by Desmond Hall
What did he mean? By telling him that, what did—oh, ohh. Frankie’s mouth went dry.
“Come on, Scholarship Boy, figure it out.”
Frankie knew he had about ten seconds to figure it out. “Are you telling me to leave her?” He hated that his voice trembled, he hated Bradford for it, for all of it. Bradford was the problem. Bradford, and all the Bradfords out there, were the reason behind the posses. Joe called it—it was all a shitstem. Poltrixters needed votes, and they got them through the posses. Hell, it was even in Leah’s art. Didn’t Bradford ever look at her paintings? Shit.
“You know exactly what I’m telling you. And don’t think I’m afraid of your uncle.” He stood up. “People disappear all the time in Jamaica, and nobody ever finds out why. You tell Leah or your uncle about any of this and you will find out why. You get three days. Now, time to go,” Bradford said. He pinched his nose. “Show yourself out.” He walked away, leaving Frankie’s gun on the table.
Forty-Six
frankie watched his clock strike three a.m. He had lain awake in disbelief, in terror, all night, his carousel of mistakes revolving in his head.
Sweat soaked his T-shirt. There was no one to talk to, no one to help him. Not even Winston. Man, he missed Winston. He now fully understood why his father had so hated this world, hated Joe’s choices. The bad only led to worse. And now he was caught in the worst. He stripped down and hung his shirt out the window to dry, feeling the chill of the night air. Somehow that snapped him from his fears, calming him down. Exhaustion finally got the better of him, and he slept until dawn.
First thing after breakfast, Frankie called Leah, his finger ready to push the end button if Bradford answered.
“Want to hang out after you vote?” she asked first thing, all chipper.
“What?” Was she talking about something at school?
“It’s Election Day, dummy. I’m eighteen, and PS, so are you. We should go this morning. The lines might be crazy later.”
He’d forgotten that today was the election! He thought about all he’d done to influence the election, and he didn’t even know a damn thing about who was running—policies or anything. “Yeah, I don’t know.” He didn’t even have a clue where to go vote in his district.
“Well, if you go, bring a lot of ID. They said at school that they might turn away a bunch of first-time voters because of fraud. Figures, right?”
She had no idea. He’d told her about Ray-Ban Boy but not about the reason why the posse had gone to the church. He felt so guilty that he could hardly stay on the phone. “Hey, let me get back to you?”
“Soon, though. I’m not kidding. It’s going to be packed later. Hit me back when you’re done and we can meet up at school. The studio will be open. See you there, okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“Bye.”
She was so excited about voting. Frankie put the phone away and picked up the mirror. He looked as whipped as he felt. There was a piece of lint in his hair. He brushed his hair backward like his father had always told him to do. Samson’s clippers glinted in a ray of sun. Frankie pressed the button, but it didn’t turn on; the batteries were probably dead. He could plug the clippers in and give himself a cut, if there were only some electricity. He thought for a minute. If he grabbed some duct tape, a knife, and a pair of pliers, he could go down the road to the light pole and tap into the electrical feed; he only needed to splice some wires. Which made him realize that he could put in an electric pump for the posse. They could dig deeper and get a sustained supply of water instead of always digging new wells.
But—He caught himself. He was leaving. In one day, he got the best news and the worst. But at least, at least he was leaving the posse. He wouldn’t be there long enough to fix anything. He felt a small current of joy. One good thing. At least one. He reached for his good jeans and the white button-down shirt, figuring it was a decent enough look to go vote. How the hell did people even dress for voting? Neither Samson nor his mother had ever voted, at least not that he could recall. As he buttoned his shirt, he thought about how it was now part of the worst events in his life. Ma and Dad’s funerals, and in a few hours, breaking up with Leah. Because Bradford wasn’t fronting. Not with that mask.
Outside, there wasn’t a cloud to be seen, just a blanket of blue. The camp moved in slow motion, quieter than he had ever seen them. It seemed many had had a sleepless night.
Frankie nearly made it to the main road with no one stopping him, needing him to dig more yams or clean breakfast plates—nearly, when of course his luck bottomed out.
“Franklyn.”
He could have pretended he hadn’t heard, but it was Aunt Jenny. She waved him over. “Leave the bike.”
Nothing, not one fucking thing, ever went his way. Then he quickly reminded himself—not true. He was getting out of the posse. He walked the bike over.
“You didn’t hear me tell you to leave the bike?” Jenny looked upset.
“I figured I should find out what you wanted first.”
She grunted, squared her shoulders. “I need you to go with Ice Box and make the delivery to Denetria.”
“Me? Why? Can I do that another time?” He wondered if she knew he was leaving the posse.
She answered for him. “Franklyn, you have a responsibility to the posse until the next mission’s over.”
“So… you know?”
She rolled her eyes. “Boy, who you think told Joe to let you out?” Those eyes darkened. “We shouldn’t have forced you to join; I’m sorry about that. I cursed out your uncle for doing it, then I went back and forth about it and figured, at least then we could keep an eye on you.”
His instinct had been right—he knew it! Aunt Jenny was the brains behind the posse. She might also be the heart and soul. Joe was something else, not quite brains and not exactly muscle. He was more like the front man, the face with the dreadlocks, the Rasta man, the image everybody could get behind, like a politician.
His aunt’s face looked complicated. “Joe—he truly thought it was the right thing. Men like him always do. Of course, he was mostly just getting back at Samson.” She sighed. “Ultimately, it wasn’t about you—it was about your father.”
Exactly as Frankie had figured.
“But why? Why are you letting me go?”
Jenny didn’t miss a beat. “Your heart isn’t in it. When that happens, people always make mistakes, bad ones too.”
A cold calculation. She was all business. So it wasn’t entirely about him for her, either. He looked away, surprised at the hurt he suddenly felt. Still, she had delivered him. He thought about the last words of the “Footprints in the Sand” poem that hung on the wall of Leah’s grandmother’s house. “When you saw only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you.” Aunt Jenny had carried him and brought him out of the posse.
She made a fist and pumped it, as if telling Frankie to hold on. “I told Denetria we were going to war. She appreciated it and said she was with us two hundred percent. She doesn’t like Taqwan at all.” She offered a fist bump.
Frankie tapped, and finally smiled. “You’re something else, Aunt Jenny.”
“Boy, you don’t know the half of it.” She took his bike out of his hands. “Now, go do your job, and then you can go see your girl.”
His eyes went wide, but before he could deny anything, she said, “Yes, my eyes are long too. Longer than your uncle’s.” She grinned and steered the bike away, the gears clicking.
Frankie thought about telling her what he knew about Bradford, the connection to Leah. Maybe she even knew that already. Probably she did. But did it really matter?
Exhaling, he was oddly proud of Aunt Jenny, the way he had been of his mother. They were Jamaican women, hips forward.
“Hey, mon, you coming?” Ice Box called from the Toyota.
There was a fat black knapsack on the backseat. Frankie got in.
Forty-Seven
ice Box parked across from the market. Cap
leton’s “Jah Jah City” was blaring from a nearby store. Higglers swarmed the sidewalks, hawking their wares. A minivan full of beet-red tourists sped past, the driver probably dashing them off to the safety of their gated all-inclusive resort.
“You okay?” Ice Box gave Frankie’s shoulder a gentle shake. “You’re mighty quiet. Got your gun?”
Frankie tapped the handle wedged at his waist. “I’m the killing machine, remember?” He smiled.
“Me almost forget.” Ice Box checked out the market. “Let’s go.”
“I can do it. You don’t have to come.”
“Too close to Taqwan’s turf, Killing Machine.” Ice Box got out. Relieved of his weight, the car rose up. Frankie grabbed the knapsack, hiked it over his shoulder, and followed.
The market smelled of fresh straw where a vendor sold hats for tourists. The hum of voices grew as Frankie and Ice Box headed down the first row. A thin, veiny-armed woman selling embroidered shirts glared at Frankie; he wondered if she was a lookout for Denetria. Over his shoulder he saw two tourists talking to a vendor, nothing to worry about. At Denetria’s tent, the same teenage girl was once again on her perch by the pile of tees. She gathered up the stack, eyeing Frankie. “Just him,” she told Ice Box.
Ice Box cocked his head. “What you say?”
A middle-aged woman and a teenage boy at the next stall over sprang to their feet. Both held subcompact Berettas pointed at the ground. Just past them, a skinny man in a tank top stood in a stall filled with conch shells, also staring, a Glock in his hand.
Controlling his nerves, Frankie turned to Ice Box. “It’s okay, I know her.” The scowl on Ice Box’s face didn’t disappear.
“Seriously, I got this,” Frankie assured him. Finally Ice Box nodded assent.
The girl opened the folds of the tent and Frankie followed her in, looking left and right uneasily, panic bubbling forward. “Where’s Denetria?”
The girl didn’t answer, simply piled the tees on one of the black garbage bags, her gun in her hand all the while.
Frankie hooked his thumbs beneath the straps of the backpack. Play it cool, play it cool. He felt like a fool. He mustered as tough a voice as he could. “So, what do we do now?”
She continued to ignore him. Sweat ran down Frankie’s back—from nerves or humidity, he wasn’t sure.
The folds flapped open, and Denetria marched in, a big man behind her. At first Frankie thought it was Ice Box, but no—it was Bradford.
Frankie was sure he was going to die where he stood. Still, he slid his hand toward his gun. He could pull the slide and be shooting in seconds. The girl, however, didn’t even need seconds.
The girl raised her nine-millimeter. At the same time, Denetria raised her hands, motioning toward them both. “Calm down.”
Frankie’s fingertips were on the gun handle.
Bradford, black tee, black cargo pants, missing only his mask, sidled up to Denetria, his jaw muscles flexing. Frankie noticed, oddly, that the pores on Bradford’s face were large, the kind heavy drinkers had.
He started noticing other things as he braced for whatever was going to happen next. The girl with the gun was even younger than he had thought, probably only eleven or twelve. Her skin was the kind of smooth kids had. And Denetria’s right hand shook at a steady pace, as if she had some sort of affliction. “Where’s Jenny?” Denetria asked him, her voice tense.
“She sent me” was all Frankie could manage. Feeling like a coil about to spring, he turned to Bradford.
Denetria glanced at Bradford. The look they shared was one of exasperation.
Frankie forced himself to ask, “What’s going on?”
“Jenny should be here,” Denetria said. “We just found out Taqwan is going to attack Joe’s camp.” She said this as easily as she would quote the price of a T-shirt to a tourist.
Frankie gasped. “When?”
Bradford sniffed. “Today. He probably thinks it’s a good time because all the police will be busy covering the politicians and whatnot. I even had to work around my commander to get here. No matter, di point is, your posse needs more shottas.”
Frankie yanked out his phone and his uncle. Pick up, Pick up.
“Nephew.”
“Uncle, Taqwan is going to attack the camp.”
Bradford took the phone out of Frankie’s hand. “Joe. Bradford. Yes, is true.” He looked up while he listened. “Hold on, mon! Denetria only found out about two minutes ago. Yes, we expected Jenny.” He glanced at Frankie—a sneer. “Yes, sometime this afternoon. Is what you want to do?” Frankie realized Bradford’s patois came out with anxiety too.
Frankie began to pace. What if the sergeant was setting them up? He wouldn’t, at this point, put it past him. He scanned for clues. Denetria’s face was so serene she could have been on vacation. How was she so chill?
“Okay. Me coming with my men,” Bradford was saying, clipped, firm. “Heavy. Yeh, mon, two carloads. Later.” Bradford closed the phone and tossed it to Frankie.
“God bless,” Denetria said to them.
As Frankie turned to leave, Denetria called after him, pointing to the backpack. “Aren’t you forgetting something? In case you lose, I don’t want to be out of a shipment.” She gave a wry smile. “It’s a joke. I’m rooting for you.”
Frankie swung the backpack off his shoulders, laid it on a garbage bag.
“Hurry up, black boy,” Bradford bellowed.
Denetria blinked twice like she was about to say something but didn’t. Frankie averted his eyes. This wasn’t the time to deal with this racist.
Out of the stall, Ice Box, his face pale, was instantly at Frankie’s side. “Is true? Bradford tell me Taqwan coming?”
Frankie held a hand up to block the sun and looked at Bradford, who was already a row away. “I guess.”
“Guess? How you mean, you guess?”
“He talked to Joe and everything, but—” Bradford was no longer in sight.
“But what, mon!”
“I just wonder if it’s a setup.”
“Joe think so?”
“Didn’t ask him.”
Ice Box wrenched his phone out of his pocket and called. “Buck-Buck…”
Forty-Eight
ice Box threw the Toyota into high gear, nearly sideswiping a woman with a basket of breadfruits balanced on her head, running two red lights.
“Buck-Buck says they don’t think Bradford a bait up di thing. Them all getting ready to fight it out,” Ice Box updated Frankie. “They not going to run.” Pride there.
Frankie nodded. Okay, Bradford wasn’t setting them up, but they were still in a world of shit. Bouncing side to side, Frankie realized his seat belt was in his hand. He buckled himself in and started scanning the streets.
As they skidded onto Hope Road, Frankie’s phone rang. Aunt Jenny.
“Tell me exactly what Denetria said.”
“Well, Bradford said—”
“Not Bradford, Denetria.”
Frankie spent the next fifteen minutes recounting the last fifteen minutes. The second he was done, Jenny hung up. He’d never felt so tense. Wind whipped his face as he searched for anyone who could be with Taqwan.
The Toyota took the mountain road at sixty miles per hour, pounding over potholes, only slowing to forty on the curves with no guardrails. At one sharp bend, someone stepped out from behind a tree and into the road, twenty-gauge shotgun up and ready.
Frankie reached for his Glock.
“Wait, mon!” Ice Box shouted. “It’s Cricket.” He slammed the brakes.
Cricket jogged over, a film of sweat over his face.
“Wha gwan?” Ice Box said.
“Joe send me here to look out.” He caught his breath. “Is true that Taqwan coming?”
Ice Box nodded, looked up the road ahead. “Your girlfriend stayed?”
“She went down to Troy to look out, but Joe’s girl stayed.”
“She needs to leave.” Ice Box gunned the engine. “Stay strong,”
he added, then tore off, swinging around the final bend, sending pebbles ricocheting. Frankie slammed hard against the door, then scrambled out of the car the moment it stopped.
Blow Up and Buck-Buck came barreling out of Joe’s house, both holding M16s. Machine guns! Taqwan hadn’t brought machine guns to the funeral, but he probably would this time. Holy shit! Before Frankie could even process that—that his uncle had machine guns—he and Aunt Jenny burst out of the front door, Joe announcing, “Cricket says Bradford on his way up, two jeeps of police.”
Good. Bradford needed to show up. Cavalry. Crooked cops. Death squad cops. Frankie at that moment didn’t care. The posse needed them; his family needed them. He jogged over to his uncle.
Joe nudged him. “Nephew, respect due.”
Frankie shrugged. “I just made a phone call.”
“Business is business, no matter how simple. And you handled yours.”
The roar of engines coming around the bend set Frankie’s heart pounding. Bradford’s black jeep would pull in at any moment, and sure enough, it appeared, followed by another, kicking up dust. Four men wearing black masks, black tees, and jeans hopped out of the first jeep—one had to be Bradford—and four more scrambled out of the second. They surveyed the camp. One man hand-signaled the others, and they all slapped bulletproof vests into place. Dang—the posse didn’t have those!
They seemed more military than police. It was obvious that they’d worked together before. Glad as he was to see them, Frankie was trying not to freak. How many people had they killed? Bradford and his men wouldn’t have been there if Joe wasn’t making them money. A lot of money. This sure wasn’t something they taught in his entrepreneurship classes. He was getting a whole other education here. Nothing was done without deals. It wasn’t about who had the better plan or better idea; it was all about connections. He had guessed at this before, but now it was bone-chillingly clear.
Four of the men joined Buck-Buck and Blow Up, and they moved quickly to the far end of the camp. Three of the others headed for the opposite end.
As they hustled by him, Frankie caught a whiff of sulfur, as if they’d fired their weapons recently. The fourth man—the one who’d given the hand signals—approached.