good. The boy's eyes were clear, but hard—no softness anywhere in them. Blood, dirt, and tears had transformed the boy's face into a primordial mask of some long-forgotten warrior tribe. Out of the corner of his eye he scanned the kitchen counter for his gun. It wasn't there.
He threatened, “Young nigga, you better get the fuck out from over me! Pussy-ass nigga, what the fuck you got that in yo hand for like you finta take care of some business! What the fuck, am I s'posed to be scared or something!”
The boy said, “You don't have to be.”
“You bet to take yo punk ass to bed somewhere, before I stomp amudknot out yo ass! Standing up here like you crazy or something. Nigga, you's a bitch just like yo bitch made-ass papa. I should take that tire iron from you and stick it up yo ass!”
He sat back and folded his arms across his bare chest, waiting to see if his bluff had worked—it hadn't. And he didn't have to wait long to find out just how much he grossly underestimated the boy's capabilities and his love for his dog.
Swinging the tire iron in a downward arc the boy crashed it into his stepfather's skull. Clunk. His stepfather spilled out of the chair onto the floor. The boy pounced on him; his stepfather screamed and tried to cover his head. In a blood frenzy the boy beat meaty patches out of his stepfather's head and flailing arms. Even when the man passed out the boy didn't stop whaling on him with the tire iron.
Somewhere in the fog of his bloodthirsty mind he could hear his mother's voice. “Hurry up! He's in the kitchen, he's killing my husband! Please, officers, stop him, he killing my husband.”
B EZO STOOD BEHIND THE CANDY COUNTER. EXHAUSTED, HE mopped his forehead with the long sleeve of his shirt. He was the game room manager and today had been a long day, filled with noisy kids, loud rap music blaring from the CD jukebox, and petty arguments between the video game players. There was never any major commotion in here, maybe a few squabbles over who had the next game or quarters, but that was it. The neighborhood kids and the gangbangers alike knew this was his nephew Solemn Shawn's place and that any interruptions of business would be handled accordingly.
Affectionately known as “A-Land,” the game room was a safe haven for the neighborhood kids; the Apostles treated the place like it was hallowed ground. No guns, drugs, or any contraband were allowed on the premises.
All day long Bezo doled out candy and potato chips, changed dollars into quarters, and kept the patrons from tearing up the games. His old buddy Jimmy Johnson kept the place clean. For a few bucks and a warm bed in the storeroom, the less than cordial rummy made sure that the arcade stayed spotless. The kids sure kept old Jimmy on his toes. They were always playing jokes on him. He claimed that he hated them all, but Bezo knew that Jimmy loved being there around all that young life. Plus the money he earned helped supplement his Social Security. It wasn't hard work, but at least he could be proud of the job that he was doing. Hisdaily routine: sweep, complain, then take a sip from the eternal half-pint of Dimitri's gin in his back pocket.
Bezo looked at his old friend now, napping on two milk crates over by the pool tables. From beneath the candy counter, he pulled a bottle of cranberry juice. The red juice was spiked with Absolut vodka. He took a decent sip of the concoction and returned it to the bottom shelf—right next to the loaded Army Colt .45. It was an old pistol, but trustworthy. The belt of vodka warmed his stomach as it worked its magic. He shimmied a little to express the liquid enjoyment in his belly. As he was doing his little dance, the door of the game room was flung inward. Bezo raised his head to curse out the culprit who opened the door so roughly, but when he saw who it was, the expletives froze on his tongue.
Gang Crimes Detectives Bull and Grove stood framed in the doorway. Slowly they entered the
He threatened, “Young nigga, you better get the fuck out from over me! Pussy-ass nigga, what the fuck you got that in yo hand for like you finta take care of some business! What the fuck, am I s'posed to be scared or something!”
The boy said, “You don't have to be.”
“You bet to take yo punk ass to bed somewhere, before I stomp amudknot out yo ass! Standing up here like you crazy or something. Nigga, you's a bitch just like yo bitch made-ass papa. I should take that tire iron from you and stick it up yo ass!”
He sat back and folded his arms across his bare chest, waiting to see if his bluff had worked—it hadn't. And he didn't have to wait long to find out just how much he grossly underestimated the boy's capabilities and his love for his dog.
Swinging the tire iron in a downward arc the boy crashed it into his stepfather's skull. Clunk. His stepfather spilled out of the chair onto the floor. The boy pounced on him; his stepfather screamed and tried to cover his head. In a blood frenzy the boy beat meaty patches out of his stepfather's head and flailing arms. Even when the man passed out the boy didn't stop whaling on him with the tire iron.
Somewhere in the fog of his bloodthirsty mind he could hear his mother's voice. “Hurry up! He's in the kitchen, he's killing my husband! Please, officers, stop him, he killing my husband.”
B EZO STOOD BEHIND THE CANDY COUNTER. EXHAUSTED, HE mopped his forehead with the long sleeve of his shirt. He was the game room manager and today had been a long day, filled with noisy kids, loud rap music blaring from the CD jukebox, and petty arguments between the video game players. There was never any major commotion in here, maybe a few squabbles over who had the next game or quarters, but that was it. The neighborhood kids and the gangbangers alike knew this was his nephew Solemn Shawn's place and that any interruptions of business would be handled accordingly.
Affectionately known as “A-Land,” the game room was a safe haven for the neighborhood kids; the Apostles treated the place like it was hallowed ground. No guns, drugs, or any contraband were allowed on the premises.
All day long Bezo doled out candy and potato chips, changed dollars into quarters, and kept the patrons from tearing up the games. His old buddy Jimmy Johnson kept the place clean. For a few bucks and a warm bed in the storeroom, the less than cordial rummy made sure that the arcade stayed spotless. The kids sure kept old Jimmy on his toes. They were always playing jokes on him. He claimed that he hated them all, but Bezo knew that Jimmy loved being there around all that young life. Plus the money he earned helped supplement his Social Security. It wasn't hard work, but at least he could be proud of the job that he was doing. Hisdaily routine: sweep, complain, then take a sip from the eternal half-pint of Dimitri's gin in his back pocket.
Bezo looked at his old friend now, napping on two milk crates over by the pool tables. From beneath the candy counter, he pulled a bottle of cranberry juice. The red juice was spiked with Absolut vodka. He took a decent sip of the concoction and returned it to the bottom shelf—right next to the loaded Army Colt .45. It was an old pistol, but trustworthy. The belt of vodka warmed his stomach as it worked its magic. He shimmied a little to express the liquid enjoyment in his belly. As he was doing his little dance, the door of the game room was flung inward. Bezo raised his head to curse out the culprit who opened the door so roughly, but when he saw who it was, the expletives froze on his tongue.
Gang Crimes Detectives Bull and Grove stood framed in the doorway. Slowly they entered the
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