Crow's Row by Julie Hockley
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my Mom and Dad for encouraging (i.e., bribing) me to read as a child by
intensely quizzing me on the books that I would read, and then paying me; though, it still seems
a bit unfair that I didn’t get paid for doing chores, even though I still had to do them! In
spite of this, I love you very much.
I would also like to thank France, Jen, Jess, and Laura, my book club girls (a.k.a. the baby
club and the super fatty dessert club). Asking you to proofread and critique my manuscript was a
tremendous favor, particularly when we don’t have much time to ourselves any more.
Unfortunately, you are now on my fictitious payroll to read the next books in the series. I’ll
make sure to bring dessert.
“The man who desires something desires what is not available to him, and what he doesn’t
already have in his possession. And what he neither has nor himself is—that which he lacks—
that is what he wants and desires.” Plato, Symposium
Prologue
The motor of my 1989 Chevrolet Capri was thumping against the hood, making the whole car jitter.
We sat in silence, stuck at another red light while the oversized muffler gurgled.
For the sixth time in the last five minutes, I checked my watch and sighed, aware that my left
leg was impatiently shaking with the rest of the car. I stepped on the gas about a half second
before the light turned green, trying to coerce the old lady in front of me to react a little
faster—honking, swearing when she didn’t react at all. The old lady woke up and finally
stepped on it.
My bumper practically rubbed hers, but I only had one thing on my mind. Colors. Would it be
green or blue today? Maybe white—my favorite. A dark voice in the back of my mind offered no
color at all as an alternative. I smothered that voice. The days of no color were simply too
hard to bear. I needed color today. My cohort in the backseat echoed my edginess with a whine.
When the traffic came to Finch Road, the old lady veered off with everyone else. Finch was the
line that separated city life from no man’s land—that good people like the old lady ahead of
me pretended didn’t exist and steered away from as quickly as possible, lest it suck them in to
the point where they would be forced to acknowledge its existence. I couldn’t blame them—I
wouldn’t want my loved ones to ever come near this hellhole. This thought made my knuckles
strangle the steering wheel.
As soon as I passed the Finch threshold, I switched the music on and turned up the volume until
the tinted windows of my Capri were vibrating. I was definitely in the projects now. Rusty,
souped-up beaters were lined up on the street, some half-parked on the crumbled sidewalks,
others sat tireless on cement blocks. Men and boys amassed in the doorways of the decrepit
apartment buildings, watching as I drove by. A place that even the police avoided, and one of
our best moneymakers. I had nothing to fear here, so long as I made sure to pay my respects
before disappearing into the crowd.
I drove up to the last building at the end of the street where a small group of choice
gangbangers was waiting for me—a reminder that I was on their turf. This last building was
their headquarters, providing them with a full view of the business and goings-on of the street.
I parked illegally next to a fire hydrant, threw my baseball cap on, and pulled my hood up. I
took the revolver out of the glove box and tucked it into the back of my jeans, making sure that
just enough of the handle could be seen by those who would be looking for it.
I then stalked out of the car, and Meatball pounced from the backseat, following me out.
In a motion that had become second nature, I scanned the area and gathered an infinite amount of
information in a few short seconds: shadowed doorways, quick exit points, how many thugs with
guns were staring at me, how many were avoiding staring at me. Basically, I spent my life with
my stomach in a fist and my teeth clenched like I was already locked away, looking at the world
through the steel bars of my cell.
But all was well in the projects today—as well as the projects could be.
The leader of the pack strutted over to me. He ordered his men to stand down, away from us,
before he leaned in with a voice that only he and I could hear. “Afternoon, sir.”
He was known as Grill—paying homage to his fully gold-plated smile, financed with his illegal
fortunes. I nodded to Grill. Though he was a low-ranker—a much lower-ranker—I was required to
acknowledge him before entering his turf. This would ensure my safety, reassure him that my
presence didn’t mean that the leaders were trying to oust him.
“Out for a stroll?” he asked, and then he hopped back when Meatball stepped forward.
I tugged Meatball back, and then I looked around us … I didn’t need any trouble today.