Читать книгу The Old Neighborhood - Bill Hillmann - Страница 11

CHAPTER 6

LOW RIDER

I KNEW MY BROTHER WAS A KILLER. I saw exactly what he’d done. I couldn’t lie about it to myself, and the horror of that followed me, always. I loved him—he was a very good big brother to me. Hell, I adored him. It all had me wondering strange things, like if it was OK to kill people. If they shoot at you, then maybe it is. But if they’re running away, then maybe not. But what if they came back again next time and didn’t miss and killed you? And what was Lil Pat supposed to do, hold the guy there at the pharmacy until the cops showed up? Citizen’s arrest, like in that movie Police Academy? It didn’t work there, neither. I knew the right answer was there, hovering in front of me, and I’d grapple for it in my dreams and sometimes in the days I’d talk with Ryan.

“I’ve been dreaming about that Assyrian guy again,” I said.

“That sucks,” he answered.

“Ever think about him?”

“Sometimes. Pretty gross seeing him like that, huh?”

“Yeah it was. I never thought I’d see a dead body up close like that.”

“I guess it was gonna happen sooner or later.”

“Yeah. I guess so… You think he deserved it?”

“Man… I don’t know. I guess he did. He coulda killed somebody shooting like that. Coulda killed Mickey or Pat.”

“I can’t believe they chased him right off. Those two are crazy as fuck.”

“Yep. Hahaha… Down for their crown.”

“Ha, yeah I guess. Ever think you’re gonna have to kill somebody one day?”

“I don’t know. Mickey says my dad killed some people. A Royal and somebody else…”

“They say my old man was pretty bad, too…”

“I tell you what, if anybody ever tried to hurt my family, or hurt you, I’d kill ’em over that.”

“Me, too…” I said and exhaled a long breath. “Me, too.”

•

ONE DAY, LIL PAT PICKED ME UP alone after collecting. Ryan wasn’t there that day; he’d gone to visit his dad in prison. Lil Pat pulled in front of the house and sent me in to grab a Ministry tape. He said it was in his closet, so I ran down there and dug around the disheveled shelves. I dipped my hand into a shelf in his closet and pricked my index finger on something. I recoiled and gripped my hand. A small bead of blood bubbled up along the grains of my fingerprint. I sucked the blood from it, then squeezed my fist together until it stopped. I lifted a dirty t-shirt, and a needle, like the ones Ma used for her insulin shots, sat inside. There was a little ball of brown powder in a plastic bag with a foot-long piece of rubber tubing lying next to it. I’d heard about hard drugs from Officer Friendly when he came to St. Greg’s, and it scared me that Lil Pat was using them. I couldn’t differentiate between heroin and crack, but I knew that needles were really bad.

I found the tape, ran upstairs, and got in the car. He pulled away as I gripped at the pain in my fingertip.

“What happened?” he asked.

“I pricked myself on something.”

“What?” He glanced at me. “What was it?”

“A needle.”

“Aw, Jesus, let me see.” He grabbed at my hand and looked at the pink fingertip. The blood persistently rose in a small red dab.

“Are you OK? How do you feel?”

“I’m OK. It’s OK.”

“Jesus. You got to be careful, kid.” He sipped his Miller tall boy.

We drove to the beach and parked in a space facing out to the lake. The sun began to set behind us as we listened to Ministry’s hard, industrial beats. Finally, he clicked it off.

The lake was choppy. White froth appeared as the dark waves crested.

“Pat, was that drugs in the bag? The brown stuff?”

Lil Pat reclined in his seat and killed his beer.

“Kid, I done seen a lot of things in my life. I done things….” He sighed heavily. “You don’t know what I done, kid…. You’ll never know.”

He snapped the tab on another beer. We sat there for a while, quiet. He gazed way out across the lake like he was floating somewhere. Some place safe. Some place where things were simple. Fishing, or just walking in a forest in the U.P. hunting grouse. I almost said it—told him what I’d seen—but it got all welled up inside. I wanted to tell him he was a good person. He was a good brother. But, where he was, I don’t think he could have heard me.

•

I FINALLY GOT UP THE NERVE to head over by Ryan’s house. He hadn’t come by that day, and I was lonely. I’d completely avoided the Dead-End-Docks since the fight with Leroy. Ryan’d said he’d smoothed it all over and that no one was mad at me, but my brother should never come back around again. Ever. I knocked on Ryan’s front door. No one home except the three dogs that barked and snarled at the square of glass in the oak door. Their puffing snouts pressed against it and fogged their faces.

I walked around back a little nervous. Maybe they were just telling Ryan that they weren’t mad so they could get me to come back. When I rounded his garage, I saw a huge shack way over at the far-end of the alley. It was made out of scrap wood, and kids swarmed around it like ants. BB stood atop the 12-foot dumpster near the Ace Hardware loading dock throwing down scraps of 2X4 and plywood to T-Money and a few others. Ryan’s prickly, copper scalp emerged out of a square hunk of gray rug at the entrance of the shack. He crawled out. The shack stood waist-high, but it was all slanted and disjointed. Part of the roof was made out of an old refrigerator door, and there was a tan tarp that flapped in the breeze in back. As I walked up, Angel crawled out after Ryan. I hadn’t counted on that, and my head swirled uncomfortably as Ryan walked up. He greeted me with a hand shake, and Angel stepped up beside him and smiled awkwardly. His thin lips trembled a little at the creases, and his dark hair was all sprinkled with white dust.

“I was hoping you all would shake on it to squash it,” Ryan said as he squinted in the afternoon sunlight. “I still don’t know whatchya’ll were fightin’ about.”

I reached out my hand towards Angel and said, “I squash it.”

He shook my hand weakly and said, “Squashed.”

“Come on and check this thing out, man,” Ryan said. “It’s almost done!”

We turned and started for the shack. BB spotted me from up high on the filled dumpster.

“Where yo brotha at, mothafucka?” BB shouted down at me, then grabbed a long hunk of 2X4. He hefted it up over his head. “I’a crack dat mothafucka’s skull!!!” he seethed through his little teeth. Then, he brought the 2X4 down on the rim of the big, rusty dumpster. The hollow walls bellowed.

“Quit it, Mafucka. It’s coo,” T-Money shouted up to BB as he stepped to me. “Joe, you cool wit’ me. You got heart, boy.” T-Money extended his boney, closed fist towards me slowly, and I met it softly with my own—knuckles to knuckles.

“What the fuck is this?” I asked.

“It’s de fort,” T-Money replied, grinning proudly.

“Yeah? How long you guys been working on it?”

“Since yesterday mornin’. We ain’t done yet, boy.” He waved us towards it. “Come on, I’ll gives youse de tour.” He motioned to Ryan and said, “Help dese fools for a minute.”

Ryan nodded and went to help catch the falling boards.

Angel and I followed. We crawled on our hands and knees through the gray rug flap. Inside it was dark and musty. Thin rays of sunlight pierced through the roof like golden lasers, and microscopic flecks of dust sauntered inside them. There were long, sixteen penny nails sticking out through the wood everywhere—from the walls, from the ceiling. They were like narrow spikes, and anytime you tried to lean on something you got stabbed at least three times. There was a constant debate volleying back and forth from the various kids about lockjaw and tetanus shots. The conversation grew into a monstrous myth used to run off little brothers.

We crawled in a dark back room in the fort. Twon was there lounging on a green beanbag. A purple and black Vikings ball cap sat on his head. He frowned at us, and then he snatched a can of aerosol off a hook that hung down from a board in the ceiling and sprayed a huge fog of white mist in our direction.

“Quit sprayin’ dat shit, nigga,” T-Money said.

“It stank in here,” Twon replied, eyeing us.

“Whateva, man.” T-Money spun around and folded his legs up under him and waited for us to get in. His eyes lit up in the dark, little room. “Now, I gotsta ax y’all a question! Do you wanna be memba’s of the dopest, rawest, realest, mothafuckin’ click eva?” His eyes bulged excitedly. “KRAZY CREW?”

“Yeah,” I said, shrugging.

“Alright,” Angel answered, nodding.

“Ok, but den you gots to get V’d in,” T-Money added.

“What’s dat?” I asked.

“A violation,” Twon said ominously.

“20 shots in the chest,” T-Money added.

“From who?” I asked, eyeing Twon’s huge paws.

“I’ll do it,” T-Money said.

T-Money had Angel get behind me and hold my wrists behind my back. Then, T-Money started to punch me in the chest—real soft at first, then harder and quicker. The booms of the shots resonated throughout my body. My heart beat traced after them— boom… dmm dmm, boom… dmm dmm, boom…. I lost count in all the pounding, and finally, T-Money stopped, and we shook hands. Then, T-Money showed me how to throw up the “KC” in the midst of the handshake by hooking thumbs. Angel smiled as he got into position. I crawled behind him and held his wrists.

“Aye, Joe, you better count this one. He hit you about thirty-five times,” Angel said in a squeaky voice.

“Aight, Joe can count,” T-Money said, giggling.

Angel let out some “Ohhs” and “Ewws” between chuckles as T-Money started. Then, he grew real silent as T-Money hit harder. I counted, and when I said, “Nineteen,” T-Money wound up and nailed Angel in the chest. Angel’s ribs crunched, and then he let out an overly dramatic “Ahhhhhhh” before falling over on the dirty concrete ground, laughing.

“Keep laughing, and I’m gonna do it again,” T-Money sighed. We both giggled as we crawled out of the shack.

“Man, T-Money hits hard!” Angel said.

“That shit was loud as hell wasn’t it?” I said.

“Look at this,” Angel said as he raised up his shirt. A series of red fist marks bloomed on his chest; the reddest one sat in the center.

“Ahh shit. He fucked you up,” Ryan gawked. “You’re Crew now!”

“Hell yeah,” Angel said, reaching out and shaking his hand.

“What about you?” Ryan asked, looking at me.

I lifted up my shirt. The marks showed clear, bright-red on my pale chest.

“Ahh, man, he really fucked you up,” Ryan guffawed.

“Ahhaa,” Angel laughed.

“Hell yeah,” Ryan said, grinning. We shook hands and threw up “KC.”

BB walked up behind Angel and snatched the magazine he had rolled up in his back pocket.

“Ahh snap,” he said, flipping it open. Angel ripped it out of his grasp. It was a car magazine that had Lowrider written on the cover and an old Chevy Impala ragtop sitting below it. The car was dark-purple with black pinstriping, and it had a crazy-ass mural of a blue and red dragon with bright-orange fire exploding from its mouth. A thick-built Mexican lady bent over the hood. Her healthy curves bulged against her white bikini and hovered over her white high heels. She stuck her huge, round ass out toward the camera and looked back over her shoulder with her long black hair splaying down to her waist.

“Man, gimme dat shit,” BB demanded as he reached for it again. “I’ma busta nut ta dis shit.”

“Man…” Angel sighed, taking it away from BB. “I don’t want your jizzum on my magazine! Get your own, fool.”

I peered over Angel’s shoulder as he slowly flipped through the pages. A few more kids crowded in. There were more shots of cars with huge murals on their hoods, bright, golden-spoked rims, and white-wall tires. And plenty of hot chicks. Some cars had their hoods up with the engines completely chromed. Then, there was this one car, another old Chevy, with only three wheels on the ground. The fourth wheel levitated three-feet in the air.

“What the fuck’s that?” I asked, pointing at it.

“What?” Angel said, squinting at me.

“How’d they lift that car up like that?”

“They got it locked in three-wheel motion,” Angel answered and looked at me. I had no idea what the fuck he was talking about.

“Man, hell yeah,” Ryan said, beaming. “I’m gonna get a six-foe like dat one.”

“That’s a ’61,” Angel remarked.

“Whatever it is, dat shit is bad as hell,” Ryan retorted.

“Man, my big cousin’s got a six-foe,” BB squeaked. “He live out sout’ doe.”

Angel flipped the page, and there was a large picture of a bike. It was an old Sting-Ray frame from the ’60s with the banana seat and springer fork, but it was different. There was a chrome, chain-link steering wheel attached to three thin sheet metal stems that were rigged into the bike’s neck. The ape hanger handlebars were forced way down, so the front wheel stuck up between them. It looked like the steering wheel was the more viable option. The old-style springer fork bars were curved and seemed too long, and there was a twisted metal bar where the brace went. Angel went to turn the page.

“Aye, hold up a second,” I said.

“What?” he said, looking back at me.

“Man, that bike is bad as hell.”

“You like dat?” Angel eyed me suspiciously.

“Man, why would you want a bike like that?” Ryan whined. “You can’t even ride it.”

“You can ride ’em,” Angel cut in.

“How, bro? The pedals are hittin’ the ground?” Ryan tapped the glossy page with the back of his hand in disgust.

“Man, they just got the spring out,” Angel replied.

“So, you put the spring in, and you can ride ’em?” I asked.

Angel nodded to me. The other kids had lost interest. They went back to climb in the dumpster and bang on the shack’s walls with the tiny ball peen hammer they’d scrounged up. Angel flipped through the pages and then stopped.

“I got something I want to show you guys. Want to come to my place?” he asked.

Ryan and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“OK,” I said.

Angel lived in a first-floor apartment on Olive. He let himself in with his own key, and we headed to his room that was up front. He had posters up of all kinds of lowrider cars and bikes. Then, across the room, I saw a wheel with a white-wall tire resting near the door to his closet. There was an old blue Schwinn frame with a back wheel attached that leaned against the wall, too.

“No shit?” I said admiringly. “You got one?”

“Well, it ain’t done yet,” Angel replied.

“Man, it looks bad ass!” I said, continuing to leer as Angel smiled proudly.

“Here, I’ll put the handle bars on.” Angel slid the neck and ape hangers into the frame. “Here, grab the wheel.” I got the front wheel and brought it to him. “I still got to get the fork, but this is what it’s gonna look like.” He hovered the handle bars so they were lower than the top of the front tire.

“That’s fuckin’ dope,” Ryan said.

I sat on the bed and picked up a magazine beside me.

“Damn, that’s bad ass,” I remarked and flipped through the pages.

“Yeah, it’s big out in Cali,” Angel replied as he sat next to me.

“Man, I gotta make a bike!” I said.

“You’re gonna build one, huh?” Angel asked, grinning.

“I got to, man!” I bugged my eyes and we both giggled.

Angel let me borrow a magazine, so I brought it home and spent all night flipping through it completely entranced.

A few days later, they tore the fort down. A couple bums’d moved in overnight and freaked the shit out of some early rising kindergartener from the block. Nothing nasty, but the cops got called, and a couple rookie firemen from the firehouse across Clark walked over with an axe and a mallet and spent the warm summer morning hacking it to pieces. By eleven, a swarm of kids stood around them fussing, but the firemen were smart enough to placate to them by letting a few of the bigger kids have a go with the axe. Then, just about the whole of Krazy Crew helped clean up the mess, throwing the mounds of busted wood into the dumpster where it’d come from. It didn’t matter much to Angel and Ryan and me. We had another project on our minds—lowrider bicycles. Those bikes would be our obsession for many years to come.