I’D WRITTEN LIL PAT a letter about a week before I stabbed Samson. I was all high after the presentation by the Fermi Lab guy and just started thinking of people I could talk about it with. Everybody was completely exhausted by my ranting and raving about astro- and particle physics by then, so I wrote Lil Pat—a captive audience, so to speak. Three days after the fight, I got a letter marked ’Menard Penitentiary.’ I was scared to open it at first and just laid the envelope on my bed. I thought maybe Ma or Dad called him and told him he needed to talk to me. I could still remember all the joy I’d felt just a little over a week back—that rush of ideas and engagement I’d gotten with those brainiacs. I was so far away from that now, and to think about Lil Pat on the inside having to hear about me sticking somebody made my chest knot up. Tears welled in my eyes before I even tore open the letter. It was written on yellow notepad paper with red lines—the kind of paper you get out of the commissary.
Dear Joey,
I’m glad you wrote. I really needed it kiddo. I miss you and everyone so much. I’m glad you started the other day. Free Safety is a good position for you. Ya know, once you hit that growth spurt we all get you’ll be starting Line Backer.
To tell ya the truth kid I don’t understand half of the stuff you wrote me about Particle Physics but you keep writing about it and you keep writing me about it too, ok. You keep playing football, you’ll go to college like Blakey and you study physics, you’ll end up working in the frickin’ Fermi Lab or something. I wish I woulda kept playin ball, I really do. There’s so many things I wish I woulda kept up with. You get to be a little older and you’ll see, spending all that time having fun and going around being a big shot, when you look back, it’s nothing. You got nothing to show for it. I don’t want you to ever feel like that ok kiddo, you gotta go and do stuff. If there’s a physics club at Gordon, join the damn thing! Who gives a crap what the guys on the team or the frickin' knuckleheads around the block say. You be you, man, and if that physics stuff is you, be it. Don’t go givin' it up 'cause those assholes are raggin’ on ya. This could lead to something good for you. And you don’t gotta hide it either, you can write me about it all you want, heck you even got me to pick up a book in the library. I ain’t been in there in a long time and I read that whole thing and still don’t get most of the shit you were writing me, musta got the wrong one or something but you get it and that’s what matters. Now go on and go somewhere with it or you’ll end up like me, wishing ya did or in here or something… Jesus…
Well, gotta go kiddo.
Love ya little Brother,
-Pat
CHAPTER 27
JAG OFFS
I WALKED DOWN THE BLOCK towards Ashland. The moonless sky was clouded with a murky, purple haze that hung above the canopy of wilting leaves like smoke. As I approached the sills, I saw Ralphy the Junker pushing his empty metal grocery cart out of the mouth of the arterial alley. He crossed Hollywood with his cart rattling as it wobbled on its rickety black wheels. Ralphy stepped behind it in a white hospital coat that’d worn brown and ragged with a black, fuzzy hat sitting atop his gnarled, gray dreadlocks. Ryan and Angel glanced around as traffic flicked past on Ashland, then Ralphy stepped shakily to Ryan, and they made an unmistakable exchange. Ralphy! Ralphy’s a hard-banging junky! No way they’re slanging H right there?! How the fuck they doing that shit without asking me?! Even telling me?! Rage roared in my chest. Heroin destroyed my brother’s life, and heroin dealers preyed on him just as much as he’d preyed on them. Fuck dat shit! I stomped straight up to Ryan as he leaned against the wall of the hospital in his blue hoodie. Ryan grinned at me with Ralphy long-gone down the tunnel.
“What the fuck’s up, man?” I shouted. “You pushing H right here?”
“Naw, Joe. Joe, chill out,” Angel said, stepping to me with his palm out. His heavy blue flannel hung off of him limply.
“Chill?” I said, shooting my eyes at Angel. “All dat shit carries a felony tag, man! You ready for dat?”
Ryan smirked and jutted his stubby chin upward, which instantly flared my anger even worse. Then, I saw a dark-blue bag under his left eye; it was puffy, and there was some black shit twisted into his eyebrow. His face flexed, and a bulbous lump swelled on the side of his head above his ear like he had a golf ball under his buzzed scalp.
“The fuck happened to you?” I asked.
“The PG3s got ’em, the flakes got ’em,” Angel said. His glazed-over, slit-eyed smile revealed his large teeth through his lips.
“Mickey got word-a-what happened,” Ryan explained. His chest swelled as he scratched the peach fuzz above his lips and stood squared up with me. “PG3s put a S.O.S. on my ass. Dey were talkin’ shit, said the .25 was a BB gun. Piece by piece, he got the whole thing. Said if the PG3s took me serious enough to set out to kill me, then why wouldn’t the TJOs take me serious enough to V me in?”
I took a deep breath and swallowed in all of it, not knowing how to feel. There was the rage at the H, the fear that these PG3s were set on killing Ryan, then the jealously that he was a legit TJO, and I still wasn’t shit.
“Who V’d you in?” I asked.
“Man, Chief and Freckles... I don’t think you met him yet,” Ryan said excitedly. “This lil Irish fucker. Man, he’s little, but he could bag, man. I squared up with him right away—thought I’d rush him, then deal with Chief. But this fool, man, he had fucking lead in his fists, man.” His busted teeth showed wet between his chapped lips.
“No shit?” I asked.
“Yeah, man, it wasn’t nothin’ nice,” Ryan said, touching the stitches along his eyebrow, “but it’s over now, boy. I’m in.” He smiled, and his green eyes sizzled with pride. “I’m getting my ink done this Saturday. It’s gonna be a big-ole party. Mickey says you’re both invited.”
“Hell yeah,” I said. I reached out and our hands clapped together. His was wide, heavy, and stronger than usual.
“I got to talk to you about this shit, too,” Ryan said as he sat down in his sill. He pulled out a bag from the front pocket his red jeans.
“What?”
Ryan handed it to me.
“We’re gonna start making some real money now,” Angel said.
I’d only seen it once up close before, but I knew what it was. The small, crumpled plastic bag. The knot tied around the light-brown powder packed into a tight little ball. It felt so light, so insignificant. But some blackness swelled inside my sternum—a darkness so much larger and heavier than that tiny little bag of dust. The wires looped around it and squeezed, so it evaporated and absorbed into my cells.
“China white,” Ryan said.
“Man...” I handed it back to him.
“What?” Ryan slipped it back in his pocket.
“Man, I can’t be part of that shit.” I sat in my sill beside Ryan’s.
“What? What the fuck’re you talking about?” Angel asked.
“My brother, man...” I threw my hand up sharply. “Look, I just can’t, alright?”
“Hey, man, look. Mickey told me all about that, man,” Ryan said, putting his hand on my back. “Pistol Pat, man, he just dipped into his own shit. That’s what got him in trouble, man. You can’t be dealer and a customer is all.”
“Man, I can’t, bro. I just can’t, alright?” I said, shrugging Ryan’s hand off.
“Look, man, we're gonna be making three time as much as we were off that fucking pot, bro,” Angel said. “Three times as much, man!”
Ryan pulled out a wad of cash and said, “Look, man. This is what we made tonight.” He planted it in my palm.
I weighed it in my palm—it had to be at least a hundred dollars. I handed it back.
“Look, bro, it ain’t like we’re gonna start doing that shit or nothing,” Angel said, pinching the tip of his nose with his thumb and index finger.
“We’re gonna stay strong, man,” Ryan urged. “Look at all this money, man. This is what we always wanted, b
ro.”
“Hey, look, man, there’s something else, too,” Ryan said, glancing over at Angel. “Mickey made me chief of the prospects, so you know I’m supposed to be calling the shots’n shit, but you know the way I see it is we’re still Fusion, bro, and ya’ll are gonna get V’d in soon enough.”
I sat back in my sill and thought of Lil Pat. I thought of the last day I saw him as a free man with the gun pointed in Ma’s face—that trembling that’d taken hold of his entire being. Then, I remembered the last time I’d seen him in the green jumpsuit—how big he’d gotten, the scars on his forehead and brow like he’d shoved his head in a thorn bush, his eye swelled shut. How he said be loyal to Ryan, he’ll be a good friend to you. Then, I thought of the money and of Ryan and Angel, and I didn’t know what to do. All three of us sat in silence, listening to the traffic riffle past on Ashland. I could walk away and let ’em count this money, let ’em face the PG3s all by themselves. But the thought of that—of not being there when they needed me—made the wires strain at my heart. It was too much, too much to take.
“Hey, look, man... If it’s still Fusion then, man...” I sat back in the darkness of my sill, “I’m down. If this is what we gotta do, then it’s what we got to do.”
“That’s what I like to hear, bro,” Ryan said as he hopped off his sill and looked across the street. A bum milled there at the mouth of the alley. The darkness filled the pathway in an off-kilter beat as the alley lamp flickered above the customer. “Aye,” Ryan said, standing and nodding him over.
“You’ll see, man. Shit’ll be cool,” Angel said as the bum walked up shrouded in darkness. His face was blackened with dirt or mud or something else, something deeper. A tremble betrayed his steps. Ryan glided up to meet him, and I knew it wouldn’t be cool. It wouldn’t be cool at all.
•
SATURDAY NIGHT ROLLED AROUND, and the three of us made the short walk over to the house on Bryn Mawr. The front porch steps were full of guys drinking and smoking and scowling. The music blared inside—some kind of fast-paced metal. Ryan led us up the stairs, and Chief stood at the top with his cheeks all sunken and jaundiced like he had HIV or something, but his forehead shook any concern; it was wide and square like the head of a sledgehammer.
“What up, Ryan?” Chief said, reaching his hand out. They shook in the TJO fashion—hooking at the thumbs and throwing up the J. “What the fuck are these two doin’ here?”
“Aye, Tommy, they’re with me,” Ryan answered. “Mickey said they should come.”
Tommy nodded at me and Angel, then shook his head in disgust and stepped aside to let us pass in through the screen door. There was nothing but grimy white guys everywhere. The mood was light, but they still had those hard glares in their eyes. Pantera soared on the stereo, and a few of the TJOs leaned against the wall of the enclosed front porch nodding their heads vigorously with their eyes squinted shut. We stepped into the living room. Beer cans and bottles littered the rug. There was the stench of cigarettes, warm beer, and somebody’s cheap old lady perfume. The whole room churned in a circus of motion.
A shout came from across the room. “Come here, you little fuck!” We looked over and saw Mickey. His whole head beamed red and glowed in the low table lamp light. His wide grin caused his entire head to flex. Mickey stretched his thick arms out wide as we made our way over to him. When Ryan got close, Mickey clamped his arms around him and planted a big kiss on his forehead. Mickey slid his hand through my slicked-back, Aqua Netted hair, messing it up bad. Then, he turned and karate chopped Angel in the chest playfully.
I noticed this guy standing off to the side by the couch, watching us. He had blond slicked back hair, weathered skin, and light-brown freckles speckling his hard-boiled scowl. His hands were small, though his forearms and shoulders bulged in an undefined bulk. He wore a Dago T and blue jeans that were too big for him at the waist, so they were bunched up on his narrow hips by his tight-slung belt. He stepped to us and punched Ryan in the arm. Ryan recoiled, smiling—his forehead orange in the light. Then, the blond guy grabbed him, pulled him close, and hugged him.
“Welcome to the Brotherhood, kid,” the blond guy whispered in Ryan’s ear.
“Thanks, Wacker,” Ryan said as they broke their embrace.
Wacker was a name that rang out in Edgewater, though I didn’t know the whole story just then. He had the most clout in the whole neighborhood, even more than Mickey.
“Who’s the spick?” Wacker asked, nodding towards Angel.
“He ain’t no spick; he’s a chink,” Mickey said. “He’s the one that’s been runnin’ around Kung Fu-ing niggers at Senn.”
“I heard that fucking story. You’re that kid? Put’re there!” Wacker reached out his hand to Angel, who took it limply. “That fucking cracked me up, you know that?”
“It’s funny now,” Ryan said. “Wasn’t so funny when it was going down though.”
“Almost never is,” Wacker said, looking back at Ryan. The light caught Wacker’s flushed face. An old scar bubbled-up dead-center above his eye that traced across and disappeared into his hairline. “So this’s the new crew, huh?”
“This is dem,” Mickey replied, scratching his prickly beard.
“Wait a minute. That makes you Patty’s little brother,” Wacker said, looking at me shocked.
“Yep,” I answered, smiling nervously.
“Ah, shit. I remember when you was in diapers,” Wacker said.
“It’s a trip, ain’t it?” Mickey said, handing me a damp can of Milwaukee’s Best.
“Shit, I thought he was gonna piss his pants walking in here,” Chief added, sauntering up to us with his angular smile creasing his face.
“You need a change a shorts, Joey?” Wacker asked, smiling. The others laughed.
I shook my head in embarrassment, but more in shock that Wacker remembered my name. They’d just released him from the penitentiary a few weeks back after a long stretch.
“I was with Patty over in Pontiac,” Wacker said. His voice saddened. “All he ever did was talk about his baby brother.” He put his hand on my shoulder. There was a calm, steady warmth in his hand that I never thought a guy like him could possess.
“How’s he doing?” I asked. My eyes burned and watered.
“He’s keeping his nose clean.” Wacker looked away and stepped backward. “He’ll be home soon.”
I knew he was lying. They’d just added six months to Lil Pat’s sentence for his part in a riot in Pontiac, and they ended up shipping him down to Menard in an attempt to break up the gang’s power structure.
“So I hear you’ve been getting down, too, huh?” Wacker asked. “A young prospect, dropped some big nigger or something?”
“That’s right,” Chief piped in. “But it was all for nothing; PG3s wasted that nigger the other day.” There was a silence. “Blew his fucking brains out.”
Mickey and Wacker burst into laughter at the exaggerated rumor. My mind suddenly flashed to Tank in a wheelchair—his legs already shriveled up, his arms looking like they belonged to another body.
“That’s the way they all belong,” Wacker said as he turned and looked over his shoulder. “Aye, Charlene, get me a fuckin’ beer. What the fuck?” he shouted to the kitchen where a beautiful, tall brunette sat talking with some of the other girls. Behind her, a mountain of rotten dishes was heaped in the sink.
“OK,” Charlene screeched back. “Geeze.” She got up wearing a loose blue flannel shirt tucked into her tight black jeans. Her legs seemed even longer than they were with the tall black heels she was clicking around in. Her hair was dark and wavy, and she had a sharp face with too much make up on it. She grabbed an armful of beer cans from the fridge and stalked over with long, bouncy strides. As she got close, she made eyes with Angel. He stared back, his eyes glazed over. She handed the beers out, and when she handed one to Angel, they locked eyes. She smiled, wrinkling her crow’s feet. Angel’s mout
h hung open in awe.
“Who are these boys?” Charlene asked, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “They’re so cute.” She winked at Angel.
“Get back in the kitchen, ya tramp,” Wacker said, snapping back the tab of his beer. His shoulders swelled as he dismissed her. “What the hell are ya, a pedophile or somethin’?”
She spun back towards the kitchen, and her tight jeans hugged her perfect, high-slung ass. Wacker gave it a hard slap and a deep squeeze as she stepped away. She flashed naughty eyes back at him over her shoulder.
She stepped on. Her ass cheeks twitched through the taut jeans as she went. I nudged Angel, who still gaped at her. I scowled at him and mouthed, ’What-the-fuck-are-you-thinkin’?’ Fucking with Wacker’s girl was so far out of the question; to even look her way could mean blood.
There was a rumble on the staircase behind us, and I turned to see a huge fat guy barrel down the steps. He caught himself on the narrow railing that swayed under his grip. It was Fat Buck. I didn’t recognize him at first with his head shaved. He had two lightning bolts tattooed above his ears that spanned from his sideburns all the way back to the base of his neck. He wore overalls with black combat boots. A webbed forest of black hair covered his forearms. The hair spouted up from his shirt collar and swam around the rolls of his neck and melded into this full, mangy beard. He drunkenly swayed his way up to Mickey.
“The kid ready?” he asked, jabbing a thumb at Ryan.
“He ain’t a kid no more,” Mickey answered, putting his arm around Ryan’s shoulder.
“Whatever you say, Mickey,” Fat Buck replied. “I’m ready for him upstairs.”
Mickey looked at Ryan with a sadistic grin on his lips.
“Get on up there,” Mickey said as he winked.
Ryan took a deep breath, glanced at me and Angel, and raised his eyebrows.
“See ya on the other side,” Angel said, then patted Ryan on his back as he headed upstairs.
“Damn, Bucky, I didn’t think you could get any fatter,” Wacker joked, poking Fat Buck’s stomach as he went by.
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