Trails of crimson led to the frying pan and to the open door of the bathroom and to Vitorio, his head bashed in.
“Why do they have to hit?” Maureen asked of her elegant Barbie. “Why do they have to hit?”
BUILDINGBY S. J. ROZAN
Harlem
Wouldn’t none of it have happened, hadn’t the Landry boy took to calling him “sir.”
His mama named him Rex and he was still resentful. Might have been okay for some boy with a handsome face, but that wasn’t him, and in school all it got him was, “Hey, lookee, here come that ugly Tie-RAN-o-sore!”
Later, when he did his stretch in Greenhaven, when someone said his name, he only heard “wrecks” because that’s what he’d made of his life.
It was a hard life, and nobody gave him nothing, not that that was some kind of excuse and he didn’t pretend it was.
His daddy could’ve been any of three different men and his mama never cared to find out. They stood around pointing their fingers at each other, and at her too, and so he didn’t want none of them for a daddy even if they’d wanted the job.
It meant he raised himself, pretty much, and he had to say, he done a lousy job of it.
But he wasn’t making excuses, how he ended up at Greenhaven. Berniece rolled on him, but hell, girl was probably scared shitless. He wouldn’t never hurt her, but how she supposed to know? What she see, he blown away her side man and was likely coming after her. Fact was, Chico’d porked the gun out, Rex just going there to talk to the brother, see about the rumors he was hearing down at the
Lenox Lounge. Seen Chico with Berniece, Bighead the bartender raised eyebrows at him, what’s up with that? So Rex just wanted to talk to Chico, and he even laughed, so funny seeing little skinny Chico with that big.45. Then he looked in Chico’s eyes, heard his voice, not the words but the sound just piling on. Chico never did know enough to shut up. Rex stood there as long as he could, looking at Chico, hearing his noise, and then a pressure started building inside him, building, building, and he threw himself on Chico and pulled the gun from Chico’s hand.
Next thing he knows, NYPD Blue is breaking down the door. Door was wrecked, and Rex was wrecked, and Chico sure as hell was wrecked. And he heard his own named different after that.
In Greenhaven, anyhow, they called you whatever damn thing they wanted, whatever they thought would get your goat. Most times he let it roll off, like when it was the C.O.’s jawing. But sometimes he could feel it happening, that building. And the next asshole gave him a hard time would find his teeth in the back of his throat. That right there accounted for Rex not making parole until his third hearing.
But he’d made it, and now he was out. And since he got out, no more fighting. No more brawling, nothing, not even with that crew of hip-hop assholes hung on the corner. They pissed him the hell off, bopping like they do, like they own the world. They didn’t never try nothing with him, though. They showed him some respect, behind his ten years at Greenhaven. Still, time to time he think they could use a little pounding.
But he ain’t gonna be the one. He was on parole, next eight motherfucking years. No way in hell he was going back inside, that was one thing for certain. He reminded himself that every time he felt the building, felt his temper start to go, found himself about to get physical with half-a-dozen boys could’ve been his children. Might have been his children hanging there, too, if Berniece hadn’t gone messing around with Chico, if she’d married him like he wanted, way back then.
Anyway, that was way back then. Berniece was packed and gone by the time he came out, and good riddance. He didn’t want no more to do with her, to do with nobody. He had a steady job, hard enough to come by. All he wanted was to come home, watch TV, drink some beer, and go to bed.
Less people you talk to, less trouble you could get in.
So he never did say nothing to the Landry boy.
That boy, seem like no one never gave him nothing, same as Rex. Raggedy clothes and no-name sneakers, tough way to make it on the street. But his mama raised him right.
Kid wasn’t no sissy. He put on that hard face Rex knew, face he used to wear himself. But he’d move out the way when the ladies come home from church, and he called Rex “sir.”
Time to time, Rex wanted to tell him watch out. Wanted to say, That crew you hanging with, they gonna drag you under.
He seen the kid’s face, seen how it light up when one of them older boys hand him a paper-bagged Bud; the kid way too young to drink. You fixing to turn out like me, Rex thought to tell him. You think these your homies, you think you tight with ’em. Next thing you know, one of ’em’s gonna be facing some serious time. That happen, he gonna sell the cops everyone’s ass, yours included.
But he kept his head down. Kid wasn’t his problem, and he never did say nothing.
Didn’t keep him from noticing, though. Noticing the kid on his way to school every day, take his books, try to keep his raggedy self clean. Didn’t cut school like the rest of them no-accounts. Rex wished he’d thought more about that himself, wished he’d kept up his schooling. Well, too late now. No, no one gave that Landry boy nothing but he kept trying. That’s what Rex noticed.
The night the trouble all started, he noticed another thing. Noticed wasn’t none of that crew on the corner when he come home. Seeing as the only way they could spend more time in that spot would be to drag their mattresses out and sleep there, it was damned unusual to see the streetlight and the mailbox standing by themselves.
Next thing he noticed, he was nearly at the stoop when the Landry boy burst out from the door. He looked wildly both ways, his eyes hitting Rex’s. They had a look, asking for something, begging even.
“You okay?” Rex asked. First time he spoke to the kid.
The kid shook his head. He wetted his lips, like they was too dry for him to talk. Seemed to try to make words, but nothing come out.
“Chill, son,” said Rex. “Something wrong? Tell me.”
The kid moved his lips some more, but still there wasn’t no sound. He shook his head again and charged down the stairs. He raced away, sneakers slapping concrete. Rex stared after.
Thing Rex noticed next, someone was pounding on his door.
First, he was confused. He was back inside, he thought. It was early on, and some damn C.O. was thumping his cell door, telling him if he didn’t come out now he wasn’t gonna get no dinner, fuck if he ain’t hungry, see how hungry he be by morning.
But the pounding kept coming and Rex woke up. He blinked around his room, small and with roaches all over but he could come and go and eat any damn time he wanted.
Grateful for a minute for the noise waking him from that nightmare.
Then some yelling, “Police! Open up!”
Shit, he thought.
He yelled back, “Yeah!” He fought past the sheets, tight around him like they was tying him to the bed. “Okay, okay!”
He slid the chain and threw the bolt.
“Rex Jones?” One white guy, one black, both in suits, saying his name like a question but it wasn’t. They introduced themselves as Detectives Something and Something Else. They pushed in without asking, Something talking to distract him while Something Else looked around.
They couldn’t touch nothing without a warrant. Anyone grew up in Harlem learned that with their mother’s milk.
They had a warrant, they’d have waved it in his face right away. And plus, if they turned his place upside down there was still nothing to find. That was a fact, but he felt the sweat on his lip just the same.