Devra backed up a step. McKinley reached over and grabbed her arm. She flinched as his fingers dug into her flesh. He pulled her toward him and she let him, grabbing her purse off the table as she went past. Her knees were weak, but she moved and brought the boy along. They stopped to pick up a few of the wrestling figures and kept on. It felt like she was floating as they made their way to the back room. The back door was open, and they stood in the frame. McKinley’s Benz was in the alley and a black Z was idling behind it. The one named Mike, who had kind eyes and played nice with her son, was standing beside the driver’s door.
“I don’t want to hear no screamin’ or nothin’ like it,” said McKinley. “Say good-bye quick.”
Devra got down on her haunches so that she was close to her son. He was crying, but trying not to.
“Baby,” said Devra, “I want you to go with that man. The one you were playing with before?”
“I want to go with you.”
“You know where home is, right?” said Devra. She whispered the street name and apartment number in his ear, and the name of Mrs. Roberts, who lived on their floor.
“I know.”
“We gonna be there together, real soon. I’ll catch up with you, hear? It’s gonna be all right.”
She kissed him roughly and smelled his scalp. She turned him then and pushed on his back until he took a few steps. She watched him walk toward the black car. Mike opened the passenger door for him, and he got inside the Z.
Devra moved toward the Benz. Nearing the car, she caught the eyes of Mike Montgomery and held his gaze. Looking at Montgomery deep, she wasn’t so afraid for her son anymore. But she wondered if she’d ever hold him again.
THE girl had come home from work, taken a shower, and then was just gone. She’d left without telling him where she was going. Said something about some sodas in the refrigerator and a key in a bowl by the front door, that was it. He heard the door close, and that was how he’d known she’d left out the place. He hadn’t said nothin’ out of line to her or nothin’ like that. Girl just wasn’t social, is what it was.
Mario was bored. He hadn’t talked to no one since Donut had called him that last time, and his brother hadn’t called all day. He had turned on the TV, but there wasn’t anything on worth watching. Bitch didn’t even have the cable. Who the fuck didn’t have cable these days? Even the no-job-havin’ motherfuckers he knew paid for the service. If she had it, at least he could sit and watch some of those joints they ran on 106 & Park, that video show they had on BET.
He decided to go out on the street and try his luck, sell a couple of vials of that fake crack.
He was off his turf. Somewhere in Northeast—he hadn’t bothered to take notice of the particulars when Dewayne drove him to the woman’s place. Truth was, he didn’t know where he was. No idea. But that was cool. An opportunity, since no one around here knew who he was. He could sell some of these dummies and then disappear. Move on, soon as the heat died down. All he had to worry about was the police.
He gathered up his shit and went out the door. Going down the stairwell of the apartment house, he could smell himself, and it wasn’t pretty. It was the clothes he’d been wearing these past few days, that’s what it was. He could put some deodorant on; he’d seen some in that girl’s medicine cabinet. Or take a shower, like he’d done at Donut’s, if he had the time.
He went down to the corner. It had gotten dark out. Not full dark yet, but near to it. There was some kids out playin’, but nobody else. A market was on the corner, but wasn’t anybody hanging outside of it. And on the corner was a street lamp that hadn’t been broken. That would be a good place to stand, under that light.
He went there and assumed the position. One hand in his pocket, kind of staring out into the street. Like he was waiting for a ride but in no hurry to get it. He’d seen enough of these boys to know how they did it.
Some cars passed. A white car turned the corner, and Mario stepped back into the shadows. It was a Crown Victoria with big side mirrors, but it wasn’t the police. Just some kids who liked to drive the same kind of car the Five-O drove. Stupid-ass kids.
A gray Toyota hooptie slowed down nearing the corner and came to stop in the middle of the street. Two hard-looking young men were in the front seat. The driver had marks on his face, looked like he’d been cut.
“You sellin’?” said the driver in a dry, raspy voice.
“I might be,” said Mario.
“Come closer, man. I can’t hear shit with you standing there.”