Lunged down and punched him in the face again.
Dwight groaned and rolled on his side, blood gushing out of his nose, eye swelling already.
Michael stepped into the circle and looked down on Dwight. “If you’re not going to play by the rules, then you should at least win.”
Then Michael turned to me. “We’re done here. Come and get a beer.”
I waited. Caught Dwight’s eyes and held them until he looked away.
“Come on, Ice. This way,” Michael said.
I let him lead me away, loving the adrenaline spike. A buzz of power, raw and strong. I didn’t care—if it was right or if my eyes had the same addict’s gleam that Michael got when he used people.
It occurred to me later, once I was sitting back on the wall, the beer a hot weight in my stomach, that the whole thing had played out pretty good for Michael: putting the leash back on me after everyone had seen the psycho bitch-slapping Michael’s lead disciple. The whole thing had probably been Michael’s idea.
Which made me feel twenty different kinds of stupid.
I let my eyes drift over the faces around me. Kids I didn’t know were flowing past, some glancing at me like maybe they wanted a shot.
Others darted their eyes away when they saw me looking.
T-Man slapped his hand into mine. “Man, that was some shit. You handed Dwight his ass!”
Everyone laughed.
The music got louder. Plastic cups crunched on the patio as more people arrived at the party. I saw Clay once, hanging back, just inside the double doors. He was holding a cup and listening in on a conversation between two girls.
I was glad he was there, although it was starting to seem like nothing was going to happen.
Until Michael jerked his head at me to follow.
We walked back inside, farther into the house this time, past groups clustered around drugs. Pills, pipes, and powders. Michael hadn’t been lying when he said he could get anything. There were enough drugs here to get a kid from my neighborhood bounced for dealing.
Must be different here, because no one seemed anxious about being caught holding.
Who was the supplier? One of Cesare’s dealers?
Michael stopped so we could get fresh drinks at the bar, and then he pushed through a heavy oak door. The dim, green-shaded lights of a game room cast little spotlights across the pool table. A form in the darkness behind the table stood as Michael closed the door behind us.
A burly older guy stepped into the light. His hair was starting to recede, but his little-kid pug nose made it hard to guess his age.
I drained my glass, trying to ignore the needles in my side.
“This one’s for you,” Michael said, handing the guy his drink.
He put it down and glared at me.
“So, this’s him, huh?”
Michael nodded. He started rolling a pool ball around the table. “Jason, this is Trent. Trent, Jason.”
I leaned against the wall and waited.
“Jason Roberts.” Trent smiled at me like it was a reunion.
I shrugged.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Trent smiled.
I tried to remember every fight I’d ever been in. I tried to picture every face, every person I’d ever thrown a punch at, or shoved, or walked away from (the short list). I tried to remember my father’s friends, their kids, their mules.
“Sorry,” I said. Hoping I wouldn’t be.
Trent barreled forward, carrying his weight like a fighter: on the balls of his feet, ready to spring in any direction.
I tightened my grip on the glass.
Trent smiled like he understood. He held up a hand. “It’s okay. We only met once, and you pretty much only had eyes for my sister.”
My stomach dropped.
“She said you were the best boyfriend she ever had.”
Celia. My eighth-grade girlfriend.
“Trent?” I said. Celia’s brother hadn’t been a “Trent.”
“I like it better than Terrence.” Trent shrugged. He held out his hand.
I took it.
“I told him,” he said, nodding at Michael, “that if he wanted to do this thing, he’d have to get someone with real street smarts. You know, someone with balls.”
I shrugged like I knew what he was talking about. Michael gave a cat-eats-mouse grin.
“And I want you to know, man,” Trent continued, “that whatever happens—if we do this deal or not—I respect you. And thanks—for clocking that teacher. If I’d known, I would’ve killed him.”
Talk is cheap.
“Yeah,” I mumbled, wondering what Celia had to do with anything. “Where’s Celia now?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking, remembering green eyes and streaked brown hair, too much makeup and a too-knowing smile.
Trent frowned. “Who knows? She took off. She’ll be all right, though. She’s got smarts.”
We didn’t know the same girl. The Celia I’d known had been desperate for someone to take care of her, to love her, to do right. So desperate, she’d latch on to anyone who’d hold her, no matter who they were.
Even me. Or a teacher old enough to be her father.
Trent shook his head and smiled at Michael. “I guess you’re serious, huh?”
Michael nodded, eager, like a little kid incinerating ants with a magnifying glass.
Trent squinted at me. He scratched his gut. “You’re the buy-in for little man to even sit at the table,” he told me.
Michael still smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
Trent shook his head with a kids-these-days expression. Even though he was only a few years older, you could see he liked pretending to be an authority. A petty Caesar.
“All right, all right,” Trent chanted. “To the first order of business.”
He reached into his back waistband. Brought out a gun. A 9mm semiautomatic, gleaming and dark. It pulled my eyes like a black hole.
“I heard about your troubles,” Trent said to Michael. He ejected the clip. Popped the slide back. Pulled the trigger, clicking it back in place. Handed the gun over.