Jason felt a wave of self-contempt. What an asshole he was. The Worm writhed within, its teeth pulling hunks of him. "Yeah."
Washington smiled, lowered himself into the chair next to Jason. Patted his knee. "People always talk about the 'Fall of Rome,' like one day there was a thud." Shook his head. "Didn't happen that way. Empires die slow and from the inside. Like cancer." He gestured at the darkened street, gin slopping inside the glass. "Like here. At the city's edge. We're covered with tumors, but nobody's looking."
Jason ran a hand across the back of his neck, massaged the sticky flesh. A breeze had picked up, warm and sweet with lilac and a hint of rotting trash. He thought of Billy, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, still wearing the Army T-shirt. Helpless. Trusting. Hunted. "Would it be okay if Billy stayed with you for a little while?"
"Of course." Washington stroked his mustache. "Why?"
Jason stood up and leaned against the railing, his back to the night. "I need to know everything you can tell me about the Gangster Disciples."
Washington's eyes narrowed. "Community interest?"
Jason smiled. "Recon." It felt right to say it. If Washington could rage against the darkness, if Ronald could, then he damn well could, too. "I'm going to stay and fight. Like you said."
Washington stared up, his face expressionless. Calculating. The smile withered on Jason's lips. A long and pregnant pause fell, just the night sounds and the blood in his veins and the booze in his head.
Then Washington stood. "You disappoint me, son."
The words hit like a slap. "What? Why?"
"When have I ever been about violence?"
"I'm not asking you to be. But you're the only one who knows all this stuff, all about the gangs, the neighborhood. I need to know what I'm up against."
"No," Washington said. "You're just acting a goddamn fool. You think that story is about fighting? You think I was trying to inspire you to march up to Playboy, pull your gun, prove how tough you are?" He shook his head. "Maybe your brother was right. Maybe you shouldn't have joined the army, that's all you learned."
Jason blinked, held his hands open at waist level. Watching Washington walk away. The man took three heavy steps, then pulled the old screen door, its hinges screeching. There was something in the way he turned his back on Jason, dismissed him, that made his anger flare, made words spill out. "That's it? You're not about violence, and that's the end of it?"
Washington pivoted, one hand propping the door open, eyes burning in the dim light. "That's right, son. I've been down that road. You know I have. I'll never do it again, and I won't help you do it."
"Somebody murdered my brother. Tried for my nephew. But I should just turn the other cheek." Jason shook his head. "You know the problem with that? Christ got his ass beat, old man. So forgive me if I want to fight back." He set the gin glass down hard, and warm liquid splashed onto the railing. "I'm asking for your help. If you don't have the guts, fine, bury your head in the sand. But I'm going to fight for Billy. He's all I've got and I'm not going to let anyone hurt him."
For a long moment they stared at each other, Jason and the closest thing he had to a father. Then Washington turned away. "Don't bring that gun in my house." He stepped through the screen door and let it slam behind him.
In the sudden silence, the insects seemed very loud.
Jason spun, anger already turning to something uglier, something the Worm liked. Took the rest of gin in a gulp. Fuck it. All of it. If it was him against the world, so be it. Maybe that was the way it had always been, and only now was he seeing it clear.
He'd forgotten Ronald was even on the porch until he heard the voice. "You know, my mama used to read me the Bible." The big man moved over to lean on the railing. His arms were knotted cordwood.
Jason sighed. "Yeah?"
The man nodded. "I liked the Old Testament. Isaac and Abraham. Moses."
"I never actually read it." Through the open window of a neighboring house, Jason heard angry voices, a man and a woman bitching with the casual anger of habit. He was back to nothing. The cops wouldn't help him. His friends wouldn't help him. His brother was dead. He was alone against enemies he didn't even understand. Hell, enemies he couldn't even identify.
"Never cared much for the New Testament, though." Ronald's voice was calm. "Mama was always on about Jesus, but I felt like you. Easy enough to turn the other cheek when your father's God, right?" He shrugged. "Me, I never knew my daddy."
Something in his tone caught Jason. He turned away from the darkness. "Ronald, there something you're trying to tell me?"
The big man smiled. "Just that Dr. Matthews isn't the only one knows the neighborhood."
CHAPTER 18
There was parking closer to Dion's ratty-ass excuse for a headquarters – clubhouse was more like it, teenaged bangers sprawled all over the crumbling porch – but then Anthony DiRisio would have missed the march of a thousand murders.
Just past noon, and the brutal sun had driven the monkeys out of their shitboxes. They lounged on steps, stood on street corners with their shirts off. Musclebound homeboys flying colors openly, blue bandanas in pockets, baseball caps twisted to the right. Ten-year-olds trying out their war faces, baby fat and killer's eyes. And through it all, that hate, a burning black thread that stunk like sewage.
Anthony smiled, put all his contempt into it. Skydiving was for wimps. He measured his dick in hatred.
He walked slow, met stares. Some of them knew who he was, gave a grudging nod. The others read him for a cop, a detective, untouchable. Most just saw others give way and so they followed suit. Herd reflexes.
Anthony strolled along, knowing that his car would be untouched, that none of them would make a move on him. Buoyed by hate, he floated from the end of the block to the sagging bungalow. Greasy hip-hop flowed like smoke from the windows. Kids on the steps passed a thick blunt, the sweet tang of dope rising in the summer heat. Two OGs stood under the porch roof and watched him come, and he held their gaze every step, body alive, cells vibrating.
"To-nay D." The guy managed to make a Northern Italian name sound black. His eyelids drooped low, like Anthony wasn't worth the trouble of really seeing. "C-Note's waitin'."
Anthony smiled without using his eyes, climbed the steps, making the kids get out of his way. After the brutal sun, the interior was dim, and he paused for his eyes to adjust. Blue sheets had been nailed over the windows in lieu of curtains, and combined with the smoke, they gave the air an underwater feel. What light made it through seemed disappointed to spill on the battered couches and tattooed gangsters. A sudden silence met his entrance, just the music in the background. Then someone spoke, he turned, saw Al Pacino sitting behind a mound of cocaine.
"Lemme ask you," Anthony said, voice conversational. "You ever get tired of that movie?"
One of the kids on the couch lifted his forty, took a long pull, eyes on Anthony's the whole time. "Naw, Scarface is tight." He smiled a player's smile. "You ever get tired of those cheap-ass suits?"
That broke the boys up, and they bumped fists.
Anthony smiled. Walked over to stand in front of the kid. Waited for the silence. This close, he could smell the monkey's rank sweat. Let the tension draw out slow, then smiled, reach down slow, took the beer. Tipped it back and poured, the liquid warm and foul, but he kept his throat open, swallowing and swallowing till the bottle was drained. "No," he said, and handed the empty back. "I don't."
The banger laughed, tossed the bottle across the room, where it hit the carpet with a thump. "Don't bother me none, dog." He reached over to the table, grabbed another bottle. "I got plenty more."