“Crazy,” said Michael Wilson. “We ain’t gonna drive no two thousand miles. And back. Doesn’t make sense.”
“Michael Wilson,” said Sidney softly. “You the oldest. You supposed to lead this crew. If you can’t handle this trip, tell me, so I can shoot you and find someone that can.”
Michael Wilson held his hands up, shifting gears smoothly. “Right, man,” he sang. “Just running the numbers, man.”
East breathed out and let his eyes adjust to the map, the thick red and black and blue cords inching state to state. Dense and jumpy. Every road had a number and joined up a hundred times with other roads. He saw how they would go. This was like the mazes they used to do in school while the teacher slept. What they said in school was: Don’t worry. Keep looking at it. You can always get there.
—
After Sidney lectured them on the route and the job, Johnny handed each boy a wallet. East examined his. Inside, in a plastic window, was a California state driver’s license with his face looking up at him. Dimly he remembered this, his picture taken in front of a blue cloth. Somebody he’d never seen, in some room the winter before. Some of the boys came in for it. Never asked why.
The work was good—the two photos, the watermarked top coat. Some kind of bar code on the back.
“Shit looks real,” Michael Wilson said.
“It is real,” Walter said.
“Antoine Harris. Sixteen years old,” read East. “How you say it’s real?”
“It ain’t my name either,” agreed Michael Wilson.
“Listen,” said Sidney. “What is real? It’s in the system. It’s legit. Police pulls you over and looks you up, it’s real. License like that cost a man on the street ten thousand dollars. So don’t lose it. Read what it says and remember it in case some police asks you who you are.”
“Kwame Harris,” said Walter. “What, him and me supposed to be brothers?”
“You the one sat closer to the table,” giggled Michael Wilson.
“Cousins,” said Sidney. “Cousins. Know each other a little. Not too much.”
“Here is one for you, Michael,” Johnny said. “Give me yours. I’ll keep it for you.”
“If someone asks you where you’re going,” said Sidney, “you’re going to a family reunion. If someone asks you where, you say Milwaukee, Wisconsin. If someone asks you where in Milwaukee, you don’t know. That’s three questions.”
Johnny said, “Don’t let nobody ask you more than three questions.”
“We just some lying motherfuckers all across America,” said Michael Wilson.
“You’re getting it.” Sidney snapped out a thick stack of money, and the air between the boys grew quiet and warm. All the eyes watched as he dealt twenties from his left hand into his right.
“Three hundred,” he said to Walter. “Three hundred,” he said to East. He passed the two piles. The rest, a bigger stack, went to Michael Wilson.
“Wait,” Walter said. “I’m going out five days, killing someone, and all I get is three hundred dollars?”
Johnny moved in. “Boy, this ain’t compensation.”
“This is expenses,” bristled Sidney. “You pay cash. There is no credit card. There is no gas card. You dig? Ain’t staying in motels. You go in and wash up in a rest stop, in a McDonald’s. You ain’t wasting time. You ain’t making records of where you are. You the one supposed to understand this.”
“Walter, you’re very smart,” said Johnny. “But smarter people than you puzzled this out. So pretty please, shut the fuck up.”
Walter nodded, swallowing it down.
“Michael Wilson, you got a thousand dollars. If there’s a problem? You fix it. This money ain’t for clothes or having a good time. This money ain’t yours. The oldest one gets to hold. He gets to solve problems.”
“All right,” said Michael Wilson. He looked around at the younger boys significantly as he tucked the money away.
“So that’s your ride today. Right there,” said Johnny.
They all followed Johnny’s eyes around the lot. The blue minivan was what he was looking at.
“What?” said Michael.
“Let me show you,” Johnny said.
“Show me what? You chose the sorriest car you could find?”
Johnny took a handful of Michael Wilson and shoved him along ahead. “This a job car, boys. This is my gift to you.” He railed at them quietly. “Reliable. Invisible. Rebuilt. New six-cylinder, three-point-eight. New transmission. New suspension. New tires, brakes, battery. Doesn’t look new, but it drives new. You can sleep in it. Most important, you ain’t gonna look like ignorant gang boys, which is what, in fact, you are. Wisconsin plates. In this car you look like four mama’s boys going to a family reunion, which is what you want to look like. Please don’t give me a ticket, officer.” He popped the back gate. Three cases of bottled water sat behind the rearmost seat. “You ain’t got to love it. You ain’t even got to bring it back. But this is the right car for the job.”
“And what the fuck do we have here,” Sidney said, looking up.