The Furies by Mark Alpert Page A

died—John had continued doing outreach work on an informal basis. Over the past few years he’d made a deal with the local drug crews: they let him talk to the younger kids in the neighborhood, but not the older ones. He could reach out to the preteens, urging them to stay away from the crews, but he couldn’t say a word to the teenagers who were already working the corners. This was the compromise they’d reached after the disaster three years ago. But now it looked like someone had broken the truce.
    John slumped lower in the driver’s seat and peered through the windshield. Some of the gangbangers were stomping on his furniture, breaking the chair legs and ripping the couch cushions. Others picked through his books and DVDs, taking whatever they wanted. Several drunks and junkies wandered at the edge of the crowd, curious and amused, but a few of the older folks on Somerset Street shook their heads in disgust. The old-timers in the neighborhood hated the gangs, and sometimes they were brave enough to make their feelings known. One elderly man in the crowd seemed particularly incensed. He shouted something in Spanish at the gangbangers, then spat on the ground. After a few seconds John recognized the man—it was Victor Garcia, a silver-haired retiree who’d been a friend of Father Murphy. His face was pink with anger.
    Victor turned away from the crowd and headed east on Somerset. As luck would have it, the old man was going to walk right past the Kia. As he drew close, John rolled down the car’s window. “Hey, Victor,” he called. “What’s all the fuss about?”
    The old man’s eyes widened. He looked around nervously, then approached the car. “You better get out of here, John,” he whispered. “They’re looking for you.”
    â€œWho’s looking? Which crew?”
    â€œAll of them. Every punk on the street is trying to find you. What the hell did you do?”
    John held out his hands, palms up. “Nothing. I was in New York yesterday.”
    â€œWell, you must’ve pissed off somebody. You should go back to New York. For your own safety.” He glanced at the crowd down the street, then slapped the Kia’s door. “Get going, boy. Head for the interstate.”
    Victor walked away quickly, looking over his shoulder. John stepped on the gas and made a left on Hope Street, but he didn’t drive toward I-95. Instead, he returned to Gabe’s house, taking a roundabout route that avoided Somerset.
    He parked his car by the chain-link fence again and called for Gabe. As he stood in front of the gate, waiting for his friend, he pondered Victor’s question, “What the hell did you do?” The only thing he’d done was run into Ariel. And maybe that was it. Maybe the gangs in Philly were coming after him because of what had happened in New York.
    He had to yell for two whole minutes before Gabe came out of the house. As soon as he emerged, it was clear why it had taken him so long. His mouth hung open and his eyes were glassy. He wore only his boxer shorts now, and on his left arm was the reddish imprint of the belt he’d tied around his bicep not so long ago. Without a word, he opened the gate and led John into the house. This time, though, they didn’t go to the operating room in the basement. Gabe stumbled into a dark, stuffy room on the ground floor and sprawled on a filthy brown sofa. Scattered on the floor were the works he’d just used to shoot up: the belt, the syringe, the spoon, the cigarette lighter.
    John frowned. He’d seen this kind of thing a million times before, but he still couldn’t understand it. He had to remind himself that this skeletal junkie on the sofa was his old friend Gabriel, the smartest kid in the class, the boy who used to love to play with firecrackers. John waited a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dark, and then he stepped toward the couch. The smell was