At the City's Edge (3 page)

When his older brother finds him, the sun has fallen too low to see, though the sky still glows. Jason watches Michael draw
steadily closer. He wonders what his brother will say. He wonders if today is the day his mother will die, and if he will
forever regret not going to see her. He wonders if life will ever seem like it belongs to him again.

Michael stops in front of Jason’s dangling feet. He sighs.

Then he reaches for a grip and pulls himself up to his stomach, spins, and drops down next to Jason, the impact making the
cold metal vibrate.

Together they watch the light fade.

The door to his brother’s bar was unlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it’d been knocked over.

Jason had blitzed to get here, the sun streaming in the windows as old Gordon Downie sang that he didn’t have no picture postcards,
didn’t have no souvenirs, that his baby she didn’t know him when he was thinking ’bout those years. He’d swung onto the shoulder
when the Drive jammed up, then jumped to the Dan Ryan, slapping the steering wheel. Riding south in the express lanes, skyline
in his rearview, the corporate monstrosity that had replaced Comiskey Park on his right.

Even after he’d pulled off the highway and into the sweltering decrepitude that was Crenwood, he’d barely touched the brakes.
Just let the tires squeal as he rounded corners where hard-eyed boys in long white T-shirts postured before crumbling storefronts,
gang tags and liquor stores and rusted fences sliding by in a blur of heat and failure. And all the while, Jason told himself
that this errand was nothing. Mistaken identity. No way could Michael really be in serious trouble.

But the door to his brother’s bar was unlocked, and a stool lay on the floor like it’d been knocked over.

Jason slid into the cool of the interior. The silence wasn’t reassuring. Hiking up his T-shirt, he eased the
Beretta from the waistband and disengaged the safety. Leaving the door open and holding the weapon low, he moved in. The
animal part of him wanted to sprint. But he didn’t know the situation, and a soldier didn’t run in blindly blazing. He placed
his feet gently, glad for his running shoes. A newspaper was spread open on the bar, the fallen stool in line with it, like
someone had been dragged away while reading. Broken glass winked from a pool of dark liquid on the floor.

‘Freeze!’

Jason’s heart shot into his mouth. The voice had come from behind and beside him, and he whirled, pulse-pounding, pistol up,
finger on the trigger, staring down the barrel –

At his nephew.

Billy stood behind the bar, arms braced and pointed like Starsky, fingers curled into the shape of gun.

‘Jesus!’ Jason jerked the Beretta downwards, then blew a breath as his heart hammered his rib cage. Sweat slicked his armpits.

Billy stared at him wide-eyed. ‘Uncle Jason.’

‘You scared the
crap
out of me, kiddo.’ He held a hand to his chest, made himself take slow breaths. The image of his nephew lined up dead between
the pistol’s rear sights burned on his retinas. ‘Where’s your dad?’

‘He’s not here. Why do you have a gun?’

‘Did he say where he was going?’

‘Nuh-uh.’ Billy stared at him. ‘You’re not in the Army anymore, right?’

Jason fought a grimace, knowing his nephew didn’t
mean any harm, but still feeling the Worm twist in his belly. His wet-palmed panic and greasy shame had built every day for
months now. He’d named it just to have something to hate. ‘No.’

‘So why do you have –’

‘Your dad left you alone?’

‘Mrs. Lauretta was here for a while. But she had an appointment. Besides,’ Billy straightened, ‘I’m eight. I’m not a little
kid. Can I hold your gun?’

‘No,’ Jason snapped, harder than he intended, and he saw Billy recoil. ‘Listen, this isn’t a toy. And your dad would kick
my butt if I let you touch it.’ He cocked his head. ‘Actually, your dad would kick my butt if he even knew I showed it to
you.’

Billy sucked a bit of his lip between his teeth. He seemed to be weighing something. After a moment, he nodded solemnly. ‘Okay.’

‘Okay?’

‘I won’t tell.’

‘Thanks, buddy. I appreciate that.’ Jason forced a smile, then tucked away the pistol. He closed the front door and bent to
retrieve the stool. The broken glass lay in a pool of what looked like soda. ‘What happened here?’

‘Oh, I knocked it over when I was reaching for… ummm…’ The boy rocked from foot to foot and stared at the floor. ‘I just knocked
it over.’

Jason laughed. He went around the corner of the bar and ruffled his nephew’s hair, then took two pint glasses. Filled the
first with Coke, then pulled Bud into the
second, the beer splashing sweet and cool as a memory of swimming, a lake he wanted to throw himself into. ‘Tell you what,’
he said, and handed the soda to Billy. ‘I won’t rat on you if you don’t rat on me. Deal?’

‘Deal.’

They clinked glasses on it, and Jason took a long open-throated swallow. The first hit off the first beer of the day was always
the best, a deep and satisfying shiver of relief. Budweiser wasn’t his favorite, but cold beer was cold beer.

He helped Billy clean up, gathering the big chunks of glass by hand, then sweeping the rest into a metal dustpan. His nephew
bounced around like a cat with its tail on fire, and part of Jason was wondering whether another soda had really been a good
idea.

But most of him was thinking of Soul Patch, the steady gun hand, the look in his eyes when he had said he wanted to talk about
Michael.

He finished two Buds quickly and poured a third, let it settle on the counter while he went to the stockroom. The dim space
smelled of stale beer and wet cardboard. Jason had just returned the broom and dustpan to the rack when he heard the front
door open.

He stepped out of the back, hands at his side, alert.

Michael froze like a convict in a spotlight. His eyes darted in nervous circles. ‘Jason. Jesus.’ He wore khakis and a faded
oxford, and carried a soft leather briefcase, tapping absently at the handle. ‘You startled me.’

‘Lot of that going around.’ Jason walked past his
brother and shut the open door, then locked it. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Sure. Sure. Let me just,’ Michael hoisted the briefcase, then lowered it quickly. He turned to Billy. ‘Hey, kiddo. Everything
good?’

‘Hi, Dad.’ The boy waved, then went back to working on his crossword puzzle.

‘Where’s Lauretta?’

‘She had an appointment.’

‘Ahh, right.’ Michael winced, glanced at his watch. ‘She said. Guess I ran a little long.’ He walked behind the bar, opened
a cabinet and put his wallet and keys inside. Lifted the briefcase up, started to slide it in, stopped. He looked around,
then set the case at his feet, beside the cooler. ‘Beer?’

Jason gestured to the one he had going, then pulled out a stool and sat down in front of it. ‘Where you been?’

‘Errands. Nothing exciting.’ Michael held a pint glass under the tap. When it was finished, he set it down, picked up the
briefcase, frowned, then spun in a circle and set it against the back counter. ‘Cheers.’

They tapped glasses.

‘So. To what do I owe the plea sure?’

Jason looked at Billy, then back at Michael. Gave a little jerk with his head.

Michael got the point. ‘Hey buddy, your uncle and I have a few things to talk about. You mind finishing your crossword over
there?’

Billy sighed. ‘I am eight years old.’

‘And you know what? When you’re nine years old, I’m
still
going to want to talk alone some times.’ Michael smiled, then jerked his thumb toward the tables. ‘Git.’

Grumbling, the boy collected his newspaper, slid off the stool, and moved in front of the window. A beam of afternoon sun
set the paper on fire.

‘So what’s up, bro?’

‘I was going to ask you that.’

‘Huh?’

‘Are you in any trouble?’

‘Trouble?’ Michael took a sip of his beer. ‘Well, I haven’t won the Mega Ball yet, but other than that, I’m fine.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure. Why?’

‘A guy tried to hijack me this morning,’ Jason said, then took a long slow swallow of beer. ‘I was jogging, this guy with
a soul patch and a Cadillac necklace jumped me in the pedestrian tunnel, said it had something to do with you.’

‘A Cadillac necklace? He have a tattoo on his arm, some letters?’

The muscles in Jason’s back knit tight. ‘You’re kidding me.’

‘What?’

‘He didn’t have the wrong guy. You
do
know him.’

‘I know him.’

‘Who is he?’

Michael shrugged. Jason stared at his brother. ‘What are you mixed up in?’

‘What’re you, Jimmy Cagney? What am I “mixed up” in? Gee willikers, little bro.’

‘Fuck you.’

Michael laughed. He glanced at the briefcase, picked it up, then put it back down in front of his legs. With a worn rag he
began wiping the bar. ‘Listen, it’s nothing to worry about.’

‘Yeah, well, you weren’t the one had a gun pointed at him.’

The cloth stopped. ‘He pulled a gun?’

Jason nodded. ‘Said he wanted to talk about what you’re doing.’

For a moment, there was a flash of something that could’ve been fear in Michael’s eyes. It went fast, and then he was back
to wiping the bar. But he kept running the rag in the same circle over and over. ‘What else did he say?’

‘Not much.’ Jason leaned back. ‘He and a buddy of his, short guy looks like he’s auditioning for the WWE, tried to muscle
me into their car.’ He ran Michael through the whole story, enjoying telling it, the way he’d once enjoyed telling war stories.
‘You shoulda seen it, bro. The two of them standing there trying to murder me with their glares. The short one’s nose is broken,
and Soul Patch, he looked like his head was about to explode.’

‘You call the police?’

‘Nah. After my heroic escape, I figured it made more sense to see if my big brother needed any protecting.’

Michael smiled. ‘Next time I hear this story, there are going to be four guys, right?’

‘Only if my audience is cuter than you. Want to tell me what’s going on?’

His brother shrugged. ‘You know the neighborhood.’

‘Not really. Not anymore.’ When Dad had lost his job, they’d moved from Bridgeport to Canaryville; when he’d started drinking
at breakfast, they’d moved from Canaryville to Crenwood. When he’d run off with the waitress from his off-track betting house,
Mom had taken a third job, but never made enough to climb back up the ladder. It’d been an interesting place to grow up, white
in a black and Latino neighborhood with a high school dropout rate of fifty percent.

‘Things are getting out of hand,’ Michael said. ‘You remember, it used to be manageable – the gangs drew up lines and mostly
respected them. Did a lot more posturing than killing.’ He shook his head. ‘These days, though, if somebody gets killed on
Monday, Tuesday his boys ride around till they find somebody from the other side to shoot. Wednesday, it’s the reverse.’

‘So?’

‘So, this my neighborhood, man. I’m trying to raise my
son
here. Right now, I can’t even let him play in the front yard.’

Jason groaned. ‘I get it.’

‘What?’

‘You’re at it again, aren’t you?’

‘At what?’

‘You’re running some kind of crusade.’

‘I got involved.’ Michael shrugged. ‘After Lisa died.’

Jason softened. ‘That was an accident. This is different.’

‘Is it? My wife was killed by a thirteen-year-old in a stolen car. He was running from the police. That sound like the sign
of a healthy neighborhood to you? And things get worse every day. Why shouldn’t regular people fight back?’

‘Because…’ Jason held his hands open, all the reasons in the world between them. ‘These guys are dangerous, for Christ’s sake.’
Behind him he heard a faint rumbling, something rhythmic. He spun to look past Billy out the window, where a shiny drop-top
with four men drove by, music trailing behind them like a bad smell. ‘What exactly are you doing?’

Michael shrugged. ‘Everything I can. I work with Washington Matthew’s gang recovery program. I talk to local business people.
I organize community-watch groups. I even met with the cops, not that it did much good.’

‘You talked to the cops?’

‘Sure.’

‘You mean you informed on a gang?’

‘Don’t be so melodramatic. I just talked to the police.’

Jason stared across the bar, his mouth open. Growing up here, you learned certain things. The cops were good guys. They fought
for the real people, the ones with jobs and homes and children. Some innocent kid
got killed for his sneakers, they rolled in hard. But sooner or later they rolled out again.

The gangs lived here. They were eternal.

‘Why haven’t you told me any of this?’

‘I don’t know.’ Michael sipped his beer, looked out the window. ‘I didn’t want to burden you with it. I mean, I know you’re
dealing with your own baggage. From what ever happened in – over there.’

‘You can say it. Iraq.’

‘Okay, tough guy, Iraq. After everything there, I know it’s been bad for you. Besides,’ Michael shrugged, ‘you’ve made it
pretty clear how you feel about taking responsibility.’ He said it in the older-brother tone of voice he reserved for Jason,
like he was a puppy that might piss the rug.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Let it slide.’

‘No.’ Jason set down his glass. ‘You got something you want to say?’

Michael sighed. ‘Brother, you were always the smart one. You could make something of yourself. Put down roots. Fight for something.’

‘Like you?’ The anger was quickening in Jason’s chest. ‘Pretending you’re Charles Bronson?’

‘Keep it down.’ Michael nodded to where Billy sat.

Jason lowered his voice. ‘And that’s another thing. It’s not just you. You’re putting him at risk, too. Do you know what you’re
doing?’

Michael hardened. ‘I’m trying to make a better place for him to grow up.’

‘Bullshit.’ He shook his head. ‘I’ve tried to save the world, okay? It doesn’t work.’ The Worm looped another knotted segment
around his ribs. Jason looked at his hands, the wrinkles that lined the flesh between thumb and forefinger. He could almost
see his pulse jumping there.