He felt equally trapped in the stifling attic at Wexler’s jobsite, hemmed in by the fear — foolish, he knew — that he needed to see Troy before Troy saw him. He was also unsettled by the suspicion that with all his drug talk, Wexler was hiding something; and he was angered by Ines’s sudden decision to come to Atlanta, which he resented because he’d need to stop his search and find a hotel room. “Doesn’t your mother need you?” he’d asked. Her answer: silence. His thought: Who ever heard of a little rain driving people out of town?
The lunch bucket was setting up in the partially paved lot across the street, the doors unfolding upward like quilted silver wings glinting in the sunlight. He watched the lunch line grow in clusters — the sheetrockers coated in white dust; the painters in their dappled whites; the masons in their gray, dusty overalls; and Wexler, who stood alone, yet spoke easily with everybody. A gaunt gray dog, ears tattered like pom-poms, wandered the lot, dodging kicks and stopping to sniff the occasional rock tossed its way. An old man sucked a packet of mayonnaise like it was a pig’s foot, licking each finger when done. Others did the same, collecting and trading condiments, which he hadn’t seen in New Orleans. But he was always at locations where food was given away.
At the edge of the lot, at rapt attention, stood a man draped in desert BDUs that hung on him like curtains. The pant legs, rolled up to midcalf, rattled around his thin shins like bells. Achilles moved from dormer to dormer, scanning near and far, looking at everyone again and again, as if studying a check for an extra zero. A sheetrocker had Troy’s profile, a painter his gait, a mason his habit of pulling on his earlobe when waiting in line, and a beggar the same tilt of the head just before telling a joke. When the men in line around him laughed, Achilles’s throat constricted as if he’d swallowed a pinecone. A gold Hummer cruised by and in its wake the bubble of laughter collapsed, lips tightening and necks twisting, as if it were a hearse.
Wexler came up with two Styrofoam containers, offering one to Achilles. His mouth watered at the smell of fried food, but he wanted to remain light, coiled, and ready to spring.
“I don’t eat that crap anymore.” He’d long ago said good-bye sloppy joes, pot roast, cheesy hot dogs; hello muffuletta, jambalaya, stuffed mirliton.
Wexler patted Achilles’s stomach. “Can I make a wish?”
It was true, he spent less time in the gym and more time in the kitchen. But it was hard not to. Until Ines, he’d never known what it meant to really want to be with somebody, to have somebody just for him. To get up and have a common routine, to be in the same circle. He and Janice were never completely in the same circles. “Life is good.”
“Yep.” Wexler stood in the sunniest dormer and ate, chewing loudly, attacking the chicken like a big cat. He always ate like he was happy to be alive.
Achilles kept moving around the attic, watching the surrounding streets, examining every profile. When the lunch bucket folded up its wings and trundled off, there was still no sign of Troy. The workers drifted off. The homeless men who had been standing at the edge of the lot swooped in, kicking the dog out of the way.
Achilles sat on an overturned bucket across from Wexler. Achilles had been up all night and felt the fatigue setting in as soon as the lunch bucket left. His muscles were smoldering, aching, and burning. “He’s here. I can feel it.”
Wexler nodded knowingly.
“This has nothing to do with religion.”
“You’ll find him,” said Wexler. “The creator has a master plan. The Lord moves in mysterious ways. Sometimes we have to be tried before we can be really blessed, like Jacob or Job. You’ll see. My pastor says that sometimes you have to suffer to be tempered, like the iron in a forge becomes a fine sword. You’ll see. Soon we’ll all be delivered, like the Israelites out of Egypt. My pastor says we’re the chosen ones. My pastor says God loves black people, and God has a plan for everybody.”
So did Hitler, thought Achilles. “Leave that alone already.” He pointed at Dobbs Plaza in the distance, where winos slept in the shadow of that slave-castle wall, and beyond that, at a new church, as if people could pray their way out of poverty. He made a sweeping motion with his hand as if to say Behold. These people were fucked up. It was always the same. The pushers, pimps, and preachers all drove fancy cars while everybody else rode the two-dollar taxi. The big selclass="underline" get high Friday, get laid Saturday, get forgiven Sunday. God was the gravy that made shit sweet as sugar. “This shit isn’t mysterious.”
“I know it’s not your thing, but I’ve been praying for him. Look around this neighborhood. He needs all the help he can get. So, I pray for him.”
“Thanks,” said Achilles, the way he said it when Sammy gave him a CD he already had. Avoiding Wexler’s eyes as he left, Achilles took the stairs one at a time, his steps heavy. Outside, the last few people scrounged through the scraps abandoned by the lunch crowd: bread crusts, potato chip crumbs, warm dregs of pop. At the end of the block, a malt liquor sign blinked a question, a menthol cigarette sign winked a response. A pregnant woman carrying a baby on her hip, dark Vs on the backs of both of their shirts, pushed a stroller piled high with newspapers, and perched atop that pile, two bags of crushed cans. If this was his plan, God hated black people.
The man in the BDUs rummaged through the fifty-gallon drum that served as a trashcan, his arm in up to the elbow so that only the shoulder patches were visible: the Infantry badge, the Airborne patch, and as Achilles saw when he was close enough to read it, a nametag that read CONROY.
Achilles took the man by surprise, throwing him facedown to the ground, kneeling on his back, and pulling the jacket below the elbows so that the man’s arms were tangled in the sleeves, making it hard for him to fight back. Achilles leaned on the back of the man’s head with one hand and grabbed an ear with the other, pressing his head into the ground, his mouth into the dirt, suffocating him, pressing harder the more he kicked and easing up when the kicking stopped. The procedure was simple: induce panic, take control, set parameters. “Where you’d get the jacket?”
The crowd was initially stunned, but the spell broke when Achilles spoke. A few stepped forward, muttering about their rights. They were the same crew that had been lurking along the bushes while the lunch truck was there.
Achilles put his hand up. “Army business. Step back or you’re obstructing.” He returned his attention to the man beneath him. “Where did you get the jacket?”
His response was drowned out by the crowd, which had now coalesced around the old man who’d eaten the mayonnaise packets. He had a neatly trimmed beard and a shock of gray hair brushed back like Frederick Douglass. He cleared his throat. “This ain’t the army. I was in the army. And you can’t come around here like that. This here is America.” “Amerca,” he pronounced it.
“Preach on,” a few murmured their assent. Others shouted, “This ain’t Virginia Beach.”
“Where’d you get the jacket?” Achilles asked again. “That’s all I want to know.”