Murder At the Foul Line

Up near the front I got into the groove. Someone passed me somethin’ that smelled good, and I hit it. Back Yard was turnin’ that shit out. I been knowin’ their music for like ten years now. They had the whole joint up there that night, I’m talkin’ about a horn section and everything else. I must have been up there close to the stage for about, I don’t know, an hour, sumshit like that, just dancing. It seemed like all of us was all movin’ together. On “Do That Stuff,” they went into this extended drum thing, shout-outs for the hoodies and the crews; I was sweatin’ clean through my shirt, right about then.

I had to pee like a motherfucker, but I didn’t want to use the bathroom in that place. All the hard motherfuckers be congregatin’ in there, too. That’s where trouble can start, just ’cause you gave someone some wrong kinda look.

When the set broke, I started to talkin’ to this girl who’d been dancin’ near me, smilin’ my way. I’d seen her around. Matter of fact, I ran ball sometimes with her older brother. So we had somethin’ to talk about straight off. She had that Brandy thing goin’ on with her hair, and a nice smile.

While we was talkin’, someone bumped me from behind. I turned around and it was Antuane, that kid who ran with James Wallace. Wallace was with him, and so were a coupla Wallace’s boys. I nodded at Antuane, tryin’ to communicate to him, like, “Ain’t no thing, you bumpin’ me like that.” But Wallace stepped in and said somethin’ to me. I couldn’t even really hear it with all the crowd noise, but I could see by his face that he was tryin’ to step to me. I mean, he was right up in my face.

We stared at each other for a few. I shoulda just walked away, right, but I couldn’t let him punk me out like that in front of the girl.

Wallace’s hand shot up. Looked like a bird flutterin’ out of nowhere or somethin’. Maybe he was just makin’ a point with that hand, like some do. But it rattled me, I guess, and I reacted. Didn’t even think about it, though I should’ve. My palms went to his chest and I shoved him back. He stumbled. I saw his eyes flare with anger, but there was that other thing, too, worse than me puttin’ my hands on him: I had stripped him of his pride.

There was some yellin’ then from his boys. I just turned and bucked. I saw the bouncers started to move, talkin’ into their headsets and shit, but I didn’t wait. I bucked. I was out on the street pretty quick, ru

I heard Wallace and them behind me, comin’ out the Hole. They said my name. I didn’t look back. I ran to Morton and turned right. Heard car doors opening and slammin’ shut. The engine of the car turnin’ over. Then the cry of tires on the street and Wallace’s boys laughin’, yellin’ shit out. I kept ru

There were some younguns out in the complex. They were sittin’ up on top of a low brick wall like they do, and they watched me run by. It’s always dark here, ain’t never no good kinda light. They got some dim yellow bulbs back in the stairwells, where the old-school types drink gin and shoot craps. They was back up in there, too, hunched down in the shadows. There was some kind of fog or haze out that night, too, it was kind of rollin’ around by that old playground equipment, all rusted and shit, they got in the courtyard. I was ru

I had to cross the little road in the back of the complex to get to my mother’s apartment. I stepped into it and that’s when I saw the black Maxima swing around the corner. Coupla Wallace’s boys jumped out while the car was still movin’. I stopped ru

Wallace was out of the driver’s side quick, walkin’ towards me. He was smilin’ and my stomach shifted. Antuane had walked back by the playground. I knew where he was goin’. Wallace and them keep a gun, a nine with a fifteen-round mag, buried in a shoe box back there.

“Junior,” said Wallace, “you done fucked up big.” He was still smilin’.

I didn’t move. My knees were shakin’ some. I figured this was it. I was thinkin’ about my mother and tryin’ not to cry. Thinkin’ about how if I did cry, that’s all anyone would remember about me. That I went out like a bitch before I died. Fu

I saw Antuane’s figure walkin’ back out through that fog.

And then I saw the spotlight movin’ across the courtyard, and where it came from. An MPD Crown Vic was comin’ up the street, kinda slow. The driver turned on the overheads, throwing colors all around. Antuane backpedaled and then he was gone.

The cruiser stopped and the driver’s door opened. The white cop I’d seen earlier in the night got out. Sergeant Peters. My moms had told me his name. Told me he was all right.

Peters was puttin’ on his hat as he stepped out. He had pulled his nightstick, and his other hand just brushed the Glock on his right hip. Like he was just lettin’ us all know he had it.

“Evening, gentlemen,” he said easylike. “We got a problem here?”

“Nope,” said Wallace, kinda in a white-boy’s voice, still smiling.

“Somethin’ fu

Wallace didn’t say nothin’. Peters looked at me and then back at Wallace.

“You all together?” said Peters.

“We just out here havin’ a conversation,” said Wallace.

Sergeant Peters gave Wallace a look then, like he was disgusted with him, and then he sighed.

“You,” said Peters, turnin’ to me. I was prayin’ he wasn’t go

“Yeah?” I said, not too friendly but not, like, impolite.

“You live around here?” He knew I did.

I said, “Uh-huh.”

“Get on home.”

I turned around and walked. Slow but not too slow. I heard the white cop talkin’ to Wallace and the others, and the crackle of his radio comin’ from the car. Red and blue was strobin’ across the bricks of the complex. Under my breath I was sayin’, Thanks, God.

In my apartment everyone was asleep. I turned off the TV set and covered my sister, who was lyin’ on the couch. Then I went back to my room and turned the box on so I could listen to my music low. I sat on the edge of the bed. My hand was shaking. I put it together with my other hand and laced my fingers tight.

After the Park Morton incident, I answered a domestic call over on First and Ke

We made a couple of additional arrests. Like they say in the TV news, the situation had escalated. Not a full-blown riot, but trouble nonetheless. Someone yelled out at me, called me a “cracker-ass motherfucker.” I didn’t even blink. The county cops don’t take an ounce of that kinda shit, but we take it every night. Sticks and stones, like that. Then someone started whistling the theme from the old Andy Griffith Show, you know, the one where he played a small-town sheriff, and everyone started to laugh. Least they didn’t call me Barney Fife. The thing was, when the residents start with the comedy, you know it’s over, that things have gotten under control. So I didn’t mind. Actually, the guy who was whistling, he was pretty good.