The van. East slipped away from the rest to examine it. Dingy outside—a few dents and scrapes untouched, dirty hubs, no polish for years. The upholstery showed wear. But the tires were brand-new, the tread still prickling. The windows were clean. Definitely submarine.
In his mind he was boiling it down: Drive the roads. Meet up for guns. The job. He tried to follow it in his mind, see where the problems were. But there was nothing to see. Only these boys. Kill a man? More like keep them from killing each other, these three boys, for two thousand miles in this ugly van. That was what they’d brought him in for. That was what he had to do to get back home.
—
Relieved of their things, armed with their new names and wallets full of twenties, they followed Johnny around the strip to the sporting goods store.
Above the clothes high banks of sick white lights spilled down.
“Dodgers cap. Dodgers shirts. Get you one,” Sidney was repeating.
Walter squeezed between the triple-XL ends of the racks.
“Dodgers are faggots,” said Ty.
“I don’t disagree,” sighed Johnny. “What can I say? White people love baseball. White people love the Dodgers.”
“What I care what white people like?”
“Boy,” Johnny said, “the world is made of white people. So you just pick out a nice hat.”
All the clothes smelled of the chemicals that made them stiff and clean. The boys’ hands sorted through the new and bright. East drifted back, found a rack marked CLEARANCE where the clothes didn’t stink, grabbed two plain gray T-shirts with Dodgers script. Michael Wilson paid cash for it all at the register.
“Thank you for shopping with us today,” the girl in her braids gushed. “Go Dodgers!”
“Thank you,” Michael Wilson said over his sunglasses. “Okay, let’s vamos, kids.”
Johnny reached for the receipt and crumpled it, then tore it to tiny bits.
Outside the damp, irrigated morning smell of Los Angeles flowers and fruit in the trees and small things rotting.
“Any problems? Any questions?” Sidney said. “Any last requests?”
East shrugged. Michael Wilson looked down into the white bag from the store.
“I don’t think so,” said Walter.
“Get going, then,” Sidney said, already reaching for the door of Johnny’s car. Like he couldn’t be gone soon enough.
Michael Wilson had a key. East did too. Michael went for the driver’s door. East ushered Walter up front. He tried the sliding door on the right side and popped it open.
In the dark of the van sat Fin, alone. Waiting in the middle seats, head bent low under the headliner, arms wrapped around his shoulders like pythons.
“Come on in,” he said.
They exchanged glances and climbed in—Michael and Walter in the front, Ty sliding into the back. East sat on the middle bench next to Fin.
“You boys know how to lock a car?”
“Yeah,” said Walter. “But we ain’t gone anywhere yet.”
“You got keys, though. Lock the doors. Or someone like me will be sitting in here when you boys return. Got it?”
They all nodded assent.
Fin’s voice was deep, but his face was pinched, unhappy. “If I could,” he said, “I’d do this myself. But I gotta trust you. You know the job?”
Four heads nodded yes.
“Michael Wilson, these the right boys?”
Michael Wilson found his voice, tried to steady it. “Yep.”
“Anyone can’t do it, walk away now.”
Quietly they waited, reverent and impatient both.
From the center of the van came a black flash: Fin had drawn a fat pistol and cocked it, barrel at East’s temple. East felt the cold metal burr scratching at his skin.
“You know East is my blood. Now I am sending you all out as my blood.”
East’s eyes kept a flat stare. Practiced. Like he didn’t care.
“This gonna go all right?” said Fin.
“It’s gonna go all right,” Michael Wilson repeated.
Walter nodded, eyes large.
“I need you boys,” said Fin. “And I don’t like to need.” Slowly he drew the gun back, then slipped it away somewhere. “Michael Wilson, you’re in charge. You’re the oldest. East and Walter, you keep him honest. Keep him straight. And, Ty, you make sure it gets done.”
He slid the side door open.
“Any questions?”
Four boys shook their heads.
Fin lowered himself to the ground dryly, tenderly. “Don’t make no friends.”
Michael Wilson fired the engine. They watched Fin walk away down the row of loading docks, just a large, slow-moving man in the sun.
4.