Marcus Sakey - At The City's Edge

"You come after me or mine again, we're going to mix it up."

"Do right, I won't have to." In the distance, a siren wailed. Playboy glanced over his shoulder. "Now. Do yourself a favor and don't be leaving for a bit. I see you coming after us, might be I take that the wrong way."

Jason nodded.

Playboy turned and walked away, his cross-trainers carving trenches in the soft mud. Curtis and the wrestler followed him, walking backwards with guns out. Jason stood with his skin vibrating until they were out of sight.

Then he heaved a sigh. "Jesus."

Cruz stared at him. "How'd you know that would work?"

"Playboy thinks he's a soldier. Long as we had the upper hand, he couldn't back down. But if we're two soldiers talking about a mutually beneficial arrangement, well, that's different."

She shook her head. "Boys. You're all just little boys with guns."

"You only figuring that out now?" Jason shook out his shoulders. Felt that familiar lightness, relief and tension mingling. The siren grew closer. Dealing with Playboy had only been a distraction. They still had their real work ahead of them. And now they didn't have the evidence to make it safe.

One step at a time, soldier. That's how the march works .

"Speaking of guns," he said, and stared pointedly at her. "For two days I've been wishing we had one, and for two days you've been awfully quiet about yours."

Cruz shrugged. Hiked up one pant leg, then bent to strap the Glock into the ankle holster she'd slipped it out of while pretending to faint. When she straightened, a smile tugged at one corner of her lips.

She said, "I'm working on my trust issues."

The boy was playing with the gun, and the sight twisted something in Washington.

Billy leaned against a heavy oak bureau that had been in the room as long as Washington could remember. He was hunched in the classic hiding position, plastic pistol held in both extended arms. Rain lashed the window in blinding sheets, and yellow headlights rolled slowly by. Billy tracked them with the gun, steady and slow. Pulled the trigger: once, twice, then threefourfive. "Gotcha," he muttered, and swung the pistol back.

It's just a toy, old man , Washington reminded himself. Can't take everybody's toys away . Still, it bothered him to see it. He couldn't put his finger on why, exactly. Maybe just seen too many boys with real guns in their hand. He rapped on the edge of the doorframe. "How you doing, son?"

"Okay."

"What are you up to?"

"Just playing." Billy left the window and sat on the edge of the bed. "This used to belong to Uncle Jason. See?" He held it up.

Washington leaned down to read the inscription on the handle. It would have been easier to bring the pistol to his eyes, but he didn't want to touch even a toy gun. Maybe ridiculous, maybe not. Recovering alcoholics didn't tell themselves they could drink light beer. Not if they wanted to stay recovering, at least. "This says Michael Palmer."

"I know, but it's scratched out. Uncle Jason won it from him." Billy held the gun in both hands. "Maybe when I grow up I'll be a soldier like he was."

The knot inside cinched tighter. "Maybe."

Billy looked up at him, head cocked. "You sound funny."

"I don't like guns."

"Because they're dangerous?" Billy said it with the mocking insouciance of a child.

Washington sat on the edge of the bed, hearing that old cold song of twisting metal. The siren song that had roared through him sure, pure, and sweet all those years ago. Like always, it tugged at him, urged him back. He sighed, cocked his head. "I remember being your age thinking how much fun all that stuff on TV looked, people shooting each other. But it's only on TV that it's that easy. Most of the time you can't just shoot the bad guy."

"Why not?" Billy's eyes were earnest. "If you know they're bad, I mean?"

"Well, for one thing, that's not easy to know." The rain fell steady and slow, drenching the world. "Some that seem one way are really the other. Ronald used to be a bad guy. Me too."

" You were a bad guy?"

A roar, and a hot punch against his hand. The boy with the cauliflower ear spinning, slow, a last pirouette, eyes already dying .

A debt that could never be repaid .

"Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I was."

Billy chewed his lip. "What if somebody is really bad, though? Not like you or Ronald, but really bad?"

Washington could hear the question under Billy's words, understood that he was asking about the people who had murdered his father. And part of him wanted to say that you still couldn't make that kind of decision. That people changed, that you could change them. That good could always be reclaimed from evil. But he didn't want to lie to the boy.

"I don't know, son. I don't have an answer for you. I just know I don't like guns."

Billy nodded slowly.

"But," Washington said as he stood, "that don't mean you can't play with your toy. Though right now, we got more important things to worry about. Like getting you dressed for tonight. You need any help?"

"Nuh-uh." Billy set the gun on the bed and went over to the closet. "I know how to do it."

"You sure?" Washington straightened his bow tie in the mirror. He'd delayed renting a tux until the last minute, but he had to admit, he was enjoying wearing it. "I'd be happy to make you look as dapper as I do."

Billy shook his head, pulled the plastic garment bag out. "You got that upside down."

"Hmm?" Washington glanced down. "What?"

Billy pointed at his belly. "That thing."

"The cummerbund?" He'd slung it the way that made sense, ruffles pointing down, kind of a sleek look. "I don't think so."

"Yup." Billy nodded firmly. "It's supposed to go the other way, with the things up. It's to catch crumbs."

Washington laughed through his nose. Kids. "Crumbs, huh?"

"Uh-huh. The guy at the store told me so. And there are holes in the pocket, too."

"Holes?"

"For pulling your shirt down."

Bemused, Washington slid his hands in his pockets. He didn't plan on taking fashion advice from an eight-year-old, certainly not on a tuxedo-

Damned if there weren't holes in there.

It was never a good sign whenyou could smell yourself.

Cruz forced a smile for the bus driver, doing her best not to look like a crazy woman. Judging by the way the guy wrinkled his nose, it didn't work. Her hair was matted, her face dirty and bruised, blood scabbing a thin tear where her forehead had hit the wheel. Her skin itched with something she'd rather not think about, and her jeans and summer sweater had been two days dirty before they'd gone in the river.

"Quite a storm, huh?" she asked, and swiped her CTA card. A thin trickle of brown water poured from her wallet to spatter on the floor.

"Sure," the driver said, and looked away.

They walked down the bright aisle. A couple of girls in hospital scrubs, an elderly man asleep with his mouth open, two laughing teenagers, a frazzled mother of four. This far south, a light-skinned Latina and a white guy would normally catch stares, but now everyone found a reason to gaze elsewhere, afraid of catching whatever madness infected them. Only the children looked, eyes like saucers. Shivering in her wet clothes, she took a seat in the back row, where the engine's heat penetrated. Jason remained standing, fingers clenched white on a pole. Though he wasn't moving, he gave off the vibe of a man pacing angry circles. There was something in his posture that scared her a little bit; not of him, but for him. "What are you thinking?"