Across the ground was a building that had been white once, now washed pale yellow in the moonlight. Another automobile factory that couldn’t survive the city, leaving behind a behemoth concrete structure that perched like a jaundiced ghost on the side of I-75.
It was the lair of the YBI, aka Young Boys Inc., the gang which Ryatt was not exactly a member of, but benefitted from nonetheless. He abhorred gangs. Not because they were violent or committed crimes—Ryatt had qualms with neither—but gangs meant connections that later became trails, which could lead the pigs, or most likely criminals, to his home.
Also for the same reason, he used the unique route through the bushes, not the main entrance to the building on its other side. Ryatt always came from the woods and disappeared into the woods, like some crazy survivalist, so that no one followed him. Paranoid, true, but that was how he managed to stay out of trouble this long.
As Ryatt neared the edifice, he eyed the offhand graffiti on the walls. He got so used to the vandal art of his city that it would surprise him only if he saw a plain wall. He went inside. The interior was spacious enough to house a private jet. Janky generators were lined up near the walls. A dozen bulbs lit up the space and loud beats rocked the floor. It was packed with people connected to the YBI. Members, benefactors, and like Ryatt, exploiters.
The YBI was like any other gang that plagued Detroit, except for one significant detail: The oldest active member of the YBI was seventeen. The gang was employed mainly by other gangs to commit major crimes without serious repercussions, as the YBI were tried as juveniles. However, it had also gained notoriety for unpredictable violence because the components were reckless, had no proper leadership, so no rules.
The person Ryatt needed to meet usually loafed on the other side of the party crowd. He squeezed his way past little islands of teenagers who were wearing frilly clothes and jumping to hip-hop. When he stepped on someone’s toe, he blurted, “excuse me” and earned a smug look. He chided himself. You didn’t proffer apologies here. You yelled, ‘Move, motherfucker.’
At a dark corner, a boy was injecting something into a vessel on his ankle. He was black, his unnaturally straight hair dyed blond, with streaks of blue and red. His pierced nose, ears, and eyebrows all glinted with silver.
A black emo?
The kid looked like he had aimed for goth but landed on gay.
Ryatt stopped judging and concentrated on what he had set out to do. One quick look around, he found his supervisor, so to speak, who called himself Congo. Ryatt was sure that if Congo was asked to point that country on the world map, he would most probably touch somewhere on Antarctica.
Congo leaned back on the hood of a Mustang GTX he was not tall enough to drive, downing a beer he was not old enough to buy, fondling a hooker who was not safe enough to even provide him a BJ. Congo caught Ryatt’s eyes and smiled. “Wanna join?”
Ryatt felt his face flush. “Hell, no. Something’s happened.”
Congo let go of the mature woman and came towards Ryatt, his welcoming smile shrinking. “Where’s my money?”
“I was arrested today. The pigs got it,” Ryatt said nonchalantly. No point in mincing words.
Congo frowned. “You pulling a fast one on me?”
“No. It’s the truth.”
“Then that ain’t my problem, is it?”
“It kinda is.”
“Yeah?” Congo’s frown deepened. “How come?”
“I own nothing worthy you can take from me. So you have to learn a very important lesson today.”
“Is that right?”
“Yup.”
“What is it?”
“Count your losses and move on,” Ryatt said.
“The music!” Congo’s shout got everyone’s attention and the song was cut off.
Congo rushed to his car. Diving into the passenger side window, he pulled out a sawn-off. He walked to Ryatt, casually slinging the gun. “Wisecrack now.”
Ryatt found a smile stretching his lips.
“You laughing at me?” Congo lifted the gun and cocked it, the metallic click-clack echoing in the large arena. “Want some?”
A strange calm inside urged Ryatt to fear nothing, whispering him to just push it. “Sure, why not?”
Congo tilted his head slightly in confusion. “What’s that? I thought you said—”
“Why not? Yup.”
A pair of veins on Congo’s forehead twitched. He screamed and pulled the trigger; debris and dust flew up from the ground. Everyone jerked, and a wave of clamor rose and subsided. But Ryatt neither flinched nor broke eye contact with the puerile brat.
Embarrassed, Congo brought the gun up to his face and took aim. Ryatt noticed the arm holding the gun shook as Congo wet his lips. Maybe it was all bark.
“Don’t be shooting the floors. Let me help you.” Ryatt moved forward, grabbed the hot barrel, and put the muzzle inches away from his right eye. “Now this is more like it.”
“Don’t, man. I’ll really—”
“My ass, you’ll really,” Ryatt pushed. “I don’t think you have the stones. Do it, you pus—”
A blurry figure whizzed towards Ryatt from the side. In a fleeting moment, it tackled him to the floor. They both landed hard, and Ryatt heard something grate inside his torso.
Short of breath, Ryatt grunted and wriggled out of the hold. The figure’s steely arms loosened, and Ryatt looked at the man slowly getting up to his feet. He had the physique of a professional bodybuilder; his mere presence would rattle anyone. It was Thomas, one of Ryatt’s lieutenants.
Thomas extended his arm and Ryatt took the help.
“I was handling it—”
“Just shut.” Thomas put his finger on his lips. He then turned to Congo and promised him that he would take responsibility for Ryatt ‘losing’ his dope and Congo would get his money the next day.
Congo shrugged and looked at Ryatt. “We cool, bro?”
Ryatt spat down, his eye burning a hole through Congo who gave an icy smile before going back to the woman.
Someone yelled, “Cue the music,” and the beats filled the room once again.
Thomas grabbed Ryatt’s upper arm and led him away like an angry mom. “You suicidal?”
Was it that apparent? As his stomach churned from all the adrenaline-pumping activity and acidic bile rose up to his throat, Ryatt took out a lollipop and sucked at the candy.
Arm still in his grip, Thomas directed Ryatt to a flight of stairs at the back. That was their usual spot in the haunt. Ryatt’s other lieutenant, Leo, was sitting on the third step. The smallest among the three, tiny actually, Leo was also the most vicious.
Leo was raised the way Ryatt had read most serial killers were raised. His mom, an addict who got pregnant by one of her Johns, used Leo as a punching bag to vent her bitterness at life. And drunk Johns, being drunk Johns, beat Leo around just for the hell of it. Most times, Leo was left free to wander the city, and one night, someone spotted the boy covered in bruises passed out in a ditch.
The foster parents weren’t as indifferent; they did care. About the child support paychecks, that was. Out of which, not a penny went towards Leo’s welfare, once again leaving him hungry and the butt of yet another cruel joke of the universe. Having had enough of the mean world, Leo set fire to the house. Legend had it that while the flames raged, Leo stood on the lawn, bathing in the orange glow and masturbating, while everyone inside screamed.
The legend might have some truth to it because Leo was into arson, so much so that he had actually burned down five houses on Devil’s Night. It was a dare among the local hoods in Detroit during Halloween, which ended up killing people on many occasions. Leo was never caught for these things, but he was caught for torching a Ferrari, and they sent him to juvie for six months.
Leo suffered with a condition where patches of his hair fell out. These random bald spots gave him a disturbing look. Combine that with the fact that Leo giggled in a high-pitched voice frequently, straight from hi
s throat, like he had some weird Tourette’s syndrome, they practically made him a hyena. People generally treated him like a leper, but when Ryatt met him, he just knew he’d found his first real friend, because Ryatt felt like a leper.
Leo also reinforced Ryatt’s belief: when God gave, he gave everything to one person. Looks, money, women. But when he fucked someone up, he beat him to the road, hammered him until there was no molecule of him left.
Ryatt said, “Sorry, guys.”
“No sweat, Lolly,” Leo said but Thomas still looked disappointed.
The basis of Young Boys Inc. was no one knew anything about anyone, except their street names. This was their survival method. So Leo was ‘Badger,’ because he was as fearless as honey badgers that fought even apex predators like lions and king cobras; Thomas was ‘Buddha,’ because he was always composed; and Ryatt was, unsurprisingly, ‘Lolly’.
However, the rules didn’t apply to them because they were friends from childhood. Still, they didn’t use their real names at hangouts.
“What up, Buddha?” Ryatt asked. “You gonna be like that the whole night?”
Irked, Thomas asked, “Why did you pull that crazy shit? Don’t tell me it’s nothing.” Thomas pointed his forefinger at Ryatt. “I can see it in your face. You’re looking for trouble.”
“It’s Bugsy, man!” Ryatt’s voice rose and earned looks of interest from a group near them.
Thomas shushed him. “You know we can’t do nothing about him, except pay him off.”
“I know but I just want to… I just want to rip his arms and legs apart. He’s making my mom sad. Really sad, you feel?”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Thomas said. “But he’s untouchable. He has something that we don’t got—”
“Gang and guns, I know. I know.” Ryatt waved him off. “You told me that already.”
Leo got up and lifted his shirt, a .21 revolver shining in his waistband. “We have guns and we have each other. What we waiting for?”
Thomas scowled at Leo. “Don’t go filling his head with that sorta stuff, fool.” He turned to Ryatt. “Give it time. You need to become a big player to even think about icing someone like Mr. Hat. And you ain’t ready for the big leagues yet.”
Ryatt sighed and looked around. The walls were all painted: YBI, Young Forever, Boys Better Than Men. He spotted a new one today, a neon-green eyesore. It read, Incorporashan. Ryatt shook his head. Maybe if the genius behind the graffiti had known what ‘Inc.’ stood for, or even how to spell, he wouldn’t be in a place like this.
Well, that wasn’t true, was it? Ryatt knew how to spell it and here he was, amidst idiots and affiliating with gangsters and drug dealers. Loathing every second of it, he reminded himself that he needed to ascend, and he sure as hell couldn’t do it here, not in this stupid club.
“What if I am?” Ryatt asked.
“Huh?” Thomas frowned.
“I mean, what if I am ready for the big leagues?”
“No, trust me, you are not.”
Ryatt gave it a few seconds of thought. “So what if I ain’t? We’re always pushed into situations that we aren’t ready for or experienced enough to handle. But we struggle, fuck it up a few times, and eventually get a grip on it. Isn’t that how you grow in anything?”
“Damn, that’s deep. You learn that in school?”
Ryatt stared at Thomas. “No disrespect, Buddha, but I’m done with small-time shit.”
“Yeah, me too!” Leo said. “We gonna hit the liquor stores now.”
“What are you? My little bitch?” Ryatt asked with a lopsided grin. He pulled Leo close and rubbed his head, making him cackle.
“Fucking jackasses.” Thomas shook his head. “Tell me which liquor shop ain’t got a shotgun these days.”
Ryatt let go of Leo, who laughed maniacally and wiped snot off his upper lip. Sometimes Ryatt wondered if everything was alright up there in Leo’s head. He wouldn’t put his money on it.
He turned to Thomas. “Don’t care. I ain’t dealing no more. That’s not me.”
Thomas said, “This is literally the first day of your job.”
“And apparently, I suck at it. I just sold an ounce to a pig and got picked.”
“So why can’t we go back to boosting wheels off freight cars? Or mugging workers from the sweatshops?” Thomas asked.
“Nah, man. Not enough profit.”
Leo said, “What you got in mind?”
Ryatt took a deep breath. He had been wondering about his career options for a few months now, and he had picked the one he thought was the most lucrative. The scariest thought had never been getting caught and going to jail, but rather that Iris would discover that he was a criminal. Since he had been taking that risk for years, it didn’t matter whatever the crime was.
“Tell us,” Thomas said.
“Robbery.”
“Robbery? Like street robbery?”
“No punk ass chain snatching shit,” Ryatt shook his head, “no mugging either. Actual robbery.”
“Like ‘Mad Dog Killers’ style?” Leo asked in surprise.
Hayward Brown, whom their asshole police commissioner had dubbed ‘Mad Dog Killer’ was sort of a folk hero for the black community, especially black thugs. However, Ryatt didn’t wish to be anything like Brown.
“Um… not exactly. Brown was a goddamn hero.”
“What’s wrong with being a hero?”
“Everyone knew Brown and his two minions, known right from juvenile. That was the cause of their downfall. But no one knows us. And that is going to be our greatest advantage.”
“So we ain’t ripping off drug dealers or their dens?”
“Hell no! None of Brown’s vigilante bullshit. Real life ain’t Shaft. That’s another thing that got Brown killed, remember? We aren’t militants with afros.”
“Son, then whose money exactly are we robbing?”
Ryatt bit his nail, looking down. “The bank’s.”
Neither spoke, and before Thomas had enough time to raise an objection, Leo said, “We really going big league, uh?”
Ryatt nodded.
Leo shrugged. “Count me in. It’s either get rich or die trying, right?” He lifted his fist. Ryatt, instead of bumping it, looked at Thomas.
“We can’t do it without you, Buddha.”
Thomas frowned. “Long as we ain’t killing nobody.”
Ryatt answered, “Yeah, sure, no.”
Thomas eyed Ryatt for a few seconds. Then he said, “Fuck it. Not like we got a lot to lose.” He put his fist on Leo’s.
“I disagree,” Ryatt said, the truth in the next sentence sent a jolt of pain through his heart and made his eyes water. “We got absolutely nothing to lose.”
Then he bumped their fists.
Chapter 7
July 26, 1981. 01:21. P.M.
Robbery was tough to pull off if you wanted to do it right. The problem wasn’t so much picking a bloated target that would make it worthwhile but the subsequent reconnaissance and hatching of a foolproof plan. It was as time-consuming as it was rewarding. It should be. They literally couldn’t afford to go wrong.
Ryatt had done his homework to the best of his abilities and had chosen a dry canal as a point to ambush the cash van. The water way was one hundred meters wide and a bridge ran over it twenty feet above, its shade providing him and Leo an oasis from the broiling sun. Used by skateboarders in the evenings, and drug dealers and hobos post dusk, it was deserted in the afternoon.
Ryatt crossed himself and mumbled; as he opened his eyes, he found Leo watching him with interest. “Are you… are you praying?”
“Praying is for weak asses.” Ryatt touched the bulge on his hip for the umpteenth time.
“So why are you doing this?” Leo pantomimed crossing, then cackled.
“We’re breaking out of this financial prison that God’s put us in. A miscarriage of justice is finally gonna be righted, and I’m ordering that asshole to stay out of our way.”
As
Leo laughed again, the first whistle signaled them to get ready.
Ryatt nudged Leo who then jogged towards the canal wall and clambered up the slope, to his position.
As soon as Leo disappeared from sight, Ryatt squatted and inserted two fingers in his mouth and touched the back of his throat. He gagged instinctively, doubled over, and heaved.
Nothing came but contrived burps.
Since this morning, he had been feeling mildly sick due to the small doses of adrenaline regularly mixing in his bloodstream. The ardor from their little scheme had agitated his system. He had swallowed his fingers twice, hoping to barf the goddamn ramen out. Better now than later, but no luck.
Shaking his head in disappointment, Ryatt returned to his own post under the overpass, in the triangular space between the bridge and the side of the canal, which brimmed with weeds.
Once safely tucked between the plants, he ran his fingertips over the waistband yet again and made sure the .22 was still there. His hand then travelled into his pocket and pulled out a black bandana. Printed on it in bright white was a half skull, lower and upper jaw bones, and teeth glaring in gold. Ryatt tied it across his face and lay on the slope. He let his eyelids close and began taking in breaths. He needed all the oxygen he could pump into his lungs to calm himself down.
Unlike the first three attempts, Thomas didn’t chicken out this time. For all that hulking body, he was not courageous when it came to doing something that required exceptional balls. Ryatt had convinced Thomas by assigning him the easiest part of the job: to operate the stolen backhoe and the getaway.
Seconds ticked past; the time for the cash van to enter the bridge neared, and Ryatt’s insides churned more. His mom had run out of lollipops at the shop, so he asked Thomas to get some from somewhere else, which he had, but the thick-bodied, light-brained fool had forgotten to give them to Ryatt before plodding off to take his position.
The Innocents: a cop pursues a violent felon to avenge his father Page 5
