“Not long, a few minutes. Take your time.” His eyes follow me as he pulls another candy bar out of his coat pocket. “That was pretty impressive. I figured you were tough and all, but I didn’t know you could fight like that. Martial arts, huh? How long?”
“Apparently not long enough.”
He laughs. “You should’ve used the fence, put your back up against it.”
“Allow them to corner me? No thanks.”
“Well, since you didn’t have enough sense to retreat … or run.” He laughs again. “Never allow yourself to be surrounded by superior numbers. It’s not like basketball. Keeping your head on a swivel isn’t good enough. There’s always a blind spot that some idiot like Skinny can get lucky enough to exploit.”
He has a point. “You must’ve read The Art of War … more than once.” I know that he has.
He shrugs. “Let’s go. They’ll be back soon … with reinforcements. I pretty much only scared them away. Skinny has a brother who’s almost as big as he is.”
“This is what you wanted, right?” We walk toward the exit.
“They didn’t know anything. Mindless fools.”
I remember what he did with their weapons and turn around to see if they’re still in the corner. They are. “Wait. Come on.”
“What?” He follows me as I grab the huge, green, cylindrical garbage can. It stinks to high heaven.
“Help me push it over there.” I indicate the corner where the weapons are, and we maneuver it there through a mixture of sliding and dragging. Metal scrapping concrete disturbs the winter afternoon, and words rush in. I stifle them. Now is not the time. We roll, push, and pull, trying not to let any of the sludge that lives in the giant container plop out on us. When we get it close enough, I go after the weapons.
“What are you gonna do?” he asks.
“Well, you said they’re coming back, probably for these, right?”
He nods, observing me pick up a handgun and eject the magazine. I pop out every bullet and hurl them along with the magazine over the fence into the grass across the street next to the parking lot.
“This ’ill slow ’em down.” I drop the gun into the garbage can, careful not to let it splash, and then grab another gun out of the pile. “Well?” I stare at him.
“I don’t know how to do that.” Naz finishes off the Snickers bar and drops the wrapper on the ground.
I pick up the wrapper and throw it in the can, shaking my head. “I’ll take care of the guns. You get everything else.”
“What’s the point? They’ll just get more.”
“Change occurs gradually, over time, not overnight.”
He doesn’t respond, but I can tell he’s listening. “Wait. Is this all the weapons they had?”
“Yup.”
“Well, what did Skinny hit me with?”
“His fist.” He laughs.
Naz and I stop at a gas station and pick up some ice. We dump half of it out, tie up the bag, and voila: an ice pack for my tennis ball-sized hickey. I don’t go back to school. We go to lunch instead, both ordering cheeseburgers and fries from Patriot’s.
“So now what?” I stir my juice with a straw. “Your lead didn’t pan out, huh?”
Naz gazes out the window as he pops in fry after fry and then studies me. “That was only part one. Turns out the Incubus Apostles are a lot bigger than those clowns.” He nods toward the window. “Or even Roffio. They may extend outside Marshal Park.”
“But I thought the gangs identified with the different boroughs. That way they can concentrate on selling drugs instead of turf wars.”
“That’s the way it was, but some of the bigger boroughs with five sections, like Aquinas Grove, sell more drugs and make more money than the smaller boroughs like Marshal Park, so gangs like the Incubus Apostles …”
He pauses, and I can feel him bristle.
He clears his throat. “Gangs like the Incubus Apostles want a piece of a bigger pie.” He returns his attention to me as if he’s waiting for an answer.
“Was that a question?”
“No, but this one is. Have you had enough?” He indicates the bag of ice on the table, now making a small puddle.
“I’m fine,” I say, and I actually do feel much better.
“Uh-huh. Just the same, maybe you oughta sit the next one out.”
I ignore his suggestion and change the subject. “How’s D?”
“How’s Hailey?” He laughs.
We finish our lunch on the easier subjects—Soul, basketball, and Lincoln—and then go our separate ways—Aquinas Grove?
I keep icing the back of my head. The swelling has gone down, and I’m hoping it goes down even more before Coach sees it. Too bad I don’t play baseball anymore. My Monarch’s ball cap would’ve been perfect. If I can get the swelling down enough, Coach won’t notice a thing.
When I show up that evening, it isn’t Coach who questions me, but Soul. “What happened to you? Since when does the Wordsmith not show up to class?” Soul is already sitting on the sofa, playing basketball against the computer.
Luckily, I have my lame excuse ready, and I only have Soul in one of my classes this semester. “I had to see my counselor … about next year at IA.” I pick up the controller from the coffee table and make a quick decision to sit in the chair instead of the sofa. My position conveniently hides Skinny’s lucky shot on the back right side of my head.
Soul immediately peps up and puts the game in two-player mode. For the first time, I’m having trouble concentrating. I’m not sure if it’s the lump on my head or my task in general, but the game on the screen stays close for the first time. Soul is fully engaged as Coach walks in.
“Any homework, gentlemen?” Coach picks up a controller and pauses the game. It’s the only way he’ll have Soul’s full attention.
“Coach!” Soul complains. “Finished it!” Soul unpauses the game, and we continue.
“You finished the health assessment, Son?”
“Done, Coach.” Soul nods toward a piece of paper on the table. “Look! The Wordsmith is slipping.” Soul is genuinely excited. He senses I’m giving it my all, and he has a chance.
I find myself trying to look like I’m not trying, and that feels even more out of place. It’s obvious; something’s wrong, and I won’t be able to hide it from Coach if this keeps up. I wish Coach would leave, but he sits down and watches us play. I notice I’m tapping my foot—is that something I always do? I don’t think it is, so I stop. They don’t seem to be paying me any attention, but I feel compelled to initiate conversation. “Where’s that assignment, Coach, assessment?” He doesn’t answer right away. He’s on to me, maybe; I’m not myself.
“Don’t worry about it,” he finally says.
Then, it’s quiet for what feels like a long time, an uncomfortably long time. My mouth is dry, and I find that I keep trying unsuccessfully to swallow. I wanna get some water, but I don’t want to call attention to myself.
“Really!?” Soul blurts out from nowhere, and I jump.
I’m wondering what’s wrong with him, what he means.
Then, Soul mumbles, “If I don’t come to class, Coach, I don’t have to worry about the assignments either.”
I can’t tell if Soul’s asking a question or making a statement.
Coach doesn’t answer or least I don’t think he does which is weird, weird that he doesn’t answer and that I’m not sure if he did. I can feel him looking at me now. He sits there the entire game, something he never does.
I focus as hard as I can. Soul has his best defender on me every time my star gets the ball. He tries to steal it, and I make him pay with a crossover and dunk. Soul keeps trying the same move, that stupid pull-up jumper. He makes a few … more than a few actually. I’m taking the Animal to the rack this time. My head stopped hurting before, but now it’s throbbing again. Dunk, boy! Soul still keeps going for them threes. He can have those. He can live and die by ’em. My head is pounding. It’s going down to the wire.
Soul is up by two with fourteen seconds left in the game. Time for some Wordsmith wizardry. Ten … Nine … Eight. I cross the timeline. Seven … Six … Five. I’m squinting now, barely able to see the screen clearly. Four … Three … Two. I fire away over the top of Soul’s man just outside the three-point line. When the buzzer sounds, I pump my fists and yell, “Hell, yeah!” celebrating my one-point victory.
When I look up, Soul and Coach are staring at me. Coach is scratching his head, yawning, and Soul has his eyes and mouth wide open. There are creases in his forehead.
Coach jumps up as if he’s just realized something, grabs Soul’s assignment off the table and leaves the room.
“You OK, Wordsmith?” Soul asks. You’re acting a little—”
“Soul!” Coach yells from the other room.
“What up, Coach?”
“Get in here. This is chicken scratch,” Coach booms.
Something’s wrong, but I’m not that far gone. He’s talking to Soul about me. Coach never does sidebars. He comes right out in the open and speaks his mind. He’s playing cloak-and-dagger for Soul’s sake.
Soul comes back in the room with a liter of Gatorade and a liter of Mountain Dew. He’s also palming something. He hands me the Gatorade and then deposits two Motrin 600 caplets into my hand. “Headache, huh? I knew something was wrong with you. I only lost by one point. Too good to be true.” He cracks open the Mountain Dew and chugs it. “Coach said we can stay up as long as we want.”
Coach knows, or at least suspects, I have a concussion. I remember that time I got a concussion sparring, and my father made me stay up all night. Not sure why they do that but oh well.
“How’s yo weak AAU team doin’?” Soul asks.
“Good.” I start the game over in hopes of distracting him. It works. He doesn’t talk much after that; his gray matter is focused on winning his first legit game over me.
“They got room for one more?” he asks a few minutes later.
“Maybe. I’ll ask the coach,” I lie.
This does the trick. Now he has two things on his mind to keep him at bay. I open my Gatorade, pop in a caplet, swig, another caplet and then down half of the yellow fluid. I feel instantly better. We play for hours, and before I know it my headache is gone, and I’m feeling like myself—I think. The fact that Soul seems to be trying harder and losing by more supports my observation. At one point, I rush by a stationary defender Soul had been controlling and dunk. I only then realize Soul is snoring. The Dew has done its duty and ran its course. I pause the game and check the watch; it’s 4:30 am, and Naz hasn’t moved.
I feel pretty good. The bump on my head is down to a respectable golf ball-size. Coach comes in the room. He’s holding a flashlight in one hand and his phone in the other.
“Stand up,” he commands.
I know better than to ask why; I just comply. Bending down a bit so he can look me in the eyes, he shines the light in them. He angles around, and no doubt now sees the knot on my noodle.
“AAU ball is tough, huh?” he says, sarcastically.
He stands up, turns away, and puts the phone to his ear. “A concussion,” he says. “Here.” He hands me the phone and walks away.
The General! “Hey, Dad—”
“You get your butt home right now; this is over.”
“But, Dad—”
“It’s not a request; it’s an order. The car’s already on the way.”
“But Dad, you taught me that a man must always be willing to sacrifice—”
“You’re not a man,” he cuts me off. “Not yet. Men follow orders. Your orders were to observe, discourage, and report. Not engage.”
“I’m fine. It’s a slight concussion. I’ve had one before.”
“You won’t have one again.”
“Dad, I got careless. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right. Make sure your things are packed.”
I know the General well enough to know that a show of force is the only thing he’ll respond to, that he’ll respect. If I back down now, it’s over. I steel myself and stand my ground for the first time against an unmovable force. “I won’t be here!” I look around to see if Coach is still in earshot. I have to mean what I say. I’m prepared to bolt out the door at a moment’s notice.
“You what?” he responds, incredulous.
“I won’t be here.” I put my coat on.
He’s quiet on the other end, either impressed or pissed off. Probably both.
Feeling like I’ve made a dent, I try to drive the point home. “I’ll leave, and … and you won’t find me. I-I know these streets better than you. And you’ll have to wait until I complete my mission anyway.” I feel like I’m rambling, like my threat is losing its sting.
“Don’t believe that, Son.”
And of course, I don’t. The General can find a needle in a haystack with sunglasses on in the middle of the night.
“Dad, please let me finish this. I promise not to engage again.”
“Harvis, these aren’t middle school bullies; they’re hardened street thugs that will take your life with no remorse and celebrate as an afterthought.”
“I know, Dad. Observe, discourage, and report, nothing more. If I get so much as a scratch or a hangnail, I’ll catch the Helix home and never set foot in the Exclave again.”
There’s silence, and I can tell he’s thinking about it.
Coach has returned. I wouldn’t be able to get by him now even if I could teleport.
“Not one scratch,” he says.
“Yes,” My heart leaps out of my chest as I make a fist in victory.
Coach shakes his head.
“Let me speak to Coach.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I pull the phone away from my ear.
“Harvis,” I hear the General say.
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Do what you have to do, but be careful.”
“I will. I promise.” I hand the phone to Coach, and he leaves the room.
I pace around the room, celebrating my moral victory and not really sure how to proceed but ecstatic that I live to fight another day, confident I will not fail again. Coach returns a few minutes later with a blanket and throws it at me. He suggests that I get some sleep and that Soul and I take a day off from school to get some much-needed rest and regroup. The regroup part is obviously for me. I take him up on his suggestion. When Soul and I finally wake up, it’s noon. Coach is already gone. Soul has forgotten about last night. Naz is staying put for the moment. All is right with the world.
Other than the cemetery and Leopold’s, Naz is pretty quiet. He must be tired of The Last Samurai or whatever flick they’re playing now at the all-night theater. A week goes by before Naz is on the move again, and although bright light still bothers me a little, no one knows that but me. I’m afraid to ask Coach for permission to leave his class, so I wait until the bell rings and resort to skipping the good old-fashioned way: no excuse required. Before I can leave the building, Naz surprises me with a text.
What’s taking u so long. Oh and bring a rope.
I actually laugh out loud. Has he found one of the tracking devices, and what makes him think I have a rope? I grab my goody bag out of my locker and feel for the rope to make sure it’s inside. Naz is in the heart of Marshal Park, not far from Lincoln. I put the pack on my back and make the dash in just over a minute. I remember my failure at the Cage and slow down to a trot a block before I get there. I decide to go through the alley and approach from the rear. When I get there, I’m haunted by what I see. It’s a replica of the church house that went up in flames with Roffio and two other Incubus Apostles inside. I shake off the dark memory.
The sky is completely overcast. It’s not that cold, but it’s cold enough—one of those days when you swear you can smell snow coming. But I don’t see anything. I won’t be set up this time. I turn around to leave and hear a voice from the sky.
“That’s a good idea.”
I turn around and look up.
Naz is standing on the roof looking down at me with a smirk on his face.
“You give up that easy?” he asks.
“This is not a game, Naz.”
“True story; come on up.” He squats down on the roof and holds out his hand as if to help me up.
Only thing is, it’s two stories, and I have no idea how he got up there or how I’ll repeat the maneuver. He either reads my mind, or the look on my face explains it all.
“Use the drainpipe … you know, shimmy up like you do with the rope in gym class. Oh, that’s right; you were never too good at that.”
“Whatever.”
“Come on, Wordsmith, what are all those push-ups for?”
I ignore him or at least try.
“Now grab it.” He indicates the drainpipe with a nod.
I do and begin the ‘shimmy up’ process as he calls it. It’s a little harder than I thought, and I feel rust from the drainpipe coming off on my hands. I hope the pipe doesn’t shatter under my weight. When I get near the top, I’m not sure what to do.
“That’s it,” he says. “Impressive. Now grab the gutter and pull yourself up.”
There’s absolutely no way that rickety gutter is going to hold my weight. “It’s not gonna hold me.”
“You scared, Wordsmith?” He teases.
I don’t respond. I look back down at the ground. I can break my fall and land without injuring myself if the gutter gives out, which I’m almost sure it will. I grab the gutter with one hand, and Naz moves closer to the edge. Something tells me he doesn’t think it will hold, either. He’s not as heavy as I am and probably hasn’t considered that fact.
I release the drainpipe with my other hand and put it next to its brother on the gutter. It holds. But my legs are still pushing off the drainpipe, so the gutter doesn’t bear my full weight yet. I let my legs hang, and surprisingly, the gutter now supports my entire one hundred and fifty-pound frame. Now comes the easy part: a simple pull-up. I pull myself up until my head is even with—
The gutter rips in half. I’m about to begin my descent, but Naz has one of my wrists before I fall an inch. It’s like he knew it was coming. The question is, can he hold me, much less pull me up?
IA: Invincible Assassin Page 6
