Little Boy Lost

The crowd received another warning, ordering them to start dispersing or face arrest. The bright lights shone down on the crowd, growing bigger as armored vehicles crept closer. Riot police with masks and shields flanked the edges.

Chants grew louder as the units pressed.

As the protesters were pushed together, some started moving down the street and toward the highway as expected, but the police were too slow to pinch them from behind.

That was how the plan fell apart.

Rather than go toward the highway, hundreds of protesters moved in the wrong direction. They went off the street and onto Jimmy Poles’s front lawn. Then somebody threw a bottle through the front window.

More glass shattered. Cops got spooked. A half dozen canisters of tear gas shot into the crowd. Protesters panicked as their eyes watered. They got disoriented and didn’t know where to run. Some fell to the ground, coughing and seeking clean air. Others tripped or were pushed. Everybody was screaming as the vehicles and the line of police continued to push forward.

Then Jimmy Poles’s house was lit on fire.





CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR


The governor called a state of emergency. A curfew was imposed across the entire city, but the protests continued night after night. Every day, television and newspapers were filled with images of the conflict. Reporters from around the world descended on the city. Gun sales were at a record high, and permit-to-carry classes filled as the frightened prepared for the worst. The community splintered into protests and counter-protests, with others stuck in the middle.

Saint Louis had always had an identity crisis. It was the intersection of North and South, East and West. The tension had always been below the surface, but now it was out in the open. Past police shootings and riots were prologue. This was different. It wasn’t going to end with a task force and a march to Jefferson City.

“Your father wants me to go to Washington, DC, for a few weeks.” My mother poured herself some more wine and then took a bite of her dinner salad. “Let things calm down. Sammy could come.”

I looked across the table at Sammy, but she didn’t say anything. “I’d rather Sammy stick with me.” I smiled at her and winked. “We’re getting the schools narrowed down to the top three. I want to get that started.”

“Now?” My mother’s look turned skeptical. “With everything going on?”

“Can’t stop living.” It sounded odd coming from me, a man who had been frozen for years and who—even now—was only partially thawed at best.

An awkward silence hung over the dinner table, and it stayed there until I broke it. “OK, OK. Y’all are given permission to laugh at me. I’m Mr. Corn-Dog. I get it. I got no business giving people life lessons.” I gave Sammy a goofy grin. “‘Can’t stop living.’ Hear that? ‘Keep on living.’ Go ahead. You can laugh now.”

And laugh they did.

It was a release, and it felt good. When it tapered down, the Judge knocked on the dining room table, suppressing his smile. He declared to the world, “I’m staying put.” Then he poured himself another glass of wine. “Down with the ship, I say. Not going to be driven from my home by a bunch of idiots. A lot of them aren’t even from here. Traveling to our fine city to cause trouble. Anarchists and professional protesters. Ridiculous.”

Then a small voice said, “I want to go to the lake.”

We all turned to Sammy.

“The lake?”

“It’d be nice.” Sammy smiled and looked at me. “And you promised we’d go last summer, but we never did.” She continued to justify her recommendation. “Peaceful. No Internet. No television. Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Yes.” I nodded. “Sounds about perfect, except I got work and we got to get you back in school, remember?”





CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE


The next morning, I met my brother for breakfast at a box tucked between Broadway and the historic Route 66. Lincoln had wanted to get together since the press conference, but I had been able to put him off until now.

There were a few pleasantries, but it didn’t take long for Lincoln to get to the point.

“You know I still want you to take my spot.” Lincoln put his arm around me. He was ready to forget about the threats made to Annie and the other hard feelings, if I was. “What I told you was the truth. You’d be great. Wasn’t a bunch of BS, brother.”

“Sometimes I think I’ve got too much going on already.” I looked back at the cook working in the Eat-Rite’s cramped kitchen. “I’ve been leaning toward it, really I have, but then I’ll snap back to thinking maybe politics isn’t for me.”

“You talking about Sammy? Worried about whether she could handle it?”

I thought about what I should say before responding, trying to figure out how much to reveal and how much was already known. I didn’t like being guarded with my brother, but I was. “Yeah,” I said. “That’s a big part of it.”

“But this would be good for her and you.” He leaned in. “A state senator will have clients coming out of nowhere. And I’m not talking shady clients or criminals. I’m talking about legit companies who will hire you for five hundred dollars an hour, maybe more, for some legal advice. You’ll be taken care of.”

“Like bribes.”

My brother recoiled. “Ain’t bribes, man. That’s what you’re worth. That’s what real lawyers charge nowadays.” He paused and looked me straight in the eye. “Listen to me.” Lincoln pointed at my chest, then spoke every word with deliberation. “That’s what you are worth.”

“Maybe.” I watched as the cook plated our eggs and pancakes and then, as he brought them over to us at the end of the counter, our conversation paused. Lincoln started eating, but I’d lost my appetite.

He raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re not going to eat?”

I picked up a small piece of scrambled eggs with my fork and put it into my mouth. “I’m eating,” I said. “See?”

“You’re disgusted by how crass I can be,” Lincoln said. “I get it.” He sliced off a piece of pancake. “But somebody’s got to be real, man. If not, why’d you invite me here?”

“I thought you called me?”

“Technicalities,” Lincoln said, dismissing the chronology. “You want to hear the crass stuff. Admit it.”

“No,” I said. “I want to get your ideas and thoughts.” I sighed. “This is a big decision for me. I’m trying to work it through and just get it done and . . . you’re better at this stuff than me.”

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