The Night Gardener by George Pelecanos Page B

and Diego talked about it often, and romanticized it some, but they didn’t use it. They considered themselves athletes, and Diego’s parents and Shaka’s mother had drumbeat it into their heads that athletes didn’t get high. Of course, they knew this to be untrue. But they also knew that many of the kids they hung with who had begun to drink a little and get blazed had kinda dropped off from playing ball and weren’t doing as good in school as they had before. That much they could see for themselves. Diego still played Yes League basketball and Boys Club basketball and football; Shaka, now that he was in high school, knew he had to pick one sport if he was going to be serious about pursuing an eventual scholarship, and had chosen basketball. Both of them had dreams of playing college ball and professional sports.
    “You keep them Exclusives fresh,” said Shaka, chinning at Diego’s Nikes.
    “They feel good on my feet.”
    “Good as they look, those shoes didn’t help you none today, though, did they?”
    “Couldn’t find my shot is all it was.”
    “Uh-huh. Maybe it’s the shoes messed you up.”
    “I got my eye on the new Forums,” said Diego. “Them joints is
wet
.”
    “Your father ain’t gonna let you get another pair of sneaks.”
    “If I get my grades up for the quarter,” said Diego, “he will.”
    They talked about girls. They talked about Ghetto Prince, the Sunday-night go-go show on WPGC hosted by Big G, the singer from Backyard. They talked about going to a band show at the community center on New Hampshire Avenue, in Langley Park. They talked about Carmelo Anthony and how he had been unfairly treated in that video thing up in Baltimore. Shaka claimed he had seen NBA star Steve Francis and his friend Bradley over by Georgia Avenue. Steve had come up in the area and was frequently seen back in the neighborhood, talking positive to kids.
    “Steve was drivin that Escalade he got,” said Shaka, and Diego asked about the rims, and when Shaka described them, Diego said they sounded tight.
    The sky had darkened some. They got up to go and collected their things. Through the chain-link fence, they saw their friend Asa Johnson walking south on 3rd. Asa was wearing a North Face jacket that broke midthigh. His head down, his brow wrinkled, he was staring at the sidewalk, taking long strides.
    “Asa!” shouted Shaka. “Where you goin, dawg?”
    Asa did not answer or acknowledge the call. He turned his face away so they could not see his eyes. As he did, Diego thought he saw something shiny on his cheek.
    “Asa. Yo, hold up!”
    Asa walked on. They watched him as he turned left on Tuckerman, eastward bound.
    “ ’Sup with him?” said Diego. “Actin like he don’t know us.”
    “No clue. Kinda warm for him to be rockin that North Face, though.”
    “He was sweatin, too. Guess he gotta show that new coat off.”
    “You talk to him lately?”
    “Not much this school year. Not since I transferred.”
    “He playin football?”
    “He dropped out.”
    “Maybe he’s just in a hurry to get home.”
    “He lives in the opposite direction,” said Diego.
    “Maybe he’s tryin to get away from home, then,” said Shaka. “Way his father’s always pressed.”
    “Could be he’s got a girl up that way.”
    “You ever know Asa to mess with a girl?”
    “True,” said Diego. “But I ain’t never see you with one, either.”
    “I never am with just one,” said Shaka. “I got a whole stable.”
    “Where they at?”
    “I ain’t tellin you.”
    They came off the court and walked south on 3rd. Down past Sheridan they went along a short commercial strip, past a women’s clothing store with African designs, a barbershop, a dry cleaner’s, and a ministry. On the next street, at the corner of 3rd and Rittenhouse, they stopped in front of a large warehouse-like structure that was now a banquet and party hall, rented out for anniversaries, birthdays, and general celebrations, called the Air Way