Blood Brothers

by Colleen Nelson

  “This is murder,” he hisses.

  I run my finger along the brim of Lincoln’s hat. The band inside is stained yellow with sweat. For ten years, we’ve been like brothers. I can’t betray him. Even if the cops only go after Henry, Lincoln will know I’m the one who talked.

  “Who? Who did it?”

  “I can’t tell you,” I say, miserably. “And I can’t tell the cops!”

  “Why not?”

  I stay silent, wishing I’d walked past the church instead of coming inside. He glowers at me, disappointment etched into every wrinkle and jowl. I squeeze my eyes shut. “What do I do?” I whisper.

  “You know what you have to do! If Lester was killed, and you know who did it, you have to go to the police. Not telling them makes you guilty, too.”

  Right and wrong are tangled together. I can’t rat out my friend. If I do, the Red Bloodz will come after me, maybe Dad, too.

  Lester’s body flashes in my mind. They beat him to death and watched as the life leaked out of him, and then left him in an alley like a piece of garbage. He didn’t deserve that. What Henry did wasn’t just wrong, it was evil. Telling the cops means he’ll go away. I’ll have my friend back.

  Or would I? Things would never be like they used to be, not with this between us. Not if Link knew I helped send Henry away again.

  Thoughts twist themselves in my mind, pulling into a knot. There’s no easy way. No matter what I do, someone gets hurt.

  Father Dom lets out a deep exhalation. A painting of Jesus with long, flowing hair surrounded by a halo of light hangs on the wall behind him. I feel him staring at me, his eyes boring into me.

  “Is it Lincoln?” he asks.

  I hesitate. He knows I wouldn’t protect anyone else. My eyes go to the hat crumpled in my hands. “Yeah.” My voice is a choked whisper.

  He gets up, goes around his desk, picks up his phone, and holds it in front of my face. “You know what you have to do.”

  There’s an ache deep in my gut. It’s too much, the weight of betraying my friend. I shake my head. “I can’t,” I say and turn to leave without looking at him.

  “Jakub!” His red-faced shout follows me as I leave his office. It echoes off the walls of the church and rings in my ears when I push open the heavy wooden doors to the outside.

  Lincoln

  Henry eyes me up and down when I walk into the clubhouse with the duffle bag. “You moving in?”

  I don’t answer. Upstairs, I pick the room at the top of the stairs, the one Roxy brought me into the first night I met her. I slam the door with my foot and toss my bag in the corner. The mattress is on the floor and the blanket is half-chewed by mice, but I don’t care. I lie down and stare at the ceiling, remembering the first time I lay here with Roxy, how that felt, and I wonder if I’ll ever feel that way again.

  And it’s Henry’s fault. Koob was right. I never should have gotten mixed up with him, but now it’s too late and I’m in this.

  Bang, bang, bang. Someone’s hammering on the door. I don’t even remember locking it. “Link, open up.” It’s Henry.

  I don’t answer.

  “Don’t make me bust the door in.” It’s not a threat because I know he will.

  “What?” I say when I open the door.

  His nostrils flare and I think he’s gonna yell at me for being a wuss. I stare back at him and scowl. “The first one’s rough,” he says. “And you knew him. Makes it hard.” He takes a breath and nods at me. “But you manned up, did what you needed to do. The important thing now is to put it behind you. Forget it happened.”

  I look down at his boots. He cleaned them; the leather’s shiny, no dirt or blood left to tie him to the crime.

  “You wanted this, remember? ‘Give me a chance.’ ” He imitates me with a high-pitched whine. I hang my head because he’s right. “The guys are downstairs. You gotta come down so they know you’re cool.”

  I don’t have a choice. I follow him to the kitchen. A bare bulb hangs over the table, making shadows on the dreary, cracked walls. The old fridge hums and the faucet leaks. Wheels, Rat, and Butch are at the kitchen table. The guys look at me, anxious. No one says anything. There’s a half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the table. Rat stands up and takes a glass from a cupboard. He rinses it out and puts it down in front of me, water droplets puddling under it.

  Butch pours some Jack into it and nods for me to drink up. It’ll burn going down my throat. Henry’s eyes are on me, not hooded and lazy, but threatening. Butch pours a glass for himself and holds it up. “This fucking life,” he says and raises his glass. The other guys do the same. They wait for me.

  “This fucking life,” I mutter and put the glass to my lips. I wince at the taste, the feeling of it when I swallow, and slam the glass down, nodding for another one.

  Jakub

  “This is incomplete, Mr. Kaminsky.” McGeezer’s beady eyes glare at me. I take his criticism silently, not sure if I should look away or not. My eyes are gritty from lack of sleep. “I don’t care if you have an excuse. You will finish it in detention after school.”

  My excuse thrums in my skull, incessant. I saw a dead body yesterday. Will that truth get me out of detention? What if I tell him everything? That I saw Lester lying in the alley, that I know who did it and haven’t told the cops. Yet.

  I couldn’t sleep last night. Images of Lester slumped behind the dumpster haunted me. I avoided Dad when I got home from the church, worried he’d read the secret on my face. I tried to do my homework, but couldn’t concentrate. Words on the pages blurred together into nothing.

  And now here I am with McGeezer’s lumpy nose an inch from my face. “Mr. Kaminsky?” he demands. “What do you think?”

  I know about what? is the wrong thing to say. “Yes, sir,” I mumble.

  He grunts and stalks away. A guy behind me snickers. “You have balls, dude,” he whispers.

  My mind drifts off during class, but Mr. McGeezer keeps calling on me, trying to make me an example. Some of the answers I get right, but a lot I don’t. He raises an eyebrow and looks at the rest of the class, as if it’s to be expected I’ll screw up. It makes me mad. By the end of class, I want to toss my chair at the guy.

  “Mr. Kaminsky,” he calls as we pack up. I grit my teeth and turn to him. “Come here.” He waves a pink slip of paper in front of me. “This is your detention slip. The teacher in charge will sign it and you will return it to me tomorrow.”

  I take it from him. His fingers are short and stubby. Students for his next class trickle in. “You’re off to a rough start.”

  I don’t need him to tell me that.

  Lincoln

  “You gotta earn your keep,” Rat says. I know it’s more than that. Henry wants me busy. Doesn’t want me thinking about Lester, or what happened to him in the alley. What we did to him in the alley.

  Everything in Al’s garage is covered in black grease. Even Rat. “You’re like my errand boy.” He smirks at me, and I think he’s never had anyone to boss around before and this is going to be the shittiest job ever.

  “You know anything about cars, besides how to steal them?” he asks. We’re standing over an engine. Smell of oil thick in my nose. On the other side of the building is the chop shop, but there’s nothing to connect the two businesses except a small door. The engine I’m looking at is here for a legit repair.

  I shake my head.

  “You good at puzzles? Cuz that’s what it’s like. Same puzzle over and over. The pieces all fit together and they gotta go back the same way they came out.” He lets the hood slam down and I jump, even though I knew it was coming.

  “But for now, you’re just gonna do some cleaning.” He points to a bucket covered in oily smudges. A cloth, so grimy I can’t tell what colour it used to be, hangs over the edge. “Start with the john.”

  I want to tell him to screw off and kick
the bucket across the room. But Henry told me to do whatever Rat said. If I want to stay at the clubhouse, there are rules. I bottle it up so he won’t see how pissed off I am.

  Magazine pictures of naked girls are taped to the walls. I keep looking at them while I scrub the floor, sink, and toilet. Their big tits filled like helium balloons, skin too tanned.

  I poured so much lemon cleaner into the bucket, it blocks out the stink of the room. A stripe of rust from the leaky tap has stained the sink, but I don’t bother scrubbing it cuz I’ll never get it out. The mirror is chipped and dotted with splotches of brown where the backing’s peeled off. I catch my reflection and stop scrubbing for a second.

  I don’t want to be cleaning up someone else’s piss and shit. I want to be at school with Koob, me and him hanging out on a bench planning our next piece, or at his apartment doing homework while his dad cooks something that smells like frying onions but tastes good.

  Rat knocks on the door. “You done yet?”

  “Almost,” I call and swish the toilet brush around the bowl, scrubbing so hard, I think it will snap.

  Snap like Lester’s bones. I try not to think about it, but it pops into my head anyway. The feel of the tire iron in my hands, how each swing marked his body. And then Henry’s boot splitting his head.

  Vomit rises in my mouth. I swallow it back, but my stomach heaves again.

  All the cleaning wasted as chunks of barf splatter the sides of the toilet bowl.

  Jakub

  I do my detention and get off the bus before my stop. I’ve been cooped up all day. Walking halfway home gives me a chance to think about things. By the time I turn onto my street, my feet are sore and my back hurts from lugging ten pounds of books. My blazer probably smells like B.O.

  Dad will know about Lester by now. Laureen, too. I trudge up the stairs like my backpack is full of bricks.

  I put my ear to the door of the apartment and listen for a minute. It’s quiet. I put my key in the lock and open the door. Dinner’s not ready. Hasn’t even been started and it’s almost seven o’clock. I look at Dad. He’s on the couch and stands up slowly. His eyes are puffy and his nose glows red. He lets me dump my backpack on the floor before coming to me with outstretched arms. “Sit down,” he says. I throw him a worried look, like I have no idea what he’s going to tell me, and pull out a kitchen chair. He sits opposite me.

  “Lester,” he begins and his eyebrows draw together. Saying his name is painful. My chest aches watching him. I wish I could save him the agony and blurt out that I already know.

  “Yesterday. Found in an alley, beaten. Like a dog. Bastards.” The words burrow into me, digging into a deep place to fester.

  “W-who did it?” I stutter, exhausted from the walk and everything else.

  Dad shakes his head. “Don’t know.” His face twists against the tears threatening to fall. “The police are here. They want to talk to everyone.”

  My breath comes out shaky and I hold my head in my hands, pressing them against my skull to make the pounding stop. “Everyone?” I repeat.

  “They want to know if he was in trouble with anyone, if he had any enemies. I already told them Lester had no enemies. He was a good man.”

  I shake my head. I don’t trust myself to hold it together. A cop, Dad, anyone will see the truth on my face. If they ask if anyone had a grudge against Lester? My mouth will say no, but my brain, my body, will scream YES. Did anyone want to hurt Lester? YES.

  Was he involved with gangs?

  YES.

  There’s a knock at the door. “That’s probably the police,” he says. “I told them to come back.”

  The cops. I grab Dad’s sleeve. “I can’t talk to them right now,” I whisper.

  He looks at me, confused. “But they need to talk to you!”

  “No.” I shake my head. “I can’t. Tomorrow, maybe.”

  His face sags. He’s too tired to argue.

  A voice calls from the hallway. “Mr. Kaminsky? It’s Detective Evans.”

  “Coming!” Dad shuffles to the door. I move to a corner of the couch, hidden from view.

  “Sorry to bother you again. I wondered if your son was home yet? Thought I could ask him some questions, so I don’t have to come back tomorrow.”

  “Yes, he’s home, but he’s not doing well. The news about Lester came as a shock.”

  “Of course. They were close? Your son and Lester?”

  “Yes.” I imagine the cop scribbling that down in his notebook.

  “You have my card. Call me when your son feels up to talking. How old did you say he was?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “I’m sorry, again, for your loss.”

  Dad mumbles thanks and shuts the door. I expect him to grill me about why I don’t want to speak to the cops, but he doesn’t. He sits down beside me on the couch and lays a hand on my knee. “It’s okay, Jakub. You’ll talk when you’re ready.”

  I nod, but the room turns blurry as everything I’ve kept wrapped tight unwinds.

  Lincoln

  Henry’s on the front porch, talking with Butch. They both have smokes in their hands. Henry takes an angry draw on his and blows the smoke out in a hard puff.

  The way Butch looks at me makes me stare at my shoes and hurry past him into the house. “There’s your answer, right there,” he says to Henry, and he means me, but I don’t know why.

  Inside it’s quiet. The front window is open so I can hear Henry and Butch talking. Butch was in prison, too; he and Henry shared a cell for a while and hatched a plan about getting the Red Bloodz running again. Started with the chop shop, but I know it doesn’t end there.

  “That’s where the quick money is. Get a few kids like him on the streets and we’ve got cash flow. Feed it through the shop and it’s buried. Cops have to look real hard to find it. I’m telling you, get that kid selling for us at Wilson, maybe a couple other schools. Recruit more young ones. Give them a taste of the life.”

  Henry takes a deep breath. “I don’t know, man,” he says with an exhale. “I want to fly low. Dealing gets us noticed. I got eighteen months left on my parole.”

  “Gets us money.” He drops his voice low. “You’re not dealing, the kid is. How old is he? Fourteen? Fifteen? He’s still a juvie. Same as with the cars. He’ll barely do time if he gets caught. Record gets wiped at eighteen.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “Think fast. I’m around till Wednesday and then I’m taking off.”

  Butch’s heavy footsteps on the wooden porch rattle the glass as he leaves. I jump away from the window and go to the kitchen. The shelves are bare. “Nothing to eat,” I mutter, slamming a cupboard door shut.

  “You hungry?” Henry asks. I didn’t hear him come inside. He flicks his butt into the sink. A trail of smoke twists to the ceiling.

  “What’s Butch want?”

  He narrows his eyes. “I asked if you were hungry.”

  I glower at him. “I spent the day wiping piss off toilets and taking orders from Rat. Hell yeah, I’m hungry.”

  With a snort of laughter, he calls to two guys playing vids in the other room. “I’m taking my little brother out. You two shits stay here.” He waits a second, but neither of them say anything, so he stomps into the living room. I hear a controller clatter down and the couch scrape on the floor. “You hear me?”

  “Shit!” one guy yells. “Yeah! I heard you.” He’s mad, but too scared of Henry to do anything. I can hear it in his voice.

  “Come on,” he barks at me. His face is all twisted up, like how Mom gets when the landlord won’t fix something at our house.

  I follow, cuz what else can I do?

  As I walk behind him to a car, one with new plates and paint, I know that if my brother asks me to deal for him, I’ll have to. I don’t have a choice.

  I think about Dustin an
d how he’s still with Mom and Dad. I left to save him, but it’s all backfiring. I’m getting sucked in so deep, I’ll never get out.

  I won’t do this to Dustin, I swear. I’d rather never see him again than pull him under with me.

  I can’t sleep. It’s not just because the clubhouse throbs all night. It’s cuz I see Lester in the shadows and hear him moaning for me to help him.

  I toss and turn for a while, then get my shoes on. I need to clear my head. There’s people on the porch, sitting in a cloud of pot smoke. Roxy’s one of them. She doesn’t see me, so I keep walking, get to the end of the sidewalk, and figure I may as well keep walking some more. My hand slides into my jacket pocket, wraps around a switchblade I found in a kitchen drawer.

  I like knowing it’s there. I run my finger around the smooth curved edge. I imagine I’m a ninja warrior, whipping out the blade, flipping and jumping around my attacker, the knife spinning in the air. I think of how, in my old life, me and Koob had our secret identities. Morf and Skar. We were kind of like ninjas sneaking around in the night, only we were writing, not fighting.

  I stop myself from thinking about it. I have to squash those memories. And forget about being a ninja. I know that if anyone came after me, it would be clumsy. Two people tousling and grunting till one accidentally staggers back with a groan. How it was with Lester. Heavy breathing, sweat, and then a slow-spreading red splotch. No ninja moves. Just ugly.

  With my shoulders hunched and my head tucked under my hood, I disappear in the shadows. I’m halfway to nowhere when my feet move in a different direction. Toward the alley behind Fenty’s. There’s still police tape up, blocking off the area. I don’t want to, but I start remembering the sound of the tire iron hitting his body. The sickening thud. How he didn’t run, just lay there, like he knew he didn’t stand a chance. I relive every hit with the tire iron till heat prickles on my neck and I think I’ll puke.