Washington shook his head. "You leave that behind. No street names, no flying colors. If you're out, you got to get all the way."
"I want out. But he don't get to piss on my people."
"I understand," Washington said. "They're your friends. Su familia."
"That's right."
"You were with them years, they looked out for you."
Diego nodded at him, wary.
"So why are you here?"
"Huh?"
"Why come here?"
"Because…" Diego struggled. "My girl, she embarazada, right? Six months. And I don't want my baby growin' up to be no-"
"Gangster?" Washington asked.
Diego shrugged, looked away.
"Coming here, son, that took strength. More strength than the street." He stepped closer, locked eyes with Diego. "I respect that." He held the gaze for a few more seconds, let the boy see he meant it. "Nobody is forced to stay. You want to go," he gestured down the hall, "door's over there. Go back to banging and hustling and always looking over your shoulder. But if you stay, you leave the rest behind. You hear?"
Diego left his killer face on, but nodded. It was a start. Baby steps.
"What are we about?" Washington threw out the call.
"Respect," the response came back.
"What are we about?"
"RESPECT." The voices rang together.
He nodded. "All right. Now let's eat." He bent and began picking up oranges and scattered silverware. And felt that familiar thrill of pride when ten hands joined his.
The day would be a busy one. After the meal, while Ronald oversaw the cleanup – wisely separating Oscar and Diego, no point rubbing flint and steel – Washington retreated to his office. Lousy day to sleep late. One of his boys had a job interview and wanted him along. He had a shift at the library later. Plus a pile of paperwork, forms that declared the Lantern Bearers a 501(c)(3) organization, stated that he was not-for-profit.
Shit, he hadn't been for profit since he was seventeen. Only the government would need a form to prove it.
He settled into his chair with a sigh, laced his hands across his belly. The half-empty bottle of Beefeater on his desk caught the light, split it into slow-dancing rainbows. A couple of swigs would ease the pain in his head, the burn in his belly. He looked away, closed his eyes, watched patterns of red and black as he searched for his own strength. When the phone rang, he answered half-alert.
"Dr. Matthews, it's Adam Kent." The voice harried.
"Mr. Kent." Washington jerked upright, eyes snapping open. "How are you?"
"Up to my ears. I've got a shipment of parts two weeks overdue from South Korea and four separate inspectors asking for bribes." The man sighed. "How's life in the gangster-reform business?"
"Oh, we're fine here." He put on his whitest voice, trying for a tone appropriate for dealing with a millionaire entrepreneur and philanthropist. "One day at a time."
"Don't I know it. Your party's in three days. You rent a tux yet?"
Shit. "Yes."
"Good. Listen, the alderman just called. He wants to meet again. Some last details he's worried about, something about your history?"
Talons seized Washington's belly. "My history?"
"Yeah, I don't know. I'm sure it's nothing. Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Ah… of course."
"Good. I'll bring a check."
"A check?"
"You didn't think I was going to give you five hundred thousand dollars in a duffel bag?"
"No, I just…" Washington sighed. "Honestly, Mr. Kent, I'm not used to dealing with this kind of thing. Parties and politics and big donations. Tax forms. I just…" He rubbed his aching eyeballs with his thumb and forefinger. "I help kids."
"I know." The voice warm. "Don't worry about it. We'll get it cleared up, whatever it is, and let you get back to the important stuff. Okay?"
"Okay."
"Good. Tomorrow."
Washington hung up, head buzzing, the way it did every time he thought about the money. Half a million dollars. Enough to build out the basement with bunks and a bathroom. Buy computers and training manuals. Pay for certification classes. Tattoo removal. Transit cards so the boys could find work. Hell, maybe even hire a full-time tutor. Plus food, utilities, and maintenance for years. Enough to turn the house his mother had left him into a proper gang-recovery center.
His eyes fell on the silver picture frame on the desk, a faded Sunday portrait. A woman with ink-dark skin, her hair pinned primly beneath a hat with a spray of black lace. Gloves, and her blouse buttoned to the neck. Her lips were smiling, but at the same time she squinted against the sun, and it played like a battle on her features. Beside her stood a boy of twelve, thirteen, wearing a Salvation Army suit and a sullen expression.
Photos had strange power. A moment frozen in silver and paper. The way the sun fell in the woman's eyes, the blurred motion of summer trees, those things would never come again.
The boy in the photo didn't know that in four years he would kill a child half his age. The woman dragging her son to church didn't know he was already lost to her. These things hadn't happened yet. Had they been inevitable, even then? Was it just a matter of waiting for the world to catch up?
He didn't know. The world had kept turning, and things had happened. The relationship between the two, he couldn't say. All he knew was that thirty years ago, Sally Matthews had forced her son to go to church for what had turned out to be one of the last times. And all that remained of that lost moment was a piece of paper.
I'm trying, Mama. Every day, I'm trying.
There was a knock at the door, and it pulled him from his reverie. He started to tell whoever it was to come in, but the door was already opening. Something must be wrong. Washington straightened, expecting to hear about Oscar and Diego, their feud continuing.
Then he saw Ronald's face and realized something much worse had happened.
CHAPTER 10
Jason couldn't remember ever being so uncomfortable in a place he knew well.
They'd ordered a couple of pizzas, light sauce and extra cheese for Billy, pepperoni and double giardiniera for him. Sat in Michael's living room and watched the first Star Wars movie on DVD. Not the true first Star Wars, but the one Lucas made later, with the fart jokes and the long-eared alien. Jason felt the man should have left well enough alone, but the movie was one of Billy's favorites, and that was doctor's orders.
"Shock wears off. Don't pull at him. Just take him somewhere he feels safe and make sure he gets some rest." The doctor, a wiry Asian guy not much older than Jason, had written a prescription for Valium, warning not to give more than half a tab. Then he'd left Jason alone in the too bright hallway, forced to face the fact that the place Billy would feel most comfortable was the last place on earth Jason wanted to be.
"How's the pizza?"
"S'okay," Billy said around a mouthful, eyes on the screen. The familiar surroundings did seem to be helping. Which was something of a mixed blessing. The physiological purpose of shock was to help you operate through pain. Right now, he suspected Billy wasn't even thinking about what had happened. His mind was protecting itself by screening out the day. But sooner or later, he'd have to deal with it.
So will I, he thought, and then leaned back on his dead brother's sofa and forced himself to chew another bite of pizza.
Later, Jason walked Billy up to bed, feeling like an imposter, like at any moment the curtains would pull aside and Michael would step out with an accusatory expression, a look that said I'm dead because you weren't there, and by the way, you're a lousy uncle. He sat on the edge of the bath and watched Billy brush his teeth. Fought to conceal his animal panic at the thought that he was somehow supposed to know all this stuff now. That he had to be responsible. Last night he'd taken home a girl he'd just met and screwed her against the wall of his shitbox apartment, her moans hot in his ear as he buried his fear in sensation.