‘You want to talk about it?’
‘No.’ From a distant car he caught a snatch of music, something Latin and pretty, appropriate for a
night so thick with heat. He sighed. ‘I made a mistake.’
‘What kind?’
‘The kind where people die.’
Washington said nothing. The old man had always been good at that.
‘I disobeyed an order,’ Jason said. ‘I was a sergeant, and I ordered my men somewhere they weren’t supposed to be. One of
them got killed.’
The Worm slid between his ribs and his heart, a nauseous slippery feeling.
‘That’s a hard load, son.’
Jason sipped his gin, stared into the darkness. ‘Harder for the guy who died.’ So much had happened in so short a time, he
felt battered, like a heavy bag worked over by a boxer. He blew a breath, brushed the bangs from his sweating brow. Turned
and leaned back against the railing. ‘You see Michael a lot?’
‘He brought Billy over plenty of weekends. Helped out, threw us a fundraiser once a year in the bar. But he always wanted
to be more aggressive. Wanted the community to fight back, to go after the gangs directly. And he didn’t like the politics
and fundraising. Said people just gave money so they felt okay about ignoring the problem.’
‘Is that true?’
Washington shrugged. ‘Son, I don’t much care. Kids are dying out here. The money helps.’
Jason nodded. That sounded like Michael, to draw a line in black and white, not be able to see the shades
of gray between. It was one of the things that had always made it difficult between them, the way Mi–
Crack!
The sound was loud and sharp, and Jason acted without thinking, body moving to a combat stance, jerking the Beretta from beneath
his shirt, his eyes wide, searching for motion or muzzle flare, ready to spring in any direction. Neck tingling, senses raging,
palms sweaty but sure against the grip.
Nothing
happened.
It took a moment of standing weapon-ready before Jason remembered where he was. How often he’d heard that sound as a kid,
always far enough away that he could never be sure if it was a gun or a car backfiring or a cherry bomb. It was a city phenomenon,
especially on the South Side, just one of those things you got used to. He felt a flush of heat in his face, a vein in his
forehead. He stared into the darkness, afraid to turn around.
Then, from behind, ‘You want to tell me why you brought a gun to my house?’
Jason sighed. Snapped on the safety and tucked the pistol away, still looking out into the twilight. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Sorry’s no kind of answer.’ The softness was gone from Washington’s voice.
Jason nodded. Turned slowly, pulled out a chair, and told the man the whole story, from Playboy on. It took nearly an hour,
and Washington didn’t say a word
until he was done. Just sat stonefaced and alert. When it was all over, he said, ‘I don’t like guns.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘I won’t have it in my house.’
‘I’ll leave it in the car. I’ll take it there now, if you want.’
Washington stared at him. ‘You do that before you walk through my door. And lock it in the trunk, you hear?’ When Jason nodded,
Washington leaned back. He took a slow sip of gin, stared into the distance. ‘You said it was Playboy come after you?’
‘You know him?’ After the afternoon he’d had, Jason supposed he shouldn’t be surprised. Washington obviously knew most everything
going on in the neighborhood.
‘He’s a Gangster Disciple, a soldier. Second in command.’
‘Second in command? He was like twenty-three.’
‘Gangs recruit young. A thirty-year-old thinks before he pulls the trigger. A fifteen-year-old don’t.’
‘Is Playboy somebody who might come after Michael for talking to the police?’
‘Sure. But you said the men Billy saw were white.’
‘Yeah.’ Jason put his feet on the railing. ‘I don’t know who they were.’ He rubbed his eyes, black stars popping. ‘Hell, I
don’t even know what’s going on out here.’
‘What’s going on?’ Washington shrugged. ‘Things are getting worse. That’s the nature of things. You know that nearly
fifty percent
of black boys drop out of
high school? I’m talking city of Chicago. A whole generation, and we’re failing them.’
‘Who’s failing them? I didn’t force them to drop out of school. And I sure as shit didn’t ask them to come after my family,’
Jason said. ‘What about their parents?’
‘Parent, son. Usually just a mom alone, working two minimum-wage jobs, bringing in maybe four hundred a week. Can’t afford
daycare, can’t afford books or a computer, and she ain’t never
there
. Kid doesn’t have a home, school is failing him, the streets are rough, what choice he got but to pledge a set?’
‘Bullshit.’ He was a guest, but he couldn’t let that go, not after the last days. ‘I grew up down the block. You know my dad
split. Mom had
three
jobs. Michael and I both worked, bought our own clothes from when we were twelve. Everybody’s got a choice. They join because
Tupac or Snoop Dogg or whoever else says it’s cool. Join a gang, you get to ride around with a gun, women falling all over
to climb in your Benz.’
Washington shook his head. ‘You know how much a kid makes slinging rock? Nine, ten bucks an hour. Suburban kids make that
at Starbucks, don’t have to worry about nothing but burning their fingers. They don’t join up for the money.’
‘Lemme guess. They join up for their community, stand against the white man.’
‘There’s a black-white thing, sure, but not the way you mean.’
‘So why then?’
‘For respect,’ said a low voice from behind them.
Jason whirled. The man in the door was menacing as hell: two-fifty, six-something, with arms of carved granite and hair tightly
braided to his skull. ‘Got nothing, goin’ nowhere. But if they join a crew, then they famous. Rising ghetto stars. Nobody
can mess with them, ’cause they belong.’
‘Jason Palmer, Ronald Wilson.’ Washington gestured from one to the other.
Jason stood and they shook, Jason expecting the guy to crush his fingers, surprised to find the grip firm but not macho. ‘You’re
Billy’s friend.’
Ronald broke into a smile. ‘Bills is fun. Hold him upside down for an hour, he still wants more.’ He stepped onto the porch.
As the light fell across his forearms, Jason jerked backwards. He bumped the chair, and it teetered, then fell with a crack.
‘Easy.’ Washington was on his feet and between them.
Ronald’s gaze was calm. ‘Problem?’
‘You tell me.’ Jason pointed at Ronald’s arm, where a six-pointed star writhed in flames, surrounding the letters GD. The
same tattoo Playboy had, or damn close.
Ronald nodded, lifted his arm and rolled it back and forth in the light. ‘My set mark. I was Fifty-fourth Street Gangster
Disciples.’
‘You were.’
‘Yeah.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘Left almost four years ago.’ He tilted his head sideways. ‘Dr. Matthews helped me. I’d like to get rid of the ink, but can’t
afford it yet.’
Jason blew air through his mouth. ‘Sorry, man.’ Shook his head. ‘Been a long couple days.’
‘So Bills said.’
Washington eased out from between them, his eyes on Jason. ‘Ronald is my right hand. He’s an example of what can happen if
we work with kids instead of ignoring them. Helps me in a hundred ways, and even the new boys know not to mess with him.’
‘I can see why.’ Jason bent down, picked his chair up. ‘So, respect? That it?’
‘Pretty much.’
‘Doesn’t seem like enough.’
‘Why? It’s not that different,’ Washington looked at Jason, ‘than finding a family in the Army.’
He flushed. ‘It’s goddamn worlds different.’
Ronald spoke, his voice sounding like it came from a cavern a thousand years undisturbed. ‘I don’t know ’bout the Army. But
grow up around here, sometimes a set seems like all there is. I did my first shooting at thirteen, started selling dope about
that time. Had a son when I was sixteen. His mama took him when she left. Back then, I didn’t care. Just banged harder. I
didn’t need a son. My crew was my world. Till somebody gunned down my little brother. Took that for me to start seeing different.’
He fell silent, leaving just the night and the heat and the sound of men breathing.
‘You see what I mean?’ Washington finally asked. ‘Life for these kids is accelerated. Their whole world, it’s burning.’
‘So what’s the point?’ Jason may have grown up a block away, but this wasn’t his world. Never had been. Maybe because he’d
never really considered the neighborhood home. Maybe something in the way he’d been raised, or the way he and Michael looked
out for each other, or simply that his mother’s white skin had helped her get jobs above minimum wage, even if she still needed
three of them. What ever the reason, somehow he’d sidestepped all of this. Teenagers killing each other over pieces of colored
cloth, pretending bandannas were uniforms. ‘Why not just get out? Both of you?’
Washington stared, a long gaze that made Jason uncomfortable, like the old man was seeing through him. Jason took a slug of
gin, his head throbbing heat and booze. The moment dragged on. When Washington finally spoke, his voice was soft. ‘You ever
hear the story of the Rutupiae Light?’
‘That a gang?’
‘History, son.’ Washington shook his head. ‘In the fourth century, Britain was one of the most civilized places in the world.
Culture, literacy, medicine, social rights, all the things we think of as advanced. There was a huge light house at Rutupiae,
where Dover is now, and every night they lit it. Mostly to guide ships, but it was symbolic too. So long as that light house
burned, Britain’s enemies knew Rome protected the country.
‘But it was hard times for the Empire. The glory days were behind, and they had enemies of their own. Eventually, they ordered
their troops out, left Britain at the mercy of the Saxons. Barbarians. Painted their faces blue, drank blood, raided and raped
and enslaved. That bad. Without the Legions, Britain was doomed.
‘But there’s a story says that the night the Legions sailed for Rome, a group of soldiers deserted. It was suicide. They were
vastly outnumbered, couldn’t possibly win. But they stayed, and they lit the Rutupiae Light.’
‘Hoping to fool the Saxons?’ Jason snorted. ‘They couldn’t’ve pulled that off for long. What, they died to keep a light house
going for a night or two?’
‘That’s one way to look at it.’ A gentle smile tugged at the edge of Washington’s mouth. ‘Another is that faced with the end
of a dream, they chose to stay and fight. To hold the darkness back. Even if only for a night or two.’ He glanced at Ronald
like a professor calling on a student. ‘Know what they were called?’
The big man nodded toward the sign. ‘The Lantern Bearers.’
Jason felt a wave of self-contempt. What an ass-hole he was. The Worm writhed within, its teeth pulling hunks of him. ‘Yeah.’
Washington smiled, lowered himself into the chair next to Jason. Patted his knee. ‘People always talk about the “Fall of Rome”,
like one day there was a thud.’ Shook his head. ‘Didn’t happen that way. Empires die slow and from the inside. Like cancer.’
He gestured at the darkened street, gin slopping inside the glass. ‘Like here. At the city’s edge. We’re covered with tumors,
but nobody’s looking.’
Jason ran a hand across the back of his neck, massaged the sticky flesh. A breeze had picked up, warm and sweet with lilac
and a hint of rotting trash. He thought of Billy, asleep with his thumb in his mouth, still wearing the Army T-shirt. Helpless.
Trusting. Hunted. ‘Would it be okay if Billy stayed with you for a little while?’
‘Of course.’ Washington stroked his mustache. ‘Why?’
Jason stood up and leaned against the railing, his back to the night. ‘I need to know everything you can tell me about the
Gangster Disciples.’
Washington’s eyes narrowed. ‘Community interest?’
Jason smiled. ‘Recon.’ It felt right to say it. If Washington could rage against the darkness, if Ronald could, then he damn
well could, too. ‘I’m going to stay and fight. Like you said.’
Washington stared up, his face expressionless. Calculating. The smile withered on Jason’s lips. A long and pregnant pause
fell, just the night sounds and the blood in his veins and the booze in his head.
Then Washington stood. ‘You disappoint me, son.’
The words hit like a slap. ‘What? Why?’
‘When have I ever been about violence?’
‘I’m not asking you to be. But you’re the only one who knows all this stuff, all about the gangs,
the neighborhood. I need to know what I’m up against.’
‘No,’ Washington said. ‘You’re just acting a god-damn fool. You think that story is about fighting? You think I was trying
to inspire you to march up to Playboy, pull your gun, prove how tough you are?’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe your brother was
right. Maybe you shouldn’t have joined the Army, that’s all you learned.’
Jason blinked, held his hands open at waist level. Watching Washington walk away. The man took three heavy steps, then pulled
the old screen door, its hinges screeching. There was something in the way he turned his back on Jason, dismissed him, that
made his anger flare, made words spill out. ‘That’s it? You’re not about violence, and that’s the end of it?’
Washington pivoted, one hand propping the door open, eyes burning in the dim light. ‘That’s right, son. I’ve been down that
road. You know I have. I’ll never do it again, and I won’t help you do it.’
‘Somebody murdered my brother. Tried for my nephew. But I should just turn the other cheek.’ Jason shook his head. ‘You know
the problem with that? Christ got his ass
beat,
old man. So forgive me if I want to fight back.’ He set the gin glass down hard, and warm liquid splashed onto the railing.
‘I’m asking for your help. If you don’t have the guts, fine, bury your head in the sand. But I’m going to fight for Billy.
He’s all I’ve got and I’m not going to let anyone hurt him.’
For a long moment they stared at each other, Jason and the closest thing he had to a father. Then Washington turned away.
‘Don’t bring that gun in my house.’ He stepped through the screen door and let it slam behind him.