by Wes Moore
“Here you go, buddy.” Slowly he transferred the spinning ball onto the boy’s finger.
“Awesome.” The boy watched it spinning, mesmerized. “Look, Dad!”
“Thanks,” said the father reluctantly.
“No problem.”
When it was his turn to order, he asked the girl at the counter if Harold was working.
She might have been pretty, but Elijah had no more room for such things. Besides, she was so hopelessly bored that it seemed a struggle for her to keep her eyelids open. “He’s on break.” With effort, she lifted her arm and pointed toward the outdoor patio, and then droned, “I can take the next customer.”
Harold sat at a picnic table in the far corner of the patio with a tray of food. Like before, he wore a white cook’s shirt with a green apron, and he sipped from a monstrous cup of soda.
“Hey, Harold.” Elijah walked over and took a seat opposite.
“My man Elijah. I’m sorry to hear about your boy Dylan. You want me to get you a dog or some fries? It’s free when I’m working.”
“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
“When my cousin passed, I didn’t eat nothing for a week. Lost ten pounds, and I’m already mad skinny.”
“Do you remember the last time I was here, when I got into a beef with that guy?”
“Yeah, Bull. He come after you?”
“No, but you mentioned something about protection.”
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Did you mean it?”
“Depends,” said Harold. “You gonna go after whoever hurt Dylan?”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Good, ’cause I always liked that boy. He didn’t deserve that. Cops won’t do nothing, either, so it comes down to you anyway. All we got’s each other, right?” Harold’s hot dog disappeared in small, quick bites. “What kind of a piece you want?”
“I don’t even know.” Elijah looked at his dirty, scratched-up hands and tried to imagine holding a gun. “Something small and easy to carry. I’ve got two hundred bucks. Is that enough?”
Harold nodded. “Come back tomorrow. Bring the money, and I’ll hook you up.”
“Thanks, Harold. Thanks for helping me.”
“No problem.”
ELIJAH WENT STRAIGHT home and took the longest shower of his life. He watched the bottom of the tub as water flowed off him in brown streams of dirt, sweat, and dust. When it started to run clear, he used soap and shampoo, and then closed his eyes. He focused on the sensation of the water drumming on his skin, and the steam that enveloped him. For the first time since Dylan’s death, he breathed deeply and easily. Inside him, a plan was forming.
He lay down on his bed and remembered back to a time when Dylan, Michael, and he had been in the fourth grade. Elijah had been playing in games at the Battlegrounds for several months, but this was the first time all three boys had been allowed.
“Did you see me out there?” asked Michael. “I was on fire. I’m gonna be playing here every day, until I go on to the pros.”
“Of course I seen you,” said Dylan. “You’re the biggest nine-year-old in Baltimore. The dude in the traffic copter seen you. Everybody seen you; that doesn’t mean you got skills.”
“Everybody know I got skills,” said Michael. “But keep being a hater and watch me take your birthday present back to the damn store. Me and Elijah will come to your party empty-handed.”
Dylan studied his friend to see if he was serious. “Okay, I’m sorry. You played good.”
“That’s right,” said Michael. “And you ain’t gonna believe the present we bought. In a million years you couldn’t guess what it is.”
“Come on, guys.” Dylan bounced around his two friends like a terrier. “You can tell me, and I’ll act surprised when I get it. No one will know. Is it that model rocket? Or them packets of space ice cream that freeze up when you open them?”
In the end Dylan had waited. The present: an official Wilson NCAA replica ball that had cost them twenty-nine dollars plus tax.
—
ELIJAH’S PHONE—WHICH HE’D gotten back from Detective Tillman and had taped back together again—pinged with a string of messages from Kerri:
“Hi, it’s me. About my father: he didn’t know your friend was killed. I’m so sorry, Elijah.”
“Hi. Kerri again. I know you probably want to be alone, but call me.”
“Last message, I promise. I don’t know you well enough to say that I’m worried about you, but I am. Please call, just to let me know you’re okay, even though I know you’re not okay.”
She was right, he was not okay. And what difference did it make if Banks hadn’t known? He was still an asshole, because Elijah had worked hard for him and deserved to be treated better. He wasn’t in the army, and neither was Banks. Screw him. As for Kerri, he didn’t want to hear any more about her plan. He had his own plan, and it didn’t involve GPS tracking devices or taking down a whole gang. His plan involved a gun and getting rid of a piece of human garbage that went by the name of Money.
THE NEXT MORNING, Elijah pulled on jeans and a T-shirt and dialed Michael’s cell.
“Where are you?” asked Elijah.
“Home.” Michael’s voice came in a whisper. Flat. “Since the funeral, all I’ve been doing is sleeping and watching TV.”
“I need to meet with your friend Money.”
“He ain’t my friend.”
“Whatever,” said Elijah. “Are you going to help me or not?”
An edge came into Michael’s voice. “Is that why you called? To bust my balls again? To make me feel guilty?”
“I told you, I called to get Money’s number. That’s all.”
Silence.
“Michael, did you hear me?”
“Yeah, I heard you. Why you want to talk to him? You want to get yourself shot, too?”
“That’s my own business, just like it was yours to get us a sponsor who shot our friend.” He knew it was a cruel thing to say, but he felt like being cruel. He also felt like Michael deserved it. Besides, it was true.
“We don’t know that Money killed him. Could have been any number of people in the Nation, acting out an order. Could be the same one that shot Ray Shiver.”
“Like who?”
“I don’t know,” said Michael. “Could be anyone. Besides, you won’t be able to find Money unless he wants to be found. Think, man. You don’t know his real name. You don’t know where he lives. All you got is a young brother in a dark hoodie.”
“I saw his face.”
“Okay, so you seen his face. Big deal.”
“Look, are you going to give me his number or not?”
“He won’t recognize you when it comes up on his phone. He won’t answer.”
“Then I’ll use your phone.”
“Man, I ain’t—”
“I’ll be at your house in an hour.”
Elijah grabbed his keys and the stack of twenties from his sock drawer that he’d earned working for Banks. He tried to brush past his mother with a quick kiss on her cheek.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“Michael’s. Be back soon.”
“When you get back, we need to talk about moving.”
He waited by the door for her to finish.
“I called my cousin in Buffalo, and she heard about a job for me. She says there’s a good magnet school you could go to. They have a basketball team, too.”
Elijah nodded.
“Soon, Elijah,” she said. “I’m serious about this.”
“Okay,” he said.
THE DEAL TOOK less than ten minutes and was conducted in an alley, behind Joe’s Texas Hots.
“See that?” said Harold. “That’s the safety. And here’s how the clip goes in. You got it?”
The gun was a Hi-Point 9mm, known for being cheap, easy to conceal, and highly reliable, or so Harold said. Numbers and manufacturing stamps had been filed off, and Harold had wrap
ped the whole thing in a red-and-white-checked kitchen rag, which Elijah stuffed into the bottom of his backpack. Included was a twenty box of Starfire rounds.
“Got it,” said Elijah. They stood between a blue steel Dumpster and the grease pit, talking in a low whisper. It felt heavier than he’d expected. At the same time, it looked too much like a toy. He wondered how something that looked like a toy could shoot holes in people.
“Most people run away if they see a gun,” said Harold. “But if they don’t, and you have to use it…aim lower than you think you should. Because it’ll kick up.”
“Okay,” said Elijah, only half paying attention. His thoughts raced ahead to the rest of his plan. Getting Money to meet him. The confrontation. And then what?
“Be careful,” said Harold. “And remember…”
“I know,” said Elijah. “I didn’t get it from you.”
“No,” said Harold. “You don’t even know me.”
OUTSIDE MICHAEL’S HOUSE, Elijah knocked once and let himself in. Michael was in the living room, watching a Caveliers game on television.
“My moms and sisters are out,” said Michael. “So we can talk if you want to.” A television tray held a bowl of Doritos and two glasses of Coke. “My moms put this out for you. I told her not to bother, but she said you’re like family, which is funny because it’s starting to feel like brother against brother. Man, why are you acting like this? Ain’t we still friends?”
“I don’t know how else to be.” Elijah sat down next to Michael. They watched the game for a few minutes, LeBron James picking the other team apart play by play.
“You ever hear from the Syracuse guy, what’s his name?”
“Sam Lehigh. Yeah. He’s setting up a visit for me and my mom.”
“Cool. That means they want you. You go out there, and they’ll buy you a steak dinner, take you to watch a game. Probably let you sit with the team. You’re going, right?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. My mom wants to move to Buffalo.”
“What? Like, faraway Buffalo, where it snows?”
“Yeah. We’ve got family there, but I don’t remember them.”
“When?”
“She says soon. As in a couple of weeks soon. She says it’s not safe here anymore.”
“Maybe it ain’t. But you ain’t gonna just pack up and leave, are you?”
“I know. I don’t want to go.” The silence between them became unbearable. “Are you going to let me use your phone?”
“It ain’t a good idea, Elijah. I’m saying that as a friend.”
“A friend would be helping me with this. Why don’t you want to find out who killed Dylan?”
“I do, man. I really do, but…”
“But what?” Elijah stood and paced the floor.
“It’s complicated.”
“I’ll bet it is.” He stood over Michael, glaring, his anger blossoming again inside him. “So let me simplify it for you. If you don’t give me your phone, I’ll take it from you, and I don’t care what I have to do to get it.”
Silence. Elijah had never threatened his friend before. It felt strange, but it also felt justified.
“Go on,” Elijah added. “Try me.”
“Here.” Michael pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts until he found the listing for M$. “You sure you know what you’re doing?”
“No, but I’m going to do it anyway,” said Elijah.
Michael pushed the call icon and handed the phone to Elijah. It rang and rang.
—
AFTER WHAT SEEMED like an eternity, a soft, flat voice on the other end of the line said, “What you want?”
“This is Elijah.”
A pause. “And I said, what do you want?”
“We’ve got to talk.”
“We’re talking now,” said Money.
“In person,” said Elijah.
“Fine. You at Big Boy’s?”
“Who’s Big Boy?”
“Michael. I call him Big Boy, because of his size, right.”
“Yeah, I’m at his house.”
“Be ready, then.” The line went dead.
—
ELIJAH AND MICHAEL waited in the driveway by the hoop they used to play under as little boys. The net had long since rotted away, and the rim was badly bent. Michael kicked at a cheap rubber ball that was half deflated. “You ain’t doing nothing crazy, are you?” said Michael.
Elijah shrugged, feeling the weight of the gun on the shoulder straps of his backpack.
“You know you’re the only real friend I got.”
They both watched the Mercedes stop at the front of the house.
“Mrs. Buchanan said we should visit Dylan’s grave,” said Elijah. “If we want to.”
“Okay,” said Michael. “I’ll go.”
MONEY SILENTLY NAVIGATED through the streets of Elijah’s neighborhood. It looked different from his vantage point in the passenger seat. The fronts of houses that had seemed so quaint and perfect now seemed like the thinnest of veneers. He thought that if he touched one, his finger would go right through the bricks or the wooden clapboards, because whatever goodness was there was fake, or too fragile to endure.
“You got something to say?” Money steered with one hand, touching his silver hoop earring with the other.
Elijah’s backpack was tucked safely between his feet. Anytime he wanted, he could pull the gun out and give Money what he deserved. “Yeah. Why’d you kill my friend?”
Money sucked his teeth. “Man, what you don’t know could fill a library. I didn’t shoot nobody.”
“I don’t believe you. I saw you at the game.” He mimicked Money’s shooting gesture.
“I was just delivering a message from the boss to let you fools know just how bad you screwed up. I didn’t do the deed, though; I’m past the dirty work. The boss got other people to do it.”
“Who?”
“Man, I ain’t here to answer questions. Get the information yourself.”
Right. Elijah lifted the pack onto his lap. “What are you here for, then?”
“Business. That’s what it’s all about anyway. Money and business. They both the same.”
They drove past the Battlegrounds and then east, past pawnshops, liquor stores, and bail bondsman’s offices. Two shirtless boys chased a third on a bicycle; they caught him and knocked him off, then fought with each other over who would get to ride next.
“Look,” said Money, pointing out the tinted windows at the poverty and decay, which seemed to worsen with each block.
“I see it.”
“Yeah, what do you see?”
“A mess. Garbage. Graffiti.”
“What else?”
Elijah looked straight ahead at the dashboard, not in the mood for Money’s game.
“I’ll tell you: it’s where folks come to die. See ’em shuffling along, all sick and hungry and spent? See that dude on the stoop there, in the fake leather jacket next to his cart? Guess how old he is.”
“I don’t know. Fifty. Sixty.”
Money pushed air through his teeth in the wheezy approximation of a laugh. “He’s twenty-eight, four years older than me. We went to high school together.”
“That’s a shame.” Elijah fiddled with the zipper of his pack. He opened it an inch, then two. “But in your own words, who cares?”
“You ought to, because every one of them is hungry for what you got.”
“What I have right now is a dead friend.”
“No, man. What you got is a chance. They pissed their chances away, but you still got yours. So here it is. I’m gonna tell you what happened to your friend, and you better learn something from it. Ready?”
“Okay.”
“You guys screwed up. You dissed the Nation, and someone had to pay. That’s the rule. It’s always been the rule, and everyone on this street knows it. Even those kids back there with the bike. You mess up, and somebody’s got to bleed.”
“I get it, rule of th
e streets and all that. But Dylan had nothing to do with it.”
“You think that matters, but it don’t. It ain’t that personal like that. Boss decided and gave an order. Somebody carried out that order and capped him. Simple as that.”
“And you didn’t cap anybody.”
“Exactly.” Money pulled up to a meter in front of an abandoned KFC; a trio of laconic thugs seemed to recognize the car. They smiled and gave the thug equivalent of a wave, a kind of combination lopsided grimace and shoulder shrug.
“I still don’t believe you,” said Elijah.
“Nobody cares what you believe, unless you can back it up.” Money slid his gun out of the front pocket of his hoodie. “Can you back it up? Do you want to?”
Elijah pulled the zipper the rest of the way. He looked into the pack and saw the red-and-white-checked rag. He wasn’t sure if he could do it, but he’d try. For Dylan. He would take out the Hi-Point and flip the safety off—just like Harold had showed him in the back alley—and shoot. A single report that would make his ears ring. Then what? His friend’s murderer would be dead, which would be something. Unless Money was telling the truth and he wasn’t the shooter. Was that even possible?
Possible, which meant that Elijah wasn’t sure any longer, and his plan was crap.
He thought back to the lesson Banks had tried to teach him with the shed—bring the whole thing down on itself, without getting hurt. Inflict maximum damage with minimum risk. Shooting Money did not fit that criterion, because firing a gun hurt Elijah in a number of ways, like obliterating his chances of going to college (in favor of prison), and disappointing his mother. Measured in Banks’s terms, he was on the verge of making a terrible mistake.
Money smiled. “Relax, man. I’m just messing around with you. The only shoot-outs you gonna be doing is on the hardwood at some Big Ten college, right? And that’s cool, because it’s part of the plan. So be smart. Your friend got smoked, but lots of people around here get smoked. Life’s hard, but it keeps going, you know what I mean?”
“No.” Elijah let the backpack slide down between his feet. “That makes no sense. You’re not wise or even smart. But you know what? I’m going to find out who killed Dylan, and then I’m going to find out who you work for.”
