Jake decided to deny everything. Wh o gave a shit what those guys said? He was Jake Thomas; they were nobodies. Wh o would people believe?
Then, listening at the kitchen door, Jake got some good news.
‘He’s dead?’ Antowain asked.
‘Yeah,’ a man said - it sounded like Jim from next door.
‘Damn,’ Antowain said.
‘You call the cops yet?’
‘My wife’s callin’.’
‘You see anything?’
‘Naw. Just heard the shot.’
‘Us too.’
Then Jake heard his mother’s footsteps coming down the stairs.
He went out of the kitchen and said to her, ‘What happened?’
‘Thank God, you’re okay,’ Donna said. ‘When did you get home?’
‘About ten minutes ago,’ Jake said. ‘I was in the kitchen, grabbin’ something to eat, when I heard some loud noise. It sounded like a firecracker.’
‘It wasn’t a firecracker.’
Antowain came back into the house and said to Jake and Donna, ‘Guy’s dead.’
‘Oh, my God,’ Donna said.
‘Who is he?’ Jake asked.
‘Dunno,’ Antowain said.
‘Shot right in front of our house?’ Donna said. ‘That’s it - we have to get out of this neighborhood. I can’t live here anymore. I can’t!’
Jake made an excuse that he had to go to the bathroom and slipped upstairs. He went into the guest room and searched for a good place to hide the gun. His suitcase? No. Under the mattress? Yes.
He felt relieved until he checked himself out in the mirror and noticed something funny about the left sleeve of his jacket. It took him several seconds to realize he was staring at Braids’s blood.
He rushed into the bathroom and scrubbed the sleeve in the sink until the water wasn’t pink anymore. It was a good thing that the jacket was dark or his parents might have noticed the blood. He didn’t see any redness or stains anywhere else on his clothes or on his body, and he knew he’d lucked out big-time; if Braids had gotten shot in the head or the neck, blood would’ve splattered everywhere.
Jake hid the jacket in the bottom of one of his suitcases and went back downstairs. His parents were outside now, talking to neighbors. Jake rehearsed his story in his head. It was easy - he saw nothing. He was in the kitchen eating when he heard the shot. What was he eating? What the fuck difference did that make? The cops wouldn’t give a shit what he was eating. A sandwich - he was having a fucking turkey sandwich. And if Cornrows got caught and started talking shit, Jake would just deny everything. The cops would take Jake’s word over some crackhead’s.
Jake couldn’t wait for this weekend from hell to end, so he could go back to Pittsburgh for some peace and fucking quiet. Then he realized how close he had come to dying tonight and how, for the second time today, Ryan had tried to kill him. Before Jake went anywhere he was going to figure out a way to give that slimy little scumbag some payback.
Moments after opening his eyes, Ryan realized he had no feeling in his left arm. It took several more seconds for his still-half-drunk mind to realize that something very heavy was lying on it, and several more seconds to realize that the very heavy thing was an enormous naked black woman.
With his other hand Ryan nudged the woman, but she was fast asleep, gurgling-snoring, and wouldn’t budge. He pushed her harder and she still wouldn’t move or wake up. Using all his strength he tried to yank his arm free, but couldn’t tell if he was getting anywhere because he had zero feeling below his left shoulder. Continuing to pull, he saw he was making some progress, and then he grabbed the top of the trapped arm with his right hand - it felt like he was gripping a piece of cold rubber -and finally was able to work the entire arm free.
The arm flopped at his side uselessly. He’d never had a limb fall asleep this badly, and he tried to stay calm, telling himself that it wasn’t possible to get paralyzed or have any permanent damage from an arm falling asleep. He slapped his arm and rubbed it, and after a long time - maybe a minute - he started feeling pins and needles, and then the pain set in. After awhile he was able to move it normally, and then he took his first good look around the bedroom, realizing that he had no idea where the hell he was. He had a hazy memory of walking with someone - this woman? He didn’t think so - up a steep staircase, but he couldn’t remember where the staircase led, and this room didn’t look at all familiar. There was pink-and-yellow floral wallpaper, a dresser, two night tables, a pale green carpet on the wooden floor. On the dresser there was a picture of a woman and a guy wearing a Yankees cap. Next to it was a picture of a number of people, including the woman, dressed up for a wedding or something. A window was open and there was a fire escape, and Ryan could see the back of another building with another fire escape, but the view didn’t ring any bells either.
Not much light was coming into the room, so Ryan had no idea what time it was. He checked his watch, pushing the little button to turn on the light, and saw it was past eight thirty.
The woman snorted loudly, then turned onto her side toward Ryan, her tremendous breasts and rolls of stomach fat jiggling and settling for several seconds after she finished the turn. Ryan stayed perfectly still, not wanting to wake her. Then, for the first time, he realized that he was naked too and that he’d probably had sex with this woman. He touched his pubic hair, and sure enough there was stickiness there. He brought his fingers to his mouth and smelled a pungent odor, and then he realized he had the same odor around his mouth.
He managed to sit in an upright position at the side of the bed. Now that his arm was feeling better, he became aware of the intense pain in his head and neck. He felt nauseous too, and when he swallowed he winced because of the sour aftertaste in his mouth, mingling with his morning breath and the odor around his lips. He figured he’d probably yacked at some point during the night.
He tried to concentrate, doing his best to think through all of the pain in his head and piece together yesterday. He remembered his arguments with Christina and Jake, and drinking at Cousin’s and Vinny’s and winding up at some other bar, but after that he couldn’t remember shit.
Finally a memory came to him - sitting at the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention. He was pretty sure that had happened last night. The bartender - a thin black guy with graying hair and maybe a mustache - was talking to somebody, and there was a rottweiler there. Okay, this was progress, Ryan thought. And didn’t someone steal his Spurs cap? He remembered someone grabbing the cap off his head and tossing it away. He looked around the room - which was spinning badly now - and saw his jeans and Ronnie Lott jersey on the floor, but no cap. It hurt keeping his eyes open, so he closed them again.
Saiquan.
Who the hell was Saiquan? The name sounded vaguely familiar, but Ryan didn’t know why he— Wait, wasn’t that the name of one of the guys he used to play basketball with at Canarsie Park? Yeah, it definitely was, but what did he have to do with anything? Was Saiquan at the bar last night? Did Saiquan steal his Spurs cap?
And wasn’t there a woman at the bar? Was it this woman? Ryan remembered telling someone - definitely not Saiquan - that the code for his ATM card was NOLAN. Why would he have given
someone a fake code for his ATM card? Why would he give someone
any
code for his ATM card? Was it possible he had been mugged?
Trying not to let the bed creak or the mattress move too much, Ryan made it to his feet. He had to steady himself a couple of times, but he managed to get to where his pants lay. He crouched and felt his right front pocket - his wallet was still there. There was no money inside, but going by how he felt, he figured it was very likely he’d blown all his cash on booze. His ATM card was there, as well as the couple of credit cards he carried, and nothing seemed to be missing.
He looked around but couldn’t find his boxers. When the woman stirred he thought,
Fuck it,
and grabbed his jeans, jersey, sneakers, and socks and went out into the living room. He dressed quickly, noticing an almost empty bottle of JD on the coffee table and the biggest bra he’d ever seen on the floor. He went into the kitchen - it was a railroad-style apartment - and then into the vestibule. He bolted and unbolted the three locks until he found the right combination, and then he exited, closing the door quietly behind him.
With his head throbbing, he went down the three flights of steep stairs. When he made it outside, the building and the entire block looked totally unfamiliar. He walked along the sidewalk with his head down to avoid the eye-stinging sunshine, and saw the street sign on the corner - Snediker Avenue. Ryan had no idea where he was, but he knew he was someplace he didn’t want to be.
He wasn’t sure which direction to head in. He waited on the corner until a woman walking her German shepherd came by, and he asked her how to get to Flatlands Avenue. The woman pointed to the right, so Ryan went that way.
His head was splitting and he was thirsty as hell. He wished he’d drunk some water before he left the woman’s apartment. He didn’t have any money to buy anything, and he didn’t have a MetroCard to take the bus. He figured it was about a thirty-block walk to his house, but the way he felt, he knew it would seem like a hundred.
On the next block he took a leak between two cars, and then continued walking, trying to piece together more of last night. So far all he knew was that after Jake’s he went drinking, lost his car, and wound up in a bar, maybe around this neighborhood. A bartender with a rottweiler gave him a hard time, and then that guy Saiquan stole his hat, and he met some woman there, maybe the same woman he woke up with. It all seemed hazy, like a dream.
Then, as he continued walking, the name Elly came to him.
Elly likes that
. . .
Do that to Elly again .
. .
Mmm-mm . . . Oh, yeah.
He remembered the smell of Pampers, and a huge black body. He remembered, at the bar, thinking that she looked like Aretha Franklin. Except for her weight, she actually looked nothing like Aretha, but this proved that the woman he woke up with was the same woman he’d met last night.
Now he remembered being in the apartment with the woman, sitting in the living room, doing shots of JD. The woman was naked and Ryan was sucking on something thick and rubbery -probably one of her huge nipples. He remembered being pulled into the bedroom, being pinned against the wall, and being undressed.
Elly wants it so, so bad, baby.
They were doing it doggie-style, and the woman was screaming,
Gimme that big boy! Gimme that big boy!
Ryan couldn’t remember anything else, and he still had no idea what had possessed him to go home with that woman. It was hard to tell exactly what she looked like when she was sleeping, but she seemed very unattractive, even ugly, and must have been at least fifty years old. But while the idea that he’d had sex with the woman pretty much disgusted Ryan, he was proud of himself too. She wouldn’t have been screaming, ‘Gimme that big boy!’ if he wasn’t satisfying her. He must’ve been good last night - really good. Now there was no doubt in his mind that all of his ‘sex problems’ with Christina were from tension and anxiety.
Then, for the first time this morning, it hit Ryan that Christina was gone, that he’d lost her forever. The idea seemed half-unreal, like one of the foggy memories from his hangover. How did all this happen? How could she have gone back to Jake? She hated Jake; she complained about him all the time. It couldn’t’ve just been about money and sex. Christina wasn’t that superficial. She was a romantic - she wanted to be in love. And Ryan knew that she loved him. He remembered the way she always looked at him. That wasn’t faking.
Jake must’ve lied to her, somehow convinced her that he loved her. Then Ryan remembered having his hands around Jake’s throat.
Ryan knew it was the alcohol that had made him lose control like that, but when Jake told Christina he’d spin it into something else. He’d tell her that Ryan was crazy and dangerous and belonged in a mental institution. After the scene Ryan had caused at the office, she’d believe him. Why wouldn’t she?
Ryan had to talk to Christina. If she’d changed her mind so quickly to go back to Jake, she could easily change her mind again. All he had to do was reason with her, find the right words. He’d say to her,
Look into my eyes and tell me you love Jake. Just say you love him and I’ll leave you alone forever.
If that didn’t work, he’d kidnap her. He’d take her to a motel somewhere and keep her mouth taped until she listened to what he had to say. He’d tell her again and again how much he loved her and what a lying jerk Jake was, and eventually she’d believe him.
Ryan walked for about ten minutes, past projects and other shitty apartment buildings, and still didn’t recognize anything. Then, after he passed some train tracks, he reached Linden Boulevard and realized he was heading toward East New York. He asked a sanitation worker hanging off the side of a garbage truck where Flatlands Avenue was, and the guy pointed in the direction from which Ryan had just come.
Ryan cursed, heading back. That fucking woman on the street had probably sent him the wrong way on purpose. It was probably a big joke to her - tell the stumbling white guy with a hangover to head toward one of the worst neighborhoods in Brooklyn.
Approaching a project he’d passed a few minutes earlier, Ryan noticed some threatening looks from a group of angry gang kids hanging out near the entrance to a building, but he doubted anyone would give him a hard time. The way he looked, it could’ve been his first day in the prison yard, and he could’ve had a sign around his neck that read,
FRESH MEAT - COME GET SOME
, and the inmates would’ve left him alone.
Ryan felt very weak and out of it and had pains practically everywhere. His mouth was so dry he doubted he could produce spit, and his lips were badly cracked. He didn’t know how he’d make it home without passing out, but one thing was for sure - he wasn’t going to have another sip of alcohol for as long as he lived.
At about ten o’clock, after walking for nearly an hour, Ryan turned onto his block. He couldn’t wait to have some ice-cold water, to get that sour, sickening taste out of his mouth.
He was so dazed and focused on thoughts of water that he didn’t notice all the commotion near his house until he was about twenty yards away. There were several police cars and news trucks and a crowd of maybe fifty people on the street and sidewalk. Most of the crowd was right under the WTLCOME HOME JAKE, OUR HERO banner, and Ryan wondered if Donna Thomas was throwing another party.
Then, as Ryan got closer, he realized that there were too many cops and news crews in front of the house for this to be a party. He also noticed the yellow police tape surrounding the stoop and part of the front of Jake’s parents’ house.
Ryan went over to Jamal, the high school kid who’d deejayed Jake’s party the other day, who was among the onlookers.
Ryan said to Jamal, ‘What’s going on?’
Jamal turned to Ryan and did a double take because of how messed-up Ryan looked.
‘Shit,’ Jamal said. ‘The fuck happened to you?’
Ignoring that, Ryan said, ‘What happened here?’
‘Guy got shot last night.’
‘Really? Who?’
‘Some dude from the Crips. That’s what they sayin’ anyway.’
‘And he was shot right here?’
‘Yeah, they got the chalk outline right in front of the stoop.’
‘You mean the guy died?’ ‘Yeah.’
‘Shit.’
Ryan noticed a gray-haired man in a wrinkled sport jacket, probably a detective, talking to a guy who lived across the street.
‘So who shot him?’ Ryan asked.
‘Nobody knows nothin’ yet,’ Jamal said.
‘Right in front of Jake’s parents’ house. That’s pretty weird, isn’t it?’
‘It’s damn weird.’
Ryan walked around the crowd toward his house, overhearing one woman saying, ‘It had to be over drugs - it always is,’ and another woman saying, ‘Yeah.’
In his house Ryan made a beeline for the refrigerator. He started drinking Pepsi straight from the bottle when he heard his mother’s shrill voice behind him: ‘Ryan - oh, thank God!’
Before he could turn around, Rose-Marie came up behind him and hugged him tightly and wouldn’t let go.
‘I was so worried. I thought something terrible happened to you.’
Ryan stopped drinking and said, ‘It’s all right. Everything’s cool, Ma.’
Rose-Marie still had her arms around him. ‘Where have you been?’
‘I was just out . . . with some guys from work.’
‘Why didn’t you call?’
‘I forgot. Why’re you freaking?’
Now Rose-Marie let go of him, and he turned around to face her.
‘God, you look awful,’ she said.
‘I’m fine,’ Ryan said.
‘You smell like alcohol. Were you drinking all night?’
Ryan knew what was going through her mind - her son was developing a drinking problem, turning into her husband. Her biggest nightmare was coming true.