by Marcus Sakey
The big man nodded toward the sign. "The Lantern Bearers."
Jason felt a wave of self-contempt. What an asshole he was. The Worm writhed within, its teeth pulling hunks of him. "Yeah."
Washington smiled, lowered himself into the chair next to Jason. Patted his knee. "People always talk about the 'Fall of Rome,' like one day there was a thud." Shook his head. "Didn't happen that way. Empires die slow and from the inside. Like cancer." He gestured at the darkened street, gin slopping inside the glass. "Like here. At the city's edge. We're covered with tumors, but nobody's looking."
Jason ran a hand across the back of his neck, massaged the sticky flesh. A breeze had picked up, warm and sweet with lilac and a hint of rotting trash. He thought of Billy, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, still wearing the Army T-shirt. Helpless. Trusting. Hunted. "Would it be okay if Billy stayed with you for a little while?"
"Of course." Washington stroked his mustache. "Why?"
Jason stood up and leaned against the railing, his back to the night. "I need to know everything you can tell me about the Gangster Disciples."
Washington's eyes narrowed. "Community interest?"
Jason smiled. "Recon." It felt right to say it. If Washington could rage against the darkness, if Ronald could, then he damn well could, too. "I'm going to stay and fight. Like you said."
Washington stared up, his face expressionless. Calculating. The smile withered on Jason's lips. A long and pregnant pause fell, just the night sounds and the blood in his veins and the booze in his head.
Then Washington stood. "You disappoint me, son."
The words hit like a slap. "What? Why?"
"When have I ever been about violence?"
"I'm not asking you to be. But you're the only one who knows all this stuff, all about the gangs, the neighborhood. I need to know what I'm up against."
"No," Washington said. "You're just acting a goddamn fool. You think that story is about fighting? You think I was trying to inspire you to march up to Playboy, pull your gun, prove how tough you are?" He shook his head. "Maybe your brother was right. Maybe you shouldn't have joined the army, that's all you learned."
Jason blinked, held his hands open at waist level. Watching Washington walk away. The man took three heavy steps, then pulled the old screen door, its hinges screeching. There was something in the way he turned his back on Jason, dismissed him, that made his anger flare, made words spill out. "That's it? You're not about violence, and that's the end of it?"
Washington pivoted, one hand propping the door open, eyes burning in the dim light. "That's right, son. I've been down that road. You know I have. I'll never do it again, and I won't help you do it."
"Somebody murdered my brother. Tried for my nephew. But I should just turn the other cheek." Jason shook his head. "You know the problem with that? Christ got his ass beat, old man. So forgive me if I want to fight back." He set the gin glass down hard, and warm liquid splashed onto the railing. "I'm asking for your help. If you don't have the guts, fine, bury your head in the sand. But I'm going to fight for Billy. He's all I've got and I'm not going to let anyone hurt him."
For a long moment they stared at each other, Jason and the closest thing he had to a father. Then Washington turned away. "Don't bring that gun in my house." He stepped through the screen door and let it slam behind him.
In the sudden silence, the insects seemed very loud.
Jason spun, anger already turning to something uglier, something the Worm liked. Took the rest of gin in a gulp. Fuck it. All of it. If it was him against the world, so be it. Maybe that was the way it had always been, and only now was he seeing it clear.
He'd forgotten Ronald was even on the porch until he heard the voice. "You know, my mama used to read me the Bible." The big man moved over to lean on the railing. His arms were knotted cordwood.
Jason sighed. "Yeah?"
The man nodded. "I liked the Old Testament. Isaac and Abraham. Moses."
"I never actually read it." Through the open window of a neighboring house, Jason heard angry voices, a man and a woman bitching with the casual anger of habit. He was back to nothing. The cops wouldn't help him. His friends wouldn't help him. His brother was dead. He was alone against enemies he didn't even understand. Hell, enemies he couldn't even identify.
"Never cared much for the New Testament, though." Ronald's voice was calm. "Mama was always on about Jesus, but I felt like you. Easy enough to turn the other cheek when your father's God, right?" He shrugged. "Me, I never knew my daddy."
Something in his tone caught Jason. He turned away from the darkness. "Ronald, there something you're trying to tell me?"
The big man smiled. "Just that Dr. Matthews isn't the only one knows the neighborhood."
CHAPTER 18
A Thousand Murders
There was parking closer to Dion's ratty-ass excuse for a headquarters – clubhouse was more like it, teenaged bangers sprawled all over the crumbling porch – but then Anthony DiRisio would have missed the march of a thousand murders.
Just past noon, and the brutal sun had driven the monkeys out of their shitboxes. They lounged on steps, stood on street corners with their shirts off. Musclebound homeboys flying colors openly, blue bandanas in pockets, baseball caps twisted to the right. Ten-year-olds trying out their war faces, baby fat and killer's eyes. And through it all, that hate, a burning black thread that stunk like sewage.
Anthony smiled, put all his contempt into it. Skydiving was for wimps. He measured his dick in hatred.
He walked slow, met stares. Some of them knew who he was, gave a grudging nod. The others read him for a cop, a detective, untouchable. Most just saw others give way and so they followed suit. Herd reflexes.
Anthony strolled along, knowing that his car would be untouched, that none of them would make a move on him. Buoyed by hate, he floated from the end of the block to the sagging bungalow. Greasy hip-hop flowed like smoke from the windows. Kids on the steps passed a thick blunt, the sweet tang of dope rising in the summer heat. Two OGs stood under the porch roof and watched him come, and he held their gaze every step, body alive, cells vibrating.
"To-nay D." The guy managed to make a Northern Italian name sound black. His eyelids drooped low, like Anthony wasn't worth the trouble of really seeing. "C-Note's waitin'."
Anthony smiled without using his eyes, climbed the steps, making the kids get out of his way. After the brutal sun, the interior was dim, and he paused for his eyes to adjust. Blue sheets had been nailed over the windows in lieu of curtains, and combined with the smoke, they gave the air an underwater feel. What light made it through seemed disappointed to spill on the battered couches and tattooed gangsters. A sudden silence met his entrance, just the music in the background. Then someone spoke, he turned, saw Al Pacino sitting behind a mound of cocaine.
"Lemme ask you," Anthony said, voice conversational. "You ever get tired of that movie?"
One of the kids on the couch lifted his forty, took a long pull, eyes on Anthony's the whole time. "Naw, Scarface is tight." He smiled a player's smile. "You ever get tired of those cheap-ass suits?"
That broke the boys up, and they bumped fists.
Anthony smiled. Walked over to stand in front of the kid. Waited for the silence. This close, he could smell the monkey's rank sweat. Let the tension draw out slow, then smiled, reach down slow, took the beer. Tipped it back and poured, the liquid warm and foul, but he kept his throat open, swallowing and swallowing till the bottle was drained. "No," he said, and handed the empty back. "I don't."
The banger laughed, tossed the bottle across the room, where it hit the carpet with a thump. "Don't bother me none, dog." He reached over to the table, grabbed another bottle. "I got plenty more."
"Big Anthony, my nigga." The voice came from the kitchen, where Dion Williams stood with his arms braced against the doorframe.
Anthony nodded, but didn't look away from the kid on the couch. "Hello, Dion."
"This way."
He held the stare for one more moment, then turned and followed Dion. The kitchen was filthy, every surface covered with bottles and takeout containers, blunts and menthols stubbed out on the counter. A fly buzzed lazy circles over a sink piled with plates. Anthony chose his steps carefully, hands at his sides, not eager to touch anything. Dion opened a door in the back wall, and the two of them stepped into his office, a Chicago-style second bedroom with barely room for the big desk and padded chairs. Anthony always had to fight laughter at the setup, like something bought off the floor at OfficeMax.
Dion settled behind the desk, his palms out on the table, fingers drumming. The motion caused the muscles in his arms to swell and ripple. Anthony sat and stared at him. Waited a long moment. Finally said, "You fix your screwup?"
Dion's eyes narrowed. "We been over that. You brokered that through Playboy, not me."
Anthony shrugged. "Thought he could take care of business. Didn't know you let faggots on your crew, Dion."
The gangbanger's nostrils flared, but he sat silent for a moment. Then said, "First off, you're talking about my boy, so you best ease up. Second," he said, "my name is C-Note."
"Whatever." Anthony let a little contempt into his tone. "You didn't answer my question."
"I sent some of my dawgs over to the address you gave us last night."
"So it's done?" He relaxed a little, leaned back in the chair. "The kid is dead?"
"Nah." Dion fixed him with a hard stare, as if daring him to do something. "Cops came."
Anthony felt that pain in his left temple, fought the urge to rub it. Took a deep breath. "What you're saying, then, is you fucked up again."
"You got one freebie on that tone. Don't try for two." Dion's voice was low. "You in my house now."
The threat hit Anthony right in the spine, that sweet tingle, and he almost told "C-Note" to suck his ropy white dick. The man's hands were on the table and even if he were strapped, no way he could pull as fast as Anthony could, his SIG in a quick-release shoulder holster. But Dion was still useful, at least for now, and so he just smiled, and pictured a bullet taking him in the eye, tearing away half of his head.
The right half, he decided.
"So the boy is still alive."
The gangbanger nodded, then leaned back, his hands behind his head, evidently satisfied at his dominance. "Yeah. But," he drew the word out, "now I'm taking a personal interest, he ain't going to stay that way. Not if you tell me where to find him."
Anthony snorted. "What do I look like, the Yellow Pages?"
"Told us where to find him so far."
"That was before." He tried not to show it, but his mind was racing. The situation had spiral potential. He'd wanted to handle the boy personally, but there were advantages to having the bangers do it, and he'd allowed himself to be convinced. And now the little shit had gotten away – again – and might be talking to who knew which cops.
And there was only one way that could have happened. "Jason Palmer," he said.
"Who?"
"The uncle." It made sense. With his father dead, where else would the kid go? And as a former soldier, Palmer'd have the training to protect him. "The one Playboy screwed up on. You find him, you'll find the kid."
"White boy and a kid somewhere in Chicago?" Dion shrugged dismissively. "I mean, you got a picture or something? I don't even know what this dude looks like."
"Playboy does." Anthony smiled. "And I know where Palmer lives."
" 'Aight," Dion said. "I'll hook Playboy up with a couple of soldiers. Your dude won't hardly know what happened to him." He started to rise.
Anthony sat still. "I don't think you understand. You fucked up." He paused for a beat, leaned in. "You need to make it right. I'm not talking about sending a couple of retarded teenagers." He met Dion's glare, still picturing half his head gone, a raw and ragged mess. "Put everything you have on it. Scour the goddamn city. Palmer goes golfing, I want his caddy ready to draw down. I want every nigger here looking for Palmer and the kid."
C-Note's eyes narrowed at the word. But before he could respond, Anthony continued. "You're not my only client, Dion. Hell, I've got a meet tonight." He adjusted his tie. "If you mess this up, I'll hold a fire sale. Dump my supply to your enemies. Your homeboys won't know what hit them. Your crew will be a remember-when." He smiled, his lips tight. "You feel me, boy?"
For a long and happy moment, Anthony thought the jig was going to make a move. Then it passed, C-Note leaning back in his chair like an executive, his face a model of calm. "Disciples finish what they start. I'll get my club rolling."
Anthony nodded, stood up. "Good." Straightened his jacket, shot his cuffs, all business. "Find Jason Palmer and the boy, kill them both." He walked to the door, opened it, then turned. "Dion? This time get it right."
And smiled to see the hate ripple across C-Note's face.
CHAPTER 19
Alien Cities
Jason had to admit that it was starting to feel like a bad idea.
Tactically speaking, the strongest position was the offensive. So long as your enemy was defending, they couldn't be working toward their own goals. It kept them off balance, kept them reacting to you instead of acting themselves.
That's what they, whoever they were, had been doing to him for days. But in the rainbow haze of last night's gin, Jason had thought he'd seen a chance to turn that around. With Washington watching over Billy, Jason could go on the offensive, starting with the only lead he had: Playboy. If Jason could figure out how he was involved, it might lead to the guys who killed Michael.
What he was going to do then was a little murkier. Confront them, look for regret in their eyes? Call Cruz, have her arrest them?
Pull the Beretta and waste them?
If he'd had the gun when the bangers came after Billy, no question. That was combat. He'd been at war before, walked point through alien cities. He'd called the locals Hajji and Ali Baba, same as everybody else, even as he'd tried to do good, same as everybody else. He'd sighted down the length of his M4, remembered his training – exhale, hold, squeeze – felt it kick and watched men fall.
But to hunt a man, touch a pistol to his temple, and blow his world apart? That wasn't soldiering. That was murder.
One step at a time. Right now he had to find a way to get to Playboy. Last night, when Jason had suggested he might just stake out the house until he found a chance to hijack Playboy, Ronald had only smiled. This morning, Jason understood why.
This wasn't Lincoln Park, where he could have slept on the sidewalk. It wasn't Clark and Division, a one-block melting pot where he wasn't out of place. It wasn't even the Crenwood he knew, underprivileged and ruined, but largely filled with families struggling to make a go.
It was a war zone.
They weren't all gangbangers, of course, he reassured himself. Not every kid on every corner, every shirtless man glaring at him. The hard stares, daring him to meet their eyes, daring him to look away, it wasn't about him. It was about crushing poverty and four hundred of years of repression. About patrol cars circling like the tanks of an occupying army. About a neighborhood without jobs or opportunity, where college was as accessible as the moon. He'd listened to too many of Washington's lectures, spent too long in a largely black high school not to get that.
But it still felt like mostly they'd like to watch him die.
Jason stopped at a red light alongside a cell phone store, one of the few thriving businesses. A car pulled up next to him, bass throbbing, an angry voice rattling his windows. He didn't look over, but tried not to tense up, just stared at the stoplight.
Ronald had talked for a long time. His knowledge was exhaustive: The leaders of the gang, how it was structured, how they made their money, who they were feuding with, where they were based. That this particular set was run by a guy named Dion Wallace, nicknamed C-Note.
Ronald might not bang anymore, but he clearly remained in touch with the world. Which made Jason wonder why he was helping. After an ho
ur, he asked.
The big man had paused, then nodded up at the window of the room where Billy slept. "I'm helping you help him." He hadn't said anything else, but Jason could see the man was thinking about his own brother, murdered young.
The light changed. It was decision time. Turn right and face his enemies on their turf, or turn left and go have a drink, think of a new plan.
A car honked. He turned right.
At first glance, the street looked like any other. Broken pavement, heat ripples off the brick. A lot of activity for a weekday afternoon, folks lounging on steps and posing on the corner, drinking from paper bags.
Then he pretended he was back in the desert, and looked again, and everything changed. The two shirtless dudes at the end of the block were bullshitting casually enough, but their eyes were active, and each faced a different direction. They had Nextel phones, the ones you could use as walkie-talkies. Lookouts. A couple of little kids hung nearby, lounging against a fence and posturing. Probably runners.
The house sat in the middle of the block, a rundown brick bungalow with a large open porch. A shiver ran down his calves. Five, no, six men on the porch. Four in their late teens, but hardened and staring. The other two were older. They stood with the posture of casual readiness he'd seen in Special Forces boys, men who'd been in Somalia and Afghanistan and Iraq One, who had enough experience with mayhem to think of bullets and blood sprays as simple facts of life, part of the way the world worked.
Screwing with men like that got you killed, that simple.
His stomach felt greasy, and his fingers tingled. Viewed as a soldier, it was a goddamn nightmare. Enemy territory. Guards and watchers. Complicit citizens. Numerous combatants, many armed. Few of them, if Washington was right, expecting to see old age. Street soldiers in a rag-tag army.