” Harvis asked.
“Soul—” yelled Soul.
“Whatever!” said Harvis.
There was a ruckus ahead, the sounds of voices in conflict, confusion, and agreement, the sound of feet shuffling, sneakers screeching, and bodies colliding along wi
th grunts and groans, the sound of a pounding ball.
The sound of basketball.
Who got next?” yelled Soul as he turned the corner, Naz and Harvis trailing him.
Soul’s inquiry turned a few heads, but there was no let up on the half-lit blacktop basketball court unofficially known as the Cage. The game continued as if no one had said a word. Naz and Harvis followed Soul into the fifteen-foot-tall fenced-in court where ten young to middle-aged men were playing, and twice that many people were sitting on metal benches, standing on the sidelines, or watching from the outside, their fingers intertwined in the fencing. Some of the bystanders were gambling on which team would win. Some actually held money in their hands while taunting their betting opponent as well as the players on the court. One homeless lady with a shopping cart full of plastic garbage bags and clothes shuffled along the sides, apparently hoping for a handout from the slightly more fortunate—and that smell. Naz remembered that smell. It made him think of how his stepdad would come home drunk and beat his mother.
“Who got next?” yelled Soul again.
“Convict got next,” yelled someone on the court.
Convict?
“Pick me up. Pick me up. Who you got, Convict? Pick me up,” chorused the other young men around a smaller young man who was standing, shifting his weight from side to side and likely waiting in anticipation for the next game. He stood proud and passed a basketball between his hands. When he saw Naz, Harvis, and Soul, arrive he seemed distracted—wait … Ham?
Naz froze mentally. He kept walking as if nothing had rattled him, but he was clearly shaken, his fingers lightly tapping the palm of the same hand. What’s this about?
“Easy, Naz,” said Harvis.
“Point game!” yelled someone on the court.
“I already got mine,” said Ham to the ball players who had gathered around him. He put the ball on the ground, put his foot on top of it and then stretched both his arms. He watched Harvis, Naz, and Soul approach.
Naz bristled when he heard Ham’s voice, and the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up. It had been almost a year since he had heard Ham’s voice in court, giving testimony in the case: The People versus Hector Antonio Martinez for conspiring to commit the murder of Meridian Liberty Slaughter—Meri. He left that day as soon as Ham began to speak. He couldn’t take it, and he assumed Ham would get his in the court of law. He never imagined Ham would receive probation for his involvement.
“You said that before. Who, Convict?” One of the men stepped closer to Ham.
“Don’t worry about it.” Ham picked up the ball, stepped to meet the man and gave a devious grin that only Ham could give. “Like I said … I got mine,” Ham shouted. He reached down and picked up a backpack that lay behind him.
Everything went quiet. The lady with the shopping cart must’ve anticipated trouble; she made her way out of the gate, the squeaking wheel on her cart provided the only noise coming from the court now. Even players on the court stopped, and all eyes were on Ham and the man in front of him.
The man towered over Ham. He stood his ground for a moment and then walked away, “Who got after, Convict?” he conceded.
Play resumed on the court as if nothing had transpired, business as usual. It never ceased to amaze Naz how someone so small could command so much respect or at least spark so much fear. He was kind of hoping the man would’ve stood up to Ham.
Soul walked right over to Ham with Harvis and Naz in tow. Soul and Ham partook in the latest handshake/man-hug.
“Looks like Coach isn’t the only one full of surprises, huh?” said Harvis.
Naz nodded, just realizing who Soul was probably texting while they walked the streets.
Harvis walked up to Ham and shook his hand. “Ham.”
“Point guard,” said Ham.
“How you been?”
Naz bit his bottom lip—did Harvis know about this, too? Am I the odd man out on this one?
“Good.” Ham’s eyes trailed off to find Naz and then immediately shot back to Harvis. “You?”
“Never better,” said Harvis.
Naz flexed his jaw. There was a mutual respect between Ham and Harvis that made him uncomfortable. Naz hated Ham, and he couldn’t shake that feeling, didn’t want to. He felt he owed that to Meri.
“Good to have you back,” said Ham.
Harvis didn’t respond, and Naz took note.
“Now let’s sit these clowns down,” said Ham as he came out of the sweat pants he was wearing to reveal crimson-colored shorts that came below his knees. The bulge around his ankle underneath his sock could only be the tether Naz had noticed at the game earlier: one of those devices that allowed law enforcement to keep track of offenders.
“That’s game!” yelled somebody on the court.
There was a mix of celebration and consolation, approval and disapproval as money changed hands, arguments persisted, and more people came and went.
“Who next?” yelled one of the players who had won. He chugged amber fluid from a glass bottle.
Thoughts of Bearn and his mother invaded Naz’s mental space again. There were too many things going on—I need to calm down.
When the player who kept talking put the bottle on the ground, Naz recognized him as one of Fears’ players from the Union basketball team. It was only then Naz realized the other players from Union were there, too, the ones on the floor when Soul got kicked out—they look even older out here, like grown men. It was becoming clear to Naz this was a setup, and maybe he was the only one who wasn’t in on it.
“Let’s go!” Soul pounded his fist into his palm and then beat his chest.
Harvis walked back over to Naz. “You ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“For old times’ sake. Come on. I know you got your shorts on.”
“So what if I do?”
“You always do. I was wondering if you ever wash those things.” Harvis smirked and then nodded.
“Haha. I see you got jokes.”
“Come on.”
Naz was taken aback by how persistent Harvis was. It was both flattering and irritating. “I’m not playin’ … not with him.” Naz shot Ham a piercing look through squinted eyes.
Harvis gave Naz a cold stare.
“What’s that look supposed to do? That may work with Soul or those little girls at International Academy, but not with me,” said Naz, shooting a cold stare of his own.
“Naz … Harvis,” a familiar voice rang out from the gate entrance.
It was Milton Kaseltree, one of their former teammates from Lincoln.
“Let’s go, Convict!” someone yelled from the court.
“It’s Ham to you … Weaks!” replied Ham.
Naz turned to see lanky Milton strutting in with a basketball under his arm, basketball gear on, and looking more confident than he remembered—this is a coincidence. Not! Naz cocked his head to the side to affirm his suspicion when he saw, across the street in the shadows, leaning on a super shiny, restored Challenger, a towering ominous figure—Fears. He had orchestrated this, or at least been a part of it.
Milton gave Naz a handshake and hug. “What’s up … Tin Mannnnnnn? I’ve been expecting you. How ya been, man? How was it at International Academy … IA.” He made his fingers into quotation marks. “Do you guys play ball there?”
“Well—” said Naz.
“I heard you guys were at the game tonight.” Milton looked at Harvis and then back at Naz. “I’m on the JV, that’s the Junior Varsity, we played yesterday, won, too. We’re 3-0, haven’t lost a game. Coach gave me a choice. He said, ‘Stilt’—he still calls me Milt the Stilt—he said, ‘Milt’ … actually he said, ‘Son, you can play the whole game on JV and get better or sit on the bench the whole game on varsity and learn.’ Well, that was an easy choice. My friend is on JV, and we do everything together. I told him—”
“Milton,” said Harvis.
Milton turned to Harvis who had his hand out. “Wordsmith.”
“You got taller.” Harvis gave Milton a firm handshake.
“6’7” … taller than Coach now. How ya been?”
“Never better. You guys ready?” asked Harvis.
“Come here.” Naz pulled Harvis to the side so they could talk in private.
“What?”
“I thought we agreed we weren’t playin’ ball,” said Naz in a forced whisper.
“We’re not. This ain’t playin’ ball. This is us showin’ who’s got the power on and off the court. We make good out here, when we step in that school tomorrow morning all the work is done. We step in as men … not freshmen. ¿Comprende?”
“¿Comprende? What is that?”
“It means understand—”
“I know what it means—”
“I know you know what it means. Forget about Ham … for now.”
“Let’s go, Tin Man, Wordsmith,” yelled Soul, now on the court, jumping up and down touching the backboard with ease.
“Look,” said Harvis, angling his body so both he and Naz could see Fears standing across the street, still in the shadows leaning on his car like a giant ghost of the grim reaper. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint Coach, now would you?”
Naz looked at Fears and then back at Harvis.
“Plus, think how much fun we’re gonna have.” Harvis smirked.
“What? Gettin’ our butts kicked?”
“I don’t think so,” said Harvis.
“Did you know about this?”
“Naz … it’s me.”
“Well … you owe me one,” said Naz as the corner of his mouth went up into a reluctant half smile.
“Let’s call it even,” said Harvis.
They both took off their pants, adjusted their shorts that were underneath, and walked on the court. Soul met them along with Ham and Milton. They got into a huddle.
Soul beamed “Railsplitters on three, Railsplitters on three, one t—”
“Soul,” said Harvis. “Absolutely not!”
“I agree with the Wordsmith. Let’s just play,” said Ham.
Naz tried to forget the fact that he was standing within a foot from one of the people he considered responsible for his only sister’s death—murder. He didn’t set the booby trap, and he may not have known everything, but he knew enough … enough to tell me, enough to stop it, and he didn’t! That makes him guilty, a murderer in my book. He bristled.
Union Page 6
