The Old Neighborhood (48 page)

“Look at dis motherfucker,” Ryan sneered, staring at him as he approached.

“Man, give him a break,” I said, shaking my head and looking away from him.

“Naw, man, fuck dat.” Ryan flicked his cigarette toward the street, and it sailed in a long arc out into the darkness in front of us like an arrow lit on fire. “He's out, dat's it.”

“I don't give a fuck what happens.” I stared at Ryan's profile. “Dat's my boy 'til death.”

Ryan peered at me and whispered as Angel got close. “Look, man. I got love for 'em, too, but dis shit's gotta stop.”

“What can we do, man?” Something stirred in my stomach like a swarm of flies attached to strings. “Put him in a fuckin' hospital?”

“Somethin', man. We gotta do something.”

As Angel got close, I could see his hands were trembling. His Pumas were scuffed up; the fat, graying laces had frayed at the ends and flapped as he stepped. He glanced up at us. His eyes were pink with red veins spider-webbed behind the deep-brown irises. His face was sunken—the bone structure revealed—like all the baby fat got eaten up. He lowered his head and started up the stairs towards us.

“Hey,” Angel said as he turned his shoulders to squeeze past us.

“Man, hold up a second,” I said, raising my palm towards him. “We gotta talk.”

“Man, I'm in a rush. I'm just picking up a bag for these guys, make a quick buck, ya know?” Angel paused on the steps. His bottom lip hung open. His upper lip covered those large white teeth, so all there was was the blackness of his mouth.

“Angel, man, look at you,” I said. “What the fuck happened to you, bro?”

“What?” Angel answered, then looked down at his long-sleeved undershirt, stained a brownish gray, and his ripped jeans. He looked back up at me like he didn't see a problem with the way he looked. I could smell that acrid ammonia stench mixed with his body odor; he smelled like a straight-up bum junky.

“Angel, man, you're hooked. You're fucked, man.” I looked him in the eyes. “They tell me you ain't even been at school all week.”

“Joe, I don't know what you're talkin' about, man. I, I don't fuck with that shit. I just smoke, man. There ain't nothing wrong with dat,” Angel said fast. He rose to his full height on the steps and rubbed the tip of his nose with the back of his hand. Then, he turned and looked back from where he'd come.

He folded his arms over his stomach and looked back at me. There was nothing in his eyes. Nothing. All the spark I'd known was gone, and I realized he hadn't smiled that slick, toothy grin of his once since he'd walked up.

“Look at you!” Ryan yelled, grabbing hold of Angel's wrist and yanking his shirtsleeve up with his other hand. Large blue veins streamed down to his wrist. Yellow, pus-oozing pockmarks littered them—undeniable tracks.

Angel shoved his sleeve back down to his wrist. Ryan growled and looked down at his own feet. He gripped his head with both hands. “Don't fucking lie to us! We're your fucking friends, man!” He shot to his feet. His eyes blazed like two emerald flames.

“Hey, look, I gotta go, man. These guys are waiting on me.” Angel tried to squeeze past us.

“You motherfuckin' hype!” Ryan yelled, then smacked his wide hand against Angel's neck. Angel yelped and gripped Ryan's wrist with both hands. Ryan clamped down on Angel's narrow throat.

I reached out and grasped at Angel's moist, soiled shirt as he fell back against the steel railing. His torso bent and arched backward, way out and off the porch, like he was gonna cartwheel down to the muddy lawn below. The sharp squeal of tires at Ashland froze us all. There was the roar of an engine, then a floating quiet.

There's a sense of knowing something's gonna happen before it does. It
'
s in the air—a shift. It's a sudden, flat silence—a sense that everyone is listening; the whole neighborhood holding its breath.

The blacked-out windows of the maroon Intrepid descended smooth and soundless as it slowed in front of the house. The barrels of several metal-finished pistols extended out of the dark passenger's side windows like a gunner deck on a battleship. Then, Samson's head emerged over the barrels. His eyes sparked when they hit mine. His teeth flashed.

“Di-Ci-Ple!” rang out clear into the silence that had surrounded us. You see the light first—a tuft of fire before you realize the sound is happening. It jars you and blunts your eardrums even though you can still hear the casings clamoring atop the pavement and see their arcing motion shining brass—gold in the streetlights as they flip end-over-end and shower down hollow. I couldn't believe how many shots were fired. They were short, fast, and vicious, overlapping each other like the barks of many dogs at a junkyard gate. I remember the sound of glass falling. I felt the old, worn brown carpet of the enclosed front porch against my cheek. Small shards of glass sprayed my eyes before I could shut them. My eyelids closed around them, then blinked and spewed them out.

The silence rose up and swallowed the shots. The peel of the tires swirled again. That's when the other sounds came—the yells from inside. Mickey leapt over me with the .45 in-hand, then Ryan behind him with the .25. They rumbled down the porch steps. Then, there was the low moan from the base of the stairs.

“Ah, fuck,” Ryan screamed.

The moans continued, and I knew what it was. I got up shaky. The glass clinked and dribbled off me. I walked out onto the top step as the ground shifted side-to-side like a slow motion earthquake. A blur clouded my vision. My mouth was all dried out.

“Somebody call an ambulance!” Ryan yelled.

“Fuck that,” Mickey snapped with his wide, squared-off head flexed. “Gimme dat piece.” He yanked it out from Ryan's grasp. “Do what you gotta do.”

“Joe!” Ryan shouted as he crouched over him. Angel laid on the slab at the base of the stairs. I stumbled down the steps.

One shot in the stomach. The blood radiated out in a perfect circle and soaked through his dirty shirt. There was a fog in his eyes like he'd just woken. His pupils swelled so that they nearly eclipsed the deep-brown irises—seeing nothing, throat spasming. That low moan continued from his gaping lips like a slowed down deep bass scream.

“Fuck the ambulance,” Ryan said, then reached out and grasped my wrist.

The next thing I remember, we were carrying him. Ryan had him by the legs with his arms wrapped under his kneecaps, and I had my forearms up under his armpits. I squeezed him around the chest, cupping my hands and locking them together. His torso and hips slumped and hung down like a sack of potatoes ready to burst. I couldn't believe there was so much blood. Globs of it slapped the alley as our rubber soles pattered along the pavement. The lamps atop the splintered wood telephone poles lit our path through the alleys. The thick black cables that spanned between them gleamed a wet gold. The tan monolith of Edgewater Hospital towered above like a giant limestone cube.

The wires constricted tight around my mind and cut deep gouges in the flesh. This voice started up in my head. It was my voice, and I knew it was coming from me.
I'm gonna kill somebody—I'm gonna kill somebody—I'm gonna kill somebody—I'm gonna kill somebody…

As we got to Olive Ave., Angel slipped some. The blood slathered my forearms and hands. It was warm. Now, I held him with my hands cupped up under his armpit. My nails dug into his shirt and the skin beneath. There was a straining tug like I had piano strings pulled taut from the tips of my fingers through my hands, arms, and shoulders, all the way to the pit of my back. I looked down. His neck stretched back, his face to the night sky. The skin pulled tight to his cheekbones. His upper lip still pressed down over his top front teeth. The bottom lip hung open as dark-red blood slid down his cheek, thick like ink, from the black chasm of his mouth. His eyelids squinted into two thin slits. The irises bobbed and flickered beneath them with each step like two matches struck in the breeze. Ryan and I drew closer as we carried him. The backside of his jeans scuffed the pavement with each step. Tears gushed down our faces—a mirror of each other. Our necks strained, breath quick and loud. We bore our load.

As we crossed Hollywood, I saw Big James in his crisp, dark-blue security uniform. He stared at me as he stood there in the center of the alley with the tunnel framing him. The bright, cold light made his skin gleam like polished ebony. He stood still as a ghost. Then, he looked me straight in the eyes. His lip sneered under his pencil-thin black mustache. He pulled hard on the menthol clasped between two fingers. Then, he came alive. He tossed the cigarette and, in one motion, twisted into a sprint up the emergency room ramp. We entered the tunnel. The bright white lights illuminated the alley tunnel like a landing strip. As we turned up the ramp, Big James exploded out of the ER door. His basketball-sized hand pressed against the gray-painted sheet-metal. He held it wide open, and we entered without slowing.

The room was a white blur of motion. A nurse in her 40s with light-red hair pulled back in a ponytail shouted, “Here!” She swung a heavy, gray drape wide open that surrounded an empty gurney. It took the last of my strength to hoist him up into the bed. His limbs dangled, slippery. His body mushed into the thin mattress like a king salmon stung with a club melts into the ice chest. Suddenly, a black nurse in a white-and-green-checkered smock took scissors and sliced his sopping red shirt from waist to neck in one motion. That's when I saw I was correct—one quarter-sized black hole just between the sternum and the belly button. The deep-red oozed up slow and thick like slime.

Ryan ran to the payphone as the red-headed nurse pushed me away from the bed and pulled the curtain shut between us. I crossed the room to the wall beside the entrance, turned, and leaned my back against the wall. Then, I slowly eased down it to the ground and sat, legs out straight. The blood had spotted my jeans purple. It was splattered all the way to down my ankles and white Nikes. My ears still rang. The lights in the room seemed to flash bright then dull in sudden jolts.

Ryan walked back to where I sat. He stood over me and said something, but I couldn't hear it through the ringing in my ears. He said it again.

I read his lips and reached my hand out. He took it and pulled me to my feet. Our hands stuck; the blood still congealing.

We made our way out of the emergency room. Big James watched us go, silently. The two of us were covered in blood, our faces wet and puffy from the tears. We walked past him and into the tunnel.

“They'll be here in a minute,” Ryan said. We stood in front of the sills, waiting. “They're bringing the .25 and something for you.”

I knew what was coming next. I didn't care—didn't care what happened. The Lincoln crept down the side alley towards us. The fear'd gone from me now, though I still shook with anger and shock. I watched Mickey coming—coming for me and Ryan and that destiny that'd sat before us for years now—to ride for real. To kill.

The wires squeezed deeper into my mind in a steady, contracting rhythm. It started again:
I'm gonna kill somebody—I'm gonna kill somebody—I'm gonna kill somebody…

As the Lincoln passed through my alley, my father's small, red pickup pulled in front of the sills. He slammed on the brakes. Then he leaned over the passenger's side seat and glared at me. His chin tucked as he ground his teeth. He threw it in park and swung the door open, then he got out and stomped towards me. His red suspenders spanned his bulging torso and clasped to his work jeans that were scuffed gray with concrete dust.

“WHAT THE FUCK!” he said sharply. He clamped his wide hand around my forearm, then he raised his jutting chin and glowered down at me. “What the fuck did you do,” he said, then twisted his neck and shot his scowl at Ryan. “WHAT THE FUCK'S GOING ON HERE!”

Neither of us said anything. We just stared blankly at Mickey as the Lincoln stopped in the arterial alley across the street. Dad followed our eyes to the Lincoln.

“GOD DAMN THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS!” He tugged me, so I lurched forward towards the truck. He glared at Mickey in the Lincoln. Mickey squinted, then his eyes widened when he recognized my father.

“YOU MOTHERFUCKER! YOU DRAGGIN
'
MY KID INTO THIS SHIT?” my father roared towards the Lincoln. Spit burst from his teeth. He pointed his thick index finger at Mickey with his free hand. “WELL YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM! YOU HEAR ME? YOU CAN'T HAVE HIM!” he blared savagely. Mickey threw the Lincoln in reverse and slowly backed down the side alley. I could see Wacker's spiky hair beside Mickey and Fat Buck's huge head in back.

My dad opened the passenger's side door and threw me in. All the blueprint plans and tools he had piled up on the seat avalanched to the floor boards. He slammed the door shut, stomped around the front end, and got in. I glanced back over my shoulder through the window and saw Ryan lumbering down the alley in a slow gait towards the Lincoln. I could see his pale face above the open passenger's side door. The wind-wrinkled, black plastic garbage bag stretched across the door's window where that bullet had passed. The light streaked the plastic like a splatter of lightning. Then, his face disappeared behind it, and the door shut. It was the last time I'd see my friend. The Lincoln turned and disappeared down my alley.

My father turned and drove into the alley, and for a second, I thought maybe he was going after them—going to get Ryan and pull him out of that car. But when we rounded the T, I saw the Lincoln's taillights way down at the intersection. It swung northbound on Hermitage. My father parked out back behind the garage. My whole body trembled uncontrollably. He walked me in the house, and I went upstairs and sat on the foot of my bed in the darkness. I bowed my head. The streetlight seeped in the window at my back and cast a massive black shadow onto the wall that loomed before me like a monster.