They talked about girls. They talked about Ghetto Prince, the Sunday-night go-go show on WPGC hosted by Big G, the singer from Backyard. They talked about going to a band show at the community center on New Hampshire Avenue, in Langley Park. They talked about Carmelo Anthony and how he had been unfairly treated in that video thing up in Baltimore. Shaka claimed he had seen NBA star Steve Francis and his friend Bradley over by Georgia Avenue. Steve had come up in the area and was frequently seen back in the neighborhood, talking positive to kids.
“Steve was drivin that Escalade he got,” said Shaka, and Diego asked about the rims, and when Shaka described them, Diego said they sounded tight.
The sky had darkened some. They got up to go and collected their things. Through the chain-link fence, they saw their friend Asa Johnson walking south on 3rd. Asa was wearing a North Face jacket that broke midthigh. His head down, his brow wrinkled, he was staring at the sidewalk, taking long strides.
“Asa!” shouted Shaka. “Where you goin, dawg?”
Asa did not answer or acknowledge the call. He turned his face away so they could not see his eyes. As he did, Diego thought he saw something shiny on his cheek.
“Asa. Yo, hold up!”
Asa walked on. They watched him as he turned left on Tuckerman, eastward bound.
“ ’Sup with him?” said Diego. “Actin like he don’t know us.”
“No clue. Kinda warm for him to be rockin that North Face, though.”
“He was sweatin, too. Guess he gotta show that new coat off.”
“You talk to him lately?”
“Not much this school year. Not since I transferred.”
“He playin football?”
“He dropped out.”
“Maybe he’s just in a hurry to get home.”
“He lives in the opposite direction,” said Diego.
“Maybe he’s tryin to get away from home, then,” said Shaka. “Way his father’s always pressed.”
“Could be he’s got a girl up that way.”
“You ever know Asa to mess with a girl?”
“True,” said Diego. “But I ain’t never see you with one, either.”
“I never am with just one,” said Shaka. “I got a whole stable.”
“Where they at?”
“I ain’t tellin you.”
They came off the court and walked south on 3rd. Down past Sheridan they went along a short commercial strip, past a women’s clothing store with African designs, a barbershop, a dry cleaner’s, and a ministry. On the next street, at the corner of 3rd and Rittenhouse, they stopped in front of a large warehouse-like structure that was now a banquet and party hall, rented out for anniversaries, birthdays, and general celebrations, called the Air Way VIP room.
“I’m headed over to Fat Joe’s,” said Shaka. “Play some PS 2. He got the new NC double A.”
“My pops won’t let me go to Joe’s.”
“Why not?”
“Joe’s father has a gun. You know, that little thirty-two he got?”
“We ain’t gonna mess with it.”
“My father don’t want me in that house.”
“Okay, then,” said Shaka, tapping Diego’s outstretched fist. “Later, dawg.”
“Later.”
Shaka walked west down Rittenhouse, toward his mother’s row house on Roxboro Place. Diego went east, in the direction of a pale yellow stucco colonial fronted by a porch, on a rise halfway up the block.
His father’s Tahoe was not in the street. Diego felt that he was nearly a man, but he was still young enough to like the security of knowing his dad was home.
Dusk was near. The dropping sun cast long shadows on the grass.