“Wait,” said Chris.
“I’m about to clean you proper now.”
Lawrence planted his back foot. Chris tucked his elbows in and tried to cover up, but he was too slow. Lawrence jabbed through the protection with his left and his fist found Chris’s nose. The ring on his finger cut Chris, stung him, and blurred his vision. Chris dropped one arm and Lawrence grunted behind a right that had everything in it and Chris took the punch in the temple and was spun and knocked off his feet. He seemed to fall for a long time. His head hit the iron rail, and for a moment there was faint sensation and a downward float. He did not feel it when he hit the ground.
Lawrence stood over him. Blood flowed freely from Chris’s nose. He wasn’t moving. Lawrence crouched down and felt for a pulse. He did not find it and he began to panic and touched the artery standing out on Chris’s neck. Chris was unconscious, but he was alive. Lawrence folded one of the little man’s blankets into a small square and placed it behind Chris’s head. He had seen this done on television shows. He hoped that this was right, but he couldn’t stay.
Elated and horrified, he swung onto the saddle of the bike and pedaled furiously down the path in the direction of his car.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Ali Carter stood inside the storefront window of his office on Alabama Avenue, watching William Richards mixing with the young men and women on the street. He had just met with William, and it had not gone well. He’d tried to convince him to return to his job with Party Land, which William had recently walked away from once again, refusing to wear the shirt with the balloon-and-clown logo. Ali was pretty certain that William was back to dirt and running with his boys. He had heard that William was beefing with someone and that this problem was about to boil over. William was too proud and stupid to walk away from it. His future, most likely, was grim. Anyway, Ali had tried.
Ali could not help everyone who came through his doors. Being completely honest with himself, he would admit that he could not help most of them or lead the majority of them to productive futures. If he were to think in terms of grandiose objectives, he would have to give up. It was impossible to pull large groups of young men through tiny keyholes. Ali had modest goals because that was how he got through his day.
Lawrence Newhouse’s hooptie, the old Cavalier, pulled up in front of the office, a bike tied to its roof.
Ali watched as Lawrence, in a white T-shirt under a lightweight, rust-colored jacket, got out of the car. Lawrence opened the trunk and withdrew a gym bag. He walked toward the storefront, ignoring the snickers from the young ones on the sidewalk around him.
“Come on,” said Ali, though no one else was in the room. “Come inside.”
Lawrence entered the office. A chime sounded from a bell mounted over the door.
“Ding,” said Lawrence, with a smile. He shook his braids away from his face. “Heard you been lookin for me.”
“Come sit,” said Ali.
They crossed the spartan room. Ali sat behind his desk, and Lawrence took a chair before it.
“I’m here,” said Lawrence.
“Where’s Chris at?”
“I had to drop him. That’s right. Me.”
“What do you mean, drop him? ”
“I didn’t shoot him or nothin like that. I put him down with my hands. He was tryin to stop me from doing this thing I got to do. Gettin all high-horse on my ass.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’s breathin. He fell down and hit his head. He ain’t as rough and tough as he thinks he is. But he’s gonna be okay.”
“Where is he?” said Ali.
“On a bike trail, under a bridge. Near the Peace Cross, out by Colman Manor.”
“Where exactly?”
Lawrence described the short way in and Ali wrote it down. Ali picked his cell up off the desk, and Lawrence listened as Ali spoke to Chris’s father with urgency and gave the father directions to his son. As Ali talked, Lawrence took a black Sharpie from a leather cup filled with writing utensils and slipped one into the pocket of his North Face. Ali ended the call and placed the cell phone back atop the desk.
Ali’s eyes went to the floor, where the gym bag sat. “What’s in that sack?”
“My valuables. You don’t think I’d leave them in my car, do you? In this neighborhood?”
“It’s not so bad. Me and my mother live across the street.”
“I know it. Gotta hand it to you, ’cause you got out.”
“You could, too.”
“It’s too late for me.”
“It’s not,” said Ali. “You don’t have to do this.”
“But I’m about to.”
“I could call the police.”
“And have me arrested for what? Thinkin on a murder?”
“I bet if they searched your car, they’d find a gun. That’s an automatic fall for you.”
“You wouldn’t do that.”
“Killing those men is not what Ben would’ve wanted.”
“Don’t start with me,” said Lawrence. “You don’t even want to put your hand near the flames I got inside me today. Chris did, and he stretched out.”
The chair creaked beneath Ali’s shifting weight. “Why’d you come here, Lawrence?”
“To appeal to your sense of right, I guess. To ask you one more time to get my nephew someplace good.”
“I’m tryin to. But it takes baby steps to get where Marquis needs to be. Wasn’t no leap from where I was to that house across the street, or this job I got right here. You can’t just snap your fingers and make it happen.”
“Take care of him the best you can. That’s all I’m askin.”
Ali nodded slowly. “I will.”
Lawrence picked up the gym bag and stood from his chair. “Where the bathroom in this piece?”
“In the back.”
Lawrence walked past the desk. Ali listened as the toilet flushed and the sink water ran. A couple of minutes later, Lawrence emerged from the bathroom without the bag and stood across from where Ali was seated.
“Place is dirty. You could use some new furniture, shit like that. Maybe a TV set that ain’t broke, so the boys could chill in here.”
“You forgot your bag.”
“No, I didn’t.”
“What’s going on, Lawrence?”
“Take care of your little niggas, hear?”
“I’m doin my best.”
Lawrence held out his fist and reached across the desk. “Unit Five.”
“Unit Five,” said Ali softly. He dapped Lawrence up.
Lawrence grinned. “See you later… Holly.”
Ali smiled a little against a sinking feeling as he watched him step to the door. The small bell chimed as the door pushed out and Lawrence hit the sidewalk.
Ali got out of his chair and walked into the bathroom. There on the closed toilet lid sat the open gym bag, filled with cash. And on the mirror, written in black: Your boy, Lawrence
Ali jogged out of the bathroom, went to the front window of the storefront, and looked out onto the street.
Lawrence Newhouse was gone.
Sonny Wade walked into a bedroom of the white rambler in Riverdale. Wayne Minors sat on the edge of the bed, shirtless and taut. He had been napping, and Sonny’s heavy fist on the closed door, ten minutes earlier, had woken him up. Beside Wayne, the girl named Cheyenne slept nude atop the sheets. Raspberries of acne dotted her bony back.
“You been dozing?” said Sonny.
“I get tired after,” said Wayne.
“I told you not to take no postcoital naps.”
“Huh?”
“We got work and I want your head straight. Here.” Sonny reached into his windbreaker and drew a Taurus. 9 from where he had slipped it against his belly. “You’re gonna need that.”
“I got my knife.”
“That’s only good for close work. ’Less you plan to throw it.”
“I could.”
“This ain’t no carnival. Take the gun.”
Wayne took it and placed it beside him on the bed. He reached over to the nightstand and picked up the hardwood-handled knife with the spine-cut steel blade. He fitted it in its sheath, hiked up one leg of his Wrangler jeans, and strapped the sheath to his calf. He put on his black ring-strap Dingo boots, stood, and drew a black T-shirt over his head. He folded up the sleeves of the T-shirt one time to show off his arms and touched his wallet, chained to a belt loop, to make sure that it was secure.