The Apostles (7 page)

His stepfather shouted, “Let me the fuck go, Lillian! I don't give a fuck! I'm gone kill this motherfucker. This motherfucker done bit me!”

The boy heard his mother's high-pitched voice: “That dog didn't mean it, she was just protecting the house! Yo dumb ass came through the back way all drunk and shit. She thought yo ass was a goddamn burglar or something!”

“That motherfucking dog is stupid as fuck just like her dumb-ass master! That little quiet-ass nigga done taught that mutt to hate me! The dumb-ass mutt ain't even got no damn name! What kind of shit is that? That shiteater wanna bite me, huh? I got something for that ass!”

The boy sat up in his narrow bunk bed. The plain blue sheet slipped from his bare chest. He heard sounds of a struggle in the kitchen, followed by the crashing of what the boy knew had to be the porcelain cookie jar from the top of the refrigerator. He heard the screen door slam, then heavy steps on the creaky stairs of the back porch. Silence followed the footsteps. Then he heard his dog's throaty growl.

Five gunshots ripped through the night.

The heavy footsteps returned to the stairs. The screen door opened, then banged shut.

Again his mother's voice: “You didn't have to do that to that damn dog!”

“Shut the fuck up talking to me, Lillian! I done warned that boy that if that dog ever got out of pocket with me, I was gone kill it! It was a goddamn sooner anyway! The sooner off it got dead, the better off it is! I just put that motherfucker out of its misery!”

The boy's stepfather laughed at his own crude joke.

As his stepfather's laughter echoed ominously through his head, the boy slid out of bed. Careful not to wake his gently snoring baby sisters, he slipped into a T-shirt and pulled a pair of well-worn
Patrick Ewing sneakers onto his feet. His jogging pants made a slight rustle as he left the bedroom and headed for the kitchen. As he darkened the doorway of the kitchen his mother looked up at him. Across the table from her, his stepfather stared at him with a smug look on his face. His .38 revolver was on the kitchen counter.

“Go back to bed, Shawn,” his mother said.

He ignored her as he pushed open the screen door and stepped onto the back porch. After his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he spotted the still form of his dog lying in the grass. He walked down the stairs and over to his furry friend. There were three immediately noticeable bullet wounds in his dog. Blood pumped furiously from the bullet holes. His friend was still breathing, shallow and labored, but breathing nonetheless. Tears began to crowd up in the boy's eyes. As he knelt on the grass, slick with his dog's blood, the floodgates to his soul opened up at seeing his friend in death's vestibule.

The dog recognized its master and began to whimper. The boy lifted the shepherd's head into his lap. Its pink tongue lapped desperately at the boy's face. A shudder passed through the dog's fur—it couldn't fend off the arctic temperature of death. The whimper subsided and her tongue ceased caressing the boy's face.

Using the back of his hand the boy wiped his face of the tears. By doing so he smeared the dog's blood onto his countenance. Gently he removed the dog's head from his lap. He climbed to his feet and walked into the garage. Amid brooms, rakes, and a snow shovel he found a large spade. In the middle of the yard the boy dug a grave. The tears streaming from his eyes turned the dirt and dog's blood on his face into a gruesome concoction.

Finally he was satisfied with the depth of the hole and climbed out of it. He knelt by his dog and scooped its limp body into his arms. The dog's head lolled to the side; the tongue escaped from between her frozen fangs. Gently he placed the dog in the grave. For a moment he stood on the lip of the open grave with his head bowed as he whis pered a silent prayer for his friend. Unceremoniously he began to fill in the grave. When all of the displaced dirt covered his friend, he
packed the dirt down with the back of the spade. Methodically he retraced his steps to the garage and returned the spade. He removed a tire iron from the hood of his stepfather's ruined hulk of an auto mobile. With meaningful strides he crossed the backyard and climbed the porch stairs. On the porch he paused and peeked through the screen door.

His stepfather was alone at the kitchen table. A dingy white T-shirt splattered with blood was crumpled on the linoleum floor. He was slumped down in the wooden chair, his chest and beer belly heaving as he snored.

The boy eased the screen door open, hoping that he wouldn't hear the telltale squeak of its old spring. Using his free hand he guided the screen door closed. Silently he stole across the floor and picked up his stepfather's pistol from the kitchen counter. Noiselessly he slid the pistol into his pocket. Spinning on his heels, the boy turned and walked until he was standing directly in front of his snoring stepfather.

“Wake up,” the boy whispered harshly.

At the sound of the boy's voice, his stepfather awakened from his drunken slumber. He sat up straight in his chair trying to focus his sleep-logged red eyes. When the boy, covered in blood and dirt and clutching the tire iron, came into focus in front of him, his stepfather's eyes almost bugged out of his head. Terror shone in his eyes, through the inflammation lent by the alcohol. He looked at the boy's face and what he found there wasn't good. The boy's eyes were clear, but hard—no softness anywhere in them. Blood, dirt, and tears had transformed the boy's face into a primordial mask of some long-forgotten warrior tribe. Out of the corner of his eye he scanned the kitchen counter for his gun. It wasn't there.

He threatened, “Young nigga, you better get the fuck out from over me! Pussy-ass nigga, what the fuck you got that in yo hand for like you finta take care of some business! What the fuck, am I s'posed to be scared or something!”

The boy said, “You don't have to be.”

“You bet to take yo punk ass to bed somewhere, before I stomp a
mudknot out yo ass! Standing up here like you crazy or something. Nigga, you's a bitch just like yo bitch made-ass papa. I should take that tire iron from you and stick it up yo ass!”

He sat back and folded his arms across his bare chest, waiting to see if his bluff had worked—it hadn't. And he didn't have to wait long to find out just how much he grossly underestimated the boy's capabilities and his love for his dog.

Swinging the tire iron in a downward arc the boy crashed it into his stepfather's skull. Clunk. His stepfather spilled out of the chair onto the floor. The boy pounced on him; his stepfather screamed and tried to cover his head. In a blood frenzy the boy beat meaty patches out of his stepfather's head and flailing arms. Even when the man passed out the boy didn't stop whaling on him with the tire iron.

Somewhere in the fog of his bloodthirsty mind he could hear his mother's voice. “Hurry up! He's in the kitchen, he's killing my husband! Please, officers, stop him, he killing my husband.”

B
EZO STOOD BEHIND THE CANDY COUNTER. EXHAUSTED, HE
mopped his forehead with the long sleeve of his shirt. He was the game room manager and today had been a long day, filled with noisy kids, loud rap music blaring from the CD jukebox, and petty arguments between the video game players. There was never any major commotion in here, maybe a few squabbles over who had the next game or quarters, but that was it. The neighborhood kids and the gangbangers alike knew this was his nephew Solemn Shawn's place and that any interruptions of business would be handled accordingly.

Affectionately known as “A-Land,” the game room was a safe haven for the neighborhood kids; the Apostles treated the place like it was hallowed ground. No guns, drugs, or any contraband were allowed on the premises.

All day long Bezo doled out candy and potato chips, changed dollars into quarters, and kept the patrons from tearing up the games. His old buddy Jimmy Johnson kept the place clean. For a few bucks and a warm bed in the storeroom, the less than cordial rummy made sure that the arcade stayed spotless. The kids sure kept old Jimmy on his toes. They were always playing jokes on him. He claimed that he hated them all, but Bezo knew that Jimmy loved being there around all that young life. Plus the money he earned helped supplement his Social Security. It wasn't hard work, but at least he could be proud of the job that he was doing. His
daily routine: sweep, complain, then take a sip from the eternal half-pint of Dimitri's gin in his back pocket.

Bezo looked at his old friend now, napping on two milk crates over by the pool tables. From beneath the candy counter, he pulled a bottle of cranberry juice. The red juice was spiked with Absolut vodka. He took a decent sip of the concoction and returned it to the bottom shelf—right next to the loaded Army Colt .45. It was an old pistol, but trustworthy. The belt of vodka warmed his stomach as it worked its magic. He shimmied a little to express the liquid enjoyment in his belly. As he was doing his little dance, the door of the game room was flung inward. Bezo raised his head to curse out the culprit who opened the door so roughly, but when he saw who it was, the expletives froze on his tongue.

Gang Crimes Detectives Bull and Grove stood framed in the doorway. Slowly they entered the room, making sure that everyone felt their presence. One young Apostle was so absorbed by the rap music blaring from the jukebox that he didn't notice the two detectives. His back was to them as he used the directional buttons on the jukebox to flip through the CD covers. An Oakland A's hat, the Apostles' trademark, sat on the boy's head at a rakish angle.

Grove walked up behind the youth and slapped his hat off of his head. Fired up, the youth wheeled, ready to attack, but when he saw the dangerous detective, the wind left his sails. Smoldering, he stared down at the toes of his Air Force Ones.

“Pick it up, Apostle, or should I say Asshole,” Grove taunted the teenage thug.

The youth didn't move.

Grove took a step closer and placed his hand on the left side of the boy's chest. The teenager's heart was rioting in his rib cage.

Grove snarled, “You scared, huh? Yo tough ass is scared like a bitch. Tough-ass Apostle, pick up yo hat!”

“Nope,” the youth mumbled.

Laughing, Grove turned to Bull. “This little fake thug must got
some damn sense. He knew that I was gone kick him a new shit hole as soon as he tried to pick up that hat.”

Bull was silent, his bored look plastered on his face.

Grove turned back to the kid. “Get lost, asshole!” he told him.

The youth sauntered out of the game room, leaving his baseball cap behind on the floor. Casually the duo made their way through the game room, similarly bothering the rest of the clientele. Bezo had to almost chomp down on his tongue not to say anything to the pair of men. He busied himself wiping the already spotless candy counter. Bull kicked the bottom crate from under Jimmy's sleeping form, causing the man to fall onto his behind.

Damn, I don't need this shit
, Bezo thought.
Faggot-ass gang cops know that they can get on my fucking nerves with this bullshit.

After harassing the entire cast of teenagers and young adults in the room the two men stood in front of the candy counter. Bull reached over and picked up a Twix candy bar. He opened the golden wrapper and broke one of the chocolate-covered cookie bars. He tossed it into his mouth. His partner walked over to the refrigerator behind the candy counter and opened it. He stood in the cool cavern for a moment before selecting an ice-cold plastic bottle of Code Red Mountain Dew.

Bezo waited with his arms folded.

Grove cracked open his soda pop and took a long swig.

Bezo waited—he knew it was coming.

“You really should try these new Dews, Bull. This shit is tight.”

“Too much caffeine,” Bull grunted.

“I don't give a fuck, I need some caffeine. What about you, Bezo, do you like these new Mountain Dews?”

Bezo said, “No, I don't, sir. I don't drink pop. It rots the teeth and kills the kidney.”

Grove laughed. “You hear this nigga, Bull? I bet this nigga done drunk him a pint of vodka already today. And here he is talking about the dangers of drinking soda pop.”

Bezo protested, “It ain't illegal.”

“Bull, did anybody say anything about anything being illegal?”

Still crunching his candy bar, Bull shook his head.

Grove belched. “Sounds like you guilty ‘bout something. Whatever it is, we really don't have the time to beat a confession out of you. We just want you to pass on a message for us, Bernard. You tell Solemn Shawn that we want to talk to him.”

“Hold on now,” Bezo said. “I don't know where Shawn is or how to get him no message. So you really wasting yo time.”

Grove snapped, “You little ex-dope fiend, ex-convict, drunk bitch! You better stop playing with us! We ain't got no time for yo bullshit! Nigga, you know how to get in touch with that motherfucker! I bet if I put a pack on yo ass you would get in touch with him to bond yo funky ass out the county!” Grove pulled a business card from the inside pocket of his leather jacket. He tossed it on the countertop. “You get that card to him and tell him that I said he better get in touch with me. You motherfucka, I should …” He raised his hand as if to strike the shopkeeper.