“That’s right. And where were we?” asked Achilles.
“We were talking to Merrywhen, Mary …”
“Merriweather,” said Achilles.
“Merriweather. Right!” He smiled with satisfaction, settling back into the seat.
“Because?” asked Achilles.
“Because of the funeral. Because Wexler is dead.”
As he drove, Achilles snuck sideways glances at Sammy. In the hotel lot, Sammy asked, “Why does your friend walk like a robot?”
“He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“And where were you?” asked Sammy.
Troy asked a lot of questions too. Why aren’t my palms the same color as my skin? Why isn’t my skin the same color as yours? Why is Achilles so much darker than the rest of us? Why did our parents give us away? Were we bad? Can they take us back? Why do we have a menorah if we’re not Jewish? Achilles was embarrassed by these dumb questions to which even he knew the answers. The skin in our palms has less melanin, is thicker, and has keratinocytes. We’re black, but our parents are white because their ancestors evolved in different climates. Melanin comes in two types, pheomelanin, which is red, and eumelanin, which is very dark brown. I have more eumelanin, which was determined by four to six genes that I inherited from each parent. We didn’t do anything wrong. No one can take us back or return us. We’re not on loan like library books or returnable like merchandise. And, that’s a kinara, not a menorah. Achilles had answered with disdain, realizing now that he knew the answers because he had asked the same questions.
There were also unasked questions. If he’d been Troy’s complexion, would girls have liked him more? If he hadn’t had a brother, would he have been his father’s favorite? He’d envied his brother, his ease, the way the air parted for him, the way Troy wasn’t followed in the store or pulled over when their mother sent him on an errand, or triple-checked at the bank, all things that Achilles never told his parents about because they never happened when he was with them, and they never happened to Troy. So it had to be Achilles’s fault. Yes, he’d envied his brother’s skin, his “light-complected” genes. Yes, he’d begged, entreated, pleaded with Troy to tell no one that they were adopted so that his brother’s skin could be his own.
CHAPTER 17
SOME ARE BROWN, MOST ARE BLACK. SOME ARE SLEEK, MOST MATTE. SOME textured, most flat. A few have bright splashes of color for the younger crowd, on others are earth tones for the mature customer. The greens vary from light to verdant, the browns from oak to mahogany, the camouflage from desert to woodland to traditional. Long barrels, bolt action, breach loaders. Large caliber for game. Target pistols for sport. Air rifles for children. Being a sporting goods store, they stocked oddities like a fluorescent orange shotgun, a handgun with plastic ribs lending it the futuristic look of a laser pistol, and a selection of gift sets with matching knives, holsters, and ammo bags, all nested in festively colored molded plastic inside cellophane-wrapped boxes adorned with glossy photos of bucks and buxom women. Achilles settled on a black .260, a handsome machine with clean lines, a smooth wooden butt, and none of the superfluous attachments that make cheaper rifles and pistols more attractive to kids. It was pricey but reliable, important because he hadn’t time to zero the sights. The rifle was one that aficionados consider well made, manufactured by an Eastern European company with the unofficial slogan Preager Velond Pistols, Intl.—When the shooter wants to send the very best.
Not all agreed. Among his friends, five loved Preagers; four thought them acceptable. They also disagreed on the best SAW. Three said RPK because it was a lighter gun. The rest liked the Browning because it had more firepower. It was a moot debate, because they were assigned the RPK. They argued anyway—what else was there to do when there was nothing around to shoot at? They also disagreed about the best heavyweight boxer of all time, the most realistic version of Madden NFL, and what to do if killed. Most said, “Burn my body.” Jackson, Wexler, and Ramirez were holding out for resurrection. This conversation started the week before Jackson died, prompted by another squad humping a fallen friend across three clicks of mountainous terrain.
Wages said, “I don’t care if I look like a bag of smashed assholes. Mail me back to Nola. I don’t care what’s left.”
Merri said, “Mamma don’t need to see me all like chicken parts and shit.”
Jackson said, “If nothing’s left but smoking nuts, ship those salty apples home.”
They did. Jackson’s corpse traveled with them for a day, getting a whirlwind tour of southeast Goddamnistan, as Dixon dubbed it the day of the IED. Jackson’s body was with them when Wexler lost his mind, when Merriweather got shot, and when Wages took out that sniper. A rough forty-eight, and halfway through it, Merriweather suggested the tax, the only thing the squad agreed on. Merri, who prayed silently each a.m., tapped Jackson’s black body bag and said, “I know they’re treating you well up there, my man.” He later followed with, “What are we doing? We need to tax these fuckers.”
Their first consensus. Tax those motherfuckers. Fuck interrogation and dropping mofos off for AI. If I get smoked, level the place, go Vietnam on them, get medieval, like the Crusades and shit. Get jiggy-Jihadi-Hutu-Tutsi right back at them.
Dixon said, “Yeah baby. I like the cut of your chin.”
Wexler, who usually kicked dust on the topic, chimed in. “Torch it all.”
“That won’t get you into heaven,” said Dixon.
“It will make us feel better,” said Troy.
“Right on! Eat that anger. We don’t get down, we get even,” said Merriweather.
Can you go to both heavens? Can you bring the virgins to our heaven? Jokes circled the room, including mention that Hitler killed ten to one. At that Wages cut them off: “Everyone is going home, in one piece.” It was decided, though—manifest extreme prejudice.
As Achilles planned to. Would he have told Troy? Yes, and Troy would have joined him. Troy had heart, prey drive. Achilles always knew he could trust his brother without question. He remembered their big fight over the truck, tumbling down the driveway. Their mother running outside screaming, their father on her heels with his rifle, laughing once he saw that it was only his sons who had provoked his wife’s howling anger. And why were they fighting? Their father chuckled at the explanation. Their mother cursed and pushed—yes, pushed—them into two separate rooms and asked them again. Two hours later, their answers remained the same. Troy (on a Britpop kick) was like, “Because Achilles is a right faggot.” Achilles (on an NWA kick) was like, “Because Troy is a spoiled punkass bitch.” As far as Achilles knew, the truth died with Troy, as did the day they skipped school to go into DC for the Chuck Brown performance, and how the garage window really broke. What about all the habits he didn’t have to explain (mayonnaise on eggs, that he shit every night at four a.m. local time, how Jet magazine gave him a hard-on)? What else did only Troy know about him? What had he forgotten about himself that died with his brother? Which of those things, if any, could he tell Ines? He would make a list and carry it with him.
He would begin with the minefield. That night, Achilles was driving, Wexler was riding shotgun, and Troy and Merriweather were in the back. Jackson thudded against the roof on every rise in the rough wadi, the dry riverbeds that served as roads. “We’ve got to tighten those ropes,” said Merri. Wexler howled, threw himself out of the vehicle, and started running, dragging his pack behind him. It was a quarter moon, so there was little light, and using their flashlights could attract unwanted attention. Achilles got out of the vehicle and called after Wexler in a hushed voice, hearing in response only steps in the sand and brush. Achilles stopped Merriweather from giving chase. It would only make Wexler run farther, and Wexler was the fastest of the four of them. Just that morning they had been intact, all of them, laughing and joking. They had passed some kids playing in a pile of rubble and Wexler asked about average lifespans, yelling and repeating himself to be heard over the engine: “How long do
Afghans live?” Merri laughed. “Until we find them.”
The faint glow of the moon illuminated the mountain range at the edge of the horizon. The occasional bat flew by, and they could make out every star in the sky. It was one of those moments when Achilles was drunk on the idea that if a war hadn’t been going on, this might be one of the most beautiful landscapes he had ever seen. Instead, he wanted every inch of it razed, every tree stripped bare, every building leveled, every rock crushed. A flash of light silhouetted Wexler as a tree of roiling red and orange flames sprouted. He grabbed his neck and fell down. It was dark again. A sheet of squawking bats passed overhead. It had happened so quickly no one had time to blink or shut one eye, and they were all momentarily blinded. Merriweather cursed. Troy shook his head mournfully. Enter now the other Achilles, stage left. A man named Achilles Holden Conroy spun on his heels, climbed into the driver’s seat, hit the hot start button, and patiently awaited his mates.
As he watched himself, the other Achilles pressed the hot start button again, and the starter barked. He waved the others in. The other Achilles slapped the side of the door. Merriweather and Troy took small steps toward the vehicle. The other Achilles put it in gear. “That’s it. Let’s go now.”
Troy was almost at the vehicle. Merriweather was reaching for the door handle. Then they heard Wexler’s curling cry. The other Achilles’s murmurings that there was nothing to be done and Merriweather’s nods of assent be damned, Troy charged out there—red illume between his teeth, as soldierly and surefooted as if on asphalt, across the rise and through the shallow bowl—hefted Wexler over his shoulder, and on his return, with his left hand—the jump-shot hand, ATM hand, jab hand, shooting hand, pitching hand, cue-stick hand, wanking hand, the scarred hand—patting the back of Wexler’s legs; mouth full of fire, he can easily be imagined in silhouette on a recruitment poster or in a movie trailer; more emotional than that scene in Platoon when Willem Dafoe, peppered with bullets, is left behind to die at the hands of the VC, sparking Achilles to wonder how he was going to explain this, fingering his pistol, wondering if he could live up to the old saying, In the final assault, save the last bullet for yourself, that question remaining on his lips until Troy lay Wexler in the sand at Merriweather’s feet like a peace offering, at which point the other Achilles, who’d remained in the driver’s seat until now, came to watch as Wexler was bandaged. The two Achilles stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and the other Achilles said, “Goddamn him to Christ.” On the drive back, whenever he looked back at Wexler, he imagined him strapped to the roof.
On that night so hot they wore it like a robe, tossing that little body over his shoulder, Goliath saved David, leaving Achilles only angry. And after Troy took walking through a minefield as proof he didn’t even need to duck when people tossed bullets, Achilles felt resentment, wondering how different it would be if he were also so confident. After the morgue, he knew it wasn’t the confidence he’d wanted, or the reassurance that Troy would have walked into a minefield for him. He’d wanted Wexler left behind that night, so that everything could remain normal, so his brother wouldn’t take luck for latitude. Achilles loved Wexler like a brother, as the saying went. But Troy is his brother. There was like; there was is; and, there was his fear of is becoming was.
For two nights, Achilles followed Pepper while Ines slept. Everywhere he went, people smiled when Pepper arrived and sighed when he pulled off. Even the cops treated him well, leaning in the back window like groupies after autographs. Pepper traveled primarily from the Bricks to a house in East Point and back, making an occasional detour at an old apartment complex named Hollywood Court where dogs were fought in an abandoned nursery. The second night, the police stopped Achilles. The truck was still registered in Troy’s name, which they found suspect enough to make Achilles ride in the police car while they went on another call.
The nursery was too crowded and the house in East Point was a gated community in a sea of subdivisions, surrounded by flat land providing little cover, so Achilles broke into the church being built near the Banneker Homes. The bell tower provided a perfect line of sight, and room to maneuver as needed because there was no bell, only a large speaker mount. After firing his second shot—he planned to get off at least two—he would cut the barrel off the gun, drop it into his backpack, and walk away. Why would the police set up a roadblock or search pedestrians over the death of a drug dealer? If anything, they should reward the shooter.
Ines was antsy, threatening to return to New Orleans, so he decided his second night in the tower would be the night. He waited a long time before the golden Hummer finally appeared. The bodyguard limped into the building with the fire damage. Wexler had said his name was Cornelius. Achilles preferred to think of him as the accomplice. A white cargo van pulled up. Accomplice loaded two muzzled pits into the van, tapped the side of the vehicle, and it pulled off. He leaned against the wall, smoking and picking at his nose. Achilles sighted on the back door of the Hummer and waited.
The clickety-clack of high heels bounced off the wall. Two prostitutes passed the entrance to the Bricks, slowing as they neared the guys posted at the entrance. The guys at the gate didn’t even look up, understandably so. It was a hip-hop version of Jack Sprat. One was large-breasted but fat enough that if she lost the weight, she’d lose the bait. The other was thin as a stick and walked as if she was on stilts, teetering as if she might topple over at any minute.
Meanwhile Accomplice paced around the car, occasionally checking his watch. He moved with an exaggerated gait, a walk meant to announce his street cred, but which was so extreme he was the caricature of a street hood, the hop in his step something you’d see in an SNL skit featuring a white comedian doing his best impression of a B-boy. Finally, he got into the car and drove off.
Around two in the morning, the Hummer returned with the van close behind. Again, Accomplice loaded two muzzled dogs, tapped the van, and it pulled away, lights off until it hit the street. This time Achilles crawled to the other side of the tower to track the van’s progress, but it disappeared from view at the highway on-ramp. The bodyguard paced around the Hummer again, talking on his phone while he did his pimp walk. He stopped at the edge of the light, gesticulating wildly, holding the phone up to his mouth as if it was a walkie-talkie, yelling into it before slamming it shut and pocketing it, dropping his cigarette in the process. He lit a cigarette at the wrong end and fumbled with two more, successfully lighting the fourth only after he leaned back against the wall. He held the first breath so long that only a wisp of smoke slipped out when he exhaled. He French-inhaled and slapped the air in front of his face. Still leaning back against the wall, he crossed one leg over the other. Achilles dropped his sights to the man’s legs. One shot could take out both knees, and Achilles was good with a gun. His father had made sure of that. His father’s only rule: Don’t kill anything you can’t eat and don’t maim anything you don’t kill. Two rules roundly disregarded in combat.
Achilles waited, the feeling shifting from neutral to impatient. He had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t want the driver’s knees, he wanted Pepper’s head; he was aiming for apricot, as the snipers put it. Patience was the key. He had known this moment was coming as soon as he heard that Troy was found outside of the Bricks. For all Achilles knew, Accomplice was involved, or another foot soldier, but nothing demoralized a group more than spilling the brains behind the operation. The bodyguard was pacing again, and as he walked thoughtfully, head down, in the shadow of the wall, it became clear that the swaggering step was merely camouflaging a limp.
Merriweather walked like that. When they went to visit him at Walter Reed Hospital, they were reminded of everything that could have possibly gone wrong for them but didn’t. At one point, Merriweather and Wexler had ended up in the same room. Achilles finally understood the meaning of the word irony. How had their luck changed all at once? They survived a baker’s dozen of snipers, mortars, IEDs, artillery, RPGs, bombs, land mines, claymores, n
umerous troops in contact incidents, missiles, grenades, friendly fire, and suicide. Then, barely a month before they’d be done, Jackson catches the IED, Merriweather unzips the kid, and Wexler, upset at Merriweather, runs off into the dark and ends up in a minefield. While he’s being carted off, the last thing Wexler says is, “Merriweather won’t get away with it.”
Wexler was right. A couple days later, Merriweather was shot in the ankle while the squad moved in on a residence where Taliban sympathizers were known to be hiding. But he took it like a man. After Wages ran out to the road and dragged him to cover, and Troy packed the wound with Quikclot that stopped bleeding but burned like hot sauce on the devil’s ass, Merriweather said, “I don’t know what’s fucking worse, the bullet or the so-called first aid.”
They laughed, but Achilles was thankful he’d never needed Quikclot. When they later went to see Merriweather show off his new foot, each time he adjusted the prosthetic, Achilles saw the permanent burns the Quikclot left on his calf. But no matter to Merriweather; he clipped his prosthetic on and strutted around the room like he’d never strutted before, a dip in his walk deep enough that you could miss the limp, if you didn’t know him. Wexler later claimed he hadn’t meant what he said, that Merriweather had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was how Achilles preferred to think about it. That’s what he told Sammy.
But Sammy’s second question was even more disturbing. If Wexler was in the wrong place at the wrong time, where had Achilles been? On the sidelines. He’d watched Wages dragging Merriweather, leaving two ruts in the dust and a trail of blood, the right foot skipping and twisting like a caster, picking up dirt like a dropped popsicle, and he couldn’t make himself take one step out of the alcove where he was hiding. Even when they were within arm’s reach, Achilles hesitated, afraid of being shot in the hand.
Troy was different.
Hold It 'Til It Hurts Page 29