Your Corner Dark

by Desmond Hall

  “No problem.” Big Pelton nodded. “Next time. You did good job with Stingray, mon. Respect due. Likkle later.” He strutted off toward his house.

  Frankie had no idea what to do next. Had he shot any? Why had he lied? Lying didn’t undo it. The kid was still dead. Joe was still dead. Joe was still dead. Frankie found himself in front of the shack that was supposed to be Winston’s. He stopped, gazed inside the empty structure. Winston. Winston was dead. He reached his own porch, reached for the door handle.

  “Franklyn,” Aunt Jenny called. “Stingray, huh? You saved a whole bunch of us today, nearly…” A barely perceptible crack chinked her voice.

  He thought about who he’d killed and helped to kill. There was no cause for celebration. Nineteen bodies in the garbage truck. If he hadn’t used the Stingray, would there have been less? More? More posse, no doubt. But were those lives—

  “You all right?” Aunt Jenny brought his thoughts to a halt.

  “Crazy day.” He shrugged. “But I’m okay. And you?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She looked at him like she hadn’t seen him in a while and was impressed by how much he’d grown. “You did good today, Mr. Technology. Listen, I know Joe was getting you that passport and visa. You belong in a university, Franklin. You earned it.” She nodded emphatically, as if he’d been arguing differently.

  Frankie stared over her head. The outline of the mountains, so majestic, so far away. The mountains never changed. Situations did. Two days ago a visa and passport were the answers to his prayers. Now it was all mired by Bradford and his threat. Could a visa and passport get him far enough away from Leah’s father to ever be safe?

  Jenny went on, not seeming to notice he hadn’t responded. “You will find your way. You will,” she assured him.

  Frankie gave half a smile. Nothing, nothing had been earned today. But he was glad Aunt Jenny was on his side. “Thank you.”

  “Franklyn, it’s going to take a couple weeks to get the documents.” She folded her arms, caught his eye. “And I could use your help in the meantime. Denetria respects you. I think she would adopt you if she could.”

  He blinked at his aunt. She was in charge of the posse now. It was just really registering. Joe had said he could leave the posse after one more errand. He supposed that errand might as well be helping out with Denetria. He didn’t have the energy to even argue. “No problem.”

  “Well, thank you.” She bowed her head slightly. “What time is your watch?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “Better get some shut-eye, then, if you can.” She turned to leave.

  “Aunt Jenny? I’m sorry about your brother.”

  “Thank you, Franklyn. I’m sorry about both of them.”

  Inside, Frankie lit his kerosene lamp, sat on the floor, lowered his head, and breathed long and deep. He saw again the boy in the green baseball cap, running across the encampment. He saw himself taking aim, pulling the trigger. The boy had fallen the same way Ray-Ban Boy had. And he hadn’t even shot that boy. How could this be his life?

  He raised his head, took in Leah’s broken steamroller painting. Leah’s father would kill him if he didn’t break things off with her. With no remorse whatsoever.

  Fifty

  getting advice on romance from the man who had beaten him within an inch of his life was something Frankie had never imagined possible. But on the long, slow, cautious ride down the mountain into Kingston to Denetria the next day, Frankie was at a complete loss. He’d tried calling Leah three times before finally getting her, and when he did, she was pissed because he’d stood her up yesterday. How could he even begin to tell her about yesterday. His world was so messed up, he had to talk to somebody. So, careful not to mention the parts about the passport, leaving the posse, and who Leah’s father happened to be, Frankie told Ice Box about his problem.

  Now, sitting shotgun outside the gate in front of Leah’s house, Frankie was still listening to the big man, all the while looking left and right, worrying that Bradford might show up. Bradford wouldn’t do anything crazy right in front of his house, in this neighborhood, and not with someone like Ice Box around. At least Frankie didn’t think so.

  “And whatever you do, don’t chat about the relationship. It’s not no negotiation.” Ice Box rubbed the dash as if it were marble. “You start doing that and you going to confuse her. Before you know it, you go from wanting your things back to making a fucking date to go see a romantic comedy.”

  Frankie tried not to smile. “Thanks, Dr. Ice Box.”

  He jutted his chin. “Yeh, mon. Me send you bill inna mail. Now, go tek care of business.”

  Okay. This was it. Out of the car, through the gate, past the carport, no Bradford, no jeep. Up to the veranda. Knock. Frankie, knock. He knocked.

  Penelope opened the door without a hint of surprise. In fact, she wore the slightest smirky smile. Bradford must have told her to expect him. Frankie wished he could tell her what her son had been up to lately, wipe away that smugness. She pointed haughtily to the hallway. Yep, she’d been expecting him for sure.

  “Leah, your… the boy from school is here,” she called out.

  The silence felt like forever. “Send him up.”

  Penelope did a double take. “Why don’t you come down?”

  “Send him up, Grandma!”

  She frowned but said tersely, “Up the stairs, first door on the left.”

  Frankie’s sneakers squeaked on the tile floor. Outside Leah’s room, he heard the sound of paper tearing. He peeked in through the half-open door. She was ripping up sheets of loose-leaf paper and stuffing them into a plastic bag. He stepped inside. It looked like something out of a magazine. All kinds of pillows on the bed. Bed big enough for two or three people! A small couch, lamps, fancy-looking wallpaper, curtains that matched. Whoa. He reminded himself to say, “Hi.”

  She didn’t smile. “You look like crap.”

  Frankie laughed, leaned against the wall. “Yeah, it’s been a little crazy.”

  “Want to tell me about it?”

  “I do, but not right now.”

  She turned back to her desk, took a handful of torn papers, and stuffed them in the bag. “Nothing good ever comes from a text where your boyfriend says we have to talk.” She picked up a notebook, started to open it, then just threw the whole thing in the bag.

  “I’m not coming to Florida.” There. He’d done it. He’d said it. He’d—

  “I figured that.” She spun the top of the bag, the beginning of a knot. “Why? You depressed now? Lost all your hope?” She tugged at the bag and finished the knot.

  She’d been upset with him before, but never cynical. The cynical felt like a knife.

  “You know what, just go.” She looked up at him at last. “You said enough. I get it.”

  So he went. Walking through the hall, a vision of his own face came to him, and he became hyperaware. Hyperaware in the way he got when he saw himself unexpectedly in a mirror—unprepared to see his true self. Yes, he could really see himself now, and it scared the hell out of him. Because he saw that he was afraid of Bradford. Like he’d been afraid of losing his father. Like when he’d been afraid of telling Leah about being in the posse. Each time, the fear made him lose something that was important to him. Bumboclot! No, not this time. He’d gone through too damn much. He was getting a passport. He wanted Leah in his life. No more being afraid.

  Frankie pivoted, walked right back into the room. He pulled the bag of papers from her arms and kissed her. She backed off. Her eyes shifted from anger to hope to fear, back to hope. Then, springing forward, she kissed him back. Then she pushed him away.

  “Leah, a lot happened with the posse.” He stopped to compose himself, lowered his voice. “They’re getting me a passport.”

  She squinted in confusion. “What?”

  “I can’t explain it all now. But I am coming with you. I’m coming with you.” He grabbed her hand. Her eyes were suddenly bright.

  She kiss
ed him, hard. She pulled away, and now those same eyes burned with the threat of wrath. “Don’t fuck with me.”

  “I’m not. I swear.” He licked his lips. “But here’s the thing. You have to make it seem like I broke up with you.”

  “You’re fucking with me—”

  “No. Listen, this is really important.” He held her gaze. “You have to tell your grandmother and your father—every-fucking-body—that I broke up with you. You have to pretend—only for a month or two, till you leave.” He watched her carefully. “You get it?”

  She tilted her head. “It’s my father.”

  He avoided her eyes. So she had known things about him all along.

  “Never mind,” Leah said, quick. “Don’t answer. I got it. Fuck. I get it.”

  She leaned forward, put her arms around him, yanking him closer. “You better not be fucking with me.”

  He felt so happy he could cry. “I’m not, girl. I’m your fucking boyfriend. And don’t forget it over there when those American boys try to step to you.”

  “You better hurry up and get over there, then, gangster boy.”

  “Look, I have to go,” he said, then swallowed and glanced back at the door. “Think you can pretend I broke up with you?”

  “You kidding? It’s all I’ve been thinking about since your shitty text.”

  He kissed her again, wildly, as if for the last time.

  She pressed her forehead against his. “It is my father, right?” Her eyes were so soft.

  Frankie kissed her forehead, pulled away, and nodded. “Whatever you do, don’t call or even text me. He’ll know. Trust me, he’ll know. I’ll get messages to you another way. It’s just until we leave for Florida.” He pleaded with his eyes for her to understand. And she was nodding, nodding.

  “I can do it.” She held his hand and walked him to the door, kissed him one last time, softly, and then smacked him hard on the ass, shoving him forward.

  “Fuck you!” Next, her door slammed. She yelled it again, “Fuck you!”

  He smiled. The artist could act. And so could he. Frankie put on a scowl and stormed down the stairs, through the living room, arms swinging. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Penelope sitting in a recliner, a self-righteous smirk on her lips. He slammed the front door as he left. For good measure, he continued to march across the veranda, swung open the gate, and didn’t bother to close it. He got into the black Toyota and slammed that door as well, hard.

  Ice Box looked shocked. “Good, mon. You shouldn’t confuse her about your intentions.”

  “No, I made them very clear.”

  Ice Box started the engine and drove off. “So, Jenny called. She’s going to meet us at Denetria’s. Something about Taqwan’s stash house.”

  Frankie exhaled. “Bradford going to be there?”

  “She never say nothing about him. Why?”

  “Nothing. Just wondered where he disappeared to yesterday.”

  Frankie turned on the radio. The announcer was on location in West Kingston. A man was complaining about the latest results, that the PNP must have stolen the election.

  Ice Box slapped Frankie’s chest with his meaty hand. “We win!”

  Frankie nodded. He knew it was good for the posse, but he also thought about what the man was saying about the election. The shitstem, as Joe had called it. He turned the channel. Sizzla was dropping a song. He couldn’t escape it. He and Ice Box looked at each other at the same time. There was nothing to say. Joe was never going to hear it. Frankie clicked the radio back off.

  But then Ice Box said, “Let’s listen fi Joe.” He turned the radio back on, and they wound through Kingston traffic on the way to the market as Sizzla sang an angry homage to Jamrock, critiquing the evils of Babylon, chanting for the necessity of hope in the face of the impossible.

  Fifty-One

  turning the final corner toward Denetria’s tent, Frankie spotted a lookout standing by a booth. He appeared as solemn and still as the carved wooden masks he was supposed to be selling. The man turned away. But something about his gaze and that of the other lookouts he and Ice Box had passed felt familiar. They had been on full alert when he’d come before. Now, when they saw Frankie, he sensed an ease, born of trust. Outside Denetria’s tent, the same young girl, her nine-millimeter probably under her oversize black tee, barely glanced at him either. He was part of it all now, an accepted part of Denetria’s crew. He felt a sliver of pride. Yeah, pride, weird. But the other part, the biggest part, wanted to stay the hell out of it. So he’d just bide his time till Aunt Jenny came through with the passport and visa. He vowed to keep to himself as much as he could. He wouldn’t get too involved. He’d bag all the ganja she wanted, make a few deliveries if she needed. Then, ciao.

  Inside the tent, the first person he saw was Bradford, his uniform crisp. The two locked eyes. He stared long enough to show he wasn’t afraid, and looked away before he seemed like he wasn’t afraid at all. He hoped he had played the fine line right.

  Aunt Jenny was already there, talking to Denetria, and she waved him in. “Well, about time. What happen, you two stop for tea and sponge cake?”

  Ice Box threw his hands in the air. “No, mon, we come right away. Traffic is shit here.”

  Frankie silently thanked Ice Box.

  Aunt Jenny wagged a finger at Ice Box. “Don’t do no CP time again.” She turned to her conversation with Bradford. “But how you know the shipment coming in on that flight?”

  “Nice try, but me not going to tell you who me know.” Bradford pinched his nose. “All you need to know is that this will be the last shipment. It’s a big one, and what’s left of Taqwan’s people will be there to get it.”

  Frankie thought back to when Bradford had spoken to Joe about hitting Taqwan’s stash house. That was what this was about—they wanted to go through with the plan now.

  “Okay, you two, make we focus,” Denetria said. “It’s coming in a week’s time. We don’t know which of Taqwan’s people are still alive, but she should figure they will fight tooth and nail. And most importantly, we need to know which car they’ll be in.”

  It was all coming back to Frankie. Joe had said the cars Taqwan used were bulletproof. Frankie had thought through the problem, focusing on its variables. He had an idea, was pretty sure it would work. He had planned to talk to Joe about it—he thought they’d have time. But time had run out, hadn’t it? Frankie opened his mouth, then closed it, realizing what he was about to do. He shouldn’t get involved. Couldn’t. The passport and visa would be his soon. Just lie low.

  Denetria ran her hand through her hair. “If you need backup, I have shottas, ready to use them gun anytime.”

  “First we need to know the car,” Aunt Jenny said.

  Frankie sighed heavily. They were talking about another major shoot-out? They were so freakin’ lucky to have survived the last one. Shit. His brain started churning. If something happened to Aunt Jenny or any of his friends and he hadn’t tried something to help them avoid it, he’d hate himself. And, bumboclot, if Aunt Jenny did get hurt, he probably wouldn’t get that damned passport! He knew his idea could work, and they could identify the vehicle with the shipment without gunplay. But, but—damn it, he’d done enough, sacrificed enough—

  Bradford stuck his fingers in his belt loops. “Them will most likely take the shipment back to the stash house. There will be more there. Lots more.”

  It was Aunt Jenny who now showed a rare display of caution. “The stash house is going to be well-armed, especially now,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s worth it.”

  “We talking big money, you know?” Bradford said. “More than you’ve ever seen.”

  Frankie cleared his throat. “I have an idea.”

  Bradford shook his head dismissively. “Youth, this isn’t no argument for you.”

  “Bradford, even now you don’t know how fi use no Stingray.” Jenny’s eyes glittered, looking at Frankie. “Go on, Franklyn.”

  Bradford ran a hand
over the stubble on his cheeks, then waved his hand for Frankie to, yes, go on.

  Fifty-Two

  aweek later, keeping his pace casual, Frankie sauntered past several suitcase-lugging people, past a circle of cabdrivers waiting for the next batch of arrivals, and headed toward the beaten-up white van. Around the back, he knocked on the tinted windows. Buck-Buck pushed open the door to let him in.

  “So?” Aunt Jenny called from the driver’s seat.

  Frankie wiped the sweat from his brow. “We’re still looking.”

  “Me believe it’s di BMW,” Ice Box said, aiming his chin in the direction of a bullet-gray sedan, sleek as could be.

  “No, man, it’s di Escalade,” Buck-Buck countered. A hulking Cadillac sat three cars ahead of the BMW. “I bet you a thousand J—”

  “Look!” Aunt Jenny interrupted. A Denali with tinted windows slunk by and parked at the other end of the lot.

  “Could be dat one too?” Buck-Buck mused.

  Aunt Jenny turned to face Frankie. “Where are the others?” Irritation laced her voice.

  “Filling up the soccer ball,” Frankie said.

  “So, you sure you sure, if di car is bulletproof, you won’t hear any sound when you hit it?” Her voice betrayed how uneasy she was.

  He resisted saying something sarcastic. He’d explained it to them all several times now, but this was outside her wheelhouse. She must be crazy nervous. “Yes, Aunt Jenny,” he assured her patiently.

  “Okay. Go get your ball and check the ’Sclade, BMW, and Denali.”

  Frankie jumped back out and jogged off through the parking lot. At the airport exit, Cricket and Big Pelton were finally returning from the gas station, the soccer ball perfectly round.

  “You get lost?” Frankie said, channeling his aunt’s irritation.

  “We had to pump it up twice!” Cricket protested. “It have a slow leak. We had to find a patch.”

  “No matter. We only need it for about two minutes. Okay, so—you see that Escalade, and right behind it, the gray BMW? And that Denali, it’s at the other side of the lot?” Frankie tilted his head to the left, not turning around.