The Old Neighborhood

by Bill Hillmann

  “Fuck you.”

  Blake ran across the room, leapt onto Rich’s lap, and straddled him. Rich raised his arms feebly, and Blake slammed his fist savagely into Rich’s nose. The length of Rich’s nose mushed sideways. Blood erupted onto his black Pantera t-shirt. Sy jumped up and attempted to pull Blake off.

  “Aye, he’s your brother God damnit!” Sy shouted, disgusted.

  Blake planted his feet on the couch, stood, twisted, and shoved Sy hard, sending him reeling backward.

  “Now get de fuck outta here, ya big pussy!” Blake yelled as he leapt off the couch and stomped toward his room.

  “You didn’t even give me a chance!” Rich yelped as he leapt after Blake. Blake spun sharply and raised his fists. Rich halted mid-step. Then, he sneered and spit a mouthful of blood at Blake that spattered on his neck and his plaid Gap shirt. Blake reeled back, grossed-out.

  Rich stomped out of the basement with Sy behind him.

  •

  I REMEMBER RIDING down to Maxwell Street with Rich in his brown Bronco. He was telling about all the things you could get down at the Maxwell Street Market.

  “What kinda things,” I asked.

  “All kindsa things,” Rich said as he opened the flip-up lid of the wooden box he’d built into the space between the seats. A small, chalk-white pistol lay at the bottom of the large box.

  “Is it real?”

  “Yeah, it’s real,” he replied as he lifted the pistol out, released the clip, and slid it free. “Dem look like BBs to you?” Rich handed me the metal clip.

  I slipped the top bullet out of the structure.

  “Damn!” I rubbed my fingers over the smooth brass casing and the heavy, metal tip. “What is it, a .22?”

  “Naw, it’s a .25 semi-automatic,” he answered as we drove down Hollywood.

  “Aw, man, that’s bad as hell! So you don’t got to cock it every time?”

  “Just once,” he said, glancing at me. I gawked at the small-caliber bullet as I rolled it in my fingertips. “Give me dat fuckin’ thing,” he said, snatching the clip out of my hand.

  I handed him the bullet, and he slipped it back in the clip while steering with his knees. We drove south on Ashland. He picked up the gun from between his legs and popped the clip back in the grip. Then, he placed the pistol back in the box and shut it.

  Rich had a way of turning things into these folkloric adventures. As we moved through the city, he gave me a history lesson on the South Loop Skid Row. Then, he eased a slow left onto Halsted through the mob of passing people. We rolled slowly forward as the long line of traffic eked ahead of us. People cut between the cars and trucks as they crossed the street. There was a beat-up, white box-truck near the first intersection, and a green street sign hovered above it that read “Maxwell Street” in white letters.

  A series of bums rushed up to my window. Their haggard faces leered inside as they waved gold chains and watches in my face. One thin, black bum in a blue t-shirt blared out, “I got socks!” as he passed. He held up a large bag of tube socks. His crusty fingers and yellow nails squeezed the bag tightly. The socks bulged against the plastic like a balloon ready to burst.

  “What?” Rich said, glancing at me. “What’s wrong? You look like you’re gonna piss your fucking pants.”

  “What if they ran at the door? What would we do? There’s no way outta here.”

  “That’s what the .25’s for,” he said, smiling. “Go ahead.” He flipped the box open. “Hold it if it’ll make you feel better.”

  I slowly reached in and picked up the .25. It still looked fake, but it was much heavier than I expected. I squeezed the white grip enclosed around the spring-loaded clip. The rough, metal-finished barrel was heavy and made it want to point downward. My hand felt big around the grip, like the gun was made for a hand not much larger than mine. I passed it over my lap and slipped it alongside my outer thigh so I could hold it between my leg and the car door. A calm set in my chest as I exhaled a deep breath. The faces of the bums turned comical, clownish even. A fat nose with long, black hairs shot out of each nostril; an old, wrinkle-faced Polack mug with a kid-sized, black and red Chicago Bulls cap stretched around his narrow scalp. I grinned with the knowledge that all I had to do was raise that thing up and squeeze to make them disappear. Inside, I finally felt that powerful aura of Pistol Pat.

  I heard the pop from that night at the carnival—that hollow pop that rang out in the midst of all that joy. I thought of where the bullet went. They all go somewhere right? The asphalt, the church wall, a ricochet. Hell, it could have hit me, or a little baby in a stroller. How could he have been so reckless? How could he be so foolish? A pregnant woman walked past my window with a giant, plump belly. It was like she was gonna give birth right then and there, or explode. Maybe he deserved to die.

  I could see through the people that filtered past to these glass storefronts filled with racks of clothes, suits, shoes, and gold jewelry.

  Up ahead, above the bustling sidewalk, I watched the profile of the street. The 100-year-old, dark brick, three-story buildings leaned and rested against one another like a string of winos in a frozen saunter. Several of the buildings had given way and collapsed in spots. The rubble extracted. Vendors had set up along the sidewalks. Children ran and played behind them in the hilly, glass and concrete-speckled lots.

  Twangy blues riffs spouted up from electric guitars every so often. Then, they were swallowed up by the slow thumping baseline of hip-hop that flooded out from the boom boxes of the street vendors who sold tapes.

  I could smell a heavy odor of onions caramelizing and rank fried sausage as we got to Maxwell Street. To the west, there was a large lot that was full of makeshift shacks. Rich parked in front of a hydrant. I put the gun back in the box, and we locked the doors and went shopping.

  •

  WE PLAYED BASKETBALL on summer evenings in my alley. We used the hoop Dad’d built onto the sloped roof of our garage. I was always just a little bit better than anyone on the block around my age. Only Ryan could beat me and only sometimes. I wasn’t the best shooter, but I could always dribble past people and make these running shots. They weren’t layups because I was further out from the hoop. I’d dribble past my defender, jump, and sling the ball from my side with both hands with the form of a kid just barely strong enough to shoot on a big hoop. And I’d always bank my shots in using the red box on the backboard as my target. We played most nights. The girls from the block would lean against the far garage, chit-chat, and watch the game. One of them was Hyacinth—a skinny, little Filipino girl who lived on the end of the block at Hermitage Ave. She had thick jet-black hair with long bangs cut straight across her forehead, big amber eyes, and a cute smile. I had a long-running crush on her. She was in my grade at St. Greg’s, and sometimes we’d walk home from school together. When she was really sweet and flirty with me, she’d twirl her finger in her hair as we talked. That’s how I knew she liked me, too, ’cause I never saw her do that with nobody else. It was an unconscious attraction—a magnetism that had us always beside each other when us kids were grouped up. Our hands thoughtlessly intertwined, then unraveled swiftly when anyone spied us doing it. Our cheeks would blush. Then, I’d have to sock anyone who sang “Joey’s got a girlfriend.” Slowly, we stopped caring about it, but that was later.

  I headed out of the alley after dinner one night. On my way through the dark gangway, I could hear the shuffle of sneakers on concrete and the clank and pank of the game. I opened the gate and saw six kids leaning against the garage across the alley. They watched Ryan play one on one against a kid I’d never seen before. He was thin and taller than me. He wore a tan shirt with a logo I’d never seen, dark green jean-shorts, and Puma sneakers. I walked around the game to where the rest of the kids stood.

  “Who’s that?” I asked Mario.

  “That’s the new kid,” Mario replied, whipping his long hair out of his face. “He just
moved into the apartments over there.” He nodded toward the large apartments down the alley that faced onto Olive Ave.

  The new kid looked Oriental. He had black, slicked-back hair tied up in a pony-tail, and he was good. He was beating Ryan, bad—seven-zip.

  “Where’s he from?” I asked.

  “California, right?” Mario asked, looking at the girls, who were all giggling and whispering.

  “Uh huh, Ca-li-for-nia,” Hyacinth said, throwing exuberant emphasis on each syllable. She twirled her finger through her hair and watched the game. My throat tightened, and my palms itched, and I wanted to play real bad. I didn’t know why, but I already hated this new kid.

  The new kid ended up winning, 11-2.

  “Good game,” Ryan said as they shook hands. “Damn, you beat my ass.”

  “Naw, good game,” the new kid said as he wiped the sweat from his forehead, then slid his hand along his gleaming hair.

  “Aye, you meet Joe yet? He’s my best friend,” Ryan said, nodding toward me. “Aye, Joe, this the new kid. What you say your name was?”

  “Angel,” the kid said.

  The girls muttered, “Angel, Angel,” and giggled.

  “What’s up,” I said, nodding to him. Then, I grabbed the ball out of Ryan’s hands. “We shootin’ for captains or what?”

  All the boys got in line to shoot at the long, crooked crack in the center of the alley. I shot first and made it. Ryan shot and missed. I grabbed the rebound and shoved a hard bounce pass to Angel, who caught it by his chest. He glared at me. His mouth hung open, and his dark eyes dampened. Then, he shot and made it.

  “Shoot for first pick,” Ryan said, passing the ball to Angel.

  Angel took it and shoved a hard pass to me. We glowered at each other again. My heart pattered, ready to drop the ball and unload fists into his mug.

  “Go ahead,” Angel urged.

  My heart thumped in my chest. I turned and shot a long, arching one that clanged off the side of the rim. We picked teams, and everyone knew who was guarding who. I stood with my back to the garage, said, “Check ball,” and bounced it to Angel. He caught it, looked at it, and passed it back to me. I faked left and went right, then surged past Angel and shot one of my runners that banked home. I jogged back to the far line and smiled at Hyacinth. She grinned back and revealed the small gap in her front teeth.

  Angel dribbled the ball towards the check line.

  “Naw, we play keeps around here,” I said, then snatched the ball from him.

  I checked the ball to Angel, then faked a pass. He leapt at it, and I giggled as he stumbled. I put up a shot from right there and instantly knew I’d missed, so I darted to the side of the hoop I thought it’d clang towards. Angel slashed for the rebound, too. The ball jolted high off the rim and arced downward. We both leapt and collided in mid-air, but I had more inertia and toppled him sideways, snagging the ball with both hands before I landed. I then took it out to the side. Angel trailed me. I stopped, then drove straight at him. He stood his ground. I dug my shoulder into his solar plexus, and he stumbled. I bounced back and passed to Mario. Suddenly, Angel cut in front of the pass and stole the ball.

  He dribbled back to take the ball out and reset the play, and I followed him. He cut right quickly and surged past me. I pursued as he drove in and went for a lay-up. I swooped in, leapt up, and blocked the shot from behind before I landed full-force onto his back. We tumbled and crashed into my garage with a thunderous boom. Angel spun under me and with his back against the garage and pushed me hard in my face and chest.

  A bubbling rage ignited in my shoulders, and I stood up and pushed Angel as he got to his feet. Then, I punched him in the cheek. Mario jumped between us, but Ryan shoved him out of the way.

  “Naw, let ’em fight,” Ryan sneered.

  Angel and I squared-up. His face was all tied up in a knot, and he rushed me without warning. He flung quick fists that smacked me in the head and face; they felt like speeding little stones. I swung wild and missed, and he peppered me as I stumbled sideways. I reached out and grabbed his shirt, and he kneed me in the sternum. All my wind jettisoned from my mouth and nostrils. I collapsed to my knees on the concrete, awestruck at how fast he was, and how he’d delivered all those blows without hesitation or even thinking about it. I gripped my chest, and he wacked me with a hard punch on the side of my head.

  “Are ya done?” he asked.

  I was about to say ‘yeah’ when Lil Pat stormed out of the gangway. He plucked me up off the ground by my collar and shoved Angel away from me. He bent down and looked me in the eyes. His beard and mustache were scruffy and dirty. Fried chicken was all over his breath.

  “Joey, don’t you let that little spick whoop you,” Lil Pat said and clouted me across the cheek. “Now get in there God damn it!” He shoved me towards Angel. I closed my eyes, squeezed my fists, and started swinging haymakers.

  I stormed forward. My hard, looping punches landed and drove Angel into the wooden plank fence across the alley. Angel smashed against it hard. Then he bent over at the waist and covered his head. I lumped him up nasty. He crumpled and curled into a ball at my feet. These little whining sounds poured out of him. Suddenly, it struck me: this poor kid just came out here trying to make some new friends, and now look at him. Look at me. Lil Pat walked up and grabbed me by the shoulder.

  “Atta boy, Joey. Don’t ever let nobody whoop you in dis alley,” he said. Then, he patted me on the back and walked me away from Angel, who laid there curled-up and whimpering.

  Lil Pat grabbed the basketball from the ground where it had rolled to a stop and shot. Angel stood, stumbled, and ran towards his house.

  “Well, you don’t gotta worry about him no more,” Lil Pat laughed.

  I looked over at Hyacinth who was watching Angel with her hand over her open mouth. She scowled at me and shook her head. Then, she huffed off towards her house, and the other girls followed. A blue rust bucket pulled in to the mouth of the alley at Hermitage, and we all flinched at its bright, rectangular headlights. Lil Pat walked over and got in, and it eased slowly through our court.

  Most of the kids left after that. I didn’t feel like playing anymore and sat against my garage. A headache set in. After a while, it was just Ryan and I. He sat down next to me with the ball under his bent legs.

  “What was that all about, man?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I replied.

  “He’s an alright kid,” Ryan said, shrugging.

  “Yeah.” I looked down the empty alley where he’d run. “He probably is. Thanks for letting us get it over with.”

  “No problem.”

  “He gave me a fat lip,” I said, rubbing the bubble along my lower lip.

  “Imagine the way he feels,” Ryan replied, arching his red eyebrows.

  “Yeah,” I said, and looked down the quiet, narrow alley.

  “Alright, man, I’m gonna head home,” Ryan said as he stood. “You OK, right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I said, standing up slowly. “Aye, if you see that kid around, man, tell him I’m sorry, OK?”

  “Alright, man. I’ll tell him.”

  We shook hands and Ryan disappeared down the alley. I stood there alone feeling sick to my stomach. Then, I went in through the gangway and up to bed.

  CHAPTER 6

  LOW RIDER

  I KNEW MY BROTHER WAS A KILLER. I saw exactly what he’d done. I couldn’t lie about it to myself, and the horror of that followed me, always. I loved him—he was a very good big brother to me. Hell, I adored him. It all had me wondering strange things, like if it was OK to kill people. If they shoot at you, then maybe it is. But if they’re running away, then maybe not. But what if they came back again next time and didn’t miss and killed you? And what was Lil Pat supposed to do, hold the guy there at the pharmacy until the cops showed up? Citizen’s arrest, like in that movie Police Academy? It didn’t wo
rk there, neither. I knew the right answer was there, hovering in front of me, and I’d grapple for it in my dreams and sometimes in the days I’d talk with Ryan.

  “I’ve been dreaming about that Assyrian guy again,” I said.

  “That sucks,” he answered.

  “Ever think about him?”

  “Sometimes. Pretty gross seeing him like that, huh?”

  “Yeah it was. I never thought I’d see a dead body up close like that.”

  “I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

  “Yeah. I guess so… You think he deserved it?”

  “Man… I don’t know. I guess he did. He coulda killed somebody shooting like that. Coulda killed Mickey or Pat.”

  “I can’t believe they chased him right off. Those two are crazy as fuck.”

  “Yep. Hahaha… Down for their crown.”

  “Ha, yeah I guess. Ever think you’re gonna have to kill somebody one day?”

  “I don’t know. Mickey says my dad killed some people. A Royal and somebody else…”

  “They say my old man was pretty bad, too…”

  “I tell you what, if anybody ever tried to hurt my family, or hurt you, I’d kill ’em over that.”

  “Me, too…” I said and exhaled a long breath. “Me, too.”

  •

  ONE DAY, LIL PAT PICKED ME UP alone after collecting. Ryan wasn’t there that day; he’d gone to visit his dad in prison. Lil Pat pulled in front of the house and sent me in to grab a Ministry tape. He said it was in his closet, so I ran down there and dug around the disheveled shelves. I dipped my hand into a shelf in his closet and pricked my index finger on something. I recoiled and gripped my hand. A small bead of blood bubbled up along the grains of my fingerprint. I sucked the blood from it, then squeezed my fist together until it stopped. I lifted a dirty t-shirt, and a needle, like the ones Ma used for her insulin shots, sat inside. There was a little ball of brown powder in a plastic bag with a foot-long piece of rubber tubing lying next to it. I’d heard about hard drugs from Officer Friendly when he came to St. Greg’s, and it scared me that Lil Pat was using them. I couldn’t differentiate between heroin and crack, but I knew that needles were really bad.