"That's nonsense. And my job had nothing to do with why my marriage is over."
She was dying. Phoebe could see it; she could smell it. In the weeks since she'd last visited, Cousin Bess had shrunk down to bone thinly covered by loose flesh. Only her eyes remained alive, and bitter. "Married you for this house. Can't blame him for that. Marrying for property makes good sense."
"I don't want this house."
"You have it, or will. That's the way it's going to be. I put this house around you years ago. I put it around your crybaby brother and your weak-spirited mother."
"Be careful." Phoebe stepped closer to the bed. "Very careful how you speak about my family."
"Yours." Even poking a finger seemed to weaken her. "Not mine. You're my only blood at this point, and this house stays with my blood. I've made the arrangements."
"Fine."
Cousin Bess's dry lips twisted into a smile. It seemed to Phoebe her flesh was simply melting off the bone. That's how the Wicked Witch had met her end. Melting. Melting.
"You're thinking you can make yours, too. After I'm in the ground.
You're thinking that won't be long. You're right about the second part. I haven't got long."
"I'm sorry." Whatever their differences, Phoebe felt a pang. "I know you have pain. Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Still have that soft spot yet. Give it time and it'll harden up. The house comes to you. Don't think you can give it to your mother or your brother. I've fixed it so you can't. I've got the money put away for maintaining it. You'll get that from the lawyers. Held in trust, so don't think you can just be grabbing it with both hands. It's only for the house. That's made clear."
"I don't want your money either."
"Lucky for you then, because you won't get a dime. None of you.
The house gets it all. On your death, it passes to your issue. If, only if, you abide by the terms. You'll live here now, miss, if you want your mother under this roof. You'll be in residence. There's no turning it into one of those bed-and-breakfasts or retail spaces or museums. It's a house, and it's where you'll live from here out."
Not a gun to her head, Phoebe thought, not a knife to her throat.
No, no, Cousin Bess was too wily for those obvious weapons. Instead, she held those whom Phoebe loved over her heart.
"I don't need your house, your money or your approval. Understand me. I can and will support and house my child as I see fit. Not as you decree it."
"You will, or your mother goes today. Out of this house. Out of the house she hasn't been able to get the guts up to leave in years now. You think I don't know? I'll have her out within the hour, kicking, screaming. Imagine she'll need a padded room for a while, don't you?"
"Why would you do this to her? She's done nothing but tend to you. She's washed and bathed and emptied your slop for months now. Never once, in all of her life, has she caused you or anyone any harm."
"Might have been more respected if she had. I wouldn't be doing it. You would. The only way she stays in this house is if you do. You walk out of it, she's carried out of it. I took her in, took all of you in. I can put you out."
"So you always said."
"This time," Cousin Bess said with a thin smile, "it's permanent."
Phoebe woke with a quick jolt. Had she heard whistling? Had she heard it or imagined it?
She trained the field glasses on the street, toward the park, and saw nothing.
She rubbed her eyes, rubbed her neck.
Cousin Bess. How long had she lasted after that deathbed visit?
Weeks more. Hard, miserable weeks, most of which she'd been delusional or drugged into sleep.
But long enough for Phoebe to learn-from the lawyers, from the trusts and wills and documents-that some things aren't negotiable. She hadn't been able to have another lucid conversation with the old woman.
And here she was, years later, sitting in the house, looking out. As it appeared she always would be.
Chapter 17
Razz Johnson had something to prove. And he was gonna prove it today. The Lords figured they could come on his turf? Screw with his boys? They figured their way into the ground. They gonna come over to the west side, paint their shit right on his doorstep? Uh-uh. They were gonna learn some respect.
Right now his brother was in the hospital, and maybe he'd die.
They got the bullets out of his guts those motherfuckers put in him when his man led the force to Lords' turf for some goddamn retribution.
But T-Bone had ordered Razz to stay back, 'cause he hadn't reached the high level for warfare. Maybe, maybe if he'd been there, his brother wouldn't be lying in that hospital, maybe dying.
Razz knew what he had to do. Eye for an eye.
He drove along Hitch Street, enemy territory. He'd stolen the car, and he had his blue ball cap, part of his gang uniform, on the seat. If any of the Lords were hanging on the street, he didn't want them making him as Posse. Not yet. Not until he was ready.
He was fucking going covert.
He'd beaten his way into the gang. Even though his brother was high-ranking, he'd had to prove himself. He was a demon in a fight, fists and feet. He just didn't give up.
He had a talent for boosting cars, could be trusted on drug deals as he didn't care to use the shit. But so far he'd gotten shaky at the idea of guns and knives.
T-Bone said he couldn't shoot worth dick, and that was another why on leaving him back last night.
But there was a.45 semiautomatic, with the first round already racked, under the cap on the seat. And Razz wasn't shaking now. He was going to put that round right between the eyes of the one who shot his brother. Anybody got in his way, well, he'd put a bullet in them, too. What they called collateral damage.
He was going in, in the daylight, and he was going in wearing his colors. And if he didn't come back out again, well, that's the way it was. He was sixteen.
He pulled up across from the liquor store. He knew Clip used its back room for his "office." He hung out there, did some deals, talked his trash, got bj's from bitches trying to get raped into the gang.
He'd go 'round the back, that's what he'd do. Take out any guards if there were guards to take. Then through the door. Bullet between the bastard's eyeballs.
T-Bone was going to be proud. T-Bone was going to have the will to live when he heard he'd been avenged.
He put on his cap, proudly tipping it to the right. Under the long tail of his blue jersey he hitched the.45 in the waistband of his pants. It weighed like a cannon as he climbed out of the stolen car.
His high-tops were blue with yellow stripes. The bandanna hanging out of his back pocket was bright, bold yellow. The colors announced him as west side, as Posse, and such was his rage, his grief, his righteousness, he strutted in them across Hitch.
He was ready. He was so goddamn ready to do some damage. To do some death.
Maybe it showed on his face. He tried to make it show. His lips peeled back in a snarling grin, a surge of power, as he saw a group of women on a stoop glance his way, then rush inside.
Yeah, bitches. Better run. Better hide.
As he swaggered down the short alleyway around the liquor store, he drew the gun from his waistband. And he told himself the tremor in his hand was thrill, not fear. He put T-Bone's face, the way it had looked in the hospital, in his mind.
Already dead even if the machine was breathing for him. And their mama, sitting by the bed, holding her Bible and crying. Not saying nothing, not moving, just sitting with tears running down.
Those images pushed him around the corner, ripped a cry out of his throat as his finger quivered on the trigger.
But the back door was unguarded.
His heart thumped in his ears. It was all he could hear as he crossed the heat-softened tar and scrabbling weeds. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth where sweat had beaded. For T-Bone, he thought, then kicked viciously at the door until it fell open.