Shades of Black: Crime and Mystery Stories by African-American Authors by Eleanor Taylor Bland

closing one more deal. He put the wadof bills in his loose pocket and smiled in a way I hadn’t seen since I moved into the neighborhood at the beginning of the month. It was still hot, mid-September hot, late afternoon, late summer hot, and all I wanted was to get inside, get out of the uniform. All I wanted was to avoid a long conversation with a curbside drug dealer.
    I stopped at the wrought iron gate to my place. “ What’s funny?”
    â€œBus driver,” he said, “walking home from work. The shit’s just funny, that’s all. Seems like if anybody should get curbside service . . . knowmsayn? Maybe even keep it overnight.”
    I nodded. “And, so, where would I park a bus around here, if they let me drive the motherfucker home?”
    â€œWell, I don’t know,” he responded, without a pause, unfazed. “Maybe we could work something out right here at my spot, yo.” He glanced down at the ground he had claimed. “Maybe a little barter. You know, you let me set up my office, transact my business inside your bus, I let you park rent-free. Everything’s negotiable.”
    Life was like that in The Root. No straight lines. Just angles. “Sounds like you got it all figured out,” I said, intrigued.
    â€œGot that right.” He pointed to his head, gave me a wink. “Mind like a computer.”
    I was struck by how glib he was, how knowledgeable for a boy who seemed to be stuck in a groove. Limited to an entire life right there in Little Beirut, right there on his spot, his whole world on drive-by mode, pulling up to his curb, twenty a pop. What a waste.
    â€œNoticed you just moved in, yo.” He smiled again, that disarming smile that might make you forget for a deceptive moment that he was just another common thug standing there in his baggy jeans, muscle shirt, do-rag, checking the intersection a half-block away, like he had just seen something he was supposed to see coming a half-block away. “I’m Ant,” he said, turning back to me, with a special kind of confidence that suggested he knew just who he was, what he was doing, where he was going at every moment of his short life. He was about five nine, just a growth spurt away from the manhood he might never see. A life on the brink. Medium brown skin, kissed by the summer sun. Innocence and treachery balanced on a razor’s edge.
    I nodded. “D.”
    I tried to push open the wrought iron gate, fumbled with the grocery bags, and he stepped to me, trying to help. I didn’t really want help. He eyeballed me. I felt something drop into one of the shopping bags, but I didn’t look down. I locked onto his gaze, as he pushed open the gate and turned to walk across the street. As it turned out, I made it into my vestibule just in time, just before the unmarked car screeched to the curb, stopping Ant in his tracks. I kept moving up the stairs and into my apartment, where I could watch the scene from the safety of my living room window. Ant, up against the car, searched by a linebacker-of-a-detective. Big, Black, bold. Bad enough to work this block all by himself. But Ant was unaffected by it all. I moved away from the window, knowing without knowing just why Ant felt no pain. I checked the shopping bag. Ant had dropped his nine millimeter and a wad of cash inside. I just stood there looking down into the bag for a thrill of a moment.
    Don’t know why I felt the need to go out for cigarettes that night. Something told me I’d live to regret it, or regret I’d lived it.
    â€œWhat up, D?” It was Ant, rushing me up the walk to my stoop. “Got my shit?” I knew what he meant was, “You better have my shit, and hurry your ass giving it up.”
    When we got to my apartment, I paused. What would he do once he got his gat back? Was he going to let me walk? I took the chance, let him in.
    I pulled the shopping bag out from behind the couch, handed