The Old Neighborhood (42 page)

“Welcome to the Brotherhood, kid,” the blond guy whispered in Ryan's ear.

“Thanks, Wacker,” Ryan said as they broke their embrace.

Wacker was a name that rang out in Edgewater, though I didn't know the whole story just then. He had the most clout in the whole neighborhood, even more than Mickey.

“Who's the spick?” Wacker asked, nodding towards Angel.

“He ain't no spick; he's a chink,” Mickey said. “He's the one that's been runnin' around Kung Fu-ing niggers at Senn.”

“I heard that fucking story. You're that kid? Put're there!” Wacker reached out his hand to Angel, who took it limply. “That fucking cracked me up, you know that?”

“It's funny now,” Ryan said. “Wasn't so funny when it was going down though.”

“Almost never is,” Wacker said, looking back at Ryan. The light caught Wacker's flushed face. An old scar bubbled-up dead-center above his eye that traced across and disappeared into his hairline. “So this's the new crew, huh?”

“This is dem,” Mickey replied, scratching his prickly beard.

“Wait a minute. That makes you Patty's little brother,” Wacker said, looking at me shocked.

“Yep,” I answered, smiling nervously.

“Ah, shit. I remember when you was in diapers,” Wacker said.

“It's a trip, ain't it?” Mickey said, handing me a damp can of Milwaukee's Best.

“Shit, I thought he was gonna piss his pants walking in here,” Chief added, sauntering up to us with his angular smile creasing his face.

“You need a change a shorts, Joey?” Wacker asked, smiling. The others laughed.

I shook my head in embarrassment, but more in shock that Wacker remembered my name. They'd just released him from the penitentiary a few weeks back after a long stretch.

“I was with Patty over in Pontiac,” Wacker said. His voice saddened. “All he ever did was talk about his baby brother.” He put his hand on my shoulder. There was a calm, steady warmth in his hand that I never thought a guy like him could possess.

“How's he doing?” I asked. My eyes burned and watered.

“He's keeping his nose clean.” Wacker looked away and stepped backward. “He'll be home soon.”

I knew he was lying. They'd just added six months to Lil Pat's sentence for his part in a riot in Pontiac, and they ended up shipping him down to Menard in an attempt to break up the gang's power structure.

“So I hear you've been getting down, too, huh?” Wacker asked. “A young prospect, dropped some big nigger or something?”

“That's right,” Chief piped in. “But it was all for nothing; PG3s wasted that nigger the other day.” There was a silence. “Blew his fucking brains out.”

Mickey and Wacker burst into laughter at the exaggerated rumor. My mind suddenly flashed to Tank in a wheelchair—his legs already shriveled up, his arms looking like they belonged to another body.

“That's the way they all belong,” Wacker said as he turned and looked over his shoulder. “Aye, Charlene, get me a fuckin' beer. What the fuck?” he shouted to the kitchen where a beautiful, tall brunette sat talking with some of the other girls. Behind her, a mountain of rotten dishes was heaped in the sink.

“OK,” Charlene screeched back. “Geeze.” She got up wearing a loose blue flannel shirt tucked into her tight black jeans. Her legs seemed even longer than they were with the tall black heels she was clicking around in. Her hair was dark and wavy, and she had a sharp face with too much make up on it. She grabbed an armful of beer cans from the fridge and stalked over with long, bouncy strides. As she got close, she made eyes with Angel. He stared back, his eyes glazed over. She handed the beers out, and when she handed one to Angel, they locked eyes. She smiled, wrinkling her crow's feet. Angel's mouth hung open in awe.

“Who are these boys?” Charlene asked, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “They're so cute.” She winked at Angel.

“Get back in the kitchen, ya tramp,” Wacker said, snapping back the tab of his beer. His shoulders swelled as he dismissed her. “What the hell are ya, a pedophile or somethin'?”

She spun back towards the kitchen, and her tight jeans hugged her perfect, high-slung ass. Wacker gave it a hard slap and a deep squeeze as she stepped away. She flashed naughty eyes back at him over her shoulder.

She stepped on. Her ass cheeks twitched through the taut jeans as she went. I nudged Angel, who still gaped at her. I scowled at him and mouthed,
'What-the-fuck-are-you-thinkin'?'
Fucking with Wacker's girl was so far out of the question; to even look her way could mean blood.

There was a rumble on the staircase behind us, and I turned to see a huge fat guy barrel down the steps. He caught himself on the narrow railing that swayed under his grip. It was Fat Buck. I didn't recognize him at first with his head shaved. He had two lightning bolts tattooed above his ears that spanned from his sideburns all the way back to the base of his neck. He wore overalls with black combat boots. A webbed forest of black hair covered his forearms. The hair spouted up from his shirt collar and swam around the rolls of his neck and melded into this full, mangy beard. He drunkenly swayed his way up to Mickey.

“The kid ready?” he asked, jabbing a thumb at Ryan.

“He ain't a kid no more,” Mickey answered, putting his arm around Ryan's shoulder.

“Whatever you say, Mickey,” Fat Buck replied. “I'm ready for him upstairs.”

Mickey looked at Ryan with a sadistic grin on his lips.

“Get on up there,” Mickey said as he winked.

Ryan took a deep breath, glanced at me and Angel, and raised his eyebrows.

“See ya on the other side,” Angel said, then patted Ryan on his back as he headed upstairs.

“Damn, Bucky, I didn't think you could get any fatter,” Wacker joked, poking Fat Buck's stomach as he went by.

“Aye, Wacker. Welcome home, baby,” Fat Buck said. They embraced and patted each other on the back. Then, Fat Buck pressed on. “What, do I remind you of your celly? Big bad Bubba? You probably miss him already, don'tcha?” Fat Buck remarked over his shoulder.

“YOU FAT FUCK!” Wacker roared, red in the face. “I'LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!” He lunged for Fat Buck, but Mickey restrained him, and everyone in earshot just laughed.

“I'LL SHOW YOU WHAT FUCKIN'S ALL ABOUT!” Spit flung from Wacker's lips. “Bust that fat ass of yours!” he yelled as Fat Buck swayed back upstairs muttering to himself.

“Excuse me,” Charlene said, getting up from the kitchen table. “But this is the only ass you'll be busting tonight, mister.” She pointed her index finger at her perfect butt cheek and twisted it like she was extinguishing a cigarette.

She gave Angel as mischievous smile. He smiled back. Wacker's grimace twisted into a knot.

“Aye, Mickey, can we go up and watch?” I said quickly.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Mickey pushed me on the shoulder towards the stairs.

I grabbed Angel around the shoulder, and he finally broke eye contact with Charlene. We made our way up the stairs.

“She's fine as hell,” Angel said, stepping up the stairs in front of me.

“I know she is,” I said in disgust.

We got to the top of the stairs and heard hard-banging bedsprings and a high-pitched moan from one of the bedrooms. I snatched Angel by the arm.

“Do you got any idea who Wacker is, bro?” I asked, glaring at him. “He will drag you out back in the alley, stab you in the throat, go back inside, drink a six-pack, and laugh about it.”

“Come on,” Angel said, breaking my grasp and starting towards the open bathroom where Fat Buck and Ryan sat.

“It's your fucking funeral, bro,” I called after him.

“What's all this talk about funerals?” Fat Buck asked, leaning over Ryan. The small metal tattoo gun hummed in his big paw. “This is a celebration.” He didn't look up. “Young blood here's getting his first ink.”

Ryan clenched his teeth on the toilet seat. His shirt sleeve was rolled up, and Fat Buck went to work on his right shoulder. I noticed the words 'Thieves Junkies and Outlaws' written in cursive at the base of Fat Buck's skull.

“Does it hurt?” Angel sang in an obnoxiously curious tone.

“Fuck you,” Ryan spat with his eyes squinted shut.

“Hold still, damn it,” Fat Buck growled.

I carefully slid behind Fat Buck, who sat on a wooden chair that creaked every time he shifted his enormous weight. Beads of sweat bubbled up on his creased brow and spotted his scalp. He smelled like a bear that'd taken a bath in whiskey.

I sat on the edge of the tub as Fat Buck slowly stretched the black ink along the outline of a silver dollar-sized five-point star. The skin all around it blossomed up pink and puffy.

“Joe, how's it look?” Ryan asked with his eyes still clenched.

“Badass, man,” I said. “Badass.”

Ryan smiled for a second, then went back to his grimace.

It took a while. We drank as Ryan squeezed his fists at the sides of the mauve toilet. Underneath the star, Fat Buck wrote 'T.J.O.' in block letters, and it was done.

“I love virgins,” Fat Buck sighed. He grabbed his beer can off the sink and poured it over the puffy, red skin that surrounded the tattoo. Ryan screamed and gripped his tat like a wound, then he launched to his feet. The veins in his neck strained purple.

“Motherfucker, Bucky!” Ryan said, then punched him in the chest. Fat Buck's rolls jostled and swallowed the punch, and he heaped up off his seat and snagged Ryan in a bear hug. Fat Buck rocked his hips back, and Ryan's feet came off the white tile floor.

“Welcome to the TJOs, brother,” Fat Buck said, then kissed him on the forehead.

“You son of a bitch,” Ryan said, squirming in his grasp.

We rumbled back downstairs, and the party was in full swing. A bunch of girls had showed up. All hell broke loose, and we jumped right in it.

In the midst of it, Wacker stormed up and grabbed Ryan's arm with both hands as we were hollerin' at some older girls who giggled up against the wall. Wacker stared at the star and letters and let out a roaring, manic laugh.

“It's final now, kid! No turning back!” Wacker yelled. Drool slipped from his mouth.

“Never even considered it,” Ryan said as he looked him in the eyes.

Mickey's voice sprang from the couch next to the coffee table. “Aye, get over here.” We made our way over.

“Carve that boy up a line,” Mickey said as Ryan sat down.

Chief plopped a pile of white dust onto a mirror on the table, and a sick feeling snaked into my stomach. I stood across the small coffee table as a little guy with slicked-back black hair carved three narrow lines out of the white mound with his state I.D. I walked around and slid in next to Ryan on the couch, then nudged him with my elbow.

“Ryan, man,” I whispered. “What about not messing with your own product, man?”

“What?” Mickey said. “Naw, this cocaine, kid.” He took a rolled dollar bill off the table, bent down, and snorted a long line. The white grain disappeared into the green roll, hard and fast. Mickey's face surged up at me. His eyes bulged and rolled around in their sockets like he'd gotten cracked in the jaw.

“But you sure as hell better stay away from that stash,” Mickey added, pinching his nostrils and glaring at me. “End up like fuckin' Pistol.”

“Naw, he's gonna stay away from that, too,” Wacker said, jamming his index finger at the coke. “And those are direct orders from you know who.”

“Fine,” Mickey said, then passed Ryan the rolled dollar bill. Mickey put his hand on Ryan's back and leaned him down to the table. Ryan snorted up his line, then rocked back into the couch cushion beside me. His eyes blinked as he rubbed his nose.

“Want some, Kung Fu?” Mickey asked Angel.

Angel shrugged and sat down next to him on the couch, then leaned down and snorted the last line.

“You boys want some more a-that, you just let me know,” Mickey said, laughing. “Gotta do something with all that money you boys are making.”

“Come on, Joey,” Wacker said, then nudged me towards the back porch.

We sat on the wooden steps out back. It was quiet, and the alley lamp loomed high over the pitched roof of the garage. Wacker opened a pack of Camel Filters and offered me one. I dug one out, and he plucked one for himself. He sparked his silver Zippo and brought the healthy, swaying flame to my smoke. I inhaled. There was a tattoo on his hand where his thumb and forefinger met that read 'TJO' in those same simple block letters.

“Now dem letters there,” he said as he showed me the tat, “they've got me in a lot a trouble.” The Zippo flame lit Wacker's hardened face. “Kinda trouble I wouldn't wish on nobody, especially not family. Now, I ain't saying Mickey don't love Ryan.” He toked his cigarette hard, and the butt roared red like a hot coal. “But, Patty, he really loves ya. You're his baby brother, ya know?”

“I know he does,” I sighed.

“What I'm trying to say is, kid, you ain't never gonna have those letters on your skin.”

I exhaled a plume of smoke and looked at him. My heart jumped in my throat.

“Patty, he asked me to watch out for ya,” he said. “You, you ain't never gonna be no TJO.”

“But…”

“I know you're already involved,” Wacker broke in. “And he's gonna be pissed about dat, but dat's as far as you go. You're one of us, but you ain't.” He looked off northeast toward Senn and the lake. “He wants ya to go to college or some shit, and you better.” He pointed at me with his cigarette. “You better.”

I looked down as joy flooded my chest, and I missed my brother more than ever. But then, humiliation dug lines through the joy.
Maybe, he thinks I ain't hard enough.
Hooks dragged across my stomach and planted in my gut.
Ryan ain't so bad; I'm the one who stabbed a fucking GD!
Then, my mind suddenly blanked, and I felt like something hugged me from all sides. I closed my eyes and felt like I was floating slowly upward. The hooks plucked free from my stomach, and I grabbed at the wounds.