In the Wrong Hands, стр. 36
“Hey, Kev…that’s…”
“Yeah.”
Arthur was fighting. They all were. It was a rumble with another gang. One by one, he picked out the other members of the Unjudged and started to put two and two together. The brick. The bike. He and his brother had played right into their hands, but something went wrong. The UJ got jumped. Why the hell did they get jumped? And, more importantly, what was he supposed to do now? The police were on their way (as far as he knew). If any of these guys got taken in, yet another investigation would start. God forbid Lynch would get assigned, and in a few days, it would be “game over” for him and everyone involved. He couldn’t leave his mother with all her boys in jail. He had to make them scatter somehow. He didn’t have his badge. He didn’t have his gun. All he had was the darkness, his voice, and his shithead brother.
“What do you want to do, Kev?”
Kevin Reilly did his best to explain the reality of the situation before sounding the charge.
“Now follow my lead. Don’t let yourself be seen.”
Then Kevin cupped his hands around his mouth and inhaled deeply.
“Break it up! This is the po…”
And Detective Kevin Reilly’s lights went out. His last sensations before hitting the ground were a shadow, a brief smell of iron, and the stars above him changing colors.
FIVE MINUTES EARLIER…
The voice came from behind.
“Well, well, well! And just what do we have here!?”
There were five of them. How that many large black men managed to be that stealthy in a yard filled with scrap metal, Arthur could only imagine. The smallest of them was easily over six feet tall, and their average BMI had to come in under nine percent. They also appeared to be inked up, although it was impossible to tell to what extent because, curiously enough, they were dressed in suits and ties. The one who had spoken approached with a smile. Arthur responded in kind.
“Nice suits. Don’t mind us. We’re just waiting on a friend.”
“Ha ha! Like my man, Mick Jaggar! Right?”
Arthur didn’t get the reference.
“Guess you’re not a Stones fan. That’s okay. I don’t much care for Jay-Z to tell you the truth. But thanks for the compliment. A brother likes to look good, you know.”
The speaker had worked his way into an exaggerated street accent, which he snapped out of in order to continue.
“Seriously, you boys hiding out here looking to score some blow? Some hookers maybe?”
Arthur barely let him finish the sentence.
“I’m not sure how that’s any of your business.”
Bubbs chuckled, as did all the suits. Steven and Rick shot terrified glances at Arthur. They were both thinking the same thing.
Shut up! Dear God, Artie! Just shut up!
Nineteen-year-old Tony Evans, the spokesman for the suits, took another step forward, locked eyes with Arthur, and, still chuckling, pointed toward a barely visible skyline of townhouses on the other side of the yard’s western fence.
“You see that window over there?”
Arthur feigned politeness with a quick glance. Tony held his pose in intimidating silence for a few seconds before folding his arms and proceeding with his story. His speech was slow and mellifluous, just like his pastor’s.
“I’ve lived in Franklin Village my whole life. I hear it was a nice place back in the day. Loaded with nothin’ but hard-working white folks. You look like a pretty young bunch of fellas…older than me but still probably too young to remember the Village when it was cool. See what it is now? That’s what happens when people like your grandparents get greedy. Factories close down. Hard working white folks move on to greener pastures. The whole area falls into disrepair. The land values go down the crapper. Slum lords buy the empty homes and fill them up with desperate black folks looking for cheap rent.”
Tony moved closer. His smile disappeared, as did Arthur’s.
“And, let me tell you brother, they are welcomed with open arms.”
The rest of the suits joined in like a congregation with a chorus of subdued “Amens.”
“Open…mother…lovin’…arms…but, guess what? It doesn’t last long. Not at all. Once they hand over their security deposits, the black folks are on their own. Ain’t no Tenants’ Association. Ain’t no landlord to call when something breaks. Over time, they realize that nothing’s any better than it was before. They start thinking to themselves, ‘Nobody else gives a shit. Why should I?’ so they stop caring about their community and themselves. That’s when the drug dealers move in. Now take another look.”
This time Athur’s eyes didn’t move. Tony didn’t care but had to put on a good show. So far, the lines weren’t coming out in the order he had rehearsed, but he was getting the point across.
“Me and the rest of the brothers here could have wound up just as messed up as that building. I’m talking that building right there, you belligerent mother fucker! The building where I grew up! That window right there is my bedroom window, asshole! You know what kept that from happening!?”
Tony didn’t wait for a response. He quietly answered his own question.
“God.”
Both smiles returned. Neither was sincere.
“And that’s why we’re here, my white brothers, to spread the word of God. Brother Michael?”
“Yes, Brother Anthony!”
“What do you think would be an appropriate verse for my new white brothers, my NWB’s?”
“How about Corinthians 15:33?”
“Perfect, Brother Michael. Thank you! Hear the word of the Lord my NWB’s! Corinthians 15:33 says ‘Do not be deceived: Bad company ruins good morals.’”
The suits emphasized the words with fist bumps and more “Amens.” Tony turned to receive a few high fives and, with running back speed, pivoted back to relock eyes with Arthur.
“So, you’ve heard the word of the Lord…now get out of here.”
Arthur looked down and thoughtfully wrinkled his