Dodgers

by Bill Beverly

  “Walter.”

  Michael laughed at himself. “I remember you was up in those computers. A little science man.”

  “I remember you was going to college. You in charge of the laughing and lying, I guess.”

  “You in charge of the eating,” said Michael Wilson. “Where’s your bag at?”

  Michael Wilson had things in a glossy contoured bag with a gym name on it. It looked like a new shoe. East had his pillowcase and his orange.

  “I got no fuckin bag,” Walter said. “I had no idea. I been all weekend at my uncle’s in Bakersfield. They picked me up off the street fifteen fuckin minutes ago.”

  East eyed Walter. The fuckin. A soft boy sounding hard.

  “I don’t know what they told you. We gonna be gone for days, son,” Michael Wilson said.

  “I’ll get some clothes on the road, I guess.”

  “If we can find a tent store,” smirked Michael Wilson. He went to touch East’s hand, but East looked the other way. So. There was a whole connection that came before. He leaned against the loading dock and studied the other two.

  “You got the rundown? What the plan is?”

  “No, man, they gonna tell us. They doing that here.”

  “And I heard you was at your leisure,” the fat boy addressed East.

  East looked up. “At what?”

  “I said, I heard you was out of a job.” Walter leaned against a post and addressed Michael Wilson. “This the boy whose house got shot up yesterday. They said there’s three others coming,” he explained, “so I asked who.”

  Michael Wilson cracked open a peanut and tossed the shell at East. “You lose your house? What you doing now?”

  East swept his hand. “This.”

  “Moving up,” said Michael Wilson. “What about you, Walt?”

  “Everything,” Walter said. “A couple days back they had me running a yard. Substitute teacher.” He addressed East with a certain friendly contempt. “I used to work outside like you. Few years ago.” He giggled.

  East couldn’t contain himself. “What you do now?”

  “Projects,” Walter said. “Research.”

  “Research?” said Michael Wilson. “How old are you, fat boy?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “How about you, East?”

  East looked away. “Fifteen.”

  The car arrived next. It was a burly black 300. Floating slow, the way cops sometimes did, all the way down the alley. At last the windows rolled down to reveal Sidney and Johnny.

  “God damn, man,” crowed Michael Wilson. “Could have walked here faster.”

  East saw that Michael laughed almost every time he talked. It wasn’t that he thought everything was funny; it was like his sentence wasn’t finished yet without it.

  Sidney scowled at Michael Wilson and got out. He wore all white, a hot-day outfit. Johnny wore black jeans and no shirt.

  “Where is the last one?” said Johnny.

  “I don’t know, shit,” said Michael Wilson. “Number one is right here.” Cackling.

  “We ain’t going over this twice,” said Sidney. “What time is it?”

  “Nine oh-five,” said Michael Wilson.

  “Fuck him then. He’s late. Let’s go on.”

  “I’ll get him,” Johnny said. “Fin said four boys, we gon have four boys.” He fell back and started working his phone.

  The fat boy scratched his face. “Who we waiting on?”

  “My brother,” said East calmly. There was a way to stick up without putting your neck out. Dealing with Ty—Maybe you ain’t gonna like it, Fin had said—would take plenty of neck.

  “Oh. Ty,” Sidney said. “That child cannot listen anyhow. So let’s start. Just sit his ass in the back with a coloring book.”

  —

  Sidney booted up a tablet on the back of the black car and swept his finger through a line of photos. A solid-looking black man, maybe sixty, a whitish beard cut thin. Broad, hammered-looking nose, a fighter’s nose. Sharp eyes. In the pictures, he looked tired. His clothes cost good money: a black suit, a tie with some welt to it.

  Sidney looked over their shoulders. “Judge Carver Thompson,” he said. “When Fin’s boy Marcus goes up on trial, he’s the witness.”

  “Carver Thompson,” said Michael Wilson. “If that ain’t a name for a legal Negro, I don’t know what is.”

  “Don’t worry about his name. He used to be an asset to us. Now he ain’t.”

  “That’s why you going to kill him,” said Johnny softly.

  East looked around at the other boys. Michael Wilson nodded coolly. Looked like he knew. Walter didn’t. Something falling out in the fat boy’s throat, gagging him. East watched with satisfaction. Little science man. Fuck you, he thought.

  “Why this gonna take five days?” said Michael Wilson, quick on the pickup. “Why we ain’t doing it already?”

  Sidney put a road map down on top of the trunk. “Because here’s where we at.” He tapped Los Angeles. “And this man is way—over—here.” He swept his hand across all the colors on the long stretch of land till he tapped on a yellow patch near a blue lake.

  “Wisconsin?” said Michael Wilson.

  Walter said, “What’s a black man doing in Wisconsin?”

  “I guess a nigger likes to fish.” Sidney shrugged. “Also likes to stay alive.”

  “How we gonna get there?” said Michael Wilson.

  Now Walter’s face turned cloudy. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” he said, “I know what you’re gonna say next. No flying, right? We about to drive all that?”

  “Correct,” said Sidney.

  “You’re tripping. That’s a thousand miles,” Michael Wilson said.

  “Two thousand,” said Walter despairingly. “That’s why we ran them documents. Right? That’s what you been setting up.” He opened his hands, a little box, in front of Sidney.

  “Crazy,” said Michael Wilson. “We ain’t gonna drive no two thousand miles. And back. Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Michael Wilson,” said Sidney softly. “You the oldest. You supposed to lead this crew. If you can’t handle this trip, tell me, so I can shoot you and find someone that can.”

  Michael Wilson held his hands up, shifting gears smoothly. “Right, man,” he sang. “Just running the numbers, man.”

  East breathed out and let his eyes adjust to the map, the thick red and black and blue cords inching state to state. Dense and jumpy. Every road had a number and joined up a hundred times with other roads. He saw how they would go. This was like the mazes they used to do in school while the teacher slept. What they said in school was: Don’t worry. Keep looking at it. You can always get there.

  —

  After Sidney lectured them on the route and the job, Johnny handed each boy a wallet. East examined his. Inside, in a plastic window, was a California state driver’s license with his face looking up at him. Dimly he remembered this, his picture taken in front of a blue cloth. Somebody he’d never seen, in some room the winter before. Some of the boys came in for it. Never asked why.

  The work was good—the two photos, the watermarked top coat. Some kind of bar code on the back.

  “Shit looks real,” Michael Wilson said.

  “It is real,” Walter said.

  “Antoine Harris. Sixteen years old,” read East. “How you say it’s real?”

  “It ain’t my name either,” agreed Michael Wilson.

  “Listen,” said Sidney. “What is real? It’s in the system. It’s legit. Police pulls you over and looks you up, it’s real. License like that cost a man on the street ten thousand dollars. So don’t lose it. Read what it says and remember it in case some police asks you who you are.”

  “Kwame Harris,” said Walter. “What, him and me supposed to be brothers?”

  “You the one sat closer to the table,” giggled Michael Wilson.

  “Cousins,” said Sidney. “Cousins. Know each other a little. Not too much.”

  “Here is one for you, Mic
hael,” Johnny said. “Give me yours. I’ll keep it for you.”

  “If someone asks you where you’re going,” said Sidney, “you’re going to a family reunion. If someone asks you where, you say Milwaukee, Wisconsin. If someone asks you where in Milwaukee, you don’t know. That’s three questions.”

  Johnny said, “Don’t let nobody ask you more than three questions.”

  “We just some lying motherfuckers all across America,” said Michael Wilson.

  “You’re getting it.” Sidney snapped out a thick stack of money, and the air between the boys grew quiet and warm. All the eyes watched as he dealt twenties from his left hand into his right.

  “Three hundred,” he said to Walter. “Three hundred,” he said to East. He passed the two piles. The rest, a bigger stack, went to Michael Wilson.

  “Wait,” Walter said. “I’m going out five days, killing someone, and all I get is three hundred dollars?”

  Johnny moved in. “Boy, this ain’t compensation.”

  “This is expenses,” bristled Sidney. “You pay cash. There is no credit card. There is no gas card. You dig? Ain’t staying in motels. You go in and wash up in a rest stop, in a McDonald’s. You ain’t wasting time. You ain’t making records of where you are. You the one supposed to understand this.”

  “Walter, you’re very smart,” said Johnny. “But smarter people than you puzzled this out. So pretty please, shut the fuck up.”

  Walter nodded, swallowing it down.

  “Michael Wilson, you got a thousand dollars. If there’s a problem? You fix it. This money ain’t for clothes or having a good time. This money ain’t yours. The oldest one gets to hold. He gets to solve problems.”

  “All right,” said Michael Wilson. He looked around at the younger boys significantly as he tucked the money away.

  “So that’s your ride today. Right there,” said Johnny.

  They all followed Johnny’s eyes around the lot. The blue minivan was what he was looking at.

  “What?” said Michael.

  “Let me show you,” Johnny said.

  “Show me what? You chose the sorriest car you could find?”

  Johnny took a handful of Michael Wilson and shoved him along ahead. “This a job car, boys. This is my gift to you.” He railed at them quietly. “Reliable. Invisible. Rebuilt. New six-cylinder, three-point-eight. New transmission. New suspension. New tires, brakes, battery. Doesn’t look new, but it drives new. You can sleep in it. Most important, you ain’t gonna look like ignorant gang boys, which is what, in fact, you are. Wisconsin plates. In this car you look like four mama’s boys going to a family reunion, which is what you want to look like. Please don’t give me a ticket, officer.” He popped the back gate. Three cases of bottled water sat behind the rearmost seat. “You ain’t got to love it. You ain’t even got to bring it back. But this is the right car for the job.”

  “And what the fuck do we have here,” Sidney said, looking up.

  —

  It was East’s little brother. Shambling and grinning. He was small and two years younger than East. Lighter-skinned and already beginning to bald. But he had a sharp easiness. There was already something chiseled into him: Ty didn’t care. He didn’t want to be loved or trusted. He was capable and unafraid and undisturbed by anything he’d seen or done so far.

  “Ty-monster, sneaking little thirty-six chambers motherfucker,” said Johnny. They touched hands.

  “Ty,” said Sidney warily.

  The other two boys stared. Ty ignored them, ignored East, completely. He sat down on the bumper of Johnny’s black car and matter-of-factly drew a gun and reloaded the clip with bullets loose in the pocket of his blue T-shirt.

  “This boy here,” Johnny laughed.

  Ty finished and put the gun straight down under his waistband. When he stood up from the bumper, the barrel stood out cock-straight in his pants.

  “Which reminds me,” Sidney said. “Give it up. Phones. Guns. Any ID you got. I need it right now.”

  “Fuck that,” Ty snorted.

  “Whatever you got,” said Sidney, unflinching. “Weapons. Knife or stick. Any digital other than a watch. If you got a bottle of something. Whatever you don’t want the sheriff of White Town to find on you. Give it up right now.”

  East had come with just his phone, but the others all had something. Michael Wilson gave up a small bag and papers. Walter gave up a knife—a Korean type for street fights. So light and springy it would shiver inside you.

  Sidney beckoned. “East? What else?”

  “Nothing, man.”

  “Don’t make me fuck you up.”

  He sniffed. “Fin told me, don’t bring nothing.”

  “All right,” said Johnny, and he and Sidney glanced at each other. They didn’t ask Ty, just closed in. He twisted and swore while they held his hands. Johnny hung him up, and Sidney patted him down. They took just the one gun from his pants. Sidney examined it.

  “Man, fuck you,” said Ty, wrenching his wrists free and rubbing them.

  “Thank you for checking your weaponry at the door,” Johnny said, taking it over.

  “You best keep that for me.”

  “I’m keeping it already.”

  “Ridiculous,” Ty snorted, shaking his clothes back right. “Sent to shoot a man with no guns.”

  East studied his brother. So content in his fury. Still little and raw but ready, happy to strike. So he had known about the job too. They hadn’t had to tell him what to do—only the where and who.

  “Get close to where you’re headed, you’ll get guns,” Sidney said. “Until then, we need you clean. We need you to be angels.” He wiped his mouth with his bare forearm—his tattoos glistened wet. “You think it’s the same out there? But you don’t know. It ain’t. Them police don’t budget on you. That’s their country. They love a little Negro boy. They pat your ass down and you go to jail. You go to jail, the job ain’t done. And if the job ain’t done, Fin goes away.” Suddenly, full-muscled, he lunged at Michael Wilson and bashed him back into the side of the van. East looked up, surprised.

  “You listening to me, smiley-face motherfucker?” Sidney spat. He bared his teeth and raised his forehead to Michael’s chin like a gouge.

  “Sidney, man. We got it,” East said. Straight bullying the lead man, he thought. Setting up the whole thing.

  Sidney was wound way past tight. “The job. Do it the way we tell you. Got something funny to say now?”

  “No,” said Michael Wilson, clutching his sunglasses.

  “Anyone?”

  “No,” said East. “We’re good to go.”

  Johnny flexed the black rails of his arms. “See, we’re being polite to you today, the better for your educational purpose. But do exactly what the fuck we say.”

  “We got it,” said East again. Patient, he reminded himself. A moment passed, the six of them wary and bareheaded in the sun.

  “All right.” Sidney wiped his mouth, then settled a little at last. “When you get into Iowa, look at the map. You gonna call for directions. Call this number.” He opened the road atlas to the map of Iowa. A pink phone-sex street flyer was taped over its eastern half.

  “This number here?” said Michael Wilson.

  “This number here. When the operator asks what you want, you say, ‘I want to talk to Abraham Lincoln.’ ”

  “You what?” Michael Wilson broke up first.

  Sidney waited bitterly. “Laugh all you want. But remember.”

  “Abraham Lincoln gonna say, ‘Hi, Michael. Me so horny.’ ”

  Even East bent over laughing.

  Sidney waited, jaw hard like a fist. “Make that call,” he said at last. “You’ll get guns.”

  “Paid-for guns. Guns we selected for you,” Johnny said. “Use them and lose them.”

  “The gun man is a white man. So be cool.”

  The van. East slipped away from the rest to examine it. Dingy outside—a few dents and scrapes untouched, dirty hubs, no polish for years. The uph
olstery showed wear. But the tires were brand-new, the tread still prickling. The windows were clean. Definitely submarine.

  In his mind he was boiling it down: Drive the roads. Meet up for guns. The job. He tried to follow it in his mind, see where the problems were. But there was nothing to see. Only these boys. Kill a man? More like keep them from killing each other, these three boys, for two thousand miles in this ugly van. That was what they’d brought him in for. That was what he had to do to get back home.

  —

  Relieved of their things, armed with their new names and wallets full of twenties, they followed Johnny around the strip to the sporting goods store.

  Above the clothes high banks of sick white lights spilled down.

  “Dodgers cap. Dodgers shirts. Get you one,” Sidney was repeating.

  Walter squeezed between the triple-XL ends of the racks.

  “Dodgers are faggots,” said Ty.

  “I don’t disagree,” sighed Johnny. “What can I say? White people love baseball. White people love the Dodgers.”

  “What I care what white people like?”

  “Boy,” Johnny said, “the world is made of white people. So you just pick out a nice hat.”

  All the clothes smelled of the chemicals that made them stiff and clean. The boys’ hands sorted through the new and bright. East drifted back, found a rack marked CLEARANCE where the clothes didn’t stink, grabbed two plain gray T-shirts with Dodgers script. Michael Wilson paid cash for it all at the register.

  “Thank you for shopping with us today,” the girl in her braids gushed. “Go Dodgers!”

  “Thank you,” Michael Wilson said over his sunglasses. “Okay, let’s vamos, kids.”

  Johnny reached for the receipt and crumpled it, then tore it to tiny bits.

  Outside the damp, irrigated morning smell of Los Angeles flowers and fruit in the trees and small things rotting.

  “Any problems? Any questions?” Sidney said. “Any last requests?”

  East shrugged. Michael Wilson looked down into the white bag from the store.

  “I don’t think so,” said Walter.

  “Get going, then,” Sidney said, already reaching for the door of Johnny’s car. Like he couldn’t be gone soon enough.

  Michael Wilson had a key. East did too. Michael went for the driver’s door. East ushered Walter up front. He tried the sliding door on the right side and popped it open.