Right, Jesus said.
No Face took cautious steps crossing the street, as if fording a river. He walked, Jesus beside him, for several more blocks through a fog of belching cars, dragging his feet, tripping over his shadow, slow and purposeful, the blind motion of sleep. The morning increased, the wind rose, gusts of it shaking the branches, bringing a faint snow of spring petals, flake on sifting flake. Through rectangles of glass, Jesus saw men dipping their heads in coffee cups, sitting stiff with their beers or hiding their faces behind newspapers. He and No Face rounded the corner. The sun brightened in the distance, and Stonewall glittered white. Tall rockets of buildings, ready to blast off.
Damn, we walked that far? You ain’t tell me we walkin to Stonewall?
Chill.
Nigga, you crazy.
You be aw ight.
A fenced-in basketball court loomed in the distance, thick shapes roving inside. Jetting along, Jesus and No Face found a stone bench and sat down to watch the game. Tongues circulated the circumference of the court. Homeys lined the fence, fingers poking through the chain-link holes, slurping Night Train and firing up missile-shaped joints. Floating heat. Sweat air. Grit that Jesus tasted in his cough.
Whirling colors, four men played the full-length of the court. Jesus took a good look. Two men in khaki pants and bare chests, and two in chests and blue jeans. Khaki One a tall (Jesus’s height) man with a sharp-angled haircut like a double-headed ax (V from widow’s peak to neckline). Bull-wide nose and thick worm lips. Wedges of muscle angling up from the waist and fanning out to a winged back. Big Popeye forearms. Dull white skin, as if faded from bleach. Whispered under his breath when he shot a free throw. Khaki Two a short nigga with carefully greased and patterned hair — a sculpture — and proud, bowed wishbone legs. He passed Khaki One the ball for a rim-ringing dunk. Serious hang time in the radiant haze. The opposing team took out the ball. Light-moving, the white man fell like an avalanche and smothered a shot. Drove the ball up the alley and around the other defender for the easy layup. Hoop, poles, and backboard cold-shuddered. The ball swirled around the rim before it flushed.
Good game.
Who got winners? Khaki Two curled up first one leg, then the other, checking his shoe soles. He pulled an old fighter pilot’s helmet (World War I stick-winged biplane, Snoopy and the Red Baron) over his sculpted hair.
A scuffle flared up. No Face started for the court, Jesus followed him. Like a magnet, faces drew them in.
Keylo. No Face spoke to Khaki Two. Why you give me that whacked weed?
Give you? Bitch, I ain’t give you shit. You paid me.
Jesus blinked. Focused. Keylo? So Khaki Two was Keylo, legend in the flesh. Word, drove an old red ambulance with a bed (stretcher?) in the back. His ho buggy he called it. Say he never changed the sheets.
Keylo approached, and Jesus imagined him choking No Face in the noose of his bowed legs. He smiled toothless, like a snake. Crunched his face, a single line of eyebrow above lidless rat eyes. Balled in a boxer’s crouch. Rose on his toes with a dance in his body and pimp-slapped No Face upside the head.
Damn, Keylo. Why you always fuckin around?
Cause I want to. Keylo slapped No Face again. A storm of laughter convulsed the spectators.
Damn, Keylo. No Face’s dreads rose like cobras. Quit.
Make me, bitch. Fists moving, Keylo circled No Face, dukes up, slow-moving like an old man. Circling, he fired slaps, loud as thunder in easy rain, stinging blows which rocked No Face, hard, fast-pitched blows to the soft mitt of his raised chin. No Face hung tough, refusing to go down.
Chill.
Laughter died down.
That’s right. Chill.
Jesus searched for the voice’s source. Khaki One. Sunlight streaked his greased flesh, accentuating every vein. Chill, he said, voice feverish, cloggy and hot, phlegm-filled as if from a cold.
Damn, Freeze.
Freeze. Freeze.
No Face alright, Freeze said. He hooked No Face’s head under his elbow and stroked the idiot’s bowed head. No Face grinned, tongue fish-flopping in his mouth. He alright. Freeze yanked down on No Face’s head, then released it. No Face ballooned up to his normal height. Don’t try to play him like a bitch.
I was—
Freeze cut Keylo off with a sharp glance. Shoved him into No Face. Kiss and make up.
What?
Kiss and make up. Freeze’s biceps were round and solid, train wheels. Go on. Kiss and make up.
Keylo searched the crowd, pleading eyes and mouth.
Freeze cut a grin. The crowd flew into stitches.
You see the look on his face?
Yeah.
Had that nigga goin.
Yeah.
Thought he was serious.
Bout to piss his pants.
Shit.
No Face bobbed in place, grinning, cannibal teeth, appreciative, glad that Freeze had made a fool of him. Freeze slapped him on the back. You did good, he said. He looked at Jesus, and his eyes spoke recognition. Jesus was sure of it. You did real good.
Thanks, No Face said.
Something inside told Jesus that Freeze’s compliment went beyond the battle with Keylo, addressed some secret subject.
Yo, Freeze.
The voice spun Freeze’s head.
You had yo fun. A short dude spoke, coal-black face under a red baseball cap, brim backward, manufacturer’s tag dangling from the side like a tassel on a graduate’s mortarboard. You ready to do this?
Aw ight, Country Plus, Freeze said. If you hard.
I’m always hard.
So pick yo team.
Well you know I got my nigga here. Freeze nodded at Keylo. They slapped palms and locked fingers in some private ritual.
Huh, Country Plus said. So what else is new? Ain’t yall married?
Freeze ignored the comment.
Give me MD 2020.
My nigga.
Cool, Freeze said. You can have him. Give me my man No Face. No Face swelled up with gratitude, chest out, lips inflated into a grin, one eye expanding expanding expanding, and he rose, tiptoes.
Thunderbird.
Damn, Freeze, Keylo said. You gon let this bitch play on our team?
Jesus breathed his first whiff of Keylo’s gravedigger breath.
Give a nigga a chance, Freeze said. Even a bitch. He gave Keylo a quick hug.
Come on, Country Plus said. Choose another man.
Damn, who else? Freeze studied the crowd.
Pick him. No Face pointed to Jesus.
Freeze gave Jesus a fishy-eyed look. I want him.
That doofy-lookin muddafudda, Keylo said. He and Jesus faced one another, eyes colliding.
And I’ll take Mad Dog. Okay. We set.
Jesus pondered the faulty mathematics. That’s only four. Four players, not … No Face pulled Jesus into the huddle.
Yo, g, Freeze said. What’s yo name?
Jesus.
Jesus?
Yeah.
Welcome, Jesus. I’m Freeze. Freeze extended his hand, and Jesus took it with his firmest grip.
Country Plus pulled a dime from his pocket and tossed it shimmering into the air. Call em.
Heads, Freeze said.
The coin fell to the surface of Country’s skin. He slapped his palm over it.
See, Freeze said. You already lost.
What you call?
You know.
Country removed his palm. Heads.
See.
Country Plus stared into Freeze’s face, the price tag dangling from his cap and jerking back and forth in the breeze like a hooked fish on a line. From this time forward, I will make you hear new things.
Whatever, Freeze said. You talk a good game. Let’s see if you can play.
No Face unzipped his jacket and pulled it off, removed his T-shirt, and revealed his Mr. Universe torso.