“I’ll get some clothes on the road, I guess.”
“If we can find a tent store,” smirked Michael Wilson. He went to touch East’s hand, but East looked the other way. So. There was a whole connection that came before. He leaned against the loading dock and studied the other two.
“You got the rundown? What the plan is?”
“No, man, they gonna tell us. They doing that here.”
“And I heard you was at your leisure,” the fat boy addressed East.
East looked up. “At what?”
“I said, I heard you was out of a job.” Walter leaned against a post and addressed Michael Wilson. “This the boy whose house got shot up yesterday. They said there’s three others coming,” he explained, “so I asked who.”
Michael Wilson cracked open a peanut and tossed the shell at East. “You lose your house? What you doing now?”
East swept his hand. “This.”
“Moving up,” said Michael Wilson. “What about you, Walt?”
“Everything,” Walter said. “A couple days back they had me running a yard. Substitute teacher.” He addressed East with a certain friendly contempt. “I used to work outside like you. Few years ago.” He giggled.
East couldn’t contain himself. “What you do now?”
“Projects,” Walter said. “Research.”
“Research?” said Michael Wilson. “How old are you, fat boy?”
“Seventeen.”
“How about you, East?”
East looked away. “Fifteen.”
The car arrived next. It was a burly black 300. Floating slow, the way cops sometimes did, all the way down the alley. At last the windows rolled down to reveal Sidney and Johnny.
“God damn, man,” crowed Michael Wilson. “Could have walked here faster.”
East saw that Michael laughed almost every time he talked. It wasn’t that he thought everything was funny; it was like his sentence wasn’t finished yet without it.
Sidney scowled at Michael Wilson and got out. He wore all white, a hot-day outfit. Johnny wore black jeans and no shirt.
“Where is the last one?” said Johnny.
“I don’t know, shit,” said Michael Wilson. “Number one is right here.” Cackling.
“We ain’t going over this twice,” said Sidney. “What time is it?”
“Nine oh-five,” said Michael Wilson.
“Fuck him then. He’s late. Let’s go on.”
“I’ll get him,” Johnny said. “Fin said four boys, we gon have four boys.” He fell back and started working his phone.
The fat boy scratched his face. “Who we waiting on?”
“My brother,” said East calmly. There was a way to stick up without putting your neck out. Dealing with Ty—Maybe you ain’t gonna like it, Fin had said—would take plenty of neck.
“Oh. Ty,” Sidney said. “That child cannot listen anyhow. So let’s start. Just sit his ass in the back with a coloring book.”
—
Sidney booted up a tablet on the back of the black car and swept his finger through a line of photos. A solid-looking black man, maybe sixty, a whitish beard cut thin. Broad, hammered-looking nose, a fighter’s nose. Sharp eyes. In the pictures, he looked tired. His clothes cost good money: a black suit, a tie with some welt to it.
Sidney looked over their shoulders. “Judge Carver Thompson,” he said. “When Fin’s boy Marcus goes up on trial, he’s the witness.”
“Carver Thompson,” said Michael Wilson. “If that ain’t a name for a legal Negro, I don’t know what is.”
“Don’t worry about his name. He used to be an asset to us. Now he ain’t.”
“That’s why you going to kill him,” said Johnny softly.
East looked around at the other boys. Michael Wilson nodded coolly. Looked like he knew. Walter didn’t. Something falling out in the fat boy’s throat, gagging him. East watched with satisfaction. Little science man. Fuck you, he thought.
“Why this gonna take five days?” said Michael Wilson, quick on the pickup. “Why we ain’t doing it already?”
Sidney put a road map down on top of the trunk. “Because here’s where we at.” He tapped Los Angeles. “And this man is way—over—here.” He swept his hand across all the colors on the long stretch of land till he tapped on a yellow patch near a blue lake.
“Wisconsin?” said Michael Wilson.
Walter said, “What’s a black man doing in Wisconsin?”
“I guess a nigger likes to fish.” Sidney shrugged. “Also likes to stay alive.”
“How we gonna get there?” said Michael Wilson.
Now Walter’s face turned cloudy. “Oh, shit. Oh, shit,” he said, “I know what you’re gonna say next. No flying, right? We about to drive all that?”
“Correct,” said Sidney.
“You’re tripping. That’s a thousand miles,” Michael Wilson said.
“Two thousand,” said Walter despairingly. “That’s why we ran them documents. Right? That’s what you been setting up.” He opened his hands, a little box, in front of Sidney.