I'd be brought in; I'd throw them around. Loosen some teeth, bloody some noses, bruise a few ribs. These guys were often young thugs who thought they were hard. They'd owe Split money for drugs, or owe Split loyalty they wouldn't show. My job was to convince them otherwise without Split having to play his hand.
The first time somebody refused, Split--who normally stays back by the door and keeps quiet--stepped forward and stood in front of the stubborn asshole and just stared him down. The poor scared guy caved in a heartbeat. Clearly he knew something about Split that I didn't.
Then a few months later, somebody else decided to snitch, got one of the Bishops arrested for possession of narcotics and illegal firearms. Thing about this world is, loyalty is king. You do not ever talk to cops. Not ever. They tended to stay clear of our turf for the most part, except the occasional patrol, or if someone pulled out a gun and started shooting. So if someone snitches, especially to the fucking narcs, it doesn't end well.
Split told me to be rough and show no mercy. So I played hard-ass and left the snitch on the ground, a bloody mess. When it was done Split ambled over, slow, like a snake slithering through the grass toward its prey.
He knelt down and whispered something in the snitch's ear.
Immediately, I smelled urine--the snitch was pissing himself in fear.
Next day, that same guy was carried out of his house in a body bag. No one knew who killed him, but it wasn't me, and it wasn't Split. Apparently, the snitch had tried to barter with his guy on the other side of the badge for safety from Split.
Didn't work out too well for him, apparently.
A few more times, but not very often, somebody either snitched or held out. If they were just holding out, they got hurt and were convinced to pay up and play along. If they were a snitch...they vanished. Or were found dead. Messily.
I didn't care much for any of it, but what could I do? I'd allied myself to the Bishops. I had to pay attention to which side of the street I walked on, what color clothing I wore, who I spoke to. If I stepped wrong, spoke wrong, wore the wrong color, I'd end up dead or I'd start a turf war. Everybody knew I was with Split, which made me a de facto member of the Bishops.
Then one day things change.
I'm with Split and T-Shawn in Split's GTO--which I'd tuned up for him properly, of course--and we're cruising the Bishops' turf, cruising slow, slapping palms through the open car windows and exchanging greetings, waving, smoking, bass thudding low. And then, at the intersection just ahead of us, hell breaks loose in a fraction of a moment.
A young kid, new to the hood and trying to get the respect of the older G's, is just walking across the street. On his side of the turf. A car slides by, swerves hard, clips the kid with the front left quarter panel, sends him flying. His head cracks open against the curb, blood pooling out of his broken skull..
Split floors the gas pedal, and the old muscle car spools up and jolts forward in pursuit. We howl round the corner, tires screaming. The other car is a few dozen feet ahead when Split hauls out his piece from under his seat, a small black nine. He pops off a few slugs and nails the back tire and the back windshield. T-Shawn is popping off rounds as well, doing some serious damage.
I'm sitting in the back, frozen with fear; this is new. There have been lots of rumbles and beefs before this, bats, chains, some knives drawn, and some blood spilled. But nobody has died, aside from the snitches. No guns have been hauled out and fired, not in front of me, at least. Maybe the established Bishops took care of that shit without me because, even now, I'm the outsider, the new guy, the white guy, the unknown.
The car ahead swerves, tires smoking, rims sparking on the pavement, and then spins to a stop.
Split halts the GTO, reaches in front of me and opens the glove box and hands me a pistol like his.
"Hell, no. I've never shot a gun." I shake my head.
"They killed a Bishop," T-Shawn murmurs. He doesn't say much, but when he does, you listen. "On our turf. For no fuckin' reason. Just a damn kid."
I take the piece. It's cold and heavy. It feels foreign in my hand.
Split steps out, and I follow a few seconds later, heart hammering. T-Shawn swings wide, his gun leveled. The car ahead is quiet and completely still. There's no sound. No cars anywhere.
The car is only twenty feet away at most, but it feels like a mile with that small cold heavy pistol in my hand.
My heart is in my throat, thick and bitter.
Adrenaline thunders in my veins.
Split heads toward the driver's side and gestures for me to go around to the passenger side. Gun up, held in both hands. I move forward slowly and carefully.
BANGBANGBANG!
I feel something hot and hard bite into my shoulder, and then everything goes hazy. My shoulder is hotter than hell, so hot it's numb, and I feel a throbbing ache. Pounding agony. I feel myself moving forward, see a face and a Mets logo, a sliver gun, the barrel a wide black hole. I see it buck. BANG! Something snaps past my face. I feel my hands jolt up involuntarily, and then I hear something crack.
Suddenly all I can see is red.
And then silence. Profound, vibrating silence.
Split is in front of me. I can't hear him but I can see his mouth moving, but I hear nothing. There's a thunder in my ears that drowns out everything. Split is pulling me toward the GTO and shoving me into the backseat, where I slump against the window.
Something wet trickles down my arm.
And it hurts like hell.
Split is silent now, and the GTO is hauling ass. He pulls out an old, blocky cell phone, flips it open and dials a number with his thumb. I hear him spitting out a few terse words to the person on the other end and then he disconnects the call. He's barreling way too fast around corners, zigzagging, squealing to slow for a corner and then hitting the gas. After a few blocks he finally slows to a normal driving speed.
T-Shawn glances at me. "You straight?"
I shake my head and twist to show him my shoulder. "I'm getting blood on your seat."
"Fuck, man," Split says. "Why didn't you say something?"
"Something?" I'm woozy, numb inside from the pain.
"Smart-ass." He spins the wheel and cuts across three lanes of traffic to make a sudden left. Split jerks his bandana off and hands it to me. "Put some pressure on that shit. Hold it tight."
"I killed him, didn't I?"
Split doesn't answer right away. "Unless that fucker can survive a hole in the face, yeah, you did."
"Goddamn it."
Split finally looks at me in the rearview mirror. "He shot first." He points to my face. "Nearly got you, too."
"He did get me."
"Naw, man. Check your shit." T-Shawn pulls open the visor, angles the mirror so I can see myself in it. There's a red line oozing blood across my temple. That last shot was millimeters from burying itself in my skull.
"Holy shit."
"You a G for real now, dog. Had our back. We won't forget that." He stops the GTO in front of an apartment building in the heart of Bishop territory.
We go in, up to the fourth floor. One of the doors flies open, and a young black woman runs out, hair in narrow braids hanging down to mid-back, gold hoops lining her ears. She's wearing skin-tight dark blue jeans and a white crop top. She jumps on Split and wraps her arms and legs around him. T-Shawn is there, but silent, as always.
"I heard," she says. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." Split gestures at me without putting her down. "He ain't fine. He needs his shoulder looked at."
"Mama's home."
Split gestures at the door, looking at me. "Come on in. You're safe here." He addresses his girlfriend. "Callie, this is my boy Colt. Colt, this is my girlfriend, Callie."
"Hi, Callie."
She smiles at me. She's short, curvy, beautiful, a vibrant white smile in a light brown face. "Heard you backed up my man today. Thanks."
"He's taken care of me, so..." I shrug, figuring the rest is self-evident.
/> "Split's got a good heart, he just hides it." Callie leads the way into the apartment unit.
It smells like food and cigarettes. Low ceilings, peeling paint, scuffed, scratched hardwood floor with a threadbare knitted oval rug in the middle of the floor. A twenty-year-old big-screen TV, massive speakers, a coffee table and ashtrays and cartons of Newports complete the decor. The kitchen is just off the living room, and Callie leads us there. A woman who could be Callie's twin except twenty years older stands at the stove, stirring something in a pot. A big square table takes up most of the kitchen, and my attention is immediately seized by the young woman sitting at the table.
I forget my name. I forget my wounded shoulder.
She's...stunningly beautiful. Breathtaking.
Even sitting down I can tell she's tall, maybe close to six feet, and close to my own age, early twenties. She has long curly hair hanging in tight spirals exploding in a halo around her thin, sharp-featured face. Her dark eyes are deep set between high angular cheekbones. She looks like she's part Asian, part black, all beautiful. God, so beautiful. Her eyes meet mine, and I swear the air sparks between us.
Callie sees it and steps between us, snapping her fingers. "Oh, hell no. You, white boy, sit your ass down. Mama? Can you look at his shoulder?"
Callie's mother puts the wooden spoon across the top of the pot, wipes her hands on her apron, unties it and sets it on the counter. She washes her hands thoroughly, then rummages in a cabinet under the sink, pulling out a wide white ceramic dish full of boxes of medical supplies. She pulls out a chair from the table and gently pushes on my shoulders until I sit down. I can't take my eyes off the girl. I'm sucked in.
Split and T-Shawn have vanished somewhere in the apartment, leaving me alone with three women I've never met before, one of whom I can't seem to stop staring at.
"I need your shirt off," Callie's mother says. I try, but I can't get my arm over my head. Hurts too bad to even try to tough through it. She brandishes a pair of scissors. "Shirt's ruined anyway. I'll cut it off."
A couple of snips, and the bloodstained cotton is gone, and I'm naked from the waist up. The girl's eyes are immediately drawn to my upper body. Which, admittedly, is pretty beefed up. She can't look away from me, and I can't look away from her. Callie sees it, and isn't having any of it.
"Don't you have something to do, India?" Callie snaps.
India shrugs, a small, shy, sweet smile on her face. "Nope. I'm good."
Callie glares at me, and then turns back to the girl. India; god, even her name is gorgeous. Callie huffs. "He's white, India."
"And I'm half Korean. What's your point?"
"My point is...," she lets out a frustrated sigh. "He's white," she repeats, eventually.
"He could be blue as a fuckin' Smurf for all I care," India says, "he's fine as hell."
"You know I'm sitting right here?" I have to suck in a breath and try to clench my teeth around a groan of pain as Callie's mother digs in my shoulder with something sharp. "Fuck, that hurts."
"Well, if you wouldn't'a gone and got your stupid ass shot, I wouldn't have to dig the bullet out, would I? Stupid kids, shootin' each other and they selves. Over what? Drugs? Pride? All'a y'all a bunch of dumbasses."
"He was backin' me up," Split says, from the doorway of the kitchen, where he's leaning against the doorpost. T-Shawn isn't anywhere to be seen. "A car rolled up and ran into Lil B. He was just crossin' the street, and they just ran him over. Killed him. No reason. I had to take care of it."
"Lil B is dead?" Callie's mother says, her voice sad.
"Yeah."
"Who was it?" Callie asks.
"Nobody you got to worry about anymore." Split's voice is cold and hard. No regrets there. "How's it comin', Cleo?"
I'm thankful I have the pain to distract me from the knowledge of what I just did--I killed another person.
Callie's mother, Cleo, doesn't answer, leaning in close to my shoulder and squinting as she carefully withdraws the big medical tweezers--forceps maybe--out of the hole in my arm. She drops a hunk of reddened metal into a ceramic bowl and then grabs a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a thick handful of paper towels.
Cleo glances up at me as she presses the paper towels to my skin just beneath the entrance wound. "This is gonna hurt like a bitch, son."
She gets me to lean backward in the chair and I barely have time to clench my teeth and inhale before Cleo pours the alcohol into the wound.
There aren't words to describe the ripping, burning, searing agony. I'm conscious of India, watching me. I don't dare scream; pride won't let me. She's not showing the slightest hint of squeamishness, so I'm guessing this is nothing new. I try to breathe through it, only the breaths come out as grunts and groans as Cleo pours more alcohol on the wound. Finally, she puts the bottle down. Thank god. I breathe a sigh of relief.
"Don't get too excited, honey," Cleo says. "We ain't done yet. Still gotta pack the wound, and that hurts worse than cleaning it."
Fuck.
She's not kidding, either. She wads gauze into a tight ball and forces it into the wound, and I can't help a growl as she does this. Packs it in, and then more. It burns so bad. Fuck, it hurts. I want to cry it hurts so bad, but India's watching and Split is watching and Callie is watching. So I blink and breathe and curse. A bandage gets taped in a large square over the wound, and then finally Cleo stands up and washes her hands at the sink.
"You best take it easy on that shoulder for a while," Cleo says. "It's gonna take a few weeks, couple months maybe, before it's healed. Move it too much, it'll start bleeding again. You'll have to change that dressing a couple of times a day, too. Split, make sure you bring him by so I can check on him."
"A'ight," Split says. "Thanks, Cleo."
"Yep. Now ya'll git. I got to make dinner."
I rise to my feet, and stand behind Cleo. "Thank you, Cleo. For real, I--"
She spins, stares up at me, her eyes hard and angry, but there's compassion buried down deep. "Thank me by not making me do that again. Stay out of trouble."
"I'll try."
She sighs and shakes her head. "I been tellin' Split to stay out of trouble since he was knee high to a grasshopper, but fat lot of good it's done me. I lost count of the number of times I've patched up his fool ass. Same for T-Shawn. You'll be back, believe me."
Her words rattle me a bit and I sure as fuck hope she's wrong about that.
Callie, India, and Split head out the door and down to the sidewalk running in front of the apartment buildings, waiting for me. I don't know what else to say to Cleo, so I just turn and leave, taking the ruins of my shirt with me. My head is spinning, my shoulder aches like a motherfucker, and I feel sick inside. I barely make it down to the front entrance of the building and out onto the street.
Split nudges me toward his car. "Come on."
I surprise myself by saying, "Nah, man. I don't feel so good. I just wanna go home." There's too much going on in my head, in my heart. I just shot someone, and the reality of it is hitting me hard.
Split raises his eyebrows, and I can see him wondering what my deal is. "Come on man, I got some good shit in the car. All you need is a few hits and you won't even remember what happened."
I've always manned up, no matter what the situation, but somehow this is different. This isn't just the pain of having just been shot, it's a goddamn existential crisis, is what it is.
I can see India and Callie get out of the car and head over to us. Shit, I just want to go lie down--I don't need a fuckin' audience.
India steps close to me, almost but not quite putting herself between Split and me. "Can't you see he's done in, Split? Leave him be. If he wants to go home, let him go home."
I'm not the macho sort, but having a girl stick up for me is weird. I'm dizzy, woozy. Pain is hitting me in wave after wave, making me nauseous. I'm swaying on my feet, blinking hard, trying to keep it together. But shit, I just need to sit my ass down. I can't summon the words to say any of this,
though. I just sway, fighting unconsciousness.
India wraps an arm around my waist. "Come on, you're coming with me."
I should argue, but I don't. I let her guide me back into the building, up to the fourth floor once more, past Callie and Cleo's to the unit two doors down. She digs a key out of her hip pocket, lets us in. There's no one here, the apartment is dark, silent, and has that feel of emptiness. India has to prop one hand against the opposite wall of the hallway to support my sagging weight. Through a door, into a girly bedroom, white walls with band posters and model photos and fashion magazine cutouts, a soft pink comforter on the bed, a bra hanging off the handle of the closet door, another on the back of a chair, panties and T-shirts and jeans and skirts on the floor. Messy, but lived in, smelling of femininity and softness.
I see this in a cursory glance, but then I'm feeling dizzier than ever, and the throbbing in my shoulder is so bad I can't see for the pain. India lowers me as gently as she can to the bed--not an easy task considering my size.
I flop my arm over my eyes, try to breathe through the ache. "I just need to rest a minute. I'll be out of your hair as soon as I can."
"You ain't going nowhere," India says. "My mom works at the hospital, I'm gonna see if she can get you some antibiotics. You'll need them. And some dressing so I can repack that wound."
"You don't need to help me."
"I want to."
"Why?"
"I like you. You're cute."
"Cute?"
She laughs, a musical sound. "I mean tough. And rugged. And handsome."
"That's better."
She drapes the comforter over my legs. "Relax a minute. You don't gotta be tough all the damn time."
I'm already asleep.
The next thing I know I'm waking up, still in India's bedroom, on her bed. The room is dark, the door left ajar. The bluish-white light of a TV flickers and flashes from the living room, and I can hear other nondescript sounds in the apartment, voices murmuring, dishes rattling. I lever myself to my feet, wincing at the throb in my shoulder. I try a tentative roll, but that's a no-go, the pain that shoots through me tells me I won't be using this arm any time soon. I shuffle out into the living room, find India on the couch, watching some reality show or another, a hand-made afghan on her lap. When she sees me, she lifts a corner of the blanket in invitation, a shy smile on her lips. I take a seat beside her. A little too close, maybe--thighs brushing, elbows bumping, hips touching. But India doesn't move away, even though she's got plenty of room on the other side if she wanted to. If anything, she wiggles a little closer to me.