“S’up, yo?” said a man behind the counter, satisfying his Pavlovian response to hearing the bell jingle over the door by tossing out the greeting. He was a tall, corpulent fellow, nearly as wide as the stolen Toyota truck parked outside. He had cornrows pulled back over his head, two of them sticking up like strays, though Spencer was pretty sure they were meant to be that way. A nigger style if I ever saw one. He wore a faux-classic #7 Michael Vick jersey, a black one from back when the man played for the Falcons.
I could pitch that shirt for a tent, Spencer thought. He fought the smile from his face and said, “Burger?”
“Fuh sho,” said Fattie, and waddled away. He made it over to a table behind the counter, his ass bumping up against a few shelves holding an odd array of TV Guides, Vibe magazines, burger condiments and a copy of Uncle Tom’s Cabin, opened and facedown. His feet stuck to the floor, an indication of many spills that were never quite cleaned. There were stains on the walls and around the sandwich area, all of which Spencer regarded with a degree of humor. If I was in the joint, I would be eatin’ better than this. It was true. Leavenworth wasn’t so bad. At least, not when it came to lunchtime.
Fattie had the good habit of pulling on plastic gloves, but that’s where the professional etiquette ended. He reached over to the grill and lifted a meat patty with his hands, no tongs. He then opened up a plastic Sunbeam bag, and started pulling out sandwich bread.
“Regular sandwich bread?” Spencer asked.
“Yeah. Why? Problem?”
“What, ya don’t have any hamburger buns?”
“Like what?”
“Whattaya mean, ‘like what’? Like hamburger buns…never mind,” he said, and lifted the cigarette to his lips.
“Yo, dude, you can’t smoke in here.”
Spencer smirked, looking around at the counter that wouldn’t pass a health inspection by the Tasmanian Devil. “You serious, fat man?”
At this, Michael Vick’s last fan in Atlanta tilted his head, half in sarcasm, and half in a challenge.
“A’right, a’right.” Spencer crushed the cig in his hand and put it in his pocket.
“Ya better believe, ‘a’right’. I may not look like it but I can jump across this counter an’ whoop that ass.”
“Before you do, would you mind telling me where I can find Pat’s Auto?”
Here, the fat man looked up at him, halfway through placing the patty on the sandwich bread. Spencer thought, I came to the right place. He knows. Very quickly, the fat man went back to fixing the burger. “He up on Terrell Street. Closed right now, though. Most o’ his folk got locked up, fuh real.”
“That’s what I heard,” Spencer said.
“Whatchoo want on this muthafucka?”
“Oh, uh, cheese, mayo, mustard, ketchup, onions, pickles. Everything you got except lettuce and tomato.”
“Er’thing but the healthy shit, huh?”
“You’d know all about healthy eating, I guess?”
“I dun tol’ you to watch that shit,” he said with a touch of asperity.
Spencer smiled. He liked this fat fuck. “Yeah, everything but the healthy shit. Does that come with fries an’ a drink?”
“Does this look like a goddam McDonald’s?”
Spencer laughed now. He nodded. “Then I guess that’ll cost me more than a Big Mac meal, eh?” The fat man nodded wordlessly and went about finishing off the sandwich, slinging the pieces together without the affection he would have shown his own sandwich. Spencer glanced outside, noting the four black men hadn’t moved. He looked back at the fat man. “What’s your name?”
“We makin’ friends now?” he asked, tossing Spencer’s burger into a translucent plastic wrapper.
“Just curious what’cher name is, friend.” Behind him, a door opened, and he heard someone enter and whisper. His natural instincts caused him to look, and saw two black girls walk in; one was no older than eight, the other not quite a teenager. The smallest was in blue jeans and a blue shirt with Jimmy Hendrix on the front, and the oldest (holding the little one’s hand tightly) wore blue jeans with a green sweater. Both had cornrows with pigtails. The oldest girl paused in the doorway. No, froze. She froze there, looking at Spencer. He stared back at her, wondering if he knew her. She certainly looked astonished for a moment. Probably never seen a white man around here before, he thought, smiling back at her.
After a moment of tugging from her little sister (“C’mon, Kaly!”), the eldest nigglet stepped on inside and let the door close. They walked to the back of the store, hand in hand.
“Mac,” said the fat man.
Spencer turned back to him. “What?”
“Name’s Mac, playa.”
“Mac?” he laughed, and saw the fat man tilt his head to one side. “As in Big Mac? As in big as a Mack truck?”
“As in MAC-10, muthafucka. Plop, plop.” He made a gun with his fingers, and aimed it at Spencer’s head.
“Go ahead an’ charge me for a Dr. Pepper.”
“Fuh sho.”
“How much is that?” he said, fetching out his wallet. There was whispering behind him, and he glanced over his shoulder to check the status on the little girls. They had made their way over to the chips aisle. The oldest one had been handing her little sister a bag of pretzels. She was caught stealing a glimpse of Spencer, and darted her eyes away as soon as he looked. She finally dared to look again. He smiled at her, and again she quickly averted her gaze and pulled her sister down another aisle.
“Usually?” Mac said. “Two-fitty. Fuh you? Three-fitty.”
“A rip-off, but I’ll pay it. I earned it. I was very rude, wasn’t I?”
“Tru dat, playa,” he said, snatching the five-dollar bill out of Spencer’s hand and tossing it into the register. He closed it without handing over change.
“Where’s my change?”
“Asshole tax.” This time, it was Mac’s turn to smile. He revealed silver grill with his name carved in it: MACTEN.
“You know what?” Spencer said, taking his burger and soda off the countertop. “I like you Mac. I can honestly say that nobody could ever pay me enough to kill you.” This must have unsettled Mac for a moment, because he looked taken aback. He pushed himself away from the counter. “Relax, it means I wouldn’t, big guy. Ya know Patrick, huh? Of Pat’s Auto, I mean? Have you got a phone that I can—?” He paused and moved out of the way of the two girls who now approached the front counter. “Sorry, ladies,” he said. “I’m very rude standing here and talkin’ while you’re waiting behind me. I prostrate myself before you and beg your forgiveness.”
The littlest girl stuck her forefinger in mouth and started chewing on it, and looked up at him dumbly. The eldest girl gave him only a wary glance, and placed her bread, cheese, ham, mayonnaise, pretzels, orange juice and Pop-Tarts up on the counter.
“How’s it goin’, Kaley? How’s yo momma?”
“Fine,” said the eldest girl in a low mumble. “Here’s what we’ve got.” She handed over a few bills, none of it neatly folded. Mac rang up all the items, then took the money and handed back the girl’s change.
While this happened, Spencer looked about the store, looking up at the camera in one corner. He looked beyond the shitty grill, and beyond it at a room with a large door that looked pretty solid, and next to it there was a window, undoubtedly Plexiglas. He imagined Mac had some kind of weapon just behind the counter. Maybe a MAC-10, Spencer thought. Plop, plop.
He glanced outside at the four thugs. Two of them were tossing surreptitious glances through the window into the store, obviously stealing glances at the lone white boy. If I stay here much longer, I’m likely to go outside and find all my wheels missing. He went to ask Mac another question, but when he did he caught sight of the eldest nigglet. She was looking at him again out the corner of her eye, and now looked away like a boy caught staring at his best friend’s mother’s tits. The fuck’s her problem?
Paranoia crept in then. Paranoia like he hadn’t felt sinc
e the joint. Strange, impossible scenarios occurred to him. Did the girl recognize him? Was she one of those weird, precocious nigglets who watched the news at a young age and kept up with shit going on in other states? Had she heard what he’d done? Did she know Spencer Adam Pelletier? Did she know about the shootout in Baton Rouge, or the convict that escaped from Leavenworth Federal Penitentiary two years ago? Happens on America’s Most Wanted all the time, he thought. Some random civilian up an’ recognizes a killer that nobody else notices.
Spencer looked at the girl for a moment, knowing she would look again. When she did, he shook his head at her, slowly but enough so that she noticed. It was a warning. Whatever you think you know, don’t say anything. Then, he glanced down to the littlest girl, presumably her sister, and then looked up at the eldest again. Remember, you’ve got a sister to look out for.
The eldest accepted her change and her bagged groceries then turned quickly to get out of there. The door flew open, the jingling bells clanging against glass. The two girls jogged past the four black dudes outside, and were gone.
Spencer looked up at Mac and said, “You got a phone? I’m afraid I lost mine.”
“Why the fuck would I let you use a phone when it means yo cracka ass be hangin’ around here a minute longer?”
“Because,” he said, pulling out a twenty, “there’s something in it for you.” Spencer really needed the phone. He needed to see if he had any friends left in this town.
But on top of being as big as one, Mac had obviously been around the block. He had knowledge of the kind of person Spencer was now. After all, he was asking for Patrick Mulley, owner of Pat’s Auto, a chop shop with a great legacy in the A-T-L, so that right there said a lot. That’s why “Big” Mac grew that smile, and why he knew he could get away with saying, “Make it a solid fitty an’ you got a deal.”
Spencer smiled. He had money, but not much. He reached into his wallet and pulled out five tens. “Ya drive a hard bargain, Mac, but I still love you.”
“You a weird muthafucka,” he said, snatching the bills out of Spencer’s hand. “You know that.” It wasn’t a question.
“Phone. Now. Or I whip my dick out an’ piss on this floor.”
“You cleanin’ it up, fool,” he said, tossing Spencer his cell.
“Ow! You’re hurting me!” Shannon was pulling her arm away from her big sister, but Kaley wouldn’t let go. They had hustled down Kenton Street and were nearing Beltway. Almost home.
Kaley didn’t know what had happened. She didn’t know why she was even running now. It started when she opened the door to Dodson’s. Her hand had frozen on the door handle, unable to let go. She’d looked at it, perplexed at first, then terrified when she felt a dropping sensation, like plunging from the top of a rollercoaster. As a small girl, she’d had vertigo. So bad that she often couldn’t get out of bed because the world spun out of control. So bad that the doctor had prescribed pills that never worked, and Kaley had eventually just grown out of it. This was like vertigo, only not as sickening.
When she’d finally found the strength to let go of the door and gone to step inside, she had spotted the man with the kind eyes. Tall, thin, and white. Yes…white. Very white. Pale. Like the vampires in those Twilight movies. Only he didn’t glitter like that…yet he did. No, he didn’t, he just…he was paramount. Yes, that was the word. Somehow, he felt important. It wasn’t just his otherworldly kind eyes, it was the Charm, she was sure of it. It was letting her know something about the man. Was he going to kill her? Was he going to kill Shan? Or someone else, maybe?
The feeling had passed as abruptly as it came, and she had stepped on inside to get their shopping done. Still, something had lingered inside of her, something that drew her to the man. A connection had been made. At least, that’s what Nan would’ve said.
When she was as little as Shannon was now, Kaley had gone to Centennial Olympic Park with Ricky, one of her mother’s boyfriends at the time. It was her birthday and all she liked doing back then was going to big, open spaces where lots and lots of people could be found. Kaley didn’t know why. She wasn’t especially social, she just liked being around all the excitement, and from Olympic Park, one could see loads of people walking amongst the fountains, with a backdrop of mirror-like skyscrapers surrounding you, lots of kids running around, and usually some kind of festival or concerts divvied up into smaller venues all around. She had gone there with Ricky and one of Ricky’s friends—her mother hadn’t made it, she was “sick”, which really meant she was either on her meth or was too unmotivated without it to go—and had been leaning over one of the fountains and letting the water splash in her hands. Ricky and his friend had gone to get her a hot dog from a hot dog stand. She was alone. With her mind on the fountain and her back to the rest of the world, Kaley had felt something tiptoeing up to the forefront of her mind. It was an idea, a notion, one that filled her full of excitement and anticipation.
Someone’s gonna propose to me, she thought. That didn’t make any sense, because she wasn’t nearly old enough to get married yet. But something had definitely made her feel as though that was going to happen. She couldn’t say why. She turned around, following the general direction from whence the idea came. She saw a white man. He wasn’t surrounded with an aura and he had no halo over his head, but somehow she knew it was him that was generating a feeling. It was her charm, and she was feeling the anticipation created by an intention directed at…someone.
Kaley had watched the man for a while. He paced about, checking his watch here and there until finally he was joined by a blonde woman. He spoke words that Kaley couldn’t hear. Then, he sat the blonde woman down on the bench, knelt in front of her, and started talking. The man pulled out a small box, opened it, and the woman wept and laughed all at once. What’s that all about? she had wondered at the time. It wouldn’t be until days later that she would truly stew on the fact that she had somehow known it was about to happen. She had felt the man’s anticipation over asking, and her young mind had believed the man’s intentions were directed at her.
Kaley had played with this notion for a couple of years, until one day she had mentioned this to her mother and her Nan. Her mother had rolled her eyes and said, “Oh, whatchoo been tellin’ this girl?” She had walked off, leaving the oldest and youngest of the family sitting at table together. Nan had leaned in and said, “Tell it to me again. Every last detail, chil’.” And so she did. When Kaley finished, Nan looked troubled. “You dun went an’ got the charm.” She offered a smile, but it seemed sad, like she was offering her condolences. “Yo momma don’ believe, girl. She won’t never. She never listened to me when I would tell her. She won’ listen to nuthin’ I say,” Nan had added.
“What do I do?” Kaley had asked.
“You hide it, girl. You hide it an’ you don’ tell nobody ever again.” This was not the advice she had thought she would get from her Nan. Nan was always telling her to stand up for herself, stand up for what she believed in, and not to be “one o’ these dumbass heathens lettin’ our people backslide on what the good Dr. King dun went an’ won for us.” No, this wasn’t like Nan at all. “You hide it an’ only ever share what you see or hear or feel with me. Hear, now?”
“Yes, Nan.”
And it had been that way, until the day Nan died from her thyroid problems. Kaley had gone to her bedside, holding her hand. Something had happened there, too. Something…that Kaley didn’t like to think about. She was pretty sure these days that she was just making it all up, that she had invented the whole story in Olympic Park the way kids make stuff up and had just come to start believing in it. She also believed that she had made up every other feeling since then, that she was just blowing it out of proportion.
That still didn’t help it any when she was frozen in stasis at times from what her Nan called the charm. The white man back in Dodson’s Store had brought it on again, and fiercely. He was somehow emanating something concerning the future. He was on his way to do something
, but he was also connected to her. At least, that’s the way it felt. That’s the lie she was telling herself.
“It skips a generation, ya know,” Nan had told her. “That’s why yo momma don’ feel it. That’s why she don’ believe it. She can’t never. It’s like convincin’ a blind man that there’s color, only he can’t see it. He either believes in it, or he keeps thinkin’ it ain’t there. His choice. Either way, he’ll never really know. Only people that see will know. That’s our burden, girl. We see.” Nan had given her another warning. “Always listen to it. Listen to it, an’ others will, too. Ya hear? Unnerstan?”
“Yes, Nan.” Only she hadn’t, and, near the end, hadn’t wanted to.
Nan hadn’t always known what she was talking about, anyway. It would take her a full year to start writing the dates on her checks correctly, and just when she got used to it another New Year’s Day would arrive, kick-starting a whole new year of frustration for her. She thought Viagra was pronounced “Niagra”. She sometimes thought Bill Clinton was somehow still President of the United States, or could somehow tell “that dumbass in the White House now what he ought be doin’.” Nan had been wrong about lots of things, even at the very end when she claimed nothing was wrong with her.
“This is stupid,” Kaley said presently.
“What’s stupid?” Shannon asked.
“Nuthin’. C’mon, we need to get back. Hurry. Did you pocket the money I gave you?”
“Yeah,” Shannon said, and pulled it out to prove it was so. “See? Count it.”
“We’ll count it l—” Kaley stopped herself short. She looked down at the money in her little sister’s hand. Something didn’t look right about it. There weren’t enough bills. “Hold on.” She set down the groceries in her hand, and took the money from Shannon. She counted it. She recounted it. They had had a twenty-dollar bill. The groceries had been $9.36. Kaley counted it again. “Check your pockets again,” she told Shannon. “There’s not even six dollars here.” There were three dollar bills and the rest was in quarters, dimes and nickels. “I said check your pockets,” she repeated.
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