It wasn’t a long drive from their apartment, but, as Darian maneuvered through the shoppers’ traffic on Fayette Street, Moises Griggs was suddenly aware just how far he’d come in a very short time. And from where.
“There’s a lot of decorations,” Moises observed, his gaze jumping from lamppost to lamppost as they passed, at the plastic Santas, red-and-white candy canes, green doughnuts of simulated pine fifteen feet above the street.
Christmas was almost here. “We used to have a big tree.”
“Huh?”
Moises looked left to Darian. “My mom liked Christmas trees. More than presents, even. She used to say it was because of where she grew up. North Carolina. She said there were lots of trees there. She liked the smell.” Pine. Moises drew in a breath through his nose, looking forward again and trying to remember the scent of Christmas in the Griggs household. It seemed so long ago. And it seemed like yesterday.
Darian turned off Fayette at the appropriate street, parking in a small lot behind a brightly lit supermarket. He turned off the car and checked his watch. “Whiteboy should be here.” His neck twisted to look out the back window of the Volvo. “Probably is already. Checking us out, still, I’d bet.”
And the ham. Moises remembered the smell of that on Christmas day. They ate about two in the afternoon, but called it dinner. He never could figure that out. But who cared about the time? That ham was always the best, and it tasted all the sweeter because they had it only once a year. His mom said it was her mother’s special recipe for a smoked and barbecued ham, and it had been her mother’s before that. Something like five generations old, he recalled his mother telling him. All the way back to the slave days. The same Christmas dinner his chained ancestors had shared.
Damn. Why was he thinking about this now? Why? There would be no more Christmases, at least not like the ones he’d had with his family. What family? That was right. It was easier to think of it that way. They were gone. Killed by the same bullets that ended his little sister’s life. She’d have no more Christmases. Practicing for a Christmas concert when she got it.
December twenty-fifth. It conjured memories of warmth, and memories of darkness. Would it always?
Moises wondered. For him, he thought so, but what about his mother, and his father? Despite his attempts to mentally end their existence, he knew they lived on. Lived with the pain he did. Would they have a Christmas this year? Not without you. Would his mother make that ham? You won’t know.
Shut up!
Presents? Hell, who cared about presents? They’d just want you back at home. Too late for that. Moises knew he’d cast his future already. The path was set. They’re probably worried about you.
I can’t do anything about that.
He was his mother’s big strong boy. Too old to be called that now. Too old for a long time. The corner of his mouth twitched as he thought that, but the emotion was quickly squashed. She’s worried about you. You know that. She doesn’t even know if you’re dead or alive.
I can’t do anything… Moises looked straight through the windshield, to the blazing interior of the supermarket. There wasn’t only food in there; there were other things. Maybe I can…
“He’s here,” Darian said, seeing the white boy step from a car two rows back in the lot.
“Brother Darian, I’m gonna get a Coke or something. You want something?”
“No.” Darian opened the door, stepping out as his young companion did. “Come right back to the car after you get it.”
“All right.”
Darian saw his contact wait by the front of his own vehicle and walked to him. “You white folks like cold climates.”
Toby smiled, no shades concealing his eyes this time. Dark glasses at night, aside from looking stupid, might draw attention. That was not what he wanted. “You go where the action is.”
Darian looked past the white boy to the empty car. “Where’s your sidekick?”
“Busy. Yours?”
“Getting himself a drink. So, you have something for me.”
So true to form, Toby thought. He reached through the open front window of the car and removed a shopping bag. The weight of its contents strained the twin paper handles. “A hundred and fifty grand.” He handed it to the African. “You did good on that little extra.”
“Turkey shoot,” Darian said, smiling. “White men can’t jump, or run.” He set the bag on the asphalt at his feet. “So, time for the big one.”
“Almost.”
Darian leaned against the fender and folded his arms, looking as casual and comfortable as possible. Just two guys, one white, one black, having a chat in a parking lot. “So, how do you plan to reshape the government? That’s what you said at our last get-together, wasn’t it?”
“I said that,” Toby confirmed. “I guess ‘starting with a clean slate’ is a better description. You know, kinda throw everything into the shitter and start again.”
“Un-huh,” Darian said with a slow, cautious nod. “Details, man. We did you right back in L.A. I want the whole story now, before we go on.”
Exactly one month, Toby knew. That was a long time to let the Africans keep a secret. But they would have to. It wasn’t trust; it was acceptance. “The president’s gonna give a little speech next month.”
State of the Union. Darian knew that much, and also that it could be summed up briefly — fucked up. “Yeah.”
Toby smiled before he went on. “We’re gonna make it interesting.”
Moises looked through the market’s window to the parking lot. The cracker was jawing to Brother Darian about something. Good. That would keep him busy. He took a bottle of soda from a refrigerated case and walked down several aisles, passing magazines, a pitiful selection of wrapping paper, and a display of greeting cards before finding what he wanted. He picked through a rotating rack of postcards, choosing one with a winter scene — his mother always said she missed the snow — and flipping it over. A pen hanging by a string scrawled out the brief message, and then he went to a checkout stand, verifying first that Brother Darian was still occupied.
The checker ran the cold bottle over the scanner, which beeped once. “A dollar nine.”
“Do you have stamps?” Moises asked.
“Yeah. How many?”
He handed the postcard to her, his eyes darting right as the conversation outside seemed to be slowing. “Could you put one on this and mail it?”
And mail it… ‘Twas the season of giving, the checker reminded herself. “Sure.” A few touches to her keypad brought up the new total. The customer paid her in exact change and left before she could wish him a Merry Christmas.
Darian saw in his peripheral vision his young comrade exit the market and wait by their car. In the grip of his stare the white boy was still smiling.
“Is that enough detail for you?” Toby asked.
“Who thought this fucking thing up?”
Toby shook his head slowly. “It’s enough that someone did. The question is, are you going to be able to make it happen?”
Make it happen? Someone had dreamed up a nightmare, all right. A nightmare that could be made real. “Oh, yeah. We can do that.” Holy shit. This was bigger than big, Darian knew. Bigger than what he’d imagined, even after wiping out the people in the World Center. Off the scale. And, he had to admit, brilliant, even coming from the whities. “The streets are gonna fill with blood, man.”