“Shit.” Kendrick eyed Linc, turned to look at Sydney, who worked diligently on Linc’s hair. Then he stuffed the canister in the pocket of his overalls. “There more?”
Linc nodded. Then he nodded at the reporter who sat with Timeica and Cedes in their bubble of hilarity. “Lil’ Miss Pop Star over there, I don’t like her. Why’s she interested in us? In this place? She’s writing whatever she’s writing, and who’s it for?”
Kendrick tapped his breast pocket where the canister bulged slightly. “You think we in trouble? I mean, shit, look at all this.”
Sydney coughed, mean and wet. A little bit of it splashed onto the back of Linc’s neck. She wiped her hand on her lap. Linc’s own hand went to the back of his neck, and when he looked at his fingertips, they were red. Quickly, he scrubbed it into pink, then wiped what remained on his jeans. He felt weary; his shoulders slumped with it, because he knew he couldn’t run and settle in another place. New Haven was the only city he’d been sober in since he’d watched his brother hang from a streetlamp in Nevada. “I can’t do this anywhere else,” he whispered.
Sydney’s fingers skipped a beat, and he knew she had heard him. She sniffed and it sounded like she was fighting a sob.
The white lady held up her touchpad, looked like she was taking a picture, then turned back to Timeica and Mercedes, who crouched over to see what she’d documented. Kendrick cut his eyes at the group.
Linc caught a glimpse of the image, which flashed briefly as a hologram before Timeica told Snowflake to cut that light. It was a hand, someone’s hand. Maybe Jayceon’s. Everyone’s fingers looked wrinkled and thick and ashy. Three diamonds: a six, a three, an Ace. Two hearts: An Ace and a ten. A King of clubs. Five spades: eight, Queen, Jack, two, Ace. And two Jokers.
“How many books can this hand win?” asked the white lady.
Mercedes glanced sideways at her. A little you’re-quick mixed with some watch-yourself.
Timeica squinted at the image. “Eight books and a possible.”
Snowflake had that eager student look on her face.
“The gods done blessed you with a hand like that.” She spoke in a hushed whisper. If it ever got into anyone’s heads that she had somehow fucked up the game, she’d have to go stack somewhere two states away. “You got the four highest cards. Two Jokers, Ace of spades, and a two. If. You’re playing deuces high. If not, you still got the highest spade, the King. Whether or not your partner has it, you can still snatch five books. Easy. Those red Aces’ll get you another book. Smart thing would be to play them early before the suit runs out and people start cutting you. That’s seven. You can use the two of spades and even the eight to cut once you’re out of clubs and hearts. That’ll net you two more.”
Testing the waters, Snowflake whispered, “What happens if I played the five or the six?”
“Then you’re an underbidding trick-ass mark and you deserved to be cussed all the way out.”
Mercedes shifted, moved her ass back and forth against the ground. “If you ain’t ready to throw down, nena, picheale a ese tema. You got no place at a Spades table.”
Linc tilted his head, Sydney leaned down to his ear while she worked his scalp. “Could run a Boston with that hand.” She nodded toward the trio.
“She’s eatin’ that shit up,” Kendrick muttered beneath his breath. “Exotic fuckin’ tigers ’n’ shit is what we are.”
“I’m a proud monkey,” Linc smirked.
Kendrick got up. “I almost want her to try playin’ a game. Just to watch one of those folks over there fuck her up.” He patted the dust out of his overalls. “That’s how you deal with invadin’ motherfuckers. You invite them to a Spades game.”
Bishop had Bugs in his truck while he worked on the wooden electricity pole. His chewing stick rotated between his teeth, his gloves slumped in his pocket. He knew it was dangerous to do this work without them, and that it hurt, but it attacked the numbness and made him present. And it distracted him from the white boy staring up at him with worry wet in his eyes.
There were more of them now, which meant more work that wasn’t stacking. Sure, he could fall from this rickety-ass ladder and break every bone God gave him, but stacking was a slow death. Even wearing a mask, you got the dust in you; not only that, you could barely breathe beneath the thing. And stooping like you had to do, especially if you had a short hammer, meant that your body figured that was its natural state, that hunched over was how you was supposed to be, so when you stood upright again, trying to look somewhat dignified and whatnot, the body rebelled. “Pick one,” your back kept saying to you.
Birds flew low over him, and he almost stopped completely to admire the eagle that soared over his head. The animals that did show up here in autumn were bigger than they were when he was growing up, but they seemed natural. As many people as lived here, the animals didn’t seem to mind.
After he finished, he was slow getting back down the ladder. The others watching him—the white boy and the mixed one who had his arm wrapped around the white boy’s waist—probably saw him as some old nigga trying to convince himself of his own usefulness by taking on unnecessary danger, on the warpath to make the whole rest of the world understand he wasn’t obsolete. Not yet. But the neighbors who knew him knew why he took his time coming down that ladder. He liked to linger here. The air was cooler here, the small domes more robust. Not the patchwork, rickety contraptions near the city center. Folks really had it better here. Even with the stash houses and the empty lots and the houses that had long since been foreclosed on, they had it better here. The roads might not’ve been anything to write home about, but they really did have it better here. The animals weren’t too shook to show their faces, to commune with the rest of God’s creatures.
He couldn’t fault the white folk for picking this place for a landing pad.
On his way to the front porch, he watched the white man—Jonathan! That was his name—fumble in his pocket for change like Bishop didn’t have a credit exchanger in the truck. And something about it made him feel sad. His chewing stick twitched between his teeth. “Contractor handles it,” he said, raising a hand to stop the boy.
The relief on Jonathan’s face deepened his sadness, so he nodded at him, tugged his cap slightly, then picked up his toolbox and walked off.
Around the corner, his truck came into view. Bugs was in the passenger’s seat tinkering with the boxy credit exchanger, turning it over in his ashy fingers. Bishop made as much noise as he could, tossing his tools onto the backseat, then climbing in.
It was good to see Bugs be curious and kid-like again. When he was around the others—around Jayceon and Linc and the rest of them—he always talked like he was older than he was, and Bishop knew—he’d seen it too many times before—that if he left Bugs to himself, then Bugs would fall in with those other boys and absorb their violence or their tendency toward it. Left to himself, he’d spend more time in his own head and find more and more ways to get out of it. The track marks on his arms were healed, but if you knew what track marks looked like, you’d know that’s what they were. And what did it say about a kid who still did those drugs and couldn’t even afford dragons?
“Where we goin’ next, Bishop?”
“Just gotta run a few more errands. You got somewhere important to be?”
“Nah, just bored. Shit is boring here.”
Bishop laughed as he started the car. “You get older, you’ll realize how good bored is. How lucky you is to even be bored.”
“I ain’t got no kinda plans to be that bored. You crazy, man.”
“Maybe I am.” And with that, he peeled off.
BISHOP’S truck was parked on Orange Street, flanked by shuttered coffee shops and workspaces. Behind him, a few East African restaurants had their “Closed” signs up. But every so often, Bishop peeked over his steering wheel and around the corner toward the library, next to which sat City Hall.
Bugs was still messing with the credit exchanger.
“Hey, can you put that down?” he asked with too much bite in his voice. “I’m tryna look for somethin’.”
The noise stopped.
Bishop clocked the sun’s height in the sky to tell what time it was. He started drumming his fingers.
“That help you think?” Bugs asked, sharp.
