At The City's Edge

by Marcus Sakey

  The gangs lived here. They were eternal.

  "Why haven't you told me any of this?"

  "I don't know." Michael sipped his beer, looked out the window. "I didn't want to burden you with it. I mean, I know you're dealing with your own baggage. From whatever happened in – over there."

  "You can say it. Iraq."

  "Okay, tough guy, Iraq. After everything there, I know it's been bad for you. Besides," Michael shrugged, "you've made it pretty clear how you feel about taking responsibility." He said it in the older-brother tone of voice he reserved for Jason, like he was a puppy that might piss the rug.

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Let it slide."

  "No." Jason set down his glass. "You got something you want to say?"

  Michael sighed. "Brother, you were always the smart one. You could make something of yourself. Put down roots. Fight for something."

  "Like you?" The anger was quickening in Jason's chest. "Pretending you're Charles Bronson?"

  "Keep it down." Michael nodded to where Billy sat.

  Jason lowered his voice. "And that's another thing. It's not just you. You're putting him at risk, too. Do you know what you're doing?"

  Michael hardened. "I'm trying to make a better place for him to grow up."

  "Bullshit." He shook his head. "I've tried to save the world, okay? It doesn't work." The Worm looped another knotted segment around his ribs. Jason looked at his hands, the wrinkles that lined the flesh between thumb and forefinger. He could almost see his pulse jumping there.

  "Bro," Michael spoke softly, "I know something happened, and I know you blame yourself for whatever it was. But this is different."

  "You don't know shit, bro."

  Michael ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth, making the cheek bulge. He just stared at Jason. "I know you could have been the first of us to get a degree, until you blew your scholarship. I know your longest relationship lasted three months, and that you got busted for stealing televisions when you were twenty." Michael snorted. "I know that if it weren't for Washington, your ass would be in jail."

  "That was kid stuff. And ancient fucking history."

  "Kid stuff? You haven't changed."

  "I was in the Army for seven years," Jason hissed.

  Michael shrugged. "Sure."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Never mind."

  "No," Jason said, feeling sweat in his palms, "what does that mean?"

  "You really want to know? It means you're twenty-seven years old and only qualified to flip burgers or carry an assault rifle. It means you're willing to fight for something, you just don't want to decide what, or have to stick to it. I think you enlisted so other people would do that for you. And when that didn't work out, you fell back into what you knew. Drinking at noon and trying to get laid."

  Jason stood up, his stool scraping across the floor. "Fuck you, man."

  "Yeah, fuck you too."

  Their voices had risen, and Jason saw Billy staring at them from the front table, his mouth wide. He felt bad about that, his nephew seeing them this way, but it wasn't his fault. It was the old dynamic, Michael pushing that same old button, and Jason blowing up over it. Shaking his head, Jason hip-checked the stool and headed for the front door. Behind him, he could hear Michael sigh, and he knew if he stood there for three seconds his brother would apologize, but he didn't have it in him.

  The bell on the door tinkled, and the sun hit like a slap. He kicked at a chunk of broken glass, sent it skittering to break against the plywood facing of a burned-out store. The Caddy was parked with two wheels up on the curb; he'd been in such a hurry to make sure Michael was okay.

  Brothers. Shit.

  He fired up the engine and cranked the radio, then stomped on the gas. He needed a shower. And then a drink. Several drinks.

  Michael saw him as a flake? Fine.

  Jason could play the part.

  CHAPTER 4

  Single Malt Heaven

  During Prohibition, the bar had been a speakeasy. The real estate agent who had sold Michael the place had known the whole story, told him about the hidden nooks and crannies, the safe concealed behind the radiator. She'd called the narrow basement steps "Navy stairs," and the phrase fit: narrow, steep metal that would be at home on a cramped battleship. Standing on them and looking up through the ancient trap-hatch, Michael could almost feel the basement roll with the waves. "Come on," he called. "Time to go."

  "One sec." Billy was lost in a stack of cardboard boxes. The air smelled of dust and time, of the junk piled against crumbling retaining walls: a piano with keys like nicotine fingers, a sofa with cushions worn thin, his own stuff mingling with the detritus of a dozen previous owners. Someday he meant to go through all of it, figure out what was worth giving away. Meanwhile, the basement was Billy's favorite haunt. What was it about dark places packed with sharp rusting junk that so fascinated boys?

  "Let's move, kiddo." The bar would open in less than an hour. Given the contents of the briefcase, it seemed ridiculous that he had to spend the rest of the day pouring boilermakers for municipal workers and construction guys, but at least he'd taken care of business down here. All he had to do was get through today, then tomorrow he could do some real work. "Now."

  Billy emerged smiling, something clutched in his hand. "Check it out, Dad! Was this yours?" He held up a laser gun.

  Michael squinted, recognized it as a Transformer, a toy robot that origami'ed into a purple pistol. "Would you look at that." He reached for it. The plastic felt oddly familiar, comfortable, like some part of him had been yearning to hold the toy again. "I used to love this thing." He turned it over. "See, I even carved my name on it."

  "It's crossed out."

  "I know. Uncle Jason won it from me on a dare."

  "What did you dare him to do?"

  Michael remembered just fine, but no way was he planting ideas about sprinting across the El tracks, so he just shook his head and handed the toy back. His son took it, stared at like there was a message written in invisible ink. "Dad?"

  "Hmm?"

  "What's wrong with Uncle Jason?"

  The question brought him up short. "How do you mean?"

  "He doesn't seem like when he used to visit." Billy stared at his fingers tapping the pistol grip. "He's sad, and you guys fight more."

  Michael opened his mouth, then closed it. Truth was, he didn't know what had happened to his brother. The week he returned he'd stayed with them, sleeping on the sofa, drinking most of a case of beer during the day and bringing home a different girl most every night. When Michael had broached the subject, Jason had said he was fine. The next week he'd moved out.

  Michael looked at Billy waiting for an answer, his eyes the same brown his mother's had been. The truth seemed to best way. Never could lie to those eyes. "You know your uncle was a soldier."

  "Uh-huh."

  "Well, sometimes when soldiers go to war, they get hurt. Wounded. Sometimes it's on the outside, like-"

  "Getting shot?"

  "Sure, like that. But sometimes it's not that simple. Sometimes they're hurt on the inside." He paused. "Sort of like getting sick."

  "And that's what happened to Uncle Jason?"

  "Yeah. He got sick, and so they sent him home." Not perfect, maybe, but not bad.

  "Will he get better?"

  "Of course." Michael smiled softly, and set his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Of course he will. But it might take a little while, and we have to be here for him."

  Billy nodded thoughtfully. "Okay."

  "Okay. Now," Michael gestured for the stairs, "what say we get out of here?"

  "Can I bring this?" Billy held up the Transformer.

  "My friend, you can have it."

  They climbed back to the world. Billy immediately sat at the scarred desk in "his" corner of the stockroom and began playing with the Transformer, figuring out how the thing bent, which parts twisted to convert it back to a robot. Michael
watched the boy work with that familiar feeling in his chest, a sort of liquid bursting. That's my son. Like always, the thought seemed both novel and ancient, a profound thing that could be taught only by the wet-lipped intensity of an eight-year-old boy.

  Funny. The toy had been his, then Jason, and now Billy's. Just plastic and metal, and yet it bound them all together, tied the present to the past. Michael found himself remembering another trip to the basement, years ago, he and Jason clearing space, hauling loads of sweating junk up the narrow stairs. When they were finished, they'd dropped into folding chairs, and Michael had opened the safe, taken out the Black Label he'd stashed. He could still remember the smile on Jason's face.

  He smiled himself, then ruffled his son's hair and left him at work. Behind the bar, he finished washing glasses, then checked the supplies of Beam and Jack. As he did, his eyes fell again on the rows of bottles, the dusty bottle of Balvenie he'd noticed earlier.

  What the hell. The cork twisted free with a pop. Holding the bottle under his nose was like dissolving in a river of warm caramel. He poured two fingers, took another long inhale, sipped with his eyes closed.

  Damn. Something to aspire to indeed.

  The thought came with a stab of guilt. The words had come out all wrong, again. Hell, he'd damn near called his brother a coward. Michael sighed, reached for the phone. If he could get Jason back down here, he could apologize with a glass of single-malt heaven, try again. He'd dialed the first couple digits when the front door opened, the bell rattling. The brilliance of afternoon framed a silhouette, big, balding, another man behind him.

  "Sorry," Michael said, setting down the receiver. "We're not open yet."

  The men stepped inside and closed the door.

  "I said, we're not-" But as they blotted out the light burning behind them, Michael Palmer saw who had entered his bar.

  The highball glass slipped from his fingers to spin, glinting, until it passed into shadow and shattered.

  CHAPTER 5

  The Sexiest Porn in the World

  The girl was up, bustling around in the kitchen. Jason could still smell her perfume on the pillow beside him, something fruity and strong. Nice, though. His head ached a little with the remnants of last night's bourbon, and he toyed with the idea of rolling over, grabbing another hour of sleep.

  But the sheets were muggy and close, and a fat-bellied fly buzzed around the room, dodging between the blades of the ceiling fan. Forget it. He pulled himself upright, leaned against the bare wall and watched the girl make coffee in the studio kitchen.

  She still looked good in the morning sun, a long, toned body. Pixie hair. A curvy faux-tribal tattoo led into pale blue panties that fit well, no droop. She opened one cabinet and then another, searching with quiet efficiency.

  Her name was… Jackie. Yes.

  "Filters are in the drawer." He rubbed his cheek, the skin sticky and full.

  "You're up." She turned to smile.

  "Yeah." He pulled the sheet off and spun to the edge of the bed. The hardwood felt nice, cool. As he started to rise, pain spiked his belly. The muscle had a purple and yellow bruise, courtesy of the wrestler's rings. He winced, then smiled, remembering the rushing air as he'd jumped off the parking deck. With one hand on his gut and the other on the bed, he stood, glanced out the window. Morning, world.

  Clark and Division. A weird-ass place to live. Lincoln Park to the north, all that prosperity: Tree-shrouded sidewalks, little dogs yipping in graystone windows, the streets safe at three A.M. And south of him, the Loop, bristling with skyscrapers where the Lincoln Parkers made their inexplicable livings. Then here, smack in the middle, his corner. One block of ghetto-light carved out of the otherwise pristine Gold Coast, courtesy of the #70 bus connecting the Red Line and Cabrini Green. Twenty-four-seven, guys hanging out by the Currency Exchange, the sandwich shop. Late some nights he'd hear the hookers fighting, hollering the way only pissed-off black women could. But the studio was cheap and month-to-month, and that was about all the thought he'd put into it.

  The smell of coffee pulled him from his reverie. The girl had found two mugs and was pouring carefully. Jason never knew how to handle the morning after, if they were supposed to hug and kiss like a real couple. Her eyes were blue and steady, but she didn't make any moves. He opted just to squeeze her arm as he took a cup, and she smiled, then pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. "I'll just have one before I go."

  "Take your time." The coffee tasted great, strong and bitter.

  She smiled again, then glanced around the kitchen as if she looking for a topic of conversation. There wasn't much – a pantry with folding doors, a couple of dishes in the sink, a bottle of Jim Beam on the counter, grade-school analog clock on the wall. Finally her tour brought her full circle, her eyes back to rest on his. She hesitated, then said, "Were you really in Iraq?"

  "First Brigade, Twenty-fifth Infantry."

  "Can I ask you something?"

  He said, "Sure," but sighed inwardly.

  "What's it…" She paused, stared down at her cup. "What's it like?" When she looked back up at him, it was with something like lust in her eyes. He recognized the look, saw it all the time. Like pulling back a curtain, you could watch people change. Their inner darkness hungry to know what it felt like to get wet. Wanting him to tell them horrible, delicious things. The sexiest porn in the world.

  "Hot," he said, then stood and opened the refrigerator. Leftover Thai. When had he gotten it? He opened the container and sniffed. Seemed okay, though how spoiled curry would smell different from regular curry he couldn't say. He found a takeaway packet with a napkin, chopsticks, soy. He split the chopsticks, rubbed them together, then scooped up a mouthful of noodles. Tasted fine.

  "That's it?" she asked, turning to look at him. "Hot?"

  He shrugged. "Noisy."

  "You don't want to talk about it?"

  "Want some?" He offered her the takeout container. She stared at him, and he sighed. "Look, it was hot, it was noisy. I was there, now I'm back."

  "Okay," she said.

  They small-talked through the rest of the coffee. After about twenty minutes, she made a point of looking at the clock, and he smiled to let her know it was no problem, that he was easy. He washed the mugs, then leaned on the counter to look at her. Watching a woman get dressed had always felt nearly as sexy as the opposite. She scrunched up her face at a rip in her stockings, decided to do without. Covered the blue panties with a black skirt and pulled on a fitted shirt that clung to her body.

  "Listen," she said, moving to him, "About what I said-"

  "Don't worry about it."

  "It's just, I was curious. I didn't mean to go to a bad place or anything."

  He shook his head. "It's fine."

  "Okay." She took one of his fingers in her hand, played with it idly, eyes down. For a moment she looked like a little girl. Then she straightened and said, "So, good-bye."

  "You're not going to leave your number?"

  She smiled. "Any point?"

  He laughed, and for a moment, wanted to say, Hell yes. She was sexy and smart and self-possessed, and he ought to consider himself lucky for the chance.

  Then he thought ahead to the way it would end. The way it always did.

  She saw his hesitation, shook her head. "It's okay. It was nice to meet you." Then she opened the door and stepped out, giving him a little wave using just her fingers. The walls were thin, and he could hear her heels click all the way down the hall.

  "Shit." Jason scooped the container of noodles from the table and tossed it in the trash.

  He made his bed, pulling the sheets tight and tucking the corners. Ready to bounce a quarter off. Then he stretched, and hit the deck for push-ups. Normally he did a hundred neat snaps with hands beneath his shoulders, followed by fifty arms-wide. But he thought of Jackie, the way he hadn't had the balls to tell her yes, and forced himself into another fifty of each, no break. He was panting by the end, shoulders and chest sore, the
mop of bangs he'd let grow since his return sticky against his forehead.

  Standing, he spotted his cell phone. He thought about dialing Michael, apologizing for getting worked up. Guy was an asshole sometimes, but they were still brothers.

  Instead he went to the bathroom and showered off his sweat and the smell of the girl's perfume.

  The chrome on the Beretta was shiny, but the works were filthy. Besides not knowing how to hold a weapon, Soul Patch obviously didn't have a clue how to maintain one. Jason ejected the magazine and set it on the table, then checked the chamber for rounds. When he was sure it was clear, he held down the disassembly latch and removed the slide, then the recoil spring and barrel. He set each piece on the kitchen table, enjoying the feeling of the routine. Maintenance was a simple, methodical process. It was something you could do without thinking, the way some people painted models or knit sweaters. Just a way to defocus the mind. And it felt good to hold a weapon again. After years of having one in arm's reach every moment, he felt naked without. Silly, really; his need to be armed had died months ago, when he walked out of the Administrative Discharge Board.

  The thought made him grind his teeth.

  Enough, he thought, and blew at a speck of dust. So his old life was over. So it had ended badly. So what? People moved on. They forgave themselves, rebuilt their lives. Managed, somehow, to be happy again. It happened all the time. Right?

  Jason gave the barrel another buff with the cloth, then slotted it back in place and tightened it with the spring. Fit the slide back on, then inserted the magazine.

  It was no wonder he pictured his guilt as a Worm, thin and segmented, blind and pale. Like some foul eel from the ocean's darkest chasm. With razor teeth it was slowly eating him, a bite at a time. Would it eventually die?

  Or just feast until there was nothing left?

  He hoisted the Beretta and reversed it. Pointed it dead center of his face, in that spot where his eyes fought for focus. A shiver ran down his thighs. It would take so little. Just the smallest squeeze of his thumb. A short dance of muscles and a fire exploding in his brain, and then gone. No more Worm, no more memories. Just blackness cool as the shadow inside the gun barrel.