Mean Little People

by Dearth, Paige

  Tony knew from his childhood experiences that over the next couple of days, the bruises would turn blue and dark purple. He rubbed his arm gently, but even that gave him severe pain, so he went back downstairs and waited patiently for others to talk to him. He might have been new to the gang, but he would not kiss anyone’s ass—all he was looking for was a place to stay and people to keep him company. He couldn’t know the price he’d pay for those two basic human needs.

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  Tony’s first night, he slept in the Slayers’ house on the second floor, in a barren room with three single mattresses on the floor. The mattresses were stained, and there were no sheets or blankets, but it was a step up from what he had in apartment 3F. Tony was sharing the room with Blast and Chin Ass, so he felt he had at least two allies in the group.

  Tony woke before the other two and wandered downstairs. Razor was already up. He was sitting on the sofa cleaning his gun.

  Razor looked up and gave Tony a sneer. “Blast and some of the others might think it’s OK that you’re here, but not me. I see ya for the sniveling asshole that ya are. Let me be real clear: stay outta my business, and don’t try to be friends wit’ me. If ya survive here the next month, I promise you that you’ll never make it through the initiation. Ya ain’t got the grit or the balls. I see right through ya. You’re afraid of your own fuckin’ shadow.”

  Tony held eye contact with Razor. On the inside, his guts were having a dance party, but Tony followed his instincts and established his ground, even if it was in a small way. After a minute, Tony relaxed his shoulders and smirked. “Guess what, Razor? I ain’t here to cause ya no trouble, but I ain’t afraid of you or no one else either.”

  Tony went into the kitchen and looked in the old refrigerator for something to drink. Finding nothing there, he turned the spigot on and let the cold water run. Cupping his hands, he drank from the tap, and when he turned around Razor was standing behind him.

  “Ya know, just ’cause you’re staying here for a while don’t mean that shit is free. You’re gonna need to pitch in…to help pay for stuff, like that water you was slurping up.”

  “Sure, man. I’ll pitch in—ya ain’t gotta worry.”

  “Oh, I ain’t worried. I just don’t like ya.”

  “Why is that? Ya don’t even know me.”

  “’Cause I hate all you cheesesteak-eatin’, South Philly–Italian motherfuckers.”

  Tony walked past Razor and into the living room. By then, Blast and Chin Ass were sitting on the sofa smoking cigarettes.

  “Wassup, man?” Blast said, nodding at Tony.

  “Nuttin’.”

  Tony sat on the chair next to the sofa. “So what do you guys do all day?”

  Blast blew out a cloud of smoke. “What cha talkin’ ’bout? We do what we’re doin’ now. Hang out. Smoke some dope. Get laid. Today we’re gonna try to get our hands on some meth so that we can sell it. Gives us the money we need to buy more guns and ammo. We’re plannin’ on gettin’ some next week, but this week we’re just chillin’.”

  Tony looked around the depressing room. He was already getting antsy just thinking about spending the day in the gloomy living room.

  Tony stood from his chair. “All right. I’m gonna head into the city. I need to earn some cash.”

  “Yeah? How ya gonna do that?” Chin Ass said.

  “I got a job at a bakery in South Philly,” Tony said and threw Razor a dirty look. “Lady lets me work there a couple of hours a week.”

  “I told you fools that he’s a little faggot,” Razor snapped. “What fuckin’ gang member do you know works at a goddamn bakery? Ya gotta be fuckin’ kidding with this shit.”

  Tony spun on Razor. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong wit’ what I do. I ain’t no faggot either, so don’t call me that again.”

  Razor took a couple steps forward and punched Tony on the side of the face. Tony stumbled backward from the hit, got his balance, and, with his anger fueled by the last six months of his life, lunged at Razor. He grabbed him around the throat, and while Razor was on the floor, he began punching him in the face, using the arm that wasn’t bruised. Blast and Chin Ass sat for a prolonged moment, watching Tony, fascinated by his strength and fighting capabilities. Then they got up from the sofa and pulled Tony off of Razor.

  “Whoa, Tony. Come on, calm down,” Blast coaxed. “He might be an asshole, but he’s still our leader until Dooley comes back.”

  Razor got up off of the floor in a flash. He flexed his hands, and he was bouncing from one foot to the other, like a boxer getting ready to start a new round. However, his face was flushed, and if the boys had looked close enough, they’d have seen the fear in his eyes—his fear of Tony.

  Blast took Tony upstairs to the bedroom. “Listen, Tony. Ya can’t go around beatin’ other members’ asses. That’ll just get ya in all kinds of trouble wit’ the club. Sometimes you’re gonna have to defend yourself against someone here, but not just ’cause they call ya a name. That’ll make everyone think that ya can’t handle your shit. There’s a balance here, and ya gotta find it. If that was Dooley that ya just pounded on, you’d be dead. Razor’s a fill-in, but don’t underestimate him—he’s a vindictive prick. I know ya don’t want anyone to think you’re a pussy, but that’s something you can prove on the streets. Ya got it?”

  Tony nodded. “So I’m just supposed to let that dickhead say whatever he wants to me? He already told me this mornin’ if I make it a month here that he’ll make sure I don’t pass the initiation. What the hell does that mean? What do I gotta do to be initiated?”

  “Guys get beat in. All the gang members stand in two lines. You gotta make it from the beginning to the end of the line gettin’ your ass kicked wit’out screaming. It ain’t pretty, and, I ain’t gonna lie, it hurts like hell, but if ya wanna stay here and be a part of us, that’s not the worst thing ya gotta do.”

  Tony gasped. “What’s worst thing? Is there something else?”

  “Yep, after ya get beat in and survive that, ya gotta get a Slayer tattoo.”

  Blast put his arm in front of Tony, and he saw the same tattoo that Dooley had. Just the word SLAYER, in multiple colors running from his wrist to his elbow. “Now, this shit here…” Blast said, pushing his arm closer to Tony, “this shit hurts. All these letters gotta be filled in, and that’s a lot of skin to cover. They gotta use lots of needles. The Slayers don’t let ya take months to do it. So you’re back in that chair before the first shit gets to heal, and then they are puttin’ more ink in your arm. These other tattoos,” Blast said, showing Tony a green one on his other arm and a couple of black ones on his legs, “they didn’t hurt as much ’cause I picked tattoos that don’t need a lot of fillin’ in.”

  Tony looked over the tattoos. He always thought they were cool, although his mother hated them and had threatened bodily harm if he ever got one.

  “The tattoo seems like nuttin’ compared to gettin’ beat in. That just sounds dumb.”

  Blast winced. “Look, man, that’s what we do, and ya ain’t helpin’ yourself by sayin’ the shit we believe in is dumb. Maybe Razor is right, and ya are scared. If you’re meant to be a Slayer, you’ll have to get through gettin’ beatin’ in just like the rest of us did. Remember, after a month, we take another vote to see if we even want ya to be a permanent member. So don’t say shit that’s gonna piss people off,” he said, with an icy edge in his voice.

  “I’m sorry, Blast. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, but if Razor’s got anything to do with me bein’ a Slayer, then I won’t make it a month. The guy hates me, and I don’t even know why.”

  “Fuck, Tony. Get a grip. People hate other people for all kinds of reasons. It don’t mean just ’cause someone hates ya that it changes anything in your life. If ya haven’t figured it out already, most people are self-centered, and they don’t care to see what’s good about ya. If they think you’re a threat, don’t matter if it’s real or not, then assholes like Razor will do whatever they
can to make sure that no one likes ya. Do ya think for one minute if Razor wasn’t related to Dooley that he would be in charge right now? Ain’t no fuckin’ way that would happen. What I think is that Razor sees the same thing in you that I see, and that scares the piss outta him. So stop whining like a pussy—just knock that shit off right now—’cause that ain’t what this gang is about.”

  “Yeah, fine, I got it.” Tony hesitated for moment but had to know. “What do ya think ya see in me? Ya said Razor was scared of it.”

  Blast gave Tony a tight smile. “Ya look and smell like a killer.”

  Tony laughed. “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”

  Blast inched his face closer to Tony. “Do I look like I’m fuckin’ kiddin’? We’re all animals, man. We smell each other, and we don’t even know it. Those smells tell ya how other people feel. Ya knew that Razor didn’t like ya, right?”

  Tony nodded.

  “That’s what I mean.”

  Tony put his hand on his forehead. “I hate to break it to ya, but Razor made it clear he hates me as soon as he saw me. “

  “And before he ever talked to ya? Did ya know he didn’t like ya?”

  “Yeah, I did. I knew he was an asshole with a big fuckin’ attitude that don’t know shit about shit.”

  “That’s because ya smelled the scent he gave off,” Blast said.

  Tony cocked his head and gave Blast a confused look. “How the fuck can ya know ya don’t like someone if ya ain’t never met ’im?” Tony growled.

  “Right there,” Blast said, pointing at Tony’s clenched teeth. “That’s what I’m talkin’ about. The anger that’s right under the surface, all pent up in your guts. That’s why I know you’re a killer or will be one day.”

  “Whatever, man,” Tony said, but in his heart, he knew there was some truth to what Blast told him. Not that he wanted to be a killer, because he didn’t, but he wanted respect, and more than anything, he didn’t want to be afraid anymore.

  Later that night, as Tony lay on his mattress listening to the steady sound of Blast’s snorting breaths, he wondered if he was doing the right thing, trying to join the gang. But he had nowhere else to go, and, other than Razor and his brother, Boner, all the other guys had been nice to him. Tony thought about his two options, the gang or being alone on the streets until something came along. Tony wanted to be a part of something; anything was better than trying to survive alone.

  That night, Tony decided he would do whatever was necessary to be a Slayer.

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  Tony learned quickly that the bad things he’d done with Salvatore and Vincent were nothing—were nice, even—compared to the kind of things the Slayers did. In the two weeks since he’d arrived in North Philadelphia, they had stolen two cars, fought with a rival gang so viciously that one of the rival gang members had both legs broken, and burglarized the house of a drug dealer where they stole bags of cocaine. Tony had gone with the gang, designated as the lookout, but Blast told him that his time was coming to prove himself.

  Tony had taken the bus back and forth to South Philadelphia several times a week to work at the bakery. Now, it was more about seeing Donata and Ruth; they made him feel human.

  Tony was leaving the bakery one day, heading back to North Philadelphia. He’d had a particularly good day at the bakery. Donata and Ruth had made him a special cake to celebrate his moving into the new “foster home” that Tony had lied about. He left feeling good about himself. As he walked down Ninth Street, he heard his name being called and turned around.

  “Tony, where the fuck ya been?” Vincent said, running toward him with Salvatore following.

  Tony was beaming. “Hey, you guys. It’s good to see ya. How ya been?”

  Salvatore shoved his hands into his pockets. He still carried the guilt of Tony being raped in juvenile detention and the shabby life he was living as a result. Salvatore had talked to Big Paulie about Tony’s experiences to get more information and then he’d gone to the public library to research things that happen in prison. Salvatore clearly understood that because of him, his friend Tony had lost his innocence and maybe even his manhood. Salvatore had vowed to himself that he would pay Tony back for the price he’d paid for him.

  Tony noticed that Salvatore seemed to feel uncomfortable; he was quiet and wouldn’t make eye contact.

  “How about a cheesesteak at Jim’s?”

  “Um, well, I ain’t got that kinda money to spend,” Tony said.

  “I’ll pay; let’s go,” Salvatore offered.

  After the boys finished eating, they walked to Front Street.

  “Where ya been livin’?” Vincent asked.

  “I’m livin’ wit’ some guys I met in North Philly.”

  Salvatore’s eyes got wide. “North Philly. What the fuck are you doing there? My pop and Big Paulie have told me some gruesome stories about the shit that goes on in that place. You have to be careful that somebody doesn’t kill you.”

  Tony smirked. “Yeah, it ain’t the nicest place to live, but I met some guys, and now I’m livin’ wit’ ’em.”

  “What guys?” Vincent said, true concern in his voice.

  “Guys, just some guys. What’s the problem?”

  “How old are these guys?” Vincent shot back.

  “What’s the difference?”

  Vincent stopped walking and grabbed Tony by the arm. “How can ya be livin’ wit’ some guys that ya don’t even know? How old are they?”

  Tony pulled his arm away gently. “Some of them are older, and some are around my age.”

  “Then who pays for all of ya to live?”

  “We all do. We chip in. Look, I wasn’t goin’ to no foster home. I lost enough of myself in juvie. I met some guy who brought me to meet his friends. They said I could stay for a while, and that’s all there is to it.”

  Salvatore listened intently, but he knew Tony wasn’t telling them everything. “You need to be careful with the people you pick for friends. My pop tells me that all the time. Your friends are the people who can make you or break you.”

  “That’s real nice to hear, Salvatore, but ya got a nice house to live in wit’ parents that buy ya everything.”

  “Yeah, pretty boy,” Vincent added, “ya don’t know your ass from a hole in the ground when it comes to bein’ poor.” Then Vincent turned to Tony, with his eyebrows taut. He stared at his friend for an extended moment. “Ya just remember, if ya need us, we’ll always be there for ya. Ya gotta be careful, ya know—people ain’t always as nice as they seem.”

  Tony considered Vincent’s words. In the short time he had lived with the Slayers, he’d found that Vincent was right.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Tony had been living with the Slayers for three weeks when Blast approached him in the living room.

  “We got a job tonight. You’re the point man.”

  “What’s that mean?” Tony asked, but he already knew.

  “It means that you gotta do the dirty work.”

  Tony hesitated. He’d known this day was fast approaching, but now that it had arrived, he felt trapped. His hands were sweating, and his heart felt like rolls of thunder in his chest.

  “What do I gotta do?”

  Blast’s face was void of emotion, which sent a trickle of dread through Tony.

  “There’s an old couple about a mile from here. We know they stash their money in the house ’cause the old guy tells everybody that he doesn’t believe in banks; he says nobody can trust a banker.”

  “Has he done somethin’ to the Slayers?”

  “No, he ain’t done nothin’. It’s about taking his money.”

  Tony stood up from the sofa. “That don’t sound right. I mean, we don’t even know these old people, and they ain’t done nothin’.”

  “Are ya sayin’ ya ain’t gonna do it?” Blast asked, his voice laced with annoyance.

  The other gang members looked at Tony, waiting for an answer. Tony looked around the room; the growing pressu
re from the other boys pressed in on him. His glance stopped at Razor, who was smirking, as if he could read Tony’s thoughts.

  Razor took a few steps toward Tony. “I fuckin’ told ya, Blast. I told ya this idiot was a pussy. Ya didn’t want to listen—now look, Tony looks like he wants to cry. He’s too scared. He’s a weak, sniveling weasel that needs to take his ass back to South Philly where he belongs.”

  “Kiss my ass, Razor,” Tony snarled. “I ain’t afraid. I just don’t think it’s right to steal from people who ain’t got nothin’. I ain’t sayin’ I’m not gonna do it; I’m just sayin’ it’s dumb.”

  “Good; it’s settled then,” Blast said, interrupting him, before Razor could respond. “Tonight ya get to prove to us what you’re made of.”

  Tony nodded, but inside he was twisted. He realized that he already knew too much about the gang to walk away. They would never let him leave; he was a threat to their criminal life.

  That night, Tony snuck into the house of the elderly couple. One of the Slayers had eavesdropped weeks prior while the old man had mentioned to a friend that the safest place to keep money was in a freezer.

  “Ya see,” the eighty-year-old had said, “nobody ever suspects the freezer, and if there’s a fire, it’ll be the last place to burn.’

  Tony prowled around the first floor. He entered a small living room, and to his right, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator. He stepped cautiously into the kitchen in the dark and listened intently for sounds of movement. Nothing. Tony moved toward the hum of the motor. He opened the freezer and reached his hand inside. In the back, underneath the food, his fingers found two bags with small boxes inside. Tony slid one out quietly and put it into his coat. His hand reached back into the freezer and grasped the second one. He paused a moment, released the bag and pulled his hand out. He quickly left the house the way he’d entered. He would tell no one that he hadn’t taken both bags of money.