Part 6 (2/2)

Jahlil was sixteen, and this was the third job he'd held in the past four months. First, he'd worked for the town grounds crew, cutting gra.s.s and weeds, and cleaning up litter, and he hated that job and quit. Then his father got him a job at s.h.i.+rley's Diner, as a busboy, and that lasted only a week, because there was no way he was going to clean up after folks. His dad had lined up his latest gig, too, here at Mac's Meat and Foods, and he'd been there about a month. He hated it there. Old Mac was a mean b.a.s.t.a.r.d who ran the place as though he were a sergeant and the employees were his soldiers. A Vietnam war veteran, Old Mac seemed to have forgotten that the war had ended a long time ago.

The only reason Jahlil had kept the job so far was because he was sick of Dad hounding him. To be honest, he didn't understand why he had to work at all. The fellas he hung out with didn't work, and their folks didn't hara.s.s them about it. Dad was always riding him about being responsible and earning his own money. Jahlil understood all that responsibility s.h.i.+t, but he didn't think it was something for him to be concerned about right now. He was only in high school. Why couldn't he enjoy being a teenager?

When Jahlil raised that argument, Dad would cite his low grades, the same reason he gave for not allowing Jahlil to drive. Dad was full of explanations and excuses. It was impossible to win an argument with him.

He wished his mother were alive. Things would be different if she were here. She never would have forced him to work....

He had to stop thinking about how much he missed her. His chest had gotten tight, a sure sign that tears would follow soon.

He was outside picking up the lot-collecting trash, in other words-when the fellas came through. T-Bone was driving his mama's old blue Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight, and Poke was riding shotgun. A hip-hop joint rumbled from the car stereo, the latest song by the gangsta crew from Jackson, Jacktown. T-Bone had been playing the alb.u.m so much lately that Jahlil was convinced he would soon wear down the tracks on the CD.

The plate-gla.s.s windows of the store-plastered with handwritten signs advertising sales on ribs and chicken-vibrated in unison with the heavy ba.s.s booming from the speakers.

Jahlil set his broom and dustpan against the store's brick wall, and went to see his boys. T-Bone lowered the music's volume a few notches.

Jahlil had grown up with T-Bone and Poke. They were the same age and in the same grade, but they looked as though they lived in different worlds. Both T-Bone and Poke sported a gold tooth and earrings, and they had tattoos on their arms and chests. Fake platinum hung around their necks. T-Bone's hair was braided in cornrows, and Poke had a puffy, wild afro.

Jahlil's father would not allow him to get a gold tooth, wear an earring, get a tattoo, rock more than one gold chain, or sport a hairstyle other than a low-cut fade. Dad was too d.a.m.n strict. When Jahlil argued with him about it, Dad would say, ”Why you wanna look like those 'hood rats, boy? They ain't even gonna graduate from high school.” Although Jahlil didn't like Dad's 'hood rats comment, he had to admit that he was right about his boys dropping out. Both T-Bone and Poke promised that they weren't going back to school this fall.

”Hey,” T-Bone said. Jahlil smelled beer on his breath: a bottle of Coors, wrapped in a paper bag, was wedged between T-Bone's thighs. ”What's up with you?”

”Working this tired-a.s.s job,” Jahlil said. ”That fool Old Mac's getting on my nerves”

”We 'bout to play ball,” Poke said. ”You comin'?”

Jahlil chewed his lip. He really wanted to play ball and hang with the crew. But if he ditched his job, Old Mac would tell Dad, and Dad would never shut up about it. It would be one more thing he'd hold over Jahlil's head to explain why he wouldn't allow him to do something, like drive a car.

”Let Old Mac pick up his own trash, man,” T-Bone said. ”We been picking up white folks' trash for centuries.”

Jahlil didn't bother to mention that almost everyone who lived in Mason's Corner was black, and chances were, any trash littering the parking lot had been dropped there by black people. But T-Bone was forever talking some quasimilitant s.h.i.+t.

”We cruised by the court, man,” Poke said. ”Andre's there”

”For real?” Jahlil said. Andre, though he didn't actually deal dope, always had weed on him, and he was cool about sharing with them, probably because he lived with T-Bone's sister.

”Yep,” T-Bone said. ”So what's up? You gonna hang, or you gonna slave for the white man?”

Jahlil looked toward the store. Old Mac stood beside the front entrance, arms folded across his chest, glowering at Jahlil.

The decision was easier than Jahlil had imagined.

I ain't working for you no more, Jahlil thought. Tell my dad, I don't care. I hate you and your stupid store.

”Let's roll,” Jahlil said.

T-Bone laughed. ”That's my n.i.g.g.a.”

Jahlil didn't bother to look back as they rolled away.

Chief Jackson got a call he loathed almost as much as notification of a crime: Old Mac, calling to say his son had ditched work.

”I've got to let go of your boy, Chief,” Old Mac said. Jackson heard genuine regret in his voice. ”I've given him a chance, but he doesn't want to work. His att.i.tude stinks, and I can't depend on him.”

Jackson paced the floor of the small office at headquarters, the phone pressed against his ear. Across the room, Deputy Ray Dudu glanced up from the tabloid he was reading.

Jackson settled into his swivel chair, turned to face the calendar on the wall. He didn't like to let folks see him upset.

”Okay, buddy,” Jackson said. ”I get you. Thanks for giving my boy a shot. Apologize for the trouble he's caused you”

”I don't want to tell you how to raise your son, Chief, but he's headed down a dangerous path. Those hoodlums he hangs out with-”

”Mac, I've got to go” Jackson did not want to let Old Mac get started about the ”hoodlums” that were Jahlil's friends, because then Old Mac would start complaining about people loitering in the parking lot of his store, and then he'd begin to rant about crime in general in Mason's Corner-he would go on and on. ”I'll stop by and chat with you later, hear?”

Jackson hung up. He checked himself from throwing the phone across the room. His son ... he did not understand him. He just didn't.

”Jahlil having problems at work?” Deputy Dudu said.

”Something like that,” Jackson said, turning around. He didn't like to discuss family business with outsiders, especially with someone like his deputy. Deputy Dudu was a good guy and a top-notch cop, but he was an odd one.

Deputy Dudu unfolded himself from the seat behind the desk, and it was like watching a praying mantis maneuver out of a crevice. Light-skinned, Dudu was tall and lanky, with a small head that seemed out of proportion to the rest of his body. He was fastidiously neat, clean shaven, with big white teeth. His uniform was spotless and pressed, the creases of his slacks almost as sharp as blades. His shoes were so s.h.i.+ny that Jackson half believed the deputy wore a new pair each day of the week.

Dudu leaned on the edge of his desk. In his gigantic, bony hand, he held an issue of one of those wacky tabloids. Dudu read the tabloids zealously, the same way Jackson's deceased wife used to devour paperback romance novels.

”You know what the problem could be?” Dudu said. He tapped the cover of the publication. ”Extraterrestrials from Venus. It says in here that Venusians-aliens from Venusare beaming signals to Earth, to scramble brain waves, and that our youth are especially vulnerable. It could explain your boy's erratic behavior, Chief.”

Jackson only stared at him. Dudu was serious, that was the worst part. He believed all of that alien c.r.a.p. Heck, Dudu believed everything he read-the more bizarre, the better. Dudu's fascination with all things weird ranged from the tabloids to the lurid horror novels that he kept stacked on his desk.

At times like this, Jackson was astounded that he had hired this man as his deputy. Perhaps his brain waves had been scrambled when he'd given Dudu the job three years ago.

Jackson stood and hitched his belt. ”I got to make a run. Hold it down, hear?”

”Let me know if you want more details about how the aliens-”

”Later, Deputy.”

Jackson pushed Dudu's madness out of his thoughts, and focused on his son. He needed to find him, and he had a good idea where Jahlil had gone. There weren't many places in town where youths could hang out.

He drove down Main Street, made a right on Pine Lane, and pulled his cruiser up to the basketball court. A group of young men, most of them bare-chested, played ball. Onlookers leaned against the fence.

Jahlil was on the court playing. He spotted Jackson's car, and Jackson could see his son mouthing the words, Oh s.h.i.+t, my dad's here.

Jackson didn't climb out of the cruiser. He wanted to avoid causing a scene and embarra.s.sing the kid in front of his buddies. Doing something like that would only make Jahlil resent him more than he already did.

Though I don't understand why the boy resents me at all, he thought.

<script>