Marcus Sakey - At The City's Edge

Billy's lip trembled, and then he began to bawl, the tears streaming down his face. Jason leaned forward and took the kid in his arms, Billy hugging his neck like it was all that was keeping him from tumbling over a ledge.

"It's okay, buddy. It's okay." Jason stroked his back. "Go ahead and cry." He held the boy in his arms, feeling the warmth of his rag-doll body. And as he did, it hit him.

He'd been adrift. A soldier without a cause, which was no kind of soldier at all. Ever since he'd lost his Army, he'd been looking for something to fight for.

Now he realized it sat in his arms.

"Billy." Jason leaned back so he could meet the boy's eyes. "I don't know what's going to happen. But I want you to know that you're safe now. I'll protect you. Whatever I have to do."

Billy looked at him, salt smell and wet lower lip, and nodded.

And for just a second, Jason felt the Worm cower.

The base of the toilet was coatedin hair. As he mopped at it with a paper towel, Washington tried not to think about where the hair came from. Not like they had a cat.

"What next?" Ronald leaned in the doorway, the motion popping muscles that strained the seam of his shirt. "Garage?"

"Leave that be," he said. "They'll park on the street. You could get a couple of the boys to tidy up the office, though."

"What about all your books?"

"My closet?"

Ronald laughed.

"Right." Washington stretched, feeling his back twang and stab. Grimaced, looked around. Gestured to the shower. "Stack them there." So much to do. In fifteen minutes, Alderman Owens and Adam Kent would arrive to discuss whatever was troubling the alderman. Washington had a pretty good idea about the subject, didn't really believe a clean house and a sparkling toilet would make up for it. But you had to try. "Ronald!"

The big man poked his head back around.

"Put a plastic bag down first, hear?" Then he concentrated on scrubbing the damn toilet.

When he was done, he dumped the used paper towels in the bowl and flushed, then put his hands on his knees and pushed himself to his feet. The house was abuzz with activity, former gangbangers grudgingly helping him clean. But what Washington saw was fire. Flames dancing like djinn, wrapping sinuous fingers around old wood and ragged stone. And two bodies, blackened and ruined, nothing but teeth and horror.

Stop that, you fool. You don't even know it was Michael, much less the boy. Just because folks saw a body taken out doesn't mean it was your friend .

Who else would it have been, though?

A knock at the door broke the train of his thoughts. He glanced at his watch, winced. Brushed dirt off his knees, then straightened and went for his office. Ronald bumped into him, asked, "That them?"

"We're not ready," Washington said. "So of course it is."

"Want me to get it?"

He nodded, then said, "Wait." He stepped closer, glanced around. "Have you heard anything else?"

"About-"

"Yes."

Ronald shook his head. "Got the word out. I hear anything, I'll let you know."

Washington nodded, forced a smile. Went to his office and sat at the desk. His mother looked at him from the silver frame, that war between smile and frown warping her features. Down the hall, the door opened, and he heard the muffled sound of voices. Took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and sought comfort in his Cicero: Rational ability without education has oftener raised man to glory than education without natural ability .

Then he opened his eyes and saw the Beefeater bottle still on the desk. Shit ! He grabbed it and yanked open a drawer, hearing footsteps draw closer, the click of dress shoes on tile. He dropped the bottle and was just closing the drawer as the door to his office opened and Alderman Owens strolled in, followed by Adam Kent.

"Fast" Eddie Owens was the sort of trim, sharp-looking black man for whom single-breasted suits were conceived. His shirt was a subtle cream and his shoes shone like still water. Beside him, Adam Kent seemed underdressed in khakis and a light sweater, salt-and-pepper hair neat, nothing in his manner suggesting he could write a six-figure check. Despite their smiles and extended hands, both men looked like judges to Washington. Or maybe executioners.

"Gentlemen," he said, and stood. "Welcome."

They shook hands, and he gestured them to the couch that had once been the crown jewel of his mother's living room. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, hoping one of them would ask for a drink so that he could have one himself. Neither did.

"Good to see you both again." He smiled as blandly as he could, pretending he couldn't hear his pulse. "Any trouble parking?" Kent shook his head, and the alderman played with the zipper of a leather portfolio. Washington tried again, going for hearty this time. "Going to be a heck of a time Friday night, huh?"

His guests looked at each other. Something had changed; the last time they were here, it was all toasts and promises, discussions of how much good they could do together. Now neither seemed sure how to look at him.

They know .

His hands trembled and his heart seemed loud. He had that little-kid sense of being caught. Maybe it was better this way. He was a lousy liar. "Something on your mind, gentlemen?" He leaned back in his chair. "Maybe something about me?"

Owens shot his cuffs, then opened the portfolio. "Actually, there is." He took out a sheet of paper, glanced at it. "It was a surprise, let me tell you." He set the paper down on the coffee table. "You know what this is?"

Washington couldn't see the details, but he could make out enough. His chest tightened as he nodded.

"So it's true."

"Yes," he said. "It's true."

"You spent twelve years in prison." Lawyerly, confirming the facts.

Washington nodded. "Most of it in Danville. July 19, 1979, to May 12, 1991. Missed the whole eighties."

"For murder."

They'd pled for manslaughter, but no point quibbling. "That's right." He leaned back, lips set hard. Trying to ignore his mother staring at him from the desk. Trying to forget the plans he'd had, the good that half a million dollars could have done.

A long moment stretched. Then Kent bent forward on the couch, his expression earnest and curious. "Jesus, Washington. Why didn't you tell us that?"

Now it would come. The lecture, and the disappointment. There was no point in explaining. It didn't matter how many books he read or boys he helped. He'd learned the same hard lesson as every other felon – once people knew that much, they didn't want to learn anything else.

Then he heard Cicero in his head again, talking about how it was ability that raised men to glory, not paltry circumstances like education or whether they'd been to prison. Better to try.

He sat up, put his hands on his knees. "I didn't tell you because that wasn't me."

The alderman started. "Wait a minute, you just-"

Washington waved his hands. "I'm talking about who I am . The man I am, not the stupid boy thirty years ago. That boy, he was damaged. He was confused and he was dangerous and he was high most of the time." He sighed. "That boy died in prison.

"Before I went in, banging was my life. That was my whole purpose. Didn't know anything else. No bigger world. In the ghetto, life is counted in dog years."

The alderman straightened. "Dr. Matthews-"

"You know damn well I'm no doctor," Washington interjected. "I let the boys call me that because it's a title they understand for a man with some education, even self-education, and it's a title they don't know many black men that have. But it doesn't mean the same thing when you say it."

" Mr . Matthews, then. It's not that we don't sympathize with your upbringing. I grew up on the South Side, too."