The man coughed three times and spat out a large, silvery thing. “You don’t know? Unacceptable, man.”
East lowered his eyes and got walking again.
“Boy, don’t deny me,” the voice came, following him.
—
At eight, Sidney called him, told him where to go. A mile away — down off the south end of The Boxes. “Make sure you bring clothes for a couple days.”
“Fin told me,” East said.
“Course he did,” sneered Sidney. Then East’s phone died.
He bought a glazed doughnut to eat as he walked, then pulled down an orange off a low branch. He turned it in his hand as he walked, a small, heavy world. It was ripe, but he waited to eat it.
—
In the alleyway behind a line of stores, Michael Wilson was telling East about his car. Michael Wilson had the police interceptor and new glows down front and back and underneath. With a second battery Michael Wilson could run his system all night, loud as a club, and still crank it up and drive it away.
Michael Wilson was twenty — long body, long teeth, big brown eyes he liked to keep behind silver shades. Always laughing. Always telling a story. He had been a guy who came around The Boxes, sometimes keeping an eye, sometimes delivering a payday or food. He was an up-and-comer. He had gone away to college, UCLA, and East hadn’t seen him since. He’d been a lot of noise to start with, and now he impressed himself even more.
Michael Wilson was shucking peanuts out of a blue plastic bag, tossing the nuts into his mouth, flipping the shells over his shoulder onto the pavement. Michael Wilson worried that the other guys might be stupid. Said he didn’t have time to be riding with no one stupid, because stupid didn’t stay cooped up. Stupid infected everyone. Little gangsters always thought they had a code, when really what they had was a case of stupid. East nodded, and he pretended to listen, because Michael Wilson was going to be a part. But God damn, he thought.
For the longest time it was only the two of them. East checked his phone — dead. He shook his head. “What time you got?”
“Like nine,” said Michael Wilson.
“What is like nine?”
“It means almost nine. Approximately nine, motherfucker.”
East sighed. “Let me see your watch.” He grabbed Michael’s wrist, eyed the watch’s gold hands, the shining stones. “That’s eight fifty-four. Not like anything.”
“It’s like nine, old man,” Michael said.
A couple of raggedy cars and a blue minivan shared the early light. Bulky air conditioners rusted on raised pads, muscular posts sunk in concrete to protect them from the drivers. Most of the stores were dark. One Chinese restaurant belched its fryer smells, and the women peered out at the boys and smoked in the safety of their doorway.
The next to arrive was a pumpkin-shaped boy in a green shirt. He waddled slowly, carefully; fat made his face young, his gait ancient. He breathed hard, excited, scraping his feet as he came. “Whew,” he said. “Michael Wilson. What’s up.” They grabbed hands. Then Michael recognized him.
“I remember you. Walton? Wallace?”
“Walter.”
Michael laughed at himself. “I remember you was up in those computers. A little science man.”
“I remember you was going to college. You in charge of the laughing and lying, I guess.”
“You in charge of the eating,” said Michael Wilson. “Where’s your bag at?”
Michael Wilson had things in a glossy contoured bag with a gym name on it. It looked like a new shoe. East had his pillowcase and his orange.
“I got no fuckin bag,” Walter said. “I had no idea. I been all weekend at my uncle’s in Bakersfield. They picked me up off the street fifteen fuckin minutes ago.”
East eyed Walter. The fuckin. A soft boy sounding hard.
“I don’t know what they told you. We gonna be gone for days, son,” Michael Wilson said.
“I’ll get some clothes on the road, I guess.”
“If we can find a tent store,” smirked Michael Wilson. He went to touch East’s hand, but East looked the other way. So. There was a whole connection that came before. He leaned against the loading dock and studied the other two.
“You got the rundown? What the plan is?”
“No, man, they gonna tell us. They doing that here.”
“And I heard you was at your leisure,” the fat boy addressed East.
East looked up. “At what?”
“I said, I heard you was out of a job.” Walter leaned against a post and addressed Michael Wilson. “This the boy whose house got shot up yesterday. They said there’s three others coming,” he explained, “so I asked who.”
Michael Wilson cracked open a peanut and tossed the shell at East. “You lose your house? What you doing now?”
East swept his hand. “This.”
“Moving up,” said Michael Wilson. “What about you, Walt?”
“Everything,” Walter said. “A couple days back they had me running a yard. Substitute teacher.” He addressed East with a certain friendly contempt. “I used to work outside like you. Few years ago.” He giggled.
East couldn’t contain himself. “What you do now?”
“Projects,” Walter said. “Research.”
“Research?” said Michael Wilson. “How old are you, fat boy?”
“Seventeen.”
“How about you, East?”
East looked away. “Fifteen.”
The car arrived next. It was a burly black 300. Floating slow, the way cops sometimes did, all the way down the alley. At last the windows rolled down to reveal Sidney and Johnny.
“God damn, man,” crowed Michael Wilson. “Could have walked here faster.”
East saw that Michael laughed almost every time he talked. It wasn’t that he thought everything was funny; it was like his sentence wasn’t finished yet without it.
Sidney scowled at Michael Wilson and got out. He wore all white, a hot-day outfit. Johnny wore black jeans and no shirt.
“Where is the last one?” said Johnny.
“I don’t know, shit,” said Michael Wilson. “Number one is right here.” Cackling.
“We ain’t going over this twice,” said Sidney. “What time is it?”
“Nine oh-five,” said Michael Wilson.
“Fuck him then. He’s late. Let’s go on.”
“I’ll get him,” Johnny said. “Fin said four boys, we gon have four boys.” He fell back and started working his phone.
The fat boy scratched his face. “Who we waiting on?”
“My brother,” said East calmly. There was a way to stick up without putting your neck out. Dealing with Ty—Maybe you ain’t gonna like it, Fin had said — would take plenty of neck.
“Oh. Ty,” Sidney said. “That child cannot listen anyhow. So let’s start. Just sit his ass in the back with a coloring book.”
—
Sidney booted up a tablet on the back of the black car and swept his finger through a line of photos. A solid-looking black man, maybe sixty, a whitish beard cut thin. Broad, hammered-looking nose, a fighter’s nose. Sharp eyes. In the pictures, he looked tired. His clothes cost good money: a black suit, a tie with some welt to it.
Sidney looked over their shoulders. “Judge Carver Thompson,” he said. “When Fin’s boy Marcus goes up on trial, he’s the witness.”
“Carver Thompson,” said Michael Wilson. “If that ain’t a name for a legal Negro, I don’t know what is.”
“Don’t worry about his name. He used to be an asset to us. Now he ain’t.”
“That’s why you going to kill him,” said Johnny softly.