Break

by Ty Patterson

  ‘You want to look at his room?’

  ‘Won’t he mind?’

  ‘It’s my house.’ Her eyes flashed.

  She led him down the hallway, past the kitchen, a bedroom, and opened the door to a second one.

  Cutter nodded when she excused herself and went to join Arnedra. First impressions registered. A desk filled with books. Chair skewed at an angle. Posters of rappers on the wall. Laundry on the floor, neatly heaped in one corner. A closet whose doors were ajar. He opened them further with a finger and noted the folded clothing on shelves. The room was surprisingly well kept, despite the pile on the table. Shoes arranged against the wall, bed made up, night lamp turned off.

  He dropped to one knee and peered underneath the bed. Nothing but a storage box that seemed to contain childhood toys. He went to the desk and tapped the space bar on the laptop’s keyboard. A screensaver sprang to life. A random, system-generated picture.

  Cutter rejoined his host and sat at the dining table at her beckoning. She asked about his past. He skirted around it, and then Arnedra launched into stories about her times with Curtis. The conversation flowed easily after that.

  * * *

  Darrell entered the house when they were on coffees. He greeted them sullenly when his mom introduced them. ‘They’re helping me with something.’

  He nodded, didn’t ask what it was about.

  ‘You joining us for dinner?’

  ‘I had something at Shane’s,’ he replied and disappeared into his bedroom.

  Carmel’s shoulders slumped briefly. She smiled automatically when she felt Cutter’s eyes on her.

  ‘Were you like that, at that age?’

  I was trying to survive in foster homes. ‘All teenagers go through that,’ he lied smoothly. He didn’t tell her about his surveillance report.

  What’s there to tell? Besides, that was just one day.

  It was different the next day.

  10

  Brownsville, part of Brooklyn, wasn’t the kind of New York neighborhood featured in travel brochures.

  Tourists weren’t interested in seeing its public housing. It had one of the highest crime rates in the city. Lack of new development, empty lots and abandoned housing projects contributed to an air of grimness.

  Cutter had seen enough desperate localities in his life that the seedy, rundown, trying-to-survive character of the area didn’t register.

  He was shadowing Darrell the next day. After school. The teenager had hung out with the same bunch of students from the day before, but after a while had set off with a Hispanic-looking one.

  The two walked and talked, doubling over occasionally at a joke. Straight down Pitkin, a right on Rockaway Avenue, where they stopped at an abandoned parking lot. A group of young men hanging around. Late teens. Many of them puffing on spliffs. Light catching on their jewelry. One of them greeted Darrell’s companion and slapped palms with the student.

  Cutter slowed. A long line of cars on the street, many of them damaged. There wasn’t much cover for him. I can sprawl on the sidewalk. Act like a homeless person.

  He didn’t have to, however. A smaller group peeled off from the men and sauntered down the street, Darrell between them.

  Down Belmont, other passersby skirting around the group, a few women talking back angrily at their comments. One of the youths shoved Darrell towards a pharmacy. He stumbled. His smile faded and turned sullen when the man gestured. He went to the store and returned with a water bottle.

  Cutter didn’t spot any money changing hands. The student hurried to catch up, a reluctant grin lighting his face at a joke. How does he know them? Through his friend who was at the head of the group, talking softly with a couple of men? Were these boys from school too? He shrugged mentally. It didn’t matter.

  He kept his distance, occasionally stepping out on the street, walking against oncoming traffic.

  They rarely looked back, however, and when they did, it was to gesture or point out women.

  The peeling off happened again at Mother Gaston Boulevard. Darrell and his school friend turned left, while everyone else went the other way.

  A nail salon. A takeout joint and then a long stretch of open space behind a barbed-wire fence. A developer’s lot, according to the signs on it. Awaiting permissions or stuck in some bureaucratic red tape. The sidewalk in front of it seemed to be a no-go zone. Empty bottles, litter and the stench of urine. Broken-down cars on the street. Far ahead was the signage of another takeout.

  In the darkening gloom were six men. These were older, not students.

  Time to be a drunk.

  Cutter made to stumble, fell against the wall of an empty building and slid to the ground slowly. He reached into his pocket and drew out a flask that he carried for just such occasions. His hands shook as he held it to his lips and sipped the tomato juice. He wiped his lips and adjusted his position. Turning sideways so that he could watch Darrell and his fellow student join the men. A hundred feet away.

  Are those dudes white? He wasn’t sure. He adjusted his jacket just so for the camera to capture all of them.

  Fist bumps of greeting. Faint voices. He caught bro mentioned a few times. It looked like the boy knew the group. There was an air of deference about him, as if he looked up to them.

  Lights flared red. A car eased into a vacant space in front of them. One of the men straightened, looked up and down the street and went to a rolled-down window. The exchange was so swift that Cutter almost missed it.

  That’s a drug deal!

  Street dealing had become sophisticated. Cars didn’t just roll up to a bunch of shady-looking people and inquire. There were social media groups, photo identities of buyers in some cases, secure messaging apps, to coordinate a sale.

  Darrell was among the rest of the men, and even through the growing darkness, Cutter could make out the boy’s unease.

  The car rolled away. The dealer returned to his friends and slipped something to another person. Roll of cash. All of it so fast and smooth that only someone watching closely would have made it out for what it was. And even then, it could be mistaken for a bunch of friends in a car making small talk.

  No one on the boulevard looked their way. Pedestrians seemed to have given up on that section of the sidewalk. As if there were warning signs that only they could see.

  Cutter knew how it was for the residents. Many of them are in survival mode, living from paycheck to paycheck. They wouldn’t have the energy or the will to get involved. The cops? They have bigger fish to fry, he thought cynically.

  One of the men cracked open a can, drank from it and threw it on the sidewalk. It rolled lazily. Another man kicked it beneath a parked car.

  Another vehicle drove up. An SUV with tinted windows. A different seller went to its window. The soft conversation turned loud. He straightened and yanked the door open and dragged out a man, who yelled and struggled, and then he and another thug were on him, kicking, punching.

  Cutter blinked. He shook his head in bemusement. Nope, he wasn’t dreaming. There was a man getting beaten on the street and no one was responding. That line of parked vehicles is cutting off the view from passing traffic. The rest of the men had surrounded them, blocking pedestrian traffic on the sidewalk. Darrell was fidgeting, trying to look away, but his school friend had a hand on his shoulder, clamped firm.

  Cutter whipped out his cell, the burner that he always carried in addition to his usual phone, and dialed 911 instinctively. ‘Man being attacked in Brownsville. I can see guns and knives,’ he embellished and gave the location. ‘Oh my God! They’ve cut him!’ he cried out in alarm and hung up.

  That will bring the cops.

  He pulled out a bandana and wrapped it around his face. Was getting ready to rise when the victim was hauled to his feet. He was punched and shoved back to the vehicle. The seller pushed him inside the SUV, reached deep inside and snatched out a backpack. Slammed the door shut and pointed something dark and metallic-looking at the driver, who t
ook off, tires squealing.

  One of the hoods, seemingly the oldest of them, took the bag, unzipped it, checked its contents, zipped it up and gave it to Darrell. The student protested. He was pushed. He shook his head. He was slapped so hard his head rocked. He took the backpack reluctantly and slung it over his shoulders and slipped away, in between two cars with his friend.

  Cutter sagged back when the boy disappeared from sight. He could hear sirens in the distance. The boy wouldn’t be around when the cavalry showed up. That was a small win. He would take that.

  Four of the thugs split. They jogged down the boulevard toward the takeout in the distance and merged with the gloom and the thick of people.

  The leader straightened as the sirens grew louder. He conferred with the remaining hood and was readying to leave when Darrell returned. Alone, with the bag in hand, presenting it to the thug.

  What the—?

  Cutter swore softly. Cops would arrive at any moment. If they found the backpack on the student, and it contained drugs or cash …

  He cursed again, and thought turned to action as he heaved himself up, took several strides, narrowing the distance to the gangbangers.

  ‘Hey!’ he called out. ‘I saw what happened. You’re dealing. I’ll report you to—’

  ‘Mind your business, dude,’ the leader warned.

  Seven steps away. The two hoods fanning out to face him. Darrell’s wide eyes looking at him. The flash of red and blue lights down the boulevard, still a couple of blocks away.

  ‘I saw you punch that guy. Sell drugs to that car.’

  ‘Get away, old man,’ the second hood snarled. ‘Cross the street. Forget what happened.’

  ‘What’s in that backpack?’ Cutter lunged at Darrell, got his right hand on its strap and jerked it hard.

  The student shouted in pain. He stumbled back, freeing the bag.

  Just as the hoods attacked.

  Cutter was anticipating their moves.

  He spun on his heel and swung the backpack in an arc. Connected with the nearest man’s nose, which broke. Brought his knee up at the same time into the incoming groin and twisted away to let the man go sprawling.

  ‘YOU—’ the leader swore and drew a gun.

  Cutter hadn’t stopped moving. He dropped the backpack, ducked easily beneath the straightening arm, caught it at the elbow in a double-handed grip and dislocated the joint with a snap. He stepped aside nimbly and used the hood’s momentum to send him staggering into the side of the nearest vehicle. Smashed the thug’s face on its roof to finish him.

  The cruisers were close by then, their sirens loud, their lights painting the street, scattering vehicles out of their way.

  ‘GO!’ Cutter yelled at Darrell. One second to yank up the leg of his jeans, withdraw his ankle-strapped Benchmade. A snip of the sharp blade and the backpack’s strap, the one that he had been holding, came away.

  He grabbed the boy, who was frozen, staring wide-eyed, and dragged him along with him as he burst into a sprint down the boulevard.

  He had turned the corner when the first cruiser squealed to a stop at the fallen hoods. Left on Osborn Street, through a maze of housing projects, darting through spaces between shoppers, brushing past office-goers, running across lights and leaving curses and angry honks in their wake, and only when they were several blocks away did he slow down and let go of the boy.

  Darrell staggered to the wall of a store and rested against it. He sucked air harshly and wheezed.

  ‘You,’ he gasped when he had gathered his breath. ‘Are you following me?’

  And only then did Cutter realize his bandana had slipped off.

  11

  Cutter mopped his face with the scrap of cloth and stuffed it into his back pocket.

  ‘Let’s go,’ he nudged Darrell. ‘We’ve got to keep moving.’

  The student glowered at him and didn’t move.

  ‘Your choice.’ He shrugged. ‘The cops will fan out. Question people. They will find out two people bugged out of there.’ He sized the teenager up. ‘One of them with a backpack. Your choice.’ He set off at a brisk pace. Stifled a grin when the boy caught up with them. They cut through lanes, doubling back several times until they reached Saratoga Avenue.

  ‘Why are you following me?’ the boy demanded as they approached his house.

  ‘I wasn’t. I was in the neighborhood. I was heading to that takeout joint beyond your group when I recognized you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Did my mom set you up? To watch me?’

  ‘Believe what you want.’

  An occasional passing car lit them up. Darrell’s features pinched, his lips clamped, as he hurried to keep up with Cutter.

  ‘You’re going to tell her, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m considering it.’

  ‘Why don’t you start, to warm me up for her,’ he said bitterly. ‘Warn me about gangs and drugs.’

  ‘Do you need a warning? I’m sure you know how you’ll end up.’

  ‘Yeah? Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘Dead or in prison.’ He didn’t hold back. ‘That’s where most hoods end up.’

  ‘You don’t know that.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Who are you to lecture me?’ Darrell rounded on him. ‘You’ve no idea what it’s like for me. What I have been through.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell me?’

  ‘So that you’ll rat on me to Mom?’

  ‘I know what it’s like for you. You feel lost. Alone. Your mom comes home late. She’s always tired. You think she’s never there for you. When you and she talk, it’s always to fight. It was different when your dad was around. You’ve lost that feeling of family. That gang—there’s a feeling of belonging. You’re a part of them. They make you feel valued. You’re someone with them. I’ve seen it. I have lived it myself.’

  ‘I knew you would do that. Make stories up for me.’

  ‘Darrell,’ Cutter said, softening his voice. ‘You think you’re all alone. That it’s you against the world. The gang is your escape. It’s never like that. Those dudes? They’re using you. They wanted you to carry that backpack. What was in it? Baggies? Money? You’re a mule for them. You’re young. A high school student is not a priority for the cops. You’ll get off lightly if you’re caught. I bet those men, the ones who attacked me, have priors. They’ll be facing hard time, longer sentences if they’re arrested. It’s business for them. With your mom? She would kill for you.’

  ‘You think I haven’t heard this before? I hear enough of it at school. There’s nothing else Mom talks about. That and my grades. It’s the same at Manuel’s home, too.’

  Is that his school friend?

  ‘Who is he?’

  The student bit his lip. Wiped sweat from his face. He squirmed under Cutter’s intense gaze. ‘A friend,’ he said sullenly.

  ‘Was he the one with you?’

  ‘You were following me!’

  ‘I was at the traffic lights at Mother Gaston. At the nail bar. I saw you down the street with your friend. Didn’t recognize you initially.’

  ‘You were there all along? We didn’t see anyone.’

  You wouldn’t. Your buddies didn’t show any street skills.

  ‘I must have crossed the boulevard. Like I said, I was there on business. Manuel, he must be some friend. He stayed out of it. Why didn’t he take that backpack?’

  ‘He was arrested once. He was let off with a warning.’

  ‘And you’re clean.’

  Darrell flushed. He looked to his right, at his apartment building far down the street.

  ‘I can make my own decisions.’

  ‘I can see that.’

  ‘You don’t have the right to—’

  ‘Yeah. And I’m not telling you any more. You’ll die or go to prison. Not my business,’ he said callously. ‘Tell me something. If that gang means that much to you, why did you refuse to take that backpack? They had to force you. And why did you return? You had second though
ts?’

  A stubborn look came over the student. He set off down the street.

  He doesn’t want to admit that. He thinks it will make him look weak. Back off, Cutter told himself. Yet another lecture isn’t what he needs.

  ‘Why did you cut that?’ Darrell nodded at the strap in his hand.

  ‘It’s got your prints. Mine, too. And unlike you, I have no interest in jail time.’

  Been there. Done that.

  That silenced the boy until they reached his building. He reached the door, hesitated and turned back.

  ‘Will you tell my mom?’

  Darrell’s face shone with perspiration. His shirt was dirty and stuck to his lean body. His trousers and shoes were scuffed and his school bag kept slipping off his shoulder. He jammed his hands in his pockets, but not before Cutter saw them shake.

  He’s scared.

  He read the boy for what he was in that moment. A fifteen-year-old whose world had collapsed when his folks split up. A teenager who had gotten himself in deep and didn’t know how to extricate himself.

  ‘It will break her.’

  The boy nodded dumbly, a pleading look on his face.

  ‘Call me. Any time.’ He handed over his card. ‘For anything.’

  He walked away in the darkness, wondering what he would tell Carmel Ward.

  And how he could get Darrell out of the gang.

  12

  Cutter was in his apartment an hour later. He washed up, went to the kitchen and rummaged through the refrigerator.

  Removed three eggs and made a French omelet. A generous sprinkle of spices, a taste for which he had developed while in Asia. Poured himself a glass of juice and settled down for his dinner.

  Home was a three-bedroom apartment on Lafayette, a brisk walk from his office. Funded from the proceeds of fixer missions for millionaire clients.

  A long couch in the sitting room. A Persian rug on the floor. Mahogany dining table. Kitchen outfitted with modern fittings. No decorations. Just the one photograph of Riley by his bedside. That was enough. He carried her within himself. What more did he need?