At the City's Edge (8 page)

‘That
vendejo
disrespected Vice Lords.’ Diego turned his head and spat. ‘Shit don’t go unanswered.’

Washington shook his head. ‘You leave that behind. No street names, no flying colors. If you’re out, you got to get all the
way.’

‘I want out. But he don’t get to piss on my people.’

‘I understand,’ Washington said. ‘They’re your friends.
Su familia.
’

‘That’s right.’

‘You were with them years, they looked out for you.’

Diego nodded at him, wary.

‘So why are you here?’

‘Huh?’

‘Why come here?’

‘Because…’ Diego struggled. ‘My girl, she
embarazada,
right? Six months. And I don’t want my baby growin’ up to be no –’

‘Gangster?’ Washington asked.

Diego shrugged, looked away.

‘Coming here, son, that took strength. More strength than the street.’ He stepped closer, locked eyes with Diego. ‘I respect
that.’ He held the gaze for a few more seconds, let the boy see he meant it. ‘Nobody is forced to stay. You want to go,’ he
gestured down the hall, ‘door’s over there. Go back to banging and hustling and always looking over your shoulder. But if
you stay, you leave the rest behind. You hear?’

Diego left his killer face on, but nodded. It was a start. Baby steps.

‘What are we about?’ Washington threw out the call.

‘Respect,’ the response came back.

‘What are we about?’

‘RESPECT.’ The voices rang together.

He nodded. ‘All right. Now let’s eat.’ He bent and began picking up oranges and scattered silverware. And felt that familiar
thrill of pride when ten hands joined his.

The day would be a busy one. After the meal, while Ronald oversaw the cleanup – wisely separating Oscar and Diego, no point
rubbing flint and steel – Washington retreated to his office. Lousy day to sleep late. One of his boys had a job interview
and wanted him along. He had a shift at the library later. Plus a pile of paperwork, forms that declared the Lantern
Bearers a 501(c)(3) organization, stated that he was not-for-profit.

Shit, he hadn’t been for profit since he was seventeen. Only the government would need a form to prove it.

He settled into his chair with a sigh, laced his hands across his belly. The half-empty bottle of Beefeater on his desk caught
the light, split it into slow-dancing rainbows. A couple of swigs would ease the pain in his head, the burn in his belly.
He looked away, closed his eyes, watched patterns of red and black as he searched for his own strength. When the phone rang,
he answered half-alert.

‘Dr. Matthews, it’s Adam Kent.’ The voice harried.

‘Mr. Kent.’ Washington jerked upright, eyes snapping open. ‘How are you?’

‘Up to my ears. I’ve got a shipment of parts two weeks overdue from South Korea and four separate inspectors asking for bribes.’
The man sighed. ‘How’s life in the gangster-reform business?’

‘Oh, we’re fine here.’ He put on his whitest voice, trying for a tone appropriate for dealing with a millionaire entrepreneur
and philanthropist. ‘One day at a time.’

‘Don’t I know it. Your party’s in three days. You rent a tux yet?’

Shit.
‘Yes.’

‘Good. Listen, the alderman just called. He wants to meet again. Some last details he’s worried about, something about your
history?’

Talons seized Washington’s belly. ‘My history?’

‘Yeah, I don’t know. I’m sure it’s nothing. Tomorrow afternoon?’

‘Ah… of course.’

‘Good. I’ll bring a check.’

‘A check?’

‘You didn’t think I was going to give you five hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag?’

‘No, I just…’ Washington sighed. ‘Honestly, Mr. Kent, I’m not used to dealing with this kind of thing. Parties and politics
and big donations. Tax forms. I just…’ He rubbed his aching eyeballs with his thumb and forefinger. ‘I help kids.’

‘I know.’ The voice warm. ‘Don’t worry about it. We’ll get it cleared up, what ever it is, and let you get back to the important
stuff. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Good. Tomorrow.’

Washington hung up, head buzzing, the way it did every time he thought about the money. Half a
million
dollars. Enough to build out the basement with bunks and a bathroom. Buy computers and training manuals. Pay for certification
classes. Tattoo removal. Transit cards so the boys could find work. Hell, maybe even hire a full-time tutor. Plus food, utilities,
and maintenance for years. Enough to turn the house his mother had left him into a proper gang-recovery center.

His eyes fell on the silver picture frame on the desk, a faded Sunday portrait. A woman with ink-dark skin, her hair pinned
primly beneath a hat with a spray of
black lace. Gloves, and her blouse buttoned to the neck. Her lips were smiling, but at the same time she squinted against
the sun, and it played like a battle on her features. Beside her stood a boy of twelve, thirteen, wearing a Salvation Army
suit and a sullen expression.

Photos had strange power. A moment frozen in silver and paper. The way the sun fell in the woman’s eyes, the blurred motion
of summer trees, those things would never come again.

The boy in the photo didn’t know that in four years he would kill a child half his age. The woman dragging her son to church
didn’t know he was already lost to her. These things hadn’t happened yet. Had they been inevitable, even then? Was it just
a matter of waiting for the world to catch up?

He didn’t know. The world had kept turning, and things had happened. The relationship between the two, he couldn’t say. All
he knew was that thirty years ago, Sally Matthews had forced her son to go to church for what had turned out to be one of
the last times. And all that remained of that lost moment was a piece of paper.

I’m trying, Mama. Every day, I’m trying.

There was a knock at the door, and it pulled him from his reverie. He started to tell whoever it was to come in, but the door
was already opening. Something must be wrong. Washington straightened, expecting to hear about Oscar and Diego, their feud
continuing.

Then he saw Ronald’s face and realized something much worse had happened.

Jason couldn’t remember ever being so uncomfortable in a place he knew well.

They’d ordered a couple of pizzas, light sauce and extra cheese for Billy, pepperoni and double giardiniera for him. Sat in
Michael’s living room and watched the first
Star Wars
movie on DVD. Not the
true
first
Star Wars,
but the one Lucas made later, with the fart jokes and the long-eared alien. Jason felt the man should have left well enough
alone, but the movie was one of Billy’s favorites, and that was doctor’s orders.

‘Shock wears off. Don’t pull at him. Just take him somewhere he feels safe and make sure he gets some rest.’ The doctor, a
wiry Asian guy not much older than Jason, had written a prescription for Valium, warning not to give more than half a tab.
Then he’d left Jason alone in the too bright hallway, forced to face the fact that the place Billy would feel most comfortable
was the last place on earth Jason wanted to be.

‘How’s the pizza?’

‘S’okay,’ Billy said around a mouthful, eyes on the screen. The familiar surroundings did seem to be helping. Which was something
of a mixed blessing. The physiological purpose of shock was to help you operate through pain. Right now, he suspected Billy
wasn’t even thinking about what had happened. His mind was protecting itself by screening out the day. But sooner or later,
he’d have to deal with it.

So will I,
he thought, and then leaned back on his dead brother’s sofa and forced himself to chew another bite of pizza.

Later, Jason walked Billy up to bed, feeling like an imposter, like at any moment the curtains would pull aside and Michael
would step out with an accusatory expression, a look that said
I’m dead because you weren’t there, and by the way, you’re a lousy uncle.
He sat on the edge of the bath and watched Billy brush his teeth. Fought to conceal his animal panic at the thought that
he was somehow supposed to know all this stuff now. That he had to be responsible. Last night he’d taken home a girl he’d
just met and screwed her against the wall of his shitbox apartment, her moans hot in his ear as he buried his fear in sensation.

Today he was supposed to be Daddy?

In his room, Billy pulled off his clothes and tossed them on the floor, then crawled into bed and pulled the covers to his
chin, leaving the lamp on. Jason didn’t really know the bedtime protocol – was he supposed to read a story? His nephew looked
so vulnerable, so tiny, that something in Jason’s chest tugged sideways. He wanted to promise that everything would be all
right, but he didn’t even know what that meant, so he just stood and stared, taking in the boy’s long lashes, the white spot
where toothpaste had crusted on his lip. Through that doughy unformedness of children, Jason
could see the beginnings of the man Billy would become. Shoulders just beginning to broaden. Michael’s strong chin – a lot
of Mikey, actually, in the nose and eyes, too. For a moment Jason felt an odd lightness, like he was untethered to the planet,
but then the boy’s small fingers curled around his callused hand.

‘Would you stay?’ Billy tugged at his hand. ‘Till I fall asleep?’

‘Sure thing.’ Jason tried a smile. ‘As long as you want.’ He sat awkwardly, butt on the bed and back against the wall. Reached
out and tentatively stroked Billy’s hair.

His nephew let out a long sigh and closed his eyes, scrunching them hard enough to carve little crow’s feet. He wrapped the
blanket tight and flopped on his side. Through half-closed lips, he mumbled, ‘G’night, Uncle Jason.’ Yawned. ‘I love you.’

The words hit like blows. Not the declaration of love – Billy was a sensitive kid, said it all the time – but the recognition
that he was the only one to whom Billy could say that now. Panic flooded Jason, and he wished with everything he was that
the world would go back to making sense. It wasn’t supposed to be
Michael
who died. Fate had tagged the wrong Palmer brother.

‘I love you too, kiddo.’ Iron fingers squeezed his chest as he stared down at all that remained of his family. ‘You sleep
now.’

He switched off the lamp and eased himself to lay on the mattress beside Billy, feet sticking off the end of the twin bed.
The ceiling was dotted with glow-in-the-dark stars, the whorls of fake constellations and plastic
planets forming a canopy above. Wide awake, Jason counted his nephew’s soft breaths, counted and stared up at the false sky,
stared and wished he knew what he was looking for.

Oh-one-hundred hours. Back in the living room, the only light was the TV, the DVD menu for
Star Wars
still up, bright colors showing the Jim Beam was half gone. He poured another two fingers into a juice glass, threw them
back in a gulp.

They’d played at Star Wars when they were little. One of the games they could agree on. Michael always wanted to be Luke,
the responsible farm boy who saved the world. Jason preferred to be Han, the pirate who saw the galaxy and got the girl. He
remembered the broken concrete and brown grass behind the closed meat packing plant, throwing rocks through the window and
pretending they were blowing up the
Death Star
. Sometimes the police would come, and they’d run away, scampering over wrought iron fences and down the river bank, pleased
to be chased, knowing the cops didn’t care enough to catch them. Luke Skywalker and Han Solo, shoulder to shoulder.

Except in the movie, Han came back to save Luke’s butt. And you let Mikey die.

The Worm twisted, stronger and crueler than yesterday. He took another gulp of the bourbon, knuckles white on the glass. Grabbed
the clicker and changed the channel to CNN, watched armored M113’s, ‘Hate wagons,’ roll through Fallujah. An Iraqi
in a striped shirt pointed out where small arms fire had chipped chunks off a concrete wall.

His brother was dead.

He tried to grasp the thought, but it was like throwing his arms around smoke. Nothing made sense. Ever since Soul Patch stepped
out of the shadows, letters tattooed on his forearm and a chromed-up automatic in his hand, the world had stopped following
rules Jason understood.

No, not yesterday. Before then. It had stopped making sense when Martinez died.

Martinez, who’d once stuffed sock tits under his fatigues and painted his lips cocksucker-red, then paraded around the FOB
with his rifle at his shoulder, a ghoulish, heavily-armed cheerleader. Even the LT had hidden a smirk and turned away, let
the grunts have their fun.

One more brother he’d let down.

Seemed like every time he dared to care for something, it went away. First Dad, the fucker, and later, Mom. He’d found a home
in the Army, and a new set of brothers. But that ended when Martinez died. He’d lost his friend, and then he’d lost his second
home, and now he’d lost Michael. If there was a rule to life Jason understood, it was that he was poison.

The bourbon cut, but he poured another, drank it fast. Conscious of the pulse in his forehead. On the television, a lonely
building burned, black smoke bruising the sky.

Cry. For Christ’s sake,
cry,
man.

He remembered sitting in the basement of Michael’s
bar. A tinny radio in the background. The old safe behind the fake radiator, Michael explaining they’d kept money there in
the Prohibition years, when the place had been a speakeasy. Michael opening it to get a bottle of Black Label, taking a pull
and passing it to Jason. Smiling at him, all arguments forgotten.

Saying, ‘To the good life, bro.’

Cry, goddammit!

He slammed a fist on the muscle of his thigh, then again, feeling the meaty thwack of it. The dull rippling pain that didn’t
change anything. What was he? How many times since his return to the States had he sat in the dark and tried to cry, and yet
the tears never came. No tears for Martinez, and none for himself. And now, none for Michael. What kind of man couldn’t cry
for his brother?