by Desmond Hall
“I need to wash off, Leah. Criminals stink, you know.” He added, “Isn’t that right, Frankie?”
“How would he know?” Penelope said. “Take a seat, Lloyd.”
“Guess I’m in demand.” Bradford forced a laugh, picked up the chair next to Leah, and walked it to the empty end of the table and sat.
“Really?” Leah rolled her eyes.
Leah’s grandmother placed her cloth napkin on her lap. “Lloyd, you’re being bellicose.”
Frankie told himself to stay calm and stay quiet—don’t slip. But his mind was racing. What kind of game was Bradford playing here?
“I didn’t go to college, so I don’t know what ‘bellicose’ means,” Bradford was saying to his mother. He took another chicken leg. “Why don’t you tell me what college you’re going to?”
“He was going to the University of Arizona in America, but he had to give up his scholarship,” Penelope said, passing the salad.
“That so?” The muscles in Bradford’s jaw shifted. “Why’s that?”
Frankie held his gaze. “My father got shot, so I’m going to stay here until he’s better.”
Penelope’s eyes went wide. But Bradford merely nodded. “So many people getting shot these days. Seems it can happen to anybody.”
“Why would you say that?” Leah was mad.
“I’m just sympathizing. The boy must be upset.” Bradford tapped the table, as if to get Frankie’s attention. “You upset, Frankie?”
Frankie hated the way Bradford said his name—he was mocking him. But stay cool, stay cool. “Yes, I am.”
“You don’t look it, though.” Bradford waved the leg. “You must be the hold-it-all-in type.”
Leah cleared her throat. “Give him a break, huh, Dad? This isn’t an interrogation.”
“Frankie doesn’t think it is. Do you, Frankie?” He bit into the leg. “A father has a right to know who his daughter is dating.”
“Nobody said we were dating,” Leah fired back. But she turned her gaze on Frankie and grinned.
Bradford’s phone rang. He took it out and looked at it, then at Penelope. “Things jumping off downtown.” His toying with Frankie morphed into grim focus. “I have to go.” To Leah he said, “Want to see your new works later.” Then he turned to Frankie. “Guess you’ll be gone when I get back. Maybe I’ll see you again. Maybe not.”
“Just go.” Leah flicked her hand at him, but playfully.
Bradford got up, ran his hand over her hair. “Oh, you know you’ll miss me.”
She brushed his hand away. “Bye, Dad.”
Dad.
Frankie played it cool for the rest of dinner: polite, not giving much away when he responded to Penelope’s barrage of questions. Afterward, walking him to the gate, Leah asked why he’d been so quiet, and he explained he was worried about his dad. A half truth? He was going back to the hospital very early in the morning to check on Samson.
As he biked home, pedaling like a bat out of hell, he felt spooked. All he could think was, out of all the fathers in the universe, Bradford had to be Leah’s. And never mind what her reaction to him being in the posse would be—being with the daughter of any cop wouldn’t go over well with Joe at all. Being with the daughter of Bradford? No dice.
Twenty-Eight
the next morning, Frankie sat beside Winston at the edge of the circular driveway at Joe’s encampment. He watched his uncle, Aunt Jenny, Buck-Buck, and Ice Box as they deliberated while standing around the big wooden table about a hundred feet away. Frankie had just pled Winston’s case, urging them to give Winston another chance, but now he felt queasy and second-guessed himself, wondering if he had said the right things, pushed the right buttons. They’d been so stone-faced, even when he’d told them how the posse meant everything to Winston. Frankie’s stomach rumbled. He rubbed it, but that didn’t help. Looking up, he saw a bottlebrush tree just starting to bloom. His ma always had a tea ready that she made from bottlebrush leaves for belly issues. Frankie sure could use some now.
Winston, head down, was splitting a leaf apart by its stem. How ironic that Winston was now out of the posse and Frankie was firmly in: Frankie Green, killing machine.
Winston leaned back, still fiddling with the leaf. Frankie focused on the scar under Winston’s eye. “What if they let you back in and you have to get beat up again? You know, jumped back in?”
“Me no ’fraid.” Winston let one section of the leaf flutter down. “Beating is the least of my problems. Me need di money.”
Frankie wasn’t so sure that it was the least of Winston’s troubles. He wished the others would hurry up and decide. He looked back again. Buck-Buck wouldn’t stop talking, his every word accompanied by wild hand gestures. This might take forever. But maybe Buck-Buck was on Frankie’s side? He did owe Frankie a favor—Frankie had never brought up that phone call Buck-Buck made during the church mission. Aunt Jenny didn’t even seem to be listening—more interested in her phone, maybe waiting for some message from Denetria? But seriously, what could be taking so long? Either Winston would be allowed back in the posse or he wouldn’t. Truth was, while Frankie hoped for a yes, he fully expected a no. He snatched up a stone and chucked it into the bush. Some small creature scrambled away. There was another thing—he should tell Joe about Bradford before Bradford told Joe. But he could deal with only one thing at a time.
Frankie glanced at the Toyota parked nearby. Sunlight flared off the side mirror, like off sunglasses. Ray-Bans. No—he wasn’t going there. But the image pushed its way through anyway. The growing pool of red, that permanent look of wide-eyed surprise, plumed in his mind.
He felt like lately, everything set off some type of memory. Carrying water from the pipe to his house, tying his shoelace, even the freakin’ bottlebrush tree. He couldn’t get away from them, like being stuck in Anansi’s web. He ran his hand down his face as if wiping the web off. Boots crunched the gravel—and Frankie looked to the encampment. Joe.
“Nephew.” Joe beckoned.
Frankie eyed Winston. Winston gave a short nod and Frankie went over, trying to read Joe’s face.
But there was no need—Joe got right to it. Folding his long, sinewy arms, he said, “Me can’t let him back inna the posse.”
Despite expecting this answer, hearing it said out loud gave Frankie a desperate sensation of free-falling. “Uncle, I’ll vouch for him.”
Joe’s expression remained unchanged, as did his answer. “No, mon.”
But Frankie knew how Joe worked with his men. He took them at their word. So he tried again. “I mean it. I’ll vouch for Winston.”
“Vouch?” Joe snorted. “You can’t just give out your word, you know. It has to mean something, Frankie. You haffi’ believe in it before the next man can believe inna it.”
“I believe in him, Uncle. I’ve known him all my life.” Frankie held Joe’s eyes, wanting him to believe, urging him to believe. Without the posse, Winston was a marked man. Dead man walking. Garnett would be looking for him. He kept holding Joe’s gaze, trying to project unwavering resolve.
“Believe in what, Frankie?” Joe asked at last. Frankie saw that he couldn’t win the argument with words.
“Uncle, Winston wants to pay.”
“Is what you saying?”
“The police pay Winston’s salary, don’t they?”
Joe laughed without making any sound.
So he was right. With that for confidence, Frankie continued. “They aren’t going to keep paying as much when they find out you don’t have as many men as when you started. Why don’t you just take a cut of Winston’s salary and give him one more chance?”
“Nice try, schoolboy,” Joe said, but he didn’t leave. He began walking in a circle around Frankie, his head bobbing. At least Frankie’d piqued his uncle’s interest, or greed. Joe finally stopped. “But what make you think me can’t find somebody else to do Winston’s job?”
“Give him a chance, one last chance, Uncle.” Frankie thought about what Win
ston had said, that he needed the money. Hell, he’d probably pay a lot to be in the posse. “Uncle, how much of his salary would it take?” He could hear his own heart beating, the thump seemingly coming from his neck. He willed himself calm.
Joe stood nodding. Finally he pushed his dreads from his forehead. “Hmm? It can happen if me get two hundred US out of his salary.”
“Two hundred?”
“Problem?” Joe’s eyebrows arched up so high they looked cartoonish.
“No problem,” Frankie said quickly. He pumped his fist, both for relief and to further affirm that he was okay with the deal.
Joe pointed a finger at Frankie. “You can answer for him?”
“Yes.” Frankie couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making another bad move. But what else could he do? Without the posse’s protection…
“Is this your idea or his?”
“His.” It was clear Joe didn’t believe him; Winston just wasn’t that smart. Shit.
But Joe merely said, “Me haffi’ chat with the crew first.” Frankie was nearly shaking with relief, but then Joe said, “Buck-Buck was on your side. Him acted like him owe you one.”
Relief gone. “Ahh—”
“Don’t bother lie. Now, you owe me one.” He started walking away.
“Thank you, Uncle.”
Joe remembered something and walked back. “How Samson doing?”
“I only got to see him for a little bit this morning,” Frankie explained. “But not so good, mon. But the doctor is hopeful.” Hopeful.
Joe scratched through his dreads, shrugged, and turned once more.
Favor on top of favor. Frankie’s argument had been flimsy. Joe would never have considered taking Winston back if someone else were asking. Frankie squatted where he was. He drew in the dirt to contain his nerves—an outline of a circuit board. He was lying left and right lately. He had to remember why he was doing this. It was odd how he kept having to do that, remember the reason behind it all. His father.
A whistle cut through his thoughts. Joe waved. “Bring Winston.”
Frankie motioned to Winston, who popped up and jogged right over. “Thanks, mon,” he said.
“Hold on,” Frankie whispered. “He only went for it because I said you’d give him two hundred US out of your pay.”
Winston’s eyes bugged. “What the hell, Frankie?”
Frankie tipped his head back in frustration. Winston just didn’t get it—didn’t get the bigger picture. As in the dead picture. Who would take care of his mother and sister then? “You want in or not?” It really wasn’t easy being Winston’s friend.
Winston wagged his head side to side like he was having a conversation with himself. “Whatever.”
“Not whatever, mon. You either want in or you don’t.”
Winston looked sheepish. “In. And—thanks, man.”
* * *
The rest of the posse had gathered by Joe, their game faces on. Frankie’s stomach dropped. Winston was paying two prices. Oh, Winston.
“Stand over here,” Joe commanded Winston.
Frankie opened his mouth to protest, but the look on his uncle’s face held him back.
Winston, however, raised his head high and faced them all, legs wide, already taking a stance that might allow him to stay on his feet. Not that that would help. But there was no cowardice there.
“Yes now, Winston. Everybody in di posse is going to get a taste of the money you paid to get back in.”
Frankie blinked in surprise. He’d thought Joe would keep the money for himself. But he should have known—posse first.
Joe continued. “And now, everybody is going to take a piece out of your hide.” He licked his lips. “You first, Frankie. One good shot.”
Frankie’s eye twitched. There were so many times he’d wanted to punch out his friend, for being an idiot—but no way did he want to do it like this. No—
“We have a mission tonight, you know,” Joe barked. “Now.”
Frankie exhaled, balled his fist, and slammed it into Winston’s chest. As his friend grunted, all Frankie could think was Damn you, Joe.
“No, mon,” Joe said. “In the face.”
What?
“In the face,” Joe repeated.
Frankie smelled his own sweat. I’m sorry, Winston. I’m sorry. Balling his fist again, he stepped forward and smashed Winston’s fleshy cheek. The contact sounded like a slap, one that echoed in Frankie’s head.
With Winston doubled over, heads on his knees, Joe barked, “Go.” The whole of the posse moved, an avenging force.
It was over quickly. Big Pelton and Greg were hauling Winston to his feet. Joe handed Winston back his gun. Frankie nearly puked with relief.
“People! Hear me now. I don’t want no dead people on this next mission! Take no chances. We’re not getting out of the vehicles. Is a drive-by t’ing. No killing. We’re going to shoot up a corner, but not the people. Let me repeat. This isn’t no killing t’ing! We want to scare the voters in that district! That is all! Shoot over heads.”
Frankie rubbed at his aching wrist. Buck-Buck noticed, came over. “Okay, we even now.” He smacked Frankie’s shoulder and walked off.
Frankie rolled his wrist, making sense of what Joe had said. He thought back to being in Denetria’s tent with Jenny. Denetria had pretty much agreed to distribute for Joe as long as there was no shooting, no violence that could erupt into a war with Taqwan. So this mission had to be in Kingston, somewhere near Taqwan’s turf. That was the reason for Joe’s lecture. Thing was—Joe had sounded odd. His voice was somehow lower, heavier than normal, not Joe’s comfortable-in-his-own-skin voice. Like he was nervous and trying to hide it. His face bore the same look as when they’d spotted Ray-Ban Boy dropping his water bucket and whipping out his phone. Joe had seen him do it. The danger was obvious, but he bullheadedly went ahead with that mission anyway. Joe should have called it all off right then and there. He should have, but he didn’t. And so people—kids—died. Joe was in over his head.
Damn.
Frankie glanced over at Aunt Jenny. She would have read the situation correctly. She wouldn’t have misread the situation and just charged ahead with the mission after being made by Ray-Ban Boy. She handled Mr. Brown, Denetria, everyone in the posse, even Joe to some extent, and she wasn’t afraid to do what was necessary.
Damn.
Ice Box was laying out the route they were going to take and went over the gangs they might come across. Joe cracked his knuckles, over and over. Frankie felt increasingly nervous—because no denying it, Joe was nervous.
What Leah had said the other day came into his head: Maybe we kind of go around each day sort of lost, just kind of feeling our way through it. Was that Joe? And how was Leah so aware? How the hell was he in such a bumboclot mess? How?
* * *
In the back of the F-150, Frankie’s nerves turned to worries. What part of Kingston did Bradford patrol? And Winston—he was clearly in pain, subdued, yet still fidgety, his lip busted and crusted with dried blood. A knot was rising on his forehead. Stay alert, buddy. Don’t screw this up, Frankie mind-meld messaged him.
Joe was sitting shotgun in the front of the truck instead of his usual position in the lead Toyota, and he kept glancing back, his eyes on Winston too.
They drove through an area of West Kingston between Tivoli and Trench Town, a network of rival garrison communities ruled by various factions whose income, Frankie knew, was based on drug dealing. A dry concrete riverbed of aqueducts snaked its way through the garrisons. Shanty homes were hunched so close together they could have shared one long corrugated zinc roof—maybe that had been the inspiration for one of Leah’s paintings. Frankie hoped she was doing something nice right now, like painting. He hoped like hell he could see her soon.
The six new recruits kept their arms folded on the handles of the shovels each had in front of them. They were posing as laborers, as Joe had advised. It was so hot out that the metal burned to the touch. As the
traffic grew heavier, the vehicles slowed. Near a busy street corner, a pair of ten- or twelve-year-old boys in dingy mesh marinas were playing that game where one person held out his hand while another tried to slap it before the first person could move it out of the way. Frankie and Winston glanced at each other—they’d played the same game when they’d been in elementary school.
On the opposite corner, Frankie spotted two teenage gang members, matching crescent-shaped burns on the side of their faces, in crisp legit-looking American sports jerseys down to their knees. One of them narrowed his eyes as Joe lifted his megaphone.
Frankie took a deep breath and let it out slow, searching for calm. He was going to have to use his gun again, and hopefully he wouldn’t hit anyone this time either.
“No one here shall vote JLP!” Joe shouted through the megaphone. “A vote for JLP means death!” He knocked on the back window, the signal. Frankie dropped his shovel, and the clanks of the other metal shovels hitting the flatbed followed. He raised his Glock and started firing into the sky. The other recruits joined in. Gunshots thundered, the collection of sound building and threatening as if it could shatter Frankie’s skull.
“JESUS CHRIST!” “LORD JESUS!” “BUMBOCLOT!” people shouted in terror. The two boys were scrambling away in different directions. A woman dropped her bags and ran; some bright red ackee and fat jackfruit rolled on the ground. The teen in a Miami Dolphins jersey fled. The one in a Chicago Bears jersey dropped to the ground, cringing.
Shots blasted into the upper wall of a grocery store, chunks of concrete breaking away. Parts of the sidewalk splintered as if it were glass.
Frankie’s jaw ached, he was clenching his teeth so tightly. This was insane! Even if they weren’t aiming at anyone, a ricochet could kill someone standing in the wrong place. Shit! Had Samson been hit by a ricochet?
Frankie looked at Winston. What the hell? His gun was in his hand but aimed down. He hadn’t even raised it, much less fired a shot! He seemed to be staring a thousand yards away. Like he was back at the church, frozen. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit!