Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"Now you listen to me, you little shit! You're already so deep in this you should be breathing out the top of your head. We could go to our friends in the police department and get them to book you for Anderson or any of the other executions you've been cleaning up after and leaving fingerprints behind for months. Don't think we couldn't use a fall guy: No corporation ever has enough insurance. In light of Lester's recommendation, though, I'm going to forget your attitude. I'm going to chalk it up to nerves, little Cedric, give you a second chance to redeem yourself. You're going to pay me back with two — "

"Fuck you," Snowden managed to get past Marks's choking hands.

" — three more accidents. Lester needs a break anyway. If, at the end of that period you want to quit, I'll let you. I'll have enough leverage on you to last a fucking lifetime. If you shock me and rise to the level of the challenge, learn to believe in the wisdom and importance of our mission, then you will be a welcomed permanent addition to the cause. How's that? You have my word. The choice is yours, then, so enjoy it. It'll be your only bit of free will for a while."

The congressman found his way back to standing, carefully brushed off his fur. Snowden stayed on the cold linoleum until Marks had left. Lester offered his handkerchief, then his hand.

"Well, that certainly could have gone better, but surely it could have gone much, much worse too. Our congressman is a very passionate, driven man, that's what makes him so good at everything he attempts. Does he remind you of your father?"

"What? No. Why would he? My father was a loser. He was vicious and crazy, too, so I guess there's some similarity if that's what you're going to go by." Snowden wanted to cry. He scrunched up his face, tried to cry, but nothing came out so he gave up.

"Come now, it won't be as bad as you think. I'll help you with your assignments, teach you the tricks. No rush, we won't be dealing with any accident business for a while, anyway. You probably didn't see it, but an article slipped into the New Holland Herald that touched a little close to home on the topic; we're working to figure out its source. Just in case though, I think all around a break is needed."

Snowden sat at attention. Snowden's mouth forced into its first smile of the evening. "I did see that but I'm sure it's nothing. Nothing to be concerned about. I mean, let's face it, it is the New Holland Herald. I mean, nobody actually reads that rag." Snowden tried to smile.

Lester covered his mouth to contain his laughter. "How irreverent, Snowden. You are just so bad," he giggled indulgently.

Snowden took Jifar back from the lodge with him. The boy had made friends, it was the first time Snowden had seen him with children his own age or that happy. Back at their own building, he knocked on Jifar's front door like he actually expected Baron Anderson to open it, thought he heard a noise on the other side and became utterly petrified that the knob would turn. The image stayed with him in sleep, was not evaporated by daylight when he and the boy were back again, banging loud enough to wake the dead if that was possible. Jifar slept on the couch, watched cartoons and three Planet of the Apes sequels, and didn't seem to get worried until it got dark once more.

Lester buzzed the cops in. The boy was upstairs eating the ordered pizza; Snowden spent most of the proceedings sitting on the step Jifar used to sleep on. They walked in, they walked out, Snowden looked shocked when they told him. That wasn't hard, the hard part was not seeming like he was in a state of shock when he called 911 and they showed up in the first place.

Lester went off to intercept Child Welfare, Snowden went back upstairs to tell the boy. Jifar took the news of his father's death fairly well, Snowden knew, because he had no real understanding of what it meant.

Snowden knew what loss meant. Jifar's crying over the next two days, it was just the harbinger of the real pain. Snowden also knew guilt and profound regret, and understood that as agonizing as it was to listen to, it was only the beginning of his own suffering.

None of Jifar's cousins were prepared to take him in, but Horizon of Harlem was, and those relatives who cared in any way about the boy were thankful for it. They toured its halls en masse after the funeral, marveled at the little Leaders League's fully loaded toy room in the basement, the oak walls of their dining area, the luminescent glow of their computer room. Thank God for these good people, they said to themselves as they signed the papers. Maybe they were right. Maybe some good can out of this, they told each other as they left Jifar behind.

A PPARENTLY SOMEBODY DID read the New Holland Herald, it just took a week. The issue in question almost made it successfully off the stands without incident, was a day away from being replaced by a newer edition destined to go equally unnoticed, when political events brought the eyes of New York to Harlem and then suddenly left them there with nothing to look at.

The source of Snowden's misfortune was an improbably large pimple on the nose of the former president of the United States of America. It was a painful, intrusive ball underneath a red mound of porous skin, and the moment it broke through in a white dot smaller than a period, the leader of the free world attacked, against the advice of his closest advisers. Sadly, the move proved an impertinent one, as the zit became infected, and the following morning returned fire with an expected display of swelling and pus, so that no amount of professional makeup could hide it. Luckily, the president had just recently finished his term and left office, so all public events scheduled for the day could be, and were, canceled. Despite the fact that all the news crews had arrived and were set up there waiting for him.

So apparently, somebody did read the New Holland Herald, somebody associated with UPN 9 News, who was spied on by someone who leaked E-mails to WB 11 News, who employed another person, whose idea of corporate sabotage was to call in all proposed exclusive stories to her contact at New York 1, because by eleven-thirty A.M. all three set up live feeds on 125th Street to run with the New Holland Herald's front-page story.

Their broadcast vans double-parked, their field reporters impeccably manicured, they may have arrived to cover an appearance by the ex-president to announce the site of his new office (canceled due to "flulike symptoms"), but now they fought vigorously for positioning on the filler story. UPN 9, the first to arrive, maintained their positioning at the entrance of the Adam Clayton Powell Federal Building, while the crew for New York 1 maintained their position across the street as well, satisfied with the more scenic view of the entire structure in the background and confident they could keep their presenter standing in just the right position that his head would block out the sight of the UPN 9 crew and van behind him. WB 11 chose instead to broadcast a block away and use the Apollo Theater as a backdrop, partly because it was Harlem's most recognizable landmark and partly because the WB network had recently begun airing reruns of Showtime at the Apollo. The onsite producer had received a call, soon after the presidential story was delayed and the unusually high accidental death rate filler was pushed in, that this location would be in his best interest.

The three men of the Second Chance Program sat in the lodge's basement classroom, one profoundly miserable, the other two simply happy that this morning was not one of the ones when they were required to move something heavy. It was a beautiful thing, getting up tired and feeling the remnant of every muscular overindulgence, walking into a house and seeing the couch, each chair and dresser, and not having to motivate your body to abuse itself once more in the process of lifting them.