Mat Johnson - Hunting in Harlem

"Like I said, right? Perfect little tunnel, big enough for a 1920s heating specialist to squeeze his immigrant butt up the faux flume and across the crawl space between the ceiling and the roof to check for leaks. Just go up and over and you'll find yourself in the residence of a Mr. Parson Boone. That easy."

"Up and over. That easy," Snowden mumbled back. Even that seemed too loud in the empty room.

"Just up and over and down again, and you'll find yourself staring at the back end of an identical grate. Unscrew it with the pliers and you're in. Use the gun first thing," Lester instructed him again. "The silencer's attached. Don't let him talk, don't let him do anything, just use the gun then come back through here, and Horus will be waiting in the green van on Frederick Douglass end."

"Horus in the van, waiting for me," Snowden repeated a final time.

"Horus in the van. Worse comes to it, use the cell to call him and he'll come in blazing. I'm off to the lounge to meet the congressman for a drink and an alibi. One more thing, then." Lester held up one finger, made sure Snowden committed to the digit before going to his bag and opening it. From within it, flat from being pressed between folders, Lester pulled a package covered in silver wrapping paper, pulling at its matching bow to get it to fluff before handing it to him.

"In honor of this being your last mandatory job and everything. I was going to get you a card too but I couldn't find anything appropriate. I hope it fits," Lester said, and before Snowden could even get it out, followed with, "It's a ninja outfit."

Snowden held it up to himself. He didn't know what else to do with it.

"Put it on, it'll save your clothes from getting ruined. I'll look this way. I promise, no peeking," Lester said, turning to face the cinder-blocked windows. Arms wriggling for freedom in the top half of the costume, when Snowden finally got it on he could barely pull it down to cover his belly button. The outfit was so small, Snowden's pants' waistline was only halfway up his calves when he felt the bottom of the pants revealing his ankles. "I had to fight myself to keep from getting you the white version. Of course it wasn't practical, but it just seemed to be more appropriate to me, us being the good guys and everything. Can I turn around yet?" Lester asked and started to. Snowden flew up the chimney just to get away from him.

In the days before, thinking of this night, it was the small space that most frightened Snowden, not just the cramped situation but the actual fear of it itself, that halfway through, trapped, he would succumb to it. Yet inside, crawling along the lines of oil, water, and waste tubing, ceiling so close the exposed plaster scraped along the top of his head, Snowden found that claustrophobia in no way threatened to consume him. There were too many other fears vying for dominance. Leading the pack was the one that the small flashlight in his mouth would go out and leave him stuck in the eternal darkness unable to find his way back again, but not far behind that fear was the one that the pipes he gripped so fiercely would break, sending him flying through the ceiling, as well as the one that the people he could hear so clearly below could hear him. The last bit was actually the least rational, as the men below were screaming so loudly he could barely hear himself. Somebody had done something wrong, was found somewhere he didn't belong. Somebody had been caught. Somebody refused to explain himself. There was more than one person yelling at him, aggressively listing the man in question's personal deficiencies. Things were pounded and slammed to punctuate declarations and Snowden kept thinking, And that's how he treats his own people, touching the gun strapped under his arm for reassurance.

The hole seemed narrower on the other end, seemed steeper, too, as Snowden inched his way down headfirst, using the fact that he could barely fit through the space to his advantage. Hands gripped to the metal poles, body wedged in the space directly above, Snowden timed his movement to coincide with the yelling in the next room, fighting the urge to cough as the dust fell directly into his nose.

The back end of the grille was identical to its counterpart, no holes to see through but thin lines of light from where it just barely failed to meet the wall. Staring through, Snowden saw a bedroom just like he was supposed to and got hopeful, laying its image onto what he remembered of Lester's blueprint's grid. That was the hall right there, the kitchen and exit door would be on the left, the living room was where the voices were coming from, on the right. The same yelling he so appreciated as he sneaked above it became an immediate annoyance as Snowden waited upside down below, body weight resting on his skull and arms and shoulders, all of which were numb by the time he heard the men who populated the next room evacuating it.

From his vantage, light aligned along his iris, Snowden could only see as far as their knees as they passed by the doorway, but it was enough to understand the earlier commotion. Somebody had shown up for work stone drunk, it was obvious, as two sets of sneakers walked stiff and steady and a third set dragged limp between them, toes pointed straight to the ground they scraped across. "Wake up, nigger. I ain't trying to carry you neither," one said. If there was a response, it was nothing more than a facial gesture. Snowden could hear the others making their way down the stairs when a pair of plaid slippers drifted casually into his line of vision, closed the entrance door softly on the way to the kitchen. Parson Boone had ashy ankles. Snowden got out his pliers and started unscrewing the bolts from the inside, tried to ignore his full bladder and keep the metal handle from slipping out his sweating hands.

Even if you didn't want to kill a drug lord, even if you didn't really want to break into his home at all, you had to admit there was a rush to standing in his bedroom with a gun in your hand. Knowing that if you wanted to do it, you could, ending his reign was at your personal discretion. That as powerful as he was, his life was still in your loaded hands. You needed to recognize that as a normal reaction and not confuse it with something more, Snowden told himself, or you just might pull the trigger when you had the chance.

Snowden caught a look at himself in the hall mirror as he walked lightly past. The sleek ninja of his mind was replaced with the image of an asbestos-covered freak in black, wrists and belly exposed in a top so tight his arms looked locked into position. Reaching into his pocket, Snowden pulled out the mask, reminded to hide his face by his own embarrassment.

Following his gun down the hall, Snowden inched closer to the kitchen. He saw Parson Boone's back. It was definitely the man from the mug shot, yet he was an altogether different person from the one Snowden imagined. Maybe it was the locks that hung in the space between his shoulder blades — Snowden gave the hairstyle a connotation of spirituality, so the fact that Boone's hair was gray just reinforced that prejudice. It could have been just that the man was there doing his own dishes, an act Snowden assumed Boone, from Lester's description, would consider beneath him. Parson Boone was simply a man in his home, serene in his mundanity. Snowden kept the gun pointed directly at his head, anyway, politely clearing his own throat.

Parson Boone wiped off the dish in his hand, placed it on the shelf, and closed the cabinet door before turning around. The expression of surprise or primal fear that Snowden expected to see flood the man's face when he got a good look at his guest never came, only a tired acceptance. Only a sigh, like dying was just another task he had to do at the end of a long day.

"Who sent you?" Parson Boone asked him, leaning back against his sink as if to brace himself for the name.