At the City's Edge (12 page)

He stood slowly, the world sliding in funky circles as the blood drained from his head. A rush of nausea pole-axed him. The
room throbbed in time with his pulse, and he could still taste the Jim Beam, gone foul now. Adrenaline had pushed aside his
drunkenness during last night’s excitement, but it wasn’t doing shit for the hangover.

In the bathroom Jason stared at the toilet until he
felt the bile rising, then pinched his nose and vomited. Twice. Spat and flushed, gargled Listerine. Set the pistol on the
counter and splashed double handfuls of cold water on his face, the streams running down his neck and into his shirt, icy
rivulets that counter-pointed the needle-tingling of his legs. When he began to feel his strength returning, he dried his
face on the hand towel and tossed it on the counter.

His brother was dead. The thought hit as he caught his stare in the mirror. Michael was dead. No. Murdered. And it was about
time he found out what was going on.

Jason tucked the gun in the small of his back, straightened, and left the bathroom.

The apartment was a studio, one mid-sized room with a tiny kitchen at the end. He started making coffee, not trying to be
loud, but not being quiet either. Wanting Billy to wake up to regular sounds. Before the gangbangers had arrived last night,
the boy had started to seem better, and Jason needed that to continue. He poured Corn Pops in two cereal bowls, set spoons
in with a clank. What did kids drink in the morning? Juice? He had some lime juice for gin and tonics, but that was about
all. He figured what the hell, poured two cups of coffee, one black, one beige with milk and sugar.

The boy’s eyes were open when Jason turned to set everything on the kitchen table.

‘Morning, kiddo.’ He kept his voice light, hoping it didn’t sound too fake. Billy yawned and sat up; then, spotting his bare
chest, lay back down and pulled the
covers to his neck. Jason smiled. ‘There’s a T-shirt on the edge of the bed. Why don’t you put that on and come have breakfast?’

Billy seemed reluctant until he saw that it was a gray shirt with ARMY emblazoned in black. His eyes bugged, and he grabbed
the tee and pulled it over his head, then came to sit at the other end of the table, rubbing sleep from his eyes. When he
saw the coffee, he looked questioningly at Jason, then took a sip. His lips contorted like worms.

Jason covered his smile with one hand. ‘Dig in.’

They ate in silence, just the sound of metal clanking against plastic and the crunch of cereal under a play of soft gold sunlight.
The coffee was strong and sharp, and Jason could feel it spreading through his belly, reviving his weary cells. When he couldn’t
delay any longer, he asked, ‘How you doing?’

Billy looked up from a spoonful of yellow milk. ‘Okay.’ His voice sounded a little trembly, but his eyes were sharp and undilated.

‘Good.’ Jason sipped his coffee, thought about what to say next. ‘You know you’re safe now, right?’

Billy nodded.

‘I’m not going to let anything happen to you.’ Jason bent forward, put his hand over his nephew’s. ‘I promise.’

The moment held for what seemed like a long time, and then Billy smiled. It was a quick thing, there and gone, but the sight
of it went a long way toward easing the muscles in Jason’s body. ‘But I need your help,
okay? I have to know what happened yesterday. Before you came.’

Billy stiffened, but didn’t seem to be retreating into zombie mode. ‘Do I have to?’

‘I’m sorry, buddy.’ He put as much comfort into his eyes as he could. ‘But I really need to know. It’s important.’

Billy pushed sodden cereal back and forth with his spoon. ‘I didn’t want to run.’ He mashed a Corn Pop. ‘I got scared.’

‘That’s okay,’ Jason said. ‘I’ve been scared before. I know what it’s like. It makes you do things you don’t want to.’

His nephew nodded vigorously. ‘I wanted to help, but I couldn’t move.’

‘Help who? Your dad?’

‘They were hitting him.’ The lower half of Billy’s face scrunched up, his chin quivering. ‘Dad told them to get out. They
laughed, and then one of them grabbed a bottle and hit him in the head with it. And I didn’t mean to, but I…’ He trailed off,
pushing his head deeper into his chest. ‘I peed myself.’

Jason slid out of the chair to crouch beside his nephew, one arm around his shoulder. Fury tightened the muscles of his jaw.

‘When I felt it, I moved, and I knocked into one of the shelves. I was in the back room, and they both looked up, and one
of them walked toward me. I was so scared, I just stood there, and then Dad climbed over the bar and tackled the guy. He was
bleeding, and
the other one started kicking him, but Dad didn’t let go. He yelled for me to run.’ He looked up in Jason’s eyes. ‘He
told
me to. I didn’t want to.’

Jason nodded, understanding blooming bitter in his chest. ‘You did good.’ He squeezed his nephew’s shoulder. ‘You did exactly
right.’

Billy straightened like guilt had been a hand pressing him down. ‘I ran out the back, and I kept going until I couldn’t anymore.
I was in a park and there was a big bush, and I crawled under it and hid. One of the men looked around, but he didn’t see
me. I waited there for a long time, and I guess I fell asleep.’ His words spilling fast, a poison he wanted to be rid of.
‘When I woke up it was morning, and I didn’t know where I was, but there was a train station, and I remembered the stop where
you lived, so I snuck on.’

He thought of Billy alone, sleeping under a bush in a Crenwood Park, the kind of place cops wouldn’t go into alone at night.
Dealers slinging dimes and quarters, ragged whores giving ten-dollar blowjobs. Waking up to morning mist and daddy-long-legs
crawling on him. His father already dead.

‘The guys who came into the bar,’ Jason asked, his voice calm as he could make it. ‘Can you tell me what they looked like?

Billy nodded. ‘One looked normal. He mostly watched. The other was taller and really strong. He looked a little like the man
in
Who Framed Roger Rabbit,
only he was bigger and meaner.’

Jason almost smiled. The tape was one of a handful
Michael kept at the bar for Billy. God bless popular culture.

Then it hit him.

‘Wait a second. Which guy?’

‘
The
guy,’ Billy said. ‘The guy with Roger.’

Jason thought back to the movie, saw the actor’s face. An Italian-looking dude. But –

‘Billy, what color were these guys?’

‘White,’ his nephew said. ‘The big one was bald, and the plain one had black and gray hair. They were wearing suits.’

Jason stood up, walked to the window, stared outside at the corner below, where even at ten in the morning, a couple of slow-eyed
men hung out. The sun fell hot against his face. The beginnings of another scorcher.

He’d been expecting to hear about a black man with a soul patch and a diamond necklace. Instead, Billy was telling him that
two white men in suits had beaten and murdered his brother.

Mikey, what the hell did you get into?
He felt a cold shiver up the back of his legs, a hollowness in his falling stomach. Recognized it.

Fear.

If it wasn’t gangbangers that killed his brother, then who was it? And why? And what did that have to do with the gangs?

What in God’s name was going on?

‘Uncle Jason?’ Billy sat on the edge of the chair, swimming in the Army T-shirt, his thin legs barely touching the floor.
He looked like he was about to cry again.

‘Hey, it’s okay, buddy.’ Jason walked back across the room. ‘I’m sorry. It’s not you. I’m just… sad.’
And confused. And totally out of my depth.

And God help me, scared.

He knelt down beside Billy, put his hands on the boy’s shoulders. ‘Thank you for telling me. I know it was hard.’

Billy nodded solemnly.

‘I want you to know something.’ Jason looked him in the eyes. ‘None of this is your fault. You did everything right. Everything.’
He smiled. ‘Your dad would be so proud of you.’

Billy’s lip trembled, and then he began to bawl, the tears streaming down his face. Jason leaned forward and took the kid
in his arms, Billy hugging his neck like it was all that was keeping him from tumbling over a ledge.

‘It’s okay, buddy. It’s okay.’ Jason stroked his back. ‘Go ahead and cry.’ He held the boy in his arms, feeling the warmth
of his rag-doll body. And as he did, it hit him.

He’d been adrift. A soldier without a cause, which was no kind of soldier at all. Ever since he’d lost his Army, he’d been
looking for something to fight for.

Now he realized it sat in his arms.

‘Billy.’ Jason leaned back so he could meet the boy’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. But I want you to know that
you’re safe now. I’ll protect you. What ever I have to do.’

Billy looked at him, salt smell and wet lower lip, and nodded.

And for just a second, Jason felt the Worm cower.

The base of the toilet was coated in hair. As he mopped at it with a paper towel, Washington tried not to think about where
the hair came from. Not like they had a cat.

‘What next?’ Ronald leaned in the doorway, the motion popping muscles that strained the seam of his shirt. ‘Garage?’

‘Leave that be,’ he said. ‘They’ll park on the street. You could get a couple of the boys to tidy up the office, though.’

‘What about all your books?’

‘My closet?’

Ronald laughed.

‘Right.’ Washington stretched, feeling his back twang and stab. Grimaced, looked around. Gestured to the shower. ‘Stack them
there.’ So much to do. In fifteen minutes, Alderman Owens and Adam Kent would arrive to discuss what ever was troubling the
alderman. Washington had a pretty good idea about the subject, didn’t really believe a clean house and a sparkling toilet
would make up for it. But you had to try. ‘Ronald!’

The big man poked his head back around.

‘Put a plastic bag down first, hear?’ Then he concentrated on scrubbing the damn toilet.

When he was done, he dumped the used paper towels in the bowl and flushed, then put his hands on his knees and pushed himself
to his feet. The house was abuzz with activity, former gangbangers grudgingly helping him clean. But what Washington saw was
fire. Flames dancing like djinn, wrapping sinuous fingers around old wood and ragged stone. And two bodies, blackened and
ruined, nothing but teeth and horror.

Stop that, you fool. You don’t even know it was Michael, much less the boy. Just because folks saw a body taken out doesn’t
mean it was your friend.

Who else would it have been, though?

A knock at the door broke the train of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch, winced. Brushed dirt off his knees, then straightened
and went for his office. Ronald bumped into him, asked, ‘That them?’

‘We’re not ready,’ Washington said. ‘So of course it is.’

‘Want me to get it?’

He nodded, then said, ‘Wait.’ He stepped closer, glanced around. ‘Have you heard anything else?’

‘About –’

‘Yes.’

Ronald shook his head. ‘Got the word out. I hear anything, I’ll let you know.’

Washington nodded, forced a smile. Went to his office and sat at the desk. His mother looked at him from the silver frame,
that war between smile and frown warping her features. Down the hall, the door opened, and he heard the muffled sound of voices.
Took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sought comfort in his Cicero:
Rational ability without education has oftener raised man to glory than education without natural ability.

Then he opened his eyes and saw the Beefeater bottle still on the desk.
Shit!
He grabbed it and yanked open a drawer, hearing footsteps draw closer, the click of dress shoes on tile. He dropped the bottle
and was just closing the drawer as the door to his office opened and Alderman Owens strolled in, followed by Adam Kent.

‘Fast’ Eddie Owens was the sort of trim, sharp-looking black man for whom single-breasted suits were conceived. His shirt
was a subtle cream and his shoes shone like still water. Beside him, Adam Kent seemed underdressed in khakis and a light sweater,
salt-and-pepper hair neat, nothing in his manner suggesting he could write a six-figure check. Despite their smiles and extended
hands, both men looked like judges to Washington. Or maybe executioners.

‘Gentlemen,’ he said, and stood. ‘Welcome.’

They shook hands, and he gestured them to the couch that had once been the crown jewel of his mother’s living room. ‘Can I
get you anything?’ he asked, hoping one of them would ask for a drink so that he could have one himself. Neither did.

‘Good to see you both again.’ He smiled as blandly as he could, pretending he couldn’t hear his pulse. ‘Any trouble parking?’
Kent shook his head, and the alderman played with the zipper of a leather portfolio.
Washington tried again, going for hearty this time. ‘Going to be a heck of a time Friday night, huh?’

His guests looked at each other. Something had changed; the last time they were here, it was all toasts and promises, discussions
of how much good they could do together. Now neither seemed sure how to look at him.

They know.

His hands trembled and his heart seemed loud. He had that little-kid sense of being caught. Maybe it was better this way.
He was a lousy liar. ‘Something on your mind, gentlemen?’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Maybe something about me?’

Owens shot his cuffs, then opened the portfolio. ‘Actually, there is.’ He took out a sheet of paper, glanced at it. ‘It was
a surprise, let me tell you.’ He set the paper down on the coffee table. ‘You know what this is?’

Washington couldn’t see the details, but he could make out enough. His chest tightened as he nodded.

‘So it’s true.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It’s true.’

‘You spent twelve years in prison.’ Lawyerly, confirming the facts.

Washington nodded. ‘Most of it in Danville. July 19, 1979, to May 12, 1991. Missed the whole eighties.’

‘For murder.’

They’d pled for manslaughter, but no point quibbling. ‘That’s right.’ He leaned back, lips set hard. Trying to ignore his
mother staring at him from the
desk. Trying to forget the plans he’d had, the good that half a million dollars could have done.