Brock and Gaskins got out of the car and walked down a weedy sidewalk veined with cracks. Residents sitting on the steps outside their apartments and in folding chairs on lawns of dirt watched them as they approached a group of boys gathered at the intersection of Gallaudet and Fenwick streets. They were corner boys, standing on the spot where they stood on the days when they were not in school, and much of every night.
At the sight of Brock striding toward them, rangy and muscled beneath his red rayon shirt, they turned and ran. The boys moved with more immediacy than they would have had they been pulled up by police. They knew who Brock and Gaskins were and they knew what they were there for and what they would do to get it.
Two of the boys did not run because they realized that running would be futile. The older of the two was named Charles and the younger one was his friend James. Charles led a loosely formed group of teenagers and preteens who sold marijuana exclusively on that particular stretch of Gallaudet. They had started out selling it for fun and because they wanted to be gangsters, but now they found themselves with a growing business. They bought from a supplier in the Trinidad area who had his own retailers, some of whom quietly worked Ivy City, but the supplier did not begrudge them having a corner, as they turned his product and paid as they moved the inventory. Charles’s people sold dimes in small plastic bags with tops that sealed.
Charles tried to keep his posture as Brock and Gaskins came up on him. Though James held his ground, he did not look into the eyes of Romeo Brock.
Brock had a foot of height on Charles. He got close in and looked down on the boy. Conrad Gaskins turned his back on them, crossed his arms, and eye-fucked the residents who were watching the scene from across the street.
“Damn, Charles,” said Brock. “You look like you surprised to see me.”
“I knew you’d come.”
“So why you look surprised?” Brock gave him his bright and menacing smile. His features were sharp and angular, accentuated by a precisely groomed Vandyke. His ears were pointed. He liked to wear the color red. He looked like a tall devil.
“I was there,” said Charles. “I was where you said.”
“No, you weren’t.”
“You said meet me at the corner of Okie and Fenwick at nine o’clock. I was there.”
“I ain’t say no motherfuckin Okie. I said Gallaudet and Fenwick, where we at right now. Made it real simple on your little ass, so you wouldn’t get confused.”
“You said Okie.”
Brock’s right hand flew up and slapped Charles hard across the face. Charles was knocked back a step, and his eyes rolled some as he took the strike. Tears welled in his eyes, and his closed lips went out like a muzzle. Far as stripping a boy of his pride, Brock knew that the open hand was more powerful than the closed fist.
“Where was we gonna meet?” said Brock.
“I…” Charles struggled to speak but could not.
“Aw, you fixin to cry?”
Charles shook his head.
“Are you a girl or a man?”
“I’m a man.”
“ ‘I’m a man,’ ” repeated Brock. “Well, if you are, you a poor excuse for one.”
A tear rolled down Charles’s cheek. Brock laughed.
“Get the money and let’s get gone,” said Gaskins, his back still turned.
“I’m gonna ask you again,” said Brock. “Where was we supposed to meet, Charles?”
“Right here.”
“Good. And why you ain’t post?”
“ ’Cause I ain’t had no money,” said Charles.
“You still in business, right?”
“I just now bought my stash. I’m fixin to have some money soon.”
“Oh, you gonna have some soon.”
“Uh-huh. Soon as I move my stash.”
“What’s that lump in your pocket, then? And don’t even try and tell me it’s your manhood, ’cause we already established that you ain’t got none.”
“Leave him alone,” said James.
Brock turned his attention to the smaller of the two boys, who couldn’t have been more than twelve. He had braids under an NY cap turned sideways.
“You say somethin?” said Brock.
James raised his chin and for the first time looked Brock in the eye. His fists were balled as he spoke. “I said, leave my boy alone.”
Brock’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “Look at you. Hey, Conrad, this boy here showin some heart.”
“I heard him,” said Gaskins. “Let’s go.”
“I’m here now,” said Charles desperately. “I wasn’t runnin. I been waitin on you to show all day.”
“But you shouldn’t have lied. Now I’m ’a have to give you your medicine.”
“Please,” said Charles.
“Beggin-ass bitch.”
Brock grabbed hold of the right pocket on Charles’s low-riding jean shorts and pulled down on it so violently that the boy fell to the sidewalk. The jeans ripped open at the side, exposing the inner pocket. Brock tore the pocket clean away and turned it inside out. He found cash and some dime bags of marijuana. He tossed the marijuana to the ground and counted the money. He frowned but slipped the money into his own pocket.
“One more thing,” said Brock.
Brock kicked Charles in the ribs. He kicked him again, his teeth bared, and Charles rolled over on his side as bile poured from his open mouth. James looked away.
Gaskins pulled on Brock’s arm and moved between him and Charles. They stared at each other until the fire went out of Brock’s eyes.
“Y’all coulda made this easy,” said Brock, stepping back and shaking his head. “I was willin to share. I was only lookin to take half. But you had to fuck up and lie. And now you prob’ly thinking, We gonna get this motherfucker. We gonna come back on him, or we gonna find someone who can, and get righteous on his ass.” Brock straightened his shirt. “But you know what? You never will. Y’all ain’t man enough to fuck with me. And you don’t have anyone to protect you. If you knew someone bad enough to do it, they dead or in jail. If you had someone in your life who gave a fuck about you to begin with, you wouldn’t be out here on this corner. So what do you have? Your little-ass, no-ass selves.”
The boy on the ground said nothing and neither did his friend.
“What’s my name?”
“Romeo,” said Charles, his eyes closed in pain.
“We’ll be comin ’round again.”
Brock and Gaskins walked back to the Impala SS. None of the residents or onlookers had made a move to help the boys, and now they averted their eyes. None, Brock knew, would talk to the police. But he wasn’t satisfied. It was too easy, and not worth the effort for a man of his reputation. It hadn’t been a challenge, and the payoff was shit.
“How much we get?” said Gaskins.
“Buck forty.”
“Hardly seem worth it.”
“Don’t worry. We gonna step it up from here.”
“It’s lookin to me that all we doin is roughin kids and shit. I’m askin where we goin with this, cuz. What’s this about?”
“Money and respect,” said Brock.
They got into the car.
“We’ll head back to Northwest,” said Brock. “Got a couple more appointments we need to keep.”
“Not me,” said Gaskins. “I got to be up before the sunrise. ’Less you sayin you need me.”
“I’ll drop you off at the house,” said Brock. “I can handle the rest myself.”
Brock made a call on his cell, ignitioned the SS, and drove off.
Soon after he and Gaskins left the neighborhood, a police cruiser came slowly down Gallaudet. Its driver, a white man in uniform, looked at the residents in front of the apartments and at the boy on the corner who was helping another boy, holding his side, to his feet. The uniformed officer gave the cruiser gas and continued on his way.