The Old Neighborhood (43 page)

“Don't take it too hard, kid, and don't worry about nothin',” Wacker said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know I'd gut a motherfucker in about a second over you, right?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Oh yeah, and Patty got word of what happened the other night.”

My eyes shot at him. My heart raced.
What night?
Shit, a hundred fucking things'd gone down over the past few months.

“If that motherfucker ever comes back around the house, don't do nothin'. You just give me a call, and we'll finish the job,” he said. “I know that motherfucker's probably a Stone. That's why you didn't tell nobody, right?”

I went to speak, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.

“Well, either way, he's gonna have to go. We'll bury that nigger in the fucking alley.”

I nodded.

“But, hey, this is a party. What the hell are you doing out here?” He slapped me on the back. “Now go on in and stir you up some of that pussy runnin' around in dere.” He nudged me with his shoulder.

I got up and started inside. When I got to the back door, I turned. “Thanks, Wacker.”

“Don't thank me, kid.” He didn't turn to face me.

I went back inside, and Angel and Ryan were hanging on that same group of older girls who were just laughing at 'em. The night went on like that for a while. I was down, thinking about things too much. I got quiet and wanted to see Hyacinth. I knew she'd probably be asleep, but I decided to go over and check.

“Hey, Ryan, I'm taking off bro,” I said.

“What? Why, man?” He had his arm slung on a brunette with frizzy hair.

“I ain't feeling too good.”

“Alright, bro.”

“Aye, where's Angel?” I asked.

“I don't know.” He looked around. “I think he went upstairs.”

“I'm gonna go say bye to him and get outta here.”

“OK.”

I headed upstairs. No one was up there that I could tell. I walked the hall to one of the back rooms, and as I turned the corner, I saw Angel with a girl draped over him. I smiled at him, but he just straightened up, rigid. The girl's head spun around—it was Charlene. I walked right up, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him away from her, hard.

“What the fuck are doing!?” I shouted in his face.

“Hey!” Charlene said, shoving me.

“You trying to get him killed?” I spat at her.

“What!” Charlene shouted. “Wacker? He doesn't own me.”

“Come on, man. We gotta go now before somebody sees this.” I pulled Angel down the hall. He drunkenly let himself be dragged with his head bowed. When we got downstairs, Ryan saw us and rushed up.

“What's going on with you, Joe?” Ryan asked.

“We gotta get him outta here, NOW,” I said.

“What?”

“NOW!"

“Alright,” Ryan replied as we shuffled out the front door. I was last to walk out. I looked back over my shoulder at the coffee table. One of the older TJOs held a spoon in one hand and struck a lighter beneath it. The spoon was full with a muddy, brown liquid. Angel laughed as I hurried them down the porch stairs and up the street. We turned into the alley.

“Now, what the fuck's going on, Joe?” Ryan said as he spun around.

“This motherfucker's rubbing up on Wacker's girl,” I replied, then pushed Angel. He fell against a dumpster, drunk.

“What the fuck?” Ryan's eyes widened. “You trying to get killed, bro?”

“That's what I said!” I kicked Angel playfully in the chest.

Angel laughed and curled up next to the dumpster like a sleeping baby, holding his gut.

“I couldn't help it,” he pleaded in a childish whine. “You saw her; she was the angel-slut!” He gasped for air.

“This motherfucker is gonna get killed for sure,” Ryan laughed.

“Don't I know it,” I replied.

We both bent to help him up, then started down the alley with Angel between us—his arms draped over both of us.

“Well, did you touch her ass at least?” I asked.

“Oh my God,” Angel squealed, then broke away from us and ran out ahead. “It was like heaven,” he yelled out into the alley night. “Like heaven, God damnit.”

•

LATER, I WALKED
to Hyacinth's house. Her light was on, which meant she was up reading anyway. I was glad; I hated to wake her up. She opened her window, and I climbed up on the wooden sill and kissed her. We whispered in the dark.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It's my brother. He did something for me. I don't know how to feel about.”

“Which one?”

“Pat,” I sighed. “He made it so I could never be a TJO.”

“That's good, Joe. You don't need to be hanging around those crazy assholes anymore.”

“I know, but it's like… Ryan, he's practically my frickin' brother for Christ's sake, and he's a TJO now.”

“But that's different. Ryan isn't you, and you aren't Ryan. You're you, Joe. I know Ryan's a good friend and a good person, but you're different.”

“But, Pat's a TJO. My real brother, my blood.”

“But look where he is, Joe,” she pleaded. “Look where it got him.”

“It wasn't the TJOs, it was shooting that fucking heroin!” I seethed, full of rage. “It destroyed him inside,” I spat loudly, then checked my voice. “He was a good guy. He was always a kind brother to me. He was a good person. He is a good person.”

“I know he's a good person, Joey. I know it because of what he just did.” She reached down and gently stroked my hair. “He's protecting you.”

“I don't need no protecting!” I pulled my head away. “I can handle myself out here.” I gestured to the street.

“He probably knows that, too. That's why he did it. Joey, you stabbed someone the other day.” She started to cry. “That's a very serious thing you did.” She inhaled a stuttering breath. “You could go to jail for a very long time over that.” Tears beaded down her round cheeks. “They could take you away from me for a very long time.”

“I know, I know. I'm sorry. I love you…” I climbed up and nuzzled my face into her cheeks and wiped the tears with my forehead. “Don't cry.”

She caught her breath, then wiped the tears back. “I want to tell your brother I'm grateful for what he did. And you should, too… You should, too….” She broke into a hard sob again, and I did my best to corral it until she stopped. I went home feeling terrible that I'd bothered her with this—that I'd made her cry all over again.

•

THAT NIGHT,
I dreamt I was walking down some strange street in broad daylight—some old-style town with fancy lamp posts. Then, the beast walked along the sidewalk across the street from me, and the Assyrian walked behind it holding a chain that stretched to its immense neck. Then, Ryan appeared ahead of them on the sidewalk, and the beast growled. The Assyrian yanked on the leash, and the beast sat. Ryan noticed them. Then, the Assyrian unleashed the beast, and it galloped toward Ryan. Ryan just bounced on his toes, laughing like he had something up his sleeve, like he knew a secret nobody else knew. As the beast got close, Ryan cut down the alley and vanished. The beast disappeared behind him.

CHAPTER 28

ELECTRON POSITRON ANNIHILATION

TO RYAN,
being a hype was the ultimate show of weakness. I guess, for him, dealing it was the act of punishing his father for his frailty, brutality, and eventual failure. There was a hunger in Ryan's method. He would not hesitate for a sliver of a second to stick a hype straight in the jaw for the slightest foul in attitude or misconduct. He took a certain pleasure in it that scared me; not fear for myself or for the junkies, but fear for Ryan's own fucking soul. It made me want to grab him by the arms and shake him. Tell him, 'That ain't your old man you just hit, Bro! It's just some poor, bum-ass junky!' And you'd think that kinda behavior would hurt business—it didn't; it only made the junkies revere him. It made their approaches more subtle, made their money right every time—not none of that change and penny bullshit. It got to the point they didn't even talk to Angel and me except to ask for Ryan. Even they'd demoted us to lookouts. I didn't care. The thick wads of green that swelled in my pockets made my skin itch, and I found myself handing money out to panhandlers—sometimes $50 bucks a pop, startling them and making them stumble after me trying to give me a hug with tears in their eyes. But I knew all the while it'd find its way back to Ryan eventually.

•

ONE NIGHT,
Lil Pat's old girlfriend Angie showed up at the sills. I thought she'd crawled in some hole and died. Figured being a hooker and a junky gave her about a hundred percent chance at the HIV. There was a brisk, dry breeze that night. The temperature had settled in the teens. Angie was thin, thinner than I ever remembered her, with bleached straight-leg jeans on that only came down to her shins. Her red-striped tube socks were all bunched up in a thick wad at her ankles above her grayed tennis shoes, and she wore this heavy wool red and black flannel that was so big and old it could have been Lil Pat's. Her hair was all crusted and tangled, and she shook in these brittle tremors that made it look like her arms were gonna crack off at the shoulders. Her face was all dried out, porous, and wrinkled. There were dark makeup smudges under her eyes like she'd been crying earlier in the day, or week even, 'cause she smelled like she hadn't showered in at least that long.

“Aye, Joey, can I have a cigarette, honey?” she croaked in her raspy, tired tone.

I looked at Angel, and he flipped open his pack of Marlboro Lights. She rattled her thin trembling fingers around in it until she pinned one down against the thin cardboard. Then, she brought it to her chapped mouth and pulled a small black lighter from her flannel pocket and tried to strike it. The more she focused on lighting it, the more she trembled. Her head even started to wobble. Finally, the lighter clattered at her feet. The whole thing was so pathetic that I bent, scooped it up, and sparked it for her. I had to follow the cigarette tip as it bobbed and swayed with her face like a crusty leaf rattling in the breeze.

She finally pulled, and as she exhaled a thin cloud, she spoke. “Joey, I came here 'cause I'm in trouble. I'm sick. I need a hit. You can see that,” she said in her raspy hiss. “I don't have nothin'. I got robbed today; a john beat me up and took everything.” She was lying, but I didn't care. I wasn't giving her a fucking thing. She was part of what took my brother from me. She could croak and die right there, and I wouldn't so much as drag her into the ER.

“Will ya help me, Joe? Please! I loved your brother, Joey. I did. I still love him. He would want you to help me.”

“Don'tchu fuckin' talk to me about MY BROTHER, BITCH! You didn't fuckin' LOVE HIM; you fuckin' POISONED HIM!” Flecks of spit flung off my mouth and caught in her face and gray eyes.

“Please!” she seethed, blinking. She looked to Angel, who just turned his face westbound down Hollywood. Then, she stared at Ryan. “Please, I'll suck you off… Anything!” she moaned and grabbed at his shiny leather coat sleeve.

Angel snickered, still refusing to even look at her.

Ryan stood up straight.

“Come on den,” Ryan said, grinning. “I'll give you a hit if you slob my johnson.” He grabbed the crotch of his jeans, and they crossed the street over to the arterial alley near the stash. She knelt down in the salt-grayed snow next to a big black garbage can as he unfastened his belt.

“Can't believe he's letting that nasty bitch suck his dick,” Angel admonished, disgusted. “Bitch has got AIDs, let alone her lips are crusty like sand paper, man. They're gonna be over there for half an hour.”

It took a while. The whole thing made me sick, like I had two eels slithering around in my stomach. It made me want to just step the fuck off, but I couldn't. Then, Ryan looked over at us.

“Watch dis shit!” he shouted, then took a step backward clutching his dick. A steaming arc of piss gushed outward from his pale, chubby prick, and Angie reached out and grasped the thigh of his pant leg for balance. The piss struck in her gawking, upturned mouth, then splattered on her forehead. It splashed into a steamy, circular mist around the crown of her scalp. The alley lamps caught in it, and it flecked into this foggy orange aura like a halo. She unleashed a screeching hiss, then gagged. Ryan stepped back further, and her hands clapped the murky, snow-covered pavement. She retched. Piss and puke dripped slowly and thick from her lips. Ryan just kept pissing, rippling a steady bead on the top of her head so her hair fell mop-wet and hung down over her face. She continued to gargle, retch, and screech like an alley cat in heat. Ryan, finally spent, zipped up and dug his hand in his deep, 3/4 trench coat pocket. Then, he tossed the nickel of China white in the center of the small pool of piss, bile, and saliva. He walked back toward us giggling.

I can't tell you why, even now, but I wanted to cry right then —for her, for him, for Lil Pat, for me. All of it swelled like warm balloons in my lungs, then the wires bound the balloons and they popped. Ryan grinned, but not his usual smirk. His chin was tucked and it could have been a sneer as much as a smile. His dark, oily red hair was almost black and slicked back like a dark streak running right down the center of his skull. If he woulda said anything to me as he stepped up, I woulda hit him square in the jaw, but he didn't say nothing.

Angel was laughing—tired and wheezy. “Don't come near me, man. You smell of piss and junky whore,” he said, squinting at Ryan and pinching his nostrils. Then, he brought the collar of his puffy Miami jacket over his nose.

“Woulda took a hour to cum like dat,” Ryan said, glancing at Angel. “She was gonna pay one way or another.”