"I went to see him, but I didn't kill him." Jason ran through it, starting with his meeting with C-Note and continuing through everything that had happened since. Washington listened, fingers steepled imperturbably in front of him, betraying no emotion. Rage, frustration, even philosophy wouldn't have surprised Jason. But the apparent apathy made him talk faster, emphasize the points more. Finally, he asked, "Are you following me?"
"Perfectly."
"These guys are arming gangbangers. The same kids you're trying to help, they're setting against each other."
"Sounds like it."
"So how come you're so calm?" His voice rising a little at the end.
Washington shrugged. "You watch the news. Our last governor is being tried for corruption: Money laundering, illegal campaign contributions, hired truck scandals with possible Mafia ties. The governor. You think a couple of corrupt cops are going to stun me? This is Chicago."
"And so it's business as usual? You don't want to fight back?"
"Please." Washington sighed. "There are ways to fight that don't involve a handgun."
"Like what?"
"Like the way I'm doing it, or the way Mr. Kent is doing it. Man is using his money to make things better. He's giving something to make the world a better place, instead of taking something. You want to admire someone, admire him. Because as long as you're holding a pistol, you're a taker, not a giver."
"Yeah, well, I don't have half a million dollars laying around."
"It's not the money. It's the commitment to making things better." Washington reached for the ashtray on his desk, took a half-smoked cigar from within and lit it with a wooden match. "Commitment is something you might want to think about, son."
Jason felt a flush creeping up his neck, heat in his cheeks. "I am committed."
"To what?"
"To Billy! You wouldn't believe the things I've been doing, trying to find-"
"Uh-huh. And while you've been running around playin' Superman, what do you think your nephew's been going through?"
Jason's mouth fell open. He started to reply, then stopped himself. Finally, he said, "You said that it would be okay if he stayed here."
"It's fine with me. But it's not me you're hurting."
"What – look, it's not like I'm hanging out at the strip club. I'm out there risking my life to protect him."
Washington nodded. "Being a soldier."
"Damn right."
"That's important to you, isn't it?"
"What am I if I'm not that?" The words came unbidden, and surprised him.
"How about an uncle?" Washington's voice could've cut granite. "It ever occur Billy needs that more than a soldier?"
Jason sighed. "I know. I know. And I'll make it up to him. But first I've got to protect him."
Washington nodded, puffed his cigar. Blew a long stream of gray smoke. "Thing is, it's not just the bad guys he needs protecting from. Put yourself in his shoes. You're eight years old and just had your father taken from you. Your father. Don't you see? His sky is falling."
The vein in Jason's forehead thumped, and his mouth tasted small and sour. He looked away. He didn't often think about the day Dad left, mostly because for practical purposes the guy had been gone years before he bothered to move. It was something that Jason had always sworn to do differently, if he ever had kids.
"You understand where I'm going?" Washington's voice gentler. "What I mean by commitment?"
Jason nodded. "So what do I do?"
"Talk to him."
"But…" He fought a twisting in his gut. "What do I say?"
"How should I know, son?"
He found Billy in the dark corner of a sunlit room, laying on the floor with his legs flung out, using a red crayon to draw on a brown paper bag. His tongue stuck a flicker past his lips, a wet snail. When he heard Jason's footsteps, the crayon stopped moving and his body stiffened.
"Hey, buddy."
Billy didn't look up. He pinched the crayon harder, the tip of his finger bloodless, and started stroking fast, hard lines.
Jason took a tentative step forward. "What are you drawing?"
Silence. Jason felt an acid shudder in his gut, like he'd put away a pot of coffee. He had no idea what to say to an eight-year-old who'd lost his father. Hell, he had no idea what to say to an eight-year-old at all. He thought of Michael, could almost conjure him up amidst the dancing dust motes, his brother shaking his head. Jason sighed inwardly, thought, Couldn't I just go back and break into the Disciples drug house again?
But Washington was right. He had to be more than just a soldier.
If only he knew how.
"Are you mad at me?" Jason spoke softly. "It's okay if you are."
Billy hunched further over his drawing.
"I know how things must seem to you right now. How…" He faltered. "Confused you must be. And sad, too. It's okay if you feel like that. It's normal." He tried to do what Washington had said, put himself in the boy's shoes. At that age, how did you conceive of death? Did he understand he'd never see his father again? Or was that too big an idea?
Michael.
They would never again sit at the kitchen table drinking coffee through till dawn. Michael would never again greet him with a smile and a nod and a pint of beer. And Jason would never get to apologize for the way they'd left things, or to thank his brother for always being there, even during the times they wanted to tear each other's heads off. Loss was a cold stone aching in the center of his chest.
How much worse, then, must this be for Billy?
Jason squatted in the sunlight beside his nephew. A neat terminator divided his forearm into sunlight and shadow as he reached out, touched Billy's shoulder. Set his hand there, feeling the warmth of the skin, the motion of his breathing. Just held the moment, the connection, trying to put into it what comfort he had.
"What's going to happen?" Billy spoke to the floor.
Jason sighed. I don't know. "Things are going to be okay."
"How?" The boy whirled, jerked back from his hand. "How?"
"Well…" The truth was that he had no idea. The truth was that all he'd done so far was make things worse. The truth was that there were people out there who wanted them both dead, and Jason didn't have the first clue how to stop them. But what he said was, "I'm going to find the guys who hurt your dad, and I'm going to make sure that they can't hurt you."
"Then what?" Billy's eyes were wide and wet. "What happens after that? Where will I live? Do I go to school? What happens?"
Jason stared at him. Right, he thought. Sure. The boy was eight. He wasn't concerned about gangsters. If an adult told him he was going to take care of something, Billy'd believe it. His grief would manifest other ways: anger, depression, fear of abandonment. With his father gone, the world he knew had ended. Of course Billy was wondering where he would live.
And it was a pretty good question.
Panic flashed through Jason, quick and hot as lightning. The thought had occurred to him a hundred times in the last few days, and every time he'd shoved it away, told himself he needed to focus on action, on finding out what was happening. But now it couldn't be denied any longer.
He was the only family Billy had left, and like it or not, he was responsible for the boy.
Jason felt his chest tighten. He wasn't ready. Not for anything like it. He could hardly take care of himself. To promise Billy anything would mean giving up everything. He'd have to make choices about his own life, stick to them. Pretend he was a sensible adult with his shit buttoned up, instead of a lost child nursing wounds only he could see, feeding the Worm he claimed to hate.