by John Hart
“You all good, brother?” Chance dropped his bike in the dirt, then leaned on the car. “You have money? You know where you’re taking her?”
“Yeah, man. I’m good.”
“Be adult, all right? Talk about the war or Nixon or Brezhnev.”
I laughed. “No.”
“Inflation, then. The recession.”
“Are you finished?”
“Just knock her panties off.” He winked and grinned, and went inside.
Chance, I thought.
He was in my head.
Pulling from the curb, I watched the time as I drove. I didn’t want to be early. I didn’t want to be late. On the sidewalk at Dana White’s house, I checked my watch a final time, then smoothed my hair, practicing silently.
Hello, Becky. You look beautiful this evening …
I walked toward the door, feeling I should have brought flowers. I’d never been on a real date …
Flowers. Damn it.
I hesitated at the bottom step.
Hello, Becky …
I was still there when the door opened, and Becky appeared, her face in the crack of the door, a glimpse of T-shirt and jeans.
“Gibby, come on.” Her voice was low, almost a hiss. “You can’t be here. You know that.”
“What? I don’t…” I shook my head, confused. She glanced away, showing the curve of her jaw, a tumble of hair. Turning back, she gestured with a hand. “Around the side. That way.”
The door closed before I could ask what she was talking about. Instead, I followed a line of bushes to a gate and the backyard and an open window. Becky was there, Dana White behind her. I squeezed through the landscaping, my face at the sill. “What do you mean I can’t be here?”
“Hush, all right?”
She made a shushing noise with her hands, and Dana pushed closer. “Becky, this is dangerous.”
“Not if you be cool.”
“My father will kill us—”
“What’s going on?” I interrupted.
Becky looked from Dana’s face to mine, and the conflict was obvious. “Screw it,” she said. “Get in here.”
“Becky, no.”
“Quiet, Dana. It’s not up to you. Gibby, come on before somebody sees.”
I didn’t know what was happening, but scrambled though the window, where I found Becky flushed, and Dana, beside her, pinch-faced and angry and pale. “If my parents find out, I’ll tell them you made me.”
“Button it, Dana. I mean it.” Becky studied my face, then put her hands on my shoulders, and stared into my eyes. It was like standing on a mountaintop. “You don’t know, do you?”
“Know what?”
“Jesus. Okay. All right. Dana, check the hall.”
“No.”
“You know you’ll do it eventually, so stop wasting time.”
Dana crossed the room, saying, “This is bullshit, it’s bullshit…” Nevertheless, she cracked the door to check the hall. I heard a television, the sound of adults in muted conversation. She closed the door.
Becky said, “Lock it,” then took my hand, and led me to the edge of Dana’s bed. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I won’t. Just sit, okay? Just…”
She showed both palms, as if to keep me on the bed, then turned on a small television, and fiddled with the antenna. When the picture firmed, I saw a reporter, and then my brother’s face. Becky sat beside me, but it was Dana White who found the words. “Murder,” she said. “Your brother’s wanted for murder.”
15
By the time I reached home, I remembered nothing of the drive but darkness and speed. “Mom. Dad.” I spoke from the entry hall, but neither noticed me. My mother was yelling. Broken glass was everywhere.
“Of course he did it! Of course he did!”
“Gabrielle, please…”
“Why didn’t you warn me? Tell me?”
“Because I didn’t know…”
“I saw it on the news, William! My own son! I saw it on the news!”
“Gabrielle, please…”
“Now he’s back, and with Gibby! Now Gibby’s at risk!”
“He’s not with Gibby. Gibby’s fine.”
“Where is he, then? My good boy…”
She folded at the knees, and my father knelt beside her. He saw me then, and gestured me back; so I went outside to wait by the cars. Through the window, I saw him get my mother to her feet, and guide her toward the bedroom. She stumbled twice. He never let her fall. When he came outside, we met where the driveway ended. He seemed unwilling to speak, so I started the conversation. “Is it true about Jason?”
“It’s true there’s a warrant for his arrest.”
“So, Tyra is dead?”
“She was murdered, son. That’s all I can tell you. You will have to talk to Martinez, though. You knew her. You may have insights.”
“Martinez? Why not you?”
“I’m too close. They won’t let me near it.”
“Dad, come on…”
He shook his head, waved me off. “Is there anything you want to tell me first? Anything I need to know? You knew Tyra. You knew her with Jason.”
“I didn’t really know her at all. We spent a day at the lake. That’s it.”
“I need to find Jason.” He palmed his face, so distracted he was barely there. “I need to bring him in.”
“Bring him in…” I couldn’t believe it. “Listen to yourself!”
“Safely, Gibby. Bring him in safely. Tyra’s death was … hard. Cops aren’t taking it well. Emotions are running high.”
“Jason didn’t kill her.”
“But they were sexually involved. They fought in public, and it got violent. She pulled a gun…”
“I know. I was there.”
My father froze. Three full seconds. “Please tell me that’s not true.”
“Yeah, I was there. She was out-of-her-mind drunk.”
“Did she threaten you?”
“Why would you ask that?”
“Motive. It’s the first thing cops look for.”
“You keep talking like you’re not the cops.”
“Do you know where Jason is or not?”
“I don’t.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“I’m not,” I said, but was. Jason had a safe full of guns and cash. What would happen if the cops found it?
Prison, I thought.
No question.
* * *
My father threatened and begged, but I had nothing else to say; and when he left, he was furious about that silence. I gave him a thirty count, then rolled my car to the bottom of the driveway.
Ten minutes to the city line.
Another twenty to my brother.
I drove fast, and thought of Tyra, not dead on a slab, but as I’d seen her at the lake, naked and unashamed and laughing.
I didn’t see the headlights behind me.
I didn’t even care.
When I reached the Pagans’ private club, I parked at the curb, and jogged for the door. No guard. No people or music. Inside, it was quiet enough to hear the argument upstairs, the raised voices and the clank of metal on metal. Halfway up the stairwell, I recognized Jason’s voice. “I hear what you’re saying, Darius. But it is what it is. I’m out of here, and all of this goes with me.”
A mumbled response.
I climbed higher.
“No.” Jason again. “That was not our deal.”
“You’re not taking the guns or the cash…”
At the landing, I risked a glance through the door. Guns were stacked on the bed, others still in the safe. Jason was there, too, raking out cash as three bikers crowded around him, two with pistols wedged in their jeans. The oldest one spoke—Darius, I thought. He looked familiar. The muttonchops. The white in his hair. “I’m not messing around, Jason. The cops want you. That’s tough, but it happens. You can leave right now, and none of us will say a word. But the guns stay. Same with that money.”
“You’ve had your cut.” Jason dropped bricks of cash on the bed, and went back for the duffel that held the rest. “The guns are mine. Cash, too.”
“You think that matters now? How long ’til the cops raid the club? Call it hush money or compensation—call it whatever you want—but that stuff stays.” He gestured to one of the bikers. “Do it, Sean.” The biker reached for the cash, and Jason hit him so hard and fast he went down like a dropped rock. Darius reached for the weapon in his belt, but Jason moved in a blur. He caught the wrist, twisting it up and back before taking the pistol himself, and putting a bullet in Darius’s foot and a second in his knee. Darius fell screaming, and Jason pushed the barrel at the last biker’s face. “Gibby, anyone else downstairs?”
I pointed dumbly at my chest. I didn’t know he’d seen me.
“Gibby? Anyone else.”
“No. Uh. No one.”
“Go downstairs. Lock the door.”
“Um…”
“Go ahead. I won’t let you miss the good stuff.”
It was something Robert used to say. Do your homework, little brother. I won’t let you miss the good stuff. Stumbling from the room, I locked the door and ran back upstairs.
“We’re good?” Jason asked.
“It’s locked.”
Jason gestured with the gun. “On your knees.”
The third biker knelt, but did it slowly. “Look, man…”
Jason took the pistol from the biker’s belt, and tossed it on the bed. Then we heard the banging downstairs, someone pounding on the door. “Gibby, if you would.” He tipped his head at the window, so I peered out and down.
“Oh, man, I think it’s Dad.”
Jason pointed at the biker. “You. Keys.”
“What keys?”
“The van out back. Front pocket. Toss them to the kid.”
I caught the keys. On the floor and bleeding, Darius said, “I’ll kill you for this, French…”
“Shut up, Darius, before I put a third one in your head.”
“You’d best do it now. Pagans don’t forget or forgive. We’ll find you and we’ll fucking kill you.”
“Yeah, maybe.” Jason pistol-whipped the kneeling biker; knocked him cold. “And then again, maybe not.”
Darius said, “Damn it, goddamn it…”
Jason ignored him. “Gibby, get the rest of the guns. Put them on the bed.” I did what he said. “Good. Grab those corners.” I pointed at the blanket, still numb. “It’s a lot to ask, I know. Gibby, look at me.” Jason raised his eyebrows, nodding once. “If Dad’s here, then other cops are coming. Understand? Gunshots. Men down. He’ll call it in.” As if to confirm, the pounding below us grew louder. “This is all I have in the world, little brother, what you see on that bed.”
“Shit, man…”
“Pick ’em up. Let’s go.”
He shoved the pistol into his belt, and I helped him drag guns and cash off the bed. A couple of dead men would have weighed less.
“Down the stairs. Out the back.”
We dragged guns and cash down the stairs, then through a narrow hall to concrete steps that took us into the alley. I stumbled on the last step, and a rifle clattered on the ground.
Jason said, “Leave it. Just get us to the van.”
We made it to the van, and none of it was real: the alleyway damp, the stink of gun oil and grease as we shoveled guns and cash. A brick of fifties split open, and Jason raked the bills like leaves. “Do you hear that?” A far-off siren, and then others. Jason rolled the door shut, then put his hands on my shoulders, and tried to steady me as Robert often had. “Decision time, little brother.”
“What decision?”
“Come with me.”
I looked the length of the alley, then back. “You told me to stay away.”
“That was then, and things have changed. I can’t come back here, not ever.”
“Where are you going?”
“There’s a place up north. It’s what the money’s for. A dozen acres of rocky coast, a fishing boat and room to breathe. It’s beautiful. Trust me.”
“Where up north?”
“Only if you’re in. Only if I know.”
“But the guns…”
“Escape money, pure and simple. Pay for the land. Pay for the boat.” His hands were like steel, the sirens closer. “Ticktock, little brother.”
I hesitated because he looked like Robert, but that was mostly bone and skin and the color of his eyes. He saw the decision before I could get the words out. “Hey, kid, I get it. We don’t know each other anymore, not really.” His hands fell away. He stepped back. “You have a life. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“It’s not like that,” I said.
“Sure it is, and it’s cool. Take care of yourself. Tell Dad I didn’t kill her.”
“Jason, wait…”
But he didn’t. He sprang into the van, keyed the engine, and rolled down the alley without once looking back.
* * *
Jason took a right and gunned it from the alley, then hung a left and felt the back end slide. After that, he was hammer down, buildings flicking past as he checked for cops, and hung a second right. He drove faster, and saw light bars flash at an intersection two blocks west. More lights split the night ahead, so Jason cut down an alley, left paint on a parked car. At the next street, he clipped a phone pole, and overcorrected, tires screeching. The street was a three-lane, so he took it down the middle, the needle passing sixty-five, then eighty. Two cruisers drifted onto the street four blocks back, so Jason braked hard, cut right, and killed the headlights. He gave it a block, took another right and thought he was out clear; then a third cruiser locked up the brakes as it flashed under a red light one street over. Jason didn’t need a radio to know the cops were talking.
Three cars close.
More coming.
Lights still off, he accelerated until dotted lines blurred on the street. At ninety-five, the engine maxed out. Another mile, and he thought he was out clean—nothing behind or in front. He gave it two more blocks, then dropped to forty, turned on the lights and tried to look normal as the road dipped, then rose. He crested the hill, then light speared down as a helicopter thundered overhead, spinning to put the light in his eyes. It matched his speed; banked when Jason cut right. For an instant, the van was in front, but Jason was screwed and knew it. Four turns, another hill, and cars came in from every side, six of them and then a dozen. Jason’s run ended where two roads met and streetlights burned, high and white. His foot an inch off the pedal, he watched the cops spill out, weapons up.
He couldn’t go back to prison …
Better to die here and now …
After years of war, the thought was an old friend, and all else, white noise: yesterday, tomorrow, the whole of it, white noise. But then he saw his father. Cops were holding him back, but he was fighting, too. “Don’t do it! Jason! Don’t!”
Jason looked down at the gun in his hand.
MAC-10.
Fully loaded.
“You don’t have to die, son! No one has to die!”
Did Jason even care? He’d killed so many men …
“Think about your brother! Think about Gibby!”
Jason didn’t want to, but did, picturing him as he’d hung on the side of an inner tube, far out in the quarry. He’d needed something then, but Jason had been distant and angry and ungiving.
Swim away, little fish …
That’s the face Jason saw, all hurt and need and little boy.
“Well, shit…”
Jason lowered the weapon, and showed his hands.
It seemed his father knew him after all.
16
I learned about the arrest at three that morning. “Dad?” The word escaped before I even registered the noise that stirred me from the sofa: a hum and a rattle, the garage door going up and then back down. Rising, I reached the back hall as he entered the house.
“Not now, Gibby.”
He showed
me his palm, but I trailed him to the kitchen. “Where’s Jason?”
“It’s late, son.”
“You followed me. You used me.”
He stopped, at last. “Because you lied to me. You left me no choice.”
“That is bullshit.” He sighed; I hated that. “Did you arrest him?”
“I need to speak with your mother.” I blocked his way, and thought, at first, he would argue. Instead, he said, “I’m sorry, son. I truly am.”
That’s when I knew for sure.
* * *
As the sun rose hours later, I heard my father leave the house. For some time after that, I lay in bed thinking of Sunday mornings and church and how it used to be. For all my childhood, we’d attended as a family, but that ended when Robert was killed, and we sank into this strange half life without smiles, vacations, or Sunday service. Today, that bothered me, so I showered and gave myself a rare shave. I dressed with exceptional care, and went to church on my own, arriving a few minutes after the start of the early service, and slipping into a pew at the back, all of it so familiar: the dark wood and the people, the organ and the colored glass. I opened a hymnal, but didn’t sing along. Afterward, there were readings that made sense to me, but then the minister took the podium to speak of war and sacrifice and salvation for all people. With one brother dead and the other arrested, I found his words so hollow that I almost left. I actually rose to my feet, but then I spotted Becky Collins four rows down, seated across the aisle with Dana White’s family. Her hair was up—which I’d never seen before—and the curve of her neck struck me as the most vulnerable thing, pale as it was, and fringed by a spill of small, soft hairs. She must have felt me staring, for she turned and saw me and blushed. Dana’s father turned as well. He stared at me for long seconds, then stood and squeezed past his family, working his way into the aisle. A large man with wide, rough hands, he was a foreman at the Freightliner factory, a man used to telling others what to do and how to do it.
“Gibby.” He slid into the pew beside me.
“Mr. White.”
“How are you, son?”
He spoke with gentle concern, and I smelled hair tonic and aftershave. I’d met him only once, on a Friday evening last year, a football game at home, halftime at the concession stand with Dana tucked against his side. He’d been pleasant then, and even now his eyes were kind. I nodded to his question, but didn’t really answer. People were watching. Not all of them, but enough.