Brian Keene - Terminal

“What’s the big deal, John?” I asked. “You’ve been to downtown York plenty of times.”

“Yeah, but not late at night like this. We could get carjacked or something. Mugged. It’s kind of scary, isn’t it?”

Sherm snorted. “No way in hell somebody is gonna jack you for this piece of shit.”

We stopped at another traffic light. The car stereos around us competed for supremacy, melding into one solid bass line. On the corner, some kids played in a puddle, long after they should have been in bed. Rough-looking women, possibly their mothers, leaned into car windows, flashing cleavage and haggling over the cost of blow jobs. I missed Michelle and T.J. and I wanted to be home with them, not driving around in the ghetto, looking for guns. I felt tired—and sick. There was blood in my throat and the taste was nauseating.

John looked back at Sherm. “What’s the address again?”

“Forty-two. Two-story brick up here on the right. But he doesn’t do business in his crib. We’re supposed to meet him in the alley out back.”

“How come?” I asked.

“He’s got kids and shit, man. He doesn’t mix business and home life.”

“Oh, a drug dealer with principles…”

“Yo, how often do you smoke weed, Tommy?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. Once or twice a week maybe. Tonight. Whenever you bring it around, I guess.”

“That’s right. And where the fuck do you think I get it from? You think I just pick it up at the grocery store?”

“Okay, point taken.”

“Hey,” John piped up, “since you got cancer, now you can smoke all the weed you want, right? I think it’s legal if you got cancer. Isn’t it supposed to help keep you from throwing up and shit?”

“Shut up, Carpet Dick!” Sherm and I said at the same time.

John parked the car under a broken streetlight and we got out. Crack vials and shattered glass crunched under our feet. I kicked a dirty diaper out of the way. The graffiti on the house next to us said PROSPER C. JOHNSON & THA’ GANGSTA DISCIPLES and 630 ROOSEVELT

CRU and NSB RULZ, and wished that someone named Donny B. would rest in peace. The air smelled like spoiled milk. Somebody hollered something unintelligible. In the distance, a baby screamed, and was answered by the mournful wail of a police siren. A feral cat glared at us from behind a trash can.

Sherm pointed a finger at John. “Now listen up. You keep quiet, Carpet Dick. I mean it! These guys don’t fucking play.”

John gave him a two-fisted thumbs-up sign, then grabbed his nut sack when Sherm turned away. Rolling my eyes, I motioned for him to follow us.

We stepped off the curb and crossed the street. Halfway across, the light changed to green and the traffic surged toward us from both directions. John froze like a deer caught in headlights as the cars bore down upon him. A horn blared, then another, as somebody shook their fist through the driver’s side window.

“Get out the road you stupid motherfucking wigger!”

He started to raise his middle finger but I ran back, grabbed his wrist, and dragged his ass across.

“This is Sherm’s play. Don’t fuck it up. Just keep quiet and don’t do or say anything, okay?”

He nodded.

We followed along behind Sherm and approached the alley. Two black guys, both a few years younger than us, guarded the entrance like it was a pirate’s cave.

“Be cool,” I reminded John.

“Like ice.”

Sherm held his hands out to the two guys and grinned.

“What up, Markus? Yo, Kelvin, how they hanging?”

They shrugged.

“What up, Sherm? Who your friends? They five-oh?”

Sherm laughed. “No dog, this is Tommy and John, my boys from out in Hanover. They’re cool. They got some business with the man and shit. He knows we’re coming. I hit him on the cell earlier.”

“Yeah,” Kelvin nodded. “He said you was coming by. Didn’t think you’d have company though. You usually flying solo.”

“Not tonight. These guys are the ones buying. I’m just making the introductions and shit.”

“Hi.” John offered his hand, and was answered with noncommittal stares. Sherm lit up a cigarette. “So—is Wallace around?”

“He in the house watching TV with his baby girl,” Markus responded. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

He sidled off and into the house. Kelvin motioned for us to follow him into the alley. It was dark between the buildings, and it took a moment for my eyes to adjust. I lit up a cigarette and the darkness seemed to surround the flame, engulfing it, trying to extinguish the glow. The alley smelled like stale piss and rotten garbage, and there was something sticky beneath my feet, clutching at my sneakers like glue. I didn’t want to imagine what it was, and I tried not to look down. As we walked, John tried to make small talk with Kelvin, but Kelvin just ignored him. A door slammed and then the light at the end of the alley was blocked as two more figures entered: Markus, and a guy that I assumed must be Wallace. He was huge; at least six-three and probably two hundred and fifty pounds, all of it hard, chiseled muscle. His shaved head gleamed in the darkness and a gold hoop earring hung from each ear. He carried a cardboard box under one bulging arm. Silently, he appraised us.

“You check them?” he asked Kelvin, pointing to John and me.

“Not yet.”

“Well what the fuck are you doing, nigga? Don’t just stand there! Pat them down!”

“It’s cool, Wallace. They with Sherm. He vouched for them and shit. Sherm wouldn’t flip on us.”

“I don’t give a damn if they with the Pope. Check their shit now!”

Rough hands patted us down.

“Hey—” John started to protest but a warning glance from Sherm shut him up. Markus stepped back. “They’re clean.”

“You five-oh?” Wallace asked me, inches from my face.

“No, I’m not a cop. I—I work in the foundry, out in Hanover. I make molds. Well, I did anyway.”

He grinned, then chuckled, and began to laugh, loud and hearty. After a moment, Markus and Kelvin laughed along with him, joined finally by Sherm, then John, who decided to go with the flow. Personally, I didn’t get the joke.

Wallace wiped his eyes. “The foundry, huh? Man, that shit will kill a nigga. I couldn’t work a job like that. Know what I’m saying?”

“I wouldn’t either,” I said, “but I gotta feed my wife and kid.”

His hard face softened.

“Word. I know what you mean, dog. I’m in the same exact situation. You got to take care of your kids. They all that’s important. What’s your name, man?”

“Tommy.”

“A’ight, Tommy. You cool, I can tell. Irish, like your boy Sherm here, right?”

I nodded.

He turned to Markus and Kelvin. “Irish is the white niggaz. They were slaves too. The white man called them indentured servants, but it was the same shit. If you’d have stayed in school, you’d know that. Ya’ll want to talk about a revolution? The motherfucking Irish was off the hook. Still are, with that Republican Army and shit.”

I said nothing. Wallace relaxed.

“Sherm says you’re looking to buy some handguns.”

I shuffled my feet, hesitating. Now that it came down to it, I didn’t want to say it out loud. It seemed like another act of finality.

“Yeah, I need two. They’re for—”

“No”—he held up a hand—“don’t tell me what they’re for, dog! The less I know, the better. That way I can’t flip on you, and it don’t come back to me.”

I nodded.

“Those are nice shoes,” John said to Markus. “I need a pair like that. Where’d you get them?”

“Ganked them from a white boy down at the mall,” Markus replied. “He looked a lot like you. Hell, coulda’ been your brother.”