The Old Neighborhood (33 page)

•

I WALKED OVER
to Angel's house.

I knocked on his front door, and he parted the light-yellow drapes of his bedroom window and looked out. Still in bed, his hair was all clumpy and matted.

“Man, what time is it, bro?” he groaned through the open slit of the window.

“Man, we gotta talk, now,” I said with all the urgency rattling out of my throat.

“What?” he said as he sat up and met my eyes. “Alright, I'll be out in a second.”

Angel came out of his front door a few minutes later and drug his plastic palm comb through his shock of hair, then knotted it with a small black rubber band.

“That PG3 died, man,” I said as we walked down his front steps.

“What?”

“It's in the paper.”

He froze like a raccoon caught in the headlights of a surging car. “Oh shit,” Angel said as he walked over and leaned against a thin birch tree. He gagged a few times, then spit. He bowed his head, trying to wrap his mind around all of it.

We walked down to the corner and got the paper out of the little metal stand. Angel read the small article in silence as I lit a cigarette and handed it to him.

“Oh, man, dat's the one,” Angel said, pointing to the picture. “The one who started the whole thing…”

“Was it the one Tank hit?” I asked.

“Oh my God, yeah…,” Angel looked up at me. “He fucking killed him. Holy shit.”

•

WE WALKED OVER
to Ryan's. He was out on his front steps working on his tags in a ragged spiral notebook.

“What? What's up?” he said as we walked up the creaky porch steps in silence.

Angel handed him the paper, folded open to the article. Ryan snatched it and grimaced down at it.

“Yeah, man, so what?” Ryan said, shoving it back into Angel's hand.

“It's that PG3 from the other day, man,” Angel urged.

“I know, man,” Ryan said. His jaws snapped sharply.

“Tank fucking killed him,” Angel whined.

“Shhhhhhh.” Ryan lifted his pudgy palm toward Angel.

We walked toward the concrete wall at the end of the dead-end street and stepped over a furry, black streak on the concrete—a dead cat. It was flattened to a thin film. The bugs were already out, and its tiny bones were like twigs sticking up through the fur. The profile of the cat's crushed skull showed its fangs spreading open in one last frozen hiss. Ryan led us down toward the dead-end wall. The concrete had crumbled, and rusted rebar showed through where vertical chunks had fallen. He glanced around, then stopped.

“First off… We all fucking killed him. I kicked every one of those flakes in the head at least twice, man,” Ryan sneered. “We were all stomping him.”

“That kid was out when Tank hit him,” Angel said. “You saw how he fell.”

“Man, whatever,” Ryan snapped sharply. “The cops already been around here looking for Tank. He's hidin' up in Rogers Park, I think.”

“The kid is dead, man,” Angel remarked, emotion trickling into his voice.

“Man, so what?” Ryan shouted. “That flake never shoulda kicked shit off with the Peoples, man. They shoulda known betta than fuckin' with us. We run dat fuckin' park.”

“Man, shit is gonna get crazy now, man,” Angel sighed, then gathered himself. His neck strained pink.

“Man, this is how it's always been, man. Mickey's killed like three PG3s by hisself,” Ryan replied, flashing his emerald eyes at me. “Remember when they went to war with them Assyrians?”

“I remember,” I said flatly. The Assyrian floating in that red pool suddenly flashed in my mind.

“Man, either you're down for your crown, or you ain't,” Ryan said, shooting his eyes at Angel.

There was a pause. Angel looked across to the point where Ashland and Clark come together. The weekend traffic buzzed past.

“Man, you know I'm down, man…,” Angel said, looking away. “It's just… Goddamn, man! I didn't think it was gonna be like this.” His voice cracked as he put both his hands on his head, contemplating it—the guaranteed repercussions, the hundred or more newly sworn enemies. Fear swirled between the three of us, menacing and cold.

“Well, you better get used to it,” Ryan said, looking away.

Angel crouched down, still gripping his head like it was about to explode. “It's too late now, anyways,” he whispered to himself. Then, he stood back up.

“But, man, we got to get ready,” I said. “Them PG3s are gonna go nuts now.”

“Shit, they already did,” Ryan said. “They shot up the block last night.”

“Ah, fuck,” Angel said as his cheeks ballooned with vomit before he swallowed it back.

“It was like the 4th of July, man,” Ryan said. “You couldn't hear that shit?”

“Naw,” Angel and I said in unison.

“Man, it was like three in the morning, man,” Ryan said. “They shot up all the apartments.”

“Anybody get hit?” I asked.

“Naw, nobody. But I talked to T-Money, and they ain't playing,” Ryan said. “I think the Stones already rode out on them last night, too.”

“Ah, fuck, man,” Angel said.

“I talked to Mickey last night, man,” Ryan said, looking me dead in the eyes. “It's war, bro.”

My mind reeled. It felt like a hook was dragging through my gut, and I was dizzy in the late morning light. Images of fire bursting from cars along the street, Tank in cuffs and an orange jumpsuit. I closed my eyes, and the Assyrian had stepped up to my face. He grimaced and bore his teeth at me. His mangled skull flexed as blood streaked down his cheeks and neck. There was a deep rumble, and I whirled on it, expecting a carload of PG3 Cobras—all of them with pistols and ball bats—ready to erupt from its doors. Some old lady craned her neck to look over the steering wheel and dashboard as the pink chain from her glasses jostled on her face.

Everything'd changed. It'd been coming for years, slowly festering. I just didn't know that it would come like that—as phantoms in the daylight.

•

THAT NIGHT,
I dreamt I was at the star dock at Montrose Harbor. I watch myself as a young boy casting my lure into the circular center. I fly above in a slow sort of glide. Then, SLAM! The seagull explodes into the lure, and suddenly I'm looking up at Da weeping as he tries to untangle me. There's another one crying—it's a child's cry that transforms into the scream of a gull. White feathers fly everywhere as Da slices at the lines that constrict and dig into me. Then, a swell of feathers gushes past Da's face. Suddenly Da's face morphs into my father's face—cold, grimacing, baring teeth. My father lifts a long blade with a pointed tip and lowers it down, aimed directly at my heart, and I woke screaming, 'NO!!!!!'

CHAPTER 22

DARK MATTER

THE NEXT NIGHT
I was down at the sills by myself when I saw a dark shadow moving towards me. It came down the alley through the rising fog sifting up from the PVC pipe that traced down along the hospital wall. As the dark figure got closer, I saw it was a guy about my size in a large black hoodie. The hood was up; it and hung low and masked his face in blackness like an executioner's cloak. There was something familiar and unsettling about his gait as he hesitated. He turned away, shook his head, and wiped his face with his wrist. I gripped the blade in my pants pocket, then I ripped it loose from where it'd twisted and dug the cloth into a knot. The shadow resolved itself and stepped directly toward me. Both hands disappeared into the large front muffer pocket of the hoodie, and I was thinking:
if it's a gun, break towards Ashland; if it's a blade, let's dance. Where the fuck is Ryan and Angel at? I ain't lettin' dis bitch run me off my own set.
I was hot. The blood flow swelled all over my chest neck and arms, warm and itchy.

I turned to my side. The Assyrian… The Assyrian's little brother coming for revenge. No, a PG3. Pointing my left shoulder at him, I pulled the blade from my pocket and hid it behind my thigh, ready to ride. Suddenly, I realized: there's no way he'd come at this spot without a burner, all alone! Wires seemed to claw up into my mind. I thought that he was a decoy and that they were surrounding me, ready to give me the same fatal beat down that PG3'd just got. Then, he was only a few steps away. Too close to run away now, get shot down through the back. My eyes darted wildly all around—across the street at Ashland, down the alley. Shadows morphed into leering monsters. I couldn't believe I let this go down! Why hadn't I run straight off?
Fuck it! I could at least kill this motherfucker right now!
I squeezed the blade, and then a face emerged from the shadow below the hood: Monteff's yellowish-brown skin, all wet and glistening in the arc lamp. A tear dribbled off his nostril.

“Fuck,” I said and exhaled. “You scared de shit outta me. What's up?”

“It's Tank,” he said, wiping his mouth and nose with the back of his wrist. “Dey shot him.”

“Damn.” I was awestruck as I slid the knife back in my pocket.

“Man…” There was a crack in his voice. “I'm gonna kill all those motherfuckers,” he said without conviction. “All of
'
em.”

“Shit, man, what happened?”

“Man…” Monteff hung his head and started to cry. His whole body throbbed with each sob.

“Tank…” He tried to get himself together and looked up at the night sky. “He's fuckin' paralyzed man.”

“Oh my fucking God! Are you serious?” I crouched down on my hams in shock and gripped my head with both hands.

“Man… They say he ain't never gonna walk again. Ever.”

"Oh my God, man." The news settled down on me like a heavy iron blanket.

“I was at the damn hospital all day. When they let us in to see him, man…” He shook his head, and tears gushed from his eyes. “Man, he started screaming at us to get away. He ripped all his IVs and shit out. He was throwing stuff at us, even his momma.”

The images of this flashed bright in my mind.

“They said he tried to cut his own throat, man, with a plastic knife from his hospital tray.” Monteff started to cry again.

“Ahh, shit, man.” I touched his shoulder. “Are you alright?”

“Man, of course I ain't alright! That's my cousin, man!” Monteff shouted through the tears. I looked down, ashamed. ”Man, I'm sorry, Joe, man. I just can't be over there right now, ya know? Everybody's asking and shit, 'How's Tank, how's Tank?' Man, HE'S FUCKED UP! Ya know? He's fucked up, and he ain't never gonna be alright. SHIT!”

I hung my head as the reality of it sunk into me, and I remembered when they killed Sy. The horror of it rippled through my insides, but this was family for Monteff. This was different. I couldn't even conceive of someone in my family getting shot.

“Hey, Joe, man. But thanks, man. Thanks for listening, bro.”

“Hey, man, you could talk as long as you want, bro,” I said. “I'm here for ya.”

“But don't be tellin' nobody I was cryin', man. I ain't no bitch.”

“Man, I won't tell nobody, man. You don't got to worry about that.”

Ryan and Angel walked up the street. “What up, peeps?” Ryan called out.

“Man, I don't want these guys to see me like this,” Monteff said. He turned away from them and pulled his hood down lower.

“Man,” I said, then took a deep breath. “Hold up.” I walked over to Ryan and Angel.

“Man, you hear what happened?” Ryan asked.

“Yeah, man,” I answered.

“Ah, what's up, Monteff?” Ryan said.

“Aye, aye, aye. Look, man. He's real, uh, worked up, man. He just wants to, you know, he don't want to talk about nothin',” I said quietly.

“Ah, man, it's cool. We won't say nothin',” Angel whispered.

“Man. He don't, you know, want youse to go over there right now.” I looked at them in the eyes.

“Ah, man. OK,” Ryan said. “But we got some custies coming through.”

“Shit,” I said, scratching my chin. “Well, maybe we'll just go for a walk then.”

I walked back to Monteff.

“Aye, Monteff. You wanna step, man?”

We walked in silence. These sudden, periodic fits of tears erupted in him. Grief shook his whole body. I remembered Sy. I remembered how it was when those PG3s snatched the life from his lungs. I wondered how many they'd killed, and when it would all end.

We walked the neighborhood as dark gloom encompassed the small patches of orange light that emanated from the streetlights leering above. It swallowed the light whole, like a ravenous beast. We walked to Bryn Mawr, cut over by the Rose Hill Cemetery, and climbed through a breach in the fence near the Metra Rail lines. Then, we ascended the heavy, blueish-purple stones and walked south a little ways along the tracks. The three sets of iron lines stretched and grew closer together until they evaporated at the gray horizon. To the west, square plots of Metra yards sat before the factories and lumber yards, and to the East, the parish sat quietly. The red-bricked buildings had the pitched roofs of the two-flats plopped between them, and the St. Greg's steeple speared up through the yellowed trees like a gray stone beacon of hope.

I found myself praying for the first time in a long while. I prayed for Tank. Prayed for an enemy—my fiercest of enemies over the past year. Monteff stopped, too. He bowed his head and clasped his hands with his fingers clamped and splicing each other. I prayed for Monteff, and Tank's Ma, and everybody. I even prayed for Jo
s
é
and his little sister. The hazy night sky gleamed purple above, and there was the slightest sprinkle of stars hanging overhead that broke through the smog like tiny pin pricks of white light.