1. PULSE
JENNICA
Red. Black. White. Thats all I remember. It was a blur, like a dream sequence in the sort of movie that comes with subtitles.
Red. Blood, spreading like spilled ink.
Black. His hair and skin, and the tar beneath him. He was kind of sprawled out, and it seemed almost right for him to be down there, like he blended in.
White. I couldnt make sense of it at first. It wasnt clean white, like snow. More of a wispy, dirty white, like clouds on an average winter day. I found out later he had a carton of milk in his hand. It got a bullet right through it, started leaking like a drain and puddling up on the pavement.
The spilled milk seemed wronger than the blood, somehow. I keep thinking that.
BRIAN TRELLIS
Im not sure I had time to blink. It was over in a minute.
My brain coiled around the knowledge: The boy in the hoodie has been shot. The loud sound echoed in my ears, as did his final whimper. The soft clatter-crash of his fall. The sound—yes, the sound—of the look the shooter gave me. It had a voice, that look. Sharp and clear like a bell.
I ended up kneeling beside him, the wrecked, bleeding boy. Flat-looking now, so flat.
My hands got dirty. Sidewalk dust, glass shards, blood.
I got blood on my lip. One nervous dart of my tongue, and I tasted it. My throat filled with the need to retch.
Nothing happened.
Except I was blinking now. Blinking down at the boy.
His eyes were open, unblinking.
NOODLE
They do it in the movies. Reach down and close the dead assholes eyes. But I wasnt about to touch him.
He stared up at me, and it was fucking creepy.
Jennica knelt beside him, in the spreading gray-white pool. “We got to go,” I told her, but she could not be moved.
“One-two-three-four-five,” she chanted, though the life was gone from his body.
She wouldnt leave, wouldnt stop crying. I couldnt get her up. She stayed there, pumping on his chest and whatnot, a fierce kinda goddess in the half-light.
“We got to go,” I said again, and she looked up at me, eyes like switchblades, like shed fight to the death to put it all back, put it right. She was striking hot, perfection. All I could think was, Im with that.
If it was up to me, we woulda bugged out right away like the rest of the Kings, but Jennicas too good for that.
Every fucking minute, another thing reminds me Im not good enough for her.
SAMMY
Run. All that was in my mind was fucking run.
Couldnt think about T falling, or the guy who shot him getting away. Especially not him getting away.
Couldnt think about T dying, or how easy I coulda stopped it. Especially not how easy.
Maybe he wont die. I tried to think it like a prayer.
Ts not a screwup like me. Hes lucky. Two shots to the chest—yeah, he could make it. It felt wrong to run, knowing that, but I couldnt stop the steam under my feet.
I kept my eye on Bricks jacket and ran where he led me.
Tried to forget I had a piece in my hand. Sleek metal body, cold and strong.
Clutched in my warm, weak fingers.
I fumbled it down into my belt. Tried to forget I could have helped out Tariq with it, taken his killer down.
The piece felt heavy at my waist. Made running kind of awkward, but I kept on after Brick.
I need a gun. I know that. But what good will it ever do me if, when the moment comes, I cant stand up?
TINA
Siren song
Out the open window
Siren song
Weee-ooo-weee-ooo
Siren song
And I squeeze my eyes shut
Siren song
Fingers in my ears
Siren song
Make it stop
Make it stop now
Sirens mean bad news
2. WHAT THEY SAW
9-1-1 EMERGENCY RESPONSE—CALL LOG
[June 2, 5:32 P.M.-5:36 P.M.]
OPERATOR: 9-1-1, whats your emergency?
CALLER: I need the police. A boys been shot.
OPERATOR: Whats your location, sir?
CALLER: Shot. Some guy just shot the kid in the back. White guy. He pulled over his car and just—like—
OPERATOR: Sir, Im notifying the police and EMTs. I need an address. Where are you calling from?
CALLER: Im on Peach Street. Theyre right outside. 219 South Peach. Hes been shot. Hes on the ground—
[loud bursting sound, over static]
CALLER: Oh, God. He shot him again.
OPERATOR: Sir?
CALLER: [indecipherable muttering]
OPERATOR: Sir? Can you repeat that? Are you in danger? Please move to a safe location.
CALLER: Hes driving away! Hes driving away. Hes back in his car—
OPERATOR: Sir, the police are on their way.
CALLER: I can see the license. Im going to try—
[sound of door chimes]
OPERATOR: Sir, please step back inside. Is the shooter still on the scene?
CALLER: Oh, God.
OPERATOR: Sir?
CALLER: Theres blood everywhere. [shouts] CPR! We need CPR!
OPERATOR: Is the shooter still on the scene? Sir, please go back inside. The police are on their way.
CALLER: Its a dark blue car. Small. KL7— I cant see. Hes just going …
OPERATOR: Which direction is he going?
CALLER: Uh … straight down Peach. No, he just turned right on Wilson. Or maybe Van Buren. Its a ways down. I could get my car—
OPERATOR: No, sir. Please stay on the scene.
CALLER: [shouts] Thats the guy, thats the guy. Blue car, just turned. Thats the shooter.
OPERATOR: Sir? Has the shooter returned to the scene?
CALLER: [shouts] Go get him! Go get him!
OPERATOR: Sir, who are you talking to?
CALLER: He cant just shoot and run like that.
OPERATOR: Do not attempt to pursue the suspect. Ive relayed the information to the police. They will take care of it. How many people have been shot?
CALLER: One, just one. Oh, God. Its Tariq.
OPERATOR: Tariq?
CALLER: Oh, God. His mama. [shouts] Push harder, girl! You got to blow into his mouth.
[sirens in the background]
OPERATOR: Sir, the police and ambulance will be arriving very shortly.
CALLER: Theyre coming. Theyre coming. Ive got to go.
OPERATOR: Sir, please stay on the line.
CALLER: Ive got to go.
[dial tone]
BRIAN TRELLIS
I was coming out of the hardware store when I heard a guy down the street shouting, “Stop, thief!”
I look, and this is what I see: Farther down the sidewalk, a shop clerk with an apron on comes running out of the convenience store, waving his arms in the air. “Come back here!”
Streaking past me, just right there in front of me, goes a dark face in a black hoodie. The hoods fallen back somewhat, like he cant hold it in place while hes hurrying. Hes trotting down the street pretty quick, his shoulders all hunched around his haul. I can see it on his face. He thinks hes home free. He slides past me.
Not so fast, sucker.
I step up after the little fool. Theres a bunch of other guys around, but no ones making a move to stop him. By the looks, theyre all members of the 8-5 Kings. They dont care enough to stop him, but hes not getting away.
Not on my watch.
I step up, clamp my hand down on his shoulder. I got a big hand, real meaty. Takes all of his shoulder under it like a handlebar. “Not so fast,” I tell him. The Kings scare me, sure, but not this little scrap of a kid.
“Hey. Get up off me, yo.” He starts squirming. But its no work at all to hold him. “Come on,” he says. “Let me go.”
“This is a matter for the police,” I say, holding firm.
“Whats your problem, man?” he says.
“Woooooo,” go the Kings, crowding around us. “Tariqs gonna take down the big man.”
I read it all wrong. He wasnt just passing by the Kings; I guess hes one of them. Theyre calling out to him, egging him on. Maybe its some kind of initiation.
Hoodie boy struggles. From under his arm, something small, roundish, and firm pushes out at me.
“Hes got a gun,” I hear someone say. “Shit, back it up!”
I can hold my own in a fistfight, but Im not about to get shot to save some corner store fifty bucks in loot, or whatever this thug pilfered. I let him go. “Dont shoot.” I back away. “I didnt mean nothing by it.”
Kid spins around, face all stormy. His arms are full. My hearts pounding. My eyes drop to the gun in his hand. Hes facing me now. Im bracing myself, thinking, Whyd I have to try and get tough? Thinking, Im about to die. But its not right. Im looking at his hand. Looking for that deadly glint of metal, but there isnt anything, and then out of nowhere, the kid is falling. He buckles like a hinge and drops. I hear a loud noise and the sound of glass breaking. Something liquid splashes over my feet. I jump back, but the kid is just down.
“Oh, shit,” someone shouts. “Was that for real?”
“Tariq,” someone says.
“We gotta get the fuck out.” Someone else.
Three different voices.
I hear another sound, unfamiliar and close. A popping, kind of pinging, very loud. By the time I turn, what I see is a white man, hustling away. I see people running, ducking. Hear the jingle of bells on a door.
“What happened?” I say it out loud, to the air. “What just happened?”
JENNICA
We were a little high, me and Noodle both. I regret that now, but I cant undo it. We were across the street. I didnt see the first shot, cause we were cozying up on the stoop there like normal, but I saw the second one. Tariq was already on the ground. The guy standing over him put a bullet in him, right there on the sidewalk. Then he jumped in his car and drove off.
Noodle said I was like some kind of hero. The guy drove off, and people were screaming, but Noodle said I just walked right across the street to where Tariq was lying. I dont remember doing that.
I do remember I got blood on my hands. From the CPR. I got it on my clothes, too, on everything. I remember being on my knees in this terrible pool and pushing up and down on his chest with my arms locked, like I learned.
We took this class in school last year, about how to save a persons life. I guess I should have signed up for it again this year. I didnt know enough. I couldnt save him.
My eyes got all blurry, and his mouth was all bloody, and I couldnt bring myself to breathe into it. Maybe that was wrong, but I also remember worrying I might blow blood down his throat. Can that happen? I wanted to ask the ambulance man who took over after me, but I couldnt manage the words. I still havent tried to find out.
Im not sure I really want to know.
NOODLE
Leave it to Tariq to mess up my afternoon. We were sitting on the stoop, Jennica whispering all sexy in my ear. We were waiting for Brick, but I was about ready to bail on meeting up with the guys and find a quiet place, just the two of us.
Then I heard Tariqs voice, chirping from all the way across the street. Loudmouthed little punk. I quit kissing on my girl and looked over there. Tariq was talking to Brick, who mustve come up right about the same time, a couple other guys along with him.
Jennica leaned into my neck, all high and turned on. And I was pissed then, because I should have been enjoying it. But there went T, arms full of milk and stuff. It figured—he would be too cheap to pay Rocky five cents for a grocery sack.
He had some nerve, talking shit to Brick after everything that went down last week.
Brick was trying to get T to step up into the Kings for real, instead of dancing around the edges like he had been. I never could figure why he wanted that chickenshit dabbler as his lieutenant. Neither of them seemed to understand what they were saying when they talked about being number one and number two—that it would make me number three. Plus, Tariq is almost five years younger than me. What, Im supposed to take a back seat to some punk kid who didnt even really want in? No way should T step up to outrank me. But Brick was determined about it; I still dont get why.
Across the street, Tariq had to go and drag the big, light guy into it. Guy looked like a refrigerator, but T was talking smack, as usual. Now things were looking up, I thought. Id seen Tariq in a fistfight. He didnt have the skills to go up against a guy that size. Fool. I dont know what Brick saw in that pile of mess.
The Kings crowded in closer to watch the fight. I craned my neck up, trying to see past their shoulders. If Tariq was about to get his ass beat, I was sure as shit gonna be watching. But my view was blocked, partly by the guys and mostly by the car that stopped in the middle of the street.
White dude jumped out. Hauled ass up onto the curb.
Someone—Sammy, I think—shouted, “He has a gun!”
I leaped up, startling Jennica. The Kings backed out, in a loose circle around Tariq and the big man. The big man threw his hands up.
Tariq turned around, facing the new guy. His voice, typically loud. Annoying. “Mind your own business, cracker.” All his shit falls out of his hands. One arm stretched out in front.
Then the shots. One, two.
I thought, Damn. That motherfuckers about to get made. Ts talking shit one minute, the next he smokes a whitey right in front of Brick? Thatd earn him a straight shot to the number two spot. No question.
But it was Tariq who fell. Slow motion. The Kings peeled off and scattered. White dude scrambled to his car. The gun in his hand was silver. Nine millimeter. His arm, straight down. Finger still on the trigger. Wild eyes.
I threw myself down on top of Jennica. We landed awkwardly against the stairs. Her fingers fluttered against my shirt, around my ribs. “Oh, God,” she murmured. “Oh, my God.”
I stayed like that—I didnt know what else that crazy white bastard might do—until the car rumbled off down the street with a squeal of tires.
“Was that for real?” Sammy screamed.
“We gotta get the fuck outta here,” ordered Brick. “Now.”
Jennica pushed me off and ran across the street. “Tariq,” she cried. She planted her hands on his chest and started CPR. Jake came running out of his liquor store, phone up against his ear, shouting, too. Halfway down the block, another white guy stood frozen, watching.
Jakes voice and Jennicas crying—those were the only sounds on the block. The other Kings had disappeared. Everyone else had gone inside. The rumble of the car faded, became part of the distant background hum.
I followed Jennica across the street. Couldnt see no choice about it—thats my girl. Stood on the curb, looked down at Ts flat, leaking body.
He was asking for it, I told myself.
If that guy didnt pop him, someone else was gonna, thats for damn sure. Kid couldnt keep his mouth shut for a hot second, less he was stuffing a snack in his face.
Brick must have been tripping; no way was T ever gonna be good enough to replace me. I looked upon his slack cheeks, open eyes, and all I felt was relieved. Good riddance, Tariq Johnson.
I was there. I saw the whole thing. Fucker had it coming.
BRICK
You cant fault a brother for getting heated. Tariq be talking shit to me, like usual, coming down the street. That little punk. I taught him everything he knows, then he up and flaked out on me, talking about college and turning his back on his homies.
I shepherded that son. From the time he was little, I saw he had this energy, this flow. He coulda run this street with me, if he put his mind to it. But no.
So, yeah. When he come down the street, talking shit, hell, yeah. I started hassling him back. He was saying shit about my moms. I dont let nobody say shit about my moms. So I start talking about his moms. I see the carton of milk in his hand, and I say something about how he shouldnt have to go to the store so often, cause he got a cow at home.
Thats when he starts kicking at me. I dodge him easy and start laughing, sure hes gonna blow a whole gasket and start losing all the shit he just bought all over the sidewalk so he can come and get me.
I was howling. Tariq be dancing all over, trying to kick me. He goes, “Ima come back. Ima come back in five minutes and Ima lay you out.”
I just go, “Woooooo.” All the guys howl behind me, like backup singers.
Some big-ass punk, a pale-looking brother, steps out of a store and grabs Tariq, outta nowhere. We all thought he must have some real bad bone to pick, thought Tariqs ass was about to get whupped into tomorrow, so we crowded around to watch. We was still howling. Tariq and he start tussling.
“Shit, hes got a gun,” Sammy says. Hes looking over my shoulder, toward the street.
I dont know when Tariq pulled the gun. Next thing I know, big guys backing off of him, all freaked out. “Dont shoot.”
Tariqs still got all the shit in his arms, and hes holding out a gun at the light-skinned punk—blackest motherfucking gun I ever saw.
“Back the fuck off. Ill put a hole in you, cracker,” he says.
For a second there, I got real proud of Tariq. I thought, Fuck college. My boys coming home to the street. For a second there, I got real proud.
TOM ARLEN
I had agreed to loan Jack Franklin my car for a few days while his was in the shop. He came down to pick it up round four in the afternoon. We got to talking. The weather was good out there on my back porch, so we cracked a few beers and got to drinking. Couple carefree guys, living the good life. Thats what I was thinking.
So I walked Jack outside, showed him the car and all, handed over the keys. We shook hands. He said, “Thanks. Youre a lifesaver.”
I said, “No problem. Just bring her back to me in one piece.”
I watched him pull out of the parallel spot all right. I wasnt too worried about the car—I was just ragging on him for old times sake. Jack and I go way back. I walked to the corner, waving after him. He didnt get far.
Middle of the next block, he pulled over. I walked that way to catch up, thinking maybe there was a problem with the car.
Then I realized it wasnt the car. There was a whole fracas going on up the block. Bunch of gang members surrounding a white guy. Threatening him, jostling him around in the circle. He towered over all of them, the white guy, but he looked scared shitless. The gang kids called out names at him. Taunting. Chains dangled at their waists, knife sheaths poked out of their baggy pockets. Gave me the shivers.
I stopped at the corner, scared to go any closer. Ive never had any problems in the neighborhood from the color of my skin. I keep my head down, go about my business. Most of the people are nice. I steer clear of the gang kids, but so does everyone else.
I didnt like what I was seeing, though. Jack stood up, my car door open. “Hey,” he yelled over at the group. “You let him alone.”
Jacks a braver man than I am. He walked around the car. I saw him raise up his arm and I thought, Hes gonna go right in there, try to break it up. I held my breath, thinking they were gonna fold him in, start hassling him.
Instead, they parted. The big white guy stepped backward, out of the circle, holding his hands up like he was under arrest.
Jack moved forward, arm raised. “Let him alone,” he said again.
“Mind your own business, cracker,” said this scrawny slip of a kid from the center of things. He came forward. His arm was raised too. The gun in his hand … Gun!
“Jack!” I called. “Look out!” I didnt know if he could hear me, but I was scared to go any closer.
Pop-pop. The kid staggered forward, fell. The other gang boys scattered. Jack spun in a slow circle. His arm was still raised—he had a gun, too. The big white guy turned toward Jack, looking grateful.
I shook my head. Jack Franklin. Keeping the peace. We were just talking about it, on my porch. About how everything on the streets is going to shit because good citizens are too afraid to stand up.
Look at me, for example. Stuck on the corner, watching it all go down. Unable to do anything about it.
The gang kids started moving back in. Sirens wailed in the background. Jack jumped in the car, drove off. Thats my car, I thought. Thats my car. Jacks a braver man than I am, but he drove away in my car.
EDWIN “ROCKY” FRY
Tariq forgot his change, is all. I stepped out in the street to try and catch him. I meant to do the right thing, get the kid his money back. It was a dollar seventy-three.
Hed bought a half gallon of milk, a big pour jar of salsa, two rolls of toilet paper, and a Snickers bar. Paid me with a ten.
I stepped out on the street with the money in my hand. Tried to wave at him. Called out for him to come back. “Tariq!” One of his friends heard me and turned, so I yelled to him, “Hey, stop T, would you?”
I didnt see who started the fighting. They were all gathered around, like they do sometimes, whooping and hollering. I lost sight of Tariq in the middle of it. I went back inside, because I dont want any trouble. I dont want to see anything. Dont want to have to answer questions later.
I put Tariqs change in an envelope. Wrote his name on it. I knew hed be back in about five minutes. His mother would know exactly how much change she was supposed to get, and shed send him down after it. Id keep it for her. I try to be a good neighbor like that. I dont want any trouble.
I heard the shots. I heard the screaming and the shouting and the sound of the car squealing away from the curb.
I didnt know it was Tariq. Not till later. Even if I had known, I wouldnt have gone out there. I dont want any trouble.
His mother never came down for the change. Not surprising, really. It was a dollar seventy-three. One round dollar, two quarters, two dimes, and three pennies. I still got those coins.
SAMMY
Tariq was my friend. I aint gonna tell nobody what I seen.
I try to figure out how T would want it to be known, but it aint that easy.
Brick and them got all puffed up and proud, thinking T was armed and ready to waste Jack Franklin. T woulda liked them thinking that.
Except its not just them who seen it. And no one else was supposed to know how T was coming up in the Kings. T aint want his momma to find out, or his sister, or even Tyrell. That was his deal with Brick, for the time being. They was fighting about it just the other day.
How you gonna be a King and not sport the colors? What kinda half-ass join is that? I agreed with Brick on that point.
But T was all set on the way he wanted to do it. So he woulda been stupid to have a gun on him, just walking to the grocery store. Real stupid.
T wasnt stupid. That much Ill tell anybody.
We was walking down the sidewalk, heading to meet Noodle, when T come up the other way. He started trading words with Brick, real vicious, but that was to be expected. It was all gonna blow over fine in a minute, until the light dude ran up on us.
T dropped his shit to fight the guy. Dropped everything, except the candy. I knew it was for Tina. Always with them Snickers, that girl. Anytime she could get her hands on one.
I looked away, because I didnt want to see T get his ass beat. I looked out over the street and saw Jack Franklin come running. Had his arm outstretched.
“Shit,” I blurted. “Hes got a gun!”
The pale brother let go of Tariq and threw up his hands. Jack Franklin kept on coming. Tariq turned around. He put his arms out in front of him. “Back off, cracker,” he shouted. “Mind your own damn business.”
Jack Franklin shot him in the chest. One shot—BOOM—and Tariq folded. His arms flew upward as his body went down, like a creepy winged thing. When I close my eyes, its all I see.
BOOM. The second shot was just a sound; I must have closed my eyes then, too.
Everyone better stop asking me if T had a gun in his hand. They better stop wondering, if he did, what couldve happened to it. All the cops found at the scene, by his body, was that goddamn bar of Snickers.
Franklin only thought he saw a gun.
Copyright © 2014 by Kekla Magoon