Goliath, p.13
Goliath, page 13
Timeica took a stone to the claw of her hammer, banged against its edge to bend it while she talked. “You renege? That reneging will follow you for the rest of your damn life. Don’t matter if you was two years old when you did it.”
“How do you not renege?”
Mercedes mimed holding cards in her hands, cigarette smoke winding around shiny, curled fingers. “When you get your cards, arrange them by suit. Alternate the colors.” She winked at Snowflake. “You’re welcome.” She leaned back on the column behind her, elbows out. “Spades, you either choose to learn or you stay in the absolute fucking dark. There is no middle ground. None whatsoever.”
A clang from Timeica. “Reneging ain’t the only way to suck. You can overbid, underbid, cut your partner. But understand this: Not taking the pill is an accident. Burning your house down because you left the hot plate on is an accident. Cutting your partner? That’s grounds for an ass-whooping.”
Snowflake paused. “What’s the worst thing your partner ever did in a Spades game? How did you react?” She spoke with a professional reporter’s mechanical detachment. She was curious and earnest, Linc knew that much. But he couldn’t tell if she really cared. If he had told her Spades wasn’t a game, it was a way of life, she probably would have made that a pull quote and thought nothing more of it.
Timeica barked out a laugh, stopped forging her hammer. “Ay, Jayceon! What’s the worst thing your partner ever did in a Spades game? He still breathing?”
Jayceon dealt the cards, stared intently at his. “She cut my lil’ Joker with a big Joker. Started breathing maybe five minutes later after I throat-chopped the fuck outta her.”
Linc spat out a choked laugh, his scalp twinged. Kendrick hiccupped his mirth. Mercedes murmured, “Word.”
Timeica turned to Mercedes, “You, Cedes?”
Her cigarette burned down to the butt. She tossed it down, stamped it out with her boot heel. “Let’s just say there’s some cabrona in Paterson, New Jersey, with a bald spot that a weave can’t cover.”
“Oh, Lord,” Timeica said, her hand over her mouth in mock horror.
Kendrick craned his neck. “I seen a girl get smacked with a Sprite bottle because she missed one book to have a bubble.”
Mercedes laughed herself into a blood-thick cough. Linc felt Sydney grin behind him.
One of the old heads, his face shadowed by his fedora, itched his salt-and-pepper stubble. “I’ll never forget it.” His voice was a flattened tire rolling over gravel. “Last Christmas. My sister-in-law cut over me with a big Joker. There was liquor involved. Also, I already couldn’t stand that bitch. So you know all hell broke loose. I was half-blind with the whiskey and stumbled my ass outside into the snow. Took a box a sugar with me outta the kitchen. Poured it all up in that bitch gas tank. She wanna underbid and shit. I’m like ‘bitch all we need is a seven, we made four!’ And I asked her specifically, are these Whitneys and Bobbys strong? That’s what I called my books: Whitneys and Bobbys. So I went out with a box of Dominos sugar and filled that bitch gas tank.” His shoulders shook with chuckles. “To this day, she still don’t know who did it.”
Linc watched the expression change on the white girl’s face. Watched her shit fall all the way into her shoes. She looked at Jayceon like he was on the verge of losing his life.
Rodney patted his leg, moved his cards around with his free hand. “My mom went into labor with me during a Spades game. I was born during a seven and a possible…”
The others howled. Sprinkled it with “get the fuck outta here” and “you are a cotdamn fool, Rodney” and “you know that nigga’s serious.”
Kendrick smirked. “Grandmama is legally blind in one eye, but I bet three books in, she know what everybody got in they hands.”
Snowflake gave Timeica her whole face. “So, would you say Spades is the precursor to a lot of violent crime?”
Only Sydney could tell she was joking.
Linc nudged Kendrick and reached into his pocket. Out came a small canister with “G4S” in red and black labeling along the side. “Check it.” He handed it to Kendrick. “Sydney and I found it over by West Rock.”
Kendrick held it up to his eyes. Turned it over. “Air canister.”
“Yeah.”
“Who the fuck’s walking around with air masks?” He flipped it through his fingers. “Ain’t that old, either.”
“No, it ain’t.”
“Shit.” Kendrick eyed Linc, turned to look at Sydney, who worked diligently on Linc’s hair. Then he stuffed the canister in the pocket of his overalls. “There more?”
Linc nodded. Then he nodded at the reporter who sat with Timeica and Cedes in their bubble of hilarity. “Lil’ Miss Pop Star over there, I don’t like her. Why’s she interested in us? In this place? She’s writing whatever she’s writing, and who’s it for?”
Kendrick tapped his breast pocket where the canister bulged slightly. “You think we in trouble? I mean, shit, look at all this.”
Sydney coughed, mean and wet. A little bit of it splashed onto the back of Linc’s neck. She wiped her hand on her lap. Linc’s own hand went to the back of his neck, and when he looked at his fingertips, they were red. Quickly, he scrubbed it into pink, then wiped what remained on his jeans. He felt weary; his shoulders slumped with it, because he knew he couldn’t run and settle in another place. New Haven was the only city he’d been sober in since he’d watched his brother hang from a streetlamp in Nevada. “I can’t do this anywhere else,” he whispered.
Sydney’s fingers skipped a beat, and he knew she had heard him. She sniffed and it sounded like she was fighting a sob.
The white lady held up her touchpad, looked like she was taking a picture, then turned back to Timeica and Mercedes, who crouched over to see what she’d documented. Kendrick cut his eyes at the group.
Linc caught a glimpse of the image, which flashed briefly as a hologram before Timeica told Snowflake to cut that light. It was a hand, someone’s hand. Maybe Jayceon’s. Everyone’s fingers looked wrinkled and thick and ashy. Three diamonds: a six, a three, an Ace. Two hearts: An Ace and a ten. A King of clubs. Five spades: eight, Queen, Jack, two, Ace. And two Jokers.
“How many books can this hand win?” asked the white lady.
Mercedes glanced sideways at her. A little you’re-quick mixed with some watch-yourself.
Timeica squinted at the image. “Eight books and a possible.”
Snowflake had that eager student look on her face.
“The gods done blessed you with a hand like that.” She spoke in a hushed whisper. If it ever got into anyone’s heads that she had somehow fucked up the game, she’d have to go stack somewhere two states away. “You got the four highest cards. Two Jokers, Ace of spades, and a two. If. You’re playing deuces high. If not, you still got the highest spade, the King. Whether or not your partner has it, you can still snatch five books. Easy. Those red Aces’ll get you another book. Smart thing would be to play them early before the suit runs out and people start cutting you. That’s seven. You can use the two of spades and even the eight to cut once you’re out of clubs and hearts. That’ll net you two more.”
Testing the waters, Snowflake whispered, “What happens if I played the five or the six?”
“Then you’re an underbidding trick-ass mark and you deserved to be cussed all the way out.”
Mercedes shifted, moved her ass back and forth against the ground. “If you ain’t ready to throw down, nena, picheale a ese tema. You got no place at a Spades table.”
Linc tilted his head, Sydney leaned down to his ear while she worked his scalp. “Could run a Boston with that hand.” She nodded toward the trio.
“She’s eatin’ that shit up,” Kendrick muttered beneath his breath. “Exotic fuckin’ tigers ’n’ shit is what we are.”
“I’m a proud monkey,” Linc smirked.
Kendrick got up. “I almost want her to try playin’ a game. Just to watch one of those folks over there fuck her up.” He patted the dust out of his overalls. “That’s how you deal with invadin’ motherfuckers. You invite them to a Spades game.”
Bishop had Bugs in his truck while he worked on the wooden electricity pole. His chewing stick rotated between his teeth, his gloves slumped in his pocket. He knew it was dangerous to do this work without them, and that it hurt, but it attacked the numbness and made him present. And it distracted him from the white boy staring up at him with worry wet in his eyes.
There were more of them now, which meant more work that wasn’t stacking. Sure, he could fall from this rickety-ass ladder and break every bone God gave him, but stacking was a slow death. Even wearing a mask, you got the dust in you; not only that, you could barely breathe beneath the thing. And stooping like you had to do, especially if you had a short hammer, meant that your body figured that was its natural state, that hunched over was how you was supposed to be, so when you stood upright again, trying to look somewhat dignified and whatnot, the body rebelled. “Pick one,” your back kept saying to you.
Birds flew low over him, and he almost stopped completely to admire the eagle that soared over his head. The animals that did show up here in autumn were bigger than they were when he was growing up, but they seemed natural. As many people as lived here, the animals didn’t seem to mind.
After he finished, he was slow getting back down the ladder. The others watching him—the white boy and the mixed one who had his arm wrapped around the white boy’s waist—probably saw him as some old nigga trying to convince himself of his own usefulness by taking on unnecessary danger, on the warpath to make the whole rest of the world understand he wasn’t obsolete. Not yet. But the neighbors who knew him knew why he took his time coming down that ladder. He liked to linger here. The air was cooler here, the small domes more robust. Not the patchwork, rickety contraptions near the city center. Folks really had it better here. Even with the stash houses and the empty lots and the houses that had long since been foreclosed on, they had it better here. The roads might not’ve been anything to write home about, but they really did have it better here. The animals weren’t too shook to show their faces, to commune with the rest of God’s creatures.
He couldn’t fault the white folk for picking this place for a landing pad.
On his way to the front porch, he watched the white man—Jonathan! That was his name—fumble in his pocket for change like Bishop didn’t have a credit exchanger in the truck. And something about it made him feel sad. His chewing stick twitched between his teeth. “Contractor handles it,” he said, raising a hand to stop the boy.
The relief on Jonathan’s face deepened his sadness, so he nodded at him, tugged his cap slightly, then picked up his toolbox and walked off.
Around the corner, his truck came into view. Bugs was in the passenger’s seat tinkering with the boxy credit exchanger, turning it over in his ashy fingers. Bishop made as much noise as he could, tossing his tools onto the backseat, then climbing in.
It was good to see Bugs be curious and kid-like again. When he was around the others—around Jayceon and Linc and the rest of them—he always talked like he was older than he was, and Bishop knew—he’d seen it too many times before—that if he left Bugs to himself, then Bugs would fall in with those other boys and absorb their violence or their tendency toward it. Left to himself, he’d spend more time in his own head and find more and more ways to get out of it. The track marks on his arms were healed, but if you knew what track marks looked like, you’d know that’s what they were. And what did it say about a kid who still did those drugs and couldn’t even afford dragons?
“Where we goin’ next, Bishop?”
“Just gotta run a few more errands. You got somewhere important to be?”
“Nah, just bored. Shit is boring here.”
Bishop laughed as he started the car. “You get older, you’ll realize how good bored is. How lucky you is to even be bored.”
“I ain’t got no kinda plans to be that bored. You crazy, man.”
“Maybe I am.” And with that, he peeled off.
* * *
BISHOP’S truck was parked on Orange Street, flanked by shuttered coffee shops and workspaces. Behind him, a few East African restaurants had their “Closed” signs up. But every so often, Bishop peeked over his steering wheel and around the corner toward the library, next to which sat City Hall.
Bugs was still messing with the credit exchanger.
“Hey, can you put that down?” he asked with too much bite in his voice. “I’m tryna look for somethin’.”
The noise stopped.
Bishop clocked the sun’s height in the sky to tell what time it was. He started drumming his fingers.
“That help you think?” Bugs asked, sharp.
Bishop stopped.
The sun sank a little further, and Bishop was about to turn the truck back on when he saw a figure start to jog down Elm Street. At first, they were a white speck coated in blue, then as they got closer, they became a white man in a translucent blue bodysuit with a headband holding back sweaty, flowing tree-bark-colored hair. The city comptroller had augmented lungs, Bishop was sure of it, so running like this was pure vanity. Just to be seen. But Bishop had been counting on that.
He got out of the car and crept around the corner, clinging to shadows, even though it woulda taken nothing for the white man to see him. And he made his way up the block. Then, just as the comptroller was about to round the corner, Bishop swung out, slipped his pistol from his pocket and smacked the man in the head, toppling him sideways.
Before the man hit the ground, Bishop wrapped him up in his arms and frog-marched him to the truck. With one hand, he pulled open the back door and tossed the man in, then jumped in behind him and sat on his legs.
“Where’s our food rations?” Bishop hissed at the comptroller.
“Wha…” A voice that had been calibrated to automatically add bass came out scratchy and like static.
Bishop pulled a device that looked like ancient headphones out of his back pocket and forced them onto the man’s ears, even as he writhed and struggled under Bishop. “Don’t bother calling for help. The drones can’t see you. And you shoulda fuckin’ shelled out for security, but you ain’t skim enough off us fucking people, ain’t you?”
Bugs had turned in his seat but there was only a moment of surprise on his face, a brief raising of the eyebrows, before he turned back around and even seemed to relax against the seat.
“Credit station at the Fairfield border been closed, so when were you gonna tell us?”
“I … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bishop smashed the gun butt against the man’s temple. No blood came out of the wound, but a dent did mar the manufactured curvature of the comptroller’s temple. “You was just gonna let us starve.”
“We … we are in the process of preparing a transfer of—”
Bishop hit him two more times, this time trying to actually break the wound open.
Something changed in the comptroller’s posture. “I’ve seen your face.”
“No, you ain’t. Because I scrambled your shit too. If you think you can threaten your way out of this, you fuckin’ with the wrong nigga. I will blind you forever, homeboy, now where’s our fucking rations?”
Now the comptroller started to tremble.
“If you don’t answer me, your daughters in Westport been in trouble. Fuck with me.”
“Okay, okay, wait, wait, wait.”
“Next city council budget meeting, if we don’t see the right numbers allocated for our fuckin’ community, this’ll be a love tap compared to what’s next. Now, tell me how you’re going to fix our food problem.”
“I don’t know … what…”
Bishop pressed the barrel to the back of the man’s knee. “You wanna run again, my nigga? Answer the goddamn question.”
“Okay, okay. I’ll take it out of my own salary. Ration distribution will begin next week. The distributors will be reprogrammed tonight and the new routes will be put in and it’ll all be set, please, just, not my legs.”
A small part of Bishop felt vindicated that the man was more visibly distressed over the ability to flaunt his partially mechanized body than the prospect of harm coming to his daughters in their domed community. But that was what men his type were like. Mid-level bureaucrats who didn’t know the right people to make cushy careers for themselves in the Space Colony. Grifters who were stuck here, none of them by choice, forced into their fiefdoms and molded by their greed and small-mindedness into ant-sized tyrants. Bishop felt more respect for the robots they programmed. At least those were governed by a code.
“Now, you’re gonna make good on your promise right now. Stick your hand out.” When the comptroller hesitated, Bishop hit him again. Again and again until the man stuck his hand out between the driver’s seat and the passenger’s. “Aye,” Bishop said to Bugs, “take his index finger and put it to the scanner.”
“Wh—what are you doing?”
“Shut the fuck up!”
Bugs took the man’s finger, as commanded, and pressed it to the credit exchanger’s scanner. Immediately, digital green numbers appeared on its screen, the total rising higher and higher until Bishop said, “That’s good.”
The credit exchanger disappeared.
“What I said about the next budget meeting stands.” Bishop kicked his back door open, then shoved the comptroller out of his vehicle.
When Bishop came out after him, he made sure to step over the man and linger, gun barrel pointed at the man’s face the whole time, before getting back into the driver’s seat and spouting red dust over the fallen man’s face as he turned the corner and sped off.
