The Old Neighborhood (28 page)

•

THAT NIGHT,
we were down at the sills when the Lincoln floated up.

“Hey, look who it is,” Mickey said, parking the Lincoln in front of the hydrant. A guy they called “Chief” slouched in the passenger seat. He had short, curly, blond hair and a chiseled Nordic face. He peered at us and smirked. Mickey turned to him and whispered something, then Chief nodded and aimed his long, bony finger at each one of us separately while he whispered back. Mickey got out of the Lincoln, which was strange; he never got out unless he had business to attend to. He peered at us with his chin tucked into his wide, hairy neck. A sly smirk slid across his lips.

“Word is in the neighborhood your little crew here is at war with the P Stones,” he said, stepping towards us slowly. “Whata you guys call yourself?”

“Fusion,” Ryan said, stepping towards Mickey and jutting his chin up like some corporal at attention. His imbecilic smirk snuck into his lips.

“Fusion…,” Mickey repeated. His smile grew as he stomped the rest of the distance between them. “Come here, you little fucker.” Mickey grabbed Ryan by his head and kissed his forehead with a loud smack. “You whooped them niggers good, didn'tcha?” He hugged Ryan's head to his chest.

“They said it was all three of ya,” Mickey said, turning his urgent eyes on me. “What the hell? You ditch school for your boys or somethin'?” He grabbed my shoulder, and I felt the weight and power of his frame, but there was warmth in his hand as he looked me in the eyes. “Your brother'd be proud of you,” he said.

“Thanks, Mickey,” I said. My eyes burnt as I grimaced.

“And you, I knew you had some chink in ya. Fucking jump-kicking the door open on 'em?” Mickey said, glancing at Angel, then back at Chief in the Lincoln.

“He's the one, right?” Mickey asked.

Chief nodded. His wide smile stretched across his face and made him look like The Joker. His Adam's apple bobbed as he laughed.

“Your last name's German, right?” Mickey asked, looking back at Angel, who nodded. “Hey, that's good enough for me… That good enough for you, Chief?” he asked over his shoulder.

Chief laughed and shouted, “As long as he keeps jump-kicking niggers, it is.” They both cracked up.

Mickey walked over to one of the sills and took a seat. We huddled around him.

“Like I told ya,” Mickey said, popping a Camel Filter in his mouth. Angel struck his lighter as Mickey patted his pockets. “The brothers have been keeping an eye on ya… But… We can't go breaking up the Nation every time the peewees get into a scrap,” Mickey shrugged. “And you three made it out alive. Hell, ya did a whole lot better than making it out alive,” he said, smiling and showing his blackened bottom row of teeth. “Big things happening here, boys… Big things.” Then, he got up and walked toward the car. “You're well on your way, all of youse… Fusion?” He scratched his head, then he stopped and looked back. “What the fuck's dat even mean?”

I started to answer, but then Ryan piped in, “It's when three combine to make one.”

Mickey paused, then he nodded at us and got into the Lincoln. “Tomorrow, you three are all taking the day off a school. Come by the house around noon. We're gonna take a little ride over to old Senn and straighten things out.” He threw it in gear. “Fucking kids,” he said to Chief as the Lincoln drifted away from the curb.

•

A LITTLE WHILE LATER,
the Good Girls showed up with hoop earrings dangling through their crimped curls and shiny nameplate necklaces glinting under their sparkly, lip-glossed smackers. Their New Wave bangs arched up stiffly over their bright eyes. They approached in a tight, little huddle like a flock of chicks, murmuring and giggling. When they got close, the huddle broke and Hyacinth was in the center. Her hair curled in twisted strands as dark-red streaks twirled into it—the color of strawberry jam. She trembled against the mid-September night breeze, and her dark eyes flickered. Her braces flashed at me between her glossy lips.

We decided it was a good night to drink those bottles of wine we'd stolen out of Seth's basement, so we headed to the garage.

Hyacinth and I ended up in the “Boom-Boom Room,” as Angel called it. We'd sectioned off a corner of the garage with a metal shelving unit and butted the loveseat against the back of the couch. The girls put on a mixtape with a bunch of Boyz II Men songs and some other hit R&B crap, but it suddenly wasn't crap anymore. All those lovesick, moaning lyrics we'd been making fun of for years suddenly struck a chord. They made my chest ache as I held Hyacinth around the waist with her legs bent and folded over my thighs. My whole body completely relaxed, and I melted into the uneven padding of the old loveseat.

There was the smell of WD-40 and her Watermelon Wave Bubblicious chewing gum. She raised her hand and softly touched my cheek with her fingertips, then her eyes went from mine to her fingernails.

“Almost,” she said to herself.

“Almost what?” I said, smirking.

“Almost matched the color.” She took her hand from my cheek and looked down at her fingernails.

“To what?”

“Your eyes.” She flashed her almond eyes to mine, then dropped them back down to her nails.

“That's the color?” I took her other hand in mine and looked at her dark-blue nails.

“No, just one of 'em. There's like five. They're like two blue fireballs. It's just my favorite one is this one—almost.” She looked at her fingernails again.

I stared into her glimmering eyes, and her damp lips collided into mine with a slow smush before I felt I'd even moved. Her body still tense, I slipped my hand on her thigh.

Everything seemed to move faster this night—the endless maze of kissing her neck and lips, the curling and twisting tongues, her breath fast and warm on my face. I slipped my hand up her short shorts and rubbed the edges of her panties. She gripped my wrist but didn't push it away. Then, my finger was under the panties touching the trimmed hairs. I found the opening of warm, wet flesh. She gasped with the music flooding over all of it, then her hand left my wrist and gripped my dick, which was strained tight against my pants. She squeezed hard on the head, then she shocked me—she slipped her hand down my boxers and touched skin. Her hand was cool and eager. I had two fingers inside her, twirling them slowly, and I was amazed by the instant reactions on her face—her eyes shocked—choking back a cry. Then, she stopped me and spun around on the loveseat, panting in my face. She pulled my dick out of my waistband so just the head peaked out. I put my hand on her back and she slowly bowed-down with her tongue sticking out between her braces. She licked the head—it sent a sudden jolt of electricity through my legs, and I almost screamed. She popped upright, shushing me excitedly. Then, she giggled, and I softly guided her head down. She took the tip of my dick into her mouth. Her whole body trembled. I stared at the top of her head. Just the thought of those perfect lips touching me there—it was too much. I threw my head back into the cushion and came like I was having a grand mal seizure. I heard the moan before I realized it was happening and coming from me. Then, I cut it off as she caught the pumping cum in her mouth. This choking laughter came from the couch behind us, then the rest of the garage broke up. She slurped down the cum and sat upright covering her mouth. She looked at me horrified like she'd just committed a mortal sin. There was a silent second. Both of us froze, then we burst into laughter, and I eased my deflating, wet dickhead back into my pants.

She took a few deep swallows of wine, and we curled up together and stayed like that until she had to go.

I lifted the garage door just enough for the girls to duck under, and they shuffled out, prancing into the alley. Their giggles lifted up to the night.

I shut the door, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Ryan offered his opened pack of menthols. We all took one, and Angel sparked a light for us.

“You ever fuck a black chick?” Ryan asked, looking at me.

“No,” I said with an obvious ring. I mean, he knew I was a fucking virgin.

“Man, I gotta get me a black chick,” Ryan said, casting his imbecilic grin at Angel.

“There's Monica,” Angel said as he puffed his smoke.

“She's too young,” Ryan replied with a false tone.

“She's thirteen,” I said. “She's just a year younger than you, man.”

“She's hot, ain't she?” he said to Angel, then looked at me. “Ain't she hot, Joe?”

“Come on, man. That's like talking about my little cousin or something," I said, spitting in disgust. “Shit, I played doctor wit' her when I was seven, for Christ's sake!”

“How far you get?” he said. His crooked teeth glowed in the garage lamps.

“You sicko,” I replied, looking away.

“Ryan's a fuckin' pedophile,” Angel said, glancing at me sideways.

“Naw, but what happened tonight? We all heard your ass squealing. What, she jack you off or something?” Ryan asked, his voice squeaking with excitement.

The glow in my face and eyes gave it all away. They both just patted me on the back before we finished the bottles and called it quits.

•

THAT NIGHT I LAY AWAKE.
My whole body felt like I was floating two inches off the bed, and every few minutes I'd burst into laughter. The old man even had to call out from down the hall for me to
‘
Shut the hell up!' When I did sleep, it felt like I was falling. Then, I'm running in pitch-black. I can hear the panting. The heavy, thumping gate behind me closing in—no way out. Running, running as hard as I can. My strides elongate slower and longer. I can't go any further. Then, I just stop. I turn around, and the Beast is before me, hunched up on its hind legs, panting and blowing tufts of steam out of its glossy, black nostrils. I look in its eyes—black mirrors reflecting my own horrified face. Light flickers in my periphery. I peer down at my upturned palms. The flashes pulse. Blue, purple and red strands of light twist through each other like electric flames in my palms. Then they formed into a perfect global sphere like a sun. The power's in my hands now. The Beast tilts its head and looks down at it, then he unleashes a sudden, deep snorting inhale.

Something ripped from his torso and splatter-clapped to the ground. Slippery, black innards dangle from his hollowed out ribcage. Nothing. A full hide of mangy fur levitating. The buffalo head hung. The bear snout and dark lips tremble over small saw blade teeth. Black drool dangles at the creases, falling in long strands. An inch-thick, festering, dark-purple wound starts above its eye and stretches up, then disappears at the top of its skull. Then, inside the wound, miniature white maggots crawl and twist in the flesh. Its frame frozen and slumped like it's hanging from a meat hook. Its eyes like two solid-black marbles. Ape arms, a curved back, and stubby legs like a hyena. It releases a horrified howl, bellowing into the vast blackness. There are mountains on the horizon, and their cliffs are cracked and jagged like the thick chunks of broken ice undulating atop the lake in January. A peach haze above the cliffs silhouettes them. The aura fades sharply to the pitch-black dome above.

I reach up toward its face—the orb of twisting light hovers in my palm. As my fingertips touch his damp, cold snout, he instantly melts into strings of black tar that flop into a puddle at my feet. The strands of light in the sphere reflect off the pool, flickering across the surface.

CHAPTER 19

PEOPLES

THE NEXT DAY,
we hung out over at Angel's in the morning, then headed over to the Bryn Mawr house.

Ryan led us up the porch steps and through the screen door. We passed three guys lounging on beat-up couches in the front room watching cartoons who didn't look up when we walked in. All of their eyes were glazed over with dull grins across their stubbled faces. Mickey was in the kitchen with Chief. They sat at a flimsy, white plastic table finishing up their bowls of Cap'n Crunch in water.

We got in the Lincoln and drove around the neighborhood for a while, then we headed over to Senn. School had already let out, and hundreds of kids milled past toward Clark Street. Blacks, whites, Mexicans, Asians—just about every race you could imagine. We pulled up to the south wing.

The Lincoln parked across the street near the corner that I'd hid behind the day before. Brilliant, white light cascaded down and glimmered off of the faded-green leaves of the trees sprouted up on both sides of the narrow one-way street. There were several Black Stones reclined against the tan building in the shade. Ten or so TJOs huddled across the street. They leaned up against a red-brick apartment building. From their positions, the two groups could watch each other's backs. A set of Kings lurked past the basketball courts and sat at benches along the blacktop path that snaked through the park.

Ryan glanced at me as we got out. His face creased in the bright light, then he nodded to where T-Money stood amongst the Stones, glaring at us. I could hear Mickey's labored, rattling breath as he walked around the front end and up to where we stood on the lawn beside the curb.

“You three stay here,” Mickey said. “I'll be right back.” He sighed to Chief, who nodded in response. His sucked-up cheekbones made him look like Frankenstein. Mickey walked up to the row of Stones, and a short, stout, dark-skinned black guy in a gray Dago-T stepped up to meet him. He had two fist-sized five-point stars tattooed at the front of each shoulder.

“What up, Mickey? What up, peeps,” he said loudly with a wide, toothy smile. A thick McDonald's straw with the brown and yellow stripes extended from his teeth.