by Desmond Hall
Twenty
frankie and Leah edged their way to the end of the aisle of the dimly lit theater as the credits played, and into the lobby. Leah started for the bathroom. She was all excited about taking him to eat sushi. You’ll love it, she’d enthused. He wasn’t so sure. He watched her every motion, thinking that for the last two hours, he hadn’t thought of his dad, the posse, or his scholarship. Yeah, he’d watched the movie, but mostly he thought, I’m only six inches away from Leah. But now the other thoughts crowded forward. He had to tell her about the scholarship. He wasn’t going to have that between them. It’d turn into a mountain of lies, reaching to the sky. But at the same time, he couldn’t see how she could understand.
Halfway to the bathroom, Leah turned back. “The line is three times longer than the one for men! More women should go into architecture,” she huffed.
Frankie looked at both lines. He’d never thought about this before, wondered why he hadn’t. “Can you, uh, hold it?”
“I’m a female, Frankie.” She shot him a grin and waltzed off toward the exit.
Outside, Frankie grasped the saddle of his bike with his right hand, even though he was left-handed. He didn’t want the bike to be between him and Leah. She’d accidentally brushed her hand across his forearm on the way to her seat at the movie, or maybe it hadn’t been accidental, he thought hopefully. All the more reason to start clean, to tell her about the scholarship.
They kept walking, passing busy Hope Road before turning down a small side street. Leah stopped at a restaurant he’d never even noticed before. He still wasn’t sure he was up for raw fish.
“You ready fi try it?” She raised her eyebrows.
Patois? Not that he’d thought she was one of those Jamaicans who looked down on using patois, but it was good to know he was right. It meant she didn’t look down on people from the country. “So, you chat patwah?” He tried not to sound too eager.
“Yeh, mon. Now come try di sushi.” She grinned. Oh, those dimples.
Truth was, he had never been in a restaurant. At least not a sit-down place. He’d heard about how some waiters snubbed people with skin like his—assumed they’d be difficult to deal with. He eyed the building warily. He so didn’t want to be dissed in front of Leah. And another thing: he had no idea how much the sushi cost. Well, he could leave extra cash, make a statement, and let them know he was somebody.
He locked up his bike and followed Leah inside. The waiter took them to a table, no attitude at all, and Leah finally got to go to the bathroom. Sitting there, Frankie sniffed. No fishy odor. Was this good or bad? He could ask Leah when she came back, but the question, was it a stupid one? The waiter came back with a pitcher of water and two menus. Phew—prices were listed. Not so bad. One less worry. The waiter filled their glasses, said his name was Fitzroy. Frankie had hung out with Chinese Jamaicans before; there were several at school. But this was the first Japanese Jamaican he had ever met, and the first time he’d heard Japanese spoken. For whatever reason, it made him think of Jamaica’s slogan, “Out of Many, One People.”
Back at the table, Leah scraped at small splashes of paint near her knuckles. No nail polish. He liked that—she was serious about her work.
He ordered a beer by pointing to it, unsure of its pronunciation. Leah ordered something called sake, then took two chopsticks out of a paper wrapper. Chopsticks? He had to use chopsticks? To cover, he said, “Didn’t know you had mad chopstick skills.”
“There’s a lot you still don’t know about me.” She tugged on the sticks, snapping them apart.
“Well, let me find out something now.” He picked up his chopsticks and removed the paper wrapper exactly like she had. “You seeing anybody?”
“You think I’d be here with you if I were?”
“Maybe he messed up and I’m the revenge.” He slowly pulled the two sticks apart.
She rubbed her chopsticks against each other like she was sanding them. “You see me as the cheating type?”
He rubbed the chopsticks together too. “Just asking.”
“Well, ask me something else.” She laid her chopsticks against a tiny little dish that seemed only there for that express reason.
“Like what?” He began tapping his two sticks together in a down-tempo beat. They were kind of cool, these chopsticks.
“Use your imagination. Engineering students have them too, don’t they?”
He had a boatload of things he wanted to know about her. But since they were starting from scratch, he’d go to the one he was most curious about. He cleared his throat. “Why do you like me?”
Two dimples. “Who says I do?”
His face went hot. Man, she wasn’t making this easy. Her eyebrow arched as she waited for a response. “Well, you don’t seem like the type who would be wasting her time.”
“Okay, well… you’re kind of a nerd—not in a bad way! But still… nobody messes with you at school. It makes you interesting.” Then she pointed a chopstick at his cheek. “What happened there?”
“Things happen out in the country,” he said with a shrug, hoping she’d let it go, changing the subject just to be safe. “So… how are things with your family? I—”
“Mind if we talk about something else?” For the first time, Leah looked uncomfortable. The waiter brought the beer and sake to the table.
Frankie gestured at her shot glass. “So, what’s that?”
“Sake? It’s rice wine.” She offered him the glass.
“Where I come from, people think it’s disgusting to drink out of the same glass.” But he took the glass anyway.
“Troy, right?” She tilted her head. “Country people.”
Frankie raised the glass. “Country people.” He took a sip. The sake had a sweet metallic taste, reminding him of the type of spring water that tasted of minerals mixed with salt. “Sake, huh? It no bad.”
“But you prefer Sapporo?”
“I know beer. But I didn’t always like beer. I don’t know if anybody likes beer the first time. Do you?”
“I don’t drink it.” She took her glass back, took a sip, eyes on him. She appeared comfortable staring, never seemed in any hurry to look away. “Your scholarship is like a legend at our school—no one’s ever gotten a full ride like that before! You must be totally proud. I wanted to go away for school too, but it didn’t work out.”
“Ah, where were you thinking of going?”
“University of Miami. I applied—they have an off-campus gallery that’s just bananas, but I only got wait-listed.”
“So, there’s a chance…”
“My counselor says I shouldn’t count on it.” She flipped her hand as if flinging the school away and hit the chopsticks to the floor. She reached down to get them.
Counselor. He still needed to talk to Mrs. Gordon! Frankie blinked hard. This was the moment to tell Leah about the scholarship. Tell her. But he couldn’t, he just couldn’t get the words out. He cleared his throat, trying to organize his thoughts. My father got shot and I had to join a posse to save him. Damn. No way could he tell her this and ever expect a second date.
She popped back up, chopsticks in hand. “I’m so clumsy.”
“No… you’re not.” He stared. She stared. It was that kind of moment.
“So like… you live pretty far away.”
Why’d she say that? Was she pulling back? “It’s no big deal. I ride to school every day. I can ride anywhere.” He pumped his arms, making a cycling motion, fully invested in the flirt.
“You must have strong legs,” she said.
“My legs are okay. I like yours better.”
“We’re not making out tonight.”
“I didn’t want to make out, anyway.”
“No?” She was clearly calling his bluff.
“No.” He leaned back, put the beer on the table. “I want you to respect me in the morning.”
Twenty-One
frankie sat with the other new recruits, replaying his date. Had it been a
date? If it was, it couldn’t have gone better. Even the raw fish was good. He was still hungry afterward, but whatever. Picking up a stick, he drew a large rectangle in the dirt—it looked like a blank canvas, he realized. This made him wonder what Leah was doing. Was she putting something on a new canvas? Then he wondered what he might be doing today, what he might put on his canvas. He looked over at Winston and Marshal, the light of the new sun a glow on their sleepy faces. But it didn’t feel like a sleepy Sunday morning. It was probably the anxiety, waiting for Joe to find out what their first mission would be. Two lizards rustled through the surrounding brush; Frankie startled. Goats cried out, their barks like machine guns. Crickets chirped as if it was still nighttime. All of it only heightened the tension. Frankie dropped the stick, rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them up.
Marshal was studying his M1911 as if it had a bad smell. “This kind of forty-five jam sometimes,” he said apropos of nothing.
Frankie thought about his own gun. Really, truly, the last thing he wanted to do was shoot somebody.
“That a why me glad me get a Glock,” one of the Stony Mountain boys piped up.
“Yeh, mon, Glock is much betta,” Marshal said. His skinny neck made him look like a puppet.
“Glock is more accurate, too,” Greg said.
Big Pelton nodded, both chins shaking. “Is true, you know?”
The other Stony Mountain boy, the one with the sunken eyes, held up his own gun, a Springfield. “Me don’t trust my gun neither. Me might buy a new one when me get my paycheck.”
Big Pelton farted.
“Damn it, Pelton, something alive in your belly,” Winston said, grimacing.
Then Greg blew air between his palms, making a farting noise. The others joined in, creating a symphony of mock flatulence. Frankie felt like he was back in grammar school, and yeah, call him ten, but it was still funny. He put his hands to his face and started blowing, joining in the farting chorus. After a few bars, he and the others couldn’t stop laughing, Winston wiping tears from his eyes. But their laughter drew to an abrupt halt when Joe, Jenny, Ice Box, and Buck-Buck strolled over, really? looks on their faces.
Joe sauntered closer, pulled one of his ice-cream-stick toothpicks out of his mouth. “Hear me now! Today you might become men. But right now you’re still likkle youths. You all in training, but you going to have the best of the best with you. Buck-Buck, Ice Box, Jenny, and me will be with you on this one and all through the PNP jobs. You must listen, learn, and take orders!”
Frankie looked at the others. They all nodded their heads like they were at church. Every single one of them wanted to be a man. But what were they going to have to do to become one? Worse yet, what if Frankie couldn’t do what was required?
As if mind-reading, Joe told them, “We’re going to deliver a message to some JLP people in Toms River.” Then his voice became edged with malice. “And listen, me hear say one of the gunmen who shoot up the party comes from this town. This is payback.”
The other boys nodded, some trading fist bumps, their over-the-top excitement making Frankie wonder if they actually got what might happen. Underneath it all, were they scared? Like he was?
“What’s the plan?” Winston asked, all big.
Aunt Jenny wagged her finger. “To shut up and follow orders. Think you can follow that plan?” Then she pointed toward the truck, indicated they should get in.
After they piled into the bed of the F-150, Buck-Buck drove them west, following Joe, Jenny, and Apache in the Toyota, taking small winding roads, rattling over potholes, avoiding traffic on the A-3. Forty minutes later, they sped by a sleepy village down in the valley, then endless sugarcane fields on either side of the road. As the fields changed to trees and the road grew wider, they entered Toms River.
There was no getting off this roller coaster.
The vehicles pulled onto a big patch of reddish dirt by a thick wood. Joe raised his finger to his lips and waved them off the truck.
About four hundred feet away, a young teenage boy wearing sunglasses, carrying a bucket, stopped in the middle of the street.
The boy suddenly started walking quickly, taking out his cell phone as he turned the corner. Frankie pivoted to Joe, pointing. “Uncle, I saw—”
“Yes, me know,” Joe said, all eerie calmly. “Come!” He beckoned everyone to move faster.
Shouldn’t they leave? Frankie wondered. Clearly they’d been made. But Joe didn’t seem concerned. He broke for the forest, then dropped to one knee, surveying the area.
Heart pounding, Frankie knelt in the brush with the others. He couldn’t stop looking over his shoulder, wondering if the kid with the sunglasses had connections with a gang, or local police. Joe had to be thinking the same.
“Frankie!” Joe hissed.
Frankie whipped around, meeting Joe’s icy gaze.
“Focus!” Joe then turned to the others, waving for them to follow.
The only sound was of boots snapping twigs, crushing leaves. The air was humid. The trees’ shade shut out the sun. Frankie had never been afraid of the woods in the daytime before. He was now. Out of the corner of his eye, he was sure he saw an arm. He raised his gun, taking aim. It was a dry branch on a dying tree. Winston looked at him, eyes wide, inquiring. Swallowing vomity saliva, Frankie shook his head and lowered his gun.
Joe knelt again. The others followed his lead.
Pointing ahead, Joe told them that the forest twisted around to the front of a church. “We’re going to split up, surround the church.”
“Is church we going?” Winston blurted out.
“Shut up!” Ice Box groaned. “Just follow orders.”
Joe pointed his finger. “Now, Jenny and Ice Box, take the Stony Mountain boys and go through this side. Buck-Buck, you take Winston, Frankie, and the big boy, and go over there. The rest of you come with me.”
Aunt Jenny and Ice Box’s team took off down the dirt path. Joe wove his own team past a tangle of sundew ferns onto another trail.
“Come,” Buck-Buck said. He turned and ran to the left. Frankie, Winston, and Big Pelton followed. Something sharp jabbed Frankie’s shoulder—a tree limb, ripping his shirt, exposing a thin, bloody gash underneath. Bumboclot. He was better than this. He’d been running through woods all his life, and he was at least as smart as anyone in the posse, except for maybe Aunt Jenny. And yet here he was, running into bushes like a scared dummy.
Just then Buck-Buck’s cell phone dinged, loud and clear. He held up a hand for them to stop.
Was it Joe? Was it bad news?
Buck-Buck flipped open his phone with a frown. “Yeh, mon.”
Frankie glanced at the others. Winston shrugged, clearly just as confused.
“Me want my money, mon!” Buck-Buck snarled into the phone.
So it wasn’t Joe. Was it other urgent posse business—or was Buck-Buck working a side hustle? Frankie scanned the area, trying to catch sight of anyone who might be waiting for them. Winston crept over and whispered, “Them must be at the church by now.”
Damn. Buck-Buck was going to screw it up for all of them. Frankie took a breath, then tapped him on the shoulder.
Covering the speaker, Buck-Buck waved them on. “Go, go! Follow the path! Wait at the clearing. Me will catch up.”
“This way!” Winston said, sprinting through the brush like a deer. Frankie and Big Pelton raced after him.
Then Frankie heard singing. It didn’t make sense at first. But then he realized, duh, it was a church, with people inside, worshipping.
“Be holy, be holy, just like me…”
There were fewer and fewer trees and more sunlight, and then Frankie could see the simple stone building. The windows were open—people were singing from hymnals.
Joe’s team was already approaching the front. Aunt Jenny and Ice Box crept low, leading their team to the right.
Winston slowed at the edge of the clearing.
Opposite, Frankie saw three teenagers sprint out of the fores
t. He recognized one—the same kid he’d seen on the road, the one with the Ray-Bans. Then Frankie’s eyes bugged—the kid in the lead, a red bandanna around his neck, was raising a handgun, aiming it at Joe’s team. The two others were right behind him, pulling their weapons as well.
The posse had been completely outmaneuvered.
“Move and bumboclot dead!” the red bandanna kid yelled. “What the bumboclot you doing here?”
Joe slowly turned, raising his hands to his shoulders, nodding to his posse to stay calm.
Frankie hugged the line of trees just behind Winston. Red Bandanna and the other two hadn’t seen them, they were so focused on Joe.
Winston had a clear shot at any one of them. The cold, tense moment was his. He pulled his gun. Frankie held his breath, braced for the shot. But Winston didn’t pull the trigger. And he didn’t pull the trigger. And he didn’t pull the trigger. He stood there, shaking, arm out, unable to do what he had bragged so much about. Unable to shoot.
Everyone seemed transfixed. Everyone except Frankie. Joe was going to die if Winston didn’t shoot! Frankie had to do something. Now. Right now. Frankie stepped around Winston, aimed his gun, and squeezed the trigger twice. The bullets exploded from the chamber, the recoil easier to handle than he expected, almost nothing. And—nothing happened! It made no sense—it was like he was in a freeze-frame in a film. Was he imagining things? He heard nothing. No singing from inside the church. No kids shouting. No reaction from Red Bandanna or his crew. Nothing. And then—like a tear in time, the opposite occurred. A church lady in a brown dress screamed in the doorway, and a man in a sweat-soaked shirt ran out of the building. A boy’s face peeked out a window and a minister tugged him back down. Buck-Buck rushed past Frankie, arm extended, finger on the trigger. POP! POP! POP! POP! Shots blasted Frankie’s ears, and a spray of bullets cut into the rival gang. Red Bandanna crumpled. The second boy fell. Ray-Ban Boy dropped his gun as a burst of red splattered from his chest.
“Back to the cars! Now! Go!” Joe bellowed. He kept his gun aimed at the church door, backing away. Ice Box, Aunt Jenny, and everybody tore past Joe, rushing for the safety of the forest.
