George Pelecanos - The Night Gardener

'You ready?' said Shaka.

'Gimme a few more warm-ups. You been out here awhile.'

'You gonna need a day of warm-ups to touch me.'

'I'm 'a damage you, son.'

Before they could go at each other, the Spriggs twins, Ronald and Richard, dropped by the court. After some talk, Diego and Shaka went two-on-two against them. The Spriggs twins were on the hard side and were frequently in trouble with the law for minor crimes like theft, which elevated them in the eyes of other boys their age. Diego and Shaka just thought of them as old friends. They had all known one another since elementary, and now they were going down different paths.

Ronald and Richard Spriggs were tough, but they couldn't ball. Diego and Shaka took every game, and the Spriggs twins left, smiling but not happy, muttering benign threats about 'next time' and something about Shaka's sister looking nice as they deep-dipped away toward their apartment over on 9th, the group behind the 4th District police station.

For the next hour, Diego and Shaka went one-on-one. Shaka was a year older than Diego and had a few inches on his friend. His skill level was higher than Diego's as well. But Diego showed heart in any sport he played. The games went even until the last rubber match, which Shaka took. As the ball went through the chains, a reverse layin that Shaka earned with a quick first step, Diego's cell sang out, that 'Girls Just Wanna Have Fun' thing, go-go style. He answered it, using the T-shirt it was wrapped in to wipe the sweat off his face.

'Mom,' said Diego, reading the caller ID.

'Diego, where are you?'

'At the courts behind Coolidge. I'm with Shaka.'

'Okay,' said Regina, sounding relieved. Diego had made sure to mention the company he was in because his mother liked and trusted Shaka over all of his friends. 'You coming home?'

'I'll be dey soon.'

'You'll be dey ?'

'I'll be there,' said Diego, ending the call.

He joined Shaka, sitting with his back against the fence, checking his cell for messages. Shaka wore a T-shirt showing Marley smoking a blunt, right off the Catch a Fire cover, but Shaka was not a weed smoker. He had never even tried it. He and Diego talked about it often, and romanticized it some, but they didn't use it. They considered themselves athletes, and Diego's parents and Shaka's mother had drumbeat it into their heads that athletes didn't get high. Of course, they knew this to be untrue. But they also knew that many of the kids they hung with who had begun to drink a little and get blazed had kinda dropped off from playing ball and weren't doing as good in school as they had before. That much they could see for themselves. Diego still played Yes League basketball and Boys Club basketball and football; Shaka, now that he was in high school, knew he had to pick one sport if he was going to be serious about pursuing an eventual scholarship, and had chosen basketball. Both of them had dreams of playing college ball and professional sports.

'You keep them Exclusives fresh,' said Shaka, chinning at Diego's Nikes.

'They feel good on my feet.'

'Good as they look, those shoes didn't help you none today, though, did they?'

'Couldn't find my shot is all it was.'

'Uh-huh. Maybe it's the shoes messed you up.'

'I got my eye on the new Forums,' said Diego. 'Them joints is wet.'

'Your father ain't gonna let you get another pair of sneaks.'

'If I get my grades up for the quarter,' said Diego, 'he will.'

They talked about girls. They talked about Ghetto Prince, the Sunday-night go-go show on WPGC hosted by Big G, the singer from Backyard. They talked about going to a band show at the community center on New Hampshire Avenue, in Langley Park. They talked about Carmelo Anthony and how he had been unfairly treated in that video thing up in Baltimore. Shaka claimed he had seen NBA star Steve Francis and his friend Bradley over by Georgia Avenue. Steve had come up in the area and was frequently seen back in the neighborhood, talking positive to kids.

'Steve was drivin that Escalade he got,' said Shaka, and Diego asked about the rims, and when Shaka described them, Diego said they sounded tight.

The sky had darkened some. They got up to go and collected their things. Through the chain-link fence, they saw their friend Asa Johnson walking south on 3rd. Asa was wearing a North Face jacket that broke midthigh. His head down, his brow wrinkled, he was staring at the sidewalk, taking long strides.

'Asa!' shouted Shaka. 'Where you goin, dawg?'

Asa did not answer or acknowledge the call. He turned his face away so they could not see his eyes. As he did, Diego thought he saw something shiny on his cheek.

'Asa. Yo, hold up!'

Asa walked on. They watched him as he turned left on Tuckerman, eastward bound.

"Sup with him?' said Diego. 'Actin like he don't know us.'

'No clue. Kinda warm for him to be rockin that North Face, though.'

'He was sweatin, too. Guess he gotta show that new coat off.'

'You talk to him lately?'

'Not much this school year. Not since I transferred.'

'He playin football?'

'He dropped out.'

'Maybe he's just in a hurry to get home.'

'He lives in the opposite direction,' said Diego.

'Maybe he's tryin to get away from home, then,' said Shaka. 'Way his father's always pressed.'

'Could be he's got a girl up that way.'

'You ever know Asa to mess with a girl?'

'True,' said Diego. 'But I ain't never see you with one, either.'

'I never am with just one,' said Shaka. 'I got a whole stable.'

'Where they at?'

'I ain't tellin you.'

They came off the court and walked south on 3rd. Down past Sheridan they went along a short commercial strip, past a women's clothing store with African designs, a barbershop, a dry cleaner's, and a ministry. On the next street, at the corner of 3rd and Rittenhouse, they stopped in front of a large warehouse-like structure that was now a banquet and party hall, rented out for anniversaries, birthdays, and general celebrations, called the Air Way VIP room.

'I'm headed over to Fat Joe's,' said Shaka. 'Play some PS 2. He got the new NC double A.'

'My pops won't let me go to Joe's.'

'Why not?'

'Joe's father has a gun. You know, that little thirty-two he got?'

'We ain't gonna mess with it.'

'My father don't want me in that house.'

'Okay, then,' said Shaka, tapping Diego's outstretched fist. 'Later, dawg.'

'Later.'

Shaka walked west down Rittenhouse, toward his mother's row house on Roxboro Place. Diego went east, in the direction of a pale yellow stucco colonial fronted by a porch, on a rise halfway up the block.

His father's Tahoe was not in the street. Diego felt that he was nearly a man, but he was still young enough to like the security of knowing his dad was home.

Dusk was near. The dropping sun cast long shadows on the grass.

The music okay, sir?' said Dan Holiday, checking the rearview, looking at his client, a fit guy in his midforties, relaxing on the right side of the backseat.

'It's fine,' said the client, pressed jeans and a top-end blazer, open-neck shirt, black leather boots, a Tag Heuer wristwatch that must have put him back a thousand beans. Guy had one of those expensive hairstyles, too, shooting off in different directions on top, with that flip-up thing in the front. The look said, I don't have to wear a tie like all you other suckers, but I have money, rest assured. Holiday had watched the guy coming out of his house in Bethesda as he sat out in the black Town Car, waiting. He had estimated his approximate age and, knowing he was some kind of writer (Holiday had been contacted by a publishing house in New York, a frequent customer, for the pickup), figured the guy favored the new wave stuff of his youth, meaning '77 and beyond. Holiday had found Fred, the 'classic alternative' program, on the radio before the guy even slid into the car.