The Old Neighborhood (30 page)

“But now we gotta worry about them PG3s,” I said, thinking back to Sy. I imagined the PG3 Cobras, thirty-deep, all of them lounged along the side of the softball field fence beside Hayt Elementary School just a half-mile up Clark. I wondered how they felt right about now.

“I ain't worried,” Ryan said, looking over at Angel. “You worried, Angel?”

Angel laughed and looked Ryan in the eyes.

“Man, they're too scared to come to this side of Ridge, anyways,” Ryan sneered.

“What up, peeps?” a joyful voice came from the tunnel.

I turned to see Monteff walk up the alley with little BB sauntering beside him like some comic book sidekick. Both of 'em had big smiles on their faces.

Monteff had a cigar stuck in the rim of his Padres cap that came downward along the side of his face. He wore it tilted slightly to his left.

“What up, party peoples?” Ryan said as he tilted his head to the side.

Monteff looked me in the eyes. Something sad and somber overcame his face. A glint of regret smoldered in his eyes. He rolled his head back and looked away. “Hey, Joe,” he said. “Man, come on,” he waved his hand toward Ashland. “Let's talk, bro.”

“Alright,” I replied. We started towards Ashland together.

“Recognize this?” Monteff pulled out my old chain with the crucifix Lil Pat'd given me from his pocket. We stopped. Something reached up and clutched my heart, and I almost fell over. “I been looking at this thing a long time, thinking about things. I wondered if I was right to think you were in on what your brother'd done. I wanted to believe it. It made it all so simple, black and white. It made what we'd done right. But there was something deep in here,” he patted his chest, “told me 'no.' I was wrong. You never woulda done nothing like that to me. You was my friend.” He sighed. “Your brother, he did what he did. It's probably like you say—he's crazy. Shit, maybe he regret what he did, too. Sometimes people do stuff that don't make any sense. Stuff they regret a whole lot later. Things they could never take back. But either way, it wasn't you that did it. I knew I was gonna give this back to you one day. I just didn't know how.” He handed me the cross. “Here you go, Joe. I'm sorry for how it all went down.”

“It's cool, Monteff. Thank you, bro. You don't know what this cross means to me, man. My other brother, he's been locked-up a long time.”

“Patrick,” Monteff remarked solemnly.

I nodded. “He gave this to me before he went away.” I blinked and swallowed back some tears. I slid the chain over my head.

“I'm sorry, Joe. You was always a good friend to me. I hope we can be boys again.”

“Monteff… man.” I took the cross in my hand and looked at it. It was in the exact condition it was in when I'd last put it on. “I think we were friends all along. We just didn't know it.”

“Maybe you're right,” he said, grinning. We shook hands and hugged each other with our free arms.

“Come on, let's go chief dat blunt,” Monteff urged.

“Hell yeah,” I replied as we turned and walked back.

As we got close, Angel smiled his slick smile and said, “You two done making out?”

“Shut up,” Monteff slugged him. “We gonna smoke or what?”

“I got some Swisher Sweets,” Ryan said as he took out the pack.

“Man, fuck that. Use this Philly, man,” Monteff said, then reached up and slipped the cigar from his cap.

BB grabbed the blunt from Monteff before Ryan could take it. “I got it… I got it,” BB said, shooting his eyes at me. “You know I was about to whoop yo' ass that day before five-o showed up.” BB was almost up to my shoulder now. I smiled and gave his sixty-five-pound frame a quick up and down. Then, I just shook my head.

“BB, just roll the blunt,” Monteff whined.

“Man, I just had to let a mothafucka know,” BB said, walking to one of the sills. His narrow head flexed. “But you know how them pigs like ta whoop a nigga's ass 'n' shit.” Angel tossed him a bag as he sat down at one of the sills.

“See, I roll these blunts up nice, mothafucka—not like you white ma'fuckas,” BB said. He split the blunt down the center with a small razor. “This how brothas roll a blunt.” He looked up at Ryan, who watched intently. BB took his index finger and dug out all the tobacco, then he started crinkling the buds up in the bag so they were almost dust. The rest of us stood around the sill to block any view from the street.

BB sprinkled the green dust into the empty cigar, then lightly rolled it over snugly. He licked his fingertip and used the saliva to seal the crease. Then, he took the lighter and burned the crease to finish the seal.

“Let me see that,” Angel said, ready to inspect the blunt. It was smooth and had a near-perfect shape—flat on both ends and ballooning out on a perfect slope.

“Not bad,” Angel said, looking up. “Let's see how it smokes, though.”

Angel was always serious when it came to weed. It was one of the only times he was serious. He sparked the blunt with his lighter and took a deep hit. As he exhaled, he said, “Nice.” The dank, musty smell of the Jamaican Red Hair plumed from his lips.

“Man, Joe… I don't mean to bring this up or nothing,' but man…,” Monteff said as Angel passed him the blunt. “What the hell was you thinking going heads up with Tank, man?” He took a long, hard hit.

“Shit,” I said and looked down, shaking my head. “Hey, I actually thought I was gonna win, bro,” I laughed.

“On the real?” Monteff gave me a serious look as he exhaled. A trail of smoke sauntered up over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” I said. Ryan scrutinized me with a glance. “Right up to the point where that motherfucker hit me!” We all burst out laughing.

“Now that's one nigga you just don't fight with!” Monteff admonished.

“Hell no,” Angel said, raising his eyebrows.

“Man, he's been knocking motherfuckers out every day over at school, man,” Monteff informed us as he shook his head. “Ev-er-ry day!” he shouted, his eyes wide. “He knocked a dude out dat was nineteen years old the udder day.”

We all agreed.

“Joe, man,” Monteff said. “You're the only one who got him yet, when y'alls went at it after school de other day.”

“Yeah,” Ryan cut in. “It's a whole lot easier when he ain't looking.”

I took a hit, and thick brown flecks sifted across Ryan's face like a migration of dust mites. I exhaled.

“Don't forget, I was saving your ass when I did dat,” I said, smiling and pointing at Ryan.

“I won't forget, man,” Ryan replied in a serious tone, but the smile remained. “I won't forget.”

“You see him still off that spick today, man? I thought he tore his head off,” Monteff said, his eyebrows hiked up. “Man, when I saw you guys coming, I was like, 'Damn, these fools is going to the hospital fo' sho' now!'”

“Y'all wanna talk about fightin', man? Now I can straight up box,” BB said, jumping off the sill and bouncing on his red Fila high-tops. Then, he threw fast punches into the air with his face all squinted up in fury.

“Fuckin' Sugar Ray Leonard, mothafucka,” he said as he punched the air even faster. “I'll whoop Tank… I'll whoop any mothafucka in the hood.”

“Oh, I'll let Tank know then, nigga,” Monteff said.

“Man,” BB replied, waving his hand in the air at Monteff.

“Smoke dis blunt and quit talkin' that crazy-ass shit,” I said, handing him the blunt.

“Ah, hell yeah,” BB said, snatching the blunt and taking a short inhale. He puffed it out and sucked it up through his nostrils, then he toked a long one and squinted his eyes.

“Man, give me that blunt, you little fool,” Angel said, snatching the blunt out of BB's mouth. Then, Angel loomed over him with his tall, thin frame. “Sugar Ray
Midget
,” he mocked BB's squeaky voice.

There was the sound of an engine idling, and I turned to see a blue Civic pulled across the walkway lines at the end of the block on Ashland. The light was green. It was parked there at the corner.

“Hey,” I said, looking at Monteff and nodding toward the car. There were two Mexicans in it, glaring at us.

BB squeezed past us and threw up the 4-40 diamond as he stared into the car.

The Mexican in the passenger seat leaned his Raiders-capped head out of the window. “Stone killa, nigger,” he shouted and threw up the PG3s and that C-shaped pitchfork.

Everybody jumped up, and we let loose with a barrage of shouts.

“Cobra killa!”

"What up den?”

“Moes here!”

“Fuck you, spick!”

“Fusion!”

“What up, flake?”

Ryan ran up and snatched an old Bud Light bottle out of the gutter. He threw it like a bullet, and it bounced once, then crashed on the sidewalk. The broken shards skipped across the concrete and sifted below the Civics' undercarriage. The engine revved, and they pealed out south on Ashland.

“You ain't got V'd in yet, man. Quit doing that shit,” Monteff said as he pushed BB.

“Man, I was born to be a P Stone, fool. V me in right now,” BB snarled.

“Man, I'll give you a mouth shot right now. Dat's about it.”

“Man,” BB whined.

“Scared to come across Ridge, huh?” I said, looking at Ryan. He just took another pull off the blunt and stared at Ashland, his temple pulsing.

CHAPTER 20

VIRGINS

MOST HEROICS ARE PURE CHANCE
—extreme circumstances thrust onto average people. It resides in all of us. It's there somewhere in the depths of our primal chromosomes, just the same as the rage and fury to murder. The only difference between you and a hero is luck. It's the same difference between you and a murderer, maybe.

It was a muggy, hot September day in the neighborhood. We sat in the garage with the box fan on in the doorway and the sliding door half-up as we worked on the bikes as usual.

“You smell that?” Ryan asked.

“What?” Angel answered, looking up from where he shined his chrome rims with Windex and a gray dishrag. There was the smell of smoke, like from a campfire. It slipped in over the scent of rust, grease, and cleaning fluids.

“Smells like something's burning,” I said, inhaling deeply through my nostrils.

Everybody got silent, like we were listening with our noses.

“It's a fire,” I said.

“It ain't no fuckin' fire,” Angel whined.

I got up and lifted the garage door the rest of the way and stepped out into the afternoon heat. I looked west down the empty alley—nothing. An orange alley cat snaked down along the white coach house with its bushy tail up. I turned and looked east down at the T in the alley where Fat Bubba's yellow-sided house jutted up to its sharp-pitched peak. Beyond it, a thin trail of smoke snaked up into the blue sky.

We waited as the Ashland bus surged past before we jogged across. There was already a crowd forming down on the sidewalk in front of the red-bricked apartment building. Everyone's heads were upturned with their jaws dropped, awestruck. The smoke now gushed thick and lifted fast out of the third-floor window like an upside-down waterfall.

“That's fucked up. I don't even hear a fuckin' siren,” Ryan said, turning around to face the street. He cupped his hands around his mouth and yelled, “Hayyoo, call 911!!!”

A fat Assyrian lady next to us looked up with her mouth creased in terror below her thin blonde mustache.

“Das-Kees-in-deh!”
she screamed, grabbing my wrist. Then, she looked at me with her eyes bugged out, pleading. “
Das Kees in Deh!”

“What the fuck you sayin'?” Ryan spat at her.

My heart leapt up in my throat. “There's kids in there!” I said, and I sprinted toward the entrance.

“Motherfucker!” Ryan shouted.

“Shit! Joe! Joe, don't go in there! Ah, fuck!” Angel said, then followed.

I ripped the outer door open, and an old lady with a red wig and a walker had just unlocked the inner door. I waited and held the wooden, glass-paned door as she creaked out. Ryan and Angel bunched up at my back.

“Thank you. That's very nice of you, boys,” she said in a shaky but ridiculously calm voice as she passed.

We dashed up into the hallway, then found the stairs. They were quick-turning, and we pounded 'em. The smoke stench grew as we ascended.

“This three?” I shouted.

“Yeah, this three, man. This is it,” Ryan urged.

I pushed the door open and coughed instantly. Thick smoke hung from the ceiling of the hall at head level. An older black man in a Dago T, sweats, and house slippers stood a little down the hall and banged on a wooden door. He had the shape of a guy who used to be muscular but had sagged with time. He banged on the door with the bottom of his thick fist. It was hollow and steady like a pile-driver. As I got close, I saw he was barefoot.

“This the one?” I asked.

He tilted his head to look at me, and his eyes were all pink with thick red veins flecked in them. “Those little motherfuckers start a fire in dere,” he said.

I grabbed the brass knob—it was hot and singed my palm.

“They leave 'em in there all alone. They keep me up all day with this kinda shit,” the man said, catching a line of drool sliding down his chin with his palm.

“They start fires all day?” Angel said with ironic disgust.

“Come on, man, just kick the motherfucker down!” I said.