—
It was East’s little brother. Shambling and grinning. He was small and two years younger than East. Lighter-skinned and already beginning to bald. But he had a sharp easiness. There was already something chiseled into him: Ty didn’t care. He didn’t want to be loved or trusted. He was capable and unafraid and undisturbed by anything he’d seen or done so far.
“Ty-monster, sneaking little thirty-six chambers motherfucker,” said Johnny. They touched hands.
“Ty,” said Sidney warily.
The other two boys stared. Ty ignored them, ignored East, completely. He sat down on the bumper of Johnny’s black car and matter-of-factly drew a gun and reloaded the clip with bullets loose in the pocket of his blue T-shirt.
“This boy here,” Johnny laughed.
Ty finished and put the gun straight down under his waistband. When he stood up from the bumper, the barrel stood out cock-straight in his pants.
“Which reminds me,” Sidney said. “Give it up. Phones. Guns. Any ID you got. I need it right now.”
“Fuck that,” Ty snorted.
“Whatever you got,” said Sidney, unflinching. “Weapons. Knife or stick. Any digital other than a watch. If you got a bottle of something. Whatever you don’t want the sheriff of White Town to find on you. Give it up right now.”
East had come with just his phone, but the others all had something. Michael Wilson gave up a small bag and papers. Walter gave up a knife—a Korean type for street fights. So light and springy it would shiver inside you.
Sidney beckoned. “East? What else?”
“Nothing, man.”
“Don’t make me fuck you up.”
He sniffed. “Fin told me, don’t bring nothing.”
“All right,” said Johnny, and he and Sidney glanced at each other. They didn’t ask Ty, just closed in. He twisted and swore while they held his hands. Johnny hung him up, and Sidney patted him down. They took just the one gun from his pants. Sidney examined it.
“Man, fuck you,” said Ty, wrenching his wrists free and rubbing them.
“Thank you for checking your weaponry at the door,” Johnny said, taking it over.
“You best keep that for me.”
“I’m keeping it already.”
“Ridiculous,” Ty snorted, shaking his clothes back right. “Sent to shoot a man with no guns.”
East studied his brother. So content in his fury. Still little and raw but ready, happy to strike. So he had known about the job too. They hadn’t had to tell him what to do—only the where and who.
“Get close to where you’re headed, you’ll get guns,” Sidney said. “Until then, we need you clean. We need you to be angels.” He wiped his mouth with his bare forearm—his tattoos glistened wet. “You think it’s the same out there? But you don’t know. It ain’t. Them police don’t budget on you. That’s their country. They love a little Negro boy. They pat your ass down and you go to jail. You go to jail, the job ain’t done. And if the job ain’t done, Fin goes away.” Suddenly, full-muscled, he lunged at Michael Wilson and bashed him back into the side of the van. East looked up, surprised.
“You listening to me, smiley-face motherfucker?” Sidney spat. He bared his teeth and raised his forehead to Michael’s chin like a gouge.
“Sidney, man. We got it,” East said. Straight bullying the lead man, he thought. Setting up the whole thing.
Sidney was wound way past tight. “The job. Do it the way we tell you. Got something funny to say now?”
“No,” said Michael Wilson, clutching his sunglasses.
“Anyone?”
“No,” said East. “We’re good to go.”
Johnny flexed the black rails of his arms. “See, we’re being polite to you today, the better for your educational purpose. But do exactly what the fuck we say.”
“We got it,” said East again. Patient, he reminded himself. A moment passed, the six of them wary and bareheaded in the sun.
“All right.” Sidney wiped his mouth, then settled a little at last. “When you get into Iowa, look at the map. You gonna call for directions. Call this number.” He opened the road atlas to the map of Iowa. A pink phonesex street flyer was taped over its eastern half.
“This number here?” said Michael Wilson.
“This number here. When the operator asks what you want, you say, ‘I want to talk to Abraham Lincoln.’?”
“You what?” Michael Wilson broke up first.
Sidney waited bitterly. “Laugh all you want. But remember.”
“Abraham Lincoln gonna say, ‘Hi, Michael. Me so horny.’?”
Even East bent over laughing.
Sidney waited, jaw hard like a fist. “Make that call,” he said at last. “You’ll get guns.”
“Paid-for guns. Guns we selected for you,” Johnny said. “Use them and lose them.”
“The gun man is a white man. So be cool.”