At The City's Edge

by Marcus Sakey

  He's building a treehouse, he explained to Jason earlier, and his uncle laughed, and ruffled his hair, and went back to the house for a fifth beer. That one is gone, and his mouth is dry for a sixth, but Jason lingers on the screened porch, watching his nephew. Billy winds up and swings wildly. The nail pings free and leaps away. He drops the hammer and kicks the tree, then hops around on one foot.

  Instead of going to the kitchen, Jason opens the screen door and steps out.

  He shows Billy how to grip the hammer, hand at the base. Drives one tenpenny to demonstrate: Two taps to set, three blows to finish. Then he holds the board and hands his nephew the hammer.

  When Michael gets home, he finds them in the tree, each to a branch, legs dangling. An uneven ladder runs up the side of the trunk. He takes it in silently.

  "We're out of wood," Billy explains.

  Michael sighs and walks away.

  "What's wrong?" Billy looks suddenly nervous.

  Jason shakes his head. "I don't know."

  A moment later Michael returns carrying two pine deck chairs. He sets one upside down, reaches for the hammer, and snaps the leg off.

  "Can't stop now. Look how much higher you could go."

  He winks as he hands up the plank.

  CHAPTER 11

  Shades of Red and Blue

  Jason's eyes snapped open. He sat up, shadow-boxing the boogeyman. Raw adrenaline trampled his bourbon haze, fight-or-flight pushing everything else aside.

  The sound had been unmistakable, but a little muted. In this neighborhood, the breaking glass could easily have been a drunk throwing his last bottle, or kids smashing a car window. There was no reason to panic yet. He tried to attune himself to the house, to stretch his perception into every corner, to make the place an extension of himself, as personal as limbs.

  Glass shattered again. Louder. Inside the house.

  Then he was moving, bare toes tracing the grain of the hardwood floor. The room went wobbly for a second from a rush of blood. He stepped past the armchair into the darker shadows, heart thumping against his ribs. Another crisp crack, like someone snapping off the glass in a windowpane, followed a second later by a thump that could have been the piece hitting a rug.

  His mind raced, assessing the battlefield. The living room where he stood was in the front of the house, next to a small foyer and the front door. An open arch led to the kitchen and dining area. Off the back of the kitchen was the three-season room, a screened porch where they ate in the summer. That would be it. A lock snapped open.

  His jacket was flung over the armchair. Moving lightly, he slid one hand into the front right pocket. The gun was gone.

  Shit. The hospital. He'd taken the gun out of his jacket and stuck it in the glove box, betting correctly that the emergency room would have metal detectors. Afterward, he'd been preoccupied, and forgotten it. From the other room he heard a sound like someone banging into a table. "Quiet," a voice whispered. Not intruder, then; intruder s.

  Jason inched along the wall, pulse racing and mouth dry. A shaft of yellow light cut through the air, veering crazily before settling on the floor. A second beam came on, this one more careful. Jason flattened his back to the wall, the arch to the kitchen a few inches to his right. Dust motes danced in the light as the beams pulled inward. He pictured the kitchen – breakfast table near the arch, black-and-white linoleum tiles, counter and sink along one wall. The sudden illumination from the flashlights would have cut their night vision. He had to know what he was facing. Fingers tingling, he peered around the arch.

  Three men stood in the kitchen talking softly. Two had little Mag-Lites they pointed at their feet, minimizing the splash of light. They wore loose dark clothing and tennis shoes so bright they had to be fresh out of the box. All three had pistols in their hands. Why would thieves have pistols out?

  Then the third man twisted on a flashlight of his own, pointing it at his chest as he tightened the beam, the light spilling up to reveal his face. For a moment Jason thought his heart had stopped, then realized he was just holding his breath.

  It was Soul Patch.

  His first reaction was pure energy. He thought of the ruined bar, the wood twisted and bubbled with heat. Thought of his brother's body, lying in some morgue somewhere, still to be dealt with. His heart pumped rage and his veins carried murder. Soul Patch wanted to dance? Bring him on.

  Then he remembered Billy.

  Jason eased back from the door into shadow. He had to find a way out of this that didn't risk Billy. Maybe he wasn't much of an uncle. Maybe he wasn't ready to play Daddy. But he sure as hell wasn't going to let anyone hurt his nephew.

  There wasn't much time. He scanned for weapons, eyes falling on the fireplace pokers, then the coffee table with the television remote and empty Jim Beam bottle, on to his brother's desk, a box cutter sticking out of a jar of pens. Nothing he saw was a match for one pistol, much less three.

  Then he looked at the coffee table again.

  Move.

  Staying on the balls of his feet, he quick-stepped over, grabbed the remote, then crept to the front door. From the other room he heard the faint sounds of footfalls, the men splitting up. He had a few seconds at most. He grasped the deadbolt key and began turning, body screaming for speed, mind fighting for stealth. He eased it open one slow degree at a time, and when he felt it seat, reached for the handle. He said a quick prayer that the hinges wouldn't squeak.

  The door swung open silent as a ghost.

  Jason stepped outside, the August humidity cotton-thick after the air-conditioning. He turned and pulled the door shut, closing it just as a dark shape stepped into the living room, swinging a flashlight beam across the floor. Jason spun, ducked down, and hurried across the front of the house.

  The neighborhood was quiet, the small slumbering houses leaning against one another. Most of the streetlights were broken, but the remaining few lit the yard more than he'd have liked. He kept low as he moved. When he reached the living room window, he eased himself against the wall next to it, his feet moving from grass to the sharp wood chips lining the empty flower bed. Something jammed into the soft portion of his foot, but energy was slaloming so hard and fast through his body that the pain seemed muted as distant thunder. Rocking his head sideways, he looked in the window of his brother's house.

  A man stood in the center of the room, holding the flashlight in one hand and pistol in the other. Six-foot-plus, with heavy-lidded eyes and cornrows. He had the gun loose and low, not tracking with the beam the way he should have.

  Jason raised the remote, pointed it through the window at the television six feet away and pressed the button. The set sprang to life, screen brightening. The gangbanger whirled. His gun flew level as he gave a short little yelp.

  Jason pressed the volume button, turning the TV louder. CNN still on, the sounds of a Blackhawk rotor beating through the glass. Inside, the banger moved toward the TV, then spun again, the flashlight beam dancing crazily across the room. Jason smiled, dropped the clicker, and sprinted.

  The Caddy was parked down the street, and he thought of going for his gun. But as diversions went, this one wouldn't keep them occupied for long. He had to get Billy out. He raced across the yard, sucking hot air into his lungs. Between Michael's house and its neighbor was a thin walkway, and he dodged down it, feet slapping splintered concrete. The house next door was in lousy shape, chunks of siding missing, the holes like sunken eyes watching his progress.

  Fifteen steps took him to the backyard, and he paused in the darkness, peering at the three-season room. As he'd expected, one of the panes of glass in the door had been broken. The door swung open at his touch. Thin traces of light coming in the windows highlighted the sparkling edges of broken glass on the floor, and he stepped carefully.

  He paused, heart racing, blood thrumming through his system. The television in the other room was still blaring, Arabic with a translator over-dubbed, talking about an ambush that left three Marines dead. The insurgents
had come out of the alleys with RPGs and Kalashnikovs, a man was saying. Jason stepped through the kitchen door on the balls of his feet. The room was dark, the air-conditioning cold and stale. A bead of sweat made the long slow run down his side. His hands were shaking. He ignored them, taking one cautious step after another, moving toward the stairs.

  "Man, shut that thing off." The voice was loud, way too loud for an ambush, and Jason recognized it. It had once told him about a DVD in the dash of his imaginary Cadillac XLR. Under other circumstances, if his life were the only thing at stake, he might have smiled to think of Soul Patch coming back for another try.

  The TV snapped off, silence dropping like an echoing curtain. Damn. The audio had provided good cover for his movement.

  "What you doing, dog?" Soul Patch sounded irate.

  "Shit came on by itself."

  "Maybe Trey-Ball stepped on the remote."

  Three men, three voices. That meant the stairs were clear. He kept his pace steady, lifting a foot, moving it careful, setting it down fully before picking up the other. He reached the counter, noticed the telephone on it. Why not. Picked up the receiver, dialed 911, then gently placed the handset on the counter and moved on.

  "Man, I didn't step on shit."

  "Well, somethin' happened."

  Soul Patch's voice cut off the bickering. "Shut your damn mouths. Find this kid and let's take care of business."

  The words yanked Jason's head sideways. His hands trembled as he processed the meaning behind the words. He'd assumed that Soul Patch had held a grudge from the other morning, had come back to try and finish him off. But that wasn't it at all. They weren't after him. They were after Billy. For some reason, they wanted to kill his nephew.

  Not on Jason's watch.

  He started up the stairs, moving along the outer edge, never putting his full weight down. Like all the houses in the neighborhood, Michael's was old, but where half the owners let them crumble, Michael had cared for his. The stairs were covered in new carpet, and the heavy weave muffled sound. If all went well, he could get Billy, head back down and out the way he'd come before the gangbangers realized they were gone.

  Then a light went on in the hallway above him. "Dad?" Billy's voice was sleepy, confused, heartbreaking – and loud.

  So much for stealth. Jason's heart jumped through his chest and he lunged forward, pounding up the steps, hearing the pursuit focus behind him, the squeak of sneakers on hardwood, something falling over with a crash.

  At the end of the hallway, Billy stood in the crack of the doorway, framed in yellow light, tiny in his tighty-whiteys. Jason sprinted down the hall, passing the doors to Michael's room and the bathroom, then scooped his nephew under one arm, stepped into the boy's room, and kicked the door closed. His eyes danced fast: posters, NASCAR clock, pile of dirty clothes, writing desk with a ladder-back chair. It would do. He set Billy down, grabbed the chair and jammed it under the door handle, then flipped off the light.

  He knew better than to think they were safe, strode across the room to the window. The roof of the three-season room was a few feet below them. He tugged at the window. Nothing happened. Footsteps slammed up the stairs. Jason cursed, wrenched the lock open, then threw the window up. "Come here!"

  He turned to find Billy already standing beside him, eyes wide and skin pale by the glow of the streetlight. Jason pushed aside the stab of guilt at the boy's panic. No time. Chalk up one more reason to hate Soul Patch.

  He heard a door slam open down the hallway, imagined the men sweeping flashlights across Michael's bed. Jason leaned forward to fumble with the latches of the screen. They were ancient, the plastic tabs sticking, the springs long rusted out. Fear coursed through his veins. He had to get Billy out of here.

  He grimaced, then drove his right foot into the edge of the screen frame. The cheap assembly ripped off the window, falling out to clatter on the roof below. "Come on," he gestured to Billy, then half-helped, half-tossed him out the window. Behind him he heard the rattling of the door handle, heard it open a half inch to where the chair blocked it.

  Jason crouched on the edge of the sill, threw one leg through, then pulled the other out. Billy stared at him, eyes wide as moons. A ripping crack, and behind them the chair gave, the door flying open. Someone yelled.

  Jason grabbed his nephew, slung him over one shoulder, and ran to the edge of the roof, the tar sticky on his bare feet. Didn't even hesitate, just jumped to the grass below, the impact ringing electric in his knees and ankles. As he hit, he noticed the crooked two-by-fours laddering up the backyard's single tree to the wobbly treehouse he and Michael and Billy had built together, not two months ago.

  There was a crack and an explosion of glass, and then he was running, mind automatically cataloguing gunfire, two, then three shots, he'd guess nine-millimeter. He dashed down the thin walkway between the houses, Billy's weight riding like a rucksack, the boy's arms around his neck, what was left of the childhood he'd known receding with every pounding panicked step.

  Lights began to blink on in the houses around them, people who were awakened by gunfire more than they'd like, who knew to turn on their lights but never step out on the porch. The Cadillac was thirty yards down, and he sprinted as best he could, fumbling for his car keys with one hand. Ran to the passenger side and opened it, then climbed in that way, using the car as cover from the house, pulling Billy after him. Jason cranked the engine and jerked it into drive before the engine had finished firing.

  The front door to Michael's house yanked open as they squealed away, and Jason half expected Soul Patch to run down the sidewalk, blasting away at them like some action movie bad guy, the back window blowing out. But mingling with the tires and the engine was the sound of sirens, loud wails coming from more than one direction. The call to 911 paying out. The figure in the door raised his gun, hesitated, then turned and vanished into the house.

  His heart was racing, and Jason wanted to mash the gas and tear ass for miles, but he made himself slow down, turning off on the first street he saw, keeping his speed an even thirty. A police car screamed toward him, and he pulled out of its way, every bit the good citizen.

  As he did, he looked over at his nephew, his little-boy body all but naked, lit up like a bruise in shades of red and blue, and he wondered who could be so messed up they'd want to murder an eight-year-old child.

  And whether they'd try again.

  CHAPTER 12

  Menace

  Anthony DiRisio was bored. He couldn't see how the police did it, sitting on stakeouts for hours and hours. In the movies, they always made it look like the cops had just enough time to share a war story before something went down. But he'd been waiting half a block from the niggers' house for two hours, and the only thing that'd happened was he really needed to take a piss. He sighed and stretched, the shoulder holster riding up on his ribs.

  He was parked far enough away that nobody would notice the van, but still had a good angle on the front porch, where homeboys sipped bottles of Eight Ball. They were clowning and posing like the lords of all creation in the midst of a neighborhood that looked like the Lebanon. Crumbling bungalows with steel cages over the front doors, tiny yards grown to shit. No respect for their environment. Graffiti on the billboards, graffiti on the lampposts, graffiti on the goddamn street in front of the house.

  A muscular guy stepped outside, his body silhouetted. Bass-heavy rap flowed out from the open door like theme music. Dion Williams, called himself "C-Note." Anthony called him "C-nappy-ass nigger." He bumped fists with one of the brothers, and the jig got up and followed him back inside.

  He knew it wasn't fashionable to call them "jigs" anymore, but it was the word he'd learned as a child growing up south of Taylor, and it stuck in his mind.

  He reached down beside the seat to the recline control, eased back a notch, trying to take some pressure off his bladder. Waited.

  Ten minutes later, two of the guys on the porch stood up. They gave elaborate handshake-hugs
to the others, then pimp-rolled down the steps. The one they called Brillo stopped at the bottom and tilted his forty back in a long swallow. When he'd finished, he tossed the bottle on the grass. No respect even for their own things.

  The two climbed in a 1970 black Monte Carlo, a lot like the one Denzel Washington drove in that cop film. Denzel, he was all right. Anthony didn't expect Denzel threw empty beer bottles on his front yard. Chaser lights circled the license plate, and bass rattled the frame. Sounded like something locked in the trunk trying to get out.

  "Can't spell crap without rap," Anthony said to himself, and started the van.

  He hung back and let them have plenty of room. They passed a Currency Exchange lit up like Vegas on one corner, a couple of storefront businesses with hand-lettered signs on the other. Waited for drive-through at McDonald's, then turned down a neighborhood block fronted by a sign saying it didn't tolerate drugs or gangs. A Gangster Disciples tag was sprayed right across the sign. The Monte Carlo pulled up next to an abandoned lot, and the music cut off abruptly.

  He drove past. When he came to a stop sign he paused, glancing in the rearview. Brillo and his boy walked across the street, the greasy white bag dangling. Anthony circled the block and found a parking place. Spent a moment listening to the engine tick before he took his case and got out of the van.

  First thing he did, he went alongside the house the two jigs had gone into, fished out his dick, and tagged the house Anthony DiRisio-style. Felt like a new man once the last drops splashed down the mortar.

  Back at the Monte Carlo, he took a thin metal strip from the toolbox. He eased the slim-jim behind the window seal until he felt it seat against the control arm, and then pulled over and up. The lock popped.

  Inside, the air was heavy with weed and the cheap scent of evergreen. The windows were tinted so dark that he could hardly see the street. Anthony pulled the air freshener from the mirror, clicked off the volume knob on the CD player, then took a thin screwdriver from his case and wedged it into the ignition. He used a hammer to tap it further, tightened a wrench on the blade, and then cracked the hammer down to snap the mechanism. The whole assembly came out in his hand.