The shower heads pushed on.
His own phone beeped. It was Les:
MEET ME AT THE CHICKEN SHACK IN 30
Still on the floor, Tim sat up and saw a long streak of blood leading back to the doorway. He hadn’t known Fidel was bleeding.
“Fidel? You alright?” he hollered.
Nothing.
Tim held his stomach and sucked up mucus. His head ached. He yelled, “Quit fucking around, Fidel. I’m-I’m gonna let you go. Ju-just let me think for a minute. Ok?” he yelled.
Tim lay on the floor, listening to the fisssh sound of the open shower heads. He imagined the drains clogging up and water flooding the entire room. He saw Fidel, awake, waist deep in the drink, eyes gone buggy, straining against the nylon tape. He watched as the level rose to his neck, chin and mouth. Sans leather jacket and Beretta, he was simply a boy about to die.
In his mind, Tim saw the flood break through the doorway like a tidal wave to sweep him up with the rubber mats and everything else. Floating high, near the ceiling, he saw the backs of the great amber lamps suspended across the entire area. Finally the current pushed him into a corner against a huge skylight. A crow sitting on the other side of the glass seemed to be speaking to him. Hanging on, nose pressed against the window, determined to breathe the last available molecule of oxygen, Tim could finally make out the avian message. His body shook in such uncontrollable waves until it seemed that in the end, it would be the spasms, not the water that would kill him.
The crow said, Fuck Fidel. Go find Chucky’s body, deal with Maurice and settle with Jones.
GOOD EVENING, OFFICER
In the late afternoon light, Gentrale looked peaceful as he smiled and stirred a giant pot of red beans slow cooking on the stove. It was going to be a good batch. The creamy texture had set in—you could barely see the tender morsels of salt pork.
Tim had entered through the back door and immediately sat down at the kitchen table. This time, a half-turn, a grunt and nod from his uncle served as a greeting. The slight smile and cool demeanor hadn’t fooled him. Since his dad died, they had become pretty close. He could tell that his uncle was worried about him and struggled to keep his imagination at bay. He’d laughed real hard at Gentrale’s latest: “Boy, you smell like a cloud of dirty washrag been following you around.”
But the old dude could be cagey so he had to be careful.
Tim wondered what his uncle had been telling his mom. She would soon call again from Chicago, like she did every day, anxious for news. It had been only a few days since she’d gotten into that taxi for the airport, waving bye and blowing kisses at the three of them through the rear window as it sped off. You’d think it had been a year. Ever since that morning, Tim hadn’t been sleeping at home or going to the library. Had his uncle told her about that? She had just started a new job and it was exactly the wrong time for her to get such news—especially about him.
Tim got up from the table.
“Where you goin’, boy?” Gentrale said, turning from the stove, genuine surprise rising from his voice. His eyes gave Tim a good onceover from head to toe before he spoke again. “Uh, I need to talk to you about something. So don’t you leave the house before I do.”
“Alright, alright, Unk. I heard you! I gotta take a shower, I ain’t going nowhere.” He got up and made his way to the bathroom.
He knew Gentrale wanted to ask about his muddy sneakers by the way he’d looked at them.
After leaving Fidel at the gym, he had spent most of the night at the park, searching for the body. That’s how he’d come to call it—the body. It seemed too much to call it by its former name, when it had a pulse, breathed air, got thirsty and chased down motherfuckers through the park. He’d looked everywhere, under all the bushes in the area as if the body could have acquired some kind of postmortem locomotion. Luckily, Les hadn’t been too inquisitive when he’d tapped on his window at 4 am. Letting the surprise of the moment and his mumbled excuses slide by with a shrug, Les opened the door to the basement and went straight back to bed. There would be time to come up with a story.
Someone must have found it. But who? The police? Maybe that’s why those two white guys in that big Ford with no trim and plain hubcaps were always hanging outside their door. Who were they supposed to be fooling?
“Hey, boy!” Gentrale barked, banging on the bathroom door. “Your beans are ready. Come to the kitchen!”
“Here I am, Unk. What’s the rush?” Tim said, bounding through the doorway. But he was speaking to the back of his uncle, who had already turned towards the kitchen. With a wave of a hand he said, “No rush. It just doesn’t seem right to let my best pot of beans get cold. You’re going to like these something fierce! Don’t fool around, come on and take a seat!”
Back at the table, Tim wanted to be cool and vague. Talking too much would open him up to too much scrutiny. However, the beans quickly eighty-sixed that plan. “Mmm—thanks, I needed some home cookin’—these beans are fierce, Unk. I always liked the way you say somethin’ fierce. Ain’t heard that one for a while.”
“Well, you haven’t been around! What have you been up to, boy?” Gentrale sat staring at his scruffy nephew.
“I told you, Uncle Gentrale, don’t be calling me boy and stuff. I—ain’t no…”
Gentrale yawned and scratched his head. “Yes, yes, I know—you’re not anybody’s boy,” he mumbled in a tired kind of way. Then, holding up a stiff index finger, he said, “Except to your mama! And don’t you forget it!” Maybe with those beans in him, he’ll loosen up some, he thought.
Tim chuckled into his plate. “Yeah, yeah, I won’t forget.”
“So, what you been up to lately? I’ve been worried, son.” Gentrale watched Tim closely. “I don’t think you’ve slept at home for the past three or four nights. Before you had your shower, you didn’t look so hot to me, like you’ve been collecting dust for the most part.”
“I-I been hanging with friends and stuff. I’m alright, I guess,” Tim said, before registering his uncle’s quip. “Oh man—collecting dust! That’s funny,” he said, as if in pain. His voice sounded as if it had been pushed through a strainer. They laughed long and hard and for a moment, everything was right. It felt to Tim that his dad had stepped in and embraced them both.
After a few seconds, Tim couldn’t be sure if they were laughing or crying. His tears soothed him nevertheless. He certainly wasn’t alone. Gentrale had already made good use of the stack of napkins sitting on the table. “Yo, Uncle Gentrale, on the s-subject of collecting…”
“Yeah?”
“You know those boxes of old records you let me have some time ago?”
“Yeah. What about ‘em?”
“I want to give them back to you,” he said, playing with his food.
Gentrale grabbed another napkin, wiped his mouth. “What—why? But they’re yours now.”
“Yeah, I know. But, ca-can you hold on to them for me? Will you do th-that?” He looked his uncle square in the eyes now.
“What, you don’t want to take them with you? Your mama says there’s plenty of room in the apartment and…”
At the sound of the hurt in his uncle’s voice, he put his fork down. “Uh—yeah, that’s it. I don’t want to take them. Well, at least not this first trip. They kind of heavy, and I got a lot of other stuff, you know?”
“You’ll come for them later?” Gentrale asked, placing a hand on Tim’s forearm.
Gentrale’s touch surprised him. Looking down at his uncle’s heavily veined hand, he said, “Ye-yeah, I’ll come for them later. Cool?”
“Okay, Timmy. Yes, cool, as you say. I’ll take care of them. But remember that they are yours! One day they will be worth some money, I think. Nothing but clean vinyl featuring Pops’ to the Duke, from Bird to Miles.”
“Bird?? Uh—okay, Unk. Whatever you say.”
A loud bash of keys on wood at the front door made Gentrale jump in his seat. “Uh-oh, who’s that coming in?”
; Tim laughed. “It’s only Sheila, Uncle Gentrale—you nervous or something?” He turned and yelled down the hall. “Hey Sheila—humph! Oh well, I think she went straight to her room—must not be hungry,” he’d sort of sang nonchalantly. Yeah, she’s still pissed off with me.
Ear cocked, Gentrale suddenly stood up. “Is that the doorbell? What’s all this traffic all of a sudden? Wait a minute, Timmy,” he said and then hollered. “Sheila. Are you going to get that? And when you’re done, come in here and get a taste of these beans.”
A minute later, the tone in Sheila’s voice caught Tim’s attention. She was being interrogated.
“Uh, yes, Tim lives here. Why?”
That was enough for Gentrale, who in a blink was up on his feet again and on his way down the hall towards the front of the apartment, cane thumping at a rapid clip.
Tim held his breath as he listened to his sister about to lie to the police. “What’s this about, officer?”
While holding onto the screen to make a quiet exit through the back door, the gun in his backpack pitched heavily to one side—giving him pause. He listened to the hesitancy in his uncle’s voice.
“Good evening officer, can I help you?”
WHERE IS HE?
“Sheila darlin’, tomorrow’s the first day of school, right? I think Timmy done forgot about his studies altogether and he’s in a mess of trouble. Have you seen him? We’ve got to find your brother and keep an eye on him.”
Sheila, half listening to her uncle, sat with him in front of the television and wondered what the crusty dude made of all the sexy soap opera action splashing across the screen. No matter how much rubbing and moaning went on, Gentrale for the most part, sat perfectly still on the edge of the couch. He hadn’t even blinked once from what she could tell.
It had been three days since anyone had seen Tim. Before this latest disappearing act, the silly boy had the nerve to come to her room—yeah, just walked right in, tapping wood as he pushed in on the door. “Sheila, ca-can I come in?” It was perfect too—he’d caught her at the mirror, inspecting the dark spot on her face from when he’d slapped the shit out of her. She said nothing, simply turned and looked at him. She wanted to stare the shame out of him—pull it out into the open where it could do some damage to his stupid pride or whatever was pushing his skinny ass out of control. Tears had collected at the corners of his eyes. He was in trouble, she knew, but she had to be careful. She had to let him speak first. When he did, his voice broke. Like a Baptist minister, she wanted to forgive every sin he’d ever committed. Instead she held firm and listened. She wanted him to come forth with whatever it was, on his own. She didn’t want to pull it out of him, make it easy as she’d always done, as their mom had always done. When he said that he was sorry, she asked, “About what exactly, Tim?”
“For slapping you so hard.”
Something in her liked to see him squirm, but she wanted more. She wanted to ask about Chucky’s phone and those strange photos, but fear of the answers made her hesitate. As kids, whenever they’d asked their mom why didn’t she question Dad about his drinking and whereabouts, she’d always say, ‘Never ask a question if you’re not ready to hear the answer.’ Anyway, she didn’t need to ask about Darryl, although it did impress her that Tim could get the best of him. Something had gone bad in her brother. The light in his eyes had disappeared. He seemed done, used up. She wanted to help him so bad. But how?
“Oh, so you meant to slap me, just not so hard? What’s going on, Tim? Before you try to put together a lie, let me tell you—I know about Darryl! Yeah—you heard me!” she said standing up now.
“Aw, She-Sheila, how do you know about that? What? He told you? What a pu…”
“He’s no punk, no pussy—whatever you were going to say. He said you were like a madman, Tim. You had a knife?” she said, pushing him.
He stepped back and mumbled something like, “Hmm, uh.”
“Timmy!” she yelled and watched a drop of her saliva land on his cheek.
Tim looked around at the door he’d left open. “It-it wasn’t mine. It was…”
“Fool! I don’t care who it belongs to!”
“Shh—Sheila! Damn! Talk softer, girl,” he begged, waving a hand in front of his mouth.
“What were you doing with it? Is it here now?” She went to touch his pocket, but he batted her hands away. “Did you have it when you attacked me? You better hope Mom, let alone Uncle Gentrale, doesn’t hear about this shit.”
In the end, she’d accepted his apology but regretted it almost immediately. Not because he didn’t mean it—it was clear that he did. She regretted it because he’d used her acceptance as a means of getting out of the room before she could ask any more questions.
Gentrale finally shuffled out of the living room, no doubt down for the night. Switching channels to a late night comic, Sheila turned the volume down and stretched out on the couch. The air in the room was fresh. Her uncle had been cleaning the place a little bit each day from floor to ceiling. Home felt strange, the good kind, without the clutter and those stupid ashtrays—which, with Mom gone, were no longer necessary. Family photos, dusted and wiped, sat in neat rows starting from the early times to present day. A snapshot of Tim at his middle school graduation saddened her to think it was probably his last.
Her heart jumped at the squeak and click of her brother’s bedroom door. He’d come home.
SWEET REVENGE
Sheila awakened early the next morning thinking of her uncle’s words from the night before: We have to keep an eye on your brother. As usual, his words spoke to truth. This time, they had the effect of opening the floodgates—everything she’d been holding close over the summer burst out of her in tears and sobs: Tim getting beat down by Maurice, Darryl and the knife, how Tim had slapped her. When she thought of that goon Fidel, his cousin Chucky, the phone and those photos, she nearly choked on her own snot trying to mute the sound of her wails in the pillow.
Movement in Tim’s room brought her out of her sloppy angst. The jangle of keys told her that he was about to leave the house. Getting dressed quickly, she followed him out onto the street. She felt bad to spy on her brother, but there were too many things going on. If she was going to help him, she had to know for sure what he was up to.
It was way too early for school. Her suspicions were proved correct when he didn’t take the usual route. In fact, right away he turned in the opposite direction. Struggling to stay out of his line of sight, she kept on the opposite side of the street and ducked into doorways whenever he turned his head. Right after negotiating through an old junkyard, she was surprised to see her brother stop and stare up at the second floor windows of an abandoned brownstone. The building was the only thing standing for blocks—since there were no trees or anything to hide behind, she lingered at the junkyard exit behind a corrugated metal fence until Tim disappeared around the corner.
That’s when the screaming began.
Blinded with panic, Sheila ran towards the house. Timmy couldn’t be far—he was just there, in front of her. At the corner, her foot caught on a cinderblock leaving the rest of her to slam into a parked car. All she could do was to let her body slide to the ground. Fifty feet away, a crying Maurice Rice knelt on the ground. Mucus flowed from his nose as spit bubbles exploded from his mouth. The dude was nude except for a sock on his left foot and an oversized t-shirt that had ridden up over his ass. His sweaty junk had collected earth like breading on chicken parts. Six barechested homeboys, standing in the shadow of the house, smoked weed and watched in silence.
And there, over Maurice, stood Tim.
The only things that competed with the shiny black of his skin were Maurice’s gold tooth and the surface of the Beretta f81. Pointing the piece at the boy’s head, Tim listened closely to Maurice who had puked in the gutter. Yellow tank top clinging to newly minted neck and shoulder muscles, Tim bared his teeth like a street dog and yelled, “You shouldn’t be surprised, motherfucker.”
When Maurice held up his hand, it reminded Sheila of Darryl’s photo in Chucky’s phone.
She couldn’t take any more. “Timmy! What the fuck are you doing?” she screamed.
Her first attempt to get up failed as all eyes turned towards the fat girl on the ground. “Tim. Stop this shit now. Wait, don’t go—Timmy, don’t leave me here,” she pleaded, pushing up to her feet.
He did leave her, but not before hitting Maurice upside the head though. Not too hard—just enough to pull blood.
The thug screamed like a girl.
His boys laughed in the cool of the shade.
DAY OF RECKONING
Mind reeling, Tim ran straight to school after leaving that sniveling freak Maurice on the sidewalk. Yeah, humph, that dude was lucky my sister showed up. At the thought of Sheila having watched him point a gun at the punk, tears flowed down his cheeks. He couldn’t figure how she could have followed him like she did, how he hadn’t seen her. Tim slowed his run to a jog after spotting a police car parked in front of Barringer’s main entrance. He could still get in through the gym doors and be on time for first period. Spank greeted him with a big grin and bro-hug.
“Yo, s’up, Tim? My man! Where you been?”
Tim struggled to control his breathing. “Nowhere in particular. You?”
Spank showed a lot of teeth as he spoke. But like a piranha, he wasn’t exactly smiling. Tim felt the same vibe from Lucy. Things weren’t right. Keeping things fluid, he managed to say hey to the rest of the gang in the stairwell without losing momentum. He had to escape before the questions started. When he reached the top of the stairs, someone yelled from behind, “Yo, Tim. Seen Fidel lately?”
At the mention of Fidel, the Beretta shifted again in his backpack as if it had recognized its owner’s name.
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