On the TV, a split screen showing two tricked-out street racers, almost like a movie. But the boys were controlling the cars, flying past other cars, crashing into corners of buildings and other racers. Seemed tense, the guys gripping the controls tight and turning them as if real steering wheels. They also pumped their feet like there were real pedals on the floor.
They ignored Bleeker and Mustafa for a long while, Tyrus not announcing them. He drifted away into the kitchen, then came back with a red can of sugary pop and joined the guys watching the race. Mustafa watched too. He crossed his arms and waited. Bleeker didn't give a shit about a kids' game. Last time he played a video game, it was because he'd cut class and spent ten bucks worth of quarters on Defender at the Pizza Hut.
The apartment smelled like pot and stale beer, sure, but also like cheap citrus air freshener. A mother's touch. Bleeker thought he'd heard a woman's voice from somewhere in the back. He wondered what she thought of her home being HQ for children with guns.
Bleeker stepped over to Mustafa and mumbled, "How 'bout I jerk the plug out of the outlet?"
"Easy. Do that and the whole night was a waste of time."
"Kids, man. Squeeze them, they pop like pimples."
Mustafa wrenched his head around. "Well, thanks, Mister. I'll be sure to remember that when I'm working out in the country. Might even use a pitchfork."
Whatever he was going to say got lost in the outburst from the gangbangers. Hopping a good few inches off the couch cushions, and the guys on the floor doubled over, the ones standing up high-fiving. On the screen, massive explosions, Game Over for the bottom half of the screen. One of the guys with a control looked pissed, saying "Fuck that shit!" three, four, five times.
He looked over at Mustafa and Bleeker. One of those stupid gangsta snarls. Bleeker could never figure it out. To walk like a gangsta, to talk like one, to dress like one, that took a lot of effort. No one just did it. The whole shooting match, all of it an act. Of course, wasn't the whole Minnesota Nice thing about as bad?
No, not this bad. His jaw tightened. The pain behind his right molars ramped up. Not this bad.
The loser turned out to be the leader, it looked like. He got up, handed off the control to another one of his guys. A new game started, noisy and heavy. Made Bleeker's ears twinge.
The leader held his fist in one palm, looked them over like he'd probably seen some baddie in a movie look over the hero. Dumbass didn't remember that the hero always came out on top.
"Bahdoon. They fucked you up."
"Your guy? Roble? He gave it a shot. I'm still standing, but he's in jail."
A glance at Bleeker. "Big man, needed this cracker cop to help."
"He evened the odds. Made it two against three."
Bleeker noticed that the other bangers were deeply involved in the game, no one paying any attention to the conversation. Not even one guy backing up their leader.
He said, "So why don't you go back to playing with your toys and let us talk to whoever runs this little club of yours."
Mustafa went Shhhh. The iron-willed Black Ice Boy tried to look even meaner. Bleeker even expected some of that You dissin' me? bullshit. Then this Mustafa character, man oh man, went and ruined the play.
"Forget him. You know what it's like going from the farm to the city. He hasn't learned his manners."
Wanted to pull his pistol right there, arrest the whole room. The whole apartment. Even the mother, allowing this to go on so she could have a nice TV. Not like she ever got a chance to watch it. No father around to bring out the belt and discipline his sorry excuse for a son.
The Black Ice Boy stared down Bleeker, who gave it right back. On the tip of his tongue was Life's not like a movie.
The kid finally said, "How about we leave him here while you and I go talk to Teeth?"
Bleeker said, "Teeth?"
Mustafa said, "Sharp Teeth. He used to sharpen his canines until he went too far, hit a nerve. They pulled it. So now he's just Teeth."
"Ty!" The lieutenant called back at the kid. "You want to teach the Detective here-" To Bleeker, "What's your name?"
"Ray. The name I was born with, not some shit I made up."
Got a smile. "Probably cause you were Momma's little ray of sunshine." Then back to Ty. "Sit him down, let him play a while. Keep him company while we see Teeth."
"Alright, yeah."
Then the lieutenant held out his hand to Bleeker, who thought he wanted to shake. Then, "I'll need your piece. You can stay, but I'm not leaving you here strapped, you feel me?"
"Fuck you."
Mustafa didn't say anything. Hands in his jacket pockets.
"Not going to happen."
"Then Bahdoon here ain't going to see Teeth, and there's a good chance neither one of you will, uh, have a good night, if you know what I'm saying."
Bleeker took a step towards the kid. He wanted to make threats? But Mustafa held out his hand.
"Give it to me, then. I'll be right back."
Jesus, his jaw. Throbbing. He opened wide, closed. Opened wide again. This was supposed to help, but instead he felt the familiar clicking that he knew made it worse. Shit. He'd come this far, so why not trust Mustafa a little farther? He pulled out the piece, dropped the magazine, racked the slide and sent the chambered round flying. Caught it. Put the magazine and extra round in his pocket before setting the gun in Mustafa's palm. Mustafa slipped it into his waistband at his back.
"Good enough?"
Another curled lip, chin nod at Bleeker. "Ray's cool. Let him sit with y'all on the couch."
Fine. Bleeker held up surrender palms and stepped over wires and slid past gangbangers who didn't give way. The Black Ice Boys had cleared a space for him, dead center of the couch where the cushions met. He sat, sank deep. A couple of the guys sat by him, really squeezing him in. One handed him a control.
"Ever played one of these?"
He shook his head, looked towards the door as Mustafa and the lieutenant walked through and closed it behind them.
One of his guardians explained the buttons, thumbstick, triggers, and Bleeker nodded for all of it, didn't understand a word. He hoped the kids on the floor around his legs, leaning against the couch, wouldn't bump into him and feel his back-up revolver.
The game began and everyone laughed at how bad Bleeker was. Crashing, getting stuck, getting blown away by competitors. Always a big black thumb or finger reaching over to help him out. Steady, patient. Except the kid with the other controller, who at first was boastful of how bad he was beating Bleeker until the tide in the room turned and everyone wanted Bleeker to do better. They cheered him on, his opponent getting pissed, slapping Bleeker on the leg, telling him to get his ass straight. The play got more aggressive. Bleeker getting slapped around, squished between the bruisers, assaulted by the goddamned noise. No idea how long it was taking. A minute? Ten? Thirty?
When the game was over, he tried to hand the control off to another challenger. But it was placed gently back into his hands. "No, man. You up again."
About then he saw the woman he'd suspected had been here all along. Through the kitchen door, where Bleeker could see a nice stainless-steel fridge, couldn't have been too old. The son must've been a giving sort. The mother peeked around the corner at the action in the room, arms crossed. A long cigarette held between two fingers. She didn't look Somali. A bit plump, short, wearing sweatpants and a green t-shirt, the name of a church screened onto it, and beneath, "Spring Revival Days, 2006". Flip-flops. Big cheeks and a dull expression.