CHAPTER 27

JAG OFFS

I WALKED DOWN THE BLOCK towards Ashland. The moonless sky was clouded with a murky, purple haze that hung above the canopy of wilting leaves like smoke. As I approached the sills, I saw Ralphy the Junker pushing his empty metal grocery cart out of the mouth of the arterial alley. He crossed Hollywood with his cart rattling as it wobbled on its rickety black wheels. Ralphy stepped behind it in a white hospital coat that’d worn brown and ragged with a black, fuzzy hat sitting atop his gnarled, gray dreadlocks. Ryan and Angel glanced around as traffic flicked past on Ashland, then Ralphy stepped shakily to Ryan, and they made an unmistakable exchange. Ralphy! Ralphy’s a hard-banging junky! No way they’re slanging H right there?! How the fuck they doing that shit without asking me?! Even telling me?! Rage roared in my chest. Heroin destroyed my brother’s life, and heroin dealers preyed on him just as much as he’d preyed on them. Fuck dat shit! I stomped straight up to Ryan as he leaned against the wall of the hospital in his blue hoodie. Ryan grinned at me with Ralphy long-gone down the tunnel.

“What the fuck’s up, man?” I shouted. “You pushing H right here?”

“Naw, Joe. Joe, chill out,” Angel said, stepping to me with his palm out. His heavy blue flannel hung off of him limply.

“Chill?” I said, shooting my eyes at Angel. “All dat shit carries a felony tag, man! You ready for dat?”

Ryan smirked and jutted his stubby chin upward, which instantly flared my anger even worse. Then, I saw a dark-blue bag under his left eye; it was puffy, and there was some black shit twisted into his eyebrow. His face flexed, and a bulbous lump swelled on the side of his head above his ear like he had a golf ball under his buzzed scalp.

“The fuck happened to you?” I asked.

“The PG3s got ’em, the flakes got ’em,” Angel said. His glazed-over, slit-eyed smile revealed his large teeth through his lips.

“Mickey got word-a-what happened,” Ryan explained. His chest swelled as he scratched the peach fuzz above his lips and stood squared up with me. “PG3s put a S.O.S. on my ass. Dey were talkin’ shit, said the .25 was a BB gun. Piece by piece, he got the whole thing. Said if the PG3s took me serious enough to set out to kill me, then why wouldn’t the TJOs take me serious enough to V me in?”

I took a deep breath and swallowed in all of it, not knowing how to feel. There was the rage at the H, the fear that these PG3s were set on killing Ryan, then the jealously that he was a legit TJO, and I still wasn’t shit.

“Who V’d you in?” I asked.

“Man, Chief and Freckles... I don’t think you met him yet,” Ryan said excitedly. “This lil Irish fucker. Man, he’s little, but he could bag, man. I squared up with him right away—thought I’d rush him, then deal with Chief. But this fool, man, he had fucking lead in his fists, man.” His busted teeth showed wet between his chapped lips.

“No shit?” I asked.

“Yeah, man, it wasn’t nothin’ nice,” Ryan said, touching the stitches along his eyebrow, “but it’s over now, boy. I’m in.” He smiled, and his green eyes sizzled with pride. “I’m getting my ink done this Saturday. It’s gonna be a big-ole party. Mickey says you’re both invited.”

“Hell yeah,” I said. I reached out and our hands clapped together. His was wide, heavy, and stronger than usual.

“I got to talk to you about this shit, too,” Ryan said as he sat down in his sill. He pulled out a bag from the front pocket his red jeans.

“What?”

Ryan handed it to me.

“We’re gonna start making some real money now,” Angel said.

I’d only seen it once up close before, but I knew what it was. The small, crumpled plastic bag. The knot tied around the light-brown powder packed into a tight little ball. It felt so light, so insignificant. But some blackness swelled inside my sternum—a darkness so much larger and heavier than that tiny little bag of dust. The wires looped around it and squeezed, so it evaporated and absorbed into my cells.

“China white,” Ryan said.

“Man...” I handed it back to him.

“What?” Ryan slipped it back in his pocket.

“Man, I can’t be part of that shit.” I sat in my sill beside Ryan’s.

“What? What the fuck’re you talking about?” Angel asked.

“My brother, man...” I threw my hand up sharply. “Look, I just can’t, alright?”

“Hey, man, look. Mickey told me all about that, man,” Ryan said, putting his hand on my back. “Pistol Pat, man, he just dipped into his own shit. That’s what got him in trouble, man. You can’t be dealer and a customer is all.”

“Man, I can’t, bro. I just can’t, alright?” I said, shrugging Ryan’s hand off.

“Look, man, we're gonna be making three time as much as we were off that fucking pot, bro,” Angel said. “Three times as much, man!”

Ryan pulled out a wad of cash and said, “Look, man. This is what we made tonight.” He planted it in my palm.

I weighed it in my palm—it had to be at least a hundred dollars. I handed it back.

“Look, bro, it ain’t like we’re gonna start doing that shit or nothing,” Angel said, pinching the tip of his nose with his thumb and index finger.

“We’re gonna stay strong, man,” Ryan urged. “Look at all this money, man. This is what we always wanted, bro.”

“Hey, look, man, there’s something else, too,” Ryan said, glancing over at Angel. “Mickey made me chief of the prospects, so you know I’m supposed to be calling the shots’n shit, but you know the way I see it is we’re still Fusion, bro, and ya’ll are gonna get V’d in soon enough.”

I sat back in my sill and thought of Lil Pat. I thought of the last day I saw him as a free man with the gun pointed in Ma’s face—that trembling that’d taken hold of his entire being. Then, I remembered the last time I’d seen him in the green jumpsuit—how big he’d gotten, the scars on his forehead and brow like he’d shoved his head in a thorn bush, his eye swelled shut. How he said be loyal to Ryan, he’ll be a good friend to you. Then, I thought of the money and of Ryan and Angel, and I didn’t know what to do. All three of us sat in silence, listening to the traffic riffle past on Ashland. I could walk away and let ’em count this money, let ’em face the PG3s all by themselves. But the thought of that—of not being there when they needed me—made the wires strain at my heart. It was too much, too much to take.

“Hey, look, man... If it’s still Fusion then, man...” I sat back in the darkness of my sill, “I’m down. If this is what we gotta do, then it’s what we got to do.”

“That’s what I like to hear, bro,” Ryan said as he hopped off his sill and looked across the street. A bum milled there at the mouth of the alley. The darkness filled the pathway in an off-kilter beat as the alley lamp flickered above the customer. “Aye,” Ryan said, standing and nodding him over.

“You’ll see, man. Shit’ll be cool,” Angel said as the bum walked up shrouded in darkness. His face was blackened with dirt or mud or something else, something deeper. A tremble betrayed his steps. Ryan glided up to meet him, and I knew it wouldn’t be cool. It wouldn’t be cool at all.

•

SATURDAY NIGHT ROLLED AROUND, and the three of us made the short walk over to the house on Bryn Mawr. The front porch steps were full of guys drinking and smoking and scowling. The music blared inside—some kind of fast-paced metal. Ryan led us up the stairs, and Chief stood at the top with his cheeks all sunken and jaundiced like he had HIV or something, but his forehead shook any concern; it was wide and square like the head of a sledgehammer.

“What up, Ryan?” Chief said, reaching his hand out. They shook in the TJO fashion—hooking at the thumbs and throwing up the J. “What the fuck are these two doin’ here?”

“Aye, Tommy, they’re with me,” Ryan answered. “Mickey said they should come.”

Tommy nodded at me and Angel, then shook his head in disgust and stepped aside to let us pass in through the screen door. There was nothing but grimy white guys everywhere. The mood was light, but they still had those hard glares in their eyes. Pantera soared on the stereo, and a few of the TJOs leaned against the wall of the enclosed front porch nodding their heads vigorously with their eyes squinted shut. We stepped into the living room. Beer cans and bottles littered the rug. There was the stench of cigarettes, warm beer, and somebody’s cheap old lady perfume. The whole room churned in a circus of motion.

A shout came from across the room. “Come here, you little fuck!” We looked over and saw Mickey. His whole head beamed red and glowed in the low table lamp light. His wide grin caused his entire head to flex. Mickey stretched his thick arms out wide as we made our way over to him. When Ryan got close, Mickey clamped his arms around him and planted a big kiss on his forehead. Mickey slid his hand through my slicked-back, Aqua Netted hair, messing it up bad. Then, he turned and karate chopped Angel in the chest playfully.

I noticed this guy standing off to the side by the couch, watching us. He had blond slicked back hair, weathered skin, and light-brown freckles speckling his hard-boiled scowl. His hands were small, though his forearms and shoulders bulged in an undefined bulk. He wore a Dago T and blue jeans that were too big for him at the waist, so they were bunched up on his narrow hips by his tight-slung belt. He stepped to us and punched Ryan in the arm. Ryan recoiled, smiling—his forehead orange in the light. Then, the blond guy grabbed him, pulled him close, and hugged him.

“Welcome to the Brotherhood, kid,” the blond guy whispered in Ryan’s ear.

“Thanks, Wacker,” Ryan said as they broke their embrace.

Wacker was a name that rang out in Edgewater, though I didn’t know the whole story just then. He had the most clout in the whole neighborhood, even more than Mickey.

“Who’s the spick?” Wacker asked, nodding towards Angel.

“He ain’t no spick; he’s a chink,” Mickey said. “He’s the one that’s been runnin’ around Kung Fu-ing niggers at Senn.”

“I heard that fucking story. You’re that kid? Put’re there!” Wacker reached out his hand to Angel, who took it limply. “That fucking cracked me up, you know that?”

“It’s funny now,” Ryan said. “Wasn’t so funny when it was going down though.”

“Almost never is,” Wacker said, looking back at Ryan. The light caught Wacker’s flushed face. An old scar bubbled-up dead-center above his eye that traced across and disappeared into his hairline. “So this’s the new crew, huh?”

“This is dem,” Mickey replied, scratching his prickly beard.

“Wait a minute. That makes you Patty’s little brother,” Wacker said, looking at me shocked.

“Yep,” I answered, smiling nervously.

“Ah, shit. I remember when you was in diapers,” Wacker said.

“It’s a trip, ain’t it?” Mickey said, handing me a damp can of Milwaukee’s Best.

“Shit, I thought he was gonna piss his pants walking in here,” Chief added, sauntering up to us with his angular smile creasing his face.

“You need a change a shorts, Joey?” Wacker asked, smiling. The others laughed.

I shook my head in embarrassment, but more in shock that Wacker remembered my name. They’d just released him from the penitentiary a few weeks back after a long stretch.

“I was with Patty over in Pontiac,” Wacker said. His voice saddened. “All he ever did was talk about his baby brother.” He put his hand on my shoulder. There was a calm, steady warmth in his hand that I never thought a guy like him could possess.

“How’s he doing?” I asked. My eyes burned and watered.

“He’s keeping his nose clean.” Wacker looked away and stepped backward. “He’ll be home soon.”

I knew he was lying. They’d just added six months to Lil Pat’s sentence for his part in a riot in Pontiac, and they ended up shipping him down to Menard in an attempt to break up the gang’s power structure.

“So I hear you’ve been getting down, too, huh?” Wacker asked. “A young prospect, dropped some big nigger or something?”

“That’s right,” Chief piped in. “But it was all for nothing; PG3s wasted that nigger the other day.” There was a silence. “Blew his fucking brains out.”

Mickey and Wacker burst into laughter at the exaggerated rumor. My mind suddenly flashed to Tank in a wheelchair—his legs already shriveled up, his arms looking like they belonged to another body.

“That’s the way they all belong,” Wacker said as he turned and looked over his shoulder. “Aye, Charlene, get me a fuckin’ beer. What the fuck?” he shouted to the kitchen where a beautiful, tall brunette sat talking with some of the other girls. Behind her, a mountain of rotten dishes was heaped in the sink.

“OK,” Charlene screeched back. “Geeze.” She got up wearing a loose blue flannel shirt tucked into her tight black jeans. Her legs seemed even longer than they were with the tall black heels she was clicking around in. Her hair was dark and wavy, and she had a sharp face with too much make up on it. She grabbed an armful of beer cans from the fridge and stalked over with long, bouncy strides. As she got close, she made eyes with Angel. He stared back, his eyes glazed over. She handed the beers out, and when she handed one to Angel, they locked eyes. She smiled, wrinkling her crow’s feet. Angel’s mouth hung open in awe.

“Who are these boys?” Charlene asked, throwing her hair over her shoulder. “They’re so cute.” She winked at Angel.

“Get back in the kitchen, ya tramp,” Wacker said, snapping back the tab of his beer. His shoulders swelled as he dismissed her. “What the hell are ya, a pedophile or somethin’?”

She spun back towards the kitchen, and her tight jeans hugged her perfect, high-slung ass. Wacker gave it a hard slap and a deep squeeze as she stepped away. She flashed naughty eyes back at him over her shoulder.

She stepped on. Her ass cheeks twitched through the taut jeans as she went. I nudged Angel, who still gaped at her. I scowled at him and mouthed, ’What-the-fuck-are-you-thinkin’?’ Fucking with Wacker’s girl was so far out of the question; to even look her way could mean blood.

There was a rumble on the staircase behind us, and I turned to see a huge fat guy barrel down the steps. He caught himself on the narrow railing that swayed under his grip. It was Fat Buck. I didn’t recognize him at first with his head shaved. He had two lightning bolts tattooed above his ears that spanned from his sideburns all the way back to the base of his neck. He wore overalls with black combat boots. A webbed forest of black hair covered his forearms. The hair spouted up from his shirt collar and swam around the rolls of his neck and melded into this full, mangy beard. He drunkenly swayed his way up to Mickey.

“The kid ready?” he asked, jabbing a thumb at Ryan.

“He ain’t a kid no more,” Mickey answered, putting his arm around Ryan’s shoulder.

“Whatever you say, Mickey,” Fat Buck replied. “I’m ready for him upstairs.”

Mickey looked at Ryan with a sadistic grin on his lips.

“Get on up there,” Mickey said as he winked.

Ryan took a deep breath, glanced at me and Angel, and raised his eyebrows.

“See ya on the other side,” Angel said, then patted Ryan on his back as he headed upstairs.

“Damn, Bucky, I didn’t think you could get any fatter,” Wacker joked, poking Fat Buck’s stomach as he went by.

“Aye, Wacker. Welcome home, baby,” Fat Buck said. They embraced and patted each other on the back. Then, Fat Buck pressed on. “What, do I remind you of your celly? Big bad Bubba? You probably miss him already, don’tcha?” Fat Buck remarked over his shoulder.

“YOU FAT FUCK!” Wacker roared, red in the face. “I’LL RIP YOUR FUCKING HEAD OFF!” He lunged for Fat Buck, but Mickey restrained him, and everyone in earshot just laughed.

“I’LL SHOW YOU WHAT FUCKIN’S ALL ABOUT!” Spit flung from Wacker’s lips. “Bust that fat ass of yours!” he yelled as Fat Buck swayed back upstairs muttering to himself.

“Excuse me,” Charlene said, getting up from the kitchen table. “But this is the only ass you’ll be busting tonight, mister.” She pointed her index finger at her perfect butt cheek and twisted it like she was extinguishing a cigarette.

She gave Angel as mischievous smile. He smiled back. Wacker’s grimace twisted into a knot.

“Aye, Mickey, can we go up and watch?” I said quickly.

“Yeah, go ahead.” Mickey pushed me on the shoulder towards the stairs.

I grabbed Angel around the shoulder, and he finally broke eye contact with Charlene. We made our way up the stairs.

“She’s fine as hell,” Angel said, stepping up the stairs in front of me.

“I know she is,” I said in disgust.

We got to the top of the stairs and heard hard-banging bedsprings and a high-pitched moan from one of the bedrooms. I snatched Angel by the arm.

“Do you got any idea who Wacker is, bro?” I asked, glaring at him. “He will drag you out back in the alley, stab you in the throat, go back inside, drink a six-pack, and laugh about it.”

“Come on,” Angel said, breaking my grasp and starting towards the open bathroom where Fat Buck and Ryan sat.

“It’s your fucking funeral, bro,” I called after him.

“What’s all this talk about funerals?” Fat Buck asked, leaning over Ryan. The small metal tattoo gun hummed in his big paw. “This is a celebration.” He didn’t look up. “Young blood here’s getting his first ink.”

Ryan clenched his teeth on the toilet seat. His shirt sleeve was rolled up, and Fat Buck went to work on his right shoulder. I noticed the words ’Thieves Junkies and Outlaws’ written in cursive at the base of Fat Buck’s skull.

“Does it hurt?” Angel sang in an obnoxiously curious tone.

“Fuck you,” Ryan spat with his eyes squinted shut.

“Hold still, damn it,” Fat Buck growled.

I carefully slid behind Fat Buck, who sat on a wooden chair that creaked every time he shifted his enormous weight. Beads of sweat bubbled up on his creased brow and spotted his scalp. He smelled like a bear that’d taken a bath in whiskey.

I sat on the edge of the tub as Fat Buck slowly stretched the black ink along the outline of a silver dollar-sized five-point star. The skin all around it blossomed up pink and puffy.

“Joe, how’s it look?” Ryan asked with his eyes still clenched.

“Badass, man,” I said. “Badass.”

Ryan smiled for a second, then went back to his grimace.

It took a while. We drank as Ryan squeezed his fists at the sides of the mauve toilet. Underneath the star, Fat Buck wrote ’T.J.O.’ in block letters, and it was done.

“I love virgins,” Fat Buck sighed. He grabbed his beer can off the sink and poured it over the puffy, red skin that surrounded the tattoo. Ryan screamed and gripped his tat like a wound, then he launched to his feet. The veins in his neck strained purple.

“Motherfucker, Bucky!” Ryan said, then punched him in the chest. Fat Buck’s rolls jostled and swallowed the punch, and he heaped up off his seat and snagged Ryan in a bear hug. Fat Buck rocked his hips back, and Ryan’s feet came off the white tile floor.

“Welcome to the TJOs, brother,” Fat Buck said, then kissed him on the forehead.

“You son of a bitch,” Ryan said, squirming in his grasp.

We rumbled back downstairs, and the party was in full swing. A bunch of girls had showed up. All hell broke loose, and we jumped right in it.

In the midst of it, Wacker stormed up and grabbed Ryan’s arm with both hands as we were hollerin’ at some older girls who giggled up against the wall. Wacker stared at the star and letters and let out a roaring, manic laugh.

“It’s final now, kid! No turning back!” Wacker yelled. Drool slipped from his mouth.

“Never even considered it,” Ryan said as he looked him in the eyes.

Mickey’s voice sprang from the couch next to the coffee table. “Aye, get over here.” We made our way over.

“Carve that boy up a line,” Mickey said as Ryan sat down.

Chief plopped a pile of white dust onto a mirror on the table, and a sick feeling snaked into my stomach. I stood across the small coffee table as a little guy with slicked-back black hair carved three narrow lines out of the white mound with his state I.D. I walked around and slid in next to Ryan on the couch, then nudged him with my elbow.

“Ryan, man,” I whispered. “What about not messing with your own product, man?”

“What?” Mickey said. “Naw, this cocaine, kid.” He took a rolled dollar bill off the table, bent down, and snorted a long line. The white grain disappeared into the green roll, hard and fast. Mickey’s face surged up at me. His eyes bulged and rolled around in their sockets like he’d gotten cracked in the jaw.

“But you sure as hell better stay away from that stash,” Mickey added, pinching his nostrils and glaring at me. “End up like fuckin’ Pistol.”

“Naw, he’s gonna stay away from that, too,” Wacker said, jamming his index finger at the coke. “And those are direct orders from you know who.”

“Fine,” Mickey said, then passed Ryan the rolled dollar bill. Mickey put his hand on Ryan’s back and leaned him down to the table. Ryan snorted up his line, then rocked back into the couch cushion beside me. His eyes blinked as he rubbed his nose.

“Want some, Kung Fu?” Mickey asked Angel.

Angel shrugged and sat down next to him on the couch, then leaned down and snorted the last line.

“You boys want some more a-that, you just let me know,” Mickey said, laughing. “Gotta do something with all that money you boys are making.”

“Come on, Joey,” Wacker said, then nudged me towards the back porch.

We sat on the wooden steps out back. It was quiet, and the alley lamp loomed high over the pitched roof of the garage. Wacker opened a pack of Camel Filters and offered me one. I dug one out, and he plucked one for himself. He sparked his silver Zippo and brought the healthy, swaying flame to my smoke. I inhaled. There was a tattoo on his hand where his thumb and forefinger met that read ’TJO’ in those same simple block letters.

“Now dem letters there,” he said as he showed me the tat, “they’ve got me in a lot a trouble.” The Zippo flame lit Wacker’s hardened face. “Kinda trouble I wouldn’t wish on nobody, especially not family. Now, I ain’t saying Mickey don’t love Ryan.” He toked his cigarette hard, and the butt roared red like a hot coal. “But, Patty, he really loves ya. You’re his baby brother, ya know?”

“I know he does,” I sighed.

“What I’m trying to say is, kid, you ain’t never gonna have those letters on your skin.”

I exhaled a plume of smoke and looked at him. My heart jumped in my throat.

“Patty, he asked me to watch out for ya,” he said. “You, you ain’t never gonna be no TJO.”

“But…”

“I know you’re already involved,” Wacker broke in. “And he’s gonna be pissed about dat, but dat’s as far as you go. You’re one of us, but you ain’t.” He looked off northeast toward Senn and the lake. “He wants ya to go to college or some shit, and you better.” He pointed at me with his cigarette. “You better.”

I looked down as joy flooded my chest, and I missed my brother more than ever. But then, humiliation dug lines through the joy. Maybe, he thinks I ain’t hard enough. Hooks dragged across my stomach and planted in my gut. Ryan ain’t so bad; I’m the one who stabbed a fucking GD! Then, my mind suddenly blanked, and I felt like something hugged me from all sides. I closed my eyes and felt like I was floating slowly upward. The hooks plucked free from my stomach, and I grabbed at the wounds.

“Don’t take it too hard, kid, and don’t worry about nothin’,” Wacker said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “You know I’d gut a motherfucker in about a second over you, right?”

I smiled and nodded.

“Oh yeah, and Patty got word of what happened the other night.”

My eyes shot at him. My heart raced. What night? Shit, a hundred fucking things’d gone down over the past few months.

“If that motherfucker ever comes back around the house, don’t do nothin’. You just give me a call, and we’ll finish the job,” he said. “I know that motherfucker’s probably a Stone. That’s why you didn’t tell nobody, right?”

I went to speak, but he stopped me with a wave of his hand.

“Well, either way, he’s gonna have to go. We’ll bury that nigger in the fucking alley.”

I nodded.

“But, hey, this is a party. What the hell are you doing out here?” He slapped me on the back. “Now go on in and stir you up some of that pussy runnin’ around in dere.” He nudged me with his shoulder.

I got up and started inside. When I got to the back door, I turned. “Thanks, Wacker.”

“Don’t thank me, kid.” He didn’t turn to face me.

I went back inside, and Angel and Ryan were hanging on that same group of older girls who were just laughing at ’em. The night went on like that for a while. I was down, thinking about things too much. I got quiet and wanted to see Hyacinth. I knew she’d probably be asleep, but I decided to go over and check.

“Hey, Ryan, I’m taking off bro,” I said.

“What? Why, man?” He had his arm slung on a brunette with frizzy hair.

“I ain’t feeling too good.”

“Alright, bro.”

“Aye, where’s Angel?” I asked.

“I don’t know.” He looked around. “I think he went upstairs.”

“I’m gonna go say bye to him and get outta here.”

“OK.”

I headed upstairs. No one was up there that I could tell. I walked the hall to one of the back rooms, and as I turned the corner, I saw Angel with a girl draped over him. I smiled at him, but he just straightened up, rigid. The girl’s head spun around—it was Charlene. I walked right up, grabbed him by the arm, and pulled him away from her, hard.

“What the fuck are doing!?” I shouted in his face.

“Hey!” Charlene said, shoving me.

“You trying to get him killed?” I spat at her.

“What!” Charlene shouted. “Wacker? He doesn’t own me.”

“Come on, man. We gotta go now before somebody sees this.” I pulled Angel down the hall. He drunkenly let himself be dragged with his head bowed. When we got downstairs, Ryan saw us and rushed up.

“What’s going on with you, Joe?” Ryan asked.

“We gotta get him outta here, NOW,” I said.

“What?”

“NOW!"

“Alright,” Ryan replied as we shuffled out the front door. I was last to walk out. I looked back over my shoulder at the coffee table. One of the older TJOs held a spoon in one hand and struck a lighter beneath it. The spoon was full with a muddy, brown liquid. Angel laughed as I hurried them down the porch stairs and up the street. We turned into the alley.

“Now, what the fuck’s going on, Joe?” Ryan said as he spun around.

“This motherfucker’s rubbing up on Wacker’s girl,” I replied, then pushed Angel. He fell against a dumpster, drunk.

“What the fuck?” Ryan’s eyes widened. “You trying to get killed, bro?”

“That’s what I said!” I kicked Angel playfully in the chest.

Angel laughed and curled up next to the dumpster like a sleeping baby, holding his gut.

“I couldn’t help it,” he pleaded in a childish whine. “You saw her; she was the angel-slut!” He gasped for air.

“This motherfucker is gonna get killed for sure,” Ryan laughed.

“Don’t I know it,” I replied.

We both bent to help him up, then started down the alley with Angel between us—his arms draped over both of us.

“Well, did you touch her ass at least?” I asked.

“Oh my God,” Angel squealed, then broke away from us and ran out ahead. “It was like heaven,” he yelled out into the alley night. “Like heaven, God damnit.”

•

LATER, I WALKED to Hyacinth’s house. Her light was on, which meant she was up reading anyway. I was glad; I hated to wake her up. She opened her window, and I climbed up on the wooden sill and kissed her. We whispered in the dark.

“What is it?” she asked.

“It’s my brother. He did something for me. I don’t know how to feel about.”

“Which one?”

“Pat,” I sighed. “He made it so I could never be a TJO.”

“That’s good, Joe. You don’t need to be hanging around those crazy assholes anymore.”

“I know, but it’s like… Ryan, he’s practically my frickin’ brother for Christ’s sake, and he’s a TJO now.”

“But that’s different. Ryan isn’t you, and you aren’t Ryan. You’re you, Joe. I know Ryan’s a good friend and a good person, but you’re different.”

“But, Pat’s a TJO. My real brother, my blood.”

“But look where he is, Joe,” she pleaded. “Look where it got him.”

“It wasn’t the TJOs, it was shooting that fucking heroin!” I seethed, full of rage. “It destroyed him inside,” I spat loudly, then checked my voice. “He was a good guy. He was always a kind brother to me. He was a good person. He is a good person.”

“I know he’s a good person, Joey. I know it because of what he just did.” She reached down and gently stroked my hair. “He’s protecting you.”

“I don’t need no protecting!” I pulled my head away. “I can handle myself out here.” I gestured to the street.

“He probably knows that, too. That’s why he did it. Joey, you stabbed someone the other day.” She started to cry. “That’s a very serious thing you did.” She inhaled a stuttering breath. “You could go to jail for a very long time over that.” Tears beaded down her round cheeks. “They could take you away from me for a very long time.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry. I love you…” I climbed up and nuzzled my face into her cheeks and wiped the tears with my forehead. “Don’t cry.”

She caught her breath, then wiped the tears back. “I want to tell your brother I’m grateful for what he did. And you should, too… You should, too….” She broke into a hard sob again, and I did my best to corral it until she stopped. I went home feeling terrible that I’d bothered her with this—that I’d made her cry all over again.

•

THAT NIGHT, I dreamt I was walking down some strange street in broad daylight—some old-style town with fancy lamp posts. Then, the beast walked along the sidewalk across the street from me, and the Assyrian walked behind it holding a chain that stretched to its immense neck. Then, Ryan appeared ahead of them on the sidewalk, and the beast growled. The Assyrian yanked on the leash, and the beast sat. Ryan noticed them. Then, the Assyrian unleashed the beast, and it galloped toward Ryan. Ryan just bounced on his toes, laughing like he had something up his sleeve, like he knew a secret nobody else knew. As the beast got close, Ryan cut down the alley and vanished. The beast disappeared behind him.