by Marcus Sakey
Cruz opened her bottom desk drawer, took out her vest. Put it on, checked her pistol, her star. Hesitated, then dug out her backup piece, a "mini-Glock" in an ankle holster. Going through the motions, preparing herself to hit the street and look for Playboy. All the while inhabited by a weird nervousness, a sense that things were moving beyond her control. It was starting to feel like she was on a train that had derailed, left the tracks to hurtle through space.
True, she hadn't felt an impact yet.
But that didn't mean it wasn't coming.
CHAPTER 17
Tumors
They were on their own.
Goddamnit.
Outside the police station the sun beat on Jason's back. Cars hummed by on the Dan Ryan. Billy looked up, his eyes wide, and in them Jason saw that fear was only barely restrained, and felt the weight of that.
The cops couldn't help. He was all that stood between his nephew and the men who wanted to kill him.
First things first, soldier. You need a place to go. Where, though? If the bangers had found Michael's home, they might be able to find his apartment. He needed a place where no one would look for them. But what were they supposed to do, live out of hotels for the rest of their lives?
The answer came like a smile. "Billy," he said, "let's go see an old friend."
The drive was short, but rife with weird milestones. Jason hadn't been back to the street where he'd grown up in years. He passed his old house, still leaning like a drunk about to fall off his stool. Siding spotted yellow, concrete crumbling, but the flowers tended. He was glad to see that. Someone making a go of it.
"You'll like this guy," he said, glancing over at Billy. "He was really important to me when I was growing up. To your dad, too. His name is Washington."
His nephew looked at him like he was crazy, said, "I know Uncle Washington."
Somehow that made things worse. Michael had been gone a day, and Jason was already realizing that as well as he'd known his brother, he hadn't known him at all.
Washington's house was as he remembered it, a three-flat with a fading wrought iron fence and tired curtains in the windows. But beside the steps to the porch there now hung a sign that read "The Lantern Bearers," and under that:
RESPECT
E MPOWERMENT
P RIDE
He led Billy up the steps, feeling like he was walking through an old dream. A stringy kid with pocked cheeks answered the door, listened dubiously, and then told them to hang on. Jason ruffled Billy's hair. The screen door dimmed the view into the house. He saw a figure moving, and his head went light. It hadn't hit him until this moment who he was about to see, or how long it had been.
Then the door flew open. "Oh, thank God." Washington dropped to a knee to wrap Billy in an embrace. "I was worried."
"I'm okay," Billy's voice was muffled by Washington's shoulder. "Uncle Jason has been taking care of me."
Jason shifted on his feet, strangely nervous. It had been years. And the moment felt awkward; he hadn't expected Washington to go straight for Billy. He hesitated, then smiled. "Hello, old man."
Washington straightened, squared himself off in front of Jason. "So." He wore a beard now, and the lines around his eyes were a little deeper. "The prodigal son returns."
For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Washington broke into a wide grin, his eyes bright. He spread his arms, and Jason stepped into them, the two of them grinning and clapping each other on the back.
"Welcome home."
Jason closed his eyes and hugged him harder. Then stepped away, one hand on the shoulder of the closest thing he had to a father. His lips pinched in a solemn frown. "You've heard?"
Washington nodded. "Word on the street goes faster than light. You all right?"
"Yeah. I don't know. I should have been there." He paused. "We need to talk."
"Yes." Washington cut his eyes to Billy. "Later, though."
They stood silent for a moment. Jason wanting to ask for something, but not sure what. Help? Forgiveness? For Washington to make it better? He looked away. Then he felt something warm tugging at his arm.
Billy looked up at him. "Can I go inside and see Ronald?"
"Who's Ronald?"
"He's my friend. He can pick me up with one hand."
Jason looked at Washington, saw the nod, said, "Sure thing, kiddo." Billy grinned and dashed inside, his heels flashing. It stabbed Jason's chest. For a moment, Billy had looked just like any normal kid.
"So," Washington made the word sound like a grunt as he settled back in his chair and put his feet up on the porch railing.
They'd arrived in late afternoon, but now, nearly eight o'clock, was the first chance to really talk. Jason hadn't seen the old man in years, and in that time Washington had transformed himself from a librarian who tutored local kids into a full-fledged activist. The house Jason remembered visiting as a teenager had become a cross between an afterschool center and a clubhouse, with former gangbangers washing dishes in the kitchen and studying for the GED in the living room. Washington seemed to be everywhere at once, talking to "his boys," taking meetings, spending hours on the phone.
The delay had turned out to be a good thing. It gave Jason a chance to hang with Billy, to distract the boy from the rest of the world. He'd taught his nephew all the jokes he knew, the clean ones at least, and the two of them had spent the afternoon getting schooled in basketball by teenaged killers.
Now though, with Billy tucked in early and the sky fading to purple, Jason couldn't avoid his own mind anymore. "So."
"Are you okay?"
Jason shrugged. "I don't know."
"He was a good man."
"Yes." Jason felt a buildup of electricity. He still hadn't cried for his brother, and he was starting to hate himself for it. He took a belt of gin, watched bugs loop the streetlights. Tried to think of something to say. "You still working at the library?"
"Not much longer."
"Better job?"
"This one, actually." Washington took a sip of his gin. "You heard of a man called Adam Kent?"
"Nope."
"Started an import business out of his garage twenty years ago, now he's a multimillionaire. Night after tomorrow he's hosting a benefit dinner for us, and he's giving half a million dollars from his own pocket."
"Half a million?" Jason whistled. "Jesus."
Washington nodded. "Going to make a world of difference. Right now, we're running on scraps and prayers. I lose a lot of boys could be helped."
Jason took another sip of the liquor. Felt that male discomfort, wanting to say something but the words weird. "You helped me."
"You didn't need much. Just a little direction."
"Still. I was sliding. I mean rebellion is one thing, but stealing televisions?" He shook his head. "If you hadn't kicked my ass, I might have gone the wrong way."
Washington leaned forward with the bottle and refilled both their glasses. Somewhere a siren screamed.
"I should have come before," Jason said.
"I was wondering if you would. Your brother told me you were out of the service."
Jason grimaced, stood, walked to the porch railing. Opposite the house was an abandoned lot. When he'd lived down the block there used to be an old playground carousel out there, a rusty metal circle that spun on a central point. He and Michael would grab hold and run as fast as they could, then jump on, watch the world blur around them. "I thought about it." He closed his eyes, saw Martinez, opened them fast. "Just that things… haven't worked out so well for me."
"How do you mean?"
"I didn't leave the Army. I was discharged." The sky had grown too dark to show whether the carousel still sat amidst the weeds. Jason tried not to think about the words. " 'Other than honorable,' they call it. For 'patterns of misconduct.' It's a pretty common way to drum somebody out. They do it to a lot of guys who admit to having PTSD. Not the same as dishonorable, but not good."
"You want to talk about it?"<
br />
"No." From a distant car he caught a snatch of music, something Latin and pretty, appropriate for a night so thick with heat. He sighed. "I made a mistake."
"What kind?"
"The kind where people die."
Washington said nothing. The old man had always been good at that.
"I disobeyed an order," Jason said. "I was a sergeant, and I ordered my men somewhere they weren't supposed to be. One of them got killed."
The Worm slid between his ribs and his heart, a nauseous slippery feeling.
"That's a hard load, son."
Jason sipped his gin, stared into the darkness. "Harder for the guy who died." So much had happened in so short a time, he felt battered, like a heavy bag worked over by a boxer. He blew a breath, brushed the bangs from his sweating brow. Turned and leaned back against the railing. "You see Michael a lot?"
"He brought Billy over plenty of weekends. Helped out, threw us a fundraiser once a year in the bar. But he always wanted to be more aggressive. Wanted the community to fight back, to go after the gangs directly. And he didn't like the politics and fundraising. Said people just gave money so they felt okay about ignoring the problem."
"Is that true?"
Washington shrugged. "Son, I don't much care. Kids are dying out here. The money helps."
Jason nodded. That sounded like Michael, to draw a line in black and white, not be able to see the shades of gray between. It was one of the things that had always made it difficult between them, the way Mi-
Crack!
The sound was loud and sharp, and Jason acted without thinking, body moving to a combat stance, jerking the Beretta from beneath his shirt, his eyes wide, searching for motion or muzzle flare, ready to spring in any direction. Neck tingling, senses raging, palms sweaty but sure against the grip.
Nothing happened.
It took a moment of standing weapon-ready before Jason remembered where he was. How often he'd heard that sound as a kid, always far enough away that he could never be sure if it was a gun or a car backfiring or a cherry bomb. It was a city phenomenon, especially on the South Side, just one of those things you got used to. He felt a flush of heat in his face, a vein in his forehead. He stared into the darkness, afraid to turn around.
Then, from behind, "You want to tell me why you brought a gun to my house?"
Jason sighed. Snapped on the safety and tucked the pistol away, still looking out into the twilight. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry's no kind of answer." The softness was gone from Washington's voice.
Jason nodded. Turned slowly, pulled out a chair, and told the man the whole story, from Playboy on. It took nearly an hour, and Washington didn't say a word until he was done. Just sat stonefaced and alert. When it was all over, he said, "I don't like guns."
"I'm sorry."
"I won't have it in my house."
"I'll leave it in the car. I'll take it there now, if you want."
Washington stared at him. "You do that before you walk through my door. And lock it in the trunk, you hear?" When Jason nodded, Washington leaned back. He took a slow sip of gin, stared into the distance. "You said it was Playboy come after you?"
"You know him?" After the afternoon he'd had, Jason supposed he shouldn't be surprised. Washington obviously knew most everything going on in the neighborhood.
"He's a Gangster Disciple, a soldier. Second in command."
"Second in command? He was like twenty-three."
"Gangs recruit young. A thirty-year-old thinks before he pulls the trigger. A fifteen-year-old don't."
"Is Playboy somebody who might come after Michael for talking to the police?"
"Sure. But you said the men Billy saw were white."
"Yeah." Jason put his feet on the railing. "I don't know who they were." He rubbed his eyes, black stars popping. "Hell, I don't even know what's going on out here."
"What's going on?" Washington shrugged. "Things are getting worse. That's the nature of things. You know that nearly fifty percent of black boys drop out of high school? I'm talking city of Chicago. A whole generation, and we're failing them."
"Who's failing them? I didn't force them to drop out of school. And I sure as shit didn't ask them to come after my family," Jason said. "What about their parents?"
"Parent, son. Usually just a mom alone, working two minimum-wage jobs, bringing in maybe four hundred a week. Can't afford daycare, can't afford books or a computer, and she ain't never there. Kid doesn't have a home, school is failing him, the streets are rough, what choice he got but to pledge a set?"
"Bullshit." He was a guest, but he couldn't let that go, not after the last days. "I grew up down the block. You know my dad split. Mom had three jobs. Michael and I both worked, bought our own clothes from when we were twelve. Everybody's got a choice. They join because Tupac or Snoop Dogg or whoever else says it's cool. Join a gang, you get to ride around with a gun, women falling all over to climb in your Benz."
Washington shook his head. "You know how much a kid makes slinging rock? Nine, ten bucks an hour. Suburban kids make that at Starbucks, don't have to worry about nothing but burning their fingers. They don't join up for the money."
"Lemme guess. They join up for their community, stand against the white man."
"There's a black-white thing, sure, but not the way you mean."
"So why then?"
"For respect," said a low voice from behind them.
Jason whirled. The man in the door was menacing as hell: two-fifty, six-something, with arms of carved granite and hair tightly braided to his skull. "Got nothing, goin' nowhere. But if they join a crew, then they famous. Rising ghetto stars. Nobody can mess with them, 'cause they belong."
"Jason Palmer, Ronald Wilson." Washington gestured from one to the other.
Jason stood and they shook, Jason expecting the guy to crush his fingers, surprised to find the grip firm but not macho. "You're Billy's friend."
Ronald broke into a smile. "Bills is fun. Hold him upside down for an hour, he still wants more." He stepped onto the porch. As the light fell across his forearms, Jason jerked backwards. He bumped the chair, and it teetered, then fell with a crack.
"Easy." Washington was on his feet and between them.
Ronald's gaze was calm. "Problem?"
"You tell me." Jason pointed at Ronald's arm, where a six-pointed star writhed in flames, surrounding the letters GD. The same tattoo Playboy had, or damn close.
Ronald nodded, lifted his arm and rolled it back and forth in the light. "My set mark. I was Fifty-fourth Street Gangster Disciples."
"You were."
"Yeah."
"Not anymore."
"Left almost four years ago." He tilted his head sideways. "Dr. Matthews helped me. I'd like to get rid of the ink, but can't afford it yet."
Jason blew air through his mouth. "Sorry, man." Shook his head. "Been a long couple days."
"So Bills said."
Washington eased out from between them, his eyes on Jason. "Ronald is my right hand. He's an example of what can happen if we work with kids instead of ignoring them. Helps me in a hundred ways, and even the new boys know not to mess with him."
"I can see why." Jason bent down, picked his chair up. "So, respect? That it?"
"Pretty much."
"Doesn't seem like enough."
"Why? It's not that different," Washington looked at Jason, "than finding a family in the Army."
He flushed. "It's goddamn worlds different."
Ronald spoke, his voice sounding like it came from a cavern a thousand years undisturbed. "I don't know 'bout the Army. But grow up around here, sometimes a set seems like all there is. I did my first shooting at thirteen, started selling dope about that time. Had a son when I was sixteen. His mama took him when she left. Back then, I didn't care. Just banged harder. I didn't need a son. My crew was my world. Till somebody gunned down my little brother. Took that for me to start seeing different." He fell silent, leaving just the night and the heat and th
e sound of men breathing.
"You see what I mean?" Washington finally asked. "Life for these kids is accelerated. Their whole world, it's burning."
"So what's the point?" Jason may have grown up a block away, but this wasn't his world. Never had been. Maybe because he'd never really considered the neighborhood home. Maybe something in the way he'd been raised, or the way he and Michael looked out for each other, or simply that his mother's white skin had helped her get jobs above minimum wage, even if she still needed three of them. Whatever the reason, somehow he'd sidestepped all of this. Teenagers killing each other over pieces of colored cloth, pretending bandannas were uniforms. "Why not just get out? Both of you?"
Washington stared, a long gaze that made Jason uncomfortable, like the old man was seeing through him. Jason took a slug of gin, his head throbbing heat and booze. The moment dragged on. When Washington finally spoke, his voice was soft. "You ever hear the story of the Rutupiae Light?"
"That a gang?"
"History, son." Washington shook his head. "In the fourth century, Britain was one of the most civilized places in the world. Culture, literacy, medicine, social rights, all the things we think of as advanced. There was a huge lighthouse at Rutupiae, where Dover is now, and every night they lit it. Mostly to guide ships, but it was symbolic too. So long as that lighthouse burned, Britain's enemies knew Rome protected the country.
"But it was hard times for the Empire. The glory days were behind, and they had enemies of their own. Eventually, they ordered their troops out, left Britain at the mercy of the Saxons. Barbarians. Painted their faces blue, drank blood, raided and raped and enslaved. That bad. Without the Legions, Britain was doomed.
"But there's a story says that the night the Legions sailed for Rome, a group of soldiers deserted. It was suicide. They were vastly outnumbered, couldn't possibly win. But they stayed, and they lit the Rutupiae Light."
"Hoping to fool the Saxons?" Jason snorted. "They couldn't've pulled that off for long. What, they died to keep a lighthouse going for a night or two?"
"That's one way to look at it." A gentle smile tugged at the edge of Washington's mouth. "Another is that faced with the end of a dream, they chose to stay and fight. To hold the darkness back. Even if only for a night or two." He glanced at Ronald like a professor calling on a student. "Know what they were called?"
