T. Johnson - Hold It 'Til It Hurts

He would begin with the minefield. That night, Achilles was driving, Wexler was riding shotgun, and Troy and Merriweather were in the back. Jackson thudded against the roof on every rise in the rough wadi, the dry riverbeds that served as roads. “We’ve got to tighten those ropes,” said Merri. Wexler howled, threw himself out of the vehicle, and started running, dragging his pack behind him. It was a quarter moon, so there was little light, and using their flashlights could attract unwanted attention. Achilles got out of the vehicle and called after Wexler in a hushed voice, hearing in response only steps in the sand and brush. Achilles stopped Merriweather from giving chase. It would only make Wexler run farther, and Wexler was the fastest of the four of them. Just that morning they had been intact, all of them, laughing and joking. They had passed some kids playing in a pile of rubble and Wexler asked about average lifespans, yelling and repeating himself to be heard over the engine: “How long do Afghans live?” Merri laughed. “Until we find them.”

The faint glow of the moon illuminated the mountain range at the edge of the horizon. The occasional bat flew by, and they could make out every star in the sky. It was one of those moments when Achilles was drunk on the idea that if a war hadn’t been going on, this might be one of the most beautiful landscapes he had ever seen. Instead, he wanted every inch of it razed, every tree stripped bare, every building leveled, every rock crushed. A flash of light silhouetted Wexler as a tree of roiling red and orange flames sprouted. He grabbed his neck and fell down. It was dark again. A sheet of squawking bats passed overhead. It had happened so quickly no one had time to blink or shut one eye, and they were all momentarily blinded. Merriweather cursed. Troy shook his head mournfully. Enter now the other Achilles, stage left. A man named Achilles Holden Conroy spun on his heels, climbed into the driver’s seat, hit the hot start button, and patiently awaited his mates.

As he watched himself, the other Achilles pressed the hot start button again, and the starter barked. He waved the others in. The other Achilles slapped the side of the door. Merriweather and Troy took small steps toward the vehicle. The other Achilles put it in gear. “That’s it. Let’s go now.”

Troy was almost at the vehicle. Merriweather was reaching for the door handle. Then they heard Wexler’s curling cry. The other Achilles’s murmurings that there was nothing to be done and Merriweather’s nods of assent be damned, Troy charged out there — red illume between his teeth, as soldierly and surefooted as if on asphalt, across the rise and through the shallow bowl — hefted Wexler over his shoulder, and on his return, with his left hand — the jump-shot hand, ATM hand, jab hand, shooting hand, pitching hand, cue-stick hand, wanking hand, the scarred hand — patting the back of Wexler’s legs; mouth full of fire, he can easily be imagined in silhouette on a recruitment poster or in a movie trailer; more emotional than that scene in Platoon when Willem Dafoe, peppered with bullets, is left behind to die at the hands of the VC, sparking Achilles to wonder how he was going to explain this, fingering his pistol, wondering if he could live up to the old saying, In the final assault, save the last bullet for yourself, that question remaining on his lips until Troy lay Wexler in the sand at Merriweather’s feet like a peace offering, at which point the other Achilles, who’d remained in the driver’s seat until now, came to watch as Wexler was bandaged. The two Achilles stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and the other Achilles said, “Goddamn him to Christ.” On the drive back, whenever he looked back at Wexler, he imagined him strapped to the roof.

On that night so hot they wore it like a robe, tossing that little body over his shoulder, Goliath saved David, leaving Achilles only angry. And after Troy took walking through a minefield as proof he didn’t even need to duck when people tossed bullets, Achilles felt resentment, wondering how different it would be if he were also so confident. After the morgue, he knew it wasn’t the confidence he’d wanted, or the reassurance that Troy would have walked into a minefield for him. He’d wanted Wexler left behind that night, so that everything could remain normal, so his brother wouldn’t take luck for latitude. Achilles loved Wexler like a brother, as the saying went. But Troy is his brother. There was like; there was is; and, there was his fear of is becoming was .

For two nights, Achilles followed Pepper while Ines slept. Everywhere he went, people smiled when Pepper arrived and sighed when he pulled off. Even the cops treated him well, leaning in the back window like groupies after autographs. Pepper traveled primarily from the Bricks to a house in East Point and back, making an occasional detour at an old apartment complex named Hollywood Court where dogs were fought in an abandoned nursery. The second night, the police stopped Achilles. The truck was still registered in Troy’s name, which they found suspect enough to make Achilles ride in the police car while they went on another call.

The nursery was too crowded and the house in East Point was a gated community in a sea of subdivisions, surrounded by flat land providing little cover, so Achilles broke into the church being built near the Banneker Homes. The bell tower provided a perfect line of sight, and room to maneuver as needed because there was no bell, only a large speaker mount. After firing his second shot — he planned to get off at least two — he would cut the barrel off the gun, drop it into his backpack, and walk away. Why would the police set up a roadblock or search pedestrians over the death of a drug dealer? If anything, they should reward the shooter.

Ines was antsy, threatening to return to New Orleans, so he decided his second night in the tower would be the night. He waited a long time before the golden Hummer finally appeared. The bodyguard limped into the building with the fire damage. Wexler had said his name was Cornelius. Achilles preferred to think of him as the accomplice. A white cargo van pulled up. Accomplice loaded two muzzled pits into the van, tapped the side of the vehicle, and it pulled off. He leaned against the wall, smoking and picking at his nose. Achilles sighted on the back door of the Hummer and waited.

The clickety-clack of high heels bounced off the wall. Two prostitutes passed the entrance to the Bricks, slowing as they neared the guys posted at the entrance. The guys at the gate didn’t even look up, understandably so. It was a hip-hop version of Jack Sprat. One was large-breasted but fat enough that if she lost the weight, she’d lose the bait. The other was thin as a stick and walked as if she was on stilts, teetering as if she might topple over at any minute.

Meanwhile Accomplice paced around the car, occasionally checking his watch. He moved with an exaggerated gait, a walk meant to announce his street cred, but which was so extreme he was the caricature of a street hood, the hop in his step something you’d see in an SNL skit featuring a white comedian doing his best impression of a B-boy. Finally, he got into the car and drove off.

Around two in the morning, the Hummer returned with the van close behind. Again, Accomplice loaded two muzzled dogs, tapped the van, and it pulled away, lights off until it hit the street. This time Achilles crawled to the other side of the tower to track the van’s progress, but it disappeared from view at the highway on-ramp. The bodyguard paced around the Hummer again, talking on his phone while he did his pimp walk. He stopped at the edge of the light, gesticulating wildly, holding the phone up to his mouth as if it was a walkie-talkie, yelling into it before slamming it shut and pocketing it, dropping his cigarette in the process. He lit a cigarette at the wrong end and fumbled with two more, successfully lighting the fourth only after he leaned back against the wall. He held the first breath so long that only a wisp of smoke slipped out when he exhaled. He French-inhaled and slapped the air in front of his face. Still leaning back against the wall, he crossed one leg over the other. Achilles dropped his sights to the man’s legs. One shot could take out both knees, and Achilles was good with a gun. His father had made sure of that. His father’s only rule: Don’t kill anything you can’t eat and don’t maim anything you don’t kill. Two rules roundly disregarded in combat.