Стив Хокенсмит - Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 51, No. 6, June 2006

A giant plant snapped at Mario, almost swallowing him, and Scottie grunted and cursed. Keesha giggled and said, “Hey!”

“What’d you do for Jayzee?”

Scottie shrugged without turning to look at his aunt. “Nothin’.”

“Make up your mind, Scottie. Did you do somethin’ or did you do nothin’? ”

Scottie began to breathe hard, almost panting. It was the sound he made when he couldn’t make words, when the circuit between his brain and his mouth overloaded, shorted out.

On the screen, Mario hopped and ran and hopped and ran until he ran when he should have hopped. He plummeted off a cloud, disappearing from the screen, and Keesha shouted, “My turn! My turn!”

Scottie handed her the controller and finally looked around at Nichelle.

“I bought McDonald’s too,” he said. “We saved you some fries.” He wasn’t panting anymore. He was smiling.

Nichelle didn’t return his smile. Instead, she took in a deep breath and held it for a moment, as if unsure what to do with the air in her lungs — talk, yell, scream, sigh.

In the end, she did none of these things. She simply turned and walked into the kitchen. It was almost ten o’clock, and she hadn’t had dinner.

Scottie found out Goldfinger was dead nearly a week later. Scottie was in church with Nichelle and Keesha, and some of the ladies were shaking their heads about that poor Michael Graham, who had so much promise once. Scottie thought it was sad too.

A few days after that, Jayzee stopped him on the street again.

“Hey, Crocker!” Jayzee called out.

Not “Crackhead.” Crocker.

“I got another secret mission for ya’, C,” Jayzee said when Scottie got close. “You know Marcus Dillard?”

He did. Scottie spent the next day following him, just as Jayzee asked. It was like a game, watching Marcus, trying not to be seen, and Scottie enjoyed it. He found himself moving more quickly, and thinking more quickly than he had in years.

He reported back to Jayzee the next morning. He stammered at first, fighting with the words. But for once Scottie won that fight, and the words started to come quickly and obey him.

“...and then he went to the building where Ricky Thompson lives and he talked to Ricky outside and Ricky gave him somethin’ in a brown bag and they looked at me so I went around the corner. And when I came back Marcus was gone so I looked for him and I found him walkin’ up Calumet and he stopped and got a burrito and then he started walkin’ again. And Dion Baker was drivin’ by in a car and he got out and Marcus gave him the thing he’d been carryin’ and...”

By the time Scottie was finished, Jayzee and his guys were laughing. But Scottie could tell it was a different kind of laughter this time, a kind he rarely heard. He didn’t understand it until Jayzee, shaking his head, said, “Damn, C. You really got you some eyes, don’t you?”

It was good. Scottie had done good .

Jayzee gave him another twenty dollars, and Scottie bought more old games for his Nintendo and a frozen pizza and a birthday present for Keesha — a pink Dora the Explorer backpack he found at Goodwill — even though her birthday had come and gone two months before. Scottie hadn’t worked in years, not since he’d lost his job sweeping up at McDonald’s because he forgot to show up sometimes, and he yelled at the customers when they called him “retard” and “Crackhead.” So for once, Scottie had his own money to buy Keesha a gift, and it didn’t matter to him if it was her birthday or not. Aunt Nichelle didn’t ask any questions this time, and Scottie felt something he hadn’t felt in so long he’d forgotten he could feel it: pride.

A few days later, Marcus Dillard and Ricky Thompson were dead.

They were found together in a dumpster, both of them shot in the chest. Scottie’s pride turned sour, bubbling in his stomach as if he’d swallowed something rancid. He wasn’t sure why he felt that way. No one knew who’d killed Marcus and Ricky, and Scottie certainly hadn’t hurt anybody. But the pain in his gut wouldn’t go away.

There was a memorial service for Marcus at Scottie’s church, and Scottie and Nichelle and Keesha went. The body was there, in an open casket, and Scottie almost expected Marcus to sit up and say something to him, say something about him.

But just looking at a dead man can’t bring him back to life, Scottie told himself. Just like looking at a living man can’t kill him.

Scottie avoided Jayzee’s corner after that, going blocks out of his way when he went to the store. He avoided certain thoughts in the same way — sidestepping them, not taking the most direct route from point A to point B. He didn’t think about why he was staying away from Jayzee. He didn’t think about why he’d stopped playing his Nintendo games. He tried not to think about any whys at all.

But it wasn’t easy to avoid Jayzee — not if he wanted to see you . One day when Scottie was in the store buying himself a Coke, he turned to find Freak behind him, blocking his way out.

“Hey, Crackhead,” Freak said. “Whatcha doin’?”

Scottie shrugged. “N-n... nothin’.”

“Good. Then you can come with me.”

Freak wrapped a hand around Scottie’s arm and pulled him toward the door. Even after they were outside, the hand remained, steering Scottie to Jayzee’s corner.

Jayzee greeted them with a big smile. “C! Where you been, my man?”

“I... I b-been... I been around.”

“Not where I could see you.” There was still a smile on Jayzee’s face, but Scottie couldn’t hear any smile in his voice.

“I... I j-just... I...”

Words abandoned Scottie, and he began to huff out hard puffs of air in their place.

“Hey, C! Don’t get like that,” Jayzee said, sounding friendly again. He wrapped an arm around Scottie’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. “I was just worried somethin’ was wrong, that’s all.”

Scottie’s breathing slowed. Jayzee’s smiling face was just inches from his own, so close they were inhaling the same air. Scottie tried to smile back.

“N-nothin’s wrong,” Scottie said, unsure if his words were true or not.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Jayzee’s hand squeezed the flesh between Scottie’s shoulder and neck. It felt reassuring at first, but the pressure increased, began to pinch, swaying on the line between pleasure and pain.

“You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?” Jayzee said. “If somethin’ was wrong?”

Scottie nodded. “Y-yeah. Sure.”

Jayzee let go of Scottie and took a step back.

“Good. Cuz I need you again.”

“N-need... me?”

“That’s right, C. You know Antoine Miller, right?”

Everyone knew Antoine Miller — knew to stay away, unless they were in the market for something he could provide. He had a corner of his own, guys of his own, just like Jayzee.

Just like Michael Graham.

“Sure,” Scottie said.

“Go do your James Bond thing on him. See what he’s doin’ and how he does it.” Jayzee slipped a hand into his jacket pocket and pulled something out. “Then use this.”

Scottie looked down.

The cell phone.

Scottie didn’t take it.

“I... I...”

“You what? ” Jayzee said. He was still holding his hand out to Scottie. The phone hung between them like a bridge.

“I... I wanna know. Wh... what’s gonna happen?”

Freak and the rest of Jayzee’s guys had been snorting, snickering, whispering. But suddenly they were totally silent. Totally still.

Scottie wasn’t sure what he expected Jayzee to say until Jayzee didn’t say it. Scottie expected a laugh, he realized. He expected “Whatta you mean, C? Nothin’s gonna happen.”