Why the hell did I do that?
I racked my brain all day yesterday to figure it out. Why did I give up Raiden's crew like that? Was I afraid? Scared that if word got back to the Saints that I could be next on the chopping block? Maybe it was the adrenaline kicking in that made me text Brady, or maybe I feared what would happen to my reputation if I didn't.
I rubbed my fingers. Black chipped nail paint coated them. This morning, I cut them a little short, fully expecting some grunt work coming my way soon.
My headphones played a song by Murder of Crows. It wasn't my usual pick, but I liked their older stuff. They recorded this album in Ambrugge Ward. Something about music made on the water just infused it with so much texture. Looking out your window and seeing the canals that give the ward its luster must make you hate being landlocked, force you to think outside the box, get your head thinking about new and innovative ways to string sounds together until it makes something listenable. In so much that there was a profound longing that drove the song, I could not help but vibe with it. The music calmed me down, kept me grounded.
I kicked a can into the street. Dusk was falling incrementally. As the night closed in, it brought a chill with it. Buildings surrounded me, turning the wide city street into a wind tunnel. A truck rode past and knocked the can back onto the side walk, towards me. I cupped my hands to nurture a bit of warmth. Enough to warm my cheeks at least.
I feel like shit.
I wondered if Raiden would forgive me. What would happen if I just walked up to him in class and said: "Hey so about that night at the lot…sorry man, just doing business." I shook my head. What a cocky thing to say--to do. I'd dig a deeper hole for myself if I even tried it.
But was I really in the wrong? You just had to think about yourself in those kinds of situations. Messing with gangs and thugs just isn't for some people. Better to scare Raiden and those others off than to get them involved.
What if they had gotten a taste for it? Or worse, what if Brady invited them to join? That just didn't sit right with me. I like the guy, but something has been off about him lately.
If I thought about it that way, I did a service, didn't I?
I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I never meant to.
Those Saints, some of them were freaks. They'll mug random people--kids. Not all of them are bad. But, there were definitely some who relished in the power the gang gave them.
When Brady approached me to join them after a gig at the skate park once, to be honest, I was floored. Like, fuck, that's just such a cool thing to be offered though, right?
The way he asked me, it was like asking a confidante, like he trusted me. He confided in me. Kind of like a secret club. People to look out for you, people for you to look out for. I couldn't say no.
Of course, everyone had an idea who the Saints were. All those big four gangs had little sects in each of the city's wards: Saints, Royals, Immortals, Warriors. But the actual idea of joining them seemed impossible, separate from reality, a thing of whispers and innuendos. Secret societies. I knew a kid who worked with the Saints a few times, and he liked it.
That was the pull that the big four had on guys like us. They were a little different compared to any run-of-the-mill street gang. Organized and city-wide. They had pockets of sects and subgroups in almost every ward in the city.
The reality was, I was in way over my head.
Maybe it was because a few friends of mine moved out of the ward. Maybe it was because I noticed more trash on the street or more stores falling into disrepair. It's one thing to be a part of something with people, it's another thing to watch the world crumble around you quietly.
Besides, it wasn't like they were the mob--or the mafia. They didn't ask for "protection payments". They weren't like that…for the most part. They protected their own. Gave guys like me a chance to make a little cash out of running petty crimes. Things where people didn't really get hurt. Pay for the occasional scuffle with Royals or Warriors. It was kind of punk.
I didn't feel very punk. I felt like an idiot.
I fished a blunt from my jeans and lit it. The fumes comforted me. I breathed it in, relaxed my shoulders. The night air brushed sweat from the back of my neck.
Two figures emerged from behind the street corner. The blunt dropped from my lips.
"Fuck," I said. "Could you afford to walk a little louder?"
Owen and Kyle were both tall and relatively fit. They made prime candidates for the Saints. They each wore a shock of yellow as rags on their hips. More importantly, they were born and raised on the south side of Easttown--or more like the south-east side.
Saints placed community above everything. That was the most important draw. They grew up in a place where Saints were king. It was an area at the crossroads between Lenox and Ambrugge, and their town lived in the shadow of both. I heard that after they moved deeper into the ward, they started out as runners for the Saints; running contraband, reef, snow, glass, maybe stronger stuff. Honestly, I didn't really want to know. I still wasn't sure if they knew Brady before or after they began their tenure-in-amber or only after finding each other at Easttown High. But that little band of theirs, hell, they were good.
I grew up in Raynham. Same as Raiden. That's how we knew each other. We grew up on the same block. Even if we haven't been very close in a very long time, we still bonded over that little detail…
Except, he probably hated my guts.
I knew I would.
I picked up the blunt from off the ground and brushed off a little dirt. It was still lit, thankfully.
"Why did you ask me to come here?" I asked.
Owen said, "We got a shipment coming in. Needed the extra pair of hands."
Kyle said, "This is a chance for you to make up for before. So don't fuck it up."
I scoffed. "Make up for what? I fucked over my friend because of you guys."
"Yeah," Kyle said. "But you didn't defend our turf. You owe us, coward."
I stepped up into Kyle's face. Owen got between us. "Hey hey hey cool it, both of you." He looked at Kyle and me with a scowl. "We aren't here about that. So just drop it."
I stepped back. "Brady put you two up to it? Where is he?"
"Not here," Owen said. "He's got more important shit to deal with."
"Yeah. More important shit," Kyle parroted.
"So he left you two to do his grunt work?"
"We're not grunts, fuck-o."
"We're partners. Of course you wouldn't know."
"Fine," I admonished. "You're partners who just happen to be less equal than each other."
"Right," they agreed in unison.
Right. God forbid if either one of them decided to share a brain cell. I just might have been intimidated.
A whistle, sharp and piercing, split the tension between us. A man with a headstone for a forehead towered above a few other goons. He waved for us further down the street and turned toward an interchange shrouded in foliage and fences. We followed them in, all the while anxiety settled into my stomach.
The large man leaned against a beat-up muscle car. His fists were as large as it's side-door mirrors. In their reflection I caught a quick glimpse of writing. Tattoos. He scratched his jaw and I saw the word: BRASH written in onyx black ink. He grunted at Owen, Kyle, and I.
Kyle nodded back at him. Owen smacked his head.
We all waited for what seemed like an hour, dragging our feet or just playing with the grass. Two goons hushed in low tones, discussing rumors and gossip. Stuff like who's beefing with who, who got slimed by a rival gang, and who got caught by the feds. The man leaning against the musclecar crossed his arms, letting his men do as they wanted to. Owen slipped out a deck of playing cards and started to play Old Maid with Kyle. The two kept each other company while I lounged around, pulling my heel through the dirt and listening to my music.
It all seemed almost serene, until a black car pulled off of the interchange and parked at the corner. Out of the car a man in a well-tailored suit--well, as well-tailored as I could think of--and flanking him were two other men in suits, each wearing an earpiece and holstered handguns. The men in the suit stopped at the entrance to our little yard and flashed a bright smile at the muscle in our group. He carried a silver brief-case that caught the light of streetlamps nearby.
"Here for the pick-up?" he asked.
The man leaning against the muscle car cracked his knuckles.
"You're late, Mr. Obscure." Of course he wouldn't use his real name. He seemed well-connected enough. Maybe he was afraid that we'd catch him on the street.
The man in the suit laughed nervously. "Mr. Graves, I presume. I had a small hold-up with the boss. You know how it is." He pulled on the lip of his collar, as if it was choking him.
The man in the suit splayed the case on the ground for us to see. Its silver shell snapped open.
An assault rifle, nestled in the case like a birthday present. Black with a matte finish. It measured the length of a saber. A solid, military silhouette reflected back the dark, like the mold of a black hole.
My heart skipped a beat for a moment. This seemed like more than just a little upgrade.
It was a death wish.
"We got a few hundred more just waiting to be carried off," he said. "And plenty more after your end of the deal is paid." It meant more than whatever "Mr. Graves" himself was offering. The guns were an offering to the Saints. I've never seen Mr. Graves before. He was just a cog in a large, moving machine. I just didn't realize the machine packed this kind of firepower.
I could feel the anxiety burning at the pit of my stomach. A campfire, whose coals and wood grew red burning veins. The smoke billowed in my mouth. I coughed into my arm, sure that I'd hack up a lung.
Kyle and Owen stood watching, aghast. A glimmer in their eyes told me all I needed to know about what they were thinking. Like seeing bars of solid gold.
"Are you impressed, Mr. Graves?" Mr. Obscure asked sarcastically.
Mr. Graves grunted. Though, the same glimmer reflected out from his cold, mercurial eyes.
Then, he nodded at me. With a small gesture with his fist--the one labeled BRASH--signalled towards the trunk of his muscle car.
Kyle and Owen watched me go around to the back of the car and pull out from the trunk a similar looking brief-case, metallic and freezing to the touch. They looked as if they were watching me walk across a gangplank as a whirlpool swirled underneath my feet.
The fire in my stomach flickered all the while I carried that heavy box over. It was heavy enough that I needed to hold it by the handle with both hands.
I stood in front of Mr. Obscure. Mr. Graves nodded. I slowly, carefully dropped the case in front of him. It still plopped down with a sound. I thought I noticed Mr. Graves, reaching down the small of his back. Mr. Obscure's escorts also began to reach for their holsters.
"Alright, boy," Mr. Obscure said. "Show me the goods."
I reached over the brief-case. My fingers fumbled over the clip keeping it closed. I cursed myself. Today of all days I chose to cup my nails a little short.
The flames flickered again. Did one of the escorts just eye me?
Just a little more. Finally my finger found a recess in the latch.
The suitcase snapped open.
"Holy f--" I caught myself.
Documents. White paper with black and blue ink. Maybe some red ink. Some vanilla folders too. It slipped out. Some fell onto the dirt. I quickly caught it and slipped it back into the suitcase.
Mr. Obscure reached down and freed one of the documents. He examined it closely, then nodded.
"Good," he said. He pointed down. "Close it up and toss it in the back."
I did as he asked, making sure to temper my trembling fingers.
Mr. Obscure said to Mr. Graves, "A pleasure doing business."
And Mr. Graves smiled.