“Petey told me the market took a hit because of the shootings. All the developers have reduced the prices they’re willing to pay for houses on the Northside. Petey said people should wait until the shooter gets caught, then the higher prices will come back.”
“Petey don’t know everything, mi’jo.”
I let it go. I had to give her time and space. I doubted she would follow through on her threat to sell. At least, not right away. She had a habit of getting down whenever the bills were due. That’s the American way. Riding high in April, shot down in May. Or so went the song.
When I hooked up with Petey again, and I told him what my mother said, he shook his head and tried to explain how selling was a bad idea. “The developers like to say that the Northside is a neighborhood in transition. Which means there’s still a few Mexicans left, like you and my tía. And in transition means smaller offers, especially when you add the shootings and killings. If your mother can wait, eventually she’ll get a lot more for the house.”
“She don’t want to wait. She got it in her head that three hundred Gs is like the magic solution to our money problems, and that’s all she’s seeing.”
“It will be twice that in another few months. I wouldn’t be surprised if the shooter is a real estate agent trying to drive down prices so he can buy cheap and then sell high after the shootings stop.” He laughed to himself the way he always did when he told what he thought was a joke, but I often didn’t think he was funny. This was one of those times.
“This is serious, Petey.”
“Patience, man.”
“Not something my mother is famous for. And I gotta say, I’m getting tired of dealing with the same old shit every month. It’s been like this ever since Dad died. A move might do us some good. Or it might be a big mistake. Who the hell knows?”
My outlook had turned dark, and I felt tired and useless. Maybe it was the shootings, maybe it was dealing with my sorry-ass situation. I wasn’t much use to anyone, particularly my mother.
That’s when the signs began to show up. They were cheap-looking notices that were probably made on a home printer and then copied like a hundred times. I saw them all over the Northside on dumpsters, utility poles, fences, buildings. Each one said the same thing: WARNING — DANGER! White people are being shot in the Highlands! Protect yourself! If you see something, say something!
The signs didn’t specifically say, Watch out for Mexicans, they’re shooting white people, but they came close.
When I showed my mother one of the signs, she almost cried. She slumped in her chair and shook her head.
“I’m calling that agent. We’re moving, Eddie. The North-side is gone, and I don’t want to live here anymore.”
We talked for an hour about selling the house and moving, and the bills that seemed to get bigger each month, and how her medicines didn’t work as well as they used to, and about a dozen other things that worried her and made me more anxious and uptight. We talked about the problems, but we didn’t have any solutions.
I left the house that evening not sure what I should do. I wanted to help my mother. Real help required money, and I didn’t have any. I walked to the park to clear my head, but everywhere I went I saw those goddamn signs. I ripped one off the side of a liquor store, threw it away, and saw a dozen more plastered on the walls. I ripped off as many of those that I could reach, then I ran to the corner and tore up another half dozen that were taped to the bus bench and the traffic light pole.
All along Thirty-eighth, the signs mocked me. I stood on the corner and stared up and down the street. I thought there were hundreds of those things, maybe thousands, stuck on trees, buildings, whatever. I started to shake, and my throat felt dry, brittle.
“What the hell?” I whispered to myself.
I decided I needed a drink. I turned in the direction of the Black Bear Brewery, the closest bar I could think of. Not my usual place but I was in no condition to be choosy.
A lonely jazz riff from a sad guitar floated above the street.
I kept walking at a fast pace and tried to ignore the signs that surrounded me on the street. I thought about bills, medicines, taxes, car repair, my mother’s tear-stained face. I replayed what Petey said about change and selling houses. I tried to convince myself that I could work for Jake again, fuck the asthma. The more I thought about all the shit, the darker my mood tumbled.
I caressed the pistol I’d jammed into the pocket of my coat before I left the house. It was my father’s. I’d lifted it from the kitchen drawer where my mother kept it, loaded, “just in case,” she would say when I’d point out the danger of a loaded gun. I couldn’t explain why I took the gun. I just knew I had to have it with me. Maybe it had something to do with the shootings.
I walked past a small shop where a light glowed from the back. The light shined on someone sitting in front of a computer screen. The sign over the doorway said, Magnificent Properties, LLC — Donald Bunton, Licensed Realtor. Several photographs of homes and condos were taped to the plate-glass window. There was also one of the damn signs in the window, although it was twice as big as the signs stuck around the neighborhood, and in better shape. I guessed that it was the original.
I hurried to the alley and looked for the back of the agent’s shop. I didn’t have a clear-cut plan. I moved without thinking. I finally knew what I had to do, and that was enough. I pulled out the gun and walked in the semidarkness of the alley. I was about to look in the back window of the shop when I heard someone behind me. I twisted around and pointed the gun.
Petey jumped and put up his hands. “Whoa, buddy. It’s me, Petey. Take it easy, Eddie.”
“What the fuck? I could’ve shot your fucking head off. Jesus!”
“Your mother called me. She’s worried because you took the gun. I’ve been looking for you. I followed your trail of ripped-up signs, then I saw you turn into the alley. I was across the street. What the fuck are you doing?”
“Never mind about that. You better get out of here. I got business to take care of. Go on! Beat it!”
Petey slowly walked up to me, his hands still raised. “I’m not going anywhere, not until you give me that gun. You know that.”
Petey’s face was lit up from a streetlight, like he was the star of the show. I always thought that he looked like my mother, which wasn’t weird since his mother, Aunt Julia, was my mother’s sister. My aunt and my cousin were pretty, even beautiful. Petey and Christina were a good-looking couple. They’d have beautiful children. I saw that and more in Petey’s face, and I knew I had to give him the gun.
“Here, keep the damn thing. I doubt it even works.”
He took it from my shaking hands. “Let’s go home, Eddie,” he said, almost whispering. “We’ll figure something out. I can help. Your mom’s gonna wait to sell. She said to tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.”
“I—”
Headlights blinded me before I could finish. A car roared into the alley, and like a creature of habit, I backed away, my hands raised to the sky. The patrol car screeched to a stop only a few feet from Petey and me. Red, white, and blue lights flashed, and a pair of cops jumped out of the car.
“Drop to the ground! Show your hands, now!”
Petey turned to the cops. I knew what he was doing. He had to explain everything, ease the situation, calm everyone down.
“Don’t—” I started to say.
“Gun! He’s got a gun!”
The cops fired their weapons and I fell against a wall. Petey spun around once, twice, dropped to his knees, then to his back. Blood started to flow as soon as he collapsed. I crawled on my hands and knees to Petey but one of the cops jumped me and held me down and all I could see was the starless night sky and a thin sliver of yellow moon. The only sounds I heard were the guitar music and Petey’s hard, heavy breathing.