For a long moment, they just stared at each other. Then Washington broke into a wide grin, his eyes bright. He spread his arms, and Jason stepped into them, the two of them grinning and clapping each other on the back.
"Welcome home."
Jason closed his eyes and hugged him harder. Then stepped away, one hand on the shoulder of the closest thing he had to a father. His lips pinched in a solemn frown. "You've heard?"
Washington nodded. "Word on the street goes faster than light. You all right?"
"Yeah. I don't know. I should have been there." He paused. "We need to talk."
"Yes." Washington cut his eyes to Billy. "Later, though."
They stood silent for a moment. Jason wanting to ask for something, but not sure what. Help? Forgiveness? For Washington to make it better? He looked away. Then he felt something warm tugging at his arm.
Billy looked up at him. "Can I go inside and see Ronald?"
"Who's Ronald?"
"He's my friend. He can pick me up with one hand."
Jason looked at Washington, saw the nod, said, "Sure thing, kiddo." Billy grinned and dashed inside, his heels flashing. It stabbed Jason's chest. For a moment, Billy had looked just like any normal kid.
"So," Washington made the word sound like a grunt as he settled back in his chair and put his feet up on the porch railing.
They'd arrived in late afternoon, but now, nearly eight o'clock, was the first chance to really talk. Jason hadn't seen the old man in years, and in that time Washington had transformed himself from a librarian who tutored local kids into a full-fledged activist. The house Jason remembered visiting as a teenager had become a cross between an afterschool center and a clubhouse, with former gangbangers washing dishes in the kitchen and studying for the GED in the living room. Washington seemed to be everywhere at once, talking to "his boys," taking meetings, spending hours on the phone.
The delay had turned out to be a good thing. It gave Jason a chance to hang with Billy, to distract the boy from the rest of the world. He'd taught his nephew all the jokes he knew, the clean ones at least, and the two of them had spent the afternoon getting schooled in basketball by teenaged killers.
Now though, with Billy tucked in early and the sky fading to purple, Jason couldn't avoid his own mind anymore. "So."
"Are you okay?"
Jason shrugged. "I don't know."
"He was a good man."
"Yes." Jason felt a buildup of electricity. He still hadn't cried for his brother, and he was starting to hate himself for it. He took a belt of gin, watched bugs loop the streetlights. Tried to think of something to say. "You still working at the library?"
"Not much longer."
"Better job?"
"This one, actually." Washington took a sip of his gin. "You heard of a man called Adam Kent?"
"Nope."
"Started an import business out of his garage twenty years ago, now he's a multimillionaire. Night after tomorrow he's hosting a benefit dinner for us, and he's giving half a million dollars from his own pocket."
"Half a million?" Jason whistled. "Jesus."
Washington nodded. "Going to make a world of difference. Right now, we're running on scraps and prayers. I lose a lot of boys could be helped."
Jason took another sip of the liquor. Felt that male discomfort, wanting to say something but the words weird. "You helped me."
"You didn't need much. Just a little direction."
"Still. I was sliding. I mean rebellion is one thing, but stealing televisions?" He shook his head. "If you hadn't kicked my ass, I might have gone the wrong way."
Washington leaned forward with the bottle and refilled both their glasses. Somewhere a siren screamed.
"I should have come before," Jason said.
"I was wondering if you would. Your brother told me you were out of the service."
Jason grimaced, stood, walked to the porch railing. Opposite the house was an abandoned lot. When he'd lived down the block there used to be an old playground carousel out there, a rusty metal circle that spun on a central point. He and Michael would grab hold and run as fast as they could, then jump on, watch the world blur around them. "I thought about it." He closed his eyes, saw Martinez, opened them fast. "Just that things… haven't worked out so well for me."
"How do you mean?"
"I didn't leave the Army. I was discharged." The sky had grown too dark to show whether the carousel still sat amidst the weeds. Jason tried not to think about the words. " 'Other than honorable,' they call it. For 'patterns of misconduct.' It's a pretty common way to drum somebody out. They do it to a lot of guys who admit to having PTSD. Not the same as dishonorable, but not good."
"You want to talk about it?"
"No." From a distant car he caught a snatch of music, something Latin and pretty, appropriate for a night so thick with heat. He sighed. "I made a mistake."
"What kind?"
"The kind where people die."
Washington said nothing. The old man had always been good at that.
"I disobeyed an order," Jason said. "I was a sergeant, and I ordered my men somewhere they weren't supposed to be. One of them got killed."
The Worm slid between his ribs and his heart, a nauseous slippery feeling.
"That's a hard load, son."
Jason sipped his gin, stared into the darkness. "Harder for the guy who died." So much had happened in so short a time, he felt battered, like a heavy bag worked over by a boxer. He blew a breath, brushed the bangs from his sweating brow. Turned and leaned back against the railing. "You see Michael a lot?"
"He brought Billy over plenty of weekends. Helped out, threw us a fundraiser once a year in the bar. But he always wanted to be more aggressive. Wanted the community to fight back, to go after the gangs directly. And he didn't like the politics and fundraising. Said people just gave money so they felt okay about ignoring the problem."
"Is that true?"
Washington shrugged. "Son, I don't much care. Kids are dying out here. The money helps."
Jason nodded. That sounded like Michael, to draw a line in black and white, not be able to see the shades of gray between. It was one of the things that had always made it difficult between them, the way Mi-
Crack!
The sound was loud and sharp, and Jason acted without thinking, body moving to a combat stance, jerking the Beretta from beneath his shirt, his eyes wide, searching for motion or muzzle flare, ready to spring in any direction. Neck tingling, senses raging, palms sweaty but sure against the grip.
Nothing happened.
It took a moment of standing weapon-ready before Jason remembered where he was. How often he'd heard that sound as a kid, always far enough away that he could never be sure if it was a gun or a car backfiring or a cherry bomb. It was a city phenomenon, especially on the South Side, just one of those things you got used to. He felt a flush of heat in his face, a vein in his forehead. He stared into the darkness, afraid to turn around.
Then, from behind, "You want to tell me why you brought a gun to my house?"
Jason sighed. Snapped on the safety and tucked the pistol away, still looking out into the twilight. "I'm sorry."
"Sorry's no kind of answer." The softness was gone from Washington's voice.
Jason nodded. Turned slowly, pulled out a chair, and told the man the whole story, from Playboy on. It took nearly an hour, and Washington didn't say a word until he was done. Just sat stonefaced and alert. When it was all over, he said, "I don't like guns."
"I'm sorry."
"I won't have it in my house."
"I'll leave it in the car. I'll take it there now, if you want."