Karl Malone banged him on the butt. “All right, kid!”
They called him kid-not because he was the littlest, not at seven feet two inches-but the youngest. Always the youngest. Always all-world game. Youngest varsity at Clinton, youngest starting center at St. John’s, youngest captain of the Knicks, youngest All-Star ever.
He took a pass from Karl, passed to Allen Iverson, drove toward the basket, and went up to meet Allen’s pass back to him. In!
“All right, kid!”
Youngest and dumbest. No denying Shorty O’Tool was newjack. The gamblers knew. They’d seen him coming.
What did people expect? Seeing his daddy gunned down, right before his eyes, when Shorty was ten years old. Try and forget, his mama always said. He did try. Playing hoops made it seem so long ago. But off the court, it still dragged him down. Off the court, bad memories stayed sharp as knives.
Dirty yellow Electra 225 ghetto sled rolling up. Driver doing a gangsta lean, low over the passenger seat. Shoulda known. Shoulda warned Daddy. But he was too busy boasting how the teacher said he was so good in school. Besides, the scarface in the Buick’s backseat wasn’t even wearing shades. No cap, no skully, nothing covering his face. Looked like just another permafried crackhead grinning big and laughing loud. And Shorty grins back at the man, thinking it’s a joke, never knowing it’s a hooptie ride, until the Tec-9 is pointing out the window.
Daddy holding his hand. Tec-9 sprays bayaka-bayaka . Still holding Shorty’s hand when the slugs thud into him, shaking his huge, hard body like kicks and punches. Still holding Shorty’s hand as he starts to fall.
The scarface sees Shorty’s seen him. Opens up again to spray the kid, too. Bayaka-bayaka . Slug plucks Shorty’s sleeve. Another sears his cheek. But Daddy’s pushing him down, falling on him hard and heavy, protecting him under his chest.
Bayaka-bayaka . Daddy twitching and shaking, taking the bullets until the thunderous boo-yaa of a Mossberg twelve-gauge slams him to pieces like an earthquake.
What’d you see? said the boys in blue.
Nothin’, he saw nothin’, says Shorty’s mother.
“Yes, I did! I saw him, Mama, I saw him.”
The cops get a lady with a computer and when Shorty tells her what he saw, damn! the scarface is staring from the screen like he was looking out his window.
Everybody sees them come home to Grandma’s in the police car. Grandma says, “Don’t you worry, child. You’ll be safe. God will protect you on angels’ wings.”
“Like they protected his daddy?” Mama cries, bent over the table, her face all wet.
Grandma puts him to sleep on her couch, hugs him close and explains. “Your mama’s very sad. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Don’t you listen to her. You listen to me and listen hard. God will protect you on angels’ wings.”
“Why didn’t angel wings protect Daddy?”
“Your daddy was a great big man. Too heavy to lift. Angels protect little boys, like you, who done no wrong.” She passes her hand over his eyes. “Sleep.”
That same night, when the boys in blue are still sitting outside the building in their car, a guy comes pounding Grandma’s door. “They gonna getcha! They gonna wetcha!”
Mama and Shorty bail out, run for it before the gangstas cap him for a witness. Hiding out in men’s apartments. Couldn’t go to family. The gangstas were waiting. They knew who’s Shorty’s grandma. They know his aunts. Ran all the way to the Bronx.
Scarface came to the Bronx.
Cops didn’t care. Court didn’t care. Social worker didn’t care. Maybe God cared. Maybe it was God who gave Shorty the eyes to scope their rusted old deuce-and-a-quarter in time to drag his mother down into the subway. C train. A train. All the way to Brooklyn.
L train. Caught sleeping on the late train. Cops dump them at the homeless shelter. Gangstas own the homeless shelter. PATH train over to Jersey City. Chilltown. Mama doing what she had to for any man who didn’t know them, just to give them a room to hide. Men who think she’s nothing but a skeegers giving sex for dope.
Finally there came a day when Shorty knew he couldn’t stand running anymore. And that very night, God sent a fire on angels’ wings, burned down a crack house and fried the gangsta who shot his father.
Like magic, all is well. Shorty and Mama go home. Shorty back to school, scared no more, back to B-ball-Clinton High, summer leagues. No more jumping at shadows. No more seeing Mama afraid.
Told the St. John’s scout that he believed in God and owed Him and His angels big-time. Full scholarship! Turned pro in his freshman year. Knicks. Champs. All-Stars.
Gamblers. Scarfaces following him around again. Just like when the gangstas shot his father, all those years ago. Wouldn’t believe how much you could lose before they said, Pay up. Pay up. Pay up or die. Pay up-hey, relax, kid. No die. Shave a point.
Shave a point? Shave a point . This was the NBA, not some peckerwood college league. Shave a point? You crazy.
Three points. One missed jumper, for chrissake, Shorty. White guy named Joey. What’s the big deal? One little shot off the rim. Wipes out a million bucks. You go home free, buy your mom another house.
He was newjack. Young and dumb. Maybe he shouldn’t have clocked the gambler. Couldn’t stop himself. All that stuff came up about his daddy and he just clocked him.
Blood bubbling from his lips, white boy screaming he’d have Shorty killed. Shorty laughing, “You gonna kill a twenty-million basketball star?” Busts Joey again. Feels so good he waxes the floor with him. Erased the past with the gambler’s face.
“I kill you,” Joey screams, spitting teeth. “You’re one dead nigger.”
Shorty laughs. He’s so far above this.
But damn if next day four hard-rock diesel dudes in a Lincoln Navigator don’t roll by the big house he bought his mama in Great Neck. Great Neck! Strong Island! Could not believe that he was looking over his shoulder again. Seemed so long ago.
But finally, today, all is well again. Things is dope. Because today Shorty’s playing with the All-Stars in Madison Square Garden. No way Joey Cascone is moving on Shorty in the Garden. No way dudes in a Navigator are popping him anywhere, anytime, nohow. Now Shorty’s rich. Now his manager hires security guys, guys with legal guns and headsets and earpieces watching his back. Used to be Secret Service, said his manager. Watched the president’s back. Now they watch yours. You too valuable to get smoked. So chill. Gambler Joe’s ass is waxed, says Shorty’s agent. All you got to do is get in the zone. Hold on to the game. Everything’s cool. Just stay in your zone.
All is well, said his mama. Things is dope, at last.
Sprewell shot, missed. Shorty popped up for the rebound and the fans hollered as he wiped the glass.
Boom . Another elbow. Shaquille O’Neal’s, so hard it felt like he’d cracked a rib.
“What are you doin’?” Shorty gasped. “It’s the lousy All-Stars!”
He wrestled the ball from Shaq, thinking, I’ll send you back to school, nigga, front of the whole damn Garden. He went around him like Shaq’s dogs were nailed to the wooden floor.
Fast break!
Malone goes, “Gimme the rock!”
Shorty, Malone, Shorty, Iverson: pass, receive, pass, receive. Barrel down the lane. Up! And jam a deep, deep dunk !
The fans went wild. It felt like they’d shake down the Garden walls with their stompin’ and hollerin’. Folks had seen those elbows-even if the ref was blind. They were rooting for Shorty O’Tool, who could take a hit and keep playing.
But it was getting harder to stay in his zone. His ribs ached. His lips stung. He could taste blood. And here Latrell Sprewell came humming, like he was looking to bust him again. And the damn ref was looking the other way.
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