T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

“You get into a tussle with a gangster, your record says gang-related as far as the department is concerned. Forever. Then your face goes into the bang-book, the binder that every beat officer memorizes. If you so much as run a stop sign, and you’re in that book, you’re going to jail. And that’s if you get a record and not a toe tag. What if a gang leader catches wind that you’re in that book? You’re either with him or you’re on his hit list. And kid, the way you present yourself, it’ll be the hit list. You open your mouth and everyone knows you’re not from here. Your parents brought you up good. You sound white. I’m okay with that, but to some people you sound like a victim. This city is consistently ranked as a murder capital. In 1994 there were 421 murders. Even we were shocked. After that, who is left to kill? That record hasn’t been broken anywhere in America. Over one a day. At that rate, it isn’t even front-page news anymore. You’ll get the Saints’ scores before you find out who was shot. Understand?”

Achilles nodded. New Orleans was even more dangerous than DC, and he knew what Morse meant by some people.

“This isn’t Scared Straight. I know you been shot at before and I’m sure you can handle yourself, you got some guns on you and some serious experience. But this is different. You’re not Charles Bronson. The city is safe unless you wander into exactly those few areas you keep visiting. So, if you get any more ‘leads,’” he made air quotes, “talk to me. About this green camelback, because you’ve already filed that report, I’ll send someone to investigate a possible sighting.” Morse gave him his cell phone number, and a piece of paper with “Spirit House” written on it.

“Spirit House?”

“You got this?” asked Morse, pointing at the check as he stood.

“Sure. Spirit House?”

“They took in a family who lost everything in a fire a couple weeks back. A family with three little girls. Sounds like it might be the Harpers from your green camelback.” He clapped Achilles on the back. “I’m in a good mood today. My son got shot. Only in the leg, and it will heal fine. But it’s enough that he’s coming home early, on his own two feet. I’m sure your mother wants to see you do the same.”

He pictured his mother with her backpack on. She wasn’t worried. “This was her idea. Can’t you introduce me to the other officers and let them know that I’m only trying to find my brother?”

Morse scratched his head. “Achilles, do you know about the Stop Snitching campaign? The T-shirts, the DVDs, the website? It’s the whole public relations kit-n-caboodle. The message on the streets across the country is that if anyone finds out you’re a snitch, you’re done. What do you think half of those murders are about?”

Achilles groaned, trapped no matter which way he turned.

“Just go to the Spirit and let me know if anything else turns up.”

Achilles thanked him, and rushed to the Spirit House, another small storefront shelter with a few bunks. The Harpers were in the small backyard. The couple was much younger than he had expected, younger than him maybe. They must have started early to have three kids already. Between the rusty barbecue grill, tire swing, and patchy grass he would have thought it was their house, except for the mother’s constant watchful gaze, as if assessing a danger only she could see. Achilles could see her in profile, a broad nose and round eyes. For some reason, her face made Achilles think that she liked to hug a lot. Whenever one of her daughters waved, she forced a smile and waved back before her mouth took on a grim downward turn at the corners. The girls chased each other around the yard, the youngest trailing behind, weighed down by her right arm, swathed in bandages, save for two tiny fingers.

The Harpers were open and friendly, which he hadn’t expected, but which made sense considering that they put all their children’s names on the mailbox. After learning that he was looking for his brother, they invited him to sit in a plastic lawn chair. They were a nice couple and spoke freely with Achilles while keeping their eyes on their three daughters. They’d never even personally met the landlord and didn’t really like the place, but the price was right. They’d never seen Troy. The only thing they knew was that Blow and Lex also referred to each other as Holiday and Charles.

“It’s a shame they can play outside here and couldn’t in our own house,” said Mr. Harper watching his daughters play. “All those damned barrels.”

It did seem a shame that they would be safer only after being displaced, but at least they hadn’t been chased out of their city, at least it wasn’t uninhabitable and overrun by the military. “Do you know how the fire started?”

Mrs. Harper turned to face Achilles. The other side of her face was badly burned, the skin from the eyelid to lower cheek pink and brown, like raw, spoiled chicken. She had no eyelashes and the hair around her temple was gray, as if it hadn’t burned but was dying nonetheless. “If you know something, please tell us.”

Achilles shook his head. Did Mr. and Mrs. Harper still have sex? “Is it okay if I say good-bye to your daughters?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Harper.

Mrs. Harper, who hadn’t taken her eyes off of him, held his stare a moment more before nodding, as if she needed that extra time to measure him.

But Achilles was used to it. The first few weeks after their injuries, the scarred soldiers either avoided your eyes altogether, or stared as if daring you to turn away. Achilles had seen much, much worse than Mrs. Harper, and had seen it happen to people who didn’t live next to druggies. But it was seeing her children that made it feel so unfair. He felt bad for them, for what they would endure with a mother who stuck out like that.

He shook their hands one by one, planning to give them each five dollars. Shaking hands with the little girl with the burned arm, he felt especially sorry for her, and gave her a ten-dollar bill. He remembered adults doing this when he was a child. But no amount of money was going to help. The little girl was doomed. How could she not be when her father and mother were willing to live next to two scum like Lex and Blow just because the rent was low? The father had said The price was right in the same tone guys used to explain why they bought cheap beer. It was at that moment when Achilles was holding her free hand, the ten-dollar bill clasped between the two fingers that poked out of the bandages on the other arm, her mother cooing What do you say? and her sisters now gathered around Achilles with their hands out for more, that the girls all turned as if Carmen Sandiego had arrived and he looked up to see Ines smiling at him, flushed like she’d been caught leaving without saying good-bye, as she flashed a small wave, like a Castaneda clap, and skipped through the door. But he gave them each five dollars more, in case she was watching from inside the house.

The irony was that Wages had taken to calling Achilles a player, even though Achilles always described Ines as Nothing . Wages would say, Right, and Chinese people’s eyes don’t look like that when they’re at home. Really, it’s Nothing serious. And Wages, unaware that Achilles did his admiring from a distance, always answered that no one did Nothing Serious more than two days in a row. Maybe that was true, but Achilles still didn’t think of Ines as anything serious, or that she would become anything serious. She was an obsession, a challenge. A mission. The couch couldn’t be a stand-in forever. His plan was simple: suit up, show up, look attentive, and act cooperative: everything that had gotten him through the military. That had worked with Janice, who was a checkout girl at Sak and Save when they first met. He was in the express lane and let the lady behind him go ahead because she had only one item. Janice cooed like that was the nicest thing anyone could do, so Achilles did it three more times. That was how long it took before she agreed to go to a movie with him. After that, even though she already had a boyfriend, they saw each other almost every day. But that didn’t make it serious.