Blood Brothers

by Colleen Nelson

  But it was Henry who took the final swings. Lester was still breathing when I stepped away. It was Henry’s boot that cracked his skull. I might have hurt him, but Henry killed him.

  I leave the alley and walk around to the front of the bar. The weather’s changing. Tonight, the air is sharp and cold. I’m glad I have my jacket. A few guys stumble out of Fenty’s. I watch them. They light a cigarette and share a laugh about something.

  I guess I’m staring at them, because one calls to me. “You want something?” I shouldn’t keep hanging around like this. They’re both watching me, waiting for me to leave.

  “Got a smoke?” I ask, walking closer to them. The light above the door makes their faces glow yellow. One guy is wearing an apron under his jacket. It hangs down past his knees and has brown grease stains on it.

  They look at me and snicker. I hear one make a crack about my age. Baby-smooth skin on the side of my face, and a scrawny neck, make me look younger than I am.

  His friend gives me a pissed-off look and takes his pack of smokes out. It’s halfway empty. He pulls one out and stretches his arm to give it to me. I reach out with my left hand, and real quick, pull the knife out of my hoodie pocket. It clicks into place and glints in the light. They both back up, but I’ve got the guy’s wrist. I’m squeezing it tight.

  They look at me like they’re not so sure. Like maybe they could jump me and get the knife, or maybe not. Depends how desperate I am, that’s what they’re thinking. And they don’t know.

  “Take the smokes. Is that what you want?”

  There’s a roar in my ears, and I can’t believe the knife in my hand is pointed at them.

  The guy in the apron tosses his butt on the ground and holds up his hands. “My break’s over, okay? We got to go back inside. My boss’ll be coming to check on me.”

  My chest heaves. I hold the knife tighter and move the tip closer to the guy’s face. I want him to see that it’s real. He angles his face away, so all I see is his chin.

  He’s afraid. One vein bulges in his neck. “I could cut you,” I whisper.

  “No, no, don’t. We’re just on our break. That’s it. We gotta go back in now.”

  Fenty’s door opens, and all of a sudden music fills the alley. I don’t look to see who opened the door, but I let go of the guy’s hand and start running. Down the street and around a corner. I fold up the knife and hold it in my hand. After a few blocks, I stop running. But I hold the knife tightly, the metal warm, like a hot stone, in my palm.

  My breath comes out in foggy puffs, but I’m not cold anymore. The run warmed me up. I go past a tattoo place. Henry knows the guys that run it. They come by the clubhouse sometimes, ink the new Red Bloodz. It’s still open; the windows are bright with light and two guys sit at the desk. One has his feet up, the other’s staring at his phone. There’s a whole chart of different designs in the window. A dagger, like Henry’s, is in the middle.

  “Hey,” I say, walking in. The door makes a beeping noise. It smells like ink and rubbing alcohol and stings my nose. They both turn and look at me. The guy puts his feet on the floor.

  “Help you?” he asks. His arms are covered with sleeves of colour.

  I take some twenties out of my pocket and put them on the counter. “Can you do one for me?”

  He looks me up and down, like he’s going to send me away. “I’m Henry’s brother.” I blurt quick. “He sent me.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He still looks unsure. “How old are you?”

  “Eighteen,” I lie, my eyes shifty.

  He snorts cuz he knows it’s bullshit. “Got any ID?”

  “Lost it.”

  He looks to his buddy, who shrugs. What do they care? I wonder. I’ve got the cash. He takes the money off the counter and stuffs it in his pocket. “What do you want?”

  “A dagger,” I say.

  “Can’t do the Red Bloodz one, you know that, right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I want one like it.”

  He shakes his head. “Sorry, man.”

  “How about this?” I grab a piece of paper and a pencil and draw a dagger stabbing through a grinning skull, a few drops of black blood drip down.

  “That’s pretty good,” he mumbles.

  “Gimme a few minutes.” He goes to a desk with a light above it and draws out the tracer. He asks where I want it and how big.

  I take off my jacket and hang it on a hook and sit in the chair at his station. The vinyl is slippery and cold. With only a T-shirt, my skin prickles with goosebumps.

  He holds a thin piece of paper in his hands and nods at the chair by his tools. He slaps the paper on, rubs the ink onto my skin, and peels it off. A minute later, the buzz of the needle hits my arm. I clench my teeth when it bites into my skin.

  I don’t say anything. I close my eyes and listen to the hum of the needle as it marks me.

  When he’s done, I sit up. My arm is sore. It aches and stings at the same time. “Go take a look,” he says. So I do. I hold my arm sideways in the mirror.

  “What do you think?” he asks, peeling off the gloves.

  I stare at the too bright colours and the puffy redness. “Colours will fade a bit,” he tells me. I nod, but don’t say anything else cuz I’m trying to figure out who I got it for. Me? Henry? Lester? Or Koob?

  The door jingles and someone walks in. I know who it is and duck my head. “Where’d the poster go?” she says. The guy at the desk looks up and shrugs. She takes a deep, angry breath, but doesn’t say anything. She pulls a poster out of her bag and tapes it onto the door.

  She marches over to me, even though I’m not looking at her. “Have you seen this girl?” She holds up a poster of Missing Rachelle. The one with long hair.

  I don’t say anything, but she shoves the paper closer to my face. “Can you look at the picture?” She sounds desperate. There’s dark circles under her eyes.

  “Never seen her.”

  The girl takes a deep breath and sighs. “Of course you haven’t,” she mutters. Then she stuffs the posters into her backpack and zips it shut. “No one sees anything in this goddamn city.” She slams the door hard when she leaves and the mirrors on the wall rattle.

  The guy who did my tattoo tapes a layer of plastic on top of it, and I slide my jacket back on. Now what? I think. Back to the clubhouse? And my stomach sinks cuz where else is there?

  Roxy/Rachelle’s sister is still outside, talking to some girls on the corner. “Have you seen her?” she asks.

  “Gawd, leave us alone. Go ask that guy,” one of them says, turning away from her. She comes toward me, but her steps slow when she realizes she already did.

  “Let me see that picture again,” I say. We’re standing under a streetlight and I hold the photo up, squinting at it. “I think I did see her a few days ago. At a house party.”

  “Oh my god,” she gasps. “Where? Do you know the address? Was she with anyone?” Roxy’s sister is so relieved, she’s almost crying. “Was she okay?”

  “Yeah, she was fine.” I’m scrambling for a lie. “I don’t remember the house, though. It was somewhere around here, in the West End.”

  She takes a card out of her backpack. Her hand trembles when she hands it to me. Roxy’s photo is on the front. A cell number and her sister’s name, Charlene, is on the back. “Call me if you see her again, okay? Can you at least do that, so I know she’s okay?”

  I nod and take the card with my left hand cuz my other arm hurts too much. “I gotta go,” I tell her. I feel her eyes on me till I turn the corner. Why’d I say anything? I wonder, and I feel like an asshole. I got her hopes up for nothing. Rachelle’s not missing; she’s just missing to her sister. I know exactly where she is.

  Jakub

  After school the next day, I hear Father Dom’s beat-up mini van through the open window as it chokes and whines its way down the block. Dad and
I are in the apartment. I’m doing homework, but Dad sits silently on the couch. Not much to say since he found out about Lester.

  A few minutes later, Father Dom knocks on the door. Dad rises halfway out of his seat, but I’m already up and heading for the door. He’ll be here under the guise of checking on us, to see how we’re handling the news about Lester. But I know that’s not the real reason. He wants to know why I haven’t gone to the cops.

  “We need to talk,” Father Dom insists quietly when I open the door. His face is flushed and he glares at me. My stomach drops. “Antony!” he calls inside. “I need Jakub’s help at church. We had some books delivered and we have to move them. Can I take him with me?”

  Dad stands up, limps to the door, and looks at me. “Yes, of course,” he says.

  Father Dom shoots me a sideways look.

  “We won’t be long,” he assures Dad. I slip my shoes on and follow Father Dom down the stairs. He’s got a sweatshirt on with black pants, his white collar peeking out at his neck. He mutters prayers for forgiveness for his lie. We both know there are no books to move.

  It’s not until we’re inside the van that Father Dom turns to me. “Have you gone to the police yet?”

  I fumble for an excuse, but nothing comes. He gives an impatient sigh.

  A pounding starts in my forehead.

  “What are you waiting for?”

  “The cops might put it together without me saying anything,” I mutter.

  “This is not how your father raised you!”

  His words are like a kick in the balls. I don’t want to think about what Dad would do if he found out I knew who’d killed Lester and hadn’t said anything. I slouch lower in my seat and stare outside. The curtains flutter in the window of our apartment. Dad’s watching from above, waiting for us to leave.

  Father Dom turns the key in the ignition. It makes a grinding noise, and the van jumps when he puts it into gear. “Piece of shit,” he mutters. I don’t know if he’s talking about the van, or me.

  “We can’t keep this a secret, Jakub.”

  “We?” I say, nervous. “I thought you couldn’t tell anyone. What about your vows?”

  Father Dom swerves around a corner and into the other lane. He gets a long, angry honk. “Antony needs to know. You are his son. He can help you in ways I can’t.”

  “But he’ll call the cops!”

  He grips the steering wheel. “I know.”

  My face burns with frustration. “The cops will go after Lincoln. And the Red Bloodz.” I bite down on my lip to stop the wave of panic that washes over me.

  “Good.” Father Dom’s voice is cold.

  I let out a shaky exhalation. Things were getting so tangled: pulling one string loose would knot something else. Telling the cops about Lincoln and the Red Bloodz would lead them to the chop shop and the stolen cars. It wasn’t a far leap for the cops to put Lincoln together with the carjacking at St. Bart’s. They had his prints and the cellphone photos. How long till they figure out I’m the connection? My future is on the line now. Me and Link, forever tied together. If he goes down, I’ll be right behind, the weight of him like an anchor.

  Father Dom parks the van in the alley behind the church. He sits for a minute after turning off the ignition. “Is there more?” he asks.

  I swallow, because now is the time to tell him everything. Instead of shaking my head, I nod. My conscience can only take so much. I’m going to crack under the weight. Better to admit it all to Father Dom and have his help than let it fester in me.

  He sighs and purses his lips. “Tell me.”

  I want to go inside, to the cool of the church where I can stay hidden in the dark of the confessional, but Father Dom doesn’t make a move to get out of the van.

  A pounding starts in my forehead. “It was Link’s idea, I mean, most of it. He was only going to take one.”

  “One what?” Father Dom asks.

  “A car ... from St. Bart’s.”

  “Oh, shit,” Father Dom swears under his breath. “The one with the girl in it?”

  “That was after. He came back a second time. I told him not to, but he didn’t listen. He didn’t know there was a kid inside the Escalade. You know Link, he wouldn’t —”

  “Hurt someone?” Father Dom asks, pointedly.

  “He just needed a getaway.”

  Father Dom sits shaking his head in disbelief. “I don’t know what to say to you, Jakub. This is not who you are!”

  A wave of guilt washes over me. It hits like a typhoon, knocking me over, making me scramble to hold on to something solid. “I was trying to help Lincoln. I owed him. I thought it was just going to be one car.” I fumble for excuses, but they only enrage Father Dom.

  “Owed him for what?”

  Was it just the night he got picked up by the cops? Maybe I’ve always been trying to pay him back, apologizing for the differences between us.

  When I don’t answer, Father Dom says, “The graffiti, I looked past. Maybe I shouldn’t have. It led you down this road.” His face contorts with regret. His eyebrows furrow and he frowns. “But this! Jakub, stealing a car, concealing a murder! Who are you?”

  Father Dom’s voice rings in my ears. Who am I?

  “I don’t know,” I say and start to cry. It starts as a low whimper, but gets louder till my shoulders are shaking and I’m howling.

  My stomach’s in knots, but I know I have to tell Lincoln tonight, before I chicken out. Father Dom took my confession, properly. And this is my penance. My way to make it right. I have to tell Dad and, on Monday, go into Father O’Shea’s office and tell him everything. Father Dom helped me write it out, so I wouldn’t forget anything. Makes it easier to say if I can read it.

  He asked me who I am. Am I the kid who steals cars and covers up murders? I’m not. Inside, I know I’m not. But that’s who I’ve turned into.

  I rap on Lincoln’s door and look around. Same broken toys and shit all over the front yard. Through the front window, I can see the couch still sagging in the middle because of a busted leg.

  Dustin answers, wearing the bottoms of superhero pajamas. “What happened to your face?” he asks.

  “Got jumped,” I tell him. He eyes my fading bruises, but his expression doesn’t change.

  “Link’s not here,” he says.

  “Who is it?” his mom calls from inside.

  “Koob,” he shouts to her.

  I hear a snort from inside the house, and then she comes to the door and shoos Dustin away. “He packed a bag and left.”

  “Where’d he go?” I ask, even though I know the answer.

  She shrugs and I almost turn to go because she doesn’t answer for so long. “Heard he was working at the garage on Mountain.” She gives me a look and I see the regret on her face. “If you find him, tell him his little brother’s asking for him.”

  I nod and walk back down to the sidewalk. The screen door slaps shut behind me and I see Dustin at the window, his belly pressing against the glass as he watches me walk away.

  Gravel crunches under my feet as I walk up the main drive. A sign with “Al’s Automotive Repair” in faded blue letters hangs across the front of the building. The yard is surrounded by a chain-link fence. The garage’s overhead door is open, and a gritty mess of tools and supplies fills the place. One car sits on a hoist, and outside, two beaters on blocks fill one side of the lot. Nothing to prove it’s a chop shop, but if I go around the back, I bet it’s a different story.

  I wait in the empty yard for a long time. Too nervous to ring the bell or shout for attention. There’s security cameras, but after years of painting, I’ve gotten good at avoiding them. Finally, the side door opens. I duck in case it’s one of the other guys. But it’s not. Link dumps a bucket of water on the ground. He’s going to go back inside unless I call out to him.

  “Link!�
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  He looks around, his eyes covered with his hat, a new one. Sitting stiff on his head. When he spots me, he gives a quick check inside the garage, drops the bucket beside the door, and walks over.

  “What are you doing here?” he asks, pushing back the brim of his hat. He blinks, his nervous twitch in overdrive.

  “I need to talk.”

  “Here? What the hell?” He walks over quick and shoves me back to the road, glancing over his shoulder. “I’ll get in shit if anyone sees you here.”

  I shift uncomfortably. I pull his hat out of the pocket of my hoodie and hold it out to him. He takes it and stuffs it into his back pocket. There’s so much I have to say, but none of it makes any sense with him in front of me. I have to start somewhere, though. “There’s been cops at the apartment asking questions.”

  His voice catches. “What did you —”

  “Nothing. I didn’t talk to them.”

  Link rubs a hand over his face, pushing off his hat to wipe his brow. “Everything’s so fucked up.” There are dark circles under his eyes. He gives a long exhale, blowing out a breath that hasn’t seen a toothbrush in days.

  “You could tell the cops,” I say quietly. “Stop protecting him.”

  Lincoln stares at the ground, kicking at gravel. He doesn’t say anything. It would save me from ratting you out.

  “Link?”

  He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it and shakes his head. “I’m not a snitch.” He shoots another worried look at the garage and grabs my sleeve, pulling me farther away.

  I look at my friend. Below the sleeve of his T-shirt, a tattoo, newly inked. “When did you get that?” I ask, pointing at it.

  “Yesterday.” His eyes stray to the tattoo, like he’s just remembered he has it. “You better go.” Resignation makes his voice flat. “Rat’s in the back. He might come out for a smoke.”

  “Link, there’s something else.” A clatter of tools inside the garage makes Link jump.