Joe raised an eyebrow. Then, with a nod, he motioned for Ice Box to join them. Joe punched Ice Box’s huge arm, leaned in and murmured something to him, like the manager leading the heavyweight into the ring. Ice Box’s punch was like a donkey kick, wasn’t that what Winston had just told him? Damn.
It wasn’t like Frankie hadn’t been in a fight before. But they’d all been short affairs, one or two swings, a quick unpolished wrestling move, nothing that remotely approached three minutes of just having to “take it.” Sure, Samson had abundantly applied the belt, a telephone wire, and an occasional punch for old-school’s sake, but this was going to be a whole other level. Ice Box, at twenty-five, had several inches over Frankie, and fifty more pounds. Frankie glanced uneasily at Winston—the jerk was practically panting, as if gripped by some kind of primeval urge. Asshole. Okay, let’s get this over with.
Ice Box took two quick steps and a hop toward Frankie and swung his huge right fist. Frankie stood completely still, arms at his sides, and Ice Box slammed Frankie’s cheek. The thud reverberated through Frankie’s skull and he staggered backward, a laser show of lights playing out behind his eyes.
“Not the head, mon!” Joe bellowed.
Frankie fought his ability to duck and slip punches. He had to stay and take it. A second punch crashed into his chest. Then another. He lost wind for a second; his face was on fire, his legs going toothpick weak. Putting a hand on the ground for balance, Frankie struggled to keep from falling. Lasting one minute already seemed a stretch.
“You a pussy?” Joe shouted at Frankie. “Ice Box, you love the boy or what? Hit him!”
Frankie knew exactly what Joe’s intentions were behind the words. He was putting on an act, not showing any favoritism. But did Ice Box know that?
Frankie stepped back, stumbled over a rock, and fell. The new recruits averted their eyes. They knew what was about to happen. It was on their grim faces, their eyes looking everywhere but at him, no one saying a word. Sure enough, Ice Box scooped Frankie up high off the ground like he was weightless, then spun and flung him, like he really was nothing. All of Frankie’s weight landed on his back. One of the scars his father had made not even a week ago split open, he could feel it. Pain like lightning shot down his left leg—now he couldn’t breathe at all.
“Yes, Ice Box!” Buck-Buck was shouting.
“Mash him up, mon!” Blow Up followed up, his fist pumping.
“Get up!” Joe ordered.
Gasping, Frankie staggered back to his feet. Ice Box threw three fast punches. Frankie doubled up. A hook hammered his rib cage and he fell back to the ground, no longer hearing anything, blood pounding in his head. Yet he slowly, dizzily, worked his way up to a standing position. How much longer? Twenty seconds? Two minutes? He would die if it was two more minutes of this. Wobbling, he saw Winston’s and Marshal’s mouths moving but couldn’t hear their words. He turned and saw the blur of a boot speeding toward his gut. How could something move at the speed of light yet in slow motion, he wondered vaguely, just before the world went dark.
* * *
It took a while for Frankie to realize he wasn’t standing anymore. Stones dug into his back. Faces gazed down at him. At first he thought he was in Troy, because, well… there were Winston and Marshal. Then it came back to him. His lips felt bloated, as if injected with a quart of blood. His cheekbone throbbed. The sharp pain in his ribs cut all the way through to his back.
What was the point of this? If they killed him, or hurt him badly enough, he wouldn’t be in the posse anyway! Plus, it wasn’t hard to beat the crap out of someone if they couldn’t defend themselves. What did that prove? What was the point?
Was it over? Please, please be over. Should he ask? He parted his lips—swollen rubber—stretching them as wide as he could, trying to get words out.
Joe pointed at Frankie. He and the rest of the posse were laughing.
Why? Was he dreaming? He hoped so. Maybe he was dead?
“Frankie laughing at you, Ice Box,” Joe joked.
“The boy is strong,” Buck-Buck said.
“Good job, Franklyn,” Aunt Jenny added.
Joe grasped Frankie under the armpits and heaved him to his feet. Gaaah! He wanted to check himself over, but he didn’t dare for fear of the pain. He was one large wound.
Joe must have understood, because he let him go gently. “This man here is now part of the posse. Him is a brother, now and forever,” he announced. To Frankie he said, “You must walk with us through fire. You understand? You must take the burn if it’s a burn that you have to take. You understand?”
Frankie heard the words, but the front of his head felt like something had cleaved into it. The words felt sludgy, plus he couldn’t imagine more pain. Only one thought mattered. It was over.
Buck-Buck and Blow Up fired a few celebratory rounds into the air. Frankie thought his head was going to shatter.
Clearly pumped, Joe ushered Frankie over to the Toyota. “You made it through the lion’s den, Nephew.” He took out a plastic bag and held up what was about to become Frankie’s first cell phone: a burner, but still. He could text, but there was no data, which made them hard to track. “Don’t talk about posse business on it,” Joe told him. “Only use it to set up meetings. You can talk about whatever else you want, but if me or Jenny or anybody in the posse is calling, you take the call. I don’t care if you have Miss Jamaica on the line, you understand?”
Frankie nodded dizzily.
“And listen good: you only set up meetings for the same day. Not tomorrow, not the next day, not next week, only the same day.” Joe shook the phone to emphasize his words. “Babylon can’t react so fast, but them can if you give them time. So don’t give them time.” Joe extended his arm, opened his hand.
Frankie took the phone. At least he was finally getting a phone out of the deal.
Sixteen
two days later. The first had been spent entirely on the couch, where even rolling over was agony. But now, Frankie was back to lugging water up to the house. He had filled it to the very brim to make up for the days he’d missed. He regretted doing that now. His ribs still ached something fierce.
Coming his way down the middle of the road was the woman, the one who always ignored him. A basket was perched, as always, on her head. Her posture, as always, was perfect. And as always, Frankie waved. This time, however, the woman smiled, putting her hand on her chest in a sign of respect. Had he seen that right? Frankie offered a confused nod. Then he understood. She knew he was in a posse.
Funny, she’d respected his getting jumped in to the posse, but not his scholarship, which everyone in Troy knew about. Then he realized something else—now she was afraid of him. She’d have to know he had a gun. Deep in thought, he didn’t see the pothole and stepped right in. The bucket jostled, and water splashed on his sneaker. Game over. Well, at least the cool felt good.
Once home, he couldn’t empty the bucket into the drum fast enough. He burst into the kitchen, expecting the savory smokiness of corn pork or the sweet scent of porridge. But damn, the table was empty. Aunt Jenny had promised to come by and make him a delicious morning meal, like she had the last two mornings, before she went to visit his father to make excuses for why Frankie couldn’t come. Guilt meals, he knew. She felt bad for his beatdown. Not bad enough, apparently: the table was empty.
Frankie took his gun out of his waistband and put it in the bucket, covering it with the dish towel. Yep, it was a perfect hiding place—out of sight but with easy access. Then he gingerly lowered himself into a chair. Sure, he could have cooked breakfast himself. Samson had shown him how to make all kinds of breakfast specialties—from ackee and saltfish to callaloo with ripe plaintain, and hardo bread. But that wasn’t the point—Frankie hated broken promises. From anyone. Even though the cancer had given his mother no choice, he even felt in a way that she had broken her own promise by leaving him. She had sworn she would get well. It wasn’t fair for him to think this, he knew that, but he
did anyway. He glanced over at her photo. The smile everyone said his looked exactly like.
Maybe… maybe he had no right to be hard on Aunt Jenny or his ma. Wouldn’t he like to break his promise to Joe—to get out of the posse and take the scholarship? Hell yeah. He suddenly sat up straight—he needed to mail his letter to the scholarship board at the university, had to let them know that he wasn’t able to accept their offer! He’d almost forgotten.
He’d actually started writing it after paying for this father’s treatment. It had taken several drafts and a lot of tamped-down anger to make his story about wanting to stay in Jamaica to pursue his studies believable. But he’d carried the letter to the post office without mailing it too many times already. He just couldn’t get himself to put it in the mail slot, as if, in setting that information free, he was putting himself in a straitjacket.
He looked out the window, hoping Jenny was simply late. Telling himself not to worry, he spun his burner around in his palm before sliding it back into his pocket. He had to admit he felt pretty cool, having a phone to call with. But now he was eager to see his father in person.
A car stopped on the street; its door opened and closed. A few moments later Aunt Jenny hustled in with a grocery bag filled to the brim. Frankie immediately felt bad for doubting her—also glad she had kept her promise.
“Your cheek looks good. You heal fast.” She put the bag on the kitchen counter. “How you feeling?”
He didn’t want to talk about his injuries. They would heal. “Me deh yah, Aunt Jenny,” he said, choosing the greeting to let her know he was okay, but not particularly great.
“Yes, I’m here too.” She exhaled. “I’m late because I was already in town and decided to drop in on your father, see how he was doing.”
Now Frankie felt like such an ass for being upset with her. Aunt Jenny was always on point. He should have known. “I called the nurse earlier. She said the treatment hadn’t come yet,” he told her, hearing the worry in his own voice.
“Yes, but she said she expected it to arrive soon. No fret ’bout it, mon.”
Aunt Jenny was probably right. But still. “Yeah, I’ll go see him later.”
“Maybe wait until tomorrow. The nurse wants him to get all the rest he can.” She reached under her shirt and took out her Glock, laying it on the counter before starting to empty the bag. She noticed the dish towel on the bucket and lifted it. “Oh, that’s where you keep your gun? Not bad.”
“Where do you keep yours when you’re home?”
“On my hip.” She pulled a pack of bacon out of the bag.
Frankie shook his head; her commitment always impressed him. He eyed her gun. It was police grade. A piece piece. Told people to back off without her even having to open her mouth. Was it because she was a little sister, or because she was a woman working around a bunch of men? He wasn’t sure. But there was one thing he was sure of, and that was Aunt Jenny’s strength. She was tough like mahogany. Frankie hadn’t seen one speck of sentimentality from her over Mr. Brown’s death. Yet he didn’t believe her relationship with him had only been about business.
She put the frying pan on the stove, spun open the knob on the propane tank. “Remember now, baby… don’t think. Just follow Joe and Buck-Buck and them. Learn first.” She started peeling away bacon strips. “You send that letter yet?”
She must have been reading his mind. But no, the letter sat on top of two overdue copies of Popular Mechanics at the end of the counter; she must have seen it and was urging him on in her Aunty Jenny way. “Haven’t had time, Aunt Jenny.” He pictured a dozen other students lined up, waiting to take his place, ready to kill for his scholarship. He pictured himself walking past the line, away from his best and probably only chance to become an engineer.
Aunt Jenny speared several strips of bacon with the tip of her knife. “You got a raw deal from your uncle.” Really, the woman was clairvoyant. She eased the strips off the knife into the pan.
Aunt Jenny got it, but while she had stood up to Joe, she always backed down. Most did, when Joe wanted to have his way. Frankie was glad at least that she was on his side. But he couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that Joe could have advanced Frankie the money. He knew Frankie was good for it. So… maybe it wasn’t time to give up. When his father got better, maybe they could all have a talk, a civilized talk, and Joe could reconsider letting Frankie out of the posse. The pop of bacon sizzling brought Frankie back to reality. Yeah, right. A couple of years ago, a posse member, Leonard Fenton, had tried to leave, but Buck-Buck and Ice Box had tracked him down. When he tried a second time… they killed him. A chill ran down the back of Frankie’s neck. Still… “Aunt Jenny?”
“Hmm?” She was moving the slices away from each other in the pan.
“How did you and Uncle Joe start the posse?”
“Oh, you feel you can know secrets now, eh?”
Frankie flushed. “No, I—”
“Don’t worry, Franklyn, just messing with you.” She smiled. “Like everything else, it started with sex.”
Whoaaa? But then his aunt grinned, almost playful.
“I dated a dealer, a Rasta, who turned me on to the life. I turned on your uncle and the dealer turned him on to Rastafarian ways. After a while we started our own thing up here. That’s it, no big secret.”
“What happened to the dealer?”
“Dumped him.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She looked back at the bacon, then to Frankie. “He left the toilet seat up.”
“For real?”
“No, and I’m not going to tell you either.” She winked, then asked, “Any other questions?”
He thought about what Winston had asked the other day. “I know Daddy isn’t the type, but did he ever think about joining you and Uncle?”
“Samson?” Her laugh shot spittle into the air. “If your uncle or me said the sky was blue, your father would get a ladder and paint it red for spite. Join the posse?” She wiped her hands on her jeans. “Let me tell you something. Since we were kids, your father was always vexed, especially with Joe.”
“Why?”
“Why?” She rocked her head, poked at the bacon. “Joe wasn’t born first. Our father always told Samson how important he was because he was the firstborn son. It was firstborn son this, firstborn son that. Everything was ‘firstborn.’ Joe hated that more than anything.”
“So?” The bacon popped. “Don’t let the dreadlocks fool you. Joe can be as evil as anybody, especially when it comes to his brother. Joe would always, always do stupid things to get Samson in trouble.”
“Like what?”
“Well… make me tell you. Our father, he was a hard man, and he was always after Samson to look out fi Joe.” She looked out the window. “One day, after school, Samson lost Joe. Couldn’t find him for nothing. Everybody in a panic.”
She flipped a slice of bacon.
“So finally, Joe found his way home when it was well dark. Daddy beat Samson till him nearly dead. And I remember till this day how Joe kept this sneaky little grin on his face the whole time.”
It was the first time Frankie heard about Samson being beaten by his father from someone other than Samson. “He beat him a lot?”
“A lot? Lord have mercy, my father beat Samson like a rug, I tell you.” She moved a few strips around. “But no matter what, Samson always felt this big responsibility for Joe.” She sighed. “But when Joe joined the posse, I think Samson thought it was game over. He had failed Joe. Failed our father. Himself too, probably.”
No wonder they were so mad at each other. If Frankie had a brother, he didn’t know if he would feel any different than Samson did. “But you’re in the posse. Daddy’s not mad at you.”
“Well, in your father’s little mind, I’m just a girl.” She flipped the strips of bacon, shot Frankie a look of disgust. “Damn fool, as if I’m not loo
king out fi dem.”
Frankie didn’t doubt it for a second. Looking out for him, too.
She lowered the heat. “Okay, enough questions.”
He thought about how he was now looking out for Samson too. The letter—it was time to mail it. And since Aunt Jenny said it would be best to see his father tomorrow, he should swing by school, check in. He’d promised Mrs. Gordon. And why not? He hadn’t gotten any posse duties yet. “Aunt Jenny, I want to finish up at the high school.”
Jenny was pulling the bacon out of the pan, letting the grease drip off. “I see no problem there. Stupid people don’t last long in this business.” She was proud of what he had done in school, he could tell. And man, what a relief, that she wanted him to keep going, wanted him to at least get his diploma. He wanted that too. He couldn’t imagine telling people he hadn’t graduated from high school. He hadn’t even considered that as a possibility!
Then she looked at the letter. “Me know it grieve you bad. Me even argue with Joe again last night, but he’s not changing his mind.” She slid a couple slices of bacon on a plate and brought it over. “You can start with this.”
The smell of bacon can make a lot of troubles go away, at least for a little while, Ma used to say.
“Franklyn.” Jenny had put her game face on. “Joe told me to tell you that your first mission with the posse is this Sunday.”
He picked up the bacon and crunched into it—salty, and greasy like Christmas ham—but it didn’t make him feel as good as it usually did.
Seventeen
outside Mrs. Gordon’s office, he heard a murmur of voices. A dozen students had gathered around a large screen set up in the corner. His counselor was busy plugging her laptop into a projector. He decided to tell her about not accepting the scholarship before sending the letter. It was almost a relief to see that she was busy; he could delay telling her. Delay didn’t make it 100 percent real.
“Hey.” It was Leah, walking toward him.