Chapter 35

The next day marked the start of Vithu’s rebellion. Samay wondered whether Vithu’s newfound courage sprung from his humiliation by Pon on the river, or if somehow the spirit of William O’Neil had indeed possessed and emboldened him.

Vithu and Samay searched for Pon in the tenement and the courtyard. They found him at the end of River Street, standing under an elm, its branches frosted with fresh snow. Vithu drew a bag of white powder from his pocket.

“Your leadership has failed, Pon. Your brothers live in squalor and they cower from the Latin Kings.” He squeezed the bag and held it to Pon. “This is our future.”

Suddenly a police cruiser sped toward them, tires squealing, and Vithu hid the bag behind his back. Pon strolled to the curb, leaned into the car’s open window, and handed a fistful of bills to the cop. The policeman hesitated, studying the three of them from behind sunglasses before handing a blue jacket to Pon, along with a cap that said NAHANT.

“Wait,” Pon said and the policeman obeyed.

Pon reached behind Vithu, snatched the bag, and handed it to the cop. The cruiser sped away as Pon turned to Vithu, their faces so close they almost touched.

“This is your last chance, Vithu. Seek a life of honor, one where you don’t cower and hide. Here,” he said, baring his teeth and pressing the jacket and cap against Vithu’s chest.

“A chance for you to show courage. It’s time for Channary to come home.”

****

Pon squeezed black greasepaint from a tube, and his fingertips rubbed the waxy paste on Samay’s face. Pon whispered.

“Bravery sleeps in all of us, Samay. We just need to wake it.”

He smeared the paint across Samay’s forehead and temples, the strong fingers avoiding the cuts and bruises Vithu had inflicted. When he ran some across the upper lip, the smell of the sweet goo filled his nostrils. Soon after Pon finished, the greasepaint began to harden like a mask. Pon fit a wool cap on Samay’s head.

“Wake your bravery and embrace it, my brother.”

The hypnotic voice seemed to ease his pain and steel his mind. It still echoed at midnight, as Samay huddled behind a garage, arms crossed, hands clutching shoulders, and waited for Vithu. The narrow space was dark, and when he moved, an earthy smell rose from wet leaves, the damp smell of decay.

The journey across Ocean Park Harbor had been frightening. He and Vithu had travelled an ink-black sea in a twelve-foot boat, and near the edge of the harbor they’d almost been sucked to the open ocean by angry whitecaps.

Vithu’s reaction? He stared straight ahead, worked the bow into waves, and ignored the frigid spray that showered them. When they finally docked, Samay felt as if he’d escaped a cyclone.

He dreaded the return trip. He dreaded Vithu.

“Samay,” Vithu growled from the other side of the garage, an urgent whisper. “It’s time. Come.”

Samay pushed himself away from the wall and trudged through fetid leaves. Vithu led the way across a lawn, past a grill and patio chairs stacked against the back of a house. They fought through thickets and crossed two more well-tended yards. Colorful window boxes decorated the fairy tale houses, scalloped wood trim hung under the fascia, flat stones lined paths to manicured gardens.

At the back of one they came to a natural wall of stone, its jagged crags barely lit by weak moonlight. The wall rose twenty feet, until the chain link fence at its top extended the rampart another eight. They stuffed gloves in pockets and laid into the rock, found handholds, set toeholds, and started to climb. Samay was faster, his wiry frame and long arms and legs dancing like a spider’s. He climbed easily, his skinny frame no burden as he walked the wall, as if Pon’s deft touch and encouragement had also soothed his stiff, aching muscles.

Vithu’s method was to attack the cliff. His strong hands clutched the stone, punished it, forcing his muscular body upward.

Samay stopped halfway to wait for his companion, and looked over his shoulder at the yellow ribbon of light the moon laid across the dark sea. Dangling almost twenty feet up, he felt safe here, a master of the earth, a conqueror.

They reached the top where rock gave way to steel fence. The house loomed into view, a dark square with a single lighted window. Their fingers and toes poked through the chain link triangles until they were one with the swaying wall of metal. Samay reached the top first, swung his leg silently over pipe and sharp barbs, and crept down this final obstacle. He studied the house as Vithu dropped next to him.

Vithu reached into his black police jacket, drew out the folded baseball cap with NAHANT emblazoned across it in gold letters, the clothes Pon had bought from the Ocean Park cop. He pulled the cap low, almost to his eyes.

Samay watched him don the disguise, watched Vithu fish a silver badge out of his pocket and pin it over his heart. He turned to Samay when he was done, and lifted his chin twice. Samay hid behind a bush next to the house, and watched as Vithu climbed the two-step porch and rapped on the back door.

Another knock, harder this time. Samay knew it was being answered because Vithu’s face turned upward. A black man with a haunting white eye appeared, curling the shade aside. Pon had said Channary’s caretaker would welcome them. How did Pon know? Was it because he knew the man? Or because he knew mankind?

Vithu saluted, pointed at the doorknob, and made a turning motion with his fingers. The caretaker held up a cell phone.

Vithu patted his pockets and shook his head no.

The caretaker pocketed the phone, walked to a box on the wall, punched buttons, and opened the door. Samay came out from the bush.

“Your back. Watch your back,” the caretaker suddenly shouted to Vithu and fumbled for the gun in his holster.

Vithu drew his gun, the SIG Sauer. Its black muzzle breathed fire as the SIG barked.

The caretaker fell to the floor. Samay and Vithu hurried into the dark kitchen and stood over him, listening.

“I’m sorry, Channary,” the caretaker said to no one. “So sorry.” Dark blood pooled under him and spread on the tile floor.

“Lloyd?” a woman called.

The caretaker groaned and narrowed his eyes. His hand covered his chest, and blood began to bubble and stream from his mouth.

“Why did you shoot him?” Samay asked and pushed Vithu toward the wall, surprised at his own bravery.

Vithu pinned him against the wall with his forearm. The heat of the gun warmed Samay’s cheeks, the smell of cordite filled his nostrils. At the front of the house there were footsteps on the porch and pounding on the door. Police were coming. Time was running out.

“Your courage has failed you again,” Vithu said. “I can always count on your fear.” He pointed the gun at Samay’s nose.

A black woman walked in, her sleepy eyes squinting in the darkness. She looked at the caretaker, gasped, and knelt next to him.

Vithu swung the gun toward her.

She glared back at him. “You the boy they send to threaten women and children?”

Vithu smiled. He extended his arm, trigger finger white.

Suddenly Channary walked into the kitchen, half asleep—until her eyes widened and she whispered, “Kendricks?”

She screamed when Samay lifted her over his shoulder and bolted for the door, she pounded his back and fought to get free. The woman fought him too, but Vithu smashed the SIG against the side of her head, and she sprawled on the floor next to the caretaker. Samay sprinted to the fence, Channary’s cries ringing in his ears.