Casanegra

by Blair Underwood

  I kept my mind on the plan: Jump. Grab the pipe, hope that all that daily exercise had put enough juice in my biceps and fingers and lats. It wouldn’t be a comfortable climb, but it was only about fifteen feet to the top, close enough to touch. I’d burned enough calories on my gym’s climbing wall to know I could do it—but would the pipe hold?

  My palms were wet, and I rubbed them on my pants. If I slipped, or if the pipe broke off, I wouldn’t have another chance to get it right. I might be able to grab the window ledge on the way down, but there were no guarantees.

  We might have to jump. We might not have a choice.

  My mind tried to break it to me gently, but I pushed the thought away.

  My heart jackhammered my ribs. With my gun in my jeans, I closed my eyes and prayed—to Dad, I think, or at least I saw Dad’s face. I balanced myself on the window ledge, kept my eyes on the rung…and jumped.

  My right hand caught pipe, and my left scrabbled for the support brace. For a second I had it, and my feet swung wide then set against the stucco wall. I was hanging like a monkey on a tree—then my grip slid. I lost skin on my right hand as the rusted pipe ripped at me, but my left hand held. Squeezed. Stopped the slide.

  Breathing hard, I steadied myself and started to climb. The pipe shook and groaned. The world swayed beneath me.

  If you fall, grab the window…If you miss the window, bend your damned knees, and get ready to hurt.

  My face was pressed against the pipe, and the rusty smell pricked my nose. For what seemed like forever, I didn’t move. I don’t think I could have moved at gunpoint. I was sure the pipe would fall free. Then, quietly, a thought released my limbs:You did it.

  My heartbeat slowed, but my breathing sped up. Now I was in a race.

  The rest of the climb was like scaling a skinny, rectangular tree trunk. I dug my toes into the braces, kept my eyes on the edge of the roof, kept my belly tight. One pull, hand over hand, and a moment’s rest. Hang by one hand and tensed toes as the other one reaches high, grasps, arms tense, pull again. The awkward angles never let me relax, and my left foot slipped on a brace once, but I don’t think it took thirty seconds before I was hoisting myself onto the rooftop.

  I’d made it out of Serena’s apartment. Now I had to get back in.

  I stood up on the flat gravel roof ringed with a foot-high cement barrier. The view of the homes and squat apartment buildings around me was dizzying. I still didn’t hear any sirens, even with my recovering eardrum. In the smoggy horizon a couple of miles off, I saw a procession of five or six police cars with their flashers on, but traffic patterns told me it might take them four minutes to get here. And if the gates were locked, even longer. The smoke from Serena’s living room was already a thick haze on the rooftop, floating from the other side. Not good news for Biggs.

  Dorothea Biggs was a speck standing on the sidewalk in front of her yard, pointing a neighbor our way. Even if I’d planned to ditch Biggs and split, seeing his mother would have convinced me to go back for him.

  I crouched and ran toward the smoke.

  As soon as I had a birds’ eye view of the courtyard, I saw a masked man running toward the stairs Biggs and I had climbed to Serena’s floor, nearly tripping in his baggy pants. Trey or Billy? He would see me if he turned his head. He was too far for a clear shot, so I fell flat and crawled to the edge of the rooftop to wait him out behind the barrier. If he didn’t know I was waiting for him, I might get a shot.

  But who had thrown the bomb? Where was the other bastard?

  The instant after I saw the man in the baggy pants raise a walkie-talkie to his lips, I heard loud feedback from below, right underneath me. A voice crackled on the radio: “We’ll blast in and get the fuck out.”

  I wished to God he was on my side.

  Baggy Pants reached Serena’s floor, running toward me, and I tracked him with my Glock. I trusted my accuracy with a handgun up to fifteen yards, and he wasn’t there yet. I couldn’t afford to give away my position with wild shots. And he wouldn’t stay in my range long once he got there; as soon as he made it to the corner, he’d be sheltered by the ledge. He would only be in my range for about five paces, when he reached the broken wall of the apartments near Serena’s.

  Even now, he was almost out of my sight, as if he knew I was waiting for him. Every few seconds, his white sneaker appeared from beneath the ledge’s shadow, then gone. No target. He wasn’t running close enough to the edge.

  Shit.If I didn’t get this guy, Biggs was dead.

  Baggy Pants hit my range. The white sneaker landed, and this time I saw a flash of his jeans. But he was gone, and I missed the shot.Shit, shit, shit.

  I shifted aim, anticipating, and suddenly his lower torso materialized in full view, almost running in slow motion. I squeezed the trigger twice, aiming for the biggest hunk of flesh I could find.

  When I didn’t hear a yell, I was afraid I’d missed. But after a last clumsy stride, the man fell over, long limbs tangling in his baggy pants. “I’mhit !”

  I squeezed off two more, aiming higher, and I saw the back of his shirt stain crimson above his right shoulder. This time, his scream was strangled, wordless. He pulled himself out of sight, hiding in the ledge’s shadows before I could shoot him again.

  Random gunfire sprayed from beneath me, but the remaining gunman was only guessing my position. Then I heard him answer my prayer: “Fuck this! I’m gone.”

  I heard frantic footsteps as he ranaway from where the other man lay, toward the western side of the building. The crew M.C. Glazer had hired wasn’t sentimental, lucky for me. When the shit hit the fan, it was every man for himself.

  I didn’t hear the gunman inside Serena’s apartment yelling anymore.

  I didn’t know if Baggy Pants still had his gun, or if he would get a bead on me as soon as I came down from the rooftop, but I had to take the chance. I saw what looked like a red fire ladder on the far western end of the rooftop, about twenty-five yards from me, so I decided not to risk a dead drop from the rooftop. I was sure I could swing myself onto the balcony with arm strength alone, but why take the chance?

  The ladder was intact, and it was a quick descent. A flat queen-sized mattress met me when I touched solid ground; it was a rainbow of stains and smelled like it looked, but I was glad to see it. I propped it up and dragged it with me. The plumes of smoke from Serena’s apartment told me I didn’t have time for a more cautious approach.

  I felt the heat before I got to the picture window that had been shot out, and the smoke brought tears to my eyes. What I saw inside stunned me: The living room’s walls were charred black, and smoke choked the air. The biggest fireball was about eight yards inside, climbing the eastern wall.

  Where was Baggy Pants?

  I spotted him to about twenty yards from me, past the L-shaped corner. I saw his legs splayed out after he’d halfway dragged himself through the broken wall of an apartment. He was panting, so he wasn’t dead, but he seemed to have more than me on his mind. I aimed at his head. “Hey, asshole!” My voice was deadly calm. “Look at me, or I will shoot you.”

  A pause, and then he dragged his body around until his strained, pain-widened eyes were locked with mine through his mask.

  “Throw your gun over the edge,” I said.

  He didn’t ask if I was bluffing. He didn’t try to aim. The wounded man made a soft grunting sound and pushed his pistol across the walkway and under the rail. It fell, bounced, landed in the bottom of the pool.

  “Stay,” I said.

  Holding the mattress in front of me, I held my breath and charged through the doorway into the burning living room. Heat blasted my fingers, which were curled around the mattress. The floor was as hot, and my shoes seemed to vanish. I hurried, taking the next step just as the pain spiked on the soles of my feet. Flames near the wall licked at my pants, and I scooted away, nearly losing balance. I got as close as I could as heat seared my face, and I flung my mattress toward the fire’s heart. Sparks flew, stin
ging my eyes. Choking smoke invaded my nose. I coughed, and more smoke charged into my lungs, scorching my throat. Like trying to breathe tar.

  Blinded, I tried to get outside to the air, and I backed into a broiling, sooty wall. The door was only two feet from me; the smell of clean air led me back out to the ledge.

  Outside, I gasped, trying to make amends to my lungs.

  Finally, I heard sirens. Across the courtyard, I saw three police officers shaking the front gate, realizing it was locked. They wouldn’t get here soon enough.

  My lungs still weren’t speaking to me when I ran back inside. It didn’t seem as hot; maybe the mattresshad smothered some of the fire. The smoke in the hall was so thick now that I couldn’t see. I stumbled over the fallen gunman, but I didn’t stop to check his pulse. I ran to the end of the hall. Serena’s room.

  The door was locked, of course. I shook the wobbly knob. “Biggs? It’s me!”

  I didn’t hear an answer, but it was hard to hear over my rasping breathing.

  I rammed my shoulder and hip against the plywood. The wood splintered around the doorknob cracked, and the door opened. “Biggs!” I called again. The door caught against our bundled shirts halfway. I peered inside. Smoke was a white fog in here, too, but I was glad it wasn’t worse. Biggs might not have been overcome yet.

  I squeezed inside and knocked on the closet door. “Biggs! It’s Ten!”

  Did he shoot himself already?

  I heard Biggs say something, but his voice was muffled.

  When I opened the closet door, Biggs was stripped to his boxers. He’d taken off his jeans and balled them up to shield his nose and mouth from smoke. The bullet had left an ugly, bloody gash in his leg.

  Biggs only stared at me wide-eyed at first, not moving. I don’t think he could believe I had come back for him.

  “Gotta go,” I said, and grabbed him.

  I used a fireman’s carry: sat Biggs up, hooked my arms under his armpits, tucked my butt under to protect my back, then pulled him almost upright. Hoisted him across my shoulders then turned and plunged him into the furnace toward the front door. The living room was hotter already; it felt like hell’s front porch. My lungs felt afire, too, but I forced myself to take one step, then another, holding my breath.

  My thighs and calves were trembling by the time I deposited Biggs near the fire ladder twenty yards west of Serena’s apartment. Downstairs, I saw a fire engine pull up to the curb. The police were just getting through the lock, and eight officers swarmed into the front gate.

  Again, they wouldn’t get here in time.

  I was staggering when I went back into the apartment and checked the pulse of the first man I’d shot. My hand was unsteady at first from the adrenaline, but I concentrated and held my fingertips across his carotid. If there was a pulse, it was so weak that that it was hard to tell it from mine—but somethingwas there. I grabbed his legs and pulled while the heat lashed against my back. The smoke tried to make me forget all about air.

  Outside, I put my ear against his chest. The man was breathing. His heart was hanging on. I had given him more than he deserved, but I didn’t do it for his sake; I just didn’t look forward to being someone who had killed a man. My father had been proud to retire without that notation on his conscience, no matter how justified.

  I dragged myself back over to Devon Biggs, who was sitting against the wall, hacking toward the ground. We both took grateful sips of air beside that fire ladder, watching the first cops climbing the stairs to the second floor. Biggs’s hand rested on my shoulder in unspoken thanks.

  I knew the cops had found Baggy Pants when shouts went up and they formed a half-circle, guns all aiming toward someone we couldn’t see. It would still take them at least a minute or two to get to us, especially if Baggy Pants didn’t know how to act.

  I tossed my gun out several yards ahead of us. I held out my hand for Biggs’s gun and tossed that, too. I wasn’t about to go out like the brother onNight of the Living Dead, cut down by friendly fire after the battle had been won. Biggs and I both raised our hands above our heads, waiting for the police to rescue us.

  Downstairs, more cops were coming through the gate. Maybe twenty.

  “Who’d you call to get all these cops here so fast?” I wheezed.

  Biggs dropped his head back against the wall and chuckled. “Arnold,” he said. His voice was unrecognizable, but I suppose mine was, too.

  “Who’s Arnold?”

  Biggs shook his head with a weary laugh.“Ah -nuld,” he grinned.

  “The governator?” I said.

  Biggs just laughed louder, before he doubled over in a coughing fit. “Don’t ask,” he said, catching his breath. “You want a job, man? I need a bodyguard.”

  “Yeah, maybe.” It might be nice to have a steady paycheck waiting when the madness ended.

  The concrete beneath us shook from the approaching officers’ running footsteps. That sound reminded me of what imminent death feels like: sudden, matter-of-fact, always around the corner. I might have been shot through the front door. I might have been shot instead of Biggs. I might have been suffocated, or burned to death.

  I really was going to die, one day.

  Up until then, I don’t think I really believed it.

  SIXTEEN

  TRAFFIC WAS A NIGHTMARE,so it was seven by the time I made it back to Eso Won. Almost too late. Chela was walking up to a yellow cab parked outside the store when I honked. At first, she just glared and opened the cab door, ready to jump in.

  When I screeched beside her, she saw my face and closed the cab door again.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said.

  “Oh, myGod. What happened?”

  “Someone just tried to kill me,” I told Chela. “Let’s get dinner.”

  I slipped the cabbie five dollars from the wad of cash Devon Biggs had insisted on shoving in my pocket. He’d had about five hundred dollars of loose change in his car, and he promised to give me my full week’s fee at Serena’s funeral. I didn’t refuse the money, just as I didn’t refuse the invitation to sit with his family at the church. I had to promise Dorothea Biggs after she painted my face in lipstick with grateful kisses. She might have said something about seeing me for Christmas and Kwanzaa, too.

  I told Chela the story while I drove toward Bamboo Cuisine for Chinese takeout on the way home. At a stop light, I noticed myself in the rearview mirror for the first time: My face and chest were covered with sooty sweat, and my eyes were so red that I looked strung out. The car stank from the smoke on my skin and clothes. My left eardrum was still vibrating, and I would be tasting ash in my mouth for days.

  “I told you Glaze would kill you.” She might have been discussing last week’s dinner menu. “You didn’t listen.”

  Her casual tone irritated me. “Next time, maybe I will.”

  “But he’s a jerk, anyway,” she said quickly. It was the closest she had come to thanking me, and yet another layer of tension rolled off my back. I was glad I had gotten to Chela before she’d climbed into that cab.

  “Do you think he’ll try again?” she said.

  “Not soon. Not if he’s smart.”

  I might still have to answer for the illegal possession of M.C. Glazer’s gun, but I hadn’t been arrested because Biggs backed up my version of the attack. The gunman who threw the Molotov cocktail got away, apparently, and neither of us had gotten a look at him. But police arrested the two injured gunmen, whom they recognized as Bloods with long rap sheets. Antwan Evans, age thirty-six, was in critical condition after being shot in the abdomen and nearly succumbing to smoke inhalation; and Trey DuPree, age twenty-nine, was in stable condition after being shot in the buttocks and the shoulder. Neither of them had admitted they’d been hired by M.C. Glazer or anyone associated with Glaze, but one of them might talk.

  Tyra, not surprisingly, was nowhere to be found. I hoped she would attend her sister’s funeral tomorrow. Tyra and I had seriously unfinished business.

  “W
hoa!” Chela said, suddenly picking up the CD on my floor. “A new one by Afrodite? Is it okay if I put it on?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.” I had already forgotten that Devon gave me the CD. Somehow, my tired heart glowed. Maybe I would learn something from Serena’s words from beyond the grave—and even if I didn’t, it would be good to hear her voice.

  As I’d expected, the new CD sounded different from her older music. Instead of rapping about her sexual exploits—or about men doing her wrong; most of whom, she had confided to me, were only imaginary—this CD sounded more like Lauryn Hill. In the first track, “The Island,” Serena said she felt like she lived between worlds, quoting Tupac’s lament that he lived on an island. Her voice was backed up by exotic worldbeat, reggae, and salsa riffs. Serena didn’t rap at all on the second track, instead singing “My Funny Valentine” in an earthy tremolo that sounded so much like Billie Holiday that I got goosebumps. Impressive.

  Chela pumped up the volume when the third track started, a mellow but steady beat with a bass drum, shakers, and record-scratching, sampling vocals from “Ooh Child” by the Five Stairsteps. I liked the sound. Serena’s impassioned voice began rapping in a sing-song style that would have fit a poetry slam:

  If a girl called Reenie could future-see,

  The sight of my height would have traumatized me.

  She went from ashy knees and plaited hair

  To ten times over a millionaire.

  La la-la-la la-la la laaaaa

  You saw a goddess and showed her to me;

  You said to call the deity “Afrodite.”

  And you kept my secret underground,

  Even when I dumped your heart in the Lost and Found.

  La la-la-la la-la la laaaaa