Ace Atkins - Dirty South

My face flush to the ground, brown water running into my purposely open mouth, I saw a revolver on Christian’s hip.

“Stop, cryin’, boy,” he said. “Hard part’s over.”

I heard the radio tune around the dial.

He found a rap station playing a song that kept on with a steady beat. “Oohhhwee.” More beats. More rhymes. “Ooohhhweee.”

Christian rapped along as he steered.

Teddy moved beside him, silk shirt bloody and untucked.

I could only see his back and fat neck stretched tight as he looked down into the water. “Where we goin’, Malcolm?”

“You my dog, Teddy,” Christian said. “You right. We brothers now.”

THAT DOCK WHERE TEDDY keep that Scarab is empty as hell. Light just comin’ over the edge of the lake while you and JoJo and Bronco look out from the marina at all the places where they could’ve gone out in that black water. JoJo’s old truck parked next to Teddy’s Bentley, right by the edge of all those boats, all faded blue and dented. JoJo looks across Pontchartrain and then over at Bronco, who shakes his head.

“Ain’t no way,” Bronco says. “That’s the biggest thing I ever seen.”

“Where that friend you promise?” JoJo asks.

“He comin’.”

“What’s he to you?”

“He owes me.”

“For what?”

“Whatever he want.”

“Words are nothin’ to a thug,” he says. “This boy don’t sound no different than an animal.”

Just as he say that, his old truck gets swallowed up by five white Escalades and a bright yellow Ferrari where you see Cash float out shirtless with leather pants. He wears sunglasses and got a toothpick cocked out the side of his mouth.

JoJo look over at you and shake his head.

“He got a boat,” you say. “Fast as hell.”

He looks over at Bronco. Bronco nods.

“Have no fear,” Cash say.

You ain’t got no time for no introductions and no time for a lot of words.

“Travers out on the lake,” you say.

“What?” he ask. “You want me to take out my sweet little boat for his ass?”

“Listen, goddammit,” JoJo say, gettin’ in Cash’s face and seein’ Cash ain’t used to that. “You either help us get out on that lake and look for my boy or get back to shinin’ your sissy-ass chains.”

Cash smiles platinum and grunts. “Who you, old man?”

“The man been kickin’ ass before your granddaddy even got his dick wet.”

Twelve of Cash’s Angola crew moan and laugh. Cash look at them, givin’ that mean eye, lettin’ them know to shut that mouth.

“Why you want to help that white boy?” he ask.

JoJo turns. “Come on, Tavarius.”

“Tavarius?” Cash asks, laughin’. “Man, now that’s funny. That your name, ALIAS?”

You look at him, cockin’ that head and lookin’ up into his eyes. “Yeah, that’s my name.”

Y’all walk through the crowd, bumpin’ shoulders with some of those do-rag niggas, when Cash yell: “You wit’ me now?”

You turn and nod.

“Well, let’s get in the goddamn boats. Ain’t never too early for no ride.”

JoJo look back, cuttin’ his eyes straight down the narrow little dock. “What you got?”

Cash flicks his forefinger out – almost makin’ it out like a gun – and point to one of them Cigarette racin’ boats you seen when you down in Miami. Man, you heard them things could run you all the way down to the Bahamas before the hour through.

But this boat don’t look nothin’ like that shit in Miami. This one ghetto hard all the way. It’s purple and gold and got the words BALLIN’ III painted in shiny looped letters at the back and the cartoon head of a pit bull in a diamond collar snarlin’ up front of that sleek, long boat. Look like some kind of rocket ship.

“Y’all take the other two,” he yell to some of his boys.

Down the dock, you see Cash got two more boats that look like the same.

“I designed them myself,” Cash says as y’all walk back. “Only limitation is that imagination.”

“Lord God, help the world,” JoJo said. “Your ghetto ass know how to steer?”

“Sit down, ole man, and strap your ass in, ’cause we headed to the goddamn moon.”

The engine start with a chug, chug, chug and y’all is rollin’ out hard as that edge of the lake, where it look like black glass, is turnin’ all purple with the sky.

Y’all is flyin’, skippin’ over tiny little waves listenin’ to Mystikal tellin’ the world to get out his way. Salty mist hittin’ your eyes. Tastin’ the lake on your lips.

JoJo holds on tight.

Bronco finds himself standin’ right by Cash, lookin’ into the wind.

You see that old man’s smile match the thug’s.

“WE NEED SOME WEIGHT,” Christian yelled to Teddy. “Teddy? You listenin’, man? I said, we got some weight?”

“You’re right, Malcolm. It’s all right. We get the weight. Sweet Jesus. We got that weight.”

Christian started laughing. “Stone-cold crazy. Stonecold. Malcolm. Yeah, boy.”

The speedboat cut hard and picked up speed. I felt the water beating hard on the hull and slapping us up and down with the chop. I kept my eyes closed, growing nauseous.

Christian kept rapping along with the radio station in his khakis and sandals. I peeked back at Teddy standing by his side. I looked over at Trey and the way his head bobbed, his body slapping down with the hull every few seconds.

I felt bile rise in my throat.

I got to my feet. Everything shaking. My balance teetering, head swimming in long Olympic strokes. I held on to the rail and, without any great stealth, made my way, trying to get the revolver Christian wore tucked in his belt.

I was within a few feet when he spiked the throttle and threw me onto my back with a thud. He laughed. Teddy peered down at me – but it wasn’t Teddy in his eyes – and he looked away. Dumb and mute.

Christian slowed the boat. A constant chugging from the motor.

He stood over me and kicked me hard in the head.

He kicked me again.

I curled into a ball and then rolled to my hands and knees.

I used the rail and got to my feet, puking all over my shirt.

Everything felt like it was spinning and turning.

“Teddy,” I said. “Come on, man. What happened? It’s still you. It’s still you.”

He slowly twisted his head from side to side. “No.”

“Come on, man.”

Christian leveled the gun at my head, the biggest wicked grin forming on his lips. Green eyes slanting. A pink, blue dawn sliding over the black water, framing his body.

He jumped and fell.

On the deck, Trey’s hands wrapped around Christian’s ankles. Blood poured from his mouth and he made a gurgling, croaking sound.

Christian fired off three rounds into Trey’s head, sending misting blood across the white fiberglass of the hull.

I leapt for him, grabbed his throat, and head-butted him. I plunged my thumbs into his voice box and he made a muted shriek as it cracked in my hands. The gun clattered to the ground.

Teddy never moved as Christian fell. I picked up the gun.

Without hesitation, I aimed it at Christian’s head and pulled the trigger.

Click .

I pulled it again.

Click .

I heard another click and turned.

Teddy was back. Or some part of him.